Possibly the Most Foul-Mouthed Entry I've Ever Published & That's Fucking Saying Something

Oh my God.

Oh my FUCKING God.

No, seriously. Sit down. Are you sitting? I have to tell you something. I will probably sputter and swear and knock over your coffee. Then I'm going to need you to stand up and shake me. Or slap me across the face.

So I had an OB appointment this morning. Not with my regular OB, but the new doctor he just brought on as a partner -- you know, just in case I go into labor before my SCHEDULED C-SECTION and my doctor isn't available. I liked her! A lot! She took her time, asked a lot of questions, let me listen to the heartbeat for longer than usual and determined that the baby is indeed head-down (yay!), biggish but not 10 pounds biggish (yay-ish?), and my cervix is still closed (boo!).

She asked if I had any questions, and at first I was all, noooo, and then I was all, oh yeah! About that SCHEDULED C-SECTION? On the 15th? Less than two weeks from now? Uh...what time am I supposed to show up for that, and stuff?

The nurse looked at me kind of strangely. "Didn't <Office Manager Person> call you about all that yet?"

Uh...no! Should she have?

Okay. So...here's the thing about SCHEDULED C-SECTIONS. They do not, apparently schedule their own damn selves. At some point in the scheduling process, SOMEONE needs to call the hospital and like, actually fucking schedule the fucking c-section.

Mine was not scheduled. There's a nice little note on my chart stating that yes, I am to have a scheduled repeat c-section on October 15th and...that's it.

And then!

Then!

At this point, I do not really KNOW that my surgery was never scheduled. I put my pants on and go out to the waiting room, hoping that the forgotten phone was just the one to ME, not the one to the HOSPITAL, I mean, COME ON. I adore my OB and have put up with a LOT of disorganization from his office staff over the YEARS AND YEARS I have been a patient, but...seriously. No way. Somebody fucking called the hospital. I'm sure they did.

But then the nurse is there with a prenatal vitamin branded pen and a pad of IUD branded post-it notes, asking me for the best number to reach me at and...WAIT FOR IT...whether or not I felt "strongly" about my regular doctor being the one performing the surgery or would I be okay with the other doctor -- WHO I JUST MET FIVE MINUTES BEFORE FOR THE FIRST TIME -- because that would just like, make this sooooo much easier for them, you know?

I just stared at her. And stammered. Because...wait. BACK THE FUCK UP.

"It was never scheduled." I said. Just to make that clear, since she seemed like she kind of wanted to skip over that part.

"No." she said.

I waited for an apology. She asked me again how strong my preference for my own doctor was. I became vaguely aware of brain fluid leaking out of my ears.

After I stated that yeah, uh, I wanted my own damn doctor, full stop, she smiled and said she'd go ahead and tell <Office Manager Person> that I needed to be scheduled with my own damn doctor. Like she was doing me a favor. You know, because I'm 38 weeks pregnant and clearly a little wrapped up in SILLY INSIGNIFICANT DETAILS, like actually caring about who performs major abdominal surgery on me and delivers my child.

My doctor is, surprise surprise, overbooked. The hospital is likely booked at this point as well. I am waiting for them to call me and let me know what they've been able to work out. I am to call them if I don't hear anything by 3:30 this afternoon, which...DUDE. YOU DO NOT WANT TO MAKE ME DO THAT. YOU WOULD BE WISE TO CALL ME OF YOUR OWN ACCORD.

I am also mentally apologizing to Katherine Heigl's character in Knocked Up, because I called her a bitch prima donna for getting so worked up about her doctor being out of town when she went into labor, like whatever. God. Also fuming. And pacing. Also composing an email to my doctor about what happened this morning, which is not going well. Wording suggestions would be welcome, since I have lost the ability to form coherant sentences without a lot of FUCK FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK CAPS LOCK GAH SMASH and the like.

*glares angrily at phone*

I realize, of course, that this is not the end of the world or anything. It could all still work out fine, with my doctor, hospital and date of choice all being available after all. There was always the chance of going into labor on my own and ending up with a different doctor, of being rushed into surgery instead of a calm, scheduled appointment, of booking across town in the middle of the night to drop Noah off with friends instead of having grandparents already here and in place and ready to go. If I'd met today's doctor a few months ago instead of a FEW HOURS, I'd probably be just fine with her performing the surgery. I could go into labor tomorrow (FAT FUCKING CHANCE THOUGH) and push the kid out just fine (PFFT) and laugh heartily at this whole fiasco because babies! They do like to fuck with you, don't they?

And yet...

WHAT. THE. FUCK. This is a fucking heap of bullshit, and it's making me stabby.   

No, You Cannot Has Nice Things

So...does anybody happen to have any tips for removing orange crayon from a brand-new camera's optical viewfinder and live-preview screen thing?

Just wondering.

(KILLMURDERHEADSMACK!)

Wednesday

So pretty much the only thing I can say about my life and accomplishments right now is that damn, I sure did eat a lot of hot dogs today.

Drama, Thy Name is Toddler

Or Toddler, Thy Name is Drama. I don't really know. The point is: I am five minutes away from FedExing my child to China.

Noah has been, no lie and no exaggeration, throwing one solid tantrum since early yesterday, with only the occasional breathing break.

THINGS THAT HAVE MADE NOAH FALL TO THE FLOOR AND WEEP BIG FAT TEARS INCONSOLABLY IN THE PAST 24 HOURS:

1) Asking for more Cheerios, being reminded of the gigantic pile of Cheerios directly in front of him.

2) Asking for more milk, being reminded of the very full cup of milk directly in front of him.

3) Climbing out the back of a chair and getting stuck because he refuses to take the sippy cup out of his mouth.

4) The 30 seconds it takes to microwave his dinner.

5) Asking for a cookie, getting said cookie, discovering that he actually really wanted some cake.

6) Blue's Clues, because Steve is wasting precious seconds looking for a clue that is RIGHT FUCKING THERE IN FRONT OF HIM ZOMG.

7) His new Thomas the Tank Engine jammies, because they need to be ON HIS BODY instead of carried around like a blankie.

8) Deliberately hitting his head against the floor while tantrumming; suddenly realizing that deliberately hitting your head against the floor actually kind of hurts.

9) THE DOG IS LOOKING AT ME MAKE THE DOG STOP LOOKING AT ME AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

10) Touching the oven, getting caught touching the oven, STOP LOOKING AT ME TOUCHING THE OVEN AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

11) Asking to fingerpaint, HELP HELP THERE'S PAINT ON MY FINGERS AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

12) The stroller, the carseat, being carried, walking on his own feet, not being allowed to roll around on the floor in Target.

13) Putting sidewalk chalk in mouth against all advice and reason, suddenly discovering that sidewalk chalk tastes like ass.

14) Being asked any sort of question whatsoever, including, in all seriousness, Noah, do you want some candy?

15) The three seconds of Little Bear opening credits our Tivo records at the end of Blue's Clues episodes, because even though he has never sat through an episode of Little Bear ever so we don't TiVo them, we should totally know that those three seconds of opening credits are the GREATEST THING EVER and he now wants to watch Little Bear more than ANYTHING IN THE WORLD and WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CANNOT MAKE LITTLE BEAR MATERIALIZE RIGHT THIS SECOND I WILL DESTROOOOOOOY YOOOOOOOOOOOOU.

Shall I go on or do you have the general idea?

My god, I don't know who this kid is and what his problem(ssssss) is(arrrre). I thought maybe a short nap was to blame so I put him to bed early last night, only to have him wake up screaming this morning because...I don't know. Something about the Thomas jammies again, like because the shirt was on his body he couldn't LOOK at it, but then when I took it off he screamed AND KICKED ME IN THE STOMACH.

(I should also point out that in the past few days, I have become the Only Acceptable Parent, which is breaking Jason's heart and bugging the crap out of me, since he seems to demand my constant presence for the sole purpose of abusing it.)

I am...worn out. I have never, ever witnessed anything like this from him and have "If That OT Could See Me Now" (as sung by Kathie Lee Gifford) stuck in my head. Is he sick? Teething? Growth-spurting? Opening wormholes into some sort of evil Doppelgangerland from Planet Toddler?

I spent Friday afternoon in the maternity ward, holding someone else's mewling little newborn. That was very Suck, especially since after this past week several people I know have now successfully conceived, gestated and birthed children in less time than we've been trying for a second.

A very boring insurance kerfluffle sidetracked our plan to see the doctor last month and I have yet to pick up the phone and reschedule. Because apparently I have the same sort of "smash your own fool head against the floor and then complain about it" impulses as Noah.

This entry probably reads downright bizarre to a lot of you. Or like, all of you. Seriously? She's whining about not being pregnant two paragraphs after going on and on about her current child's hellacious never-ending tantrum of nerve-shattering asshole-ness? And did she just maybe call the current child whom she is goddamned lucky to have in the first place an asshole right there?

Yes. And yes. Irrational Little Snowflake, thy name is Blogger. Or maybe, Unconditional Love, thy name is Mother.

Yes. Hopefully it's that one.

Re: I Lost 10 Pounds in 24 Hours!! Ask Me How!!!1!

Within an hour of publishing Tuesday's post, I very suddenly came down with that stomach bug Noah had last week. (NO I AM NOT PREGNANT.) (Come on, you know I managed to pee on a stick in the middle of all the nausea, right?) (Also, what a weird phrase "came down with" is. Like instead of saying what really happened, which is that I very suddenly puked my guts out, I make it sound like I was a contestant on the Price is Right.)

Anyway. I am not sure if this has been established in my illustrious history of oversharing with the Internet, but I DO NOT DO SICK WELL. I am a magnificent baby about being sick. Just...spectacular. I immediately called Jason to inform him of the immediate need to get his ass home, and also got in a good 10 minutes of whining about my injuries and my knees and how my injuries and my knees where making the whole thing so much worse because have you ever tried to crouch around the toilet with broke-ass tore-up knees?

(Seriously, but my knees are killing me. The scrapes gave way to bruises in all colors of the rainbow that creep down my legs to my ankles, plus I managed a good sprain-ish twisting of the left one, and I never even showed you my palms and wrists, and in summary: TREMENDOUS WAH.)

Luckily, it was indeed a 24-hour bug of some kind, and after 25 hours of moaning and a love-hate relationship with sips of water ("well, I kept that last sip down okay and I'm just SO THRISTY, maybe I'm up for a real grown-up size swallow?" *gulp* "FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.") -- the clouds parted and lo, there was an instant and insatiable desire for a grilled cheese sandwich. Maybe two.

And that was my day! How was yours? All this and more, I hope.

(Noah's bedside manner just may be the best ever, though. He combed my hair and helpfully suggested that some Blue's Clues might cheer me up. Such a giver, this one.)

Diseased

With all the hubbub surrounding the iPhone Tragedy of 2007* I completely forgot that I totally meant to bitch about my glands. MY GLANDS, Y'ALL. THEY ARE SWOLLEN.

Towards the end of Noah's speech session, his therapist coughed a weak, dainty little cough. She immediately apologized and said she was just getting over a cold. I immediately waved my hand, oh pish, we have nothing to fear from your cold. (This was, of course, before the iPhone Tragedy of 2007 and thus my entire outlook on life was generally much sunnier and devil-may-care.)

Less than 24 hours later I was hacking up my lungs and wishing for death every time I swallowed for FIE. FIRE. IT BURNS. (Seriously, I never realized how often I swallow. Do you swallow a lot, do you think? Because this seems excessive. I haven't gotten a decent nights' sleep since Monday because I apparently swallow in my sleep and it wakes me up because it hurrrrrrrts me, wah.)

Today I feel like my eardrum may explode at any moment. This is insanely awesome.

(Don't you love reading entire blog posts dedicated to the careful documentation of cold symptoms? Personally I find them fascinating, although they never contain enough mucus talk for my tastes.)

AMY'S TO-DO LIST:

1) Buy more xylitol gum.

2) Get adenoids removed.

3) Find out what adenoids are.

4) Re-order to-do list.

Anyway. Y'all know what a special fresh hell it is, being sick while caring for a toddler, so I'll spare you a big long retread of that. Instead, one last little story before I go crawl back under my blanket of pestilence.

Amy: Noah, Mama is sick today. You need to play by yourself for a little bit.

Noah: <blank stare>

Amy: Sick. Not happy. She feels...boo hoo. Yes. Mama is very boo hoo today.

Noah: <comes up verrrry close to my face before busting out one of his gigantically goofy show Mama happy! smiles and waits for me to crack up>

Amy: Okay, okay. That's funny. Um. How about hurt? <makes sign for hurt> A boo boo? Mama has a boo boo today.

Noah: <starts examining my face and arms very carefully>

Amy: It's not really a boo boo you can see, baby. It's more like...

Noah: <finds a bruise on my elbow and kisses it, then finds an old burn on my hand and kisses that>

Amy: Okay you know what? I feel much better now, thank you.

*No, it still doesn't work. A trip to the Genius Bar is next, once I am no longer a raging ball of misery and mucus. I am thrilled by the combination of a new lower iPhone price AND the $100 in damage control courtesy of Mr. Jobs, although Jason is now all wide-eyed and panting at the idea of just paying to fix mine and then getting an iPhone of his very very own mmmmmmprecious. Then, of course, the next time I go to Target he will freak out over a $12 tank top purchase because don't I have ENOUGH tank tops? We don't have the money for an infinite tank top collection and honestly, I better go back to work if I want to buy tank tops all willy-nilly like that.**

**God, do think I'm a little BITTER because Jason didn't come home early to give my sick ass a break, or something?  Jesus. No wonder nobody brings me any damn soup.

So You've Gone and Dropped Your iPhone in the Toilet: Some Handy Steps & Pointers

1) If you have not yet dropped your iPhone in the toilet, consider NOT dropping your iPhone in the toilet. This is a solid course of action, in my opinion, and one that can be easily achieved by not keeping your iPhone in your back pocket, unless your back pocket has a button, but if that's the case, you probably aren't cool enough to own an iPhone in the first place, no?

If displacement of object x (where x = a fucking expensive phone) is forced by the downward velocity of object y (where y = your pants), object x will swan dive out and away from object y, with the trajectory being affected by the natural gravitational pull of object z (where z = the shitter) by a fairly simple factor of  murphy's law < just your flipping luck + manufacturers' warranty = VOID.

In layman's terms: pants down + phone falls = splish splash.

2) If you have already dropped your iPhone in the toilet, you do need to immediately remove it from the toilet, then proceed directly to step 3.

3) Wash your hands.

4) Stare at phone in horror for a few seconds and assess the damage. The screen will probably be reminiscent of scrambled porn.

5) Turn the phone off, if you can. Hit the button on the top of the phone and hold it until you see the fancydancy SLIDE TO POWER OFF option on the screen, which of course you will not see, because of the aforementioned scrambled porn. NOT THAT I KNOW WHAT THAT LOOKS LIKE, OR ANYTHING.

     5a) Try holding down the home button AND the top-of-phone button at the same time until the phone shuts off.

6) Don't turn it back on. Unless you are Amy. Who turned it back on.

7) Don't stick pens in the side of the phone in a vain attempt to open it up. Unless you are Amy. Who stuck pens in the side of the phone in a vain attempt to open it up.

8) Go online and read about dunking the phone in rubbing alcohol or Everclear. Do not do this because it sounds scary, but consider taking a shot of Everclear. Or 12.

   8a) Sink into blissful alcohol poisoning coma, where you will never have to think about the time you dropped your iPhone in the toilet, forever and ever, fluffy clouds and harps.

9) Put the phone down. Walk away. Wring hands, rent garments, gnash teeth.

10) Do not walk back to the phone after 10 minutes and attempt to start it back up. Unless you are...oh, you know where this is going.

12) Stick the phone in a cup of rice. Fret for a few minutes re: basmati or Arborio or possibly some Uncle Ben's Cheddar Rice with Broccoli before settling on the long grain enriched.

13) Remember, perhaps, that you did not ever finish peeing.

14) Confess to husband. Get shrill and hysterical over the idea that you may have to get an non-iPhone phone, because you cannot afford another iPhone, but doesn't he understand? You had an iPhone! You cannot go back now! What are you supposed to use, a fucking Razr? 

    14a) Consider prostitution.

15) Call it a day and go to bed. Tell reflection in mirror that it is not worthy of owning an electric toothbrush, much less an iPhone. Tell non-reflected-self to go to hell.

16) Wait at least 24 hours before turning the phone back on. Whoop with joy at the sight of the Apple logo. Holler with ecstasy at the sight of the homescreen. Weep with gratitude when the phone connects to the network with a fat, full signal.

17) Touch the Phone icon to call you husband and tell him that he doesn't need to divorce you after all.

18) Touch it again when nothing happens.

19) Oh.

20) Safari? Mail? iPod? Settings? Anyone? Bueller?

21) Determine that only the top half of the screen is working. Congratulations! Your iPhone is now a $600 texting/calendar/Google Mapping device.

    21a) Oh, and YouTube. You can still totally get the sneezing panda video.

22) Turn phone off and flee the room, decide to give it another 24 hours, also wonder what the odds are that the Apple guys at the Genius Bar will believe you that my heavens, I have no idea what happened, or if the iPhone comes with a tracking chip like George's book on Seinfeld, which in that case they will simply hand the phone back to you and say, I'm sorry, but this phone has been in the toilet, and we cannot help you.

(Ahh, this old chestnut. I should really have this photo on a macro by now. Ctrl+Alt+Fuckthisshit)

Forget the children, won't somebody think of the expensive electronics?

Noah started his speech therapy this morning. I wish I had something to really say about it -- something inspiring or hopeful or at least a "this is the first day of the last of my eardrums" sort of thing.

But despite all my many preparations (I vacuumed the couch cushions! I wore mascara!), our first speech therapy session was fairly anticlimactic, and was more along the lines of "a nice lady showed up with a bag of toys just like the toys Noah already has and taught me how to actually play with Noah's toys, because I fail at Toddler Toy Sound Effects 101."

And while there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, I am a little too wigged out to go into more detail.  Because as soon as our speech therapist left,  I managed to drop my iPhone in the toilet. Because I also fail at LIFE.

Daaaaaad! She's trying to look all involved and capable for the camera again, make her quit it.

The Excitement of a Tuesday

Uh, sorry about not posting yesterday. Technical issues, you see. You wouldn't understand. I barely understand.

I have been completely unable to access Typepad or any Typepad-run sites (like....THIS ONE and THIS ONE and THIS ONE), and after spending several hours assuming that it was some kind of massive platform-down-kabloom thing, I finally figured out that no, it was just me. Sad, technically-challenged and smelly me.

Amy: w w w dot amalah dot com.

Internet: loading loading loading loading loading
Internet: *gasps, wheezes, gives up*

Amy: What up, Typepad?

Typepad: We're just fine over here, actually. Are you sure you are connected to the Internet? Is your computer plugged in? Is it on? Is it, in fact, actually a computer or are you trying to surf the web via a cardboard box again?

Amy: JASON! HALP!

Jason: Uh. Try unplugging things.

I tried unplugging things ("power cycling!") and rebooting and even attempted to compose an entry on the iPhone before I finally just gave up and started scouring the web for Flight of the Conchords MP3s.

I am more than a little pleased that I finally figured out what the problem was, especially since the problem was coming from our firewall, which is not something I know anything about. In fact, I am not really sure I even knew we had a firewall. But we do, and it recently decided that my blog was malicious. Malicious! aMaLAHcom iz HAX0R!

Of course, it's not like I had anything super-interesting to write about yesterday. The firewall was not preventing the free exchange of ideas and stifling my creativity, since I probably would have just talked about one or more of the following:

1) The new dishwasher, which is finally installed, after the first guy who came to install it told us he couldn't install it until we replaced a valve, and after the second guy who came to replace the valve flooded the basement, and after the third guy who came installed it wrong, and after Jason finally Googled dishwasher installation and installed it his damn self.

2) I hate blinds. I hate shades and I hate curtains and I hate shopping for them and I hate forgetting that I haven't bought any yet, usually right when I walk in front of the window naked.

3) Ceiba has an eyeball infection and I have to give her drops, and then after I give her the drops she walks into things.

4) Noah noah noah noah cute cute cute cute going to be the death of me. Last night Jason let him stay up until 10 pm to watch Cars simply because Noah was willing to sit and snuggle with him while the movie was on. We're DOOMED.

(A month ago asking Noah to "show Mama happy!" got me photos like this. Now?  I get this.)

Of Cabbages,Kings andthe Excuse du Jour

Heylook. There shouldbea space in that title. Andright heretoo.

I plannedto write a little more about ournew house today, plus some city-to-suburbs angst with an extra scoop of whining,but my spacebar is notworking. Ihaveto hitit several times, really hard, BLAMBLAMBLAM, to get it to work,whichmeans this morning's Advice Smackdown column tookme about seven hours to write,whatwith all the blamming. And I still have to figureout ifMamapop and ClubMomare blam-worthy.

I am tired of blamming. So there will beno blamming orextra spacebarstrokes here.Noneatall!

I actually didtry to fix itmyself, andthought after I yanked thekey off andfound a tiny bit of foil from Hershey'sKiss (pink,for Easter!)underneath that I'dsolved the problem.But no. Keyboard still bein a slut bitch and oh crap, there oes the G key.

I don'tknow how orwhy,but I am bettin this isall Noah's fault somehow.He makes everythin sticky these days.

He's startin to mugfor thecamera.It'sprettyhilarious.

Dude, look at that messed-uphair. Where the hell is this poorkid's mother?

(I AMGOIN TOTHROW THIS LAPTOP OUTTHE DAMNWINDOW I SWEAR TO OD.)