See MamaSnee City

Blark. Plick. Glaaaaargh.
I’m sitting here at work, going “Geez, won’t somebody post a blog already?” and checking the 4 or 5 blogs I read in a rapid-cycle, psycho manner, and then I think “Um, why don’t you post your own damn blog?”

20/20
So, I went back to the eye doctor this morning at the ASS CRACK OF DAWN, which is kind of untrue, because my appointment was at 7:15, which is not that insane of an hour. However, any morning that I am required to wake up earlier than Birdy is a bad, bad morning.

So I go in and I say, “I was in here on Friday, and you told me my prescription hadn’t changed, but my distance vision is still blurry.” And by “blurry” I mean that I can’t easily read street signs. So we go through the same tests. The letters, again, with contacts in. I read the smallest line, again. And as I explain to the doctors (there are two of them in the room now) that I sometimes have trouble seeing the words on the screen of my ibook at work, they both just keep saying, “With your contacts in, you have 20/20 vision.”
And I say, “for serious? Because no kidding, I can’t read my computer screen.”
And they say, “With your contacts in, you have 20/20 vision.”
And I say, “And sometimes I can’t read a street sign until I’m right on top of it.”
And they say “With your contacts in, you have 20/20 vision.”
And I say “Um, you guys are assholes.”
And they say, “With your contacts in, you have 20/20 vision.”
I feel like I have called the automated help menu of the optometrist’s office, and I keep ending up back at the start menu. Fake spilled coffee: not so charming this morning.

I have three different trial pairs of contacts now, and I’m supposed to alternate them over the next week and report to the doc which ones are best. I’m telling you, he has no idea who he is dealing with. Um, Dr. D? Sometimes I’m not even sure which toothbrush is mine and which is my husband’s, and it may be gross, but sometimes I just choose one and hope for the best. The chances of me distinguishing between items in my bathroom, let alone thoughtfully comparing them, are slim to none. So for the afternoon, I am learning to love my glasses, because I think that’s how this story is going to end, anyway.

Mama Mia
My appointment was finished with 40 minutes to spare before I had to be at work. So I did what I’ve found myself doing lately when I have a few stray moments to myself: I bought myself a beverage (rocket-strength cappuccino), bummed myself a smoke, and sat at the coffee shop around the corner and read my book. It was a delicious, college-throwback, carefree moment. You may not think much of it, but it’s like vacation and a time machine to me.

I’m reading the Motherhood Manifesto by Joan Blades, a gift from my hubs for Mother’s day. And so far, so great. All about the challenge of being a mama and an earner, the shitty imbalance of it, and the way our economic system is stacked against us, and how “having a baby is the single worst financial decision an American woman can make… A college-educated woman can easily pay a ‘mommy tax’–lost lifetime earnings—of over $1 million.” And it’s full of other fun facts, like the fact that the US is the only industrialized country in the world that does not have PAID maternity leave other than Australia (which does give a full year of guaranteed leave to all women, compared with the twelve weeks of unpaid leave given to those women who work for companies with more than fifty employees in the US).

Yeah, I got eight weeks, unpaid.
And then I weaseled two and a half more weeks, thanks to the Christmas Holiday smokescreen that worked in my favor.

And then after those 10 weeks, I dropped my tiny, helpless Bird off at the daycare with my melons still as big and firm as actual melons, and came back to work leaking breastmilk all over the place, so I could do meaningful things, like get the mail. And I said I would not bitch about my job in this blog—about it. I’m bitching that I have to have it in the first place.

Beware Some More
The Neighborhood Listserv of Paranoia is at it again: a post about some guy, going door to door, selling various meats out of a cooler bungeed to the bed of his pickup truck with Texas plates. And then getting pissed when you don’t buy his meats and pressuring you to let him come in to rearrange your freezer so you’ll have room for all of his delicious vaguely cold meats. And then the question, from the neighbor who posted the message, “Do you think this guy is legit?” Um, yes. Yes, the wild-eyed Texan selling unidentified meats from a cooler in the back of his pickup who is desperate to come into your house after you refused his product is totally, 100% legit. You should invite him to your child’s birthday party.

Moving On
Oh, and Birdy is going to crawl. Probably today. She was so close yesterday, even though she seems more intent on grabbing my clothing, limbs, and breasts and doing some very clumsy climbing maneuvers, trying to pull up—except I don’t know that she KNOWS that, exactly, just that she knows she wants to move. So anyway, there she is on all fours, picking up one arm and then the other. She is so, so close, and I am so, so unprepared for this.

American Idol, Almost Done
And thank goodness for that, because I’m pretty over it, but I’ve committed to it, you know? Pretty sure Taylor’s going to win. I hate to say it, but the twitches and freak-dancing have really gotten him pretty far. That, and Katherine totally blew it last night.
Ok, done.

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