Can’t sleep yet,too many regrets/
Got em running round in circles for the respect
In the Mesozoic Era, when I was pregnant with Franny. That really does seems like a kerjillion years ago, now. Anyway, I was in kind of a weird place. I had finished the last semester of my junior year shuffling around in baggy tee-shirts so that none of my hard partying young acquaintances would notice I had gotten knocked up. By my perfectly legal husband of four years. At almost twenty-two years old I was embarrassed of my abdomen and its contents, as if the person I was bringing into this world was a tenacious chin zit.
I felt like I had a buzzing sign over my head, complete with gaudy arrow that said, “PROBABLY NOT GOING TO MAKE IT TO PHD OR FRANCE.” Line up to see someone who had dreams that involved travel and irresponsible fabrics kissing her dreams goodbye! Insert quarter for twenty more years of failure.
I just assumed that some transformation would take place inside me once I had spawned, and I would lose all motivation to finish my education. I imagined myself laying on the couch like some kind of horrible insect queen with little drones scurrying about, carrying new eggs out of my body and moving them to another part of the hive, while I scoffed Milk Duds and watched 90210 marathons.
Plus there was the issue of my babydaddy. Suffice it to say I had this weird hinky feeling that he would not end up being a good provider, helpmate, or any of that other crap that someone in Christian couples counseling would probably know about.
So I had a lot of anxiety about my situation. Anxiety always makes me act like a complete jackass, and I try to take everyone out with me. Early on in my pregnancy, I fell off my running routine because I was too tired after a full day of school and work, and just walked to get places when I could to sneak in some exercise. We moved back to Seattle, where I had no friends. My world got very small. Instead of falling asleep the moment I laid down, I started staying up late at night, watching TV.
Like many people, say, stoners or the mentally ill, I soon became fixated on the late night informercials. Especially the Eggwave. The Eggwave was a device that was going to REVOLUTIONIZE COOKING by making it quick and easy to microwave eggs.
Eggwave. It was the first word in my brain in the morning, and the last before I begged my husband for sex that was not forthcoming and fell asleep. I dreamed of fluffy eggs coming out of the microwave perfectly, encapsulated in the perfect container. It was only ten dollars and it even CAME with something, though what the bonus item was I don’t remember, nor did I care.
The informercials, particularly that one, started following me into the daytime. I started talking about it during the day, on the rare occasions he was home with me.
“Making breakfast would be sooo much easier with an Eggwave,” I casually remarked. Or, “If I could make this egg sandwich in some kind of device, the edges would be perfect.”
At first my husband ignored me, as he did about most things I prattled on about in any given day. He hid behind his newspaper or turned up the baseball game. But I wouldn’t stop.
Sometimes I would lay in bed and sing about it while he read books about math and anti-liberal propaganda. “Eggwave, Eggwave, Eggwave. How I crave. An. Egg. Wave.”
“Put a lid on it, you weirdo,” he said.
He tried to have normal conversations with me.
“Your birthday’s coming up, and I thought….”
“EGGWAVE,” I said.
“I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”
“Me neither,” I said.
Finally, after about six months of mild obsession, we were sitting at the table early in the morning, having coffee. I was nursing tiny Franny.
“I could go for an egg right now,” I said. It was kind of just plain true, but kind of also a hint that I was hungry and tied up, experiencing actual calories leaving my body. He SNAPPED.
“FINE,” he said. He walked over to the cabinet and opened it. “OBSERVE. An ordinary teacup! See how I put butter in it.” He walked to the microwave. “See how I put it in the microwave for ten seconds. I am now going to lightly scramble an egg and pour it into the cup with the melted butter.” He cooked the egg, making a big deal with his back to me, shoulders scrunched and tapping his fingers on the counter.
The egg emerged from the microwave and he gently tipped it out onto a plate, upsidedown. The cup had a rounded bottom, resulting in a perfectly rounded dome of happy egg love. It steamed as he carried it towards me, thrust out in front of him.
“See? You DON’T need an EGGWAVE,” he said, setting it down in front of me. “SALT?”
But I couldn’t answer. I could only shake my head NOOOO as I laughed soundlessly, tears streaming down my face and Franny, disturbed by the shaking of my body, emitted howls that would have killed any sound I would have made.
I enjoyed reading that, pregnancy itself is a terrifying experience without all other sorts of anxiety butting in.
That one really got me. I was doing some slightly tearful soundless laughing right here at my desk. Daaamn, it’s been a while since you did ol’ stories like that.
I know, I have been all made of fail with my jobs and flu and shit. BOOO moar writing instead!
I know this isn’t the moral of the story, but I was so happy when I learned that you could make perfect round scrambled eggs and bacon in the microwave that my poor co-workers had to put up with me making perfect bacon, egg and cheese bagels at work at least once a week. (Since I didn’t have a microwave at home and was obviously not getting up at whatever ungodly hour would have allowed me to get breakfast at home anyway!)
Um, this was me like three months ago, except with the ROOMBA. WHICH WILL REVOLUTIONIZE MY HOUSE. Plus, I can put stickers on it and give it a name.
I’m like that now with the “Magic Bullet.” No, not the sex toy (which is how I got duped into watching the commerical in the first place.) But a device that can make muffin mix, pasta sauce, grind coffee.. And MILLIONS of other uses! I even got my fiance to watch it and now he wants one as well..
I can haz Roomba and Scooba.
They do rock, but are hardly effort-free. You still have to empty them.
Roomba is worth it. It even has a remote control to set it to automagically vacuum stuff on a schedule. Then you empty it when it beeps at you, which it does when it is full, can’t find its way to homebase, or tries to eat the extension cord attached to your Xmas tree and gets stuck.
Scooba, not so much. You can’t set it to scoob automagically, it sucks up grot and makes it slimy, and needs to be filled and emptied each time you use it AND it is so heavy the wheels it comes with poop out quickly unless you get a special “Scooba ranch” thing for it to sit upon, and it also recommends that you give it a Scooba diaper mat so it won’t wee on your floor (not that mine has, yet).
Roomba, YAY, 5 stars.
Scooba, MEH, 3 stars.
Vacuuming room old-fashioned way? Negative ten stars.
Mopping floor old-fashioned way? WHUT? Never did. Ain’t MAH floor, beetchez, iz rental. But would be negative two million stars, because would invlve me remembering where I hid the bukkit and olde timey moppe.
I discovered the amazing fact that popcorn in a plain paper bag is actually ‘microwave popcorn.’
Duh.
I so relate to the whole ‘I’m confused about my future/have anxiety so I will stay up and watch infomercials and become obsessed with them’ syndrome.
I remember WAY BACK IN THE DAY before everyone whitened their teeth there was an infomercial where people would go on and on about how amazing it is for your teeth to be whiter. “White teeth!” they’d say over and over and over. But then, when I was living in Central America there was an infomercial about how white SKIN made your life better. The product was called ‘white secret.’ (They said it in English, naturally…) Like: The secret of success is being white! Which it is, kind of.
I’m currently obsessing over the Pancake Puffs (“because the tastiest pancakes are ROUND”). If this had happened about six months earlier, the nursing and crying and etc. you describe would definitely be accompanying it…
Dear Asshole
:0]
While reading this post:
I realized:
I really like/love being lead along by you. Kinda like the little girl got lead along by Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. I know i’m in for a bitchen rolly-coaster ride.
Also too, i want me one of them dicer uppers that cuts apples in perfect squares for fruit salad. I want it Sooooo bad, it hurts. And those fuckers! if you call now they’ll give you TWO! PERFECT slicer dicers….ohhhhhh….
i love you & your moar writingz
(thank you for writing true shit)
And here all this time I thought my freakish obsession with the George Foreman grill made me weird… what other infomercial goodies did you secretly long for???
I haz Majik Bullet. My friend had two and gave me hers. Hubbers loves it; I hate the effin thing. It leaks and is louder than an elephant shitting rocks on a glass floor. But he makes good salsa in it so I save it from the landfill.
Just purchased bigger and better George Foreman. Has knobbies to keep food from slipping down; genius! Bigger cooking surface, less time actually cooking. yay me.
Also got hubbers Chef Tony’s Miracle Blade III; steak knives to DIE for. Choppers, slicers, dicers? Eh not so much. BTW all of this and moar from either CVS, Walgreens or the Wally World “As Seen On Tv” Aisle. Jam out with yer clam out!!
Hey, Im a complete Noob, living just by the coast of Noob Sea, when it comes to your wonderful inspirational heart tugging blog. I love it. You are so funny and smart and love your use of language.
On purpose I will not read pre meeting you posts.
I have written more now if you wanna check it out.
Hope all is well.
Much Love n Peace from The Mission.