Anyway

So. I love facebook. LOVE IT. What I hate about facebook (because there's always something, isn't there?) are those bizarre, non-specific, mysterious, juvenile status updates that go a little something like this:

Some people really don't know how to treat some other people, SHEESH!

Don't you wish some people would stop acting like CHILDREN!?

Hmmmm, I thought FRIEND meant FRIEND!

In the event I stop being such a snob about such things, here's what I'll post:

Really?! Really?! Do you REALLY not know that when you use the word RETARD I want to punch you in the face?

Out of the mouths...

Today, Lincoln responded to a question with a gesture, and a word. A WORD, BITCHES!

I guess I can kiss those political aspirations good-bye

By the time I get to the garage at work, I am so filled up with rage and hopelessness... Getting up at 5 am is not my favorite. And it's really not my favorite after an unpredictable night of sleeping by my sweet babe. I get in the car half asleep with not nearly enough coffee coursing through my veins and the gerbil starts runnin'.

It starts running and I start thinking about the folks I will invariably encounter at work who I now refer to as "assholes with perfect babies". If I were Mel Gibson, I'd scream into these motherfucker's telephones to SUCK IT. Oh, God. This business with Link has shaken my foundations.

My instinct at work is no longer to help selflessly. It's to play defense. I catch myself and move on... mostly. The other day I called a Dr. a prick in front of his patient and I told family members to GET OUT OF THE ROOM!

Right now, I hate going there. My car basically pulls itself into a parking space and I haul my disgruntled, depressed ass out of it and into the building. I put my scrubs on and i spend the day trying not to cry.

It's hard to change your dreams. It's hard to re-write the stories we imagine our children can create. Closing chapters, erasing endings, middles, beginnings. It's hard.

And it is made especially hard when I get driven into my fucking face on a daily basis seemingly typical babies born to heavy smokers, drug addicts, 15 year olds with families who couldn't care less... It's just, sad. I'm sad there almost all the time.

So, anyway, these assholes. All puffed up and ignorant playing a revolting game of "Whoever Makes the Most Drama Wins". Wins what? Certainly not the baby. They're not there for their perfect babies, they're there for the spectacle, to be able to tell the story. And. I . Can't. Take. It.

Pity the nice, loving, devoted-to-the-new-life-about-to-emerge families. This bleeding heart is just about packed up and moved out.

Icky Bits

I got into it again at work today with people who for purely cosmetic reasons, think it's cool to cut baby boy's penises. Today it wasn't even close to funny and I'm sure I've earned myself a new label.

Here's the newly minted worldview of mine at work, though (and hey, world wide web, this is a big, hardcore, only said it to myself piece of thought torture. So feel privileged): I was fighting the whole time, the whole time these compassionate, committed healthcare professionals were flippantly discussing slicing off parts of babies... I was fighting the gut wrenching, nagging bitch of a notion that if we had circumcised Lincoln, he wouldn't be different in yet another way than all the "normal" boys in the world.

Family Matters

So, I hate it when she lies. That's the worst. It's so fucking 1979 and my grandmother being Matriarchal Manipulator all over again. I mean, who the fuck cares ?!?!?! And the lies are dumb, dumb. Lies of exclusion; like she's fucking protecting someone/something but only actually ends up giving her this maddening sense of know-it-all-ness that is so incredibly ridiculous because, hey! Guess what? I ALREADY KNOW.

Yeah, that part of the conversation didn't go very well. Neither did the part where she said she'll try to come over and see the kids now that she knows her grandson has a genetic disorder. REALLY!?! Will you?!?

The part that wasn't so bad? The part where she didn't make it about herself (she did, however, try to make it about my husband... but that's another story). And that's as good as I was hoping it would be. But... it still feels like shit.

Vegas, baby

On our way to Las Vegas (and during the 36 hours the hot husband and I were there) last week, I was struck by many, many things. Here are a few (in no particular order):

1. People who own iPads and use them while eating chicken wings are bad, bad people
2. Nominees for an Emmy Award in the "Best Actor" in a drama category shouldn't be flying in row 22 of Jet Blue
3. Bloody Mary's taste mighty fucking good at 11am
4. It is possible to not eat for 24 hours and drink like a fish instead and NOT puke, pass out OR have a hangover
5. Watching your husband in a smokin hot tuxedo run on-stage to win his third Emmy is still spine-tingling
6. Having sex three times (oooo! it IS a lucky number) in one day, really goddamn good sex, mind you, is still on the table
7. Making small talk is impossible these days. IMPOSSIBLE. I used to be great in a crowd...
8. Unlimited champagne for $5 doesn't suck
9. Being 6000 miles away from Lincoln was suffocating at times
10. Tony Orlando and that friggin song made me cry like a baby

Thank you sir, may I have another. NOT!

Went out shopping today for PJ's birthday party and at one point, I told the husband I was going to return some hats that were gifted to Lincoln that don't fit. He's so sweet, and he says what he says all the time: No, don't go. Stay here. Or: Come home soon, OK? Almost always, I acquiesce. If it's important to him, why not?

Not today. Today I was all tough guy and all: It's OK, I'll be right back. Just going up to Old Navy. I'll be right back. I promise. I kissed his neck and went off on my side mission: Return hats, join husband.

So, I'm in the store and I remember we need shoes for the girls. And socks. And a bathing suit for me (this we *really, really* need). I'm focused. I hunt AND I gather. And I get on line. That's when it starts, internet-people! MY VERY FIRST PANIC ATTACK.

There were two women in front of me on line and a guy behind me... The woman checking out first had a fucking mountain of shit to pay for. I couldn't fathom it. And the woman right in front of me was rifling through receipts in one hand, and clutching a wrinkled shirt in the other.

I started to shake. My pulse went up and it was all I could do not to start bawling on the spot. I also couldn't move from where I was standing. Bitch was glued to the floor. And I'm such a fucking geek; I recognized right away what was happening and I STILL COULDN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. The tears were coming, fast... I turned my head to the dude behind me as I placed all of my stuff on the shelf where the keep all those hip dog toys at Old Navy, know where I'm talking about? So, I put my stuff there and say to the poor guy: I'm sorry! I have to go! Like. He. Cared. And I pretty much ran out and started texting my husband to find out exactly where he was.

When I found him, the tears were at the gate... but he was there and he was sweet. And he was there and I didn't cry. This time.