Wednesday, December 31, 2008

My Best Advice for 2009

Speaking of stairs, you know how walking down the stairs is kind of just something you do and not something you have to actually think about; like breathing? Have you ever thought about it while you're descending the staircase? Well, don't. Once you start picturing left foot, right foot, next step; it will jack you up bad. Wicked bad. And you look pretty dumb when it becomes obvious you've forgotten how to walk down stairs.

Not that I would know anything about that.


I Think My Dog is Trying to Kill Me

My dog, cute and wonderful as he is, is trying to kill me. Or at least watch me sprawl on the ground in pain.

You see, he's got this thing where he needs to be precisely where I am at all times (unless he's actively trying to kill my wife by the same means at that moment in time). When groceries are being brought in from the car and put away, he's in the doorway to the kitchen. When dishes are being done, he's between me and the dishwasher. When I'm on the couch, he insists on laying on the floor where my feet will go when I get up. When I get out of the shower, he's there.

[Aside: Personally, I think he likes seeing me naked, but doesn't want to admit it. Every time I catch him looking at me right out of the shower, he does this thing where as soon as we make eye contact, he looks away and pretends he didn't notice me there. ]

Fortunately for me (and him) my cat-like agility (do you smell burning pants?) allows me to maneuver around him most times, avoiding a loud and likely painful trip to floor. My little hop, hop, big step, shuffle usually prevents me from stomping on him as he lays unwavering on the floor. If, by chance, I do happen to clip his tail or leg while dancing around him, he sits up, looks at me all appalled, like I'm the a-hole. Um, you're the one laying under the footrest of the recliner, jerk.

I'm pretty sure his preferred method of attempted murder is the stairs. As I approach the top of the stairs (to go down), he will actually wait behind me until I'm on the second or third step before he tries to rush past in an attempt to send me to my clumsy demise. If I happen to walk down the stairs after him, he'll try too. I'll be going along at a pretty good clip right behind him and he will suddenly stop. Just BAM! Stop. And I have to grab onto the wall to keep from going ass over melon over him and down the stairs.

So, if any of y'all ever find me dead at bottom of the basement stairs and Dempsey with an aloof-yet-guilty look on his face, you'll know really happened.

[Aside #2: Yes, that's him at the top of this post, there. Can you see the demons in his eyes? And yes, as his shirt states, he is indeed "bossy beyond belief".]


Thursday, December 18, 2008

Third Trimester Thoughts

My lovely wife is in the third trimester of her pregnancy (I won't even attempt to say our pregnancy...I'm not doing anything compared to her). On the general schedule of growing humans from scratch, that means she's just about finished. A couple more months, and we'll have a living, breathing, helpless person relying on us for everything. A bit scary.

The baby inside her apparently isn’t too well-versed on concepts like "day" or "night", so he'll kick whenever he damn well pleases. What this means is that wife never knows when she's going to get a swift kick to the spleen or bladder, usually resulting in a groan, moan, or grunt. Could be during a lovely dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant like Luce, or in the middle of a deep sleep. Baby doesn't care; he just knows he's gotta stretch out a bit.

Alien kicks. What's interesting to me (and uncomfortable to her) is that no longer can you only feel the kicks when you place your hand on her belly, you can actually see them. It not unlike that scene in the alien movie when the guys chest bulges and pulsates right before the alien busts on out. There have been times when I would swear that I saw the outline of a foot pushing on her belly from the inside. It's disturbing actually.
Pee. Every day is all about peeing for her. Before we leave the house, she pees. When we get to the restaurant, she pees. Before we leave, she pees. Getting showered and dressed sometimes requires up to three pee breaks. Even just making it through the night with only two pee breaks is a huge exercise in willpower and endurance. Fortunately, (and maybe I'm assuming too much here) all of the pants she wears now are stretchy and without buttons and zips...even the jeans. I would certainly think that would help drop the events down on the "pain in the rear scale".

Nesting. I had no idea. Seriously, no idea. The instinct to prepare is absolutely unbelievable. Suddenly, walls need painted, furniture needs moved, carpets need cleaned, closets need sorted, and there are constant ambiguous references to "getting ready." She's still got 8 weeks to go, and I'm already getting interrogated about packing for the hospital.

Emotions. It's like someone took her emotion output and amplified it ten fold. When she laughs, she laughs until she has tears in her eyes and her stomach hurts. When she cries, it's for silly reasons, and is as intense as I've ever seen. Certain foods make her dance in her seat, and disappointments crash her for the entire day. A rollercoaster? You betcha.

Words. This is probably the part that has shocked me the most. My wife has completely lost her grasp on the English language. Like a toddler with a 100-word vocabulary, she can never seem to find the right words to convey what she's trying to say. Ridiculous substitutions are common, and I'm usually at a loss to understand what she means. Usually I stare at her blankly as she frustratedly struggles to better define her intent. Examples? No problem.

She recently wanted to know if the basket of dinner rolls was still on the table from dinner, so she asked me "Is the bread-bun-pot still available?" What? Huh? Bread-bun-pot?

Or when she wanted me to put the dirty towels in the hamper last night, I was asked to "Please correctly place them in the roughrider." Yes, the roughrider. If you had an armful of towels and someone asked you to "correctly place them in the roughrider", you'd do what I did: stare blankly at them.

I can't tell you how many times she's been frustrated with me when I don't understand what she's talking about. Any and all paperwork is refered to as "information", regardless if it's a bill or a christmas card. She often refers to "the thing" and makes ambiguous hand gestures. What makes it even more difficult is that I find it so cute and endearing. It's nigh-impossible to keep from giving her a hard time about it.

So what's my role in this whole ordeal? Well, near as I can ascertain, it's my job to perform arbitrary organizational tasks, interpret the language of a crazy person, perform as a helping hand for getting out of cars and sofas, and exercise lots and lots of compassion and patience. And, I'm trying. I know that the frustrations I have to deal with are NOTHING compared to her daily ordeals.