speaking of vanity

I've never been a person who's afraid of getting older. Indeed, I rather like it--each year seems like a little badge of accomplishment to me, and I especially look forward to milestone birthdays, even if the 'milestone' part is only in my mind.



That being said,
if ONE MORE PERSON acts like they are going to pass out from the shock of learning I am not yet thirty, I am going to hit them.
























WHAT IS UP?

Vanity

Internet, I'm a very complicated person.

No more complicated than any of you, of course. I'm sure that you, too, are a person full of mysterious complications. And layers. Lots and lots of deep, gooey layers. I'm just trying to comment on my own layers. The ones I have.

three, at last count.

and today I want to talk about the Body Dysmorphic Disorder one.

You know, BDD? It's where a person takes their perceived physical flaws and blows them way out of proportion, convincing themselves they are completely hideous and unlovable. It's a really tragic mental disease that affects a disturbing number of people, although I can't tell you how many because, are you kidding me? I am way too lazy to research a blog.

so, ya. Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

I think I have the opposite of that.

I'm pretty sure that I think I am way more attractive than I actually am.

because in my mind I perpetually look like this:





















man, I look great. do you see those cheekbones? my smooth, yet careless hair? my FLAWLESS GLOWING SKIN? Photoshop, will you marry me?

This is what I picture. You know. When I picture myself. In my own mind. Which sounds weird, but I guess I must do it sometimes, because occasionally (today) I'll just be walkin' around, minding my own business, when I catch a glimpse of myself somewhere, and

whoa. WHOA. wait, what? I look like WHAT?

this does NOT jibe with my mind-picture.

and then I am disturbed. over my sanity.

And then, of course, because I'm also a little bit crazy, I get all worked up and decide that I DON'T EVEN CARE. I am tired and I have three kids and I think I'm just going to embrace my own unattractiveness by spending the rest of this very obnoxious month wearing Christofer's pajama pants and ratty old t-shirts.

(and if he doesn't want to share, TOO BAD, because this is all his fault anyway, for letting me out of the house LOOKING like THAT.)
(and also for the three kid thing.)

Thus my vanity crumbles.

edit to add: Oh, friends. Don't get all worried on me. My vanity isn't really over. Like I said, I have the opposite of BDD, which means eventually--momentarily--I will minimize and forget my physical flaws, and go back to considering myself ALL THAT.

IN OTHER NEWS:

Chris is putting the kids to bed.

I love that guy.

Good Morning to You, Too

The last couple mornings when I walk into William's room, the first thing he's said to me is,

"Recognize!"

So naturally, I hit back with, "whoa. You better recognize!"

And he always follows up with, "Check Yo'thelf!"

And clearly the only reasonable response to that is, "hey! You check yourself!"

But then he always shoots back, "No!"

...

touche.

And I guess the point is: if anyone is keeping score, I'm pretty sure he's winning.

In Other News:

Ivy and I are headed to Michigan tomorrow for Maggie's graduate recital. laters.

Television**

A few days ago, during Christofer's three-hour break, I asked him to hang the Christmas lights outside our house. He agreed, but needed a ladder first; so he bundled Michael into the car and headed to Home Depot.

He returned, two hours later, with no ladder. Instead he had a television. A BIG television. A big fat THIN television.

"Christofer," I pointed out helpfully, "that is not a ladder."

He laughed. "Isn't it great?"

"Sure," I replied, "it's awesome. But how, exactly, is it going to help PUT LIGHTS ON MY HOUSE?"

Because I am one of those obnoxious people who, when I ask someone to do something, like it to get done. PROMPTLY.

But then that night, while Christofer was still at work, I turned on our brand new TV and watched a DVD.

actually, I watched two DVDs. It was one of those nights.

and BEHOLD. It WORKED.

The color stayed in place.

The DVD didn't skip.

The remote control controlled things remotely.

It was big. and loud. And WONDERFUL.

and I guess what I'm saying here is that after giving him such a hard time about it, I have gone and fallen in love with Christofer's stupid television--so much so that I think we're actually going to go ahead and start getting TV.

Did you know we don't have TV? It's true. We're strictly a DVD-watching family, because, when we moved 15 or 16 months ago, we decided not to get television. I wish I could say we decided against it because of our high moral ideals or our intellectual snobbery -- we eschew such bourgeois pursuits! --but ... no. Our reasons were mostly practical and financial, besides which, isn't everything good shown online anyway?*

But now, if there's a show worth watching, I want to watch it BIG. and LOUD. On my new television. That I love.

so, Thank you Christofer.

...that is all.

*until it gets canceled. Why weren't any of you watching Pushing Daisies? WHY? I hate you.

**I have now typed the word television so many times, it has lost all meaning and sounds ridiculous. Is that even the word? I don't know.

a little of this, a little of that

You may not have noticed, but posting has been kind of light around here lately. That's mostly because I am Going Through Something. No, actually, I meant I am Going through Something, with italics. I like to call it my ThirdChild Crisis. And when you are Going Through Something like that, you can't just be posting stuff on the internet, willy-nilly.

Because, Woe. It is Crisisful.

It's actually a lot like a Midlife Crisis, only without the money for a little red sports car.

In any event, everything I'm trying to write is crap. Hello and Welcome to my Crisis! I am 27! I have a lot of kids! I am sitting here at 10 p.m. waxing existential to the internet! Because my husband is out of town! And my friends are partying in Disneyland! And my parents are in Hawaii! And my kids won't sit still for a discourse on What It All Means!

But enough about that, you don't want to hear about that, you didn't come here for that. I have deleted my existential musings, and shall opt instead for an embarrassing story: an incident that I found so embarrassing at the tender age of 17, I'd even call it soul-scarring.

When I was a teenager I worked at this total dive of a Mexican restaurant. Forgive me for generalizing, but there were basically two groups of people working there at the time: girls who didn't like me, and illegals with rudimentary English.

So this one evening, I was in the kitchen having a conversation with one of the cooks; and by conversation, I mean he was asking if I liked to dance and drink and go to clubs, mainly by using elaborate hand-gestures.

I liked this cook. He was a really nice guy. And I appreciated the fact that he would try to talk to me, even though I spoke no Spanish and was horribly awkward in my attmepts to communicate. But without the subtleties of actual words, I was having a hard time figuring out just what, exactly, we were talking about. Was he being polite? Was he suggesting I needed to loosen up? Was he asking me out? I had no idea.

And so, craftily utilizing a fail-proof technique I developed for just such awkward occasions, I turned around and left.

I walked out into the dining room, and sat in the back booth with two of the other girls. I was staring at the table, trying to figure out what had just happened, when one of the girls, Katie, tapped me to get my attention.

"Hello!" she said in (condescending) amusement. "Thinking hard?"

"oh. No," I stammered in confusion. "I just ... I don't ... I think Guy maybe was ... hitting on me? I don't know. It was weird."

Katie stared at me for a minute.

And it was uncomfortable.

"I don't know," I mumbled. "Maybe he was just being nice? He's really nice. I don't know. It seemed like he was hitting on me."


The other girl was staring at the table, and Katie was still staring at me. She cleared her throat.

"He was just being nice," she told me. "He's a very friendly person."

And she stood up.

"Oh. well, Okay," I said. "uh ... thanks."

she left.

The girl still sitting at the table looked at me and shook her head. "Liz," she said, "Guy is Katie's boyfriend."

and I died.

The end.

late pregnancy FAQ

q: Hey, Liz! How's it going?

a: um, seriously? are you seriously asking me this? Look at me. How do you think it's going?

q: Oh! So, uh ... I guess that means you're in some pain.

a: Some pain. Right. Sure. Yes. Some. We'll go with that.

q: Well, how much longer til the baby comes?

a:

q:Oh, hey, that's getting close! Really close!

a: ha ha ha, SAYS YOU.

q: Well, at least you know your Doctor will induce you when your date gets close.

a: Right. Which makes me think I'll probably end up overdue. Thank you for the most uncomforting thing you could possibly say to me.

q: Listen, your bitter and sarcastic attitude are unbecoming in an expectant mother and kind of making me uncomfortable. Do you think you could ... relax, or something?

a: no.

q: Oh. Well, just an idea. I thought maybe less whining would help you cope with these last weeks.

a: Maybe less whining would help you cope with your stupid ugly face.

q: ... That was hurtful. And unnecessary.

a: Sorry. I have a lot of hormonally-induced hostility. Your face is not at all stupid or ugly. I didn't mean it.

q: Have you sought the help of a mental care professional?

a: Have you sought the help of a qualified plastic surgeon? woops! There I go again! Sorry!

q: I think I'd like to leave. uh, Do you mind if I leave?

a: no, I don't mind. It's easier to wallow in self-pity if you're alone.

q: Ok. Um, well ... bye then!

a: Yes, bye! Let's do this again sometime!

After this, we are not going to talk about throw up for a long time. Unless one of my kids throws up. Again.

My mom mentioned yesterday that she read my blog.

"It was cute," she said. "But..."

"But?" I queried.

"You certainly use the word 'vomit' a lot."

wait, what? STOP THE PRESSES.

Now I'm not saying she's unobservant or anything, I'm not trying to be all mean, but honestly? hello, Mother, and Welcome to the LAST SIX MONTHS of my life.

Name Name Bo Bame Banana Nana Fo Fame

I have two things to say here:

the first is that girl names are much much easier than boy names. And Chris and I are completely out of boy names we can agree on. so good thing we're having a girl.

the second is that though we still have a hard time agreeing on girl names, we have managed to narrow our favorites to three choices or so, and thus I feel safe opening this up for discussion:

Girl Names I really truly Like That Chris Has Unequivocally Declared Terrible:

1. Rosalind
2. Portia
3. Miriam
4. Moira
5. Viola
6. Deidre
7. Rosemary
8. Sophie
9. Esme
10. Felicity
11. Frederika
this list could be longer.


There is a heavy Shakespearean theme, as well as some Celtic influence going on. yes, I see that.

but what do you think?

ps. feel free to hate my taste--you can't possibly think less of it than my husband.

Pretty Princess

Dear Everyone,

I have a lot to say these days--you know, loads of stories and whatnot-- so naturally I've been dealing with all this organically occuring blog-fodder by writing nothing as energetically as possible.

it's been going really well for me.

but now I'd like to get back to telling you stuff. most especially about my elbows.

This weekend we went to Rexburg, Idaho for a wedding, and the first night in the hotel I tossed and turned and sighed and grumbled and could not get comfortable. The next morning I woke up with my elbows all red and raw and sore from (get this!) rubbing the sheets.

That's right, everybody. The low-thread count sheets hurt my elbows.
because I am delicate.
I am a Fragile Flower.
I am practically the Princess and the Pea, because, let's face it, it was probably a wrinkle in the bedskirt under the mattress keeping me up all night in the first place, I AM SO VERY SENSITIVE.

and someone should buy me a crown.

(ha! just kidding! what would I do with a crown? buy me some earrings, instead.)


IN OTHER NEWS:

we're having a girl.

conversations with a 2-year-old

Michael is climbing on the vanity in our upstairs bathroom, and I tell him he needs to get down quickly. Aside from the dangers of climbing in general, my major concern is he's going to eat his toothpaste. It's an ongoing issue.

I leave the room to get William, and when I walk back in Michael is back on the vanity.

"Michael Aaron," I say sternly, forcefully, " You need to get. down. NOW."

He jumps off with alacrity and comes running over, throwing his arms around my legs, and looking up at me with big worried eyes.

"I looking in the mirror, Mama, I handsome," he says. and smiles.

and I laugh.

******

I'm sitting on the bed with my computer on my lap, and Michael is curled against my side while I sort through photos.

"Who that?" he asks me, pointing at a stranger who wandered into a family picture.

"I don't know," I say. "Just a person."

"Oh," he says. "Just person. Hi, person!"

Clearly, he's not quite grasping the concept (how has he not learned the word person?), so for clarification I continue:

"Yep. You're a person, too."

He laughs. "No, I not. I not person."

"Yes, you are," I assure him. "You are a person. And mama's a person, and daddy's a person, and William's a person...we're all people."

But he's shaking his head forcefully. "No, I not person! I'm Michael."

"That's true," I respond. "You are Michael. And Michael is a person, just like Mama, and Daddy and everyone else."

"Yes," he allows. "Okay."

I stare at him suspiciously. I'm pretty sure he hasn't caught on yet.

"Michael's a person," I state again.

"I not person!" he cries.

"Michael," I begin,

"Shhhhhh, mama, no!" he says firmly. "Stop talking."

And he wags his little index finger at me.

"You're bossy," I inform him, and go back to editing pictures.

my first mention of nausea this pregnanacy! score!

me: I bet you ten dollars the first thing I do tomorrow morning is throw up.


him: I'll take that bet. because the first thing you'll do tomorrow morning is wake up.


me: I meant the first thing I do after I wake up. I felt that was implied.


him: well, the first thing you'll do after you wake up is get out of bed.


me: ...


him: and then, you'll walk to the bathroom.


me: ...

him: you owe me ten dollars.


(pause)

him: ... I just realized I sound like you.


me: yes. and I just realized I'm annoying.

Happy Valentine's Day, 2 Days Late

me: Happy Valentine's Day, Christofer. Even if it is one day late
him: don't worry; Valentine's isn't really a day--it's a special feeling in our hearts.
(pause)
me: um, actually, it is a day. On the calendar. February 14.
him: well, fine.
me: St. Valentine's Day, officially designated on that specific day by the catholic church.
him: I was kidding. I get it.
me: I think Valentine was burned at the stake or something, and you can't just go throwing away his rememberance day with words about it being a "feeling" in our "hearts."
him: fine.
me: unless that feeling is the fiery hot agony of being burned alive.
him: I'm not talking to you anymore.

ahhh, Valentine's Day. such a special time. especially around here, where romance is always in the air.

This year for Valentine's, Chris had to work late, so I (romantic fool that I am) took the kids to Wendy's, went to bed around 10, and was sound asleep by the time he finally got home.

so we decided to celebrate on Friday, which we did: the kids went to bed early, I made our traditional fondue dinner, and we ate and talked and watched movies.

(and put Michael back to bed about six hundred times. He kept coming out because he "hurt his nose." or his finger. or his tummy. He couldn't really decide, but ooooh, it hurrrrrrrrrt)

afterwards we came up to bed, turned out the light, and proceeded to have an annoying-song-off : much like a dance-off, but instead it's about who can get the most annoying song stuck in the other person's head.

(in case you're interested: I started strong, with an opening salvo of "why do birds/suddenly appear/everytime/you are near?" but Christofer nearly had me later with a quick "he's leaving/ on that midnight train to Georgia" parry. not normally an annoying song, except it had been the bane of my existence for days. Unfortunately for him, I had been building my tolerance to herculean levels by listening to that song incessantly all week, and I think it's safe to say I pulled out a victory with the massively unpopular "I love mommy/she loves me/ we love daddy/yessiree" refrain.)

and so we both went to sleep singing.

all in all, a perfectly lovely valentine's.

one day late.

things I wish I'd known

well, it's that time of year again, that special time, when we get talk about how much we love ... me! yes! ME! it's almost my birthday! a day to celebrate! in, like, two weeks! so, to honor that day, and the many years of my life I have already lived, I'd like to send some letters back in time, to myself on past birthdays.
because the internet is full of magic and can time travel.
I hear.
anyway.

dear 3-year-old self,




aww. you're mostly cute, even though you're kind of spoiled and obsessed with princesses. and, yes, it is a total bummer that Dave and Kat want to play with each other and not you, I'm sure that's very difficult; but you should know even when they stop playing with each other, they still won't want to play with you. Give it up now. but, you look like Michael! or, Michael looks like you! good one! How great is that!


affectionately,
you



dear 8-year-old-self,







you can't help the fact that you're at kind of an annoying age, but you could be a little less whiny. Also, be nice to your friends. Also, don't ever perm your hair again. also, please stop being in love with Grant, I swear, by highschool you'll feel really stupid about this.

sincerely,
you



dear thirteen-year-old self,
you are the reason I hope this baby is a boy.
shut up,
you




dear fifteen-year-old self,
listening to Tori Amos and Violent Femmes and writing their lyrics in your notebook is not going to make you deep, nor is it going to make you look deep, nor is it going to make Gabe fall in love with you and write you the very deep (and angsty!and passionate!) notes that you suspect he is capable of. Also, go to school.
honestly,
you





dear seventeen-year-old-self,
eh. you're not so bad, although you do sometimes think you're cooler than you are, and sometimes you're downright strange. but you're also pretty likeable, and at least you can laugh about it, THANK HEAVEN your sense of humour is finally back. I thought teenage us would never end.
fondly,
you




dear 19-year-old-self,
oh my gosh, PLEASE STOP TALKING.
you


dear 20-and-21-year-old-selves,





same for you.


although, you have very nice hair. appreciate that.
and stop wasting time! pick a major!
thanks,
you


dear 22-year-old-self,








what is the matter with you? Give Christofer a break.
and graduate already.
and what did I say about perming your hair! gah!
exasperatedly,
you


dear 23-year-old-self,






I cannot believe you were smart enough to marry Christofer. I'm serious. Considering the idiocy of the past four years alone, I cannot believe you were smart enough to do this.
I'm stunned.
way to go,
you



dear 24-year-old-self,








this was a good year for you. you were very delightful. although, just some mild advice, you really should keep up with your writing contacts. you won't, but you should.
i like you,
you


dear 25-year-old-self,
what can I say? things started out perfectly, then ... you were mostly pregnant. and cranky.
but I understand.
sorry about that,
you


dear 26-year-old-self,
well, we had some laughs, and you shouldn't let you're whole year be colored by the tail end. that is foolishness! Think of the good times! so, goodbye 26, it's been swell.
later,
you


dear 27-year-old-self,








okay, so you're going to be pregnant.
and sick.
and fat.
and cranky.
and did I mention sick?
but, so what, right? I mean, you'll still have lots to enjoy. You're kids are really fun, and you won't be sick forever, chances are at some point you'll be able to enjoy them again. and you'll go on trips. and take pictures. and write stuff.
and that's fun.
so let's move on and have a good year, okay? okay.
looking forward to seeing you (especially if there's cheesecake),
you

some advice

if you're a crazy person, and you're also a pregnant person, and if that means that you're a really crazy pregnant person, I think the best thing you can do for yourself and your husband is to not watch the movie "Sophie's Choice."*

friends, I have never been more serious.


*also, if you're pregnant, don't even watch the clip. and also don't watch the clip if you ever intend to see "Sophie's Choice." and also don't watch the clip if you're a person with feelings who hates to cry.

commonality

Every night at bedtime, Michael and I talk about the things we're grateful for, and then take turns saying prayers. In my prayer, I usually try to mention all the things we talked about; in his prayer, he usually tries to mention everything that passes through his mind, or, more accurately, his sight. It's very stream of consciousness, and usually involves thanking God for things like windows and the colour blue; you never know what he'll say next.

However, he always starts his prayers exactly the same way: "Heavenly Father, Thank you for food."

I used to think he said this because we say so many meal prayers a day, and he believed "thank you for food" was as essential as "Dear Heavenly Father"; but lately, considering the number of times we've discussed it and taking into account his comprehension and conversational skills, I'm starting to believe he's just really, really, really grateful for food.

and why not? food is good.

sometimes, it's just weird how much he thinks like me.

some help, here

Michael has started waking up two or three times in the middle of the night and coming into our room to get us.

it's exhausting.

it's mind-numbing.

it's a good reason to never ever have any more children.

Last night, by the second time I escorted him back to bed, I was too tired to do anything but fall in beside him and doze a little while he fell back asleep.

At least, I assume that's what I was doing. I don't really remember much, except thinking as I walked back to my bed some time later, "I need to write a reminder or I'm going to forget to look these things up in the morning."

So I paused by the computer desk, scribbled something on some paper, and then I assume I made it safely back to my bedroom because the next thing I remember is wanting to hide under my pillow when Michael came back.

And now I'd like to share with you what I needed to know so urgently, so frantically, so intensely, I actually paused on my way to sleep to write it down:


1. the Bolsheviks and (something something, completely illegible)
2. blind guy, Clarissa
3. get the (something) measure
4. Paula Poundstone


... I have no idea.

I Have A Cold

me: that was a good movie. although it was probably better on the big screen.

(pause)

Chris: you have a man voice.

me: no, no. It's a sexy phlegm voice. duh.

Chris: Not really. It's mostly a man voice.

me: it's so weird. it keeps going in and out, so when I open my mouth I have no idea what's going to come out. It's always this crazy surprise.

Chris: ... how's that different from normal then?

me: right. well. yes. fine. except less with the words and more with my actual voice.

Chris: right.

me: jerk.

the reds, they scare me

Kat: ... and DingDong is driving me crazy, she keeps tell me her dreams--and, ugh! People telling you dreams is so annoying!

Lincoln: yeah. I hate that.

Me: Hey! I tell you about my dreams all the time! I was just going to tell you about the one I had last night.

Kat: No, see, she does it in excessive, obnoxious, boring detail, like: "Last night I had this dream, that my baby was going to be a boy, and it was weird because, I've never dreamed about it having a gender, we don't know what the gender is yet, right? but this time it was a boy, which, I don't know, I don't think it's a boy, but it could be, right? So I was sitting with my baby at our house, doing nothing, just suprised he was a boy," and she won't stop talking.

*pause*

Me: Last night I dreamt I was being chased by communists.

Kat: ...

Lincoln: ...

Kat: and that's how you tell a dream.

Unfair

this morning, in our kitchen




I went to dinner last week with Lincoln and Kat, and while we were leaving Lincoln turned to me and said,


"You know I hate to say it, but ... your kids really are damn cute. It's just wrong."

I know. It's true. And I also know that if there were any justice in the world, any fairness at all, my kids would be ugly and annoying as babies.

And whiney and selfish as kids.











































And as teenagers they would skip class all the time, and when the school officer asked them where they thought were going, they would say,


"To my car. To go home. To sleep. Because I'm bored."


























That would be justice. That would be karma. That would also fulfill my parents prophecy:


"Wo! Wo! Wo! unto the disobedient child who constantly skippeth class and faileth to obeyeth her parents, for Lo! she shall have children just like unto her. And yea, she shall shed many bitter tears, yea bitter tears of sorrow, while her parents shall laugh with glee."





















Luckily, I married Christofer. And I think Chris has enough good karma saved up for the both of us.



















Do you realize he only skipped class, like, once in High School? And even then he and his brother concocted an elaborate plan to get themselves excused, and then called their mother and asked for her permission. To me, this is insanity.



























On the other hand, his insanity will probably save me years of hand-wringing and head-shaking, and prematurely grey-hairs, so ... let this be a lesson. Marry someone with good karma. Especially if you were a bratty adolescent.


It will make your kids damn cute.

Even though I didn't say it, he's been laughing for half an hour

while putting together a bookcase:

me: Hey! How come you always get to be the drill guy? I wanna drill. I wanna be the drill girl.

him: okay. whatever.

me: actually, you're already there. you do it. I'll just be the s....

(pause)

me: I'll just hold the screws.