Further Research has Muddied My Waters

Posted on 10/11/2007 by cheesefairy

This morning on the Skytrain, I encountered the same gentleman from last week, the one who caused me to ponder the relative annoyance factor of cell phone conversations in public places. Again, he was having his chat with an acquaintance on his walkie-talkie phone; today I was close enough to note that it was Sony Sports Walkman Yellow. (annoyance factor 1. Nothing should be that colour; not SUVs, not phones, not shoes, maybe Crocs but otherwise NOTHING.) While he was conversing at a fairly high volume, I might not have noticed him if not for the beeping. After he spoke, he would press the “send” button, I guess, and the phone would go “buuuuleeeeep!” and then the other person would talk and then “buuuuuuleeeep!” and so on.

Last week, as you may recall, I was faintly amused by him.

Today, I almost killed him with my bare hands.

The circumstances differed from last week as follows:
1. I was running late because a) it’s Thursday and it’s my later day and b) I stayed an extra 10 minutes at Trombone’s daycare because he was shrieking and crying like a stuck donkey in an electric fence.
2. I was standing
3. in the middle of a very crowded Skytrain car which I had to take because if I waited for the next one I would be even later, so
4. there wasn’t enough room to read my book and all I had to keep myself amused was looking out the window, wondering if my daycare provider is secretly torturing my son while I am at work (otherwise wouldn’t he have STOPPED SCREAMING by now?**) and listening to buddy and his fucking cell phone whilst also
5. thinking about how I am not even at work yet. But hey, at least work will be fun!
6. Oh wait, no. The other thing.

So – results are embarrassingly obvious: placed in a stressful situation, common annoyances are more annoying.

** I doubt she is torturing him, really. On Tuesday he was fine. Most of the time he just cries a little. But today, my heart, he ripped it out and threw it in my face. As ways to start the day go – approximately negative 16,999 on a standard ratings scale of 1 to 10.

Posted in public transit, trombone | 5 Comments

What 5.5 Cms Can Do

Posted on 10/10/2007 by cheesefairy

I had an ultrasound yesterday to determine my exact stage of pregnancy. 12 weeks and 3 days, apparently. Crock of – I mean, due date – is April 19. I wish I could stop sneezing enough to appreciate it. Man. It’s the end of my cold and I am sneezing out my last 14 useful brain cells.

It is comforting to have an ultrasound this early in a pregnancy, especially one I didn’t believe was real until a few days ago when I heard the heartbeat at the doc’s office.

Sometimes the not believing has come in handy; my mind can be so powerful that it can deny the existence of my physical symptoms (…these pants are awfully snug. I am so bloated!) and I function a lot better. Sometimes, though, the not believing plays with the hormones and my (powerful!) mind says things like “maybe you feel better because you never were pregnant. It’s an intestinal tumour!” or “maybe there was a baby here but now it’s gone.” Almost everyone I know has had a pregnancy loss and it’s the truth that when you’re pregnant the joy of creation is very precariously balanced with the fear of loss. (I hesitate to say destruction though that is sometimes what happens – destruction just seems so malicious.)

Even since Friday, knowing that I had an ultrasound scheduled for Tuesday, I have had fleeting worried thoughts about my newest hitchhiker. It’s crazy; you wouldn’t think my mind would make the time to worry about something that I can’t control or alter in any way. But then I guess I wouldn’t be my own special brand of human. Human Crazy 3000! She’s got opposable thumbs and a brain that won’t quit!

So I left work early yesterday for a 2:30 appointment at the Torture Chamber Ultrasound Lab on 41st ave., where the later in the day it is, the longer you have to wait and the best part of waiting for a pregnancy ultrasound is that you have to drink water to inflate your insides so they can see the babby’s bits clearly so you’re waiting, in my case for an hour, in a waiting room FULL of other people who have to pee (mostly – some of them were limping people waiting for x-rays) lots of whom have their older children with them and which children are of that dangerous 2 – 4 year old age where YOU TOUCHED MY HAND I HAVE TO SCREAM NOW. I WAS STEPPING ON THAT NEWSPAPER AND YOU TOOK IT AWAY I HAVE TO SCREAM NOW.

On the bright side I have had an ultrasound before and at the last one the technician told me, “Next time? Only drink half as much water as we tell you. Your bladder is HA-YUGE!” so I didn’t have to pee that bad, plus I had a book in my bag (Headhunter, by Timothy Findley; dudes, this is one of my favourite books ever) so didn’t have to read 27 magazines about Britney and how she looks pregnant again (now SHE is probably just bloated).

And once you get in past the waiting room and actually see the technician, odds are you get a lovely, sweet person in a room with low lights and a soothing, humming machine.

And there it was, our 12 week, 3 day old Babby2, size 5.5 cms. Waving its itty bitty arms around. Flashing its tail. “Here, I’ll try to get you a good profile shot,” said the technician. “Oh – okay,” I said. I didn’t think I’d get a souvenir photo this early, but I did wait an hour. The picture is hilarious, even more so than the 18 week ultrasound photo. Measure out 5.5 cms – it’s about —————————————————- and nowhere near a baby yet. But still, despite its tininess – it’s something nestled deep in my gut, kicking my ass, making me tired and chubby and prone to over-emotion.

You were all once that small. I was once that small. The asshole who undoubtedly will sit too close to me on the bus later this morning was once that small.

I believe it now. I am actually, truly, pregnant with a babby. I might go ahead and invest in a new pair of trousers.

Posted in babby, books | 7 Comments

Docs, Locks and Socks

Posted on 10/6/2007 by cheesefairy

I kind of hate the title of this post, but it makes me think of “Beers, Steers and Queers,” which in turn makes me giggle, so I’m leaving it.

Yesterday I walked into the mall and said, “Even if I have to go to Zellers, I am getting my hair cut today.”

My appointment with my new doctor had gone a bit long (by 90 minutes) and so I missed the appointment I had made for a haircut directly following my doctor’s appointment.

Oh yes, I have a new doctor. Because the last one retired, the one before that was an ass and the one before that was the one what did my prenatal care with Trombone. And before that I lived on cocaine and Scotch so I didn’t need a doctor.

My new doctor is everything I want in a doctor. He did magic tricks using the doppler, his med student and a keenly positioned, gloved hand so that the wee Babby2 finally and reluctantly made its heartbeat available for our listening pleasure. Then he ordered me an ultrasound so we can decide how old wee Babby2 is since everyone is confused by my 45 day supa-spectacular ultra-ovulatory menstrual cycles.

The only downside of My New Doctor is that, like old Dr. Awesome, he is a good doctor because he Takes His Time. The key of this downside being I missed my haircut.

I drove out of that part of town and into another, walked into the first salon I came across at the mall and asked if I could have a haircut, please, for the love of all that is decent, because if I go back to work on Tuesday without a haircut, Co-workers A, B, C, D and E will kill me.

Kill. Seriously. I have spared you all the trauma that is Cheesefairy Doesn’t Get a Haircut for Three Months and Bitches about It Constantly, but I have not spared my work colleagues. My work colleagues are saturated with my haircut trauma like the rest of the world is saturated with Britney Spears.

When you walk into a salon where they don’t usually take walk-ins and you ask for the next appointment, what you get is the newest stylist on the floor. She was experienced, yes, but she was also a bit insane. The other stylists who were between clients just stared at her and, I think, were putting curses on her, judging by the sour facial expressions. The whole time she was cutting, she was talking (often about her co-workers! in a derogatory fashion!) and I felt like schooling her a little on employment politics. (First lesson: if your co-workers are right there? Don’t talk shit about them to the customers.) But she cut quickly and at least she didn’t ask about me, which is my least favourite part of a haircut, so I gritted my teeth and made small talk.

Because I watched her cut my hair, I know it is a good haircut. It is the length and style I wanted. But then, she asked if she could put mousse in my hair and I said “sure.”

You know how in the beauty magazines they say to squeeze an amount of mousse the size of a small lemon into your hand and then work it well through the hair? She filled both her hands with mousse. And she did not have small hands. If we stick with citrus, she had an amount of mousse the size of a pomelo.

SMEAR. SCRUNCH. Here comes the blowdryer. No diffuser. NO DIFFUSER! HELP!

As I told Saint Aardvark later, I have never looked that bad in my life. Even when I wake up with a cold, 11 weeks pregnant with a 15 month old who also has a cold, I do not look that bad. All I could do was stare in horror as she kind of mussed at my head, hoping for a bedheady look? I’m not at all certain and while the stylists who had been watching the whole time had the grace to look away and mutter amongst themselves.

Then she pulled out the hairspray.

And didn’t ask my permission, she just fired it up. I haven’t had hairspray on my head since, since, since, grade something. I am 33 years old and highschool was a long time ago and hairspray was a bad idea then.

“You won’t want to touch that for a while,” she said. NO SHIT! Or stand near open flame or rest my head against a wall lest I become permanently affixed.

Actually what I did was walk around the mall frantically handling my hair so that it would un-crunch. And looking for socks.

Last week, when the weather turned colder, I looked for some socks in my sock drawer. I found two pairs of so-called “knee socks” which actually come to the knee only when repeatedly tugged throughout the day and one pair of fuzzy red socks, plus approximately 17 white sport socks of the ankle-height variety. Why so many ankle socks, self? Oh yeah, I used to run. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Unfortunately only the knee socks are appropriate for my stunning work attire so I was forced to wear the same socks for several days before giving up and wearing non-matching white ankle socks and affecting a sort of “What? Me? Shut up!” hyper-aggressive stare on public transit. Whilst, naturally, complaining about the state of my sock drawer to the poor, beleaguered Co-worker A who must be really looking forward to my going back off work for a while, what with the hair and the socks and the constant eating.

I went directly to the sock department at Sears. I knew I did not want any of the Sears “Jessica” line of socks because I hate Jessica and her clothing line. It never fits right, it doesn’t wear well and I think I have fallen for her cheap knee socks before. Not today, Jessica! But the other option, the Calvin Klein socks were $14 a pair. And then there were the organic microfibre made-from-free-range-duck-skin socks (kidding, duck lovers) at $12 a pair. I took one of each and wandered about the store where I encountered the new Lands’ End department of Sears. Lands’ End, which has always sounded to me like an old biddy describing her aching buttocks, the catalogue: LIVE! in your Sears! They had a 3-pack of knee highs which promisingly came in 2 sizes: S/M and L/XL and were $32.50, so, the cheapest of all the knee socks except for those of that sloot, Jessica. And also, were lovely and looked like they might actually approach my knee.

I hereby present my new knee sock, with whom I am deeply in love, next to my old knee sock, whose elastic I may remove soon as its cutting off of my calf’s circulation cannot continue. I also present my hair, which apparently goes straight from fear whilst being shaken vigorously.

Posted in babby, outside | 9 Comments

Today, It’s Purple. Like my Shirt.

Posted on 10/3/2007 by cheesefairy

The Great Mofo Delurk 2007

It’s sweet Wednesday. Off-ramp to Thursday. Connector road to the weekend. The LONG weekend. Yes, it’s Canadian Thanksgiving.

I am wearing a very comfortable, slightly snug purple v-neck long sleeved t-shirt. Co-worker A just called it my “coming out” shirt because it displays my bulgy belly quite nicely. Not that I need the shirt; the gossip mill is working its magic in my workplace. This is how I like to announce major events at work – everyone else does the discussing behind the scenes and then I just confirm rumours and get to stop trying to suck my gut in so much.

Hey, what are you wearing?

Posted in babby, bloggity! | 11 Comments

Who Needs School?

Posted on 10/2/2007 by cheesefairy

This morning on public transit I learned:

1. The only way you can do ecstasy is popping it or crushing it and snorting it. That’s it. There is no other way. The guy who was telling his buddies this even checked with his brother, a self-defined “drug expert” and his brother said no way. “Who you gonna believe? That stupid fuck, Joey or my brother?” We all silently agreed that his brother sounded like more of an expert.

2. “Ms. Lee is hot. At least that’s my impression.”

3. If one braggadoccio-inflicted teenage boy criticizes another braggadoccio-inflicted teenage boy’s choice of hottie, there will be a fist fight on the bus. Who cares if it’s 8 am?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s really smart.”
“Whatever, man. I can say what I want.”
“No, you fucking can’t. I’ll kick your ass.”

Don’t you feel like you were there? You’re WELCOME!

I also realized something about cell phones. I’ve seen a lot of letters to the editor and general cantankerousness about how people using cell phones infringe on our privacy in public spaces and I’ve wondered just what everyone’s so het up about – after all, it is OK for people to have conversations with one another in public spaces, or rather, no one writes letters to the editor about the dudes on the bus extolling the virtues of coke vs. meth. I have a theory that because we only hear one half of the cell phone conversation it is irritating to us not because our privacy is being infringed upon but because we don’t get to eavesdrop on the whole conversation. Or to make it less voyeuristic, our brains need the symmetry of both sides of the story and when we only hear half, it irritates us.

Now for me, I usually enjoy listening to other peoples’ cell phone conversations on the bus because it’s funnier to only hear half and on public transit I am all about the funny.

This morning a gentleman at the bus stop kindly put his phone on the speaker phone setting and I got to hear both halves of the conversation. I found that once I got over the initial irritation of having someone basically talking right behind my head on a walkie-talkie I wasn’t even listening to the conversation anymore. I wanted to ask the other people at the bus stop what they thought but then the one guy looked like he might punch me and the woman lit a cigarette and walked away so my theory will have to be tested further at a later date.

Overall: a great trip to work. The best part, though, was when I got off the train at work and the station didn’t smell like pee and garbage, the usual daily compliment to my nausea. Instead, the station smelled like bacon. It was like some kind of wonderful dream.

Posted in public transit | 2 Comments