An Unhappy Customer

So, I'm happy to report I have good news...no my baby hasn't come.  And yes, she's overdue by two days now.  And no, there's no sign of her nor do I have a date for inducing her. 

The good news is Ralph, my friend the Craigslist guy who, may try to kill me one day, emailed me the other day to check in.  Apparently, he wasn't completely satisfied with his purchase of my table.

The following was in the title of the email: 

DELETE YOUR TABLE ON CRAIGS LIST! I"m tryin 2 sell it, I hate it.

 

I hate it?  Ralph, buddy, what's the problem?  Are you now going to officially break into my apartment and steal my TV?  Buddy, let's talk it out...

Come On, Craigslist

I have to admit I definitely have a love/hate relationship with Craigslist.  One, I love the fact that I can sell and buy all sorts of crap.  Looking for a rundown, probably infested with bed bugs, mattress?  Craigslist has got it.  Looking to sell your college, IKEA purchased lamp, that has been lugged from four different apartments?  Some idiot wants it.  It's amazing. 

However, as much as I love the wide scope of Craigslist I also hate the constant low-balling of offers.  People, when I offer my college lamp for five dollars - I mean five dollars.  Don't come back with 3 dollars.  If you are that cheap go find some sticks at the park and light them on fire for some extra reading light.  Also, I hate the stupid questions associated with your posts.  Yesterday, I had a lady call me and ask if the light I was trying to sell actually worked.  Worked?  Crap, I thought people would simply want a decorative floor lamp. Thank you Asian lady for pointing out what could have been a very awkward purchase for someone.

And lastly, I find Craigslist to be simply bizarre because of the people you encounter.  Take for example, the people who bought our refrigerator.  They had just moved from Rhode Island, totally friendly and, yet, just dumb enough to buy one of our chairs and lamps without really seeing the chair was about to fall apart.  Great people.  And then, yesterday Ralph and David showed up at my place to buy my coffee table.  As usual, Ralph started with a low ball offer - to which, I said no...(a year ago I would have offered to pay for the table myself.  The Husband has been working on my "bartering" give stuff away for free skills.)  Then he turned the table over about thirty times, asked some other dumb questions and then proceeded to pace around the room.  Now, I wouldn't have minded the long deliberation, but after awhile, I was pretty convinced Ralph and his friend David were actually taking an inventory of my place so they could return and rob us.  Was I being paranoid?  Probably not when Ralph said, "That sure is a nice TV.  By the size of it it looks like you easily walked it into your apartment."  Great observation tattooed Ralph.  Are you thinking of how easy it would be to walk it out?

Good news is - Ralph bought the table. 
Bad news is - Ralph knows where I live.

Thanks Craigslist.

Preparing For the Worst

The other day someone asked me if I was reading any child development books in preparation for the birth of my child.  I, without really thinking, said, "Well, I've been reading this great book on Catherine the Great, and because I'm slightly ADD when it comes to reading, I've also started a fascinating biography on Hitler."

In retrospect I should have said no. 

What?  I'm preparing for the worst case scenarios.  Who wants a child that pulls the entire world into a war and murders millions?  I would say I'm being a great mom.

It Continues To Haunt Me

Now this might come as a shock to some of you and it might not come as a shock at all, but from fifth grade until eighth grade I played the trumpet.  Now, I should be honest, "played" the trumpet is a slight exaggeration.  The truth would be I lugged a large suitcase onto the bus, sat on it, which only heightened the bumps, dumped it in the band room, blared through it, while my counterparts actually played the songs and prayed a day would come when the band room would be blown up.  Fortunately, for my school district the band room was not blown up, but my release came when the band teacher asked me to come down to the band room.  As I entered the room he asked, while pointing to my trumpet case, "Do you know what this is?"  I, slightly confused by his question said, "Um, my trumpet?"  He then said, "Yes.  And you know what, I've never seen it leave.  So, that means you never practice, which means you don't care, which means you should probably give this up."  Ahh, the sweet words of release.

So, that was it.  My days with hearing a bad trumpet were over...and then, I moved into this new apartment.  As we were moving in we started talking to the neighbor below us and she said, "So, Maddie is our youngest. She is great - we just hope you won't be too annoyed by her."  Annoyed by her?  What does Maddie do - bang on the walls?  Scream racist profanities for no apparent reason?  Nope, Maddie plays the trumpet.

As I'm writing this I'm listening to a monkey being shoved into...no, wait, I'm listening to someone attempting to do scales on a TRUMPET!  Play something already!  Geez, even in my six hours of practicing over three years I could at least play a decent "Up On the Rooftop!" 

The Interview

As I've mentioned before I'm slightly nervous about entering the world of crazy moms.  I got to be honest, I'm just not looking forward to the looks of disapproval because I'm not using sign language to communicate with my child, or the fact that they aren't potty trained by six months.  Honestly, whatever happened to the days when moms let kids run around the pool with no suntan lotion on and fries were a totally acceptable lunch??  Oh, the 80s...

So, the other day I found myself in a room with two other expecting mothers waiting to interview a potential pediatrician.  As we sipped on cool water, and secretly assessed each others' weight gain, one mother turned to me and asked, "So, how many pediatricians have you interviewed so far?"  Immediately I thought, how many pediatricians?  Was I supposed to interview more than one?  Is there a final written test I'm supposed to give them and the one with the highest score gets to take care of my kid's runny nose?  Why doesn't anyone tell me these things?


So, after looking at her with a blank stare, I said, "Nope, this is the only one."  And that, my friends, was not the correct answer.  The expecting mother then told me how she had interviewed five pediatricians already and all had completely different methods.  Different methods?  What are they doing - making wine?


Unfortunately, our conversation was cut short when the pediatrician entered the room.  After a few introductions, the doctor asked us if we had any questions.  And this is when crazy happened.  Both mothers, to my left and right, proceeded to pull out sheets (yes, that was plural) of questions.  I just sat there completely dumbfounded as they asked everything from vaccine schedules, to waiting room procedures, to after hour calls, to billing and to his thoughts on curing autism.  Finally, the doctor turned to me and asked, "Kate, do you have any questions?"  For a moment I looked down at my keys and cell phone, and then said, "Nope, I think I'm good."  Silence in the room.  He then, along with the women, asked again, "Really? You have no questions?"  Then in a moment of panic and slight guilt I said, "You said you went to medical school?  Right?  (Doctor nods) Great.  And you aren't going to touch my child inappropriately? (Doctor nods)  Great.  No, I think I'm good." 


Oh if you were wondering...he hasn't thought of a cure for autism.  I guess those ladies will be finding another pediatrician. 

NEWWMAANNN

Oh the irony of life...so, as I mentioned in my last entry, I'm a tad nervous about my impending labor and worry that my baby will decide to come while I'm driving my car or when I'm at the grocery store.  So, what happens later that day?  A customer from the restaurant calls me and asks if I would like to be an extra on the show The Exes, starring Newman from Seinfeld, Kristen Johnston from 3rd Rock From The Sun and Donald Faison from Scrubs.  Apparently, they need pregnant people to be in the background for a scene at a Lamaze class.  Now, here's what's so freaking ironic about this whole thing:

1. I'm scared to leave my house and now I'm considering driving to the valley and spending the day at the CBS lot.

AND
 
2. I NEVER TOOK A FREAKING CLASS and now I would be taking a fake Lamaze class from 11-5...with a bunch of actors.  (I wonder if I would actually learn anything.)

I might do it.  It would be cool if a fake doctor delivered my baby and Newman and Kristen Johnston became the kid's new uncle and aunt. 

Game Time

So, I'm officially two weeks away from having this kid, and I'm not going to lie, I'm getting slightly nervous.  I mean, it was one thing to get fat and feel her kick, and then it was cool to have showers and get free stuff, but now it's game time.  It's time for me to experience the jaws of hell and push out a watermelon.  This is serious.

So lately, I've been having small panic attacks. For example, yesterday I was at Target (because I'm already training on being a mom and spending my days running errands) when I thought, "What if I have this baby right now?  What if my water breaks right here in front of this delightful display of baby swimsuits and the only people that can help me is the Spanish speaking family to my left and the creepy man standing in the baby clothes section to my right?  And if I have the baby here in Target, does that mean I get a lifetime discount?  Will my child only wear red shirts and khaki pants?  Is this floor clean for a delivery?"  I'm telling you I'm freaking out and terrified of leaving my home.

I just wish God would send down a small note that says, "In five minutes you are going to feel like you want to die.  Best of luck."  A little heads up would be fantastic.

My New Best Friend

As I've mentioned before there are many weird things that happen when you are pregnant.  For example, my protruding belly has been "violated" many times, I've been given advice that ranges from "helpful" to a notch above pure insanity and everyone from a worker at Subway to a random person at the library has demanded I tell them what I'm going to name my little one.  However, as strange as these moments were, I think I experienced the strangest the other day.

So, there I was walking home from Subway (Yes, that would be two references to the sandwich shop.  What?  We just moved and until I can find my toothbrush I'm eating out.)  Anyway, I was walking down the street, in a slight hunger daze, when this random woman stopped me and asked, "When are you due?"  I answered, "About three weeks," and then she announced she was due in December.  Okay, great, now let's move on so I can go eat my slightly mediocre sandwich.  However, as I went to say, "Congrats..." and then "Good-bye," this lady proceeded to whip out her phone and said, "You must give me your number."  I must?  Why because we both have a fetus inside us?  And yet, as she hammered on about the trials of being four months pregnant, while looking down at her cell phone, I caved and gave her my number.  And then, as she started to dive into nannies, I said, "Um, do you want to know my name?"  I mean, I thought it was the proper thing to do since, me and this nameless baby freak, were going to be besties and raise our children together come December.  I know, I'm the crazy one.  She then, without really taking a breath, said, "Oh yeah, my name is Kat...I just called your phone so that's me..."  Again, I have not up to this point given her my name.  Finally, as she was walking away, and telling me how walks with women and babies can be really good for your postpartum depression, I said, "It's Kate...my name is Kate."

I think I'm going to love the world of mothers...it doesn't seem crazy at all.

Childhood Memories of Judo

Oh the Olympics.  I love them.  I honestly do.  I love the bizarre sports, the competition, the drama, the back stories - Which, by the way, how come every Olympic hopeful has had some freaking tragedy in their life?  Is there some correlation here?  So, if I take up cocaine and beat my child, is there a better chance she'll win an Olympic medal in fencing?  It's something to consider.

Anyway, this morning, while eating my pancakes (that's my current diet because I need to put on some L.B.s and we don't have a refrigerator anymore) I stumbled upon the Women's Judo Final.  Now, as you all know, because I'm sure the demographic that follows this blog ALSO follows Judo, Amercia's Kayla Harrison was able to win its first gold medal in this event.  This feat, apparently, was quite amazing, but I got to be honest, I'm not really clear on the whole "sport aspect" of Judo.  Basically, from what I could gather, this sport consists of attempting to grab your opponent's shoulder and then, once you grab hold, you fight to bring them to the floor.  Once they are on the floor you jump on top of them and hold them there.  Now I'm not entirely sure what the sitting on them accomplishes because there's no pinning involved like wrestling, but they kept doing it and finally after ten seconds they would be waved off. 

So, there you have it: Judo 101.  But, folks let's be honest.  Is this really a sport?  I mean, isn't this basically what every older brother does to their younger sister?  Honestly, while I was watching the match I kept having flashbacks of my brother entering my room, with a look of fury, grabbing my shoulders and then throwing my to the ground.  And then, just when I thought the torture was over, he would proceed to jump on top of me and then, either dangle a drip of spit over my quivering face or threaten to fart.  (I now sort of wonder if the same thing happened during the Olympic match I watched.  I wonder if Kayla went with the classic coughing noise that let's her opponent know she's conjuring up some good phlegm, or if she whispered, "I had lots of beans last night...you better watch out.) 

At any rate, the jury is still out for me in regards to Judo - is it a sport or just a good ol' brawl between siblings?