DeadpanAnn (old blogger version)

Yesterday I met a psychic pediatrician. He knew what Charlie had before he ever saw him! When he walked into the room, he already had an information sheet on the common cold in his hand. At least he did check Charlie's ears before he handed it to me, but he'd definitely already decided that it wasn't an ear infection before he looked. He said that just because he's pulling his ear that doesn't mean it's his ear that's hurting him, because a baby his age can't localize pain very well. He had something, though, because his temp got up to 100.2 and stayed around 100 for a couple of days, so he decided it was a cold and told me to come back if his temperature got up to 101 or if he seemed to get much worse.

Before leaving the room, he thought it was necessary to explain to me why the common cold didn't require antibiotics. I didn't ask for antibiotics. I didn't mention antibiotics. I didn't ask for any medications at all. I understand the difference between a virus and an infection. Do I just look slow, or do doctors enjoy insulting people's intelligence? He is not Charlie's regular doctor. If he was, he would've STOPPED being his doctor after that.

Charlie doesn't have a cold. He's had no cold symptoms. I think he might be working on a tooth. Whatever. It really doesn't matter to me what he has or had as long as he's okay, and he is.

I'm just pissed that I had to pay $78 for that bullsheet.

I think Charlie might be one of those kids who gets sick but doesn't fuss about it much.

He's been grabbing at his left ear for the last 3-4 days. At first I thought he was just grabbing it the way he grabs everything else, which seems to be beyond his control. His little hands just grab things randomly, you know? But he's been doing it a lot more. He wasn't fussing or anything, and when I examined his ear I saw that the skin on it was really dry. Maybe he's just itchy, I figured, so I put some aquaphor on it. This morning he took a longer nap than usual, and when he got up he was screaming for no apparent reason. He started screaming when I laid him in my lap to feed him, and he wouldn't take his bottle. He did this yesterday too. I couldn't figure out what could possibly be wrong. I thought maybe the formula was too hot, but it was fine. I just had to hold him for a while to calm him down, then he finally did take his food. It was weird.

Now, it's been a lot of years since I had an ear infection, but the thing I remember most about it is being up all night because lying down was agonizing. The fluid in my ears would slosh when I leaned back, so I wanted to sit up. Aside from him grabbing his ear, this is the only clue I got that he might have an ear infection.

He took another unusually long nap this afternoon, and was fussy about lying down again when it was time to eat. After he ate and spent about an hour staring into space, my worrying was renewed again and I decided to take his temp. It's 100.2, and I took it the old fashioned way, so I'm sure it's accurate. I gave him some Tylenol and made him an appointment to see the doc tomorrow morning. I'm going to check his temp in an hour and see if it's gone down, and I'm going to keep checking it all night. His little butthole will just have to get used to it until I'm satisfied that he's okay.

I know I'm a rookie at this mother stuff, but I would've expected an ear infection to be accompanied by a lot more screaming and fussing than I've seen so far. The only other thing going on with him is that he's got a rash on his skin that is getting worse. We'll find out what all of this is about tomorrow, I guess.

I halfway expect the doctor to give me the "anxious new momma" treatment.

I'm glad this picture exists so I can look back years from now and still remember how tired I was when Charlie was just a little tater tot.



And this one so I can remember how he liked to scratch the crap out of his face. You should see it right now. There are five decent sized scratches down his forehead. Yes, I've trimmed his nails. So much that I don't know how it's possible for him to scratch himself. And yes I've tried treating the itchiness that makes him do it in the first place. I don't want him to wear the little baby mittens any more than necessary because he needs to learn how to do things with his hands. Anyway...





And this one, so I can remember what things look like when you've been drinking. A lot.



Charlie with Grandpa--





He loves his Cookie Monster. CM laughs hysterically while rolling around on the floor grabbing his belly. It's pretty cute.

My parents called Sunday night and said they wanted to come visit. Normally when they call and say they want to come visit, a few weeks go by before it actually happens, but not this time. They got here Tuesday. (It would've been Monday if my dad hadn't been procrastinating.) So since Tuesday, I've only done about half the amount of Mommy work that I normally do, thanks to my mom. She even got up and took care of the middle-of-the-night feeding Wednesday night. I felt guilty though, and couldn't sleep, and still woke up when he did, so I may as well have just done it myself. That pretty much sums up how I feel anytime someone does something Charlie-related for me: I should've just done it myself.

Tim and I went to the movies yesterday for the first time in months. We saw Gran Torino. The acting left something to be desired-- especially the Asian characters. Clint Eastwood's character was over the top, and there was a lot of watching him talk to himself and growl at kids for getting on his lawn. It was also sprinkled with a liberal amount of racial epithets. Old fashioned ones, too, like "gooks" and "spooks." But overall it was a good movie. The story was good. I give it a thumbs up.

We went to the 2:20 showing, so we were out at 4:20. We had planned to go eat somewhere before going home, but we weren't hungry yet, so we went to Best Buy to look at televisions. We're looking for a 42 or 47 inch LCD, and are zeroing in on a specific Samsung. The Circuit City here is going out of business, so we were thinking we'd buy one there, but their "going out of business sale" is a joke so far. We were thinking it'd be nice to watch the Super Bowl on a new tv, but it's looking like it'll be longer before we get one. We did get a good deal on a stand with a swivel thing on it.

After tv shopping we did go eat. It was disappointing, but only because we weren't really in the mood for it and only went because we hadn't had the chance in months and might not get another opportunity for a while. This was the first time we've left the house together without Charlie since he was born. What we really wanted to do was have some we're-finally-alone sex, but we're too cheap to get a hotel room that we're only going to use for a few hours. And we figured my parents might catch on if we came home still hungry with our eyes glazed over and our clothes and hair all ruffled.

Charlie's been fussy lately. I've finally weaned him off breastmilk and he's on formula 100% as of today. It's been a gradual transition, so I don't think the formula is what's got him fussy. It could be, but he's been on it for a long time now, just in smaller amounts, and he was still getting some breastmilk. I don't know what the deal is. He's been on this weird sleeping and eating schedule too. He wants to eat way too often, and he stopped sleeping through most of the night. After about three weeks of only getting up once (and sometimes not getting up at all) he's back to getting up twice. I'm too tired to obsess and worry over it. He'll go back to normal soon enough I guess. Things tend not to stay the same with him for long.

I'm pretty sure that having my mom here to spoil him didn't help things, but it was worth it just to get away for a few hours.

Let me tell you about my morning. It was a doozy.

Charlie had physical therapy at 8:15, and since we are normally just coming to life around that time, the day had to start a little earlier than usual. I'm getting pretty good at juggling all the things that must be done before we can get out the door, but we were still running a little late by the time we pulled into the parking lot at the Hattiesburg Clinic. Before we left the house, I dressed him in an adorable outfit. It was a white shirt with a puppy on it, and it had long sleeves with brown and blue stripes. The pants matched the sleeves. I also took care to comb his hair and make sure he smelled like heaven, because who doesn't like a sweet little boy who smells like heaven?

As soon as I pulled into the lot and put the car in park, I heard him let go a poop of the liquid variety. No big deal. I picked him up, grabbed the diaper bag, and headed for the first changing-table-equipped bathroom I could find inside the building. Got him to the bathroom and got everything laid out on the changing station, where I discovered that the poop had gotten all up the back of his outfit. Fan freakin' tastic. This is the same thing that happened in Goodies the other day.

It's a major, major pain to deal with a really bad diaper situation in a public place. You've got to balance the baby while getting out the blanket to spread across the germ-infested changing station because they never, ever have any of the liners stocked, and once that's spread out you can put the kid down, but you better keep a hand on him! The sign says so! Then you've gotta reach into the bag, which is precariously perched on top of a garbage can, and retrieve a diaper and the wipes. Then find a spot to rest the diaper and wipes where the (now flailing and possibly screaming) young 'un won't kick them off into the floor. Then take off your jacket and hang it somewhere, just in case, roll up your sleeves, and then start the business of changing the poopy diaper. You have to do all this while dealing with the judgmental stares of whoever else happens to be in the bathroom with you-- and whether it's an older, more experienced mom or a childless, carefree 20 something, it's uncomfortable. The young girls twist their faces in horror, not knowing that it's their future they're looking at, and older, more experienced moms always like to walk by and say, "Oh, I remember those days!" to which I always want to respond, NO I DON'T THINK YOU DO, cause if you really remembered what this is like you wouldn't be smiling at me! You'd be helping! Stop jabbering and GET ME A TOWEL, LADY!

Okay, so I finally got him changed and cleaned up, got everything packed back into the diaper bag, and was holding him when he suddenly started tossing his cookies. It wasn't like he was really throwing up, I mean he didn't spew it out like projectile or anything. He just sorta hiccuped and then a LARGE amount of his breakfast sorta spilled out in a few little spurts. All over him, all over my shirt, all over my (brand new) shoes, and all over the floor. I started scrambling for a cloth, which was buried under the blanket and everything else in the diaper bag, and in the meantime he kept puking. Every time he would hiccup, some breakfast would spurt out. Oh, and let me add that a very impatient lady was banging on the door of the bathroom this WHOLE FREAKING TIME. Nothing like a little banging on the door to tip the scales from Really, Really Stressful to Unfreakinbearable. I finally said, "GIVE ME A MINUTE, I've got a sick baby!"

Sooooo I eventually gave up on really getting either of us clean. Since the lady waiting on the bathroom was so impatient, I figured she could clean the floors up herself if they bothered her. It took us about 3 minutes to completely destroy that bathroom! I thought about calling to cancel his PT, but hell, we'd come this far, right? I mean, yes, the pristine angel I left the house with was now a stinking mess, but I was already in the building. So I decided to just go. I can't be the first lady to show up somewhere with a smelly baby and covered in puke, right?? RIGHT??

When we got into the elevator, an older lady started talking to the baby and making faces at him. She reached up-- and this was golden, people-- she reached up and playfully pinched his little arm---which she didn't notice was covered in puke. She pulled her hand back, and when she got out of the elevator she was holding her hand away from her like it had radioactive material on it or something. Remember these days, lady!?? REMEMBER???

Anyway, Charlie is normally a really happy baby, but he does NOT like this physical therapy. They have to stretch his neck, and it hurts him. I think it might be hurting me worse, I'm not sure. It's very hard. So he was fine until they did that, then he lost his mind, and he screamed and screamed. I don't have the words to adequately describe the stress level. It was really claustrophobic in that little room, and it was hot, and my contacts were dry, and I was covered in puke, and the baby was screaming, and I couldn't concentrate on what the therapist was saying to me. At one point she said, "Are you okay? Am I making you nervous or something?" I wanted to say, "No, YOU aren't making me nervous, everything else about this situation is!" I think she asked that because I was rubbing my eyes, because my contacts were so damn dry, but it made me feel very self conscious.

Then she continued working with Charlie and making me do various things with Charlie, all while he was screaming. I wasn't really concentrating. I was just waiting for it to be over. I kept having the thought that I can't do this anymore-- that I just wanted to grab him and leave and never go back or do any of the painful exercises again. I kept having the feeling that I'm supposed to make this stop for him. Then I would realize that I can't do that, that we have to keep doing this, and I don't have a choice and neither does he.

I guess it showed on my face, because the therapist kept telling me that I'm doing everything right and that this problem is not my fault and that his neck seems a little better already, and telling me that I have to keep doing these exercises with him at home. No matter how she reassured me, I was just ready for this visit to be done, and so was Charlie. He screamed until she opened the door to the little room we were in. As soon as he saw that door open, he stopped. The little bugger must've known we were about to leave because suddenly all was right with the world-- except that I was as frazzled as I've ever been.

It's been a long time since I was a smoker, but I could've taken one down in two puffs this morning.

It took me a couple of hours to regroup after we got home. Everyone says it doesn't get better, that you just learn how to deal with it. I don't know how people deal when they have 2 young ones, but one can wear me out.

I take my birth control a little more carefully these days.

ARTICLE

Jackson, Mississippi - A Wisconsin man was arrested on Friday in Mississippi after authorities said he threatened on the internet to kill president-elect Barack Obama.

Steven Joseph Christopher, 42, was taken into custody by the Secret Service in Brookhaven, Mississippi, and charged with threatening to assassinate Obama for what he claimed was "the country's own good", federal prosecutors said. The criminal complaint was sealed until Christopher's appearance in federal court.

Why did this asshole have to come to Mississippi to threaten to kill the first black president? It would've been a lot better for our image if "Jackson, Mississippi" wasn't tacked onto the front of this article. Did he think he'd find supporters here? Or do the racists of the world just think that all hate crimes have to be born in Mississippi?

How long until the media stops mentioning that he was from Wisconsin and just starts referring to "the big fat black-people-hating-racist who was arrested in Mississippi"?

I hope that nobody kills Obama, or tries to kill Obama. You know why? I have two reasons, and neither of them has anything to do with me giving a damn about Obama.

1. Things are bad enough right now, and if this hoohah can deliver on a fraction of what he's promised, we'll all be better off. If he gets killed, we're effed.

2. It would start a race war. I live in a state that is 40% black, so I really don't want any part of that.

I haven't seen all the coverage on this incident, but from what Tim says he saw, this guy was mentally ill, yelling about the end of the world and how everyone had to move to Florida to survive. Nobody has explained why he was in Mississippi.

I don't know what's had me on a warpath about this kind of thing lately, but I'm letting it go. For now.

I fried up some catfish for lunch, and I'm frying up the rest of it for dinner. I love catfish. Fried. And dipped in a liberal amount of tartar sauce. Just doing my part to keep Mississippi fat.

I woke up this morning with a very sore left foot. How does one injure one's foot during one's sleep? Was I hiking in my sleep-- while wearing inappropriate footwear?? It's reeaalllly sore! I mean, I'm limping here, people!

Pookie, aka The Darkness, aka the demon cat from hell woke me up three times last night with various demands. It was very cold outside, so I didn't want to throw him out at first. The second time he got me up, I tried, but he hid under the pool table and I was too sleepy to get on my hands and knees and drag him out by his tail. The third time, I just cussed really loudly until Tim got up and dealt with it. Two middle-of-the-night cat related incidents is my limit, especially when Charlie is getting up every 3 hours for some reason instead of sleeping for 5 or 6 through the night like he was a week or two ago.

Maybe my foot is sore from all the walking around the house I did in the middle of the night while chasing the stupid cat. Did I kick something and not remember it?

Tim started working in a different pharmacy. Same hospital, different pharmacy. Now he's working in the employee pharmacy. That's right. They have a whole pharmacy just for their employees and their families. It's like a retail job except that he only has to deal with one insurance company, and they're not nearly as busy. His schedule kicks ass-- Tuesday through Friday, 7:00 to 5:00. But I can't figure out why he's been leaving here at 6:00 a.m. and not getting home until 6:30. I suspect he's doing that annoying go-the-extra-mile thing he likes to do even though nobody respects him for it and it brings him nothing but pain. Either that or he's having an affair with some pharmacy slut-puppy. It's probably the extra mile thing.

I am really baffled as to how I injured my foot during my sleep.

The politically incorrect kitchen cleaning project is 90% complete. I got the main stuff cleaned out and organized. I have a garbage bag full of tupperware rejects, which is a lot less than I expected to have. There were so many mixing bowls and storage bowls that I haven't got enough room for all of them, even the ones that do have lids. There are 13 storage bowls of various shapes and sizes still setting on the counter because I'm trying to think of who might could use them.

And I say the project is only 90% complete because there are still a couple of cabinets that I didn't get to, like the space under the kitchen sink. It's packed full of half empty bottles of random cleaning sprays, and the floor of it is just filthy. There's also a cabinet next to the stove that I haven't tackled yet. Saw some mouse turds in there, too, dammit. I hate dealing with mouse turds. My mouth waters because they make me afraid to swallow just in case a rat turd somehow ended up in my mouth. I have to wash my hands every two minutes and visit the trash can just as often to spit out the excess un-swallow-able saliva. Everything that comes out of a mouse turd cabinet has to be washed thoroughly, then the shelves have to be vacuumed, sprayed, wiped, Lysoled, and covered with some kind of liner. This particular cabinet is a big space where we store things we rarely use, like the George Foreman grill. I dread cleaning the things that are stored under there, because they can't be run through the dishwasher like tupperware can. This means lots of contact with items that have had contact with the mouse who has left his mouse turds for me to swallow. So I'm putting it off. Ninety percent is pretty good, right?

Right.

Tim's home, and there's some catfish to be eaten, so peace and catfish grease.

I got a lot done on the politically incorrect kitchen cleaning project today. I vacuumed under the shelves and pulled out all the freaking linoleum the previous owners put down instead of shelf liners. Then I sprayed the shelves with Lysol, let it air out, and then put down real liners. I only got this done on about half the lower cabinets, but it's a good start. I started running loads of tupperware and lids yesterday, and I think I got all of them finished today. Tomorrow I will start trying to match parts up. Mismatches are going to the trash. I haven't even thrown anything away yet, and I feel better already.

Charlie had a physical therapy appointment this morning. I suspected he had torticollis because of how he tilts his head to one side all the time. I brought this up to the pediatrician last week, and he said if he has it, it's a mild case. He made us a PT appointment to be evaluated. The physical therapist, a spunky older lady named Bernice, said he does have it and needs PT once a week for a while. She said it was a mild case, and she expects it to be corrected without very many visits. I learned some exercises that I have to do with him 4 times a day. He doesn't love them, but it's not that bad. He tolerates it for a few minutes before he gets fussy. Poor guy.



If you don't know what torticollis is, here's a link. It basically just means that the muscle on one side of his neck is tighter than the other, and needs to be stretched and strengthened. It can be a sign of more serious problems, but he seems to have been born with it and it's probably because of how he was positioned in the womb.

Here are the pics of Charlie, which were requested by JAC. Thank you for requesting them, by the way. I've been dying to post more, but I know that pics of other people's kids are generally, how you sayyyy...not interesting.

I think Charlie is The Exception to that rule, don't you?







I went to get my belongings from my classroom Friday. The principal insisted that we "conference" before I go to the classroom. The "conference" involved him basically saying things he had already said before, but in front of a witness this time. He then had the witness-- the assistant principal with whom I actually have a good relationship because she's not a piece of shit like some other certain principals-- escort me to my room, wait while I collected my things, and then escort me off campus like I was gonna steal something. Like there's something TO steal. I mean, what was I going to take? Some dry erase markers? THAT I BOUGHT??


It was insulting. I've probably given as much of my personal money and belongings to that place as any dishonest teacher ever stole from it. In fact, I left a book shelf and a computer cart there, along with all of my posters, a handful of books, and basically every office supply I owned (staplers, tape dispensers, labels, file folder, etc.) The AP assured me she would make sure they go to the teacher who gets my old job, or, if that teacher's got plenty of stuff, to a new teacher next year. I know how it was when I started out. It will likely be a few years before I go back to the classroom, and I will probably have no problem replacing those items. No need for them to sit in our garage collecting dust until then. Just like there was no need to treat me like a thief.

I requested a hearing before the school board. Haven't heard back. They're having a meeting tomorrow night. I left a voicemail for and also emailed the Asst. Superintendent today and asked for some info to see if I should go, but haven't heard back from him. I'm not holding my breath for the phone to ring.


I don't miss the stress or the paperwork or being treated like I'm the cause of all of society's ills, but I miss my kids. I miss their antics. I miss them making me laugh and me making them laugh. I miss the satisfaction I felt at the end of a long, hard day.

Right now life is kind of boring, but the upside is that the next few years are sure to yield lots of good blogging material. A young 'un probably provides even more to talk about than teaching, especially once I got normal classes and no longer had the, uhh, "high risk" students. Smart kids aren't nearly as helpful with this blogging thing. "Chitlin's is for Thanksgiving" has probably never been uttered in an accelerated English class.

So sad.

That last one was the 666th post.

A couple days ago I started to make vegetable enchiladas, which required me to chop up some vegetables. After realizing that we had 3 food processors but not enough parts to any ONE of them that I could actually use it, I got pissed and decided to clean out the cabinets. That was convenient, since I had pulled everything out of them while searching for gadget parts. I did not like what I found.

There's a whole row of cabinets that have become the catch-all area of the kitchen. When there's a storage container with no lid, or a lid with no container, or a mixing bowl that's so huge it can't fit in the cabinet where I keep the other mixing bowls, or a giant basket that is used to lower foods into the giant turkey fryer, those things get shoved under the catch-all cabinet. It's a huge amount of space that's basically being wasted.

I'm about to start a very politically incorrect house cleaning project. If you don't fit in, you're being thrown away. If you need a mate and don't have a mate, you're not welcome here. If you have a flaw of any type, you're trash to me. If you look funny, smell funny, or are otherwise unusual, there will be no equal rights for you, my queer friend. If you can't stay where I put you and insist on sliding out of the cabinet every time I open the door, you're landfill bound. If I don't like the way you LOOK, you're history!

I'm cleaning house, people. I'm tired of having so much crap that I can't find the crap I need when I need it. I'm tired of "cleaning" really meaning "moving one pile of crap to another place temporarily." Tim thinks he's going to stop me from throwing things away, but I'm not asking his opinion on how I take care of the kitchen anymore. If it's my job, it's my job. We have more stuff than we could ever possibly use-- especially if none of the tupperware has lids, one food chopper has no blade and the other two have no lids, and the other 90% of the "stuff" consists of random parts to gadgets I didn't know we had because we didn't need them in the first place. There's so much stuff in there that I could throw 75% of it away and he'd never notice.

So that's what I'm doing today, and that, my friends, is why I don't have time to write a post about the fact that Mississippi passed Texas for the highest teen pregnancy rate, even though I have some thoughts on it. (The main thought being that it's embarrassing and it sucks for us and that some people need to start parenting their teenagers a little better.) Actually, I think I just said everything I wanted to say on that topic.

Yesterday was Charlie's 2 month checkup. He weighs 14 lbs and 4 oz. No kiddin'. He's 24 inches long. The doc said that places him in the 95th percentile for weight, and the 90th for height.

Everything else was perfect. He has cradle cap pretty bad, and I found out how to treat it, which is good because it's really gross. He also may have a touch of torticolis, but the doc said that IF he does have it, it's very mild. He's going to be evaluated by a physical therapist Monday morning just in case. They'll probably just give us some exercises to do at home.

He got his first round of vaccinations, which included 3 shots and an oral vaccine. He sucked down the oral one without a problem. Then the nurse was talking to him and he was cooing and smiling at her, and then she committed the ultimate betrayal and he lost his shit. It was awful. I've never heard him scream like that. He started screaming on shot number one and it killed me that she had to pop him not once more, but twice. It obviously hurt pretty badly, and I teared up a little. After it was over and I picked him up, he just buried his face on my chest and cried and cried. After a few minutes, he got over it, and has been fine ever since. He's a little fussy and more tired than usual, but that's about it.

An old friend of mine liked to say that the most annoying situations are those in which someone else thinks you're stupid because they are stupid. Okay, maybe that's kinda stupid in itself, but I'll tell you a story that illustrates it perfectly.

You may recall the situation that took place with the yard boy a month or two ago. NOoo? Okay, here's a quick review.

A friend's son agreed to rake up the pine straw AND REMOVE IT FROM THE YARD. The deal with $130 for him to rake it up and haul it off in his truck. I didn't care where he hauled it; I just wanted it out of the yard.

The first sign that the arrangement might not go through came twenty minutes after he got here, when he faked a sudden and severe illness. I knew right away that he didn't want to do the job when he saw how hard it was going to be, so I gave him the opportunity to back out. In fact, I opened the door and invited him to back out of it, but he insisted that he wanted to do the job. So a few days later, he returned, raked for a few hours, and then came and told me that he had nowhere to haul the straw to so I could just burn it myself. He said it so matter-of-factly, like he hadn't been offered x number of dollars to get rid of it. The main reason we hired him was to get rid of it. I can rake it up and burn it myself, if that's what I want done. I hired him to GET IT OUT OF THE YARD. (Burning it was not an option. We live in town, and that's a lot of pine straw, and pine straw burns for a very long time. Burning 3 acres of pine straw would be a week long job, and probably result in something unspeakable since it would be so hard to control such a fire.) So when the kid came and told me he wasn't going to do the job we agreed on, I more or less said that this was not acceptable, and that I had no intention of giving him $130 if I was still going to have a yard full of pine straw. He said he'd finish it. Then he disappeared, and I haven't heard from him since.

Maybe I'm being presumptuous, but I don't think anyone can find fault in how I responded to the kid. You don't agree to do a job, decide you're not going to do all of it, and still expect the same compensation. (Unless, of course, you're a "Millennial.")

So that's what happened. His mother, who was a good friend of mine, hasn't called me since. I didn't know if she was pissed at me or if she thought I was pissed at her, and I'll admit that it's been bothering me a little. I'd hate to lose a friend over something like that, so last night I decided to give her a call and try to put things right.

I don't know what response I expected. I guess part of me expected her to apologize for her son's irresponsible behavior, or to say she understood where I was coming from. It would've been acceptable to me if we hadn't addressed the origin of the conflict at all, and instead just acted like nothing had ever happened. Pretty much any response would've been fine. Any response except the one I got, that is.

When she answered I asked how she was doing, then said something like, "I don't know if you're mad at me or if you think I'm mad at you, but I'm not, and I've been thinking about you and would hate for us to stop speaking over something silly."

Her response? "Aww that's okay, sug, I ain't mad at ya." (Yeah she's kinda country. Picture Dale's wife from King of the Hill.) "We just figgerd you's having some kinda hormonal thang and thought I'd back off and give you some space since you was being such a bitch and all."

WHA-WHA--WHAT? WWWWWHHHHAAAAATTT???

Now, you would think I would get pissed, but I didn't. In fact, I laughed. I literally laughed because I could not believe the level of ridiculousness I had opened myself up to by making this phone call. I mean, really. What kind of ignoramus calls you a bitch for not paying her son to not do a job he insisted he wanted to do?

When I stopped the awkward laughing, I sat there in silence with my jaw on the floor while she went on for a minute about how she just figured I needed some time to sort through whatever it was I was dealing with, etc., etc., etc.

God help me, it felt like something from a Seinfeld episode.

I didn't say anything. As much as I bitch when I am DeadpanAnn, the real life Ann doesn't thrive on conflict. At least not conflicts with the people I care about. I hope that doesn't break your heart, dear reader, but let's face it-- life's too short. (Institutions are another story, I suppose. I get off on railing against institutions.) I was just glad that we were over the hump and could move forward with our friendship, such that it is, even though it now feels more than a little dysfunctional. So in the end, I think I managed not to sigh heavily enough into her ear to tip her off that I thought she was full of shit-- not that she's real quick to pick up clues. The conversation switched pretty quickly to something that was going on in her amazing redneck world, and the friendship was saved.

It's strange. I felt better after talking to her even though she totally blamed me for the entire thing when it was so very clear that it resulted from her and/or her son's stupidity. I guess sometimes if you care about someone, you just have to take them for who they are, even if they are incomprehensibly retarded, but believe that YOU are the retarded one.

We're both retarded, obviously. She's retarded for thinking I'm a bitch, and I'm retarded for playing along. But hey, I still have someone to go get coffee with, and most days I need that more than I need to not be thought of as a bitch.

Charlie suddenly started jabbering A LOT. It's the cutest thing I've ever heard. He's been in the best mood for the last two days, smiling and even laughing a little, making ga ga noises, and basically just turning me into a blob of goo in his presence.

The breast pump groans on,
stretches nipples like taffy.
Charlie, be grateful!

Happy New Year. We didn't do anything special-- we haven't in years-- but we stayed up until after 1:00 a.m. and watched a guy jump a motorcycle onto the roof of Caesar's Palace. For lunch we ate cabbage and black eyed peas and hog jowls along with some meatloaf, and then I took a nap. I had to get up early because a certain little man got up early, and I have felt like a blob all day.

I'm going back to bed.