Category Archives: Whining

more de-whitetrashifying, or perhaps not so much

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The process of getting new siding on our house has officially begun. And I am not happy, for the following reasons:

1) We were told that a “crew” is generally two or three guys. We have one dude working on our house. One.

2) The guy started over two weeks after the supplies were delivered, because the company allegedly just didn’t have any installers available until this week. In the meantime, the stuff has been sitting in our driveway, just waiting to be hung on our house, but fine, whatever.

3) The one dude crew? His name is Chuck. (Of course it is!) The first day on the job, he called my office number and left me a voicemail, wanting to know if it was ok – since he lives about 100 miles away – if he parked his camper in our driveway and lived in our yard for the next two weeks while he does the installation. And, um? Call me a privacy freak, but hell-to-the-no, that is not ok!

After I got his voicemail, I called the office manager lady who I’ve been talking to a lot lately, and asked her, “Don’t you guys pay to put him up in a motel or something?” I mean, the guy lives in the Olympia area, which is really far away, so I understand him not wanting to make the daily commute. But, camping out in my yard? What the hell? That issue is now resolved – I did some googling and found an RV park about ten miles from our house. So he can park his camper there, and then have access to toilets and showers and all of those other amenities that don’t involve him coming inside my damn house.

4) He starts hammering at about 6:30 in the morning. My alarm doesn’t go off until 7:00. I cannot think of a more unpleasant way to wake up. I need ear plugs, but then I’m afraid that I’d sleep through my alarm.

5) Last night, when I got home from my pre-natal yoga class (go me!), Dave took me outside to show me the first of the new siding that’s been put up. And I love the color, as I knew I would. (I’m the one who picked it, after all. I had to sell Dave on it.) But the seams, where the pieces of siding begin and end? Um. They’re bad. Lots of bubbles and gaps and things that shouldn’t be there. It looks like Dave and I installed it ourselves. And apparently Chuck told Dave that although he’s been installing siding for over 30 years, this is the first time he’s ever installed this particular type of siding. I have a major problem with the idea of being someone’s guinea pig, especially when we’re paying them a huge amount of money for a particular “service.”

This morning, I went outside and asked him about the gaps along the seams. He said that he doesn’t know “what idiot” told me that siding is supposed to look seamless. I told him that the idiot in question is the sales rep from his company who sold the project to us. He gave me this speech about how the siding is going to expand the first time the sun hits it, and then the seams won’t be visible anymore, yadda yadda. I had a total girl moment right then, because I was thinking, “But it’s vinyl, which is a man-made material. It doesn’t expand and contract like, say, wood…” I don’t know why I didn’t say it, I don’t think it was a fear of being too aggressive. I think it was just early in the morning and my brain and mouth weren’t cooperating yet.

Oh, he also does that thing that some people do where they say your name every time they address you? “Well, you see, Cindy…”, “Yeah, Cindy, I know what you mean, but…”, etc. I generally consider that to be a quality that dishonest people use to try to ingratiate themselves to others. I hate it. I get that you remember my name. You can stop saying it now.

Anyway, I’m going to make Dave go talk to him about the issue with the seams, because I think he might respond differently when talking to a man. Who knows. But if he gives Dave a bullshit answer about why the siding looks so bad, I’m calling the company and telling them that they either need to get us another “crew” or they can give up any hope of ever seeing a dime from us.

In other news, I planted flowers last weekend. Look, pretty!


je suis tres fatiguee

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I’ve been a bad blogger lately because I am so. damn. tired. All the time. This first trimester is kicking my ass. The nausea isn’t nearly as bad as the exhaustion. I mean, at least I can go a day (even two sometimes, if I’m lucky) without being sick. But the fatigue is constant. I’m really starting to wonder if there’s something else wrong, like maybe I’m not getting enough iron or B-12 or something. I do take supplements for all of that stuff, but this just doesn’t feel right. I wake up tired after sleeping for 9 or 10 hours. That can’t possibly be normal.

My doctor’s office took some blood when I was there a couple of weeks ago, but I have yet to hear anything as far as the results. I’ve contemplated calling them to find out if everything was ok with my bloodwork, but that would require me to get off my butt, look up the number for my doctor’s office, find the phone and call them. I know: I’m a bad pregnant lady, I don’t have my ob’s number memorized. But at least I know that it’s on a business card on our fridge. It’s just the effort of walking downstairs that feels a bit overwhelming.

Seriously? I am typing this entry with my laptop propped up on my knees while I’m lying in bed. Because sitting at my desk is just too draining.

Other than that, there isn’t too much going on. I suppose that’s logical, seeing as how it’s a bit challenging to plan a social life when you can’t keep your eyes open for any length of time.

Although, one of my friends from college is coming to town for some work thing, so Kris and I are meeting up with her for dinner tonight. Kris and I are going in separate cars too, because there’s a remote possibility that they might want to go out to do something after dinner, and there’s no way I’ll be up for that. Hell, the only way I’ll make it through dinner is if I get at least an hour-long nap in beforehand. But I am really looking forward to having dinner with the girls tonight, even if it’s only for a couple of hours before I have to go home and crawl back into my pajamas.

Confidential to American Airlines

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First of all, you guys really need to work on improving your in-flight movie selection. The Pink Panther? Really? Have you watched that movie? Because I watched the first 15 minutes, and trust me, it sucked. I never laughed once. And I’m pretty sure that I was supposed to. A few times.

And on the return flight, Aquamarine? What the hell is that, a movie about 14 year-old girls befriending a mermaid? I’ve never even heard of this movie, how on earth did you people track it down and decide that it was worthy of adding to your in-flight movie repertoire? My poor husband accidentally left his iPod and Gameboy in my parents’ mini-van, so he watched the movie out of desparation for something to do to pass the time. I can’t believe you subjected the poor man to such utter drivel.

Second, there is a flight attendant on the Dallas-Forth Worth to New Orleans route who is quite possibly one of the scariest women I have ever seen. I wish I had a photo to show you, but listen to this description: orangey fake-tanned, iridescent bright pink lipstick (all the better to accentuate her smokers’ teeth), and the hair. Dear god, the hair. Peroxided to within an inch of its life, with inches-thick crispy bangs, and which is being held in sort of a makeshift ponytail with not one but TWO giant clippies. One on the top and one on the bottom. And the clips aren’t even the same color, one is bright purple and the other is tortoiseshell-brown. But they have the effect of a semi-ponytail, in the sense that her hair is gathered up and pulled back off of her face. Unfortunately, her “faux-nytail” doesn’t hang down the way a normal ponytail would, since her hair has the consistency of straw. Instead, it sticks straight out from the back of her head, so she looks sort of like one of those pointer dogs whose found a dead bird or something. And American Airlines, you people hired this woman. I beg you, please give her a raise and the name of a good stylist.

Third, could you please explain to me why some of your flights have significantly more leg-room than others? Our hour-long connection from Dallas to New Orleans was nice and relatively roomy (for an airplane seat, anyway), but on the flight from Seattle to Dallas (and vice-versa)? We were so cramped that I was sweating in places where one should never sweat. And if I wanted to cross my legs, I had to do some elaborate yoga-like pose where I pull my knee up to my face before sliding it down on the other side of my leg. No room to just swing it over. I know you guys aren’t doing too well financially, so you want to fit as many passengers onto each flight as possible, but damn. At 5’5″, I’m relatively short, so imagine the discomfort that some of your taller passengers must experience. I’m not asking for much, just a little consistency among your fleet of fine aircrafts. And breathing room.

Also, your four-dollar snack box leaves a lot to be desired. The granola was ok, but the crackers were stale, and that cheese spread you give us to put on the crackers? Don’t even try to tell me that garbage is actual cheese. It’s faux cheese. Hell, let’s just call it feese. And it’s disgusting. Give a girl some real cheddar, why don’t you.

Just some suggestions to consider before my next flight with your airline – which, after this latest fiasco, will hopefully not be anytime in the foreseeable future.

Hugs and kisses,
Cindy

I’ll post the recap of the New Orleans trip tomorrow. I’m just too exhausted to think straight today.

shattered illusions

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Hypothetical situation: let’s say you have this friend, who you’ve known for, oh, the last decade. And she’s a good friend – in fact, if someone asked you to name your top five closest friends, she’d be on that list.

While we’re at it, let’s say that this friend lives approximately 2,500 miles away from where you currently reside. She’s planning to visit the town where you live, and she bought her plane ticket about two weeks ago. But she booked it for this coming weekend because “it’s the only weekend [she] has available all summer,” even though she knew before she bought the ticket that you were going to be out of town that weekend.

(Let’s also say that this friend is a bit flaky, and you suspect that it has nothing to do with what weekends she has free during the summer, and everything to do with the fact that she can’t commit to anything more than two weeks in advance.)

And even though you know that this friend is much closer with your Other Friend who recently moved here, and she’s probably primarily coming to visit Other Friend because let’s face it, she’s never come to visit you in the five years that you’ve lived here, wouldn’t that still bother you? Maybe hurt your feelings a little bit? Or piss you off?

Then you find out (via Other Friend, because your friend can’t be bothered to pick up a phone or write an email) that your friend is actually not leaving until Monday morning, and you get back from your own weekend trip on Sunday night, so Other Friend suggests that maybe the three of you should get together for dinner on Sunday night. It feels sort of like a consolation prize, and you know that Other Friend is probably only suggesting it to avoid any future awkward scenarios. But by Sunday night, you will have been on planes for the past 8 hours (not to mention that you’ll be recovering from a crazy family weekend), then you have a 45-minute commute from the airport to your house, plus you have to get up early for work on Monday, and OH YEAH, let’s not forget that your friend has completely pissed you off and hurt your feelings. Would you be totally out of line in just telling your friend (also via Other Friend, since two can play at that game) that she can just go to hell, because if she can’t be bothered to make an effort, then neither can you?

You’re I’m not being totally irrational, am I are you?

I am not a gardening girl

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Last night, Dave had plans to meet up with one of his buddies for a beer, so I decided that when I got home from work, I would work in the yard for a while. It was our first truly sunny day for a couple of weeks, and it was a perfect 67 degrees, so it seemed like a good idea. Also, since it doesn’t get dark until almost 10:00 at night here, I knew I had at least a few hours of sunlight that I could spend on it.

Yeah, right. Here’s how that scene played out:

1) I’d like to rake up all of the weeds that I cut down last weekend, but I need a wheelbarrow to haul away all of the stuff that I rake.

2) Where’s the wheelbarrow (you know, the one that our yard tried to eat)? Ah, there it is. But one of the handlebars broke off in the Great “Pull the Wheel Barrow Out of the Damn Mud” Adventure. And a one-handled wheelbarrow is just about the most useless thing ever.

3) Our riding lawn mower has a little trailer attachment that I could use instead of a wheelbarrow. Hmm… the trailer isn’t hooked up, but I guess I could figure out how to attach it. I wonder where Dave leaves the keys for the lawn mower? Maybe it doesn’t need keys, maybe I’m just supposed to push one of these buttons… holy mother of God, this thing is a stick shift?? Run away, run away!!

4), Ok, my grandiose raking plans are officially thwarted. Hey, maybe I’ll do some more weed-whacking (ha!), since I was pretty good at it last time, and the area in front of our fence (like, between the fence and the street) really needs to be cut back.

5) Alas, the weed-whacker, she is out of gas. And it’s one of those appliances where you have to mix the gasoline with oil, and I have no idea how to do that. Scratch the weed-whacking plan. Back to square one.

6) Well, there’s that front flower bed where I sprayed all the weed killer last week, and it’s all brown and dead now. I guess I can find the hoe in the garage and get rid of all the dead weeds out there. Then when Dave asks what I did while he was out, I can tell him I was hoe-ing, and won’t that be funny. Hee.

7) Um, hoe-ing is hard. (Start humming, “It’s Hard Out Here for a Hoe.”) And even though the weeds are dead, they still have roots. I need one of those motorized tiller things. (Look in the garage.) Nope, we don’t have one. Didn’t think so. Damn.

8) Well, we do have the regular ol’ lawn mower (the kind that you push by hand), and there’s that big area in the back our property where the riding lawn mower can’t go because it’s too bumpy. Maybe I’ll just mow that section and call it an evening.

9) What on earth do you have to do to start this thing? I’ve started lawn mowers before, I don’t remember them being this complicated.

10) My neighbor across the street is edging his lawn. Maybe I can ask him to help me start the lawn mower. Except I’ve never met him before, and how lame a first impression is that? “Hi, I’m your neighbor Helpless Female who can’t figure out how to pull a damn cord to start a stupid lawn mower.” No thanks.

11) Ah, to hell with it.

12) I am obviously PMS-ing, because it’s ridiculous that I am about to burst into tears over this.

13) (Thirty minutes later: showered, in pajamas, microwaving leftover Chinese food, and watching an “ER” rerun on DVR.)

Fin.

moping

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I haven’t had a whole lot to write about lately, because I’m in a bit of a funk and I don’t know what to do with it. It seems to be a combination of my frustration with not getting pregnant and the fact that I’ve gained a few pounds over the last few months. Not a significant amount, I just hit a number on the scale that makes me uncomfortable. I came home on Monday and (literally) cried on Dave’s shoulder about the fact that I hate my body that “just wants to get fat and not make babies.” I feel defective. I hate that.

The pregnancy bit is frustrating because I’ve started charting my ovulation, and all it’s proven so far is that there is really no discernable pattern, and maybe I’m not even ovulating at all. I’m still taking my temperature every morning like a good little patient, but every time I go write it on the chart and realize – again – that nothing there looks the way it should, it makes me want to cry. And there’s nothing I can do about it, except keep charting for a few more months so I have something in writing to give to my doctor to prove that maybe there really is something wrong with me. It’s pretty disheartening. The suck factor there, in case you were wondering, is pretty much through the roof.

As for the weight thing – yeah, I know, it’s easily correctable, and I’ve been slacking. So the suck factor isn’t as high on that one, but it’s still bad. I haven’t been working out like I should, and I’ve probably eaten my body weight in Cadbury creme eggs during this past Easter season, so I’m aware that it’s my own damn fault. I’ve started a new regimen this week; Dave and I have been exercising, and I’m not allowing myself to buy copious amounts of junk food when I go grocery shopping. (I’m really bad in the supermarket. I tend to hoarde food.) I usually crave sugar at night, so I’ve started having strawberries and Cool Whip as my nighttime snack, rather than cookies or cereal or whatever. Also, I often grab a candy bar out of the vending machine at work after lunch, so today I brought a fruit bowl, and I’m going to try to start doing that every day.

Like most women, I have always had (and probably always will have) issues about my body image, as Dave can attest. The poor guy often has to hear me whine about clothes that I don’t want to wear because it’s “too grabby around my stomach” or whatever imaginary flaw I find with it. He’s always telling me that it’s in my head, and I know he’s right – really, I do – but I can’t seem to make my brain accept that. I guess the sudden revelation about it now is a combination of the scale (the dreaded, dreaded scale) and the fact that I recently bought our plane tickets to my cousin’s wedding in New Orleans this June. [Aside: hey Alphagal, are you & SNG going to be there? I think everyone else will be.]

For those of you who have never been there, New Orleans in the summer is just slightly hotter than the Fifth Concentric Circle of Hell, so breathable fabrics (cotton, linen) are pretty much mandatory. The problem is that I live in the Northwest, so every skirt or dress that I own is some kind of polyester/spandex-y/whatever-blend, and basically: I would die. Also, the wedding is at 6:00 in the evening, which implies that it needs to be at least somewhat dressy – and again, I live in the Northwest, where Birkenstocks are considered perfectly appropriate business attire, so all of my skirts (all 3 or 4 of them) are pretty casual.

So, I’m going to have to go shopping to buy something to wear to the wedding. And honestly? The thought of shopping for clothes when I’m in this “I hate my body” state of mind is enough to send me spiraling into a full-on panic attack. The wedding isn’t until June 10th, so I have time to drop 5 to 10 pounds between now and then. I’m honestly terrified to set goals like that for myself, though, because I have a wicked fear of failure. So I’m trying (trying!) to not think about the scale and to focus just on feeling more comfortable in my clothes. Hopefully then I can go shopping and buy a dress without bursting into tears in the dressing room at Macy’s.

And now you know why my posts lately have been sporadic and not very interesting. Maybe now that I’ve written about it and gotten it off my chest, I can snap out of this funk and get back to my usual goofy self. One can only hope, anyway.

hopefully the last post about my stupid cough

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Last night was pretty much the same as the past week and a half: I woke myself up coughing approximately every hour or two. I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind from sleep deprivation. I called my doctor’s office this morning, and told them that they either had to fit me in or I was going to the ER. They fit me in. Not my usual doctor, but I really wasn’t in the mood to nitpick.

The verdict: first, I don’t have pink eye. (For you Brits who don’t know what it is, here you go.) I think I overreacted when I woke up one morning and my eyes were excessively goopy, but they’ve been clear and non-itchy ever since then, so it appears that I’m fine. At least in that department.

As for the cough, the doctor said, “it’s just bronchitis.” Yeah, no sh*t, Einstein. I told him that I haven’t had it this bad since I was a kid, but back then (according to my mom, who of course, knows everything), the doctor would usually give me a shot of some kind of steroid (decadron, I think), and it would at least make the coughing spasm part better. He seemed appalled that anyone would give me a shot of steroids, because it has so many dangerous side effects. I guess doctors are a bit more free-dispensing with the drugs in Mississippi. Who’d have thunk it? Damn lawsuit-happy west coast.

So instead, he gave me a prescription for nine days’ worth of prednisone. It’s basically the same thing as the shot, just spread out rather than a one-off. If I remember the side effects correctly (and I’m quite sure I do), that means nine days of retaining water, eating everything in sight and puffing up like a balloon. Fun! It’s a good thing Dave took that whole “in sickness and in health” vow, because I have a feeling this (read: me) isn’t going to be pretty. Although honestly, if it helps, I’m so past any sense of vanity at this point, I just don’t even care.

And for the record, when I called my mom after the appointment and told her that the doctor wouldn’t give me the steroid shot? She was pissed. You don’t question my mom’s medical diagnoses. Because, as I’ve already mentioned, she knows everything. She wanted to call my doctor up herself and pull a Shirley MacLaine in “Terms of Endearment” on him. (“Give my daughter the SHOOOOOOOOOT!!!!”) She calmed down slightly when I told her that I got the pills instead. Crisis averted.

Oh, he also gave me some hardcore cough syrup (with codeine! yay!) which should knock me right the hell out at night. Here’s hoping.