the pieces of my life

Warm weather has begun at last. The weekend was decidedly springlike, although it has nothing on today, when at lunch, it was a whopping 58 degrees, which of course felt downright hot. Large patches of brown dirt are now finally making their way through the piles of snow in our front yard, making for tempting mud puddles. I had to strip off my tights midday because I was sweatin’ (and, of course, because they cut off all circulation because of my ever-expanding tummy, but that doesn’t sound nearly as pleasant, does it). But you didn’t come here to read about the weather, did you? So here are the highlights from my weekend:

~Breakfast on Saturday at Renee’s Cafe with Adam’s brother Jon and his maybe-she-is, maybe-she-isn’t girlfriend. Classic moment came when pointing out Jon’s odd t-shirt, I asked if his mother had bought for him. “No way!” he said. “Not only is she not allowed to buy my clothes, but she’s barely allowed to do my laundry anymore.” I bet his mother lives in fear for the day he won’t let her do his wash. It’s a heart-wrenching moment. Did I mention that Jon just turned 27?

~Adam will be moving his office into the basement. The basement windows need some sort of curtains so prying eyes won’t just peer down and see a lonely computer those fifteen minutes a day when Adam is not compulsively checking his e-mail. Adam agrees curtains are needed. I now have the sewing skills: I shall make the curtains. “Shall I just pick out the fabric?” I ask. “No,” he barks. (Okay, not exactly a bark. More like the snip of a disgruntled husband.) “Okay, so we’ll go to Joann Fabrics and you’ll pick something out.” “I don’ wanna go.” “Then I’ll pick them out.” “No!”

Later that day in the parking lot of the fabric store, Adam does not want to enter. “We’ll just get blinds,” Adam says. Except that these windows are twenty-eight inches tall. “We don’t need custom blinds. We’ll just put in normal blinds and just not unroll them all the way.” Except that there’s nowhere to put the blinds on the outside of the windows (the top abuts the ceiling). “We’ll put them on the inside,” which of course leaves plenty of room for daylight. And we’re already at the fabric store. “Don’t tell anyone I’m doing this,” Adam says. Of course not, honey. “Hurry up,” he says. “We’re in and out fast as we can.”

Inside the store, Adam doesn’t do much better as I hold up bolts of fabric for him. “Do you like these?” “No.” “Do you like these?” “No.” “Do you like these?” “No.” Finally I send him off to pick out fabric himself. “I don’t know what to get.” There is an unmistakable whine in his voice. He finally picks a heavy canvas that I point out won’t let in a shred of light. He finally agrees on a calico. At this point, he’s hopping from foot to foot anxious to get out of there. But I’m not done. Finally, frustrated, I send him to Starbucks and tell him to come back for me in fifteen minutes. You’ve never seen this boy move so fast. Of course, after fifteen minutes, I’m roaming the store killing time, waiting for his return. Finally I give up and go to pay and he enters. He asks, “What’s taking you so long?” “I’ve been waiting for you.” “Oh, I was waiting outside.” God forbid he be seen in the store twice. You would think I sent him to the store for a pregnancy test or tampons (which, I should mention, I have done and he’s managed quite well). I swear, the entire experience was straight out of Blondie comic strip. (Hey, you can make your own Blondie comic strip.)

By the way, for those tracking my Martha tendencies, I got everything I need and I’ll report back on whether I actually successfully made the curtains or not. Because there really is not a top window sill, we’ll have to put it up in a makeshift hooks kind of manner. I’ll take pictures when I’m done so you can see what I mean.

~A Sports Night marathon. Every time I attempted to get up to clean my office closet out, I found my butt squarely glued to the couch. So Adam and I had a few major Sports Night binge sessions in which we finished the series. That was a great series. Sigh.

~And I did, in fact, finally clean out my closet. Didn’t quite finish, but I have a better idea where things are. Of course, a few things in our house are still MIA from the move. I will find them one of these days soon!

I pack enough food to take with me to work to feed three normal size adult males. It is 1:38 p.m. on Friday. And I have eaten every last piece of food I brought. All of it. And I’m looking for more. It’s not a pretty sight, so if you see me, stay far away, unless you come with offerings of sustenance. Otherwise, I just might bite the hand that doesn’t feed me.

~Since yesterday was such a glorious day, with weather warm enough (almost 50!) to go for a fro-yo run (mmm, chocolate frozen yogurt with marshmallow fluff mixed in) and for bits of actual pieces of brown dead grass to be seen poking through the layer of gray snow on our lawn, I’m being punished today. A lovely dance of snow is appearing outside my window. It’s such a flurry that it appears to be snowing up instead of down. Dance, pretty snow, dance! And then go away and never ever come back.

~I’m not sure why I find this so amusing, but I gave in this morning after standing in front of my closet shrieking, “Arrrggg! Not one f’ing thing fits me anymore!” Which isn’t exactly true as I have a couple of elastic-waisted skirts, but as I’ve already worn them this week, those were out. So, given how much I absolutely detest clothes shopping (if there’s a more tedious chore out there, I’m not sure what it is), I popped online to see what I could find. And what was that? Not one, not two, but three maternity wedding gowns for sale at Amazon’s apparel store. Has anyone bought a maternity wedding dress online (eBay excepted)? Maybe I should pick up one of those suckers for the spring black tie ball I need to attend with Adam.

~This is the funniest baby site ever created. Of course, it’s made me completely change my mind about having a child, but as Adam keeps pointing out, it’s a little late for that. (Seriously, I do want this child, however, that’s not going to stop me from being absolutely furious over the so-called partial-birth abortion ban that was passed in the Senate. Everyone, go make a donation to Naral now!)

~I work in a professional office. Not a dorm. So why is it grown women can’t go to the bathroom in a clean and neat way. Our work bathroom is disgusting.

~I have done more interviews this week than ever before. So far this week I’ve inteviewed eleven people and I have three more that are being done tonight. Nobody call me this week. I don’t want to talk to anyone. That includes you.

~Dance, pretty snow, dance!

Ah, the torture of getting one’s taxes done. I suppose it’s less torture than doing them oneself, however, still not a pleasant experience. Adam and I figured it would be a quick in and out. We’d drop off our forms, give him a few facts, and then be on our way. In fact, I distinctly remember saying to Adam, “This shouldn’t take more than an hour, so let’s eat afterward,” to which he wholeheartedly agreed. Well, almost two and half hours later (I hadn’t realized that taxes were a group project), the poor baby is screaming inside of me (yes, screaming. Vocal cords developed last Thursday. And yes, it was last Thursday so didn’t give me the same crap Adam does about “approximate dates” and “everyone’s different.” My baby developed vocal cords last Thursday right on schedule, thank you very much!), crying from hunger. The tax guy seems good, but he’s easily distracted on any tangent, and Adam keeps wanting to send him on more. “Yeah, the tuition at HBS is pretty high.” “Oh,” taxman says, leaning back a bit, you know, away from the computer, “when I was in business school, this was back in the ’70s, mind you…” And off he went. I kept doing that discreet hit/squeeze under the table to get Adam to shut up so the guy would finish up and I could eat! Of course, the tax man wasn’t on my best side, because after asking us, “Who should be the main tax payer?” Adam, knowing I have certain control issues (I know, you’re surprised by this), said, “Jenny,” to which I enthusiastically concurred. But even with that, Adam was put down as tax payer and I was put down as–gag–spouse! Spouse! Do I look like a spouse to you? I don’t think so. This guy better be saving us a buttload of money after starving the baby and calling me a spouse. Sheesh.

So Amazon has this feature, Share the Love, whereby it will send a list of the books/music/videos you’ve bought to your friends and offer them a 10 percent discount on those items. Which is cool. I’ve bought things off of other people’s Share the Love. However, it only displays the top three items apparently in your order so all of my friends now think I’m a flaming CWIT, because they got a mail from me saying I had bought Baby Bargains, Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year (and no I don’t know if it’s a boy–this was recommended by a friend), and Home Landscaping: Northeast Region, so everyone assumed that the hormones are turning me into a Stepford suburban housewife, who cares desperately whether or not the squirrels are going to get at her tulip bulbs. Well, actually, I do care about tulip bulbs, so maybe that was a bad example. But I’m a very cool Stepford suburban housewife-potentially-to-be and folks would know that if they saw the rest of my order and noticed I also purchased The Eminem Show (with the explicit lyrics, thank you very much) and Paris Combo’s Living Room. Does that sound CWIT to you? I think not. Your apology has been accepted.

Adam is having issues with the whole “my child” thing. Apparently he thinks I should be referring to it as “our child.” And yet, when I’m not feeling well, and he says, “I’m sorry,” he isn’t fond of the answer, “You damn well should be sorry, because this whole thing is your fault because you were the jerk who injected me with this parasitic creature that is sucking the very lifeblood from me!” In those moments, he seems to be willing to distance himself from the whole thing. Well, until he can take over the headaches, the queasiness, the constant sleepiness, and the ever-present bloating and aches, then it’s going to be my child.

The Tweedle Twirp has come up with an excellent compromise. Since my child will be a violet and Adam’s child will yearn “to feel that early morning crunch of snow and see the fog rising off of the Connecticut river, the Tweedle Twirp suggested her own violet alma mater complete with crunching snow and a stone’s throw to the Connecticut river (and no Republicans. They actually give you a blood test before they’ll accept you to insure that there’s no trace of GOP in there). Everyone can be happy. Although, even if we’re not all happy, does it really matter? As if Adam could have his own child. Hah!

Adam’s out of town, the house is clean (and still will be when I get home from work), I’ve got a weekend full of plans with girlfriends, Martha‘s Baby magazine is out, our order of three boxes of Girl Scout cookies just came in and we were just dismissed from work because March was such a good month for us (never mind that we got out at three yesterday because the university closed because of the snow storm). It’s gonna be a good weekend!

I think a minimum age should be imposed on newscasters. I’m so sick of the young earnest kids relaying the news with the “appropriate” facial gestures and the I’m-being-serious tone of voice. These guys all took acting 101 and quit there. You’ll never see someone older making those ridiculous eyebrow moves and the frowny face only to switch to the smiley face two seconds later. Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw deliver the news. They don’t emote it.

This morning I made the mistake of turning on the TV while I ate my Raisin Bran. I have plenty of time in the morning, but it never feels like it because I glue myself to the computer and answer e-mail or blog (like right now). But this morning, I’m feeling a little queasy and headachy (which I’ve been feeling for the past three months, but have been unable to mention before), so I decided to relax this morning. Of course, I forgot that you can’t relax to the morning news. First of all, CNN gives me a headache with all the fuss on the screen. I don’t care what the weather is in Vancouver (does anyone ever stick around long enough to get the weather in his or her own city?) and I find myself staring at that ridiculous crawl in an odd daze, unable to hear what the newscaster is saying. Not that that’s bad. As I’ve mentioned before, I can’t handle the news these days (can you say hormonal weepies?). Why I thought CNN would be a good way to start my day, I don’t know. I got enough of a taste of bombings and confrontations on my local NPR station. It’s all enough to make me go running back to my computer.

So, for the past six months I’ve been resisting the domination of the CWITs. (And Seattle folks, that’s pronounced see-wits. And for those with short-term memories, it stands for Corporate Wives-in-Training.) I haven’t had a manicure, a wax, or an Ann Taylor shopping spree. I speak with derision of Hah-vahd and those who attend (and yes, to their faces. Believe me, all of Adam’s sectionmates are used to me by now). I’ve been rude, crude, and generally unpleasant to be around. I have fought. And I was winning. Until now. Yes, I am succumbing to the siren call of the CWITs. Where others have resisted, I have fallen prey. I am not only embracing a CWIT lifestyle, I shall be moving beyond it. I will be taking my wifely duties to the next level.

The MAMs. It’s true. I’ve skipped CWITness in its entirety and am moving directly to the next tier. Do not pass Saks, do not collect alimony. Go straight to the Mommies and Me. Adam and I are breeding. What does this mean for you, dear reader (I’m suddenly channeling Jane Austen)? There will rants about how an over-educated professional woman may not be able to afford to continue working because childcare is ridiculously expensive (and won’t that be exciting for you, dear reader, if I become a stay-at-home CWIT MAM). There will be reports of the battle for Baby Hah-vahd’s soul (if you think Adam’s Republican ways are going to influence my child, you’ve got another think coming! This baby will be violet, thank you very much, without a dash of green or crimson). You will still have the same sarcastic, bitter me, only with more random raging hormonal outbursts. If you think it’s a joy for you, imagine what life is like for Adam right now. I’ll try to steer clear of the medical crap (although it may slip through) and focus on the joys of being a Hah-vahd mother as I try to keep my alter CWIT ego, Jennifer, at bay. Baby Hah-vahd is due September 10. It’s going to be quite a ride, folks.