burning questions you aren’t asking

Posted on January 2, 2012 by Marie

There are probably three main questions on everyone’s mind that I haven’t yet addressed on this blog, namely:

1. How are Marie’s cats adjusting to the new baby?

They’re coping. They spent several days with my parents and mother-in-law in the house while we were at the hospital, so they were already somewhat neurotic (rather, more neurotic than normal) by the time we returned home. Skylar whined a lot in her tiny little pipsqueak whine. Wrigley just sat in a corner and stared with giant black pupils. But once they were permitted to sniff the baby and determine she did not pose a threat to either Wrigley’s Alpha status or Skylar’s perceived Alpha status, they came around. Now, they are back to their usual spoiled-rotten selves and pretty much disregard the baby unless she is screaming, in which case Wrigley leaves the room and Skylar cocks her head to one side and asks, “mow?”

2. Why the hell did Marie, such a smart, attractive and talented blogger, have to go and ruin her blog by having a baby?

That’s a tough one. In my opinion, all the conventional reasons people give for wanting to spawn are stupid: I want to leave my legacy; I want to make a cuddly baby friend to play with; I want to experience the miracle of life; my cats don’t really appreciate me; it’s God’s plan; the Devil needs an heir. Instead of trying to come up with some noble reason for wanting kids, we’re better off admitting it really just boils down to 100 million years of primal fucking instinct. (LITERALLY!) Something in my brain wanted me to make a baby, and it was useless to resist. Also, she is really cuddly and cute and fun to play with. Or, I’m told she will someday be fun to play with. Right now she just kind of stares at me and screws up her face whenever I kiss her.

3. If it weren’t for the Chicago Bulls, would anyone still remember the Alan Parsons Project?

No.

Posted in blogging, Life, music | Tagged , , | 11 Comments

predictable curmudgeony NYE post

Posted on December 31, 2011 by Marie

The way I see it, there are several possible routes you can go when writing an end-of-year blog post.

  • You can reflect on the past year of your life as an excuse to re-post all your favorite and most flattering photos of yourself.
  • You can demonstrate how mature and sophisticated you are, sharing details of a classy and intimate dinner with your most grownup friends, not failing to mention how you drank one glass of wine, only a sip of champagne and closed out the night with a snugglefest on the sofa with your hubby.
  • You can post about your 2011 blog stats, using that helpful email WordPress sent you about an hour ago.
  • Inasmuch as you are above such arbitrary celebrations, you can whine about how much 2011 sucked and try to make everyone else feel like an asshole for having a good time.
  • You can do a this year/last year comparison, allowing you to post more gratuitous photos of your new baby friend.

Guess which one I chose.

Last New Year’s Eve…

This New Year’s Eve…

Happy New Year, bitches.

Posted in blogging, Life | Tagged , | 11 Comments

on my newly acquired fupa

Posted on December 30, 2011 by Marie

So when you have a baby, you come home from the hospital with a big vacancy formerly occupied by said baby. You probably haven’t worked out in several days or weeks or months, and your ab muscles have separated; basically the tone and definition or your torso does not exist anymore. These factors create the perfect conditions for a fupa.

I have already lost 30 pounds in the three weeks since giving birth (and I don’t even have AIDS, hooray!), but there is still a very pronounced fupal protuberance that I would like to be rid of. (Sidenote: you don’t know how awesome it is to step on the scale and find you’re still losing weight after eating like John Goodman all day long.)

Let’s explore…

Exhibit A: my honeymoon.

Also I had a tan this one time.

I feel obligated to note this photo was taken in 2005, right after I had conveniently stumbled upon a cache of illegal Mexican diet pills (hey, don’t knock ‘em until you’ve tried ‘em), and I haven’t been that skinny since. Also, the Caribbean (honestly, Red Stripe and rum) causes you to wear things you would not normally wear in real life.

And here’s me now:

Dramatization.

Don’t you love my little pink purse? I put my weed in there. No, but did you really think I was going to put MY fupa on the internet? This isn’t that kind of blog.

I haven’t been cleared by my doctor to do anything other than light low-impact activities like walking and ellipticalling (sp?), but rest assured, as soon as he says the word, I’m going to be a sit-up doing motherfucker, motherfucker.

What other exercises are good for fupas?

Posted in fitness, Life | Tagged | 30 Comments

my amazingly epic journey of childbirth, parts I – X

Posted on December 22, 2011 by Marie

I’ve been working on this post for a week. It just seems stupid to use my free time to blog when I haven’t gotten four consecutive hours of sleep in two weeks. I’ll say it again: I don’t know how you mom bloggers do it. Anyway, this was supposed to be a relatively brief and light-hearted “birth story digest,” but it somehow turned into the Moby Dick of birth stories. So I did some trimming. I didn’t think you guys would mind.

Part I

Midnight, December 11. After watching a dismal 30 minutes of SNL (Dear Katy Perry: just…no), we turned out the lights and went to sleep. I dreamed my water was breaking and I woke up at 12:30, soaking wet. (waterproof mattress pad = success!) My husband called our doctor’s after-hours line and he told us to head to the hospital. When I got there, they confirmed the rupture, “checked” me (a procedure that sounds simple but actually hurts like bloody hell), did some monitoring and put me in a totally dope LDRP room that would be our home for the next three and a half days. I still hadn’t had any contractions so they induced labor around 2 a.m. (Sidenote: If you ever have kids, you should really try to go into labor after a solid night’s sleep. Losing a whole night before we even got started ended up sucking balls, but I’ll get to that.)

Part II

Contractions started quickly and forcefully. I’m told pitocin makes them harsher, as did the lack of amniotic fluid, which would have provided some cushioning. This is the part where I try to convince you that my contractions were worse than anyone else’s in the history of childbirth. I KNEW labor was going to be unpleasant, but nothing could have prepared me for this special kind of agony. My friend Jill said it’s like your worst period cramps ever, times 10, with knives. It felt like a red hot ball of pain radiating out from my gut. The next seven hours is a blur. I mostly spent the time doubled over the bed, a chair or a birthing ball, breathing out curses in a tight whisper. The contractions quickly went from 2-3 minutes apart to what seemed like one long, endless contraction with barely a pause in between. I’d start to stand up, and be racked with another one almost instantly. My husband, just as sleep-deprived, rubbed my shoulders, pushed on my back, held my hand, breathed with me. My parents were at the hospital too but made themselves scarce: my mom checked in every once in a while, cringed and fled the room; my dad wisely stayed in the waiting room and read a book. (I think he read about 11 during the course of their visit.)

Part III

9 a.m. This is the part where I tell you how I finally couldn’t take it anymore and conceded to the epidural. If there was any hope the contractions weren’t going to get worse, I might have hung in there a while longer, but it was still early. I was in tears and nearly passing out from exhaustion despite the pain. When I came into the hospital, I was at 1 cm and 0% effaced; after seven hours of contractions I was at 4 and 90%, which they said was fantastic progress. When my nurse went over the options with me, she said I could have narcotics by IV, which would last anywhere from 30 minutes to four hours OR might not work at all; or an epidural, which would last indefinitely and totally eliminate all the pain. I decided not to fuck around: I went for the epidural, and let me tell you, it was fanfuckingtastic. They warned me it would hurt, and it was definitely hard to sit still during the procedure while I was still in agony, but the sting of the needle was a walk in the park compared to the contractions. Thirty minutes later, I was in bed, blissfully unaware of my ever-stronger contractions and clapping myself on the back for making such a wise move.

Epidurals: rewarding smart people since 1942

Part IV

This is the part where everything started to go downhill. I couldn’t feel the contractions anymore, but the monitor showed every time I had one, the baby’s heart rate dropped. After a couple of alerts, they gave me oxygen and stopped the pitocin drip. I also got an amnio-infusion to replenish the fluid I’d lost when my water broke. The nurse gave me a pep talk that began, “I’m going to be honest with you…”

Part V

3:30 p.m. A major blow to my fragile, sleep-deprived psyche when my doctor tells me I have made virtually NO progress since the epidural (seven hours earlier) and I’m still at 4 cm. He believes her head is tilted, and the contractions aren’t pushing her down in the way that promotes dilation/effacement. Since we’re going on 16 hours from the water breaking, there’s a risk of infection and he recommends a c-section. The upside: labor is over. The downside: I’m about to have a big hole cut in me. I realize at some point in this monologue I’ve slipped into the present tense….

Part VI

This is the part where I try to forget I am utterly fucking terrified. They wheel me into the OR and start prepping me for surgery. A Brazilian wax joke gets me a few laughs. They pump me up with another epidural that paralyzes me from the chest down. (Sidenote: my anesthesiologist was this loudmouth Kathy Bates type and I absolutely adored her.) It’s sort of funny to watch my legs flop around like they belong to someone else.

Part VII

I stare at the ceiling while my doctor cuts me open. My husband watches over the dividing sheet in rapt fascination. Every few seconds he tears his gaze away from the carnage and gives me an encouraging nod. It only takes a few minutes, and doesn’t hurt in the least, but I feel tremendous pressure as my innards are not very delicately shoved around and they pull out my kid. They whisk her across the room where a gaggle of nurses is waiting. Ten long seconds go by before we hear her start to cry. The whole day suddenly catches up with me and I begin to sob uncontrollably. My doctor tells me to hold still because he’s still all up in my junk.

Gooey babies are only cute if they're your own. That being said, LOOK AT MY ADORABLE GOOEY PRINCESS BABY.

Part VIII

This is the part where I tell you how it took them 20 goddamn minutes to stitch me up and my husband is the first one to hold the baby. When they’re done toweling her off or whatever it is they do after a baby is born, he is allowed to bring her over and hold her near my head so I can see her. I sort of kiss/slobber all over her face, still blubbering and sobbing, and now shivering uncontrollably from the anesthesia.

Panda warmer is brought to you by Japan.

Part IX

Freshly injected with morphine for the pain that will come when the epidural wears off, I am wheeled back to my room with my freshly extracted kid tucked into my arms. (Don’t worry, they made her a little nest by cramming a couple of pillows between her and the edge because, safety first!) Someone forgets to tell me I’ve just had major surgery and I try to go traipsing around like I haven’t just had major surgery.

Part X

Sixteen hours later, the morphine wears off and I am in a world of hurt. Whoever said a c-section is “easier” than traditional childbirth can smile and blow me. (“Smile and blow me” is still a thing, right?) On top of that, I’m still having pretty fierce contractions every time I breastfeed, something else nobody told me. They’re almost as bad as the contractions I had during labor, and I let the nurses feed me Percocet and Naproxen after confirming half a dozen times that it won’t hurt the baby.

Afterbirth

This is the part where I reflect. It seems to me that in my case, pitocin –> epidural –> c-section. I’m told the epidural is not what halted my progress, but it seems an incredible coincidence given the timing. That said, do I regret having it? Fuck no. I was in agony and would have agreed to birth the baby rectally if that’s what it took to ease the pain. I think what really screwed me was the water breaking so early and the contractions not starting on their own. I could have refused to go to the hospital until contractions started, assuming they would have started eventually (thus perhaps avoiding pitocin and perhaps avoiding the epidural), but I’m not a doctor and I have no business playing those odds. Yeah, it would have been neat to watch her come out, but in the end, we got our baby friend, so I’m happy, and I think she’s happy too. Or sharting. It’s hard to tell.

Pffft.

Posted in Life | Tagged , | 44 Comments

please stand by: new baby edition

Posted on December 17, 2011 by Marie

It’s 4 a.m., I have a dual breast pump strapped to my juggies, and I’m trying to think of something prolific to say about childbirth and simultaneously seeing to a troll-type who is earnestly replying to every comment on a couple of my old posts. I don’t know how you mom bloggers do it.

This announcement is a week late so it’s probably rather anticlimactic (and also shallow and pedantic), but I did want to share the news of our new baby friend and obviously, wallow in my glory a bit…

Kenzie Ryan made her grand entrance December 11 at 4:17 p.m. She was a teency 6 pounds 12 ounces, 21 inches long, and cone-headed. I’m currently working on the birth recap to end all birth recaps, but since I can only manage to type about one sentence at a time, you’ll have to wait a little longer. In the meantime, enjoy some photos of our loinfruit:


Looks like my 10 step program worked, eh?

For those of you wondering what kind of food it was that actually threw me into labor, it was leftover-Thanksgiving-turkey enchiladas and Spanish rice.

And for those of you who are concerned the baby is going to ruin this blog, you’re probably right.

P.S. Thanks, Rob!

Posted in beer, Food & Drink | Tagged , , | 38 Comments

pho phail

Posted on December 7, 2011 by Marie

Oh heeeey! One day left until the official due date…the day on which less than 5% of women actually deliver (look it up).

Throughout my pregnancy, I airily exclaimed to anyone who’d listen that people place entirely too much importance on this somewhat arbitrary date, and the baby will come when she is good and ready. Of course, throughout my pregnancy, my pubic bone was not being ripped in half and all the organs housed in my torso had their own little happy space that was not invaded by a giant pulsating parasitic fetus. (Note to fetus: If you read this some day, dear child, I use the term “parasitic” in only the most affectionate sense).

So, while I understand I actually have very little likelihood of giving birth ON my due date, I’m still hoping with the passion of a thousand gallons of fiery Sriracha sauce that I will be one of the 5%.

Today, with the goal of arousing the baby’s swift evacuation from my battle-weary womb, I went for a long walk and then guzzled an extra large bowl of spicy pho. I had a few twinges of crampy pain, hardly worth mentioning, and my lazy, underachieving baby slept through the whole thing.

Tomorrow I’m upping my game: hill repeats, hot wings, tequila and rough sex.

Posted in Food & Drink, Life | Tagged , , | 18 Comments

the giveaway I was born to win

Posted on November 30, 2011 by Marie

I have nothing to say today. I’m blogging for the sole purpose of getting a bonus entry in Shelby’s giveaway and convincing you that I deserve to win perhaps more than anyone else in the world. Plus, there’s nothing like shanking somebody else’s blog post idea and using it to your own selfish end.

Shelby and I have one thing in common (maybe more than one, ahem, cat twins): shower beer. Well, any beer really, but there is just something really special about having one in the shower. Hedonistic disregard for societal conventions + beer? I’m in. It might even be one of the only reasons I like to run.

So when I saw that Shelby was giving away to two very lucky readers a SHAKOOZIE, I nearly shat. The Shakoozie appears to be the answer to every functioning alcoholic’s beer enthusiast’s prayers.

But mostly mine.

[image source]

The reasons why I deserve this more than you are threefold:

1. I will actually use it. Unlike some others, I will not stuff this nifty little contraption away in a drawer or in the cabinet with the rest of my promotional koozies.
I promise to utilize it daily, or at least on most of the days that I run, as soon as I am no longer breastfeeding.

2. I have experimented with different strategies for drinking beer while washing myself and have been found wanting.

Exhibit A: The tub beer.

Bathtub beers create a very subtle potential for catastrophe.

This looks just fine, except you have only a very small ledge upon which to set your beer, so you run the risk of dropping it into the tub or knocking it off onto the floor. If you’re drinking out of a can, you’re out maybe a couple of bucks; if it’s a glass bottle, you just got yourself a project.

Exhibit B: The shower caddy beer.

There is a very real threat of pouring beer over your head and drinking your shampoo.

I don’t think I even have to point out the risk you run of splashing water and/or shampoo into your beer.

3. Pregnancy pity: I weigh more than my husband, I get 15 minutes of sleep a night and my boobs have more veins than a Chilean copper mine. (You might say they are the VEIN of my existence. HEYOOOO.)

What I’m saying is that you need to go over to Shelby’s blog and tell her you’d like to forfeit your entry. Pretend I’m Rudy and you’re the indifferent college senior who dressed in every game but who just really isn’t into football that much. You want me to wear your jersey in the last game of the season because I am just so goddamn inspiring. Do it now.

Do it or I will sic a thong-clad Sean Astin on you.

Posted in beer, Running | Tagged , , | 16 Comments

almost too pregnant to function

Posted on November 27, 2011 by Marie

The PC’s been coming on intermittently all weekend and takes anywhere from five minutes to two hours to crash, so I don’t know how much time I have. A hastily purchased laptop should be here on Tuesday.

Sleep has also been coming intermittently. I wake up every 45 minutes and pee no less than five times a night. Sometimes I just lay awake for no reason. This morning, I was up at 5 a.m. and will probably crash again around noon. But it’s nice not to have that panicky feeling when you know you’ve only slept for three hours and your day is going to suck ass.

I’ve been swimming a lot and taking shorter walks around the neighborhood. I can still walk a few miles, but then I have to take a two-hour nap.

I’ve been having very mild and irregular cramping and back pain all week, but I haven’t experienced any of the other signs of impending labor (I’ll let you guess what those are). I also haven’t gained any more weight and pretty much look the same way I did a week ago. I’m not going to say anything cliche like, “It’s finally dawning on me that I’m going to have a baby!” But…fuck. I’m supposed to have a baby next Thursday. If I think about that too much, I freak out.

Instead of practicing my breathing exercises and doing squats and kegels and all that stuff a responsible person would be doing 11 days before her due date, I’ve been working on labor playlists. They include everything from Howlin’ Wolf to Faith No More. I have no idea what kind of “place” I’m going to be in while I’m pushing out my baby friend, so I’m trying to cover all my bases. Inevitably, upon the first contraction, I’ll forget that music even exists and it will remain untouched in my overnight bag while the melodic sounds of my screams echo down the hallway of the maternity ward.

But it’s kind of nice knowing all I really have to do right now is sit around and wait. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I didn’t go into labor at work or start having contractions during my 20 mile commute in rush hour traffic. I am five minutes from a very dope and swanky hospital full of doctors and surgeons and anesthesiologists and I intend to keep it that way.

I'll probably regret this later.

Call me!

Posted in Life | Tagged , | 38 Comments

about your turkey trot…

Posted on November 23, 2011 by Marie

So my computer’s on the fritz again, and the timing couldn’t be better: just when I actually NEED a home computer and can’t do all my blogging from work anymore (lolskies).

Last night when I tried to turn it on, the error message said:

PXE E53: No boot file name received.

PXE-M0F: Exiting Intel Boot Agent.l
No bootable device — insert boot disk and press any key.

Anyone? And please don’t tell me to set my primary linux partition to “boot” or I will eat your face.

Anyway, if you don’t hear from me for a few days, gently insert your thumb into your ass and just keep waiting.

In the meantime, I know a bunch of you are going to be doing Thanksgiving fun runs tomorrow, and I would just like to encourage you not to mention them to me, because this joke of a race happens to be my favorite one of the entire year and I’m bitter I can’t run it. (And I am not walking 4.5 miles just on principle, so don’t ask.)

But here are some unsolicited tips on how best to run YOUR Turkey Trot/Drumstick Dash/Gobble Gallup/what have you:

Don’t…

  • get in the front of the pack and run five abreast.
  • get in the front of the pack unless you can do a 6:00 mile.
  • carry water.
  • pace yourself.
  • strip down to your shorty shorts and jog laps around the parking lot before the race. It’s a FUN RUN. Get over yourself.
  • complain that it’s cold.
  • tell everyone around you, multiple times, that you’re “just doing this for the turkey!” We first heard that joke back around the time the pilgrims were running 8Ks, and it’s not funny anymore.

Do…

  • get drunk tonight. It’s only four miles, you pussy. And throwing up will just make you hungrier for Thanksgiving dinner.
  • dress up like an idiot. Wear cliched and culturally insensitive Native American regalia and gigantic turkey tail feathers. It’s your day.
  • leave your Garmin at home.
  • bring canned goods for the food drive.
  • find an appropriate pace group to run with. Even though it’s a fun run, there will still be some assholes gunning for a PR. Best that you and your gigantic turkey tail feathers stay out of their way.
  • take advantage of hot coffee/cocoa before the race.
  • gun for a PR. Just don’t whine if somebody wearing gigantic turkey tail feathers ruins it for you.

Any important tips I have left out?

Posted in Food & Drink, Running | Tagged , , | 17 Comments

a dodgy tribute…

Posted on November 18, 2011 by Marie

…to my favorite ratty sweatshirt:

Because:

A) it is one of the very few warm articles of clothing that still fits me;
B) it is comfortable;
C) what are they going to do, fire me?

many a beer has been guzzled in this here sweatshirt

I’ve had this sweatshirt since 1997, having “acquired” it from a high school friend (O HAI MYRA) after I borrowed it and then left for college with it still on my person. (I know, I’m a dick.)

My sweatshirt and I endured a brief separation after I left it at a friend’s house and his roommate found it and started wearing it snowboarding. I was at that friend’s house more than a year later (it was a different house, even), when I saw my beloved sweatshirt slung over a chair. (queue: “Reunited”)

We’ve been together ever since, although I think if the opportunity presented itself, my mom would take the sweatshirt and quietly torch it with an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. Every time she sees me in it, she makes a comment like, “Oh, you still have that sweatshirt. That’s…that’s great.” Once, she even tried to buy me a new navy blue sweatshirt, but it just wasn’t the same.

…to my mom:

She really is an angel. Nothing like me whatsoever. Which means it is pretty easy to shock her (a skill I have been honing for years).

Yesterday, I sent her this cartoon:

[image source]

Her reply:

…to my hormones:

I go from being so blissfully happy that I’m nearly in tears, to being so utterly furious that I’m nearly in tears. I can’t run, I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I pee every five minutes, there is a foot jabbing me in my ribcage, and I can only eat about four bites of food before I feel like that fat dead guy from Seven.

I am also more than a little impatient to meet this baby friend I’ve been so generously hosting for the last 37 weeks. And…maybe I just don’t know enough to be properly terrified, but I’m not even (yet) dreading the agony of labor. I really just want it to happen so I can be not pregnant anymore. I almost don’t remember what that feels like. And I could use a beer.

Posted in beer, Life, music | Tagged , , , , | 17 Comments