I don’t know if I told you guys this, but in about 2 months, I am having a second baby.
Holy pajamas, batman.
I mean, if anyone was planned, it was this baby, let’s be honest here, but for some reason it has only recently begun to sink in that I will shortly be pushing crotch parasite #2 out of my cooter. And I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.
Aside from one niggling detail. At age 26, I will have 2 children. ChildREN. Like the transition from preschooler to kindergartner, for some reason this change feels huger than huge. Massive. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye I go from looking chic and trendy (let me dream, people) to wearing mom jeans with white keds. And have a muffin top. I DON’T WANT TO WEAR SENSIBLE SHOES AND SHOP AT KOHLS!!
So, immediately I decide that I must change something. But what?
The first thing that pops into my addled (but very typical female) mind is to dye my hair, which is my natural color for the first time in I don’t know how long. I envisioned a kind of punk rock hairdo in a funky style. Scratch that, dude. When I am NOT pregnant and/or nursing a boobfruit, I suck at dying my hair. I don’t imagine I’ll be ‘doing’ my hair daily for the next several months. When I do, I will reward myself with a rockin’ dye job, done by someone other than my husband. Oh yes, ladies, he does hair too.
The second thing that pops into my head is to get another tattoo. Now, before I got pregnant with this one, my late birthday present for myself was going to be a new tattoo. As it turned out, turning 26 made for a sweet-assed union between the sperm and egg. If I can’t eat hot dogs, I certainly cannot get ink. Especially since I have a horrible reaction to the red dye and would be unable to medicate myself properly.
So I resolved to get the tattoo. But of what? And where? This is where my inability to be creative is highlighted: I have two tattoos. One on either foot. Both mean something extremely personal, and the last one came from an exact QUOTE from a conversation that I had with a friend. It’s not rocket science, my brain.
And this is where I turn to you, dear Internet. You see, I need your help. What else can I possibly do to stave off the inevitable mom-ness that will come with this baby?
P.S. I was completely unable to find a diaper bag with a skull and crossbones on it. I settled for having to make my own. It’s sassy as fcuk.
1. What did you do in 2006 that you’d never done before?
Juggled two mortgages. Eventually sold House #1.
And no, we are not moving in 2007. Not if I can help it. Unlike my husband, I am not a nomad.
2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I have never really made a resolution for New Years. Not because I don’t believe in resolutions themselves, but because I can never think of something that I will be sure that I will do in the new year. And I don’t want to feel guilty for not completing them later on. I have enough guilt.
I didn’t resolve to, but I quit smoking this year. Next year, I’m sure I’ll resolve to lose the baby weight. But I won’t resolve to do it on January 1.
3. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?
A second son. And a million dollars. Because, really, how else can I paper a room with dollar bills or get a Grill?
4. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Maintaining my sanity (stop laughing).
5. What was the best thing you bought?
My bumble-bee house. I freaking love my house.
6. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Daver’s. He has not killed me yet. He is also 99% of the reason that I have maintained my sanity.
Benner’s. He has made my life eversomuch better every single second of every single day. Mushy? Maybe. True? Absolutely.
7. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
8. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
My ultrasound. Finding out that I am having a healthy baby boy.
Moving the fcuk back outta my parents house (we moved there in January for a month while we waited to close on our house). Sweet Jesus. That was awful.
Getting over (mostly) hyperemesis gravidarum.
9. What song will always remind you of 2006?
Slow Down Baby.
10. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? Happier
ii. thinner or fatter? Fatter: But I do have a parasite now.
iii. richer or poorer? Richer.
11. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Stopping to smell the flowers.
12. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Worrying about things I cannot control.
13. What was your favorite TV program?
Law and Order: Criminal Intent. My husband, Vincent D’Onofrio is super-sexxy, even if y’all are haters.
14. What was the best book you read?
The Curious Incident of the Dog and the Nighttime.
15. What was your greatest musical discovery?
By far the best album I bought this year was “Back to Basics.”
16. What was your favorite film of this year?
I’m really not much of a movie person. I rarely see movies in the theater. Of the three I saw this year, the best was:
17. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I had a nice BBQ with some good girlfriends that I haven’t seen much since. I miss them.
I got wasted on Cosmos and champagne.
Then I got pregnant. So, I got a Hot Beef Injection for my birthday. BOO-YEAH.
18. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Eschewing the horrible habit that I picked up from my husband: worrying about things over which you have no control. I have since stopped. It’s neither fulfilling nor does it help.
19. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?
Pregnant and itchy?
20. What kept you sane?
21. What political issue stirred you the most?
To wear underwear or to freeball it?
22. Who was the best new person you met?
I didn’t meet anyone interesting this year. At least, not that I can remember.
23. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006:
“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.”
24. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
“Everybody’s talkin’ all this stuff about me, why don’t they just let me live? I don’t need permission, make my own decisions, that’s my prerogative”
When I turned 16 and decided that I needed a job to fund my shoe habit, I chose to be a hostess at the Mill Race Inn, where my brother had once worked as the head chef. The restaurant industry is almost unlike any other, and few will understand the seemingly inconsequential stories that former waitstaff relate (This one time? I had this table that WANTED SEPARATE CHECKS! AND SODA REFILLS!) but I’m pulling one outta the vaults that I *think* people will get.
Sunday Mornings at MRI were always a zoo, full of old women who had been coming to the Mill Race longer than I’d been alive, and plenty of yuppies, forgoing their Morning Starbucks Ritual once a week for brunch. Reservations would be booked weeks in advance, and the 10:30-1 PM time slot was always a premium time for people to grab brunch. We’d turn away our fair share of Walk-Ins citing overbooked reservations about every 5 minutes or so.
THIS Sunday, the one in question, I had been called in early, as the other two hostesses had called in sick, leaving just me. My manager and I ran the front, frantically answering phone calls, seating people, and overseeing the dining room in general. By 11:30 I was in the weeds, and the people kept pouring in.
A couple came in with their two youngish kids without a reservation, and my manager took them in graciously, instructing me to take them to one of our best River View tables. This was unbelievable for my usually-conservative manager. I took them in, my manager ran in back, and I noted both
1) the phone ringing on two different lines
2) several sets of people had walked in and were waiting impatiently at the hostess stand and were looking at the reservation sheet for their names (a personal pet peeve)
as I was walking these people to their table. Knowing that I was the ONLY ONE who was going to make it back up front to take care of those people and get the phone, I brusquely set their menus down, told them to ‘enjoy their brunch’ and was turning to run back up front when the dude pulled me back.
‘Excuse me, can we get a highchair?’ I reluctantly turned around and said politely, ‘I’m a little busy right now, but Jonathan [busboy] here [grabbing his arm] can get you one.’
Jon agreed and was physically in the act of getting the highchair as I walked back up front.
The rest of the day was just as hectic, with everyone wanting SOMETHING extra from us, a better table, a discount, someone to complain to, and we were getting ready to close up brunch when the same couple that I had sat were walking out. I smiled at them and bid my farewells, but the man headed up to my manager and began to berate her.
Curious, I listened in.
What had we done?
I could only catch bits and pieces of it without getting closer to them, but I could hear several comments, “Racist! Rude! Blah, blah, blah! Obviously racist.”
Who the HELL were they talking about? The staff was professional enough to really care less about someone’s skin color. I’d never heard ANYONE make a comment whatsoever about The Race Card because frankly, no one gave a fuck.
I was DYING to hear who they were talking about, and a couple minutes later, my manager comes marching up to me.
‘Rebecca, these people think that you are a RACIST because you didn’t get them a high chair and because you were rude to them.’ She launched into a tirade about what these people had said about me, but my ears were pounding and my head felt tingly, so I heard nothing more.
I sputtered loudly, turning from red to white to red again as the blood couldn’t decide where to go. I was FAR too busy to note anyone’s skin color, and I could care less about a biracial couple.
On the radar of things I’d noted about these people were such things as ‘he has nice shoes’ and ‘those kids are super cute.’ I had never been so genuinely shocked by something someone had accused me of before or since.
In essence, I had treated these people EXACTLY the same as I had treated every other table that day. Except, I cooed over how cute the kids were. Because they were. really. damn. cute.
The only thing I had noted–only AFTER he left–was the Big Ass Chip On His Shoulder. You can skew anyone’s behavior to make it suit the preconceived discrimination, and maybe they had dealt with plenty of people who DID care about their racial status, but I was totally not one of them. And really, if you want to know the kind of tables I hated to wait on, they had NOTHING to do with skin color.
I cared MUCH more about his shoes.