Last night on my way to the dreaded MOA the song "Let's Get Rocked" came on the radio. I have a lot of memories involving Def Leppard but this particular song took me back to a very unpleasant event, my junior prom in 1993. Aside from having horrible acne and pretty much the worst hair color and bangs EVER, I decided at the time that taking up with pretty much the skankiest creep in four counties would also be a good idea. Chris Wittenberg had probably banged every low-esteem moron who ever looked twice at him and unfortunately this included me. I was over the moon for him, Jesus Christ, what the hell?
For the occasion he had borrowed someone's purple silk suit (not even a tux), and wtf, do you think you're in hip hop or something? He told me to get a black dress, which I obediantly did, of the short, cut away shoulder, sequined variety. It was skank-o-rific (much to my mother's dismay, who could NOT understand why I chose the train wreck I did over the cutest, trendiest hot pink number). The ensemble was awful; I think I even wore flats with it......
The point of all this is that at some time during the dance "Let's Get Rocked" came on followed closely by "Talk Dirty To Me." My winning "date" along with Jason Cavanaugh (another choice specimen) decided they would go out onto the dance floor (without me or my friend Julie), REMOVE THEIR TUX SHIRTS, and "dance," (air guitaring and headbanging). Now that I think about it a bit deeper, I think the dancing was more of a cover for checking out OTHER CHICKS. Boy, they thought very highly of themselves. When they came back, Cavanaugh decided to grace us all with a performance along with Joe Eliot from which the highlight was, "...I suppose fucking's out of the question...." I have a sneaking suspicion that we still thought he was HILARIOUS at the time and laughed very hard at his antics.
GROSS.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Goodbye to Pregnancy
After two and a half weeks, the tape residue on my arm from the IV I had the night I gave birth to my daughter, my third child, is almost completely gone. I suppose it was unhygenic of me to allow it to linger as long as I did but somehow I just couldn't wash it away. This ridiculousness is not just due to my normal obsession with my own nostalgia but part of a larger realization that I will never again experience such an IV or childbirth itself. My days of making babies are over; I am almost a little depressed by this thought.
Most women I know did not particularly enjoy their pregnancies, labors, or hospital stays but I am one of those freaks who did. Sure I had the usual little annoyances that accompany each of these events: headaches, a few barfy days, fatigue, hemorrhoids, morphine sickness, and the completely unattractive transformation that happens during breastfeeding, but looking back, I can even say these little items were an accepted part of a larger, giddy sort of love I had for each of my occurances being "with child." After each one I would be forced to live pretty much in the moment, being kept busy with all of the tending tasks that come along with a new infant, but as time passed I would always find myself looking back to those times and phases, treasuring them and wondering if I would enjoy the future experiences as much as the current ones. I did, of course, and each milestone, each season, each accompanying set of pop culture items reminds me of the specialness of it all. My son: Fruit punch gatorade, snickers energy bars, smoothies from Jamba Juice, breakfasts at the Uptown Diner, ER in the mornings, Blue Crush in the afternoons, the song "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," the smell of Dreft baby detergent, and Baby Mozart. My first daughter: "What Not to Wear," green tea and banana coconut frappucinos, 24, neutrogena soap wipes, purple Herbal Essence shampoo, Euphoria perfume, and Gwen Stefani. My second daughter: Miami Ink, turkey cookies for Thanksgiving, Victoria's Secret pear lotion, Lipton Brisk Iced Tea, vanilla lattes, Kanye West, Justin Timberlake, ER in the mornings, baby shows in the afternoons, pecan pies, and Bruegger's Bagels.
Now that I am done getting pregnant, I wondered for a while if I'll just naturally make the transition from tired looking hippy mom with grown out roots, jeans and old t-shirts to yuppie soccer mom, complete with coach purse and prada pants. Once my kids are in school will I forget about them and join the ranks of the rest of the MILF wannabes, caring more about Botox and spinning class than my family? Will I feel inadequate being just a mother, just an aspiring writer? Will the novelty of "A Baby Story" and "Bringing Home Baby" finally wear off? I hope not. I am almost positive that, in a year or two, I will be right back in the same gushy nostalgia, pressuring my husband to consent to yet another child. And though I know full well that I will have more than I can handle with the three glorious babies I already am lucky enough to behold each day, I guess the magic of new babyhood will always be one of my favorite things on thie earth. Few things are as intoxicatingly beautiful as holding your own newborn child.
Most women I know did not particularly enjoy their pregnancies, labors, or hospital stays but I am one of those freaks who did. Sure I had the usual little annoyances that accompany each of these events: headaches, a few barfy days, fatigue, hemorrhoids, morphine sickness, and the completely unattractive transformation that happens during breastfeeding, but looking back, I can even say these little items were an accepted part of a larger, giddy sort of love I had for each of my occurances being "with child." After each one I would be forced to live pretty much in the moment, being kept busy with all of the tending tasks that come along with a new infant, but as time passed I would always find myself looking back to those times and phases, treasuring them and wondering if I would enjoy the future experiences as much as the current ones. I did, of course, and each milestone, each season, each accompanying set of pop culture items reminds me of the specialness of it all. My son: Fruit punch gatorade, snickers energy bars, smoothies from Jamba Juice, breakfasts at the Uptown Diner, ER in the mornings, Blue Crush in the afternoons, the song "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," the smell of Dreft baby detergent, and Baby Mozart. My first daughter: "What Not to Wear," green tea and banana coconut frappucinos, 24, neutrogena soap wipes, purple Herbal Essence shampoo, Euphoria perfume, and Gwen Stefani. My second daughter: Miami Ink, turkey cookies for Thanksgiving, Victoria's Secret pear lotion, Lipton Brisk Iced Tea, vanilla lattes, Kanye West, Justin Timberlake, ER in the mornings, baby shows in the afternoons, pecan pies, and Bruegger's Bagels.
Now that I am done getting pregnant, I wondered for a while if I'll just naturally make the transition from tired looking hippy mom with grown out roots, jeans and old t-shirts to yuppie soccer mom, complete with coach purse and prada pants. Once my kids are in school will I forget about them and join the ranks of the rest of the MILF wannabes, caring more about Botox and spinning class than my family? Will I feel inadequate being just a mother, just an aspiring writer? Will the novelty of "A Baby Story" and "Bringing Home Baby" finally wear off? I hope not. I am almost positive that, in a year or two, I will be right back in the same gushy nostalgia, pressuring my husband to consent to yet another child. And though I know full well that I will have more than I can handle with the three glorious babies I already am lucky enough to behold each day, I guess the magic of new babyhood will always be one of my favorite things on thie earth. Few things are as intoxicatingly beautiful as holding your own newborn child.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
