Grape Did It

Should come as no great surprise

That pregnancy has made me insane. Well, not entirely true. The other night I was crying and, in between sniffles, I told Bud it was probably just the pregnancy hormones. That's when he helpfully reminded me that, no, I am always this way, you may not blame the pregnancy. FINE.

But anyway. Crazy-er. Hormonal-er. My once slightly over the edge behavior has taken a nosedive right for the actual loony bin. AND I THINK I LIKE IT.

Saturday I traveled to Wal-Mart with Anon Friend who may or may not wish to actually be mentioned by name in this story. We were on our way to pick up a kitchen item that was super important in a recipe we were attempting. We pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the car only to witness, what's that? Is that a dog in that car? A cute widdle doggie? Wait. What? Is there not even ONE window cracked? (Closer inspection). NOT ONE WINDOW SO MUCH AS SMIDGED DOWN IN A GOOD FAITH EFFORT OF NOT COOKING DOG IN WAL-MART PARKING LOT. I really think it took about thirty seconds for the whole thing to sink in, like, who could possibly have never read an article on child or dog cooking in hot car? Who has never been in a parked car - with the windows possibly even rolled down - and not realized what an oven that becomes in, uh, four seconds? Like so many other times in my life I glanced around me to make sure I wasn't being Punk'd or video-taped in some other hilarious game of gotcha! before I remembered that 1. I am not famous 2. I am in the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot in ALABAMA for God's sake 3. I am not that special. Whatever. Someday, Ashton.

So we marched into the store in order to ask that these nice (MORONS) people (COMPLETE IDIOTS) be paged in order to de-fry their poor little doggie. Nope. Apparently, no can do at Wal-Mart. But we can helpfully give you the name of the police department and you can march yourself back out to that car and hope not to get your self-righteous, meddling ASS KICKED. So, you know, BEING PREGNANT AND ALL, I took the call the police option and went to wait by the car on standby in case no one came in several minutes in which case I was determined to look around the parking lot for a blunt object with which to bash in the windows. Accompanying the smashed windows would be a loving note that would read, "Roll down your windows for your dog you ignorant douche bags. Love, Your Long Lost Brain."

Unfortunately the owners beat the police to the car:

"Zis your car?"

"Um, yes?"

"Well, I've just called the police because your dog could die in there without some windows down."

"Okay."

"Next time, roll your windows down."

"Okay."

AT LEAST THEY HAD THE DECENCY TO LOOK EMBARRASSED.

*And let me say this one final note before I am chalked up to just some self-righteous crazy. I may be, but I think I can take a moment to defend myself anyway. I am SO in favor of minding my own business. Sure, I judge from afar. Sure, I peer into other's grocery carts in order to mentally take note on how unhealthy their choices are (while ignoring my own carton of ice cream). Yes, I have wondered at the person ignoring his or her widdle, iddle toddler running around the coffee shop but all of that is IN MY HEAD. I get it. MYOFB already. But I draw the line at a few things and one of those involves cooking your dog in front of me.

**Lest you think this was a five minute jump into the store it was not. The entire episode from when we pulled up to when we saw the dog's owners was at least 20 minutes.

Update, the madness continues

This will be my last Charter post. At least until the next RIDICULOUS situation comes to smack us both in the ass. I cannot think or talk or write about me this anymore as it causes me to sound suspiciously like a wind-up doll, "What can we DO?" "WHAT can we DO?" "WHAT CAN WE DO?" can only be said with so many inflections.

Behold, the continued story. I called this morning to see if our faxes and bank statements and letters had indeed made it to the Central Agency for We Give Less of a Shit than You Could Even Imagine. Chic informed me that no, they had not, but she was ADDING A NOTE TO OUR ACCOUNT (this is, in fact, total bullshit. These notes disappear the next time you call. In such a way as to make you believe they were NEVER EVEN WRITTEN.) and that I should go to the local office and give them a copy of our bank statement (never mind that this all seems a little intrusive and dangerous) and it should all be taken care of. I march up to the local office where a super nice woman click, clicked and was all, "Oh, you were charged for your old apartment AND your new house. I'll just reverse the charges." It felt a little like a strange man holding out a piece of candy. I WANT the candy, I just have this odd feeling STRINGS ARE ATTACHED. I told her wow, is that all? It's all done? Really? I've been on the phone for days and never got a simple answer like that. She smiled and said yes, really and I WALKED OUT.

Oh, Hope. The cynical side of your brain really does truly feel sorry for your cute little I-believe-just-about-anything-if-you-smile side. It also thinks that side of your personality is really, really dumb. NO OFFENSE.

Bud called later today to inquire about our bill. Innocent question so as not to arouse suspicion, all, what do we owe so we may pay? We used this technique hoping girl at the local office was telling the truth and it was all over. WROOOOOOOOOONG.

Turns out we still owe two months services. But hey! Guess what? We are also OWED nearly that amount for the bills we have been paying to our OLD account. Are you still following? Because when Bud told me this I just stopped paying attention and stared miserably at my toenails in defeat. Here. Just take it. Whatever it is, you can have it, I am done. Which, I guess, is part of their evil master plan of Wear Down Customer.

So that's where the whole damn thing stands now. TECHNICALLY that credit amount should cover most of the DEBIT amount (odd that we had to point out that THEY owed US nearly as much as we owed them) and then we should all be on the same page, holding hands, singing songs about hammers and things that blow in the wind and feeling very peaceful. I do not for one minute believe it.

*Tomorrow, an angry pregnant woman calls the police from the Wal-Mart parking lot while her embarrassed friend stands by.

Look, I realize this is not interesting

I also realize I am maybe going to get a somewhat creepy, definitely passive aggressive comment from Charter ITSELF (speaking of, are these companies like one giant wizard behind the curtain?) after posting this. But I am COMPELLED to release some blood pressure before Cider comes popping out screaming into his Blackberry that that is NOT the COLOR HE ORDERED. And he has FOURTEEN MEETINGS SCHEDULED BEFORE FOUR THIS AFTERNOON. You know? Not wanting a high stress kid.

But if this particular cable company doesn't drive me into a white padded room then I will go into therapy myself just to hold the hand of the next person who is driven to near tears by the big, giant company screwing around with the little people. THERE ARE NO WORDS.

Yesterday we received a bill for our cable and internet for double what we usually owe. I stared at in in mute horror for a few minutes, a part of me itching to run downstairs and show it Bud. Wave it in his face and cry out in frustration that this kind of screwing with us happens on an all too regular basis and seriously? I MEAN SERIOUSLY? Instead I decided to try and handle it myself because Bud already has a pretty tenuous hold on his own blood pressure and I can generally speak with a company - even a whorish, evil company such as this one - without IMMEDIATELY TALKING LIKE THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS.

I called, I pressed ZERO ZERO ZERO only a few thousand times until the operator machine voice said, "Okay, I will transfer you to a representative since you refuse to play our little game of me directing you to the correct department." Here's the thing, I WOULD normally play along. I WOULD normally press all of the correct buttons, but without fail, whenever I have in the past, I am STILL asked to give my account number, my phone number, my address, my name, the worst thing I did in high school that my parents still don't know about. SO I'M ALL, I'M JUST GOING TO PRESS ZERO SUCKAHS.

Which is when I get transfered to a highly trained individual who knows nothing about me, nothing about my account, has no authority to change ANYTHING AT ALL IN THE ENTIRE WORLD QUITE POSSIBLY NOT EVEN HIS OR HER OWN DIAPER. And I explain my story. The whole story that we do not owe two months payment, we are not overdue, I am staring at my bank account right now and WHAT DO YOU KNOW? That bill was paid EARLY and only a few weeks ago. SO DO WHAT? You know what she, ever helpful woman who probably goes home and curses the same company I have been cursing for the past two days, answered? I can't help you because you live in Alabama. Oh. Right. How could I have been so naive? Please. Direct me to the Southern Help Desk of We Don't Give a Shit. No really, it would be EVER SO NICE OF YOU.

I'm transfered. I'm told the mistake must be on the bank's end. I call the bank. They assure me the bill has been paid. I cry silent tears of utter frustration and contemplate canceling my entire account just so I don't end up with a cabinet full of little orange cylinders.

Bud calls back. Bless his heart he closes the door but I can still hear him hollering SO YOU CAN'T CONFIRM ANYTHING? SO THERE IS NO WAY FOR ME TO KNOW FOR SURE? WHAT DO I GET FOR THIS GIGANTIC WASTE OF MY LIFE?

That's when they answer, with a smile I can almost see through the phone, continued bad service.

I just want to know, did she get away?

OH MY LORD. Panera wireless is on the fritz so I'm lucky if I can read the intro section to an article before receiving an error message. A friend sent me one titled, "Pregnant woman chased by bea..." or at least that's all I can see of the little preview before it actually DOWNLOADS. Say what you will about generations unable to be patient and wait for things but PEOPLE. I have coffee to drink and a half painted baby room to finish. I CAN'T BE WAITING FOR YOUR LOUSY INTERNET TO WORK. Except it's free so, that's exactly what I'll do.

At Panera

Three high school aged kids. Adult-kids? Whatever. Two guys, one girl. Girl in short dress, tall killer boots I was talking about yesterday on Tweets. Girl asks boy, all innocent, "Will you help me with this (presumably school work) question?"

Boy: "I don't want to..."

BUT I WILL DO AS MY HORMONES DIRECT.

Incidentally, his geekier friend behind him, who sat nearly speechless the whole time, had the way better answer. It had to do with economic systems and I was all FLIRT WITH HIM! FLIRT WITH HIM! YOU WON'T REGRET IT!

Writing checks my real-life can't cash

Wait. You remember that saying back in the 90's or whenever. Back when I was young and still thought my life would move through its various stages in perfect unison? It was something along the lines of, "Your mouth is writing checks your...brain can't cash"? "...your fist can't cash"? I know it had something to do with bravado and what not but what the hell were we all talking about?

So, but, yeah, sometimes that's how I feel about writing this blog. I'm all TALKY TALKY BRAVE behind this computer screen and then I'll see someone in real life and they're all, "Chuckle, chuckle, remember that bit on your blog..." which is precisely when the blood leaves my face and I start analyzing that chuckle like, does that small guffaw really mean IT WASN'T FUCKING FUNNY WHAT YOU WROTE ABOUT ME BUT I'M TAKING THE HIGH ROAD HA HA. Or, wow, how totally insensitive of you to make that comment, don't you know there are BLANKS without a SINGLE BLANK in <insert war-torn country>.  Or worse, I will have made some obscure comment on here - probably wasn't obscure at all but I SO didn't expect anyone to remember or hold me to it - and here is someone trying to hold me to it.

Take yesterday for instance when I am chit-chatting with an old friend who has recently stopped by the website once or twice. She commented on my belly-size (I don't even want to talk about it! I think I could have been drowning puppies and received fewer angry comments or emails along the lines of SHUT UP YOUR BELLY ISN'T BIG. So okay, re-fucking-dacted. Another side note, you should know I rarely say fuck in real life but on here? IT SOUNDS SO COOL.) and we talked about children and what not. And then. Then THE chuckle, which preceded, "So (my husband) read the bit about your squirrel crotch."

THE END.

Letter to Cider, 24.5 weeks

Dear Cider,

You kick ass. Or, more specifically, lower belly and sometimes front of stomach. SAH-REE for the bad joke but can you expect much more when my blood supply is pumping every bit of oxygen rich blood straight to your placenta? NO HARD FEELINGS.

Actually, no, really, there aren't. It is biologically very difficult to resent anything about your small self growing and kicking inside of me. My only regret these days is that I still have 16 weeks until I am able to hold you and I am consumed by the nerve-wracking thoughts of WHAT IF YOU HAVE A BAD DREAM? How do I possibly comfort you in there? I have your father and, though sometimes reluctantly, he allows me to press the flats of my feet to his calves when I have a nightmare and, oddly, this is usually all it takes for my adrenalin level to drop and sleep to over take again.  I will regret saying this once the crowing at home begins, but everybody needs a hero and I am fortunate enough to have married mine. Should the entire pre-World War Two British Army* come traipsing through our front door one dark and stormy night, I am confident I could simply wave my relaxed hand in Bud's direction all, please remove this peskiness from our living room. AND HE COULD HANDLE IT.

My guess is you will look at us both that way for some time, slaying dragons, unable to make mistakes (more likely just better practiced at covering them up), and the prettiest, handsomest parents on the block. Then you'll turn thirteen. The end. We will no doubt watch our stars tumble completely from your eyes and instead of a little chest puff - no MY DAD could! - you will look to the sky in the universal teenage prayer of PLEASE SWALLOW ME - until I bellow at you to "Get in the damn car and stop being so dramatic, I am only Windexing the windshield in my slippers. BIG DEAL." At this point you will probably begin plotting your revenge full of getting a drivers license, having the job of your dreams and living far, far away. Let me go ahead and say now, I feel you. Just ask your grandfather who would routinely, upon driving me around town, roll down MY SIDE window and yell at passing cars, "My daughter thinks you're cute!"

But the revenge plans? I can't even remember a single one. No, more often than not I think about the fact that I used to complain about what my mother cooked for me on a given night. Emphasis on COOKED FOR ME. But you'll understand that someday in the far off future and I will lecture you, no doubt, in a few years when I put a plate of lovingly prepared walnut goat cheese salad in front of you and you and your father chant in unison, "GOD DANGED GOAT CHEESE?!"

In pregnancy updates, I think you and I might have finally gotten it right what with the nausea being nearly gone and your movements becoming stronger every day. They are no longer as surprising and yet I wake up every morning looking forward to all of those little jerks and presses against my belly. Last night I grabbed your father's arm and gently pressed my finger into it twice, trying to show him what it feels like when you start doing your leg presses in there. Contrary to the whole term "baby kicking", sometimes you feel as if you are just stretching, or pushing against my belly, or even turning on your head no doubt preparing yourself for all of those keg stands in college. I will go on the record now as saying I do not condone those types of behavior but what with mine and your father's DNA? I'll leave that one alone - a punch line perhaps for your smart-ass aunt Georgia.

Cider-baby (as Ella now refers to you), I only have one more question for you before ending this letter. What color do you want your room to be painted? I'm leaning towards a coffee and cream color but I think your dad envisions more of a true brown. Go ahead and give me a kick...or movement...or keg stand to let me know you prefer my idea.

I KNEW IT.

*I obviously have no idea what I am referring to historically here but I do remember something once about the British Army in its heyday and blah blah blah. Could have been 50 years before, give or take 100.

24 weeks and beginning to feel like a human water balloon

Firstly, with shirt on, as requested:

Next, nudie shot:

And lastly, this chic at Panera just asked if "there are twins in there??" SOB, I'VE ONLY GAINED 14 POUNDS.

Conformity, the French version

Perhaps this is why I love the Frank Sinatra song My Way. That drives my mom crazy because she thinks that's arrogant and self-centered.

Perhaps this is why I have metaphorically banged my head into countless walls as an adult trying to figure out what the hell I want to "do" in life.

Perhaps this is why I have always been slightly befuddled by sororities and the Junior League.

PERHAPS I WAS ONLY FOUR, MONSIEUR.

*Translation: Don't color outside the lines!

Sixty pounds of burning love

Our backyard has yet to be completely fenced in. Two sides are fenced and come all the way up to the sides of the house - minus the fact that there is a dog-squeezable sized hole in the farmy-Clampett fence side - but the back is open. Luckily our yard butts up to a wild tangle of trees and bushes and vines and so there is a completely enclosed feel when you are back there. That is, if you are HUMAN. Copper, for all of his plaintive requests to get up on the couch and snuggle - primarily by a tentative paw placement that turns into an all out climb onto the furniture if we allow it - is not human. And thus so many of my phone calls these days sound like this:

"You want me to get WHAT at Lowe's?"

"Hang on a sec. Oh God, I can't see him anymore. CO-AHHH-PERRR?"

"Oh okay, he was only behind a bush, go on."

"Mm hm. Right. SHIT I THINK HE WENT UNDER THE CREEK SIDE OF THE FENCE."

"Copper! Copper! COPPERCOMEBACKHERERIGHTNOW!"

"Right, okay, there he is, phew. I think he had crawled out to the front yard to visit with the neighbors."

"DAMMIT HE'S GONE AGAIN."

Which means of course that we do need to finish the fence and shore up the gaps before I get a confused call from a new neighbor all, um, I think we have your dog and he's crawled into my lap and refuses to move.

Sorry, the dog's a total whore.