Thirty-one

So I had pretty much been elected to be the one to talk some sense into my suddenly-decided-to-get-engaged-to-a-jobless-twenty-one-year-old sister.  The reason for this was simple: I live the closest to her, just a matter of geography, plus the fact that the 'rents decided a little thing like their youngest flushing her future down the john took a backseat to the golf courses of South Florida. (And who can blame them, really?)

After picking the brains and gathering the thoughts of everyone in the family, I put them all together into what I believed to be a sound yet compassionate speech that might make this young turk rethink jumping into the deep end of the ocean.

I psyched myself up and made the block long trek over to her apartment. We exchanged pleasantries, got comfy, and I adopted my most soothing voice and began.

“You’re an idiot,” I said.  “You haven’t got the sense God gave a goat.”

I was surprised to find that this approach caused her to burst into tears,  so I tried a different tack. 

“I mean, look at this place, it’s a dump.  Is this where you’re going to live?  There aren’t even any windows in here.  Is something burning? You owe me ten bucks, by the way.”

More tears.

Took a deep breath, and remembered something I’d read in one of those cheesy sales books while I waited for Mike to use the bathroom at Barnes and Noble.  Something about understanding first, then being understood.

“Listen, hon, I’m pregnant. So is Heidi.  You’ve set your wedding date for three weeks after this baby is born and Heidi will be eight months along by then. You’ve asked us both to be bridesmaids. Is that really what you want to look back on in fifty years, two fat girls in pink dresses upstaging you on your big day?”

Two hours later, I was exhausted but she was smiling.  I guess we’ll see what happens.

She still hasn’t paid me the ten bucks.

Thirty-two

I was rooting around in the fridge yesterday and noticed a box of bean sprouts I bought a few days previous had yet to be opened. So I went to the deli and got salami, turkey, roast beef, two kinds of cheese, horseradish sauce, an avocado, a red onion, and a tomato and made a Dagwood that was soooooo good my head almost blew up. I forgot to put the sprouts on it. I threw them out this morning.

Then the kids and I spent today packing up the house, which they thought was great fun. The renovation on the new house won’t be complete for several months, so we’re going to be staying with my folks.  God bless them for letting us descend on them like this.

It's absolutely amazing, the stuff I've been hanging on to.  A package of half-burned out tea lights. A C+A Music Factory CD. A  poster for the movie 'Pure Country' starring George Strait…actually, I think I'll get that framed.  One of my very favorite guilty pleasure movies………silly Harley doesn’t realize her hired-hand crush is actually country singing superstar Dusty, even when he starts singing to her. Plus, seeing Leslie Ann Warren squeeze herself into ever more ridiculous leather outfits is priceless.

The kids were such good helpers I took them to Target and got treats for our trip to Florida. (We leave Thursday.) Meg got a sundress and Finny got shades. I got a big case of the holy-crap-am-I-fats when I foolishly tried on a sundress.  I quickly wolfed the rest of my big sandwich when we got home, as a way to make me feel better. That's the great thing about pregnancy-- you can justify every bite. "That sandwich is giving you eyeballs, that brownie is making your spine,  this carton of Ben and Jerry's is making me happy so I don't kill your siblings and go to jail and you won't be raised by a foster family…"

Thirty-three

I'm sitting here on the porch of the sixth floor, looking out at the boats sailing by, the palm trees swaying, the dolphins leaping, the little boy standing on the table doing the naked dance...and its not nearly as bad as it sounds, in fact its all quite fabulous....so great in fact, that not even being awakened at one-thirty in the morning to be told the store had been robbed can make me feel stressy. (No worries, two hooligans broke in and stole the cash box which contained precisely seventy-three cents, and the accountant next door was up late doing taxes, saw them and called the police, and they were apprehended the moment they tried to leave.)

It took a while to get here, that's for sure. We boarded a seven a.m. flight on Thursday morning, the kids and I filed into our row, and Mike settled into his single across the aisle and promptly passed out.  Three hours later when we landed, the kids were shrieking for lunch and I was completely covered with blue ink. (The ball point pen Finny  apparently smuggled onboard in his undies exploded.)  We rented a car and immediately got lost, ending up in the worst part of Miami where at every stop light, Mike consulted a map. Hi, please kill us.

After finding the right road, we settled in for the two and a half hour ride to Marco Island. Now, unless you're on the coast, Florida kinda blows. Make no mistake, once you find the water, it' s great, but all that swampy crap in the middle I can do without. Plus everybody's a redneck. We stopped to eat at a subway-slash-gas-station-slash-airboat ride-through-a-swamp place, where the same mullet sportin’, rheumy-eyed, stinkin’ of whiskey guy filled our tank, then sort of wiped his hands and very grudgingly made our sandwiches, but not without first letting us know, "All I got is white bread.”

I'm still desperately hoping he was referring to the sandwiches.

There was a toothless old guy sitting behind him whose job it was apparently to glare at my kids.

OK-- lunch eaten, just in time since Mullet's pals are all starting to arrive, and one of them is undeterred by the fact that I am hugely pregnant and have several children hanging off of me and what us yanks call a husband sitting by my side. It wasn't really this guy's fault, I'm sure in his circles, it's perfectly acceptable to offer someone a twelve pack in return for the use of his wife for an hour.  More disturbing was the fact that Mike’s response was, "Half an hour, and make it a case."

When we got back in the car, we saw a sign that basically said, 'Marco Island, Ten Feet', so instead of partaking of the beautiful roast chicken gramma had prepared in our honor, we all trundled off to the bathrooms for some explosive bowel movements.

But it's been pure heaven ever since--lots of beach, lots of pool, lots of golf, lots of napping.

Sidenote-- Meg is definitely her mother's daughter-- we went to a 'gator farm the first morning. Finny thought it was the coolest thing ever and Meggie didn't make a peep except at one point, when she  sort of sighed "I wish this was fun."

So I hope you are all well and happy, we certainly are! See you soon............

Thirty-four

 I settle in with the folks to watch the season finale of The King of Queens on tape. My dad starts the tape, and it's halfway through Everybody Loves Raymond.

"Dad. You gotta rewind. It's not rewound........"

"WHAT?"

"It' not rew--"

(At mom)  "WHAT THE HELL IS SHE TALKING ABOUT."

 “She said you have to rewind..."

"I DID. WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH THIS THING."

(He has pressed the 'search' button in reverse, so we can watch the whole show backwards in fast motion.)

"Dad. Press 'stop', then 'rewind.' "

"I DID. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, ANYWAY."

I get down on the floor and manually press 'stop' and 'rewind', waiting two minutes in a very uncomfortable silence while my dad tosses magazines around and mutters, “what the hell is she doing?”

The show starts. Dad immediately passes out and snores like a jackhammer for the next twenty-two minutes.  He awakens the moment the end credits roll.

"THAT WASN'T FUNNY, I COULDN'T HEAR A DAMN THING."

We turn on Frasier, in which Dr. Crane has a dream he's having sex with a woman he didn't think he was attracted to in real life.

Dad says, "I don't put any stock in dreams!"

Mom: "Oh, Katie has dreams like that all the time. George Clooney, Russell Crowe.......who else, Katie? Tell your dad who else."

Huge. Fat. Pause.

Yes it's true, pregnancy makes me have some pretty interesting dreams. But I stupidly thought my mom, who apparently was listening as I laughingly retold said dreams to my sister, was an Earthling.  It is suddenly very clear she is a cyborg. I feel the prickly heat of shame creep over my body as my mom smiles at me expectantly and my dad glares.

"um...... I um, had a dream I was making out with Gabe Kaplan........."

Mom, disgusted : "Mary Katherine!! We don't want to  hear about your 'make out' dreams!" She spits the words out and is looking at me like I just confessed I voted Democrat.

Oh my God, she set me up.

I said calmly,  "WHAT DID YOU THINK I WAS DOING WITH GEORGE CLOONEY, HAVING LUNCH?!  YOU'RE THE ONE WHO TURNED THIS EVENING INTO AN EPISODE OF TAXI CAB CONFESSIONS!!"

My parents are now looking at each other like, 'Where did we go wrong, and could we win custody of the children?'

That was two nights ago, and I haven't left my room since.

Thirty-five

I just made myself a batch of chicken/cream of mushroom soup/swiss cheese/bread crumb casserole and ate half of it. It's 4:07 in the afternoon.  I'm on track to gain 332 pounds this time out.  I've hit the stage where none of my real clothes fit, and my maternity clothes are outrageously big, not to mention dated and horrifying. (Tie dye leggings, anyone?)  I went to Target the other day to try and rectify the situation, as I am a firm believer in not paying more than four dollars on clothes I'm only going to wear for a few months, hoping to find something kinda cute, kinda sassy, kinda, “hey I've got  a bunch of kids but that doesn't mean I want to look like Fraulein Frumpalump.”

Ummm..................

What happened?!  Last year, every pregnant gal I saw was sporting capri length jeans with embroidered cuffs and a cute kicky top. But apparently now, now that I need these clothes, we're back to elephant pants and denim dresses that scream Laura Ingalls.  I know the in thing for movie stars to do is just wear their normal clothes and let their huge, distended, blue veined bellies hang out while their baby-t  stretches across their bloated bosom, as they bray to Star Jones, "I've never felt so beautiful!"

But that's not really my cup of tea, either. Hate to tell everyone, but I don't think pregnancy is all that pretty.  When June finally rolls around, I'll look like I'm carrying twins in my face.  With each kid my hair gets more gray and my teeth more transparent. And it'll be another month before the vomit smell is completely gone. I've said it before, I'll say it again: it's nature's cruel trick. 'I got what I wanted from you, no more pretty!'  

Sorry. I know I sound bitter. I'm just saying with the right training, I think I could've been a singer.  Man, it's a good thing those munchkins upstairs do something insanely cute no less than seventy-four times a day.  (And I'm talking about my kids, not the voices in my head.)

The two of them are currently sitting in my mother’s living room hyperventilating over the Sears Christmas catalogue. Or they were when I left the room. They've probably moved on to spreading ketchup  on the couch or inserting toys into the VCR, but I choose to ignore that. Finny is currently Robin Hood, and all he does is leap out from hiding places with some sort of weapon or bow and arrow and attack everyone. It would be nice if he informed us beforehand that we were involved in his game, but instead we all live in fear of his ambushes. I noticed at the YMCA, I could sign him up for Karate when he turns three, but I've decided against it. The last thing I need is for him to know what he's doing when he tries to kick my ass.

I have to go, there's half a hot dish in the kitchen with my name on it.

© Katie McCollow, 2004 •