Buddies

Either this psychic I used to go to in college told me this, or I heard it on TV--I can't remember which--but here is something I think is true. Ready? Ok, here goes:

YOU ARE GOING TO GET WHAT YOU EXPECTED

YOU: Oh, wow--thanks, Jesslyn. That's really helpful.

ME: Would you shut up a second and listen?

So, we all expect something in life. For example, some of us expect everything to be clean, or that we'll be yelled at, or that we'll have a bunch of money, or that everybody will do what we tell them to do, or that we'll be disappointed, or that everyone will like us. And for the most part, what you expect is what you're going to get.

In my case, what I expect is companionship. Like Butch Cassidy and Sundance. Or Ernie and Burt. Or the puppy and the kitten and the other puppy in one of those pet movies where they're trying to get home to their owners, but they've got to walk to like Alaska from Delware or something.

The problem with being someone who expects something, is that while you generally do get what you expect most of the time, you're not going to get it all of the time. And so the people who expect money are sometimes going to have to be poor, and the people who expect cleanliness are sometimes going to have to use a really revolting toilet at a truck stop, and the people who expect disappointment just have to deal with not being disappointed for a minute.

And right now, I'm the person who expects companionship and who is feeling sort of lonesome.

Okay, keep your pants on, kids. (Ma, that means you. And Vicki, would you please chill for a second. It's cool.)

1. I have friends--lots of them, whom I love and value. And the kicker is they all have their own lives and families and buddies. But contrary to popular belief, I'm not 4 and don't need a babysitter (though that has historically been the response to my being by myself: "Jesslyn's going to be alone for 17 hours! Call Oprah! Get the Babysitters Club up in here! Somebody organize a rollerskating party to distract her!") So no need to come rushing over to my house with a casserole. I promise.

2. I technically am living with Odessa. But here's the thing about Odessa: if I were a partner in a cop movie, Odessa's kind of like the Police Chief who yells at me and my buddy cop and tells us that we have to do a better job tracking down the cat burglar or we'll get our beat taken away from us. She's not exactly buddy material yet. I'm holding out until she's 25.

This is what I'm talking about when I talk about Buddy Material:

Bryan was home from the field this weekend, and at one point I left the house without my cell phone, and sitting in the driveway waiting for him to come out of the front door, I though "crap, I left my telephone in the house," and as soon as I thought that, Bryan came walking out of the house with my phone in his hand. It's like he read my mind.

Right now I'm having to read my own mind. Which is more difficult than you'd think.

So Friends, don't pity me. Come stay with me. I have a cot just for you set up in the dining room.

Also, who is Justin Bieber?

So, I've decided to write a blog post because, ya'll, I just watched the most disturbing YouTube video of all time.


So if you can't watch the whole thing I completely understand, but at least fast forward to minute 4 because it's the reason the video is "funny" instead of "horrifying."

Tribal Peoples

Did I tell you guys I was going to Alaska? No? Well, I am--at the end of April. yay!

Anyway, the following story has to do with me going to Alaska.

I was checking out at the desk of the pediatricians office this morning, and there's this lady there named Sue who always checks me out. Sue is as dumb as a bag of hammers, too, you guys. Seriously, if I had a nickle for every time she screwed up Odessa's file, I'd have like 50 cents already, and Odessa's only 13 months old!

Anyway, so Sue was trying to schedule our next appointment and the phone rang, so she put that person on hold, and asked about whether I could get Odessa in during the week I was going to be in Alaska, and I said, "How about the week after?"

Sue (imagine a sort of high, northern accent): Why? Where are you going?
Me: Alaska.
Sue stares at me like a cockroach just crawled out of my nose.
Me: For work. I'm going for work that whole week, so if we could do it the next---
Sue: Wow. Hey--do they speak English there?
Me:Um, yeah--it's one of the United States of America....
Sue (flustered): Oh sure--Alaska! I was thinking of something else. Sorry. But it's mostly just Indians, right?
Me: Um, no. Nope. There are Native people there, but I think they mostly speak English....
Sue: Well, so are you going there to meet with tribal peoples?
Me: Uh, no. I'm going to a conference. For environmentalists.
Sue: Oh! Neat. Well, so what will the weather be like?
Me: It will probably still be pretty cold in April.
Sue: Oh, the weather's different huh? I guess it's probably not the same as here.... Like, I know it's different in Australia than it is here.
Me: Yep--Australia is different too....
Dr Albert (who had been standing behind Sue filling out a chart the whole time. She looks like Michelle Obama and I'm intimidated by her biceps) very quietly: Sue. Who's on line 1?

And that was the end.
Tribal peoples. Amazing!

Hijacked by Vampires

Damnit!

Sorry, everyone. It seems that I no longer have time for my family, my work, my friends, AND young adult vampire romance. Forgive me.

So, Audrey (Baby Daddy #2) moved into the house after Bryan left. As I mentioned before, she's been living in Costa Rica where she learned to speak the Espanol, and naturally she doesn't want to lose any fluency she might have acquired, so she's trying to read things in Spanish. Her sister gave her a copy of Crepusculo: Twilight in Spanish. And that led to the vampires establishing the partially benign autocracy that now governs our household.

Now, for as long as I remember, I've really hated the thought of vampires. To me, the idea of someone eating blood is revolting. Gag reflex stuff. So, I've steered pretty clear of the Twilight books in general because I thought they were about vampires. But after reading the first chapter of the first book, I realized something: Twilight isn't about vampires. It's about peddling lady drugs.

I believe it's well documented that I am kind of a for real lady. I like yoga, scented candles, rom coms, Anthropologie catalogs, pretty jewelry, Mr. Darcy, baked goods, being admired, etc. So, it follows that I also like romance, because hey--I'm a lady.

And Twilight's kind of like being hooked up to a romance IV. I'm on the 3rd book right now and EVEN THOUGH the writing itself is truly awful, even though the narrator is a sour, barely animated lump with what appears to be a mild case of cerebral palsy, and even though her smoking hot vampire boyfriend is at the very least bipolar, but definitely approaching a literary public service announcement for the National Domestic Violence hotline.... EVEN THOUGH all these things, the make-out scenes still make me feel kind of swoony. (Whatever, haters--it's romantic.) And I'm all like "fine, jerk vampires--I'll keep reading you and your romantic such and so, but don't think I don't know what you're doing...."

Because what Twilight wants me to believe is that I want a devastatingly handsome vampire to have such a boner for the smell of my blood that he actually climbs into my bedroom every night to watch me sleep. And while what he'd actually like to do is make a nice stroganoff out of my innards, instead, he'll settle for kissing me tenderly on the forehead and saying things like, “If I could dream at all, it would be about you....” Because he's an undead man of principles.

And seriously, if Bryan ever said anything remotely Twilight-style to me, I'd be all "What? Stop mocking me."

Addition, June 3, 2010:
Here: this video says what I cannot.

News and Notes

So, long story short, Odessa started daycare last week: on Wednesday. On Thursday afternoon, Bryan picked her up from the daycare center, and she had a little fever. Today (Sunday), she still has a fever, and boogers and snot are coming out of her eyeballs and her nose and possibly one of her ears. She is listless and breathing fast. She has a rattling, pestilent little snare drum in her chest. I didn't know that being somebody's Mama would make me worry so much. Worry worry worry.

Well, it can't be helped. I guess I'll just take her to the doctor in the morning.

In other news, Bryan has left us for a wood paneled hut on the Coast. We've known it was going to happen for about a year, but it's still sad. He'll be gone for 3 months, but will come back on the weekends so I can sleep in on Saturday mornings and so he can take our child out for fancy espresso drinks.

Anyway, Say hello to Odessa's new Daddy!

Daddy Audrey has been living in Costa Rica for a year, and wanted to ease back into life in the EEUU by sleeping on a cot in the corner of our dining room and trying out different ways of convincing a one year old to eat a bowl of chili. And who am I to try to stop her? So far, she's doing a bang up job and Odessa has barely noticed the difference between Daddy #1 and Daddy #2. Well, at least I don't think she has.... That might change once the febrile fog has lifted.

And finally, I didn't tell you before, but I have decided to try to abstain from eating sweet treats for the 40 days of Lent. I haven't given up anything for Lent since I was a yunggin' but I was feeling in an abstemious mood this Ash Wednesday and though "Why not just see if I can't give up sugar for a little while?" And ya'll: it's So Difficult, as I have very few actual vices other than sloth and a serious refined sugar dependency. It's been a tough few weeks, because I actually use sweet treats as a crutch in trying times...which these past couple of weeks have been. So, in the Grand Anglican Tradition, I have given myself a reprieve from my suffering between sundown on Saturday and sundown on Sunday each week, wherein I can eat all the sweet treats I want. This afternoon I ate a half a box of Girl Scout cookies (Samoas, if you must know), and now I feel pretty much as terrible as Odessa.

Oh, sugar, why are you so tasty and so mean?

Blabby

Dear Odessa,

This time last year, you were spending your last comfy night in my tummy. Well, maybe you were comfy; I certainly wasn't comfy. And upon reflection--judging from the way you were prodding me in the lung with your foot-- maybe you were feeling a little squashed.

So, our last night as one person was a tad cramped, and I remember lying awake on the couch, thinking about what kind of person you were going to be. I wondered what color hair you were going to have and whether you'd have any funny moles and whether we would get along. I remember practicing saying "This is my daughter, Odessa." I practiced saying it over and over in my head until it sounded to myself like I was speaking Hungarian. And then I fell asleep.

We woke up at dawn the next morning, and your Daddy made me an egg sandwich, and we got in the car and drove over to the hospital, and I checked myself in, and they put all the bracelets on my wrist.

And a few hours later, YOU were born.

I'm one lucky lady.

The Good Thing Finder

When I was a little kid, I wanted a little hand held device that showed me where the good things were. Like the good books on the shelf in the library, where my mom hid the Flintstones vitamins, etc. Basically, the GFF would have some buttons that I could push, and it would be like I had night vision goggles on: things I'd like would glow red, blue things would be kind of so-so, and I should avoid all the orange or olive green things.

By the time I got to high school, I imagined the Good Thing Finder telling me all kinds of useful information, like who in my Algebra class had an STD, which people on the street were on drugs, or who in the cafeteria was going to die first.

And then I just forgot about the Good Thing Finder until lately, and now I want the Good Thing Finder to find good things again: the book I'm going to love, the movie I'm in the mood to watch, the song I'm going to want to listen to, the nicest cashier at the grocery store, the best thing on the menu, the person at the conference that I should sit next to at lunch and make fun of the stupid abstract sculpture in the foyer.

So, if you want to make me happy, invent for me a Good Thing Finder.