TLC’s I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant

  • January 7, 2010

The other night I was lying in bed trying to find something to watch on TV and despite Dave’s claim that switching from cable to satellite would give us loads of additional channels, my only choices seemed to be either Khloe and Kourtney take Miami or Keeping up with the Kardashians. Personally, I think the Kardashian family jumped the shark a long time ago and I’m not sure why they’re still all over the TV but whatever, I was certain I could find something better to watch on one of the other 70 million channels Dave said we now had.

And then I stumbled upon TLC’s I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant. I was so amazed that such a possibility even existed I forgot all about how tired I was and proceeded to stare at the screen transfixed. One by one, women started explaining how they didn’t know they were pregnant and they really just thought they were constipated and needed to take a poop and while I watched the show I could only think of one thing:

You have got to be fucking kidding.

As any woman who has ever given birth will tell you, not knowing you are pregnant, during the approximately 40 weeks you are growing a human being means that not only are you unobservant, you might be slightly out of touch with your own body.

I knew I was pregnant even before I peed on the little stick. My boobs were so sensitive just the wind blowing on them was agony. I felt certain that people at work could see them throbbing and would think something was terribly wrong with me. They got bigger immediately and Dave was all, “Wow! Your boobs are getting really big!” and I’d be thinking “Enjoy ’em now loverboy because in a few months you’re going to be all, “Wow, your butt is getting really big too.”

To be fair, I have two really good friends who did not know right away that they were pregnant with their second children because they had needed fertility treatments in order to conceive their first babies and neither of them expected to be able to conceive on their own. They were both pleasantly surprised when they discovered they were going to be blessed with another child. Yet neither of my friends actually went into labor, delivered a baby, and told everybody later, “You know, I didn’t expect there to be a baby, I just felt like I had to poop.”

And that’s why I’m starting to believe that maybe TLC has gone a bit “Jerry Springer” on me because they know shit like this (heh, heh, I said shit. I made a pun) is going to grab my attention and generate higher ratings and a whole bunch of talk ’round the old water cooler. I mean, who confuses labor with a #2? And then admits it! On TV!

If the women on I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant had never been in labor before it’s understandable they might not know what it feels like but it’s also like they’re a little sketchy on the mechanics of poopin’ too.

And I may not be as familiar with labor pains as professional baby mama Michelle Duggar, but I’ve done it twice and both times my main concern was figuring out how Freddy Kruger had gotten inside my uterus because it felt like he was trying to stab his way out with those finger knives every two minutes or so. Never once did I think, “Hey, maybe I just need to take a poop.” Yes, your stomach can feel kind of upset during labor and there’s the all too real fear of actually crapping on the delivery table but I can still tell the two bodily functions apart.

“Oh hi. You’re a baby, not a #2 “

I know I kind of look like shit here. It’s 2:17 AM and I just shot a 9 lb. 6 oz. baby out my hoo-ha without the benefit of any drugs whatsoever.

Can you imagine sitting down on the toilet and thinking something is going to come out of somewhere only to discover that something totally different came out a completely different orifice? That’s what happened to one of the women on I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant. She thought she had to go to the bathroom so she sat on the toilet, grabbed the counter and the towel bar because it hurt so bad and her baby plopped out of her into the toilet water and when she tried to get up, she was slammed back down onto the toilet seat because she was still attached to the baby by the umbilical cord! And while she was in the bathroom all confused and laboring and delivering and stuff her baby daddy was sitting out on the couch with the popcorn bowl yelling helpful things like, “Hey, are you almost done in there?”

I mean, did it not occur to her to yell, “Put down the popcorn bowl you dumbass because something that is NOT a turd just came out and oh my God tell the paramedics they better haul ass!”

That’s what I would have done.

On the show’s website I found the following: We are looking for new stories for new episodes of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant. Or, as they probably like to call it, more unaware women who had babies and not number two’s and aren’t afraid to have it re-enacted on national television.

Oh, and there was a woman on the show one night who didn’t know she was pregnant TWICE. Probably you can tell I watch this show a lot. I’ve seen all the episodes. Some of them more than once.

So, I’m guessing TLC pays these women to go on the show? There’s got to be some incentive for admitting you didn’t know what the hell was going on.

But in that case, maybe the women are actually pretty shrewd. Maybe they don’t care if everyone laughs at how clueless they are.

Perhaps they’re even laughing all the way to the bank.

Good for them. Maybe they’ll start a college fund for their little miracles.

P.S. Guess what other TLC show I’m obsessed with? My Monkey Baby. Oh my God, how I love this show.

P.P.S. And now I totally want a monkey baby.

P.P.P.S And I want to go to Baby Gap and buy cute little clothes for my monkey baby.

P.P.P.P.S. And I want my monkey baby to sleep with Dave and me in our bed.

P.P.P.P.P.S Dave just saw this and said my monkey baby cannot sleep with us.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S I know Dave will change his mind when I bring my monkey baby home so I’m not worried.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S And then we’ll be as happy as these two!

Someone Actually Asked Me To Be A Guest Blogger!

  • December 17, 2009

A little over a month ago I came home from work to find this in my e-mail inbox:

Bonjour,

Just wanted to let you know that my friend Stephanie and I think you are HILARIOUS. We’ve decided to spend the rest of our work day reading your blog instead of being productive.

Thanks for being funny.

Taylor K

““““““““““““

Taylor took the time to write me the above note to tell me how much she liked my blog and frankly, it made my whole day. I love when the blogosphere sends me new friends because I believe you can never have too many.

This month, Taylor has been featuring posts from guest bloggers called “I Believe.” I was honored that Taylor asked me to participate. You can read my list of things I believe in and discover Taylor’s awesome blog at Totally Tay.

Thanks for letting me play Taylor! You are awesome 🙂

Tracey

This is what happens when the Hawkeyes play before noon

  • December 14, 2009

Dave and the offspring and I have been watching a lot of Hawkeye football this season. We especially like when the Hawkeyes are playing at night because we can get together with friends and neighbors and have a few drinks while we enjoy the game.

On Halloween, the Hawkeyes played at 11:05 AM. We invited a few neighbors over to watch with us and thought we’d make a day of it. We had already been trick or treating the night before because, here in Des Moines, we call it Beggar’s night and we go out on the 30th. I have no idea why and I didn’t make up the rule. But I’m glad we had already gone trick or treating because it left us an entire day to watch football and hang out. It was beautiful here on Halloween, sunny and unseasonably warm which meant the offspring and the neighbor kids could play outside while we watched the game. Following is a semi-detailed account of how much fun we had.

8:00 : Offspring wake up and start stuffing their faces with Halloween candy. I take away the candy and serve them an appropriate breakfast because I am a good mother.
10:30: Go to grocery store for last minute items before neighbors arrive. Mention offhand to Dave that I probably wouldn’t drink during the game because it was so early and alcohol didn’t sound appealing. Plus, I really wanted to go to the library after the game and maybe run a few errands. But, when I am in the liquor aisle buying beer for the guys, I am mesmerized by all the champagne with sparkly, pretty labels. Maybe one mimosa would be kind of fun and maybe my neighbors will want one too. Can’t decide which champagne to buy so I purchase three different kinds with the rationale that I can always save them for another time if no one wants a mimosa.
11:05: Neighbors arrive and Iowa game starts.
11:10: Finish setting out hot wings and vegetables. Remind offspring to eat their veggies. Commend them for choosing broccoli. Am totally a good mother. Encourage them to go outside and play because fresh air and sunshine is good for children.
11:15: Ask Brooke if she wants champagne. She definitely does.
11:20: Cannot believe I forgot how much Mimosas kick ass!
12:20: First bottle of champagne gone. How did that happen? Ask Brooke if I should open another bottle. She says yes. Go outside and point exploding cork toward Yeti and Smokey’s house. Laugh maniacally.
1:00: Tipsy.
1:40: Make sandwiches for kids. Use Halloween cookie cutters to make bats and ghosts. Am like perfect Martha Stewart type mother except totally buzzed.
1:45: Dave and the offspring and I morph into completely obnoxious Hawkeye fans. Convinced that our cheering may influence outcome of game. And that players and coaches in Iowa City can hear us.
2:00 Take small break and re-locate to Brooke and Spence’s house next door so they can put their kids down for a nap.
3:00 Cork number three? See ya!
4:00 All football games are over. Brooke breaks out her ipod. Appoint myself DJ and look for songs to play that are not sung by 80’s hair bands or Lady Gaga. Play all three repeatedly and refuse to let anyone else control ipod.
5:00 Serve everyone crescent roll wrapped little smokies. Decide that they are awesome and wonder why I don’t make them all the time.
6:00 Lauren asks if we can make a cake tomorrow. “Of course we can!” I respond.
7:00 Start flirting with Dave. Point to him and mouth the word “You”, point to myself and mouth the word “Me” and then make several additional gestures in case he doesn’t know what I mean. He totally does. And so does everyone else.
7:15 Tell Dave he can stay for a while longer and that I’ll take the offspring home. Read books to Lauren which shouldn’t be as difficult as it is considering they are written for the first grade reading level. She accuses me of skipping pages. Finally get her in bed. Matthew asks if he can eat Halloween candy. I tell him yes but advise him that eating a bunch of candy, drinking a big glass of water, and then puking will not be appreciated at all. Lauren comes back out of her bedroom because if Matthew is still up, she’s not going to bed either. Lauren sees Matthew eating candy, grabs her trick or treat basket and joins him. Finally wrestle candy away from them and tell them to go to bed. They tell me they aren’t tired now. Tell them I will give all their Halloween candy to less fortunate kids if they don’t go to bed immediately. Watch them fly up the stairs and go into their rooms.
9:00 Climb into bed to watch TV.
9:01 ZZZZZZZZZZZ……….
11:00 Dave crawls into bed and whispers, “Tracey, I’m home.” “Leave me alone,” I mumble (followed, according to Dave, by something that sounds like “don’t touch me!” but probably was just sleepy gibberish).
11:01 Halloween comes to a close in our household.

The next day, while baking a cake with Lauren, I reflected back on the previous day’s activities and thought about what a fun time we had had. I also realized that there are windows of opportunity in our home. Lauren is good at identifying when the windows are open and I’m grateful that she only asked for a cake and not, say, a pony because I do try hard to keep my promises. And even though Matthew ate a ton of Halloween candy, he didn’t throw up so I guess everything worked out okay there. Usually Matthew is pretty good at utilizing windows of opportunity to his advantage.

Despite our 17 years together, Dave is still learning.

Google Apps Can Suck It! (Not Jolly Though)

  • December 5, 2009

You may have noticed that funny in the ‘hood was missing for awhile. If you typed in www.traceygarvisgraves.com, you saw this chick. I have no idea who she is.

What I found even more troubling was the completely random collection of words to the left of the photo of the chick I don’t know. It appears to be a list of topics about baby names but then about halfway down it says IRA and I don’t know if they mean the Irish Republican Army or the money in my retirement fund, neither of which has anything to do with naming babies.

What you didn’t see when clicking on www.traceygarvisgraves.com was a picture of me FAH-REAK-ING out because my domain name had just expired and I couldn’t get it back.

To be fair, some of this mess was my fault. My billing info was incorrect because my bank is all willy-nilly with my account info and keeps sending me letters that say ambiguous things like “your account information MAY have been compromised so we’re sending you this new debit card just in case.” This means that every time I want to buy something online where I have a customer account (which Dave says is everywhere) I have to edit the card number. But I can’t edit it if I’m not given the opportunity to purchase something and that’s why this current snafu is mostly the fault of Google Apps and it’s because of them that I got all screamy and psychotic. Also, their customer service department is make-believe because every e-mail I sent them asking for help fell into a big black hole in cyberspace, never to be seen again.

I switched my blog from a blogspot domain to a custom one last November, shortly after I started blogging. I’m not sure why I did this because all it did was make me super googleable to prospective employers and my dad and step-mom (who I hope still don’t know about this blog because I use the f-word a lot and even though it’s not the case, my posts make it seem like I’m drunk all the time).

It costs $10 a year to host a blog on a custom domain name and I knew I was coming up on my renewal. Because we recently changed our e-mail address, I updated my Google Apps account accordingly and waited to receive the renewal link e-mail which would allow me to continue to host this blog on my custom domain address for another year. For some reason, the link was not sent to me and that’s when the trouble started. And it turns out that it’s almost impossible to get the link once your domain has expired.

I contacted enom.com, the third party that Google Apps partnered with for the original domain name registration. Unfortunately, they only handle the initial registration so they referred me to Google Apps for the renewal. And they were very nice and answered their phone when I called. They also sent me an e-mail so obviously their services are not make-believe and their employees actually exist.

Next, I tried to contact the Google Apps support team. It’s like they were hiding from me because I had to spend 15 minutes on my Google account page just trying to find their phone number (which doesn’t exist by the way). I finally found an icon I could click on to send them an e-mail so I typed the whole saga out and waited for help. I got an e-mail almost immediately. Apparently, if you e-mail their support team, you will get an e-mail from them with a bunch of help topic links, none of which will help you because they all pertain to domain renewals that haven’t expired. Every time I sent Google Apps another e-mail, I got the same computer generated help topic links e-mail. It was at this point that I considered flying out to California, marching into Google Apps headquarters, and kicking everyone’s ass.

After I realized no one at Google Apps was going to help me, I decided to switch back to hosting this blog at the blogspot address. I figured maybe I could switch and then just register for my domain name again in a few days. But when I clicked on the “host on a domain name” tab, this is what I saw.

Okay, I get it. Since my name is Tracey Garvis-Graves, and a “grave” is something you bury people in, Google was just being “helpful” when they suggested alternative domain names for me (FYI – www.traceygarvisDEATH.com is still available if anyone wants to snap that one up).

Anyway, I was starting to think my blog would just have to stay at its blogspot address and there wouldn’t really be any way to let people know it had moved from my custom domain. But then some dude named Jolly, from Google Apps customer service department, sent me an e-mail so I should probably admit that they aren’t really make believe, just incredibly slow at responding to their customers.

Jolly sent me the link to renew my domain name and then helped me transfer my blog back. But since Jolly lives in India in another time zone, he was sleeping while I was awake and vice versa which meant that I had to wait 24 hours between our e-mails which also meant that it took over a week to get my blog up and running again. And I don’t know what happened but I lost every single comment anyone has ever left me and that really bums me out because some of your comments were so funny I had actually planned to make a blog post out of them and now I can’t.

I thanked Jolly a million times for his help and thought about telling him I loved him but that would have been weird, right? At least I have his e-mail address saved so I feel like my link to Google Apps support is slightly less tenuous and you can bet Jolly will be hearing from me if I ever have another technical clusterfuck of this magnitude.

Now that I’m done spending all my free time getting my blog back, I can start writing and posting again. And that means that I’m pretty jolly too.

Happy Holidays everyone, I’ve missed you!

Tracey

Are You There Santa? It’s Me Again

  • November 22, 2009

Dear Santa,

I hope there are no hard feelings about all the mean things I said about you after you did not bring me anything I asked you for last year. It’s not my fault because I think I have Tourette’s syndrome and f-bombs and rude comments fly out of my mouth uncontrollably sometimes.

So, sorry.

But anyway, if you’re not still pissed at me, I have a few more things on my list this year.

I deserve lots of presents because I have been sorta good. I did get in one fight with a lady that works at my dry cleaners but she started it. Because I am so conscious of saving our planet I gathered up 573 wire hangers because there’s a sign on the door of my dry cleaners urging its customers to bring them back so they can recycle them. I was about to throw them all in my garbage can but remembered the sign and brought the hangers to my dry cleaners instead because I am all green that way. The lady at my dry cleaners, who actually looks like a man, was all “Well those hangers are just a big mess” and I was all “Do you want them or not” and she was all “Well I guess I have to take them” and I’m thinking that my environmentally friendly efforts are not at all appreciated and eventually me and man/woman are probably gonna scrap. But I don’t care because they aren’t a restaurant and no matter how much they don’t like me, they can’t spit in my food so I win.

Oh, and Santa? I have a job now so that should entitle me to way more gifts. And not just a job Santa. I’m assisting teachers at a junior high which means I am helping 8th and 9th graders learn important things. Mostly it’s relationship advice about how to land a decent boyfriend but that’s a subject that should have been taught when I was in 8th grade because then I might not have dated so many douchebags before I met Dave.

I’m not sure if you’re aware of this Santa but my twenty-five year high school reunion is this summer and I am going to need a lot of help in order to look my best. First of all, I’d like better boobs. I want them to defy gravity and I want to be able to skip wearing a bra if I feel like it. This is a gift you will need to outsource because I don’t want any of your creepy elves thinking that they will get to see me without a shirt on. However, if that one elf Hermie is still interested in dentistry, he can assist with some teeth whitening and/or porcelain veneers because that’s on the list too. I also need want a nutritionist, a personal trainer, and someone whose only responsibility is to pry the wine glass/donut out of my hand and then yell at me.

Then I want to have all the skin on my face lasered off because I understand that once all the bleeding and peeling has subsided, and my skin heals, it will feel and look as soft as a newborn baby’s ass. Next on my list is about a squillion units of Botox above each eyebrow and also a little Restylane for the vertical lines above my lip because Dave is tired of me asking him once a week if he can see them. He says he can’t but that’s only because he’s looking over my shoulder to see what’s on TV and not looking closely enough. Probably he just doesn’t want to get killed if he actually admits he can see the wrinkles I am freaking out about.

And Santa? This next request might be kinda hard but can I have a werewolf? I mean, you’re a mythical creature too so maybe you have some connections. I used to think I wanted a vampire but I have decided I want my make believe boy-toy to be hot with totally ripped abs. If you bring me a werewolf I can hide him in my closet and take him out when I feel like playing with him and by playing with him I mean making out with him. And because I already have a dog and dogs are kind of like wolves the werewolf can play with Chloe’s toys if it gets bored when I am at work. And Dave said it was okay if I asked you for a werewolf. Actually I didn’t ask Dave at all but probably he won’t mind.

I know it’s kind of a long, expensive list Santa but I totally need all these things. Don’t check your list though, K? Just take my word for it that I’ve been nice.

Signed,

Tracey (Don’t blow me off dude, I’m desperate)

P.S. I will leave a bottle of Stoli and some crack dip on the hearth of my artificial gas fireplace. Knock yourself out.

A strange little tale about my new "old" fridge

  • November 16, 2009

In 2005, Dave and I decided to build a new house. We had a difficult time deciding what kind of house we wanted to build and spent approximately eighteen months walking through a million spec houses only to find that each one lacked something on our wish list. Just when I thought we’d never find what we were looking for, we found a house plan that we loved and a great lot we thought would be perfect to build it on.

But we still couldn’t pull the trigger. Even though the housing market was strong, we had never built before and had the same concerns most people have when deciding to build: What if we can’t sell our old house? What if we have to put all our crap in storage and move to an apartment if our current house sells before our new one is ready? And a small part of us wondered if we should move at all. We had lived in our house for eight years and were quite attached to it. We ultimately decided to quit over analyzing and stuck a For Sale By Owner sign in the front yard.

We sold the house four days later. The buyers, Jennifer and Brandon, liked the house as much as we did so we finalized the purchase agreement and worked out the details. We were ecstatic. Because we sold the house ourselves, we saved thousands of dollars and were able to make a twenty percent down payment on the new house. And even more importantly, Jennifer had a townhouse to sell and didn’t mind waiting approximately five months until our new house was built to take possession of our old house since it would give her plenty of time to find a buyer for her property. We were grateful that Jennifer and Brandon didn’t mind waiting. The thought of moving twice, once into an apartment and again when our new home was finished was a scenario we desperately wanted to avoid. Thanks to Jennifer and Brandon, we did (Hi Jennifer!). Meanwhile, Jennifer put her townhouse on the market and everything worked out pretty much the way we had planned.

Shortly before we all closed on our properties, Jennifer called me and mentioned how much she appreciated dealing with me and Dave. I think we were both pleasantly surprised that we were all able to remain cordial and accommodating throughout a process that could just have easily been filled with tension and conflict, especially as there was no realtor to buffer our negotiations. Unfortunately, the buyer of Jennifer’s townhouse wasn’t as accommodating and she and Jennifer weren’t seeing eye to eye on a couple things. Jennifer had installed custom hardware in her kitchen and wanted to take her cupboard and drawer knobs and handles with her and the new buyer was not happy about it. Communication between them went a bit downhill from there.

Everything worked out in the end and we all closed on our new properties. Jennifer and I still talk or e-mail occasionally and the offspring always insist on driving by our old house if we’re in the neighborhood.

A little over two and a half years after we moved into our new house, my twin sister Trish found herself having a rough time and was in dire need of jettisoning everything in her life that wasn’t bringing her happiness, namely her douchebag fiance whose sole ambition in life was to grow hydroponic pot in the spare bedroom of her townhouse. She was also an out of work mortgage loan officer in a industry that had just imploded so the time was right for her to make a few changes. With the encouragement of her family, Trish made the decision to move back to the Des Moines ‘burbs. She put her townhouse on the market and my dad and stepmom, and Dave and I, started looking at townhouses for sale here. When we found one we thought she’d like, we’d go look at it and then send her pictures and details about the property. Dad and Debby finally found the perfect townhouse in a suburb about thirty minutes away from where Dave and I live. Even though I love my sister, we fight like a couple of nine year olds so being separated by a thirty minute drive is not a bad thing.

Once her townhouse sold, Trish loaded her furniture, her 8th grade sweater collection, and a whole bunch of shit I would have purged from my home a decade ago into a moving van and watched it drive away. She got into her car with her CD’s, her cat, and a Texas drawl as genuine as Madonna’s British accent and followed the moving van back to Iowa.

A couple of days before Trish arrived, my dad asked me if I wanted to see her new place. He already had the keys and wanted to go over and make sure the heat was on and take care of a few things Trish had asked him to do. When I arrived, I gave myself a tour. The first thing I noticed was that the living room wall was painted chocolate brown and the paint looked like it had been rag rolled on. That’s weird, I thought to myself, when Jennifer bought our old house we had had a conversation one day about paint colors and Jennifer mentioned that she and her mom had rag rolled a deep chocolate brown onto her living room wall. Then I noticed that the fireplace had some additional stone work that someone (my dad maybe?), had mentioned was not present in any other units in the townhouse complex. Hm, Jennifer mentioned she and her mom had done some stone work on her fireplace.

Then I looked into the kitchen. Every single cupboard and drawer was missing its hardware.

“Dad, you are not going to believe this,” I said. “But I think this is the townhouse that Jennifer used to live in before she bought our house. The buyer she sold it to must be moving already.”

“Are you sure?” my dad asked.

“I’m pretty sure. I’ll look it up on the assessor’s site when I get home.” When I plugged the address into the assessor’s site later, it confirmed that Jennifer had been one of the previous owners.

This may not seem that weird to you but this townhouse complex is large and it’s in another city. It’s located about fifteen or twenty minutes from my old house and, as I’ve already mentioned, about thirty minutes from where I live now. I called Jennifer and said, “You are not going to believe who is moving into your old place.” She thought it was freaky just like I did.

Anyshizzles, I’m getting to the part about the fridge, I swear.

One of the things Trish mentioned she wanted to change about her townhouse was its appliances. Everything was white and she eventually wanted to switch to stainless steel. I told her we’d buy her old fridge because Dave and I wanted an extra one to put in the basement. We entertain a lot and every time we do, I wish we had more room for all the platters of food and extra beer and pop we buy.

When Dave and I bought new furniture this summer, we gave Trish our old couch and over stuffed chair and, in exchange, she told us we could have the fridge for free as soon as she bought the new one. Her new stainless steel fridge was delivered last week so Dave rented a truck and drove over to her house to pick up the old one.

This is the second fridge Trish has offered us but only the first one we’ve accepted. I’ve already blogged about it here but if you don’t feel like clicking over to that post, I’ll give you the quick scoop. In 2004 I flew down to visit Trish in Austin after she’d kicked the hydroponic pot growing douchebag out (he was like a loser boomerang though and kept coming back for the next four years). While I was there I cleaned her entire place and spent hours scouring and disinfecting her fridge. I was horrified to find a dead fly in it. In her post-breakup fog I don’t think Trish noticed or cared.

Several months later, Trish’s beloved cat died. Since it would be a few days before she could bury it, she put it in her fucking freezer dudes. Then, shortly before she moved back to Iowa, she asked me if I wanted her fridge because it wasn’t included in the sale of her townhouse.

My answer: Oh, hell no. I declined her offer in a nicer way than that of course. Probably. Okay, actually I think my answer was something like “no fucking way do I want that fridge.” The nice thing about Trish is that she was okay with my answer and decided it was my loss.

Trish may not be the tidiest girl on the planet (and her housekeeping leaves a lot to be desired), but she rarely has a mean word to say about anyone and seldom holds any kind of grudge. And lest you think I don’t love my twin sister, I do. Seriously. But, as I’ve mentioned before, she truly is the Oscar to my Felix.

Trish came over the other day. I told her that Dave had started cleaning out her fridge and that he said it was kinda gross. I told her I hadn’t even started cleaning it “the Tracey way” yet. “Guess what I found in it when I was taking everything out?” Trish said.

“I’m afraid to,” I answered.

“Another dead fly,” Trish said cheerfully.

“You do know most people store food they are planning on eating in their refrigerators, right?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“And just to clarify, you haven’t put any dead pets in it, right?”

“Not this time,” Trish said.

I bought a big box of Arm and Hammer baking soda to put in the fridge after I make sure it is no longer a level five bio-hazard.

When I talked to Jennifer a couple months ago, I mentioned her old fridge would be moving to our house soon. “Be good to the old girl,” she said. “We will,” I replied.

Just as soon as I clean her up.

It’s Like General Electric Wants Me To Be All Screamy

  • October 27, 2009

Really, unless you can get Martha Stewart to come here and do the laundry, nothing you can do will make getting our Mt. Everest of dirty clothes clean any more pleasant for me. You can buy the biggest washer and dryer in the world but that just means that I have to fold gargantuan loads and then put it all away.

Lauren changes clothes frequently and then I find little piles of shirts and pants on the floor of her closet and I have no idea whether they are clean or dirty so I wash everything just to be safe.

Most of this is my fault. The offspring wear clean pajamas every night. Everyone uses a new towel every day. I seldom wear anything twice.

The post where I point out how much I’m helping the 8th graders

  • October 14, 2009

Hi blogosphere!

I know, I suck. I wouldn’t blame any of you for never clicking on my blog again. But I’m glad you did because today we are piling into Marty McFly’s Delorean and heading back in time to 8th grade (oh how I used to ♥ you Michael J. Fox).

Now that I’ve been working with 8th graders on a daily basis, I can’t help but compare how different things were back in 1980/1981 when I was in 8th grade. And if you were not even born in 1980/1981 this post probably won’t make any sense and you should just skip it. Oh, and I hate you.

* 8th grade girls in 2009 like to sing really loud, especially any song by Taylor Swift.

When I was in 8th grade, we sang songs by Air Supply, Pat Benatar, and Queen.

* If Taylor Swift is the official singer of the 8th grade, The Twilight books are the official book series.

When I was in 8th grade, Flowers In The Attic by V.C. Andrews was the most popular book in school. Cathy and Chris! Locked in the attic! Evil grandmother! Incest! A daring escape! I spent eight hours one Saturday reading Flowers in the Attic from start to finish (and of course I also read Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, and Seeds of Yesterday).

* 8th grade girls in 2009 love their Uggs. I wonder what they will think when they notice me wearing my fake Uggs from Target (henceforth known as Fugg’s).

When I was in 8th grade Nikes were a really big deal. I had a royal blue pair with a yellow swoosh and I thought they were the coolest tennis shoes I’d ever owned.

* 8th grade students are so technologically advanced they could undoubtedly lock me out of my own cell phone, computer, and Facebook account.

When I was in 8th grade we had to use pay phones to call our parents, consult an encyclopedia to look shit up, and use a fucking abacus to help us with our math (after walking five miles to school, in the snow, while being chased by rabid dogs!).

Anyway, enough with the comparisons.

Now that the students are starting to get to know me, they’re getting friendly. They know that I carry a big tote bag with me and that I always have band-aids, extra pencils, and hand sanitizer. I also gave my 7th hour class Blow Pop suckers so I’m probably their favorite person in the whole school. I think I am also becoming the de facto guidance counselor for all boy-related problems. The following is an actual conversation I had with an 8th grade girl the other day (all names have been changed to protect the identity of innocent school children. And me. Mostly me. So I don’t get canned, you know).

Setting: Study Hall

Her: Miss Tracey?
Me: Yes?
Her: I have a problem
Me: Sure, what is it? Do you need help with your homework? Do you want me to help you review for the science test?
Her: No, I actually need advice about something. You see, I like “Billy” but so does “Susie” and if I go out with “Billy” then “Susie” will beat me up so now I’m trying to decide if I should just get back together with my old boyfriend. Or his brother. I can date either one of them.

Against my better judgment I asked for some clarification on a few things.

Me: Who do you really want to go out with.
Her: “Billy.”
Me: Does “Billy” even want to go out with “Susie?”
Her: No.
Me: Then he’s fair game.
Her: Thanks Miss Tracey!
Me: You’re welcome!

Really I’m just being helpful. It’s in my job description. Probably.

Shortly after this conversation another girl came to me with a similar dilemma.

Her: Miss Tracey, I really like “Bobby” but when I said hi to him in the hall just
now he ignored me.
Me: I’m going to give you some important advice. From now on, I want you to ignore
“Bobby”. Pretend that from now on, “Bobby” is invisible. Got it?
Her: What????
Me: Seriously, this is how you land yourself a boyfriend.

I am now drawing a small crowd of 8th grade girls. I swear they have bionic ears or something.

Her: But if I ignore him, he’ll think I’m being mean or that I don’t like him!
Me: No he won’t.
Her: But Miss Tracey, what if you’re wrong?
Me: I’m not. But you have to trust me on this. If there is one thing I can teach
you this year it’s that you must ignore the boy you like. Boys are all about
the chase. Never forget this.
Her: Okay Miss Tracey. I promise.

I think I am qualified to dispense this advice considering I managed, through a series of small yet manipulative maneuvers, to land Dave back in 1992(actually I got drunk on keg beer and let him spend the night way, way, way before we’d gone on ten dates. Or any dates actually. Or quite possibly it was the night we met. Huh. I’m not sure I should be dispensing romantic advice at all but whatever). Then, after a few years, I managed to convince Dave to buy me a shiny diamond ring (that I picked out) and marry me. And we’ve been together ever since so, hello? I am kind of a romance expert.

And who are we kidding? School is all about the four R’s: Reading, Writing, Arithmetic, and Romance. Duh. Just being helpful again. I wonder if the school district realizes just how much I am going “above and beyond” my regular responsibilities?

I did manage to help another student make a decision that did not involve boys. The students are studying memoirs and were instructed to select a book from a list of acceptable titles.

Her: Miss Tracey, can you help me pick out a book?
Me: Sure, I love to read. I especially love memoirs.
Her: Well, I’ve picked out this memoir about ADHD and this one about a teen
model but I still need to choose one more from this list.
Me: Oooooh, Stori Telling, by Tori Spelling. You have got to read this one.

Wait a minute. Why the hell is this title on the accepted memoir list? And to clarify, I only went oooooh because I want to read the memoir so I can make fun of it.

Her: *blank stare*
Me: You know who Tori Spelling is, don’t you?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Beverly Hills, 90210? Brenda and Brandon? Kelly and Donna?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Oh my God, The Peach Pit?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Okay, okay, how about this? Aaron Spelling, his wife Candy, they lived in a
big mansion with a separate room just for wrapping presents…..
Her: Who is Aaron Spelling?
Me: He’s Tori’s dad. And he was the producer of The Love Boat and Fantasy Island!
Her: *blank stare* Are there any other books Miss Tracey?
Me: Yes, yes there are.

Okay so maybe that whole exchange did make me feel old (and I actually do plan on grabbing Stori Telling out of the big box of books so I can read it on my lunch hour and then make fun of it).

Then again, Tori Spelling is a published author and I’m not.

Ditto Lauren Conrad of The Hills.

So basically I am an old, unpublished author.

But the 8th graders? They don’t care about that.

They like me anyway.

My Health Insurance Company Is Afraid I Might Jump Off A Bridge

  • September 19, 2009

I got a letter in the mail the other day from my health insurance company that basically said, “We are all scared shitless here because we noticed your aren’t taking your Prozac anymore.”

What.The.Fuck.

Technically I have a prescription for Prozac. It is one of the few antidepressants approved by the FDA for the treatment of severe PMS (I read a shitload of magazines and I’ve actually self diagnosed myself with PPMD which is way worse than just the regular PMS). And the reason those yahoos at my health insurance company think I’ve stopped taking it is because, per my prescribing doctor, I’m only supposed to take it for the 5-7 days before my period, not every day. So one bottle lasts a really long time. And some months I don’t have to take it at all. If I start thinking about picking up a fork and stabbing Dave in the head with it then I know I better go over to the cupboard where we store our drugs and take one of those little pills. So that’s like my litmus test for determining whether or not my PMS is indeed severe enough that I need to medicate myself immediately. If I don’t feel like stabbing Dave in the head with a fork in the 5-7 days before I get my period, then I don’t need any Prozac.

My PMS started to get really bad when I was about thirty-eight. I noticed I was becoming less tolerant, bitchier. Then it got worse and now I pretty much want to kill people during certain days of the month. I went to my gynecologist and my regular doctor. They both immediately suggested birth control pills regardless of the fact that my husband has had the “snip-snip.” Supposedly, the pill would regulate my cycle so that my hormones would be “evened out” and I wouldn’t be so psychotic and mean to people I actually love. I think my gyno and my doctor are both getting outrageous kick-backs from their pharmaceutical reps because I can think of no other reason why they would pimp these birth control pills all the time (am I right, Pfizer??) However, since I was having a lot of “fork stabbing months”, I decided to at least try the pill to see if it would help.

Remember that chick who was on the Yaz commercial and she’s sitting around with all her girlfriends at some club and they’re drinking and she’s rattling off all these Yaz statistics and then she’s all “I didn’t go to medical school for nothin'” but you know she’s not really a doctor and instead is probably a struggling actress whose resume lists a deodorant commercial and an episode of Fear Factor under “experience?” That’s the pill my doctor put me on. Within six weeks I lost the desire to ever have sex again and my boobs exploded. I have a pretty good rack to begin with so I really don’t need bigger boobs and hello? if I have no sex drive what good are big huge boobs? Dave was super bummed considering he now had to choose between a psychotic hormonally unbalanced bitch on wheels or a hormonally regulated woman with ginormous boobs and no sex drive. Plus Yaz gave me really bad headaches.

I informed my doctor about the exploding boobs and the lack of sex drive and she pretended not to have ever heard of either of these side effects. She then said if I was not willing to be on birth control pills, she could prescribe something called Sarafem which is really just Prozac that has been marketed under a different name and FDA approved for the treatment of severe PMS. And the little pills are pink. You know, for girls. She also mentioned that because my prescription was for Sarafem, and not Prozac, no one would think I was crazy which does not sound like a very doctor-y thing to say at all.

The first time I went to fill my Sarafem/Prozac prescription, the pharmacist asked me to pull up and over (like they do at McDonald’s when they don’t have enough nuggets to fill your order and you have to sit there and wait for your fast food while everyone drives around you and glares). Then, when the pharmacist came out to my car she was all “We don’t have any Prozac and we can’t fill your prescription until tomorrow” and I’m thinking, “What the fuck do you mean you don’t have any Prozac, you’re a pharmacy” (and it’s Sarafem, remember?) but I was all “Oh, that’s okay, no big deal, I can come back tomorrow” and she’s all relieved looking because I think she thought I might stab her in the head with a fork but that’s ridiculous because I don’t even keep forks in my Explorer.

I used to be envious whenever I’d hear about someone having to have a hysterectomy because I thought that maybe removing the whole “kit and caboodle” would offer some relief but apparently I am experiencing issues that are not related so much to the hardware (girly bits) but the software (the monthly hormonal shitstorm).

I will say that the Sarafem/Prozac DOES work when I take it. But it also makes me very tired and I kinda don’t give a shit about anything. I also don’t have the energy or desire to commit manslaughter though so I guess you have to take the good with the bad.

Anyway, if your periods make you bat shit crazy and evil like mine do, consider taking Sarafem/Prozac/Fluoxetine(generic Prozac) for 5-7 days each month. It does help.

But if you do accidentally/on purpose kill someone during PMS? Call me.

I will so totally testify on your behalf. Or bake you a cake with a nail file.

Whichever.

Peace out.

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