And Now, "REALLY??!?!!?" With Your Disgruntled Host, Veronica

I know, twice in one day, right?  Well, the tone of this post is slightly different.  I could not keep my disgruntledness (it's a word, even if my spellcheck says it's not) to myself.  


#1:  Jeremy was sick all last week.  Really sick.  NOW, I am sick.  REALLY sick.  I have not been this sick in two years, at least.  Here's the kicker.  Jeremy just turned to me a few minutes ago and said, "Ummm, my throat is starting to hurt again."  Really??  REALLY?!?!!?!?!?!  As soon as the little Bean starts coughing, I am calling for reinforcements.  Oh wait, my mom said she is "booked" all next week.  Sigh.


#2:  I'm sitting here, watching all the school closings for tomorrow, which of course, would screw my classes up schedule-wise, but I am SICK people, so a snow day would be awesome-balls.  So far, EVERY SINGLE school and day care in the county I teach is closed, except (yep, you guessed it) MY COLLEGE.  Really??  REALLY?!?!!?!?!?!


#3:  After having Jeremy off and helping me out today (the naps were MUCH appreciated, loving husband), I went upstairs and opened the diaper drawer, and there are only TWO diapers left!  Really??  REALLY?!?!!?!?!?!  Don't get me wrong, I LOVE, like L-O-V-E, using cloth diapers, but when I get lazy and wait until they are all dirty ... man oh man ... it is a nail-biter.  I have to run them through on cold, then on hot, and then they take a while to dry because I have to dry them on low heat, THEN I have to re-assemble them all.  Sigh.  Looks like I will be up for a few more hours.  (BUT, we got all of our cloth diapers as gifts, meaning we have not bought a SINGLE DIAPER since our babe entered the world.  Holy savings, Batman!)


Okay, I should probably think of a good "Really?"  Like, a "Really? :)"  Here's one:

It should be here in eight days.  Cha-ching!  Jeremy said I should photoshop dollar signs over his eyes in that picture!


And, of course, as I was typing this, I looked over and saw this:

This is MINE?  Really? 

And, she REALLY is.

Man, that was quite a twist at the end there, eh?

Catching Up with The Duggars: Now with More Rage and Disbelief

The Duggars.  Oh, the Duggars.  


My love affair with the super-sized family began when I saw their very first special on the Discovery Health Channel (this was during my little phase where I had that channel on pretty much exclusively.  I learned a lot.  Maybe a little too much.) and I have been with them ever since.

Here's my problem with those rascally Duggars:  For every sweet, adorable, or interesting thing that happens on the show, there is something ridiculous, strange, or offensive to balance it out.  I go from laughing at something that little scamp Jackson said to shaking my head while Jim Bob explain's a woman's "proper" place.  Guh.


So really, it probably shouldn't have shocked me all that much when the Duggars took a family trip to the shooting range.  Everyone except the infant, Josie, of course, because you have to be OVER the age of one to shoot a firearm.  Duh.


And actually, I was just thinking, "Par for the course" until the 5-year-old asked his dad, "Dad, why do I have to wear goggles?" and Jim Bob matter-of-factly replied, "So you don't get a bullet in your eye."


Really Jim Bob?  REALLY?!!?  You have NO PROBLEM letting your CHILDREN shoot guns, and have no problem not only presenting them with the image of getting shot in the eye, but with putting them in a position where that could actually happen ... but you strongly believe women are "not meant" to wear pants and every female Duggar has to wear an ankle-length skirt.  


According to Jim Bob, women wearing pants is like them making promises they don't intend to keep, and that is too difficult for men to understand.


So, let me get this straight: when women wear pants, men THINK those women are offering their vaginas to them, but the women are NOT because good ladies don't have sex (unless it is to make a Duggar), and since good boys don't have sex (unless it is to make a Duggar), it is mean of those loose pants-wearing women to PRETEND they are going to give them the sexy time, because all boys have feeble little brains and they will not be able to control themselves or sort out their emotions when they see the outline of a leg shape.  But a child under the age of ten shooting a gun?  Not dangerous in the least.


I don't mean this to be an anti-gun post.  I am not a gun-lover by any means, but I am going to go ahead and assume that even people who are fans of guns will agree that shooting a gun could be slightly more dangerous than wearing pants.  Just a thought.


I surely hope those teen and tween Duggar girls (who do ALL of the cooking and cleaning and childcare and serve their brothers hand and foot) are not cooking up leg-shaped food.  Or, heaven forbid, actual LEGS, like chicken legs, because who KNOWS what would happen!  Chaos at the dinner table!  Inappropriate touching of legs!  Boy brains exploding all over the tater tot casserole!


And, um, does anyone one else think that rule is a little weird considering those kids only ever see EACH OTHER?  What are you REALLY afraid of, Jim Bob?  Hmmmm? 

I Am Starting to Understand Those Christian Scientists. Go Figure.

Okay, some of you know about this. Most of you don't. Here it is: the details of my baby girl's harrowing medical traumas and my ensuing HATRED for the medical community 


(Sorry readers who are members of the medical community. You probably don't suck, but 
some of your peers do. Seriously. Like, they suck A LOT.)


Reminder: We had a beautiful baby girl on 8/9/10 (And my dad was super-pissed that she was born at 2:33 and asked me to LIE on her birth certificate and say she was born at 2:34. I could not make this stuff up.). I was on the fence about the whole hospital/doctor vs. midwifery stuff, but in the end realized I could not give up on the idea of that magical-sounding super-drug: The epidural. I cannot complain much about the labor and delivery itself except having a blood pressure cuff on my arm during the entire labor that went off EVERY FIVE MINUTES and I still had bruises from two weeks later. But other than that, the docs were not up in my biz and they didn't cause me to threaten them with bodily harm. In fact, the labor and delivery was actually ENJOYABLE.


Then, a few hours after my little Josephine was born, they whisked her away and a pediatrician sat us down and said she could just have some amniotic fluid in her lungs or she could be DYING IMMEDIATELY and they would go ahead with 58,000 aggressive interventions in order to save the life of our little miracle.  


I SWORE I would not be that mother who was like, "OH!  A doctor said it? It is law! All else be damned!" and I would ask questions, do research, and not ignore my gut instincts. However, when presented with this situation, my husband and are were like, "DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!!" and didn't ask any questions. One hour later, the results of the test came back, and oh, what do you know? She just had a little amniotic fluid in her lungs after all! She will be fine in an hour or so. Too bad we already hooked her up to all those machines and started her on those antibiotics, because now she has to stay there for two days!


And so began the needless suffering of my daughter. She came home two days later with bruises, multiple pin pricks, and a red face from where they ripped tape off when she was finally off oxygen.  


Two weeks later, the diarrhea began. I went to the doctor and informed them that my daughter had about 20 diarrhea diapers a day and was not feeding well. For the next TWO WEEKS, I was in the doctor's office about three days a week because the all the doctors' best advice was to "keep an eye on her and bring her in a few times a week for weight checks to make sure she is still gaining weight." And I did.  And day after day I repeated her symptoms and told them she cried about 20 hours a day, didn't sleep, struggled to eat, and our house was slowly being overtaken by diarrhea.  


I finally saw a new doctor at the same practice, and she finally decided to check and see if there was blood in her stool. When there was, she sent us straight to the hospital and said we would be there for a minimum of two days.


There, we saw horrible things, like the baby cage ...

(I held her in my arms all night instead of locking her up in THAT)

... an "IV specialist" who spent and HOUR AND A HALF torturing our baby because she couldn't find a vein (even though the nurses at the hospital where she was born could do it while making small talk with us), and nurses who would have given my baby incorrect medication and food down her feeding tube had I not inquired as to their intentions.


When we finally left the hospital, the gastroenterologist had decided she probably had milk protein allergy induced colitis, and the only foods I could eat for the next 6 months were fruit and vegetables (minus tomatoes and citrus), meat (except red meat) and potatoes.


Two weeks later, this miracle diet had done NOTHING to help my child. When we went to see said gastroenterologist again, I said it seemed like it was not the milk protein allergy. He said, "You're right. It looks like it isn't" while he wrote down on her paperwork: "diagnosis: milk protein allergy."


So he gave up and said we should just get used to our daughter being in agony.


Then, my mother-in-law suggested I read about milk oversupply. Hmmm. Look at that. Josephine has EVERY SINGLE SYMPTOM listed. I called a lactation consultant, and she about lost her shit when I told her how many ounces I could pump in five minutes.  My breasts were what the La Leche League called "overly enthusiastic about their job." It turns out my little lady was only getting foremilk, which is all carbs and making her gassy, and without the fat from the hindmilk, she couldn't break down all the lactose, which built up in her intestines and led to a crummy tummy.


Two days later, with a little boob training, we were seeing results. After I gave the medical community a MONTH of our lives and I lost thousands of joyous moments with my new baby, blamed myself, and probably scared the crap out of my husband with all the times I sat and cried while I held our crying baby.


So now, what do I do? I have no trust, and a lot of anger. I need options here besides doctors.  Plus, my daughter developed her first cold and starting cutting her first tooth in the past few days.


Let's take the edge off of this rant-y post. Here are my three favorite options for replacing Western medicine:


1.  Magics. Come on, I've read the Harry Potter books enough to know that all I need are some Latin phrases and concentration. Plus, my dad has an authentic Harry Potter wand. He would totally lend it to me if he knew it were for the benefit of his granddaughter.


2.  The Interwebs. Everyone knows all problems can be solved with a short Google session. And you can totally tell who is credible based on the prettiness level of their web page. That's why I would take medical advice from The Bloggess before WebMD any day.


3.  Positive Vibrations. I'm not a pray-er. But I DO send out positive vibes for people. And I like to think that my super-powerful brain sends out extra-powerful vibes. I am likely responsible for many friends getting jobs, securing a second date, and getting good grades. I'm just THAT GOOD. So why not focus that energy on my baby? I'm pretty sure my genius brain could combat pertussis or pneumonia. What CAN'T it do, really?


Let the voting commence! Write-in candidates are also acceptable.

I Love You, So GET OUT!

Okay, I know I have been crying about this pregnancy a lot, but GOOD LORD, I am ready to not be pregnant anymore.  I never actually wanted to be pregnant in the first place.  I just wanted a baby.  Jeremy asked me how I would accomplish that, and I told him I had kind of hoped I could squeeze my eyes shut real tight and wish a baby into my arms.  Either that, or some kind of Cabbage Patch scenario:  Oh look, there's our baby growing in a head of cabbage!  Let's pick her up and take her home and ignore her abnormally large head!

{source}

Alas, I went the pregnancy route.  But guess what?  My baby is full term. You know what that means?  GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME!!!  I have been ready for my bundle of joy for months and months, and I am SOOO ready to not be pregnant that it is not even funny.

This is the conversation I've been having with the baby lately:  "Oh, you're all done cooking?  And you can survive outside of my womb?  And you are slowly killing me instead of coming out?  And we have all the essentials for raising you all ready to go?  You know what that means?  GET OUT!!!"

The thing is, Jeremy is TERRIFIED of the baby coming even one second before her 40-week mark.  Seriously.  And he is mad at me for wanting her out.  He even thinks I am hurting her by wishing her out.  Do you know what he DOESN'T know?  That my entire day consists of furiously nesting, crying, sleeping, crying, and crying in my sleep.  He was also not there when the doctor told me the baby was SOO ready to go and was already on the very large side, and if I wanted to try to persuade her to come out, I could do so. And apparently he doesn't know how bad it is to tell a pregnant Veronica her business.

Today he called me on his lunch break, and I was trying to figure out what I could do to help her want to come out.

Me:  I am figuring that she will want to come at the most inconvenient time possible, so if I DON'T pack the hospital bag and I DON'T grade these papers, maybe I will go into labor!!

Jeremy:  Umm, probably not.  She will probably come when she's ready, and I don't think she's ready yet.

Me:  Oh, really?  You don't think she's ready?  Well, I am ready.  And the BOOKS say she is ready.  And the DOCTORS say she is ready.  

Jeremy:  I'm just saying, she will come on her own time.

Me:  Well, for your sake, I sure hope that is soon, because I am just going to get worse and worse every single day, and YOU are the one who has to live with me.

Jeremy:  Really?

Me:  Really what?

Jeremy:  This could get worse?

Me:  You bet your sweet ass it can.  And it will.  Oh, it WILL.

Jeremy:  *silence*

Me:  That's what I thought.

This is going up TONIGHT:

Choose Your Own Adventure. But Not Really. But Kind of ...

So, I was in the Burger King drive-thru (SHUT UP, healthy pregnant ladies!!!!) because it turns out the baby prefers fast food to anything healthy, and I had me a little "moment."


I was waiting patiently for my food and to scratch off the "Edward" to see if I won a prize, and I heard the guy behind shout his order at the top of his lungs (probably not necessary) in a mean, bark-y voice.  I very clearly heard him shout "I need three whoppers, two small fries, and two small cokes!!" and the drive-thru girl respond, "Okay, three whoppers, two small fries, and two small cokes?  Is this correct?"  What does this filthy hick shout back at her?  Not "Thanks for dealing with my rude, really fast order!" but, "Are you serious?!?!?  That is NOT what I said at all!!!  Can you give me what I actually ordered the first time, which is one whopper, one large fry, and two large cokes?!?!  Or is that too much to ask?  How hard is it to actually do your job??  JESUS!!"


Okay, it turns out I get the rage pretty easily, especially when it comes to rude strangers.  Whether they are cutting me off, being rude to people in the service industry, or getting in my way so I can't get to gettin', rude strangers really get my blood boiling.  So I did the only natural thing:  I shouted out my window, "Her job isn't that hard if you don't change your order and scream at her!!!!!!"


Then I threw open my car door, ran back to his car, karate chopped him in the neck to disable him, and grabbed his windpipe.  I forced him to apologize to the drive-thru girl and then apologize to me for existing, then got back in my car, got my chicken sandwich, and drove away.


Well, not really, but that was my one and only dream in that moment.


What really happened is after I screamed out the window and realized that I had shouted at two dirty, rude hillbillies and I was trapped behind another car and couldn't drive off and escape if they decided to kill me, I got a TAD nervous.  A dozen scenarios flashed through my mind involving them whipping out their Confederate flags and shotguns and running toward my car letting loose war whoops. 


But after a minute, I realized ... there was no reaction from them at all.  That means they either ignored me or didn't hear me.  And here comes the big dilemma:  Even though I had just realized how foolish it was for me to shout out the window and risk death or maiming, I REALLY thought I should yell AGAIN, because if they didn't hear me, then how would they ever learn?


Just then I was handed my delicious fast food, and my decision was made for me -- drive off into the sunset and just assume they didn't react because they were busy doing some soul-searching and realizing they should change their ways and apologize to every person they had ever wronged.  


Why did I share this story?  I have no idea.  But I have a  few possible morals you could glean from it, like a Choose Your Own Adventure book (how much did you love those?):


1.  If you are a horrible person who is rude to strangers and thinks of no one but yourself, there are people out there like ME, who want nothing more than to hold your head under water.  Keep that in mind.


2.  It is seriously not that hard to be polite to strangers, and especially people who have to deal with people all day, like servers and fast food workers.  Not hard at all.


3.  Maybe you shouldn't yell at people out of your car window when you are trapped and can't drive away.  Because I bet there are people who would hurt or kill you, even if you are eight months pregnant.


4.  Or maybe you should ALWAYS yell admonishments out your car window.  Especially at people who clearly don't know how to drive, because maybe they just never KNEW they were doing it all wrong, and in that case you are giving them an important life lesson, and they would probably thank you and send you a muffin basket if they had your address.  


Well, now I'm confused.  And maybe you are too.  But just take comfort in the knowledge that I DID get my food and devoured it and then felt fantastic at work because of the amazing magical power that crappy food provides me when I am oh-so-pregnant. 

Dear Parking Lot Guy: I Will Remember Your Face for All of My Days. Watch Your Back.

Okay, so I have the super-duper-mad rants today. Like, there is so much madness in my blood right now that it is liable to jump around so hard that all of a sudden it will get sick of staying inside me and use its monster teeth to rip through my veins and then squirt out and get all over YOUR FACE. So WATCH OUT.

Just kidding. I love you all. I am really just mad at this little punk ass bitch who ruined my morning.  

Let me set the scene for you: It is pouring rain. I am five minutes late for work. There is not a parking space in sight across the HUGE campus parking lot. Then ... that looks like a spot! A spot! I race over, only to find ...

I kid you not. A truck taking up FOUR SPACES because the person who owns it is SO IMPORTANT that they must keep away from the rabble around them. At this point, I was already seething. Really? REALLY?!?! You think this is acceptable behavior, truck guy? You think it is okay to STEAL three parking spaces from people who need them just because you have some sort of compensation thing going on with you and your big red truck?

I was sitting there thinking about how much I wanted to punch this person and trying to remember if there were surveillance cameras that would catch me keying this assbutt's car when, all of a sudden, I realized that the guy was SITTING IN HIS CAR. Yeah. Just hanging out and enjoying the weather. Watching us lowly peasants look for spots that didn't exist because of HIM.

So I did what anyone with a rage problem would do. I motioned for him to move. Repeatedly.  Like, many many times. He stared me right in the eyes and otherwise ignored my pleas.  So I stared at him. Staring contest, bitch. I was ready to go. My hand starting creeping toward my cell phone where I had campus security on speed dial. My heart was racing. I was screaming on the inside.

Then, just when I thought about getting out and tapping sweetly on his window, my baby gave me a rousing kick in the belly to remind me that all of my angry-lady hormones were washing over its innocent brain. 

Damn. You win this time, selfish-rude-bastard-man. I am hurting my baby over you, and now that I have realized that, I must back down. Oh, how I wish I hadn't backed down.

And now the baby is kicking me again to remind me that reliving the moment is sending bad vibes down to the baby-storing area. Crap. I was a bad mom twice in one day and the little sucker isn't even born yet. Might as well stop off for some fast food on the way home while I'm at it.

So, is there a moral to this story? Probably not. But, I do have one wish for you, my dear readers: May your rage-filled moments never be interrupted by a fetus.  

THE END

A Guest Post By My Husband -- Buzz Aldrin: Astronaut to Astro-NOT

So, my husband read my Dancing with the Stars post and could not keep his emotions to himself.  I guess I am not the only one in the house who likes to rant!  And if you know him, you totally already know that he came up with the title too.  Since I can't keep my nose out of anything, my comments are in PINK.

Take it away, Jeremy:

***DISCLAIMER:  I do not know Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, nor have I ever met the man, know his financial situation, or his degree of sluttyness for media attention.*** (Never put a disclaimer on your rants, Jeremy.  It makes you look WEAK.)

Some things about Buzz Aldrin.  #1 through the moon landing make him look like a GRADE-A BADASS.  However, the last few should have clued me into the fact that he would eventually make an ass of himself.

1)  He turned down a full ride to MIT to go to the military academy at West Point -- Bad Ass

2)  After graduating with a degree in Mechanical Engineering he flew 66 combat missions in the Korean War.  During the war he shot down TWO Russian MiG 15's in his F-86 Sabre -- Bad Ass  (Jeremy, you know I think war is mean.)  

3) After the war he got his doctorate in Aeronautics from MIT, then became a test pilot and was eventually selected to be an f-ing Astronaut -- Bad Ass

4)  He was the lunar module pilot on Apollo 11.  This means he actually flew the ship that landed on the moon down to the surface and piloted it back up to rejoin with the orbiting craft to go back to earth.  If this sounds like it would be hard to do, it was; in fact, it was extremely difficult even for the most highly trained pilots in the WORLD, and Buzz did it PERFECTLY.  (You're starting to talk like you were there ... I am feeling feelings of worry for your mental health.)

5)  Because of the position of the seats in the landing craft, Armstrong is first out and Aldrin follows.  He was SECOND on the moon -- TOTALLY BADASS  "2nd comes right after first,"  as Buzz would say in the Simpson's episode "Deep Space Homer"  (Or, "Second place is the first loser," as my No Fear shirts explained to people in junior high.)

I am sure being second has given him some kind of complex which probably resulted in the downward spiral to come.  There was a special on around the time of the 40th anniversary of the moon landing last summer that focused on the fact that NASA was leery of letting Aldrin be first on the moon because they thought he was a potential media slut and that Armstrong would handle the spotlight more gracefully and in a way that would add to the prestige and dignity of NASA -- they would prove to be right.

6) Since the History Channel came into existence, he has been on EVERY History Channel special about the moon landing or the space program as a whole.  This suggests to me that he is desperate for attention.  (And yet you have WATCHED every special.  Do you want to know what this suggests to me?  Do you?)  Apparently the title of "Second man on the Moon" does not pay that well and Buzzy has gosta make some bank.  (Good use of the word "gosta")

7)  In 2009 Buzz put out a song/video called "Rocket Experience" with Snoop Dogg, Quincy Jones, Talib Kweli, and Soulja Boy.  I could not make this up if I tried.

8) Today: Dancing with the Stars

So it turns out that NASA was right in not letting Aldrin be the first on the moon.  He turned out to be a media slut after all and handled the spotlight of being a celebrity in the worst possible ways:  Rap videos and reality show appearances.

It is just potentially frightening to me that Buzz Aldrin, THE SECOND MAN TO STEP ON THE F-ING MOON, could be remembered not as a pioneer for the ENTIRE human species, but as an old, crappy dancer.  It just seems below him, below the dignity of an astronaut, and below the dignity of the guy who did things 1-5 on the list above.

The equivalent of this would be like seeing Magellan accidentally spill a large bowl of chocolate pudding down his pants, then bend over to pick up the fallen bowl, have his pants split and the chocolate pudding drip out through the rip in his pants.  (Ummm ... ?)  Sure, this doesn't erase the fact that he was the first person to circumnavigate the globe (nerd alert!!), but every time you saw or read about Magellan after the pudding/pants incident (as this sequence of events would almost certainly become known) you would think about him making an ass of himself.  His legacy is not gone, just soiled.  So it goes for Buzz Aldrin.  He is still the second man on the moon, but now he will forever be known as that old man from Dancing with the Stars who was counting the whole time ...

Buzz, go out with quiet dignity, being remembered as a part of the first team of humans to ever explore another place other than earth.  Go out with people remembering your extraordinary accomplishments, go out being remembered as a representative of humanity, not for your bad dancing ... and rapping.  Apparently the phrase "quiet dignity" was trampled by Buzz's dancing shoes.

Granted, everybody's gotta eat, but is the money from Dancing with the Stars (ABC is really throwing around that word pretty loosely) worth trampling your legacy, Buzz?  Say it ain't so!  He went from Grade-A Badass to easy fodder for an old person joke.  Isn't being second man to ever walk on the moon a better life accomplishment than about 95% of everyone's accomplishments in the history of the world!?  (This is getting REALLY long.)  Could winning Dancing with the Stars really help him look back on his life and say "Shit, walking on the moon was alright, but being on Dancing with the Stars, now that was the highlight of my life."  This is probably why Merriweather Lewis killed himself: he could not do anything more bad ass than being the first Americans to see the Pacific.  (Yikes.  Downer.)  Not that I am advocating Buzz Aldrin kill himself, just live it out in quiet dignity.

Why do I care so much about this?  (EXCELLENT question.)

Now you see why I love my husband.  And fear for his blood pressure.

All joking aside, I totally agree with him.  And I, of all people, OF COURSE can relate to him getting fired up about things that others might not care about.  It's probably why we got married. 

Devil Man Gets His Comeuppance

Let me tell you a tale.  A terrible tale in which I, a PREGNANT WOMAN, got shoved belly-first into a stone wall.

Did you have enough time for that to sink in?  No?  Okay, I'll repeat it.  A terrible, evil, rude fat man pushed my pregnant belly into a stone wall.

The day was Friday, and the place was the Smokey Bones restaurant in Lansing.  My dad had just gotten out of a meeting, and we got to the restaurant right in the middle of the 6 o'clock rush. The place was packed to the gills, and we were looking at a 45-minute wait.  I was feeling very claustrophobic in the waiting area, so my mom and I moved behind the hostess stand and stood up against the wall to be out of the way.

I have provided a 100% realistic rendering of this night so you can accurately imagine this scenario.

Also, please be assured that this is an ACCURATE representation of the restaurant and the placement of people within it.  I ran it by two hostesses, a waiter, and they original architect, and they all stated the dimensions were exact.  So, don't worry about that.

As you can see, there were tons of people, so I moved to a place where there were NOT a lot of people, and I was not in anyone's way.  You will see how much space is in between myself and the lovely fake fireplace.  A very large walkway, I would say.

However, a large, mean, stupid-looking gentlemen, who had just gotten done yelling at the hostess for not being seated quickly enough (because THAT always helps, right?) began walking past me on the way to the bar.  Instead of walking PAST me, at the last minute he SHOVED me.  Like, he used his hands as well as his large body.  Because I was looking at the dining area and talking to my mom about how full it was, I did not see him coming.  Also, because I was facing the wall, my stomach smashed into it.  

I was stunned.  I could not, seriously, could NOT believe what had just happened.  I spun around to get a look at the suspect, but by then, he was already getting his comeuppance.

The moment his ham-sized (and probably booger-covered) hands had smashed into me for NO REASON, the bartender LEAPED over the bar, ran up to him, and karate chopped him in the neck.  The jerk man immediately fell to the floor.  "Why?" the mean man whimpered in a baby voice.

"Did you just push that amazingly gorgeous pregnant woman?" the bartender shouted in his face with his foot on his chest, holding him to the ground.  "Yeah.  So what?" the asshat replied.  

BIG mistake.  Before the bartender even had time to respond, I shouted out the secret signal, and my legion of ninjas moved in with the speed of ... well, ninjas.  While they began beating the crap out of the lady pusher, my father and husband came running out of the bathroom.  

"What's going on??!?" my husband shouted.  "My spidey-sense told me that something was wrong.  That man on the ground.  He hurt you, didn't he?"  The rage quickly filled the eyes of my husband and father, but I held them back.  "Don't bother," I calmly replied.  "No need to get your hands dirty."  And, indeed, when they looked over, the ninjas had already taken care of the evil man.

The owner of the restaurant then came over and told the man that evil idiots were not welcome in his restaurant, and threw him out into the cold, where he lay, broken and bleeding, until the police came and took him away.

Sweet justice.

What really happened:

I gave the mean man a dirty look. 

Then, I made sure to keep an eye on him the rest of the 45-minute wait.  I gave him the evil eye any time he dared meet my eyeline.  I also made note of the fact that he yelled at the hostess three more times, and then WE got seated before him, despite the fact that he was there before us and we had the same size parties.  

So, even though my ninjas, the bartender, my father and my husband didn't dole out any vigilante justice, he got his.  Beware, jerks of the world:  Being rude will NOT get you ahead in life.

Oh Yeah. Also? I Am Not Stupid.

I have this fun little thing I do when said solicitors come to the door.  I listen politely for a moment, and then, with my head cocked to the side and a sweet-yet-dense look on my face, I say, "Oh, I'm sorry.  My husband takes care of all that."


I don't care what it is.  I always reply that way.  


You're here to collect for a charity that sounds made up?  My husband takes care of all that.


You're here to invite us to join the neighborhood watch?  My husband takes care of all that.


You're here to sell magazines?  My husband takes care of all that.


Yes, my husband is in charge of all charitable donations and decisions about joining organizations.  And magazines.  He is definitely in charge of magazines.


I don't know what made me decide to do it, but I sure love it!


So this guy from some made-up sounding energy organization came by last week and wanted to see our energy bills to make sure we aren't getting overcharged.  I did my standard "stupid housewife" routine, and the guy looked a little sorry for me.  He began speaking much more slowly and loudly, and asked if I knew where my husband kept the bills, because all he needed was to see one.  I shook my head sadly.  He even showed me one on his clipboard.  "See.  It looks LIKE THIS," he said, holding it very close to my face and shouting to get past my stupidness.  Sorry, no luck buddy.  


Finally, he left, after giving me another sad little smile, and I thought I was done with him for good.  Unfortunately, I was wrong.


Last night, at 7:30 PM (!!!!!) I heard banging on my door, and it was another representative from said company.  I unleashed my signature move, and he ... ROLLED HIS EYES AT ME AND WALKED AWAY.


REALLY?!?!!  Really?  You come to my house AFTER DINNER TIME, ask me a stupid question, and then get mad at ME when I blow you off in the nicest way I can possibly muster?  


You want to know how I USED to talk to solicitors before I got a little nice?  It ranged from telling them I was much too busy doing nothing to speak to them to telling them to jump off a cliff.  Is that what you wanted?  Because I can DO that.  I can be mean.  So save your eye rolling for someone else, mister.


And you can take your Stanley Hudson voice and go jump off a cliff.

Rage Against the Machine

Okay, I have had disasters strike before.  I have had computer problems.  I have had my procrastination bit me in the ass.  But never, NEVER, dear Internet, have I had these horrors combine into such a perfect crapstorm.


It all began with me being slightly supremely behind in grading.  This semester has been outrageously overwhelming.  Like, if it had been my first semester teaching, I probably would have run screaming for the hills.  But now that I am a jaded college instructor, I realize poo will rain down on my head on a regular basis, and I just need to buck up, show up, and focus on the positive.


Anywhooo, I was behind on grading.  Then finals hit, with all of the final papers and final exams, and 78,492 e-mails from students with last minute questions.  Usually at this point in the semester, I am all prepared, and have all my other grades entered into my fancy Excel spreadsheets, and all the formulas created and all that jazz, and all I have to do it grade final work and the final grades calculate themselves, and then, swoosh, I send the grades away on the Interwebs and sit back and wait for mean e-mails from students about their final grades.


So I was behind.  Then I took time off to prepare for Jeremy's graduation and GO to Jeremy's graduation, and then I woke up this morning and had 58 hours of work to do and grade were due first thing in the AM.  So I buckled down and slaved away all day, and my neck HURTS from bending over the computer and my right index finger is curling up like a claw and I think it might stay that way forever, but DANG IT, I was almost done.


Then it happened.  At approximately 12:30 AM, I realized that at one point in the quarter, there was a little column in my spreadsheet with all my Comp I students' grades for their second paper.  Now there wasn't.  And I couldn't find it anywhere.  After many past computer disasters, I had saved my grades in 4 different locations.  Those grades were not in ANY of these locations.


My dad would hear this and automatically say, "Humph.  User error."  To this, I would reply, "YOU are a user error.  Burn."  (Yeah, I am pretty well-known for my awesome comebacks.)


Whatever, it was a user error or the computer is out to destroy me (you be the judge).  Either way, the only other place I had these grades recorded were on paper ... in a drawer ... in my desk in my office ... 45 miles away ... at the College that was locked up since it was PAST MIDNIGHT ON A SUNDAY.


I poured myself a cup of ambition (I will send a handful of Lansing slush in a pink envelope to the first person to identify this reference and let me know what "ambition" I drank.  Hint: it was NOT alcohol) and drove out there.  The best was yet to come, because I had to go to the Campus Safety Office, explain myself, and ask someone to let me into the building.


The officer who came to my rescue looked concerned.  When I told him my situation, the look on his face changed.  I don't care to describe it, but he definitely wasn't concerned anymore.


On the walk over to my office, I tried to make small talk and simultaneously make myself appear endearing so he would be less likely to tell stories about me.  I offered up, "Well, I bet it's safe to say I'm the only idiot you've ever had to help break into her office at 1 AM the morning before grades are due." [nervous laugh]  Then HE went and made me fall in love with him when he answered, "Oh, we have a LOT of idiots around here."


So, I came home, graded for 2 and a half hours, got completely hyped up on adrenaline, and now, instead of crawling into bed to enjoy blissful slumber, I am returning to the beast that is hell-bent on my demise.  I wish I could quit you!

I Can Still Do the Splits, Too

I really shocked myself today.  Driving home from work after teaching two classes, I realized I had just been EXTREMELY flexible.  And about HUGE things.  Like final exams and term papers.

I had to take a look in the rearview mirror to make sure I was still me and not someone else.

I am not entirely INflexible.  But there are just some things that I will not budge on.  Some have even been known to call me stubborn once or twice. 

Just once or twice.

So, I was pretty proud of myself today, to say the least.  I have been working on being less stubborn, and teaching has really helped me learn to go with the flow and avoid those pesky nervous breakdowns when things go awry. 

However ... there are some things I never see myself being flexible on.  And I don't really care to be.  Therefore, I still reserve the right to be angry, flustered, or otherwise enraged by the following:

1.  Sportscenter.  Or, as I call it, the "loud yelly channel."  Seriously, those assbutts are always shouting and fighting and yapping, and it just makes me want to pull my hair out! 

2.  99.9% of sports color commentators.  Talk about ... hmm.  I can't think of a non-offensive word to replace the one I was thinking of.  They have nothing to say, but they keep talking anyway.  And I think there must be some sort of voice requirement to get that job -- your voice has to be equivalent to nails on a chalkboard.  If you have a lovely, mellifluous voice, no go.  I have gotten so sensitive to that rubbish that if Jeremy springs it on me, I instinctually crouch and hiss like a Twilight vampire.  Oddly, he does not find this attractive.

3.  Jerkfaces who are intent on stealing my time.  That's right.  Time theives.  They are everywhere.  I most often run across these buttheads in the grocery store.  You know, the people walking painfully slowly down the CENTER of the aisle so you can't get around them or stopping right in front of you to mentally balance their checkbooks instead of GETTING TO ONE SIDE AND TAKING THINGS OFF THE SHELVES AND PUTTING THEM IN THEIR CARTS AND GETTING ON WITH THEIR LIVES.  Seriously, just because YOU clearly have nowhere to go and nothing but free time on your hands does not mean that I have nothing to do and nowhere to go.  In fact, I am always on a mission.  I want to get in, get out, and move along in the most efficient method possible.  I do not dilly-dally or stroll.  I GO.

4.  Jerkfaces who are intent on stealing my time AND trying to kill me with their cars.  This is a two-pronged intolerance:  If you either a) feel the need to go 15-20 miles UNDER the speed limit or b) insist on ignoring everthing else on the road and trying to swerve into other cars, then I HATE YOU.  Especially if you combine those traits.  It is astonishing how many people just wander through life without noticing there are others around them who are affected by their choices.  Or just want to text and drive at the same time.  Sigh.

So ... cheers to my flexibility and tolerance!

Things that Make Me Cry ... and Not Just on the Inside ...

... but on the outside.  Like, tears running down my face. 

For real.

All of the following things are horrible, wretched inventions that have come about due to the "advancements" in technology. 

I know, some of you are probably furrowing your brows and thinking Ummm, Veronica, obviously you L-O-V-E technology, what with your addiction to Facebook and TV, the writing of the blog nonsense, and using of the cell phone and whatnot.  

Yes, whatever, I LOVE technology.  I do.  I could weep when I imagine my life without Google, and how much harder teaching would be if I didn't have CNN and Yahoo! homepages to show me interesting articles that relate to what I am talking about that day that I can print out and disitribute in about 30 seconds flat.  And life without Television?  I know there are some people who happily CHOOSE this lifestyle, but even if I become a bum living in a cardboard box, I will still sneak into stores to watch my stories.

So why am I writing a blog about the horror of technology?  Read on, my friends ...

Well, first of all, because THIS exists:

{source}

Yes, a "OMG" necklace so you don't have to type or say "OMG" to people, you can say it to them all the live-long day, and in Cubic Zirconium to boot!  The description is hard to read, but it says "OMG this pendant is sooooooo cute!  This acronym for the phrase 'Oh My God' got its start years ago on IM and has become a common term used in everyday conversation.  If OMG is one of the terms you use every day, then you have to get this cz pendant.  Wear this sterling silver cz chat pendant and people are sure to say 'OMG I have to get one too!'"

All I can say is ... O. M. G.

Next up on my list:  We all know that GPS has led to tracking devices of all sorts, and the first to shock and disgust me was the "Disney" tracking system for your children (the commercial shows parents smiling at a laptop that has a small Mickey head moving around on a map of their town.  Wow.), but now that it is such a cheap and common technology, ads like this began popping up on my Facebook page:

Of course, after I listed myself as "married," the ads changed to "Is your husband cheating?" 

Clever facebook bastards.

And, next up, technology has made life so much easier in the fact that one does not have to READ an entire silly book to get the plot.  Especially those ridiculous classics, like Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, or Pride and Prejudice.  Who would want to READ when they could get literature's "gr8 txts" edited for the mobile generation?

The service sends text messages to students who want a condensed version of great texts, like this gem: "FeudTween2hses--Montague&Capulet. RomeoM falls_<3w/_JulietC@mary Secretly Bt R kils J's Coz&isbanishd. J fakes Death. As Part of Plan2b-w/R Bt_leter Bt It Nvr Reachs Him. Evry1confuzd---bothLuvrs kil Emselves."

 Yep, that's the plot of Romeo and Juliet, and apparently that is all you need to get from that dusty tome.  And this service claims it is providing an "understanding" of literature's classics. 

And finally, the piece de resistance, the worst of the worst.  You may have already heard of this by now.  Especially if you are on the English faculty mailing list at work, because if you are, I already sent you the article and encouraged you to be disgusted by it.  For those of you who are not forced to receive e-mails from me at work, let me tell you about the New England prep school that GAVE AWAY ALL THE BOOKS IN THEIR LIBRARY.

Voluntarily.  On purpose.  Over 20,000 books.  Gone.

The headmaster of the school explains "When I look at books, I see an outdated technology, like scrolls before books."  Clearly the same.

So, instead of ADDING digital readers and computers to the library (I'm sorry, it has been re-named the "learning center" since it doesn't have any books to make it fit the definition of a library.), they moved out the books and spent 500,000 smackers to move in technology -- and a $50,000 coffee shop that will include a $12,000 cappuccino machine.  I mean, it IS a PREP school, after all.

It boggles the mind.  I mean, this is an ADULT who made this decision.  Did he never get over that black-or-white, all-or-nothing stage in life?  The only options are not ALL books or NO books.

I would love comments on these abominations, but especially on the doing away with books.  What is it that you get from a book that you could never get from a computer screen?

Thankfully, My Skin Never Turns Green

The awesomest (totally a word) thing happened today.

We went to see Paranormal Activity and we were the ONLY ONES IN THE THEATER!!!! (Paranormal Activity was pretty good too, but it paled in comparison to this wonder.)

I mean, seriously, how often does this happen?  Granted, it was 2:50 on a Monday, but still.  This theater is always pretty packed, not matter the day or time.  So when we walked in before the previews started and it was still empty, I wasn't really holding my breath that it would stay that way, but it did, it DID!

I was in heaven.  Let me tell you.  I have ... this thing.  Hmm, how can I put this?  Well, I am sensitive and picky and become a total raging bitch at times.  One particular scenario in which I rapidly transform from the mild-mannered-Veronica to the screaming, cursing, enraged-Hulk-Veronica is when I am in a public place (especially one where I have PAID for admission) and people are being loud, rude, or otherwise distracting.  I have no patience for it whatsoever.  Several people will attest to this fact, and to those of you, I say, KEEP YOUR COMMENTS TO YOURSELF.  Especially if I am in a movie theater at the time.


I know I am unusally crabby, but seriously, is it so ridiculous to think that I bought a ticket to SEE THE MOVIE and not to hear tween Morgan flirt with tween Taylor, or hear Ethel explain to Frank what just happened, or have my eyes pulled away from the screen by an uber-bright cell phone because little Emma can't make it through the movie without texting all her BFFs?  Is it that absurd?  I don't think so.  Why would I pay $7.50 for that crap?  I could just go to a mall food court and get all that garbage for free if I was hard up for foolishness.

At least when I am teaching I can give the evil eye.  Works like a charm in the classroom.  In a dark theater?  Not so much.  Plus, I am guessing my evil looks, "ahem"s, and waiting for silence while staring at the offenders only really works when you have something the people want, like grades.  I wish I could grade people in movie theaters.  "F"s as far as the eye can see!!

So here's the real problem.  Now I feel like I can never go back.  Now that I have tasted the sweet fruit that is a quiet theater, I have a bad feeling that every theater after this is going to be even more infuriating.  As soon as someone shrugs off their jacket, my head will explode.

Possible solutions: 
1)  Force Jeremy to buy out every film I wish to see in the theater (sounds feasible)
2)  Never go to the movies again (even less likely to happen than the above)
3)  Film a scary warning that plays before every film, a la Inglorious Basterds (sounds pricey)
4)  Take lots of pills before every outing (sounds even pricer)
5)  Ummm ... get angry? 

I pity the next person who answers their phone in a theater.  HULK ANGRY!!!

Measured Thoughts on the Tigers' Loss: A Guest Post by My Husband

Jeremy had some wise words for me following the athletic tragedy that took place on Tuesday, October 6th ... truly a sad day in Tigers history.  So, I asked him to share his thoughts with my devoted fans. 

With no further ado, my brilliant and sports-obsessed husband, Jeremy:

I wouldn't necessarily say that I am sports obsessed; I like sports, and I feel like they like me back a little.  That's all. 

The Detroit Tigers have been a passion of mine for some 22 years now, and during this time I have seen a lot of things ... well, really not that many.  From the time I became seriously involved with the Tigers they have been mediocre, at best.  I wasn't fully baseball sentient when Detroit was good in the mid-80s, so up until that magical and ultimatley tragic 2006 season I had watched a lot (and I mean a lot) of crappy baseball. 

So, the Tigers' recent success sits very well with me.  I finally feel like I am being rewarded for all my time I put in watching them.  As some of you know, the baseball season lasts 162 wonderful games.  From April to October they play practically every night, and on probably 9 out of 10 nights I would park my ass in front of the TV to watch and hope, all to my wife's chagrin.

This season started out tremoundously.  The Tigers rode their strong pitching to first pace by May and looked, to the outside observer, poised to make a run at the playoffs.  What the trained eye saw was that this Tigers team was streaky.  Just like in undergarments, streakyness is a baseball season is usually bad.  The Tigers would win 5 in a row, then drop 4, then during their next 10 games would be 3 and 7.  What is worse was that they always seemd to be on a losing streak when they needed to win the most. 

I apologize for all that background on myself and this season, but it was necessary to fully appreicate the MONUMENTAL collaspe the Tigers had in September.  The Tigers were 7 games ahead of the Minnesota Twins on September 7th.  Then, a losing spell: with 4 games left in the season, the Tigers were 3 games ahead of the Twins.  All they had to do was win 2 games to clinch the division championship and secure a trip to the playoffs.  Well, as many of you probably know, they LOST 3 of those last 4 games in particularly sucky fashion.  After 162 games, they were tied with Minnesota.

We all know what happend after that ... I don't even like talking about it.  Anyway, here are the 2 most dissappointing things about the Tigers blowing their huge division lead:

1)  Given the long 162 game season, I feel like I have wasted my whole summer watching and hoping for something that never happened.  It isn't that I regret watching the games.  I watched them every night when they lost 109 games in 2004, but this feels different.  It is like each month that passed by I looked more and more towards the playoffs.  As a Tigers fan, and a baseball fan in general, watching the playoffs is the crowning acheivment of an entire season of devotion.  I got really used to watching other teams play in October.  But when my Tigers had a chance to get in, and then crapped out, it was like thinking about Christmas three hours every night for 6 straight months, then when December comes, you get a letter in the mail saying Santa killed all the reindeer and Christmas is cancelled.  That is seriously how I felt after that game.  Again, it is not like I regret watching all that baseball over the summer, but I just feel a little silly for spending that much time on something that never came to fruition.  

2) The thing I love about baseball is that the game's history is such a huge part of the present.  Fans love comparing eras of the game and arguing over which players were the best, blah, blah, blah.  While this might sometimes make me happy to be reminded constantly of Joe Dimaggio's 56 game hit streak, or that Ted Williams was the last hitter to hit over .400 in a season, announcers also remined you of the bad times; they say things like "(insert team here) is so bad they could match the record of the worst team in recent memory, the 2004 Detroit Tigers."  Only now, every time a team blows a seemingly insurmountable lead with a month to go in the season, I will be reminded of this tragedy.  Or every time a team even comes close to blowing a huge lead, the Tigers will come up.  Is it not enough that I suffered once?

With the baseball season over, I will now have to spend my time diving back into my real loves: scrimshaw and sketching various flora and fauna I came across in the three hours I spend sauntering (when I used to be watching the Tigers).

Urge ... to kill ... rising ...

Well. Our fall semester just started yesterday, and I was geeked to be teaching two new classes -- Language and Culture and Foundations of Mass Communications. I labored over syllabi, and this morning I taught the first session of Language and Culture.

All was going well until one of my students piped up and said that the first article I assigned was not in her textbook. Long story short: I WAS GIVEN THE WRONG TEXTBOOK.

It was only a new edition, but apparently they cut out a whole chunk that I based my first huge assignment on and my students were supposed to have read for Thursday, and as I skimmed through the table of contents, I quickly noticed that only about FOUR of the articles I had on my syllabus were still in the new edition.

So, I acted very un-flustered and told my class I would have the pages for that night's homework scanned and posted on-line and that I would have an entirely new syllabus ready for them on Thursday.

Why am I blogging about this instead of creating said syllabus or preparing for the class I teach in an hour and a half? Because I am so livid I am afraid I will punch the next person I see, and I think writing about it might (might) quell that urge.

So I'll let you know in a few hours, my loyal (millions of) readers, if this experiment worked or I will be incarcerated pending trial.

Insomnia Rant 2.0

GUH! Last night I only slept about two hours, not counting the last 45 minutes that were interrupted every few minutes by a cat crying in my ear and/or licking my face and a dog's tail wagging so hard and fast that it THUMPS THUMPS THUMPS the walls on either side of the bed as she runs back and forth, hoping one of us will pay attention to her. Sigh.

I was feeling good about myself too, and maybe that was the problem. Once I finally buckled down and started grading those papers (and no, I do not wish to discuss what time I actually accomplished this feat of strength), I started getting tired very rapidly. By 1:30 AM, I was thinking that when I crawled into bed, I would fall asleep in no time.

However, my brain merely cackled and said au contraire, mon ami. I alternated between laying in the dark with my eyes closed, watching TV, listening (with my eyes closed) to the soothing voice of Gene Galusha, the narrator of The New Detectives: Cases in Forensic Science (wonderful show! And the narrator's voice is like the soothing waves of the ocean. Sigh ...), and getting so thirsty that I needed to go downstairs to refill my glass of water (Seriously! What am I, five?!?).

And yes, I have tried everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. A few months ago I went off caffeine for a while ... I can't remember how long. I think I blocked the trauma from my memory. Exercise; herbs (only the legal type, I swear!); positive self-talk (I know); and even thinking about puppies, ponies, and rainbows (like my mom used to tell me to do when I was little and couldn't sleep). All to no avail.

I am not actually posting this to get advice. I just want to complain. So, thank you kindly Internet, for letting me blow off a little steam. Now I will go prop myself up and try to look awake while I teach all night! :)