Can't do it

I'm trying to come up with something witty to say, but I'm too exhausted.

Today was pretty horrible and it didn't have to be, but that's what happens when nobody listens to reason.

No Peeing at Work

In light of the working environment changes foisted upon those of us who work at my school, I've come to the conclusion that we are essentially a Urine-Free Workplace.  While this sounds like something that would be great- I mean, who wants urine in the workplace?- let me stand up and say that it ain't all that and a bag of chips, ya'll.

What do I mean?  Well, most people don't realize that unlike almost every other job in the country, when a teacher needs to use the bathroom, he or she can't just go.  Nope.  Walking out of a classroom of 20-30 bright eyed youngsters to take care of such a minute personal issue is against the rules, more or less.  It was particularly enjoyable when I was 63 months pregnant and had traded my usual class for a pack of rabid baboon/howler monkey hybrid creatures.  

So what do we do?  Well, we have a planning period... sometimes.  But that can take place anywhere between 10am and 3pm, and I don't know about you but I just don't plan the urge with that much clockwork precision to know that "I shall pee at 2:15, but not before and not after."  We have a lunch break.....sort of.  4 days a week, we get our kids through the serving line, then rush back to the lounge to scarf whatever leftovers or Lean Cuisine we remembered to pack that morning (or we bum snack food off a certain follicularly challenged but very entertaining and lovable 3rd grade teacher). The other day, we're required to do lunch duty, to eat our own lunch standing up and walking around the cafeteria opening milk cartons and silverware and coaxing reticent 5 year olds to take "just two more bites." No bathroom break that day.

And now, in the wake of Hurricane Irene, with nearly a quarter of a million local residents still without power (including 12 schools, but apparently not the important ones), we're heading back to work tomorrow after losing essentially all of the time we had to prepare our rooms for orientation and "Meet the Teacher" on Thursday. I suppose we're drafting the local woodland creatures and elven folk to magically construct bulletin boards, label hundreds of nametags, bus tags, cubby tags, etc...., unpack and organize all our possessions and supplies and plan our teaching for the first week of school.  Because there ain't no way a single human being in a building with no electricity and therefore no air conditioning in the Virginia August heat can make those things happen before 10am on Thursday.  Ain't nobody, ain't nohow.


How does this relate to peeing, you may ask?  SIMPLE.  In our old, moldy, carcinogenic building, every staff bathroom is in an unventilated windowless room.  Have you ever wanted to know what it's like to be blind and have to pee?  Yeah, me neither.  But evidently our school district has decided that our staff needs that little lesson in tolerance, so in the event we have not fully trained our bladder to go a full 10 hours without needing to empty itself before exploding (and since some of the women I work with are really teeny tiny, I can't imagine they have elephant bladders or anything) I think we shall all Pee Blind tomorrow.

Of course, one way they've chosen to circumvent this pesky personal health and hygiene issue is by making us do the manual labor of setting up our rooms in this unairconditioned building.  Perhaps rather than peeing out our excess liquid, we shall excrete it through quarts and buckets of sweat.  Then we will both smell good AND have beautifully decorated, organized and stocked classrooms!  Yay!

 So, friends, I would like to petition the higher powers to Bring Back Urination in the Workplace.  We promise to put it in the appropriate receptacles.

The other option I see would be to discontinue our status as a Velociraptor-Free Workplace.  Being chased by giant lethal lizards would be exciting and take our minds off the need to, you know, go.

For M.T.

At the behest of a coworker that I like quite a lot, I have decided to write another post today, about self control.  And how much of it I am required to have.

See, she noticed that I'd commented on a Facebook post from our employer that we didn't have to work today because of massive power outages and tree damage from the hurricane.  There were some really smart people asking some really thoughtful, intelligent and useful questions.  And I felt those questions needed a rational response, right?

OK, I'm lying.  This was a prime example of what happens when stupid gets wi-fi.

School System Post: "All the schools are closed tomorrow because none of them have electricity and fallen trees are blocking their entrances. We don't know when power will be restored at this time"

Idiot 1: So what about football practice?

Idiot 2: What about Professional Development on Tuesday?  Do I have to go to that?

Idiot 3:  What about Marching Band Camp?

Me:  You f&cking retarded idiots, can you not read?  It says (imagine someone meanly imitating the speech of a deaf person without a cochlear implant while simultaneously mimicing sign language) THE SCHOOLS ARE CLOSED.  This means, for the uninitiated, that the schools are not open and YOU DON'T GO THERE. And furthermore, can YOU tell the future? You got a nice crystal ball at your house, with your WCW memorabilia and various taxidermied wildlife?  Because MY LITERATE ASS read that they don't KNOW if there will be school Tuesday so WHY do you expect them to have ANSWERS about Tuesday?  Did the hurricane knock over your remaining neural net?  Geez, if you can't say something intelligent, shut the f&ck up.

Ok, no, I didn't actually type that.  And I don't think that my ass is actually literate, although I've never given the question serious thought before.  I believe I answered something more like "I don't think those decisions have been made" and "The schools are closed, like a snow day.  You don't go there." But inside, my rage was totally writing the above response.

   So you see, I have a lot of self control.  Because like Herr Mozart, I had the perfect response composed in my noodle and yet I decided to abstain in the interest of continued employment and avoiding assault charges.  But know that when you say something truly stupid, I am judging you.  I judge your grammar. I judge your vocabulary. And in my head I have a fantastic obscene and offensive response to your idiocy that I choose to keep to myself.  Usually.

Things that I'm unsure about the total suckiness of, and other things that clearly suck

So, since I started out in this pregnancy roughly the size of a borough of NYC, I'm only supposed to gain 10-15lbs as opposed to the 22-30lbs that are recommended for a "normal" woman.  By the time The Squirt was born, I'd gained about 35lbs, but had lost all but about 7lbs of it by the time I left the hospital, and the other 7 was mostly gone by the end of the school year.  So I considered that a win.

Another occupational hazard to being Queens is that the majority of the medical profession is convinced that you're going to die immediately from your grossness, if not sooner.  Never mind that I don't have high blood pressure, joint or mobility problems, all those things that are the horrible and inevitable consequence of being more whale than human.

So, I have seen an endocrinologist for several years because like many chubbies, my thyroid is more or less as useful as the average person's gallbladder.  You know, it just sits there on top of your liver or whatever, secreting its green bile that you don't actually NEED for anything until one day when it decides that was one too many onion rings and decides to stab you in the back. Well, my original endocrinologist decided that not only did I have hypothyroidism, I was also clearly suffering from ploycystic ovarian syndrome, despite the fact that the only symptoms I have of that condition are being overweight and having a not-incredible fasting glucose level. All those other pesky symptoms related to fertility had just passed me by, I suppose.  But wait!  That's not all!  In addition to being required by my weight to be infertile and hairy (which I am not, either) I'm also required to be diabetic!

   But the funnest part is that in addition to the Phantom PCOS, it appeared I was also the first woman on earth to suffer from Phantom Diabetes.  You know, the diabetes where you don't actually have any major issues with your blood sugar.  And your test results are in the clinically normal range (albeit, I will admit, on the high end of normal). But that's inconsequential because, you see, I'm fat.  So therefore the diabetes must be hiding.  And the treatment for Phantom Diabetes?  An insulin pump!  And a new endocrinologist.

  So that all leads up to what I discovered this morning..... I'm 18.5 weeks pregnant and as of this morning I weigh eactly 5lbs less than I did when I started.  And that's ok by me because there's no doubt by my expanding waistline that Niblet is growing in there (size of a mango, claims the interwebz).  So clearly there's less of ME than there was to begin with.  And that doesn't suck.

Other things that clearly suck: Most of the people I know in the greater Richmond area don't have any power, still, after Hurricane Irene came to go bowling among our trees.  They don't sell pudding pops reliably anymore. My dog has a lazy eye. Ok, well the last part doesn't REALLY suck, it's actually kind of funny.

Things that suck, part 1 of what will surely be many

I am not a skinny gal.  Never have been.  I went for a period about 4 years ago where I ate nothing except celery, cottage cheese, peanut butter (occasionally) and water for about 4 months and exercised at least an hour a day.  I gained 5lbs.  No joke.

So now I'm pregnant with a second baby..... which is apparently a miracle, because it seems that plus size maternity clothes basically do not exist.  As of today, there are exactly THREE places from which one can purchase a very, very limited selection of maternity clothes in my size: JCPenney (51 items vs 131 in misses sizes), Motherhood Maternity (96 items of not lingerie/sleepwear/swimwear vs several hundred) and, just barely, Old Navy (only t-shirt material items- all woven items end at size 16 or 18.)  Of the three, only Motherhood sells their items in store as well as online, but not all of them.  And Motherhood, for some reason, thinks a sweaty fat pregnant woman wants to wear shiny charmeuse blouses.  After an exhaustive internet search, the best advice I seem to have found for dealing with this problem is: buy bigger plus size clothes.  Obviously whomever is giving this advice doesn't understand how pregnancy changes your body... my belly is the only part of me getting substantially larger.  So sure, I can buy a larger plus size t-shirt, but it's going to be horrifically too big everywhere except my belly, and possibly the least flattering item of clothing available on earth. 

   What gives, Retail America?  Do you not believe that a woman over a size 16 can become pregnant?  Or do you think that in the event that a plus size woman does miraculously defy all odds and get knocked up (surely by a man who was either blind or drunk, right?) she will not wear clothes during her pregnancy?  Do you see a lot of fat naked pregnant women walking around?  No.

   I realize that my mere existence is offensive.  How dare I be fat and expect to wear clothing?  However, in my unusual occupational line, it's actually frowned upon to show up to work unclothed.  I don't think that my co-workers or superiors would support that, despite the dearth of clothing options available to me.  These manufacturers are sending a message to plus size women: you're not supposed to have kids.  If you were supposed to have kids, you could wear the super cute stuff sold at A Pea in the Pod, GAP, and even Target.

    So to the sizeist jackasses who run the maternity clothing business, I fart in your general direction.  And you will surely smell it, because the only pants you'll sell to me are thin, cheap material that would never hold in my deathly pregnancy gas.

Name that AWESOME movie from my childhood!

"Hurricane 'a-comin'!!  Stand fast!  Secure the rigging!"

   If you know what movie this came from, I will give you a thumbs up from my sofa.  I will tell you it's animated, cause someone probably says that in The Perfect Storm, but I never saw that so it's prolly not my favorite movie ever.

This will probably kill me

Today I took the Last Nap of Summer. The Squirt decided about 1:15 that she was "seepy" and wanted to "seep seep inna bed" (I love toddler-speak) so Mommy decided that sounded pretty good to her.  Plus my window for being physically able to sleep on my stomach (don't tell the chiropractor) is rapidly dwindling so for the greater good I ought to indulge in a snooze myself.

  A blissful hour and forty-five later, we woke up and Niblet signaled that he or she would like his or her mother to indulge in a snack.  Because I'd never snack all on my own, ya'll.  That'd be unhealthy.  So we opened the fridge and I spotted them: strawberries.

    Now some of you may not be aware that I have an addiction issue.  Strawberries and watermelon.  I can't resist.  I will buy, and eat, the $6 genetically modified Chernobyl-Mutant strawberries you can get in December.  When I went to France this summer, I happily indulged in a 12E basket "du fraise," even fully knowing that 12 euro is about $17.  I ate all those boogers, you know I did.

   So I'm thinking, hey, strawberries would be good and they're not wholly unhealthy.  They are fruit, yes, which is a sugar no-no, BUT berries have a lower glycemic index than say, a Klondike bar. So I took them out and began hacking off the tops.

  Then I got to the bottom of the container.


And the damn strawberries were molded.


   But I ate the ones I'd already washed and cut anyway.  So I'm probably going to die in 15 or 20 minutes.  Someone come check on The Squirt and remind Clint that socks don't actually belong in the sofa cushions.  'Kay?  Thx bye.

I'm not going to talk about that

My mother is actually, verifiably mentally ill.  Bipolar disorder, anxiety disorder, kleptomaniac, etc.... and is a constant thorn in my otherwise happily sarcastic side.  And for that reason, I'm really going to try not to blog about her, her problems, or the problems her problems cause me.  But just in case you catch a random reference to my insane mother, you'll know I ain't makin' this crap up.

Natural Disasters= Virginia is So FUN!

Most people who know me know that I grew up just outside of Atlanta, GA.  Not in the rich, liberal, progressive area.  We started out in Riverdale, GA which is now a very nice place to live if you're an illegal Cambodian nail salon worker or recenly out of jail.  My mother thought the end was coming when they opened a Wal-Mart less than a mile from our house.  At the time I was about 7, and Wal-Mart was great because they had Barbies.  Our dog used to go there sometimes without us.  She was fringe like that.  When I was 12, we moved to Peachtree City, GA which is kind of like the neighborhood in Edward Scissorhands, except the houses are bigger and there's less topiary.  People drive golf carts to the grocery store. 

   But now I live in Virginia.  And when my (at the time future) Husband began campaigning to move us from Atlanta to Richmond, one of the selling points he used was weather.  See, the southern Atlanta suburbs resemble the fetid armpit of hell from March until November every year.  There were two seasons: ungodly heat and Pollen.  So Husband's promise that Virginia was a magical land where one could experience all 4 seasons yearly was intriguing.  He left some things out:

1.  Virginia is the fetid armpit of hell from May to October.
2.  The Virginia Driver's reaction to rain and/or frozen precipitation is (wait for it) STUPIDER than the reaction of the average Atlanta driver.
3.  While yes, it does seem to snow pretty much yearly, it tends to do it only on days when I was already not supposed to have to go to work.

So you see, clearly I was cheated somewhat.


Fast forward to 2011.  First of all, in case you didn't know, when you're pregnant everything feels approximately 46 degrees hotter than it actually is.  Therefore, a measley 85 degrees in the southern summer is a volcanic 131 degrees to a pregnant woman.  You sweat walking to the refridgerator in your air conditioned house.  So when this summer decided to get all scrappy on us and hit the triple digits waaaaay too much, I nearly died.  I promise.  Nevermind that I hardly set foot outside and only got the mail from the air conditioned comfort of my car on the way home from Target.  
   Then this state decided to have an earthquake.  An EARTH.QUAKE.  For those of you not geographically in the know, let me tell you that it is almost as far from Virginia to California (where the earthquakes happen) as it is from Virginia to France. (not really, France is actually about 3x farther.  This is a literary device called hyperbole, kids) Following that little episode of vibratory fun, we're battening down the hatches for Hurricane Irene. A hurricane.  I live 100 miles from the ocean, in VA driving time that equals about 4 hours.  Yet I had to buy extra bread, milk, water, diapers and Little Debbies because the Wrath of Nature is set to blow my house down in a mere 72 hours.


   I was totally duped. 

On the plus side, Husband just brought me a Klondike bar.  I don't know what to do with it. Har de har.

OK, so now I post something, right?

I'm sarcastic.  Bitingly at times.  You ought to know that before continuing to read anything I write.  I also have a Husband.  He's great at times, but sometimes he's utterly lousy and I'd like to clobber him with a blunt object.  We have a toddler, The Squirt, who is nearly two and she has a sibling currently baking, timer set for late January of 2012.
We also have dogs.  2 of them.  I like them. I actually like most things, despite the sarcasm.  I find that sarcasm makes things more likable.