Monthly Archives: October 2010

A whole new level of bad ass

Holy crap, people. Holy crap.

For those of you who have children, you know that there is “the story.” For my mother, there are five of them. With Carrie she was so drugged up she couldn’t point her out in the nursery. Tommy I think is the one where every doctor, nurse, cafeteria worker and janitor in the hospital took a peek before she finally delivered him. Laura — 10 pounds, two sets of forceps, double-episotomy, born arm first with a tooth (that’s a good one). Amy was born during Monday Night Football. Me? Well, I shot out so fast she almost left me right there on the hospital floor. Nice.

My stories are lame. I was totally drugged up and had both my children removed from me — against their will — in a nice, sterile operating suite. Hank refused to come out. George didn’t get the chance to even try.

Everyone can chip in something here. What you or your wife or your girlfriend went through. But no matter how you tell the story, to you, it seems fairly unbelievable. I mean, you DID that. You made that kid. Cool.

But, as far as baby stories go, no one can top the delivery of one Miss Lilah, born to my friend Nancy and her husband Mark (and big sister Cara) this week. In Nancy’s own words:

I delivered my own child. Yes I did.

Lilah Jane was born yesterday morning around 9:10. My contractions were still 6 minutes apart, so I told Mark to take Cara to daycare. I figured I’d get dressed and we’d head for the hospital when he got back. As soon as the van door closed I knew I’d made a bad call. I figured the best thing to do was get up, get dressed, and go sit with next-door-neighbor Jen until Mark got back.

I went and sat on the potty, and my water broke. I yelled out the window for Jen, but she had gone into her basement to work out. I told myself not to push, but my body wasn’t listening to me. At that point I realized the baby was ready to come out. I gave one good push, and most of her was out. One more good push and there she was. No I did not drop her in the toilet (but I think her feet got wet). So now I’m stuck on the in the bathroom with no help and a waxy, blue baby. Fortunately I had read just the night before what to do if you accidentally gave birth at home. I did what I could to clear her airway, wrapped her in a towel draped her cord over my arm since the placenta hadn’t been delivered yet, and walked over to my bed.

After calling 911 I ran over to the window and called Jen again, which still did me no good. I couldn’t call anyone else because 911 wouldn’t let me off the phone. The EMT’s were there pretty fast, but Mark had locked the door (ever safety conscious). Poor Jen – just about to get in the shower and wrapped in a towel -was running around her house looking for my house key.

They didn’t break down the door because they knew I was ok, so they found an open kitchen window and climbed through. They grabbed the baby, cut the cord and sent her on her way to the hospital. Right about this time Mark turned down our street and had a mini cardiac episode when he saw all the emergency vehicles at our house. He came up to see his blood covered wife starting to kind of pass out on the bed, with 6 EMT guys standing around. One of them offered me a sheet to cover myself with. I looked around and asked if anyone really thought my modesty was an issue at that point.

I had a partial placental abruption, so my upstairs looked like a crime scene (which my poor mom cleaned up) – which got even grosser when my placenta delivered. Then they packed me up (tromping around in the blood all the while) and sent me off in my own ambulance. Lilah is fine. She spent the night in the NICU. I feel great and aside from lots of blood loss I ended up in pretty good shape.

Dudes… she delivered her OWN child. Alone. In the bathroom. And not like, I’m at the prom and my mom doesn’t know I’m pregnant so I’ll push it out and leave it in paper towels in the corner then go dance with my boyfriend. More like, I have a bag packed and names picked out and I’ve called the maternity ward ahead of time and I STILL managed to have her on the fine radiant heat tiles! She’s like a genuine case of “I didn’t know I was pregnant” only she TOTALLY KNEW she was pregnant!

Holy. Crap. On. A. Stick. With. Beans.

Nancy is absolutely, 100 percent, the world’s most bad ass mother.


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Carry on my wayward son…

Because, after all, there will be peace when you are done.

That’s right, I did it. Again. With my husband.

For the third time in 18 months (only two of those times on purpose), we saw Kansas. It wasn’t quite like the last time, when I was practically chased into the street by a gaggle of women who inexplicably kept calling me Mary Kate. But it was still fairly awesome. I offer as proof:

This might seem like a grainy cell phone photo. And it is. But it is also an accurate depiction of how I saw much of the show -- with a bright, flashing strobe light directly in my eyeballs, threatening to literally burn me to dust (in the wind, of course). Still, I hoped that maybe the light would illuminate me to the point that the band would spot me, and I'd have my very own Courtney Cox moment as I was pulled onto the stage to step-tap step-tap and strut my stuff until I reached the point of "know" return. No dice.

Occasionally, I could see the band.

That's right, lead singer Steve Walsh (center) topped his ever-growing skullet (BALD in front, party in the back) with his fanciest baseball cap for the occasion. And I really want to know why Richard Williams (left) wears an eye patch, but that's just rude to shout out. And violin boy Dave Ragsdale (right), well, he's old. But his arms are freaking awesome. That, and wikipedia tells me that he has performed with the likes of Queensryche and Louise Mandrell, and with a resume like that, what's not to like?

Don’t be impressed… I had to look up all their names. I’m sure that the king of geekdom Jim who I married already knew them. But I had to look them up.

This show was a little different. For starters, it was at the Arcada in St. Charles, Illinois. And the Arcada in St. Charles, Illinois is a bit of dump. Small, tiny bathrooms, probably chocked full of asbestos and a gang of terrifying ghosts in the balcony. You can still kind of smell the days when there was a smoking section.

Many of my favorite moments involved a woman in the front row who was wearing a “Kansas Tour 97” t-shirt and her sassiest mom jeans. She spent most of the show standing up and pointing at us. The rest of the crowd. You know, like, “GET UP, Y’ALL! Feel the music!” I would assume she was proficient in both air guitar and turning an apple into a bong, but tonight she was just happy to enjoy the musical memories of her youth. I was waiting for her to shout out “CLASS OF 79!!!!!”

There was also that guy. You generally know him from his annoying position in front of you at every sporting event you have ever attended ever. That guy stands up even though he is in the front. He gets in your way. Then he turns to you and waves his arms upward, telling YOU to STAND UP! Which you inevitably have to do because that guy is a genuine jackass and you simply can’t see the game with his ass riding in your face. Well, replace “game” with “Kansas concert” and there you go. Because he apparently thought were too stupid to stand at the encore or “wooooo hooooo” when the “Dust in the Wind” guitar solo began.

The opening band was also a treat. My guess is that they won a contest. My guess is also that the contest was held the night before at the riverfront Oktoberfest right there in St. Charles, Illinois. They blew (however, I do appreciate a band that sings words that I can actually understand. But any respect I had was swept away when they begged us all to follow them on MySpace. I mean seriously, even I know MySpace blows). Part of me does not want to promote them, but dude:

THIS is one of their promo pics. They didn’t even bother to ask the guy playing video games in the background to MOVE before they snapped this prime shot. I mean… I can’t even bring myself to name them, lest you travel to their MySpace page and hear their music and never be able to wash it from your brain. Still, one of them was kind enough to flick his guitar pick to one of the screaming ladies clad in a denim tuxedo near the front. So they loves the ladies, at least.

I wonder if Kansas was like, dudes, we are freaking famous. For real. We’re like, 35 freaking LEGENDARY years, and we’ve still got it. What the hell are we doing in St. Charles, Illinois?

Well, Kansas, I, for one KNOW that you are better than that. But thanks for coming anyway. Because we had a bitchin’ time. And you better believe we’ll catch you the next time you are in the greater Chicago metropolitan and/or northwest Indiana area.

And in case you were wondering, yes, Hank and George do know your songs. So lay your weary heads to rest — don’t you cry no more.


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My, my, how the time flies

I was just saying to Jim last night, you know, I haven’t written on my blog in a week or so…

Try a month almost! How you people have survived without my wit and energy and the overall blessing I bestow upon your lives is beyond me.

I’ve been busy.

Ok, I am lying.

I’ve been lazy.

But not just a lazy blogger. A lazy EVERYTHING.

I’ve said it before, but I love summer. I love it love it love it. And as I do every year, I am in a total funk now that the realization has hit me that it is completely and utterly over. That even on the rare days that are hanging on at 75 and even 80 degrees, I need an extra blanket at night already and I’m already thinking, “meh, why bother” when I consider shaving my legs. It’s beautiful and pretty out and it smells good and the kids are irritating the hell out of me with their screaming playing nicely in the backyard. It doesn’t matter that I still have a tan. It’ll snow soon enough. Bleh.

My funk is affecting me in different ways. First, I am bitchy. Seriously, I just told Hank to stop laughing so loud.

I am also exhausted for no good reason. Last spring, Jim and I started hitting the gym often, keeping an eye on what we shoveled in our pie holes, flexing for no good reason. And 25 pounds practically washed right away. Then the awesomeness that is summer showed up and, in happy style, ruined our efforts. It wasn’t just the hot dogs and potato salad. It was the beer… and take out… and beer… and Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream ice cream (the BEST)… and beer… Long story short, that 25 pound weight loss was quickly reduced to a 15 pound weight loss. And my desire to lift and jog and Zumba those pounds back off is completely and utterly gone. Which, of course, is a total catch-22. I feel too tired and run down to exercise, and I am tired and run down because I am not exercising enough.

I did do a 5K:

How freaking cute are we? All in our pink and no make-up and no sleep at the ass crack of dawn all for boobs… in OMAHA.

(By the way, extra thanks to my awesome relatives Judy, Pete, Amy, Carrie and Ellen, plus one Mrs. Thomas and one unborn fetus named Finnbar, all of whom sponsored me by donating to the Komen foundation! You guys are AWESOME!)

So as big and fatty fat fat as I feel (especially standing next to Tara, why do I let her stand there? You know I could hip check her skinny butt right out of the frame), I had no problem whatsoever running the 5K, although I was slow as molasses. I finished in 37:44, rocking it at a super speedy 12:09 average mile. Placed 626 out of 686 runners (there were about 19,000 more people there just walking). That’s right, I run just slightly faster than all my dead relatives. Of course, my slow pace only fuels my irritation at my weight struggles, because I feel certain I could have kept it up and run that 5K five more times and been fine. Fat, but fine.

I mean sure, the Runza I ate didn’t help my weight-loss quest. But it’s Omaha for Christ’s sake. Visiting Omaha without eating a Runza is like driving through Detroit without stopping to feel superior to everyone. It’s just not done.

I suppose I am not totally exhausted for no good reason. I am, as usual, having a hard time sleeping again (thanks for passing that on, Dad). I’ve decided to deal with insomnia by medicating myself with watered-down beer. And when that doesn’t work, super lame OTC sleeping pills. I suppose when I am out, I am OUT. Jim could probably violate me however he chooses at that point. What if he wasn’t snoring away himself. But even my deepest slumber tends to only last three hours or so. If I slept for more than 90 minutes the evening before that photo above was taken, I would be shocked.

Anyway, add together the end of summer and my lack of discipline in the food department and my weight struggles and my trouble sleeping and my crabbiness and you have one big funk. And I am swimming in it. It’s a funk big enough that I even felt guilt when the devil dog next door finally got put down. It’s a funk that makes me not want to sit and write when it’s one of the things that I literally love to do. It’s a funk that makes me blow off Zumba even though it is ridiculously fun. It’s a funk that makes me want to go to McDonald’s right this very second for a two-cheeseburger meal… so good.

So here’s to a nice fall and a quick holiday and a kick-ass birthday and a fast return to spring. I need the time to fly so I can have my summer back. And shake my funk.


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