A Random Image

Archive for October, 2002

 
|| October 31, 2002 || 11:52 pm || Comments (3) ||

The one-two shut-the-hell-up. This is priceless when you’re shopping and your kid won’t shut the hell up: “I’m hungry, I want toys, I need my Insulin…” etc. First smack your kid (the 5 across the eyes technique works). Wait a few seconds for your kid to start crying, then smack your kid again to let him know that you mean business. This usually shuts them up because they see that the amount of crying is proportional to the amount of beatings.

*falls over dead from laughing*

 
|| October 31, 2002 || 11:21 pm || Comments (0) ||

JettSuperior: I got a referral for ‘paste
eater picture’ today.

mikeynerd: you eat paste?

JettSuperior: somewhere in my weblog i must
have admitted this horrible, dark thing.

JettSuperior: LOL

mikeynerd: just tell people it’s what makes
your boobs big

mikeynerd: you might start a fad

JettSuperior: Okay, you say things like
THAT, and you don’t think you’re funny?

 
|| October 31, 2002 || 6:28 pm || Comments (8) ||

HAPPY HALLOWEEN


:: click photos for larger version ::

FROM THE
SUPERIOR LUNATICS.

Please allow me to take this opportunity to remind you that if you come to my house seeking sugary boodle tonight and you are over twelve years of age (YES, fucknits, I WILL BE carding) then I will require you to do something foolish before I fork over the packet filled with five eensy gummi bears. I don’t give a fuck if you roll my yard fifteen fucking times tonight. I just don’t. Hell, you’ve wrecked the mailbox;

we look like white trash central anyhow.

And to you little project bastards that come looking for a handout, don’t expect one if you aren’t sporting a costume. It doesn’t really cost anything to dress up. I know, for I was a poor kid at one time. Show a little fucking ingenuity….be creative! Borrow some of your momma’s black eyeliner ( I know she has some, the whore wears more in one day than I do in a month) and poke some freckles on or something. Rip the sagging rain gutters from your roof and come as a robot. Just. Make. An. Attempt. That’s all I ask. I worked hard to go out and buy your zero-nutrient treats emblazoned with Spider Man and the Powerpuff Girls this year; there should be a little return on my investment.

IF YOU DON’T SAY TRICK-OR-TREAT (smiling like a foo helps you, as well) AS SOON AS MY FRONT DOOR SWINGS OPEN, THEN FUCK YOU, BUDDY, AND NOSOUPFAHYOUUU. No candy, neither. If you don’t say thanks when I toss the candy gleefully into your bag, I will chase you to the end of my walk to retrieve it. Only I won’t dig the cheap whistle pop that I gave you out of your bag; I’ll instead rob you of the good stuff, your Three Musketeers bars and your Jolly Rancher suckers.

Don’t you even think of smashing this pumpkin tonight:

Ten-year-old Sam painstakingly drew and carved Batman into it himself, and I’ll make you miserable if any mischief befalls it.

Next year y’all better pray that I don’t crack my ankle the day before Halloween and be forced to miss all the festivities, like this year. I wish *I* could go trick-or-treating for Meppergan and Jim Beam.

 
|| October 30, 2002 || 4:58 pm || Comments (0) ||

TACKY PACKtm winner for the month is Kat W.!! Remember her? She was my last Blogger Insider partner. Kat has forty-eight hours from this very post to e-mail me and claim it, or it goes to the runner-up. Yay for giveaways, no strings attached!

 
|| October 30, 2002 || 1:28 pm || Comments (2) ||

The truly wonderful Bob. If you don’t read this entry, I will pummel you.

 
|| October 30, 2002 || 1:01 pm || Comments (1) ||

Paroxysm is an excellent word. It just geehaws well in m’mouf, you know?

In totally unrelated matters, sometimes very neat things happen over this ole InterWeb. Sometimes you find yourself missing six of your requisite nine hours of sleep to converse with someone special.

 
|| October 27, 2002 || 10:14 pm || Comments (4) ||

(Warning, this post is not for the faint of heart or easily grossed-out person….but there are some good things to follow, so goodwiththebadblahblah…)

Seeing the commentary on this post over at Melly’s reminded me of the whole antsy pre-labor nervousness and exhileration. The last couple of weeks leading up to the delivery of a child is, for the mother, like making a slow climb on a very steep rollercoaster ride: You are all bunchy with expectation and the ‘ohmyLordisthisreallyhappening’ sensation, tingly-nervous, but knowing that the plunge down is going to be incredible and heart-stopping and oh…so….cooooool.

When we were in birthing classes, our instructor asked during the second class what our worst fear about labor & delivery was. Fully ninety-five percent of the mothers cited the pain as their biggest source of anxiety. I didn’t think twice about the hurt. As a matter of fact, I had already filled out my birth plan, opting for no drugs during delivery. Pain I could manage. What mortified me was something I’d read in one of the many books I chewed through in machinelike fashion: women poop themselves during delivery.

Holy cow, I did NOT want to be doing that in front of a slew of onlookers and my new bambino. Having my cooter slung open for all the world to ogle I could handle. Pushing something the size of a watermelon out of an area roughly the size of a grapefruit I could handle. Crapping the bed as a spectator sport? Count me OUT.

Not like I had to worry about it anyway, because it never happened, not once in three deliveries. But still…

Becoming a mother brings out these irrational fears. In my eighth month of pregnancy with Sam, I suddenly became very paranoid about him coming down with something terrible and fatal as a small child, most especially cancer. I just knew that something was gonna be wrong with my kid, because I fought so hard to get him here. I spent most days up until my seventh month with my head buried in a toilet or sink or trashcan, miserably sick. My mantra was, “All those hormones raging mean that there’s a healthy baby growing in there.” Besides, unlike some of my female counterparts, I had always had real easy, short periods with no PMS bullshit, so I felt that I was paying penance in some form. Things have a way of countering one another for balance, you know?

So, about two weeks into this exaggerated paranoia was when my sleep cycle began to foul up. It happens at the end of every pregnancy. You sleep a couple hours, toss and turn, unable to sleep, get up and piddle around, sleep a couple hours more, grow fitful again….I think it’s nature’s way of sorta preparing you for the Onslaught That Is Infant. During this time, I’d get up and watch People’s Court for an hour from one ay emm to two ay emm. After that, the infomercials would start.

Lucky me, because there was a ridiculous preponderance of St. Jude’s specials on at that time. While little children in varying stages of baldness and illness were caught, doe-eyed, by the camera, Margo and Danny and John were pleading for money to be used toward care and research. Surely THIS. WAS. AN OMEN. I was suitably freaked out, but never capable of clicking off the television or –more simply– changing the channel.

And of course, there I sat looking for all the world like a big sobbing beached whale. With impossibly long, shiny hair. And a craving for chicken-fried steak.

This went on for a month (the sobbing AND the craving). Holy Mother of Christmas. Of course, I told no one about the little horror show going on in my head, because it was silly. It was crazy. It was irrational and highly improbable. None of that logic mattered to my hormone-rampaging thought pattern. Nobody but nobody is as hard on me as I am on myself.

One morning I awoke and my whole right side was swollen. It literally looked like someone had stuffed a softball down into my anklespace. I phoned the hospital and basically said, “Hey man, is this okay? I mean, does this sort of thing happen, huh?” They said, “No, dipshit, absolutely not” and “Youbettergetinhererightnow.”, to which I responded, “Well, I have to meet my dad at the airport in Anchorage, and then I’ll be in. Have a bed waiting in about, oh, an hour-and-a-half.” Click.

‘Of course I know what I’m doing. I am Jett Superior; do you not know who you’re dealing with?’ I marvel at all the times where I should have been dead, but I was yea and verily spared from mine own stupidity. Fools and little children, fools and little children. In this case, I had both bases covered.

Trotted my big ole ass over to the airport to meet with my father, who was on his way to the North Slope. At the time he was in management for one of the major oil rapers companies up there and did week-on/week-off rotations. He was supposed to have brought a box of gifts and babystuffs in for Biff and I, but he’d left them back in the cab in Kenai, so we just had a little tea-and-crumpets visit before he flew out to Barrow. He was supposed to be present, in lieu of my mother who would be up from Memphis in three weeks, when the baby was born.

Of course I went to the hospital. They ‘monitored’ me and annoyed me for nigh on four hours before my lamaze instructor, an air force captain named, oddly enough, Beth came in and declared me fit for delivery. I had been bitching to my doctor that I was overdue for more than a week, but as you know, the mother knows nothing and he pshawed me and wrote me off as an antsy first-timer.

“Look, Major Notdeliveringmybabyquickenough, you calculated my due date wrong. This is because you made the wrong assumption about the date of conception based on my menstrual cycle. You have the due date set three weeks late.” (This is where he chuckles grandly and condescendingly at the twenty-one-year-old mother-to-be.) (This is where I get crass and rude.) “I know exactly when I conceived this kid; he was planted in my womb on such-and-such a date, the night I left the red handprint on the wall! I was hanging half on and half off the bed at the time, face down, and my spouse was on top, still wearing his boots. greasepaint. and. dog. TAGS.” While the Major’s tight grin never faultered, he shifted just a titch (I WIN!) and said, “I’ll see you next week, Mrs. VerylongandoftenmispronouncedPolishname.”

And he did see me the next week. When they were holding me forcibly. Y’know, to wedge the kid out of the warm, dark space that he seemed to be so fond of.

“Okay, Captain Beth, if you guys are delivering me in the morning, that means I’ve got time enough to run home and freshen up the nursery.” (Since my ‘official’ due date wasn’t until ten days later, I hadn’t, ummm, finished nesting.) “Okay, if I can’t go home to freshen up the nursery, surely you’ll see fit to let me go for a couple hours so that I can have a nice bath and pack my cute little overnight bag purchased especially for this occasion.” (See first set of parenthesis in this paragraph and insert ‘packing’ for ‘nesting’.) “Okay, what about if I just went home, sat on the bed, propped my feets up and told my very high-strung but capable spouse what I need and where to find it?”

“He’s Special Forces, Mrs. VerylongandoftenmispronouncedPolishname, I’m sure he can manage to round up a curling iron and some bedroom slippers.” To which I replied, “Have you ever been married? I mean, like, to a man??”

“Touche, mon pumpkin belly,” the lovely Captain Beth said gently, “but you are staying put so that we can deprive you of food, drug you for a good night’s rest, rouse you several times for vitals, drug you again because you just can’t sleep, and then wake you at six ay emm as the drugs are digging in nicely so’s you can be introduced to the hellish uterine grinder known as a Pitocin drip. Okay?” I was beaten. Captain Beth was pretty, smart, and dint take no shit from noone, even the likes of me. We were namesakes, after all.

They roomed me with a woman named Jeannie who was on baby number five, and boy was SHE ever a hoot and a holler. She was so laid-back about it all that I expected she would be giving herself a pedicure the next day while they had her feet all hitched up in the stirrups. She was pleasant and reassuring and not overly chatty. When I awoke at five-thirty ay emm the next morning with the first pang of contraction, she was already awake. My first two contractions were fifteen minutes apart, then they quickly closed the six-minute window. Jeannie called the nurse on duty for me, showed him her notepad (she was so clever, writing down times!) and after he consulted with me, he said that they were still prepping my delivery room and doing shift change.

“But this is my first delivery,” I explained, “and contractions are coming closer fairly quickly.” We had been told all along that this normally wasn’t the case with first-timers, and if it was, we should get ready to deliver in a pretty quick fashion. Nursey was nonplussed. “I’m not worried,” he said as he took his leave of the room.

“Well, I’m concerned, shithead,” grumbled Jeannie, and she quietly coached and soothed me for the next forty-five minutes until my husband arrived. I remember looking out the window at the still Alaskan landscape, which was quiet and bitterly cold, and thinking that this serenity was a beautiful prelude to whatever was about to happen.

They wheeled me into L&D, where I was greeted by Wong, an OB tech that I always seemed to have the good fortune of running into. See, when you are having a baby in a military hospital, it’s anyone’s guess who you will see when you go in for an appointment. Somehow, Wong and I ended up always having the pleasure of one another’s company. He grinned ear to ear as he informed me that I was the only one on floor as of yet and they just had a new batch of people shipped in who were eager to learn the ins and outs of coaxing a baby into grim reality.

Turns out that statistically women never deliver on the coldest day of the year, so I was the only one on-floor. I was baffled when they strung me up to the pitocin, because I had already commenced labor. It was almost like Sam assessed the surroundings, thought to his little self, “Oh! We’re here! Might as well get on with the business at hand.” My dad had been phoned the evening prior to turn around and come back, but the slope was experiencing a blizzard and all flights had been suspended. Go figger.

Since I was the only one there, I had a steady stream of people in and out all day. ALL day. My focal point was on the wall in front of the bed, and as people kept strolling in front of it, I wasn’t able to center myself. If you aren’t familiar with Pitocin (or ‘The Pit’ as mommies in the know call it), it stimulates contractions. HARD contractions. FREQUENT ones. Those primarily of the ‘back labor’ variety. My whole labor was just about like one long, ten-hour contraction. I had minimal time to regroup between contractions and my focal point kept getting obscured, so I became tired and crabby quickly. Wong, God love his beautiful baby-deliverin’ self, had a penchant for clicking his pen while taking my vitals and carefully watching the fetal monitor. I finally turned my sweating, rabid face to him and said, “Wong dear, you will STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY if you don’t want to click when you walk from here on out.”

If they ever recommend The Pit to you as a labor option, I suggest you go on and carve the baby out of yourself with a butcher knife. A rusty one. Or better yet, a disposable razor.

Because of all the previous swelling and the inability for me to get centered, the baby began to show fetal distress. The parade of people became more fluid, pelvic exams more frequent, there always seemed to be at least three medicos in the room at a time. Have I mentioned that I have a natural aversion to most people? Have I told you that I was in drug-free labor? Around this time, which was hour seven or so, an angular, bony and homely woman meandered in. Let’s call her Nurse Ratched, shall we? I was just entering transition, or the final stage of labor, where the emotional shit really hits the fan. Here is where my second biggest labor fear was realized: barfing during the midst of it. When I heave, I like to have something bigger than my head to barf into. Of course, Ratched gave me an itty, kidney-shaped basin. When asked for something bigger, she said, and I shit you not, “That will do perfectly well.” She reminded me of an old sour schoolmarm. She certainly had the mark of Not My Friend after that.

An hour or so later, I began to hyperventilate. No sweat, I’ve been known to do this from time to time. It sure scares the shit out of anyone who hasn’t seen it, though. I tried to settle the matter myself by cupping my hands over my face, but all the tubes and shit protruding from my wrists prevented anything remotely helpful, so I asked Ratched for a bag…plastic, paper, whatever. Keep in mind here that when you are hyperventilating, it’s difficult to talk, because you are naturally inclined to be stingy with what little air is making it to your lungs. Nurse Ratched kept asking me what for, when finally Wong turned to her (his superior officer, who could have fried him like a bit of sausage) and near-hollered, “She is hyperventilating, stop asking her what for and go get the goddamned bag!” He then instructed another tech to cup her hands over my face until Ratched returned. Wong is my hero.

Thirty minutes or so after that, Captain Beth came in and had to give me a pelvic during a contraction, the thought of which made me a little, well, enraged.

“No way, Captain Beth, there’s no more room in the inn!!!” But Captain Beth was a good sport about labor-related fury, having been quite the little spitfire herself, and she explained the necessity of it. Something to do with gigawatts and cubic feet and shucking corn, I dunno. Nurse Ratched was manning the fetal montor as this was occurring, and I got –understandably– loud. For the first time in this whole process, I howled with pain and fatigue. Nurse Ratched, annoyed, semi-shouted over me, over the woman in labor, “Now, Jackye, you are going to have to SETTLE. DOWN.”

Oh HELL no. There are some basic rules that apply here:
1) Nobody ever, EVER has permission to call me by my first name. EVER. Except for my ma, and then only in conjuction with my middle name, while she’s angry.
2) Do not address me in the familiar if you do not know me. Period.
3) A woman in labor, without drugs, should be able to holler as fuckingwell loud as she likes and with consistency.
4) If you’ve never done any watermelon-squeezing yourself, you should just shut the fuck up and accomodate.

I turned to my spouse, whom I then still loved, and said in a loud, even voice, “If you don’t get the her the fuck out of here, Biff, I am going to kill her. I mean it. I will come up off this bed and DO HER IN.” He, in a marvelous display of decorum, gently kissed my arm and patted my hand. He then looked up at Ratched, grinning, and said, “You heard her.” Ratched was agape. He raised his eyebrows and nodded as if to tell her, ‘My wife is fucked in the head and she means whatever rockets out of her mouth.’

Ratched wasn’t moving at all fast (prolly the shock), so I looked up at her and said, “If you are not out of here on count three I am going to take great delight in wrapping my hands around your neck and making your eyeballs pop out.” I have Pitocin-laced blood, bitch! No jury in the land would convict me! Biff, with excellent timing, pursed his lips, half-smiled and said, “She means it.” I live with the woman. You know not of what she is capable. She beat feet.

I had been dilated to nine, begging for just a push, just-one-little-push-and-if-I-don’t-give-way-to-ten-I’ll-quiiiiiit for over an hour when my father stepped in, red-faced from the cold and blustery-handsome. I was up on the edge of the bed, legs crossed and bouncing, quite literally to keep the baby in. My father, in his most caring voice, reached out to caress my back as he asked, “How you doin’, hon?” I came unglued. “Don’tyouTOUCHme!” I snarled. He jerked his hand back, astounded. He turned his attention to Biff, who had risen from the chair in front of me to shake my father’s hand in greeting. They were engaging in small talk back and forth over my head, which of course annoyed me like no other thing could.

“What is this? Are we at a fucking BALLGAME?” Oh my. I had dropped the f-bomb in front of my father without remorse. He said to Biff, “You know what? I’ll just go and get batteries for the camera. Be back in a couple.”

Blessedly, ten minutes later they started rearranging the breakaway bed so that I could begin pushing. My father returned just seconds before the doctor arrived. When Major Notdeliveringmybabyfastenough walked in, he was all smiles.

“Perfect timing! I just finished with my last patient of the day!” It all dawned on me then.

They had kept me from pushing not because I was at nine, but so that the Major could clear his patient roster. I wished desperately for a hammer as he settled in front of me and bent his head to examine the real estate. In my mind’s eye, I marked a big red ‘X’ on his shiny-bald pate where I would hit him if the hammer materialized.

They asked if I wanted a mirror with which to view the delivery. I declined, because seeing the baby’s head pull back between pushes would frustrate and unnerve me. Less than twenty minutes after the first push, Sam joined us with barely a cry, holding his head up by his lonesome and looking around, wide-eyed.

I am here and for now I am blind,” he seemed to say, “but I am a Watcher.”

Biff had someone to foist his political views on. My father finally had a male in his lineage. They both immediately went to buy the baby the ritualistic maternal-grandfather-bought coming home outfit. And to get drunk while smoking ridiculously large, phallic cigars.

The nursing staff took the baby to be cleaned up and left me to shower. I was asked if I wanted the Mommy Meal that the kitchen staff so enjoyed making. I was starved and ordered beef tips and asparagus. The baby and the food arrived at the same time, so I settled Sam at my left breast to nurse while I leisurely pushed the fork with my right hand.

We both fell asleep at our meals, and the nursing staff gathered to “Awwww” in the doorway. Wong had the forethought to snap a photo, and I admire his brilliance even to this day.

A young mother sits propped amongst several fluffy pillows, hair fanned out behind and head slightly to the left as if gazing at the baby boy at her breast. They both sleep soundly, a look of contented peace on their faces. Her right hand, propped upon a sliding table, dangles a fork loosely.

Remember, no matter what your relationship with her is like now that you are a grown-up (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), you are an absolute miracle to your mother.