girlfiend

Last night something got me and it got me good. My arm has two enormous welts around the elbow. Spider bites, perhaps? Either way, it’s so itchy it hurts and the hydrocortisone cream isn’t helping.

The Fiendling is lying on his tummy babbling to himself and the carpet. He’s taking a break from his crawling practice. These days he’s moving forward efficiently when something he wants- cell phone, cordless phone, remote control, shoe, water bottle, laptop- is in sight. He gets up on his hands and knees, lunges forward, collapses to his belly, then rises up and and lunges again. He’s surprisingly quick when he wants something. We go to the playground every day where he watches the other kids move. Most kids there are walking, but some are still so new at walking that they crawl. The Fiendling stops and watches, putting it all together.

My hope is that it’s the crawling that’s making it so hard for him to sleep and that he’ll figure it out soon and sleep again. Aside from the other night when he didn’t perform his function as an oven timer he’s been waking in screams hourly unless he’s in bed with us. So he’s been sleeping with us, waking me every hour by whimpers that would turn into screams if I wasn’t there to soothe him immediately. It’s really taking its toll on me. He was such a good sleeper for so long and now it’s so exhausting. Maybe it’s another tooth that’s taking its time?

For those of you who asked, Rosh Hashanah was great. My family visited in two shifts. The first shift in the afternoon was Aunt Bea, cousin Paul and his wife Sarah. They stayed for a little more than an hour and were delighted by my little Fiendling. When they left, we still had several hours before our dinner guests arrived so we had a few drinks on the porch before I began fixing dinner. Aside from my parents and cousin Meg, all of our guests were friends so the night was enjoyable, not at all stressfull.

This was my second large dinner party. We served ten adults and one Fiendling and there was plenty of food. We started with matzoh ball soup, which I nearly screwed up. Traditionally the matzoh balls are served in chicken soup. On Friday, three hours into simmering, I discovered I’d inadvertently made turkey soup. After straining it over and over again using an entire package of cheesecloth and several coffee filters I decided to serve it anyway and no one seemed to notice the difference. Mix gave me the recipe for his salad, which is hands down the best salad I’ve ever eaten. The brisket was perfect, despite the extended cooking time, and the honey baked chicken was good, though I’m glad I listened to the reviews and altered the recipe. Junkiegirl brought a spinach potato kugel, Ellen brought Challah, and for dessert we had the apple cake I baked, macaroons, chocolate covered strawberries and fresh fruit.

The new year is looking good.

Every season we get a coupon book in the mail filled with advertisements and small discounts for local businesses. They come pretty regularly as we were lamenting the fact that we’d hardly used any of the coupons this summer and they were days away from being expired just the day before the new one arrived. Most businesses are pretty straightforward about the coupons, offering a dollar off or 10% your total order, but other businesses are a bit shady in their offerings. For example a local tree service offers $100 off tree removal or 10% pruning, but you must present your coupon before they give the estimate. I wonder how much they jack up the prices if you have a coupon.

Anyway, on Thursday I had a doctor’s appointment in the morning, I shopped for Rosh Hashanah dinner, cooked the first of two briskets, had a small lunch with the Fiendling and my mother-in-law (who babysat while I went to the doctor and stayed to visit), went to a yoga class, visited with my mom for a bit, then came home to have dinner with Boyfiend who’d gotten home late from an inservice after work. We decided to order a pizza while I cooked brisket number two. I browsed the coupon book and decided to order from a new place.

About 30 minutes later our pizza arrived. Boyfiend paid while I got the brisket into the oven. I felt a bit harried and rushed as I sat to dinner around 9p.m. and, realizing I hadn’t eaten much since my half a sandwich lunch, took a huge bite. It was fine, greasy, but pretty good. After years of Greek style pizza in Fairmount moving to Roxborough where Italian style pizza is the norm was a pleasure. Boyfiend said something about the box and I nodded thinking that it had an interesting design. As I finished my first slice, something caught my eye.

Huh. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith- and this not from yourselves… Ephesians”. Interesting. Then I looked at the the top of the box. The design that I’d thought was so interesting was, well. Have a look for yourself.

The pizza box not only presents us with valuable information it tells us the order in which we should read it. The first section, truths for life, concludes by telling us to receive Christ and be saved. Um, okay. Section two tells us how to receive Christ and leads us to section three, a sample prayer. “Dear Lord Jesus, I know I am a sinner. I believe you died for my sins. Yada, yada, yada…”

The more I examined the pizza box, the more offended I became and the more I lost my appetite. Another side of the box offered more concrete suggestions for how to be saved, including reading the bible, talking to God in prayer, and my personal favorite, “Tell others about Christ.” My pizza box was proselytizing. If I’d known I was in for a conversion attempt I would’ve refused delivery.

Later I went to my local message board and asked if anyone else noticed anything funny about the pizza box at this particular restaurant. No one seemed to know what I was talking about, but I was told about the rats, bugs and nearly inedible wings. The restaurant loves Jesus and rats. Good to know. Boyfiend suggested I should join the social committee of a nearby Synagogue and order the pizzas for an event just to see what kind of hijinks would ensue. Hijinks or not, I don’t want to give them my money. If I wanted religion with my pizza I’d stick with subtlety of Shalom pizza’s kosher, meat-free environment. I’m going to go out on a limb here, and risk offending some readers. Proselytizing Christians are nuts.

What do you do about comments on your blogs? I know Fraulein N responds to comments in her comment section proper. Others respond directly, via email. Others don’t respond at all. I generally have a non-response policy, unless it’s a direct question. Sometimes, depending on the nature of a comment and if the commenter leaves an email address, I may respond directly through email, and I have on occasion responded by leaving a comment on my blog.

What’s your preference? As a reader, do you check back to see if there’s a response to your comment? Do you like to be directly engaged? As a writer do you email commenters individually? Just curious. Sometimes I feel like I should be, I don’t know, friendlier?

I started cooking for the Rosh Hashana dinner I’m making. I baked an apple cake on Wednesday and yesterday I made a brisket. Later in the day I realized that the brisket was kind of small, so even though I’m making chicken, Boyfiend went out and picked up another. I figured I’d start it last night and finish it today so I’ll have to do tomorrow is heat it up, sliced, in the gravy.

Today I have to make chicken stock and the chicken because I can’t actually cook anything tomorrow. Instead of coming to dinner, my cousin Paul, his wife Sarah, and crazy Aunt Bea are coming to visit around lunchtime which means I’ll probably have to pick up some food for them too. Some of you may recall that my family’s crazy dysfunctional. Because of their lunacy, when I called Aunt Bea to invite her to Rosh Hashanah dinner she told me that I’d called too late, she already had plans. Boyfiend responded, “Plans more important then her family?” Later, when I called Paul to invite him, Sarah answered the phone and responded to my invitation by informing me that they’d be in Philadelphia, only they’d be having dinner at Bea’s house. I should have known she was lying and just didn’t want to tell me she was having dinner and I wasn’t invited.

So now I know and they’re coming to visit in the afternoon to see the Fiendling. If Bea joins them, which I’m assuming she will, it will be awkward because I’m pissed that she lied for no reason, but I’m sure it would be slightly stilted and awkward anyway, because Paul’s still furious with my mother, who’s still furious with him. My mother was planning to come over earlier on Saturday to help me get stuff together, but that’s not an option since their paths cannot cross. Their visit will be short and uncomfortable, but they haven’t seen the Fiendling since he was two weeks old so I’m going to deal with it. What a hassle.

Back to the brisket. I put it in around eight last night and it needed to cook for about five hours at 325. When we went to bed I figured I’d just turn down the heat and turn it off when the Fiendling inevitably woke me up two hours later. I turned the heat down to 225, and threw in a Coors Light no one’s ever going to drink for extra moisture. Well, as luck would have it, the Fiendling actually slept through the night. I woke him up at seven this morning to eat because I needed the relief. Then, forgetting about the brisket entirely we went back to sleep. When I woke up at nine the brisket smelled delicious and I realized what I’d done. I ran downstairs, flung open the oven door, grabbed the pan and ripped off the foil. Surprisingly, it was still there, and not looking too bad. The gravy is perfect. It’s cooling now, so in a few hours I’ll slice it and see how it tastes. Tomorrow I’m just going to throw it in the gravy anyway. How bad could it be?

If you’re coming for dinner tomorrow pretend that you haven’t read this. Or eat the chicken.

Brisket

5-6 pound brisket
4 onions
4 potatoes (optional)
1/2 pound of baby carrots (optional)
large can beef broth
2 cups of red wine
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
4 cloves garlic
salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 325. While heating a large pan on the stove, salt and pepper both sides of the brisket. When the pan is hot, add the oil. After the oil is heated, sear the brisket for a few minutes on each side. While the brisket sears, chop the onions and potatoes and place them with the carrots around the edges of a dutch oven large enough for the brisket, or a deep roasting pan. Leave a few pieces of onion in the middle and rest the brisket on the onions in the middle. Mix the liquid ingredients together and pour over the brisket. Cover tightly and roast for 4 to 5 hours (NOT OVERNIGHT), adding more liquid if necessary.

Remove the brisket when the edges fall away easily when prodded with a fork. Wrap the meat in foil and let it cool completely. Set aside the onions, potatoes and carrots. Leave the gravy in the pan, or if letting the brisket cool overnight, refrigerate. When the brisket has cooled, slice on an angle against the grain. Add three cups of water to the gravy and heat until hot. Pour over the sliced brisket and vegetables in an ovenproof pan and cook for 30 minutes.

Products like this make me want to scream. Why are they creating yet another product specifically to make women feel worse about themselves. Aside from the fact that attaching an individually wrapped wipe to an individually wrapped pad is wasteful, it’s insulting. Even if this was created by women, it’s only because society tries to convince us we’re all a bunch of dirty, filthy whores.

Aren’t I in a good mood today?

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in I don’t know how long. When we stayed with Boyfiend’s parents in Ocean City the Fiendling slept for 8 hours straight, but since then it’s been two hours at a time again. I’m tempted, as always to just let him cry it out, but when it gets to the part where he’s actually crying I can’t take it and just cuddle him, nurse him or rock him back to sleep.

I’m avoiding the subject. Every year when Boyfiend goes back to work he gets stressed and depressed. This is normal. Most teachers do. But Boyfiend tends to fall into deep depressions that he refuses to acknowledge. This year’s not as bad so far. He says his kids are easy, which is great. But he still has to get up at six every morning after an interrupted night’s sleep, so when he gets home in the afternoon he’s tired and cranky. So am I. There’s too much to get done when the Fiendling naps so I don’t sleep and the only time I spend without him is the time I spend at the gym.

The Fiendling has a wonderful temperament, but he’s still a baby who doesn’t take naps like the books say he’s supposed to. Yesterday Boyfiend took his class on a field trip to the park near our house. I walked up to meet him there at 12.45. The Fiendling fell asleep in the stroller on the walk up, his first nap since getting up for the day at 8. Coincidentally, he was asleep when Boyfiend got home. He’d only fallen asleep after fussing for an hour, faceplanting on the floor while trying to crawl, crying then nursing. I should have taken a nap, but instead I baked a cake for Rosh Hashana dinner.

When Boyfiend walked in I was cleaning up from the cake. I asked him to finish the last few dishes while I changed the cat litter ( a chore he despises since they’re not his cats anyway). He was obviously put out about it, but started to anyway and when the Fiendling woke up crying he went up to comfort him so I could keep cleaning up. I finished changing the litter, swept the laundry room floor, disinfected the countertops, finished the cake cleanup then scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, and finished the laundry, folding only the items that would wrinkle if they sat for too long. I went upstairs and picked up toys and moved furniture a bit so I could vaccuum when I saw that it was time for me to leave for yoga. I asked Boyfiend to vacuum if he got a chance and to finish folding the laundry.

While I as out, he started to fold the laundry but got sidetracked by taking out the trash, emptying the dehumidifier and watering the plants so when I got home I vacuumed and finished folding the laundry. Then I made dinner. After dinner he gave the Fiendling a bath while I cleaned up then I nursed him to sleep while Boyfiend watched the Phillies. We relaxed for a bit- him watching baseball, me dating photos with the help of Picasa, and shortly after Boyfiend poured me a drink and logged into his laptop the Fiendling woke up. It was after 10.

I rocked him back to sleep and when I came back into the room Boyfiend had taken my seat, shut down his laptop and was using mine to trick Craigslist into letting him post the same ad in two different cities. I was annoyed that he’d moved into the spot I’d vacated only minutes before and told him so when the Fiendling awoke only a few minutes later he said something to the effect of ‘it doesn’t matter anyway because you have to take care of him’ which annoyed me even more. I told him to finish my drink, which was getting watery anyway. The Fiendling wasn’t going back to sleep this time, so I came back into the room with him and asked Boyfiend to get me fresh ice since I didn’t want to make too much noise with the ice machine, but instead he gave me my watery drink back.

Small, boring details, I know. Boyfiend was all pissed off at me because I was annoyed about the laptop and decided to go to bed, or maybe I told him to go to bed, but I got out the yoga ball and tried to bounce the Fiendling back to sleep so I asked again if he wanted to finish my drink since I couldn’t bounce and drink at the same time. Boyfiend said no and the Fiendling started bouncing with me so I turned on the TV and put him down on the floor to play for a while. Boyfiend said that I seemed annoyed so he’d take him to bed. I didn’t know why he’d take a wide awake baby to bed. He said he could sleep through him fussing and moving so I said take him and I’d sleep upstairs. Then he said that he was going to take him so I could sleep in bed with him. I told him that was ridiculous because I can’t sleep through him fussing and moving and I’d be awake anyway, so why would I go to sleep in there.

We bickered a bit more, then Boyfiend really started in on me, telling me that I make him miserable and always give him a list of things to do and he never does anything right and every day at work, which is bad enough already, he worries about what he’s going to do to make me mad. Then he really pulled out the big guns and told me that soon enough I was going to make the Fiendling miserable too and he’d worry all the time about what he’d do to upset me. That made me angry and really hurt my feelings and I felt all wounded because I didn’t even remember complaining about something he hadn’t done and half the time when he thinks I’m He said he was going to bed. I yelled that I thought he was taking the Fiendling with him. He yelled at me for continuing to fight when he was trying to end it. He wanted me to apologize. I refused. He asked me to apologize and say goodnight again. I said goodnight, but I probably didn’t apologize because I’m too stubborn when I’m mad. I went upstairs with the Fiendling.

A little while later he got out of bed and asked where I was. I told him upstairs. He asked why. I told him because if I was going to be exhausted and awake I’d rather be exhausted and awake in bed. He went to sleep. I didn’t tell him that he’d hurt me deeply when he insinuated that I was a bad mother. I didn’t tell him how sad I was that I make him miserable. I didn’t tell him that I didn’t think I deserved his outburst just because I acted huffy about the computer. I didn’t tell him that I was sorry and tired and just wanted the Fiendling to go to sleep at a reasonable hour so we could be well rested and less likely to argue. Instead I stayed up until the Fiendling was still then went to sleep sad and lonely without my husband. I could have gone down and climbed into bed and put my arms around him and I wanted to, but I didn’t.

When I woke up this morning and heard him moving around downstairs I wanted to say something but didn’t. When I made it down to the kitchen and saw he’d put the coffee in a thermos for me, but didn’t add sugar and milk like usual I was more sad than I thought I’d be. I should have just apologized.

I stopped writing about things like this a while back because a certain woman’s (who’s probably still obsessed with Boyfiend) IP address still shows up in my stats pretty regularly (like yesterday), but I need to know if this is normal. Do other people fight over nothing? Or were the anonymous assholes who told me I shouldn’t get married right? I mean it’s a fight, we’ll get over it, but he told me that I make him miserable. I make him miserable. Every day, I make him miserable. Every day he worries about how I’m going to make him miserable that particular day. Maybe I just shouldn’t speak any more.

The Fiendling still owns my body which becomes more and more clear the older he gets. He’s big enough to tug at my shirt when he’s hungry and tug he does. He knows where the milk is and he’ll claw at my shirt to get to it and even squeeze to speed up the flow when he’s hungry. When I started nursing I really didn’t know just how much of a commitment it is- I completely belong to someone else. The solid foods are just practice. We’re not replacing any nursing sessions with real food right now, so I don’t have any more freedom now than I did six months ago. I’m still tied to a two hour schedule.

Yesterday I decided that I’m going to switch up my workout schedule. Rather than do 20-30 minutes of cardio and lift three days a week, and go to yoga once, sometimes twice a week if I’m lucky, I’m going to lift once a week and take a yoga or pilates class three days a week. I’m thinking there’s really nothing I can do about the weight. It’s going to come off, or not come off, but the more I do yoga the more my limbs shrink back to original size, and the lifting, while useful and in some ways enjoyable, doesn’t have the same all-over effects.

Somehow I’ve managed to lose another four pounds since I last posted about my weight. I don’t know what, if anything, I’ve done differently, but I imagine this is what they mean when they say that the weight just falls off when you breastfeed. Of course I still have 12 pounds to go before I’m officially down to my pre-baby weight, but I think that another 5 would probably be enough to get me into the jeans. And when I say into the jeans, I actually mean out of the house in the jeans, not actually in them because I fit into all of my pants now, I just look like a slightly pudgy, skanky teenage girl in them.

My legs and butt are small enough to get into my size 2s and even the occasional size 1 pants, but my top half is a joke. My stomach’s flat again, though slightly wrinkly at the bottom, but trying to fit my breasts in any of my size small button-down shirts is a joke. Some won’t even fit over my shoulders, I’m so broad these days. The ones that do get on my arms strain at the buttons and the fabric creases oddly in the middle of my chest creating a bizarre boob shelf. Even wearing them open they’re too tight.

But I’m smaller, and the smaller I get, the more I stare. My body was unrecognizable for so long and now it’s looking familiar, albeit heavier, once again and I can’t stop looking at it. I think I’m looking for glimpses of what used to be. I look from different angles and in different reflective surfaces. It’s incredibly vain, but it’s all I have. When I see myself I remind me of what I once looked like and every day I look to see if I’m any thinner or prettier or less matronly.

Basically what I’m getting at is that in April, when I was hopeful and naive I wrote, “By September I’ll be within 8 pounds of my pre-pregnancy weight and I’ll fit into most of my pants. By next March I’ll fit into all of my pants.” I was idealistic, indeed, but only about 5 pounds off.

I have become one of those weirdos who keeps threatening to eat the baby because he’s just so goddamned cute and delicious.

While walking to the flea market at Gorgas Park

Me: It smells like Dunkin Donuts
Boyfiend: It smells like latex paint

We pass a painter’s van and painters at work in the new construction.

Boyfiend: So what are the ingredients in Dunkin Donuts that make them smell like latex paint? Is it the ammonia?
Me: Shut up. It did smell like Dunkin Donuts.

I love yoga, but I love it for all of the superficial reasons, not for the spiritual, earthy reasons I’m supposed to. I love it because when I practice yoga regularly I get strong, my body gets toned, and I can do strange arm balances I never thought I’d ever be able to do. Because of my superficial love, it’s odd that my favorite yoga instructor is one of the most spiritual instructors I’ve ever had. And she’s really, really spiritual, not the fake kind of spiritual. When she Oms you know she means it and her readings are usually relevant, not trite. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.

She’s one of the only reasons (besides my locked in $35 a month rate) that when I moved last summer I didn’t switch gyms. When the Fiendling and I took Mommy and Me at a different yoga studio we went because she was the instructor. When I start to feel stronger and the Fiendling’s less dependent upon me for food, I’d love to try getting to her hardcore Saturday morning class that supposed to be an hour and a half but usually stretches to two. She’s that good.

Good or not, the first few times I took her class she annoyed the shit out of me with all of her loud, toxin-releasing sighs, irritating, crunchy metaphors, chants and stupid music but the more I practiced with her the more I began to appreciate her approach. She’s one of the few instructors with whom I’ve practiced that has the ability to explore the dichotomies of yoga in all of her classes. Each class is incredibly challenging, yet I leave feeling calm and relaxed. Her voice, when I’m able to tone out the non-instructive yoga filler, is incredibly soothing, and her adjustments are sublime.

If you haven’t taken many yoga classes, or have only taken “power yoga” type classes, you may not be familiar with crunchy, granola, spiritual yoga filler. The filler is the talk during the various postures, or asanas. For example in pigeon pose the instructor tells us to “let the earth support you.” In virabhadrasana 1, or Warrior (I’m using the sanskrit names because she uses them in class I always wonder how the hell they’re spelled), we’re told to “shine your heart to the sun and shoot stardust from your fingertips.” In tadasana we’re supposed to be both grounded and uplifted. In ahdo mukha shvanasana or downdog we’re encouraged to explore the pose, to pedal our feet and “wag our tails.”

In many asanas we’re instructed to use the bhandas, or body locks to strengthen the pose. Mulabhanda is the root lock. If you’re pregnant or ever have been you might know this bhanda as a kegel. If you have no idea of what I’m talking about, mulabhanda is like when you try to stop the flow of urine when you pee.

So yesterday we were in downdog wagging our tails and she told us to tilt our pelvis downward and point our tailbones to the wall behind us while engaging mulabhanda to strenghten the pose. As we all made those minor adjustments she told us, “As you engage your mulabhanda, visualize a flashlight shining from our perineum. Imagine the light shining up your spine and out through the top of the head, a beacon of light, shining above. ” Huh?

Dude. She lost me a perineum. All I could imagine was a room full of people in downdog, asses in the air, with flashlights sticking out of them. How is that image inspiring? It took me several rounds of sun salutations before I could stop chuckling to myself. A fucking flashlight in my ass. I love yoga.