My life with Kurt, the epitome of engineer, he is the ultimate “left brained” king of spreadsheets. Aside from still wanting to play Dungeons and Dragons or some other role-playing game like Vampire he is mentally an 80-year-old curmudgeon who seems to be highly allergic to change of any kind. Oddly, we are a perfect match.
Kurt eats out everyday for lunch and the though of what he chooses to eat makes me twitch, so last month I got the itch to try to get up every morning to make Kurt’s lunch. I think I managed to send him off to work with a homemade lunch twice before getting into an overly tired funk. No, I’m not pregnant. No, we haven’t started trying to conceive a second baby.
The second time I sent Kurt to work with a packed lunch he sent me this email:
I’m eating the lunch you made me.
I thought you were trying to make me healthy, then I saw that orange thing in the container.
Are you trying to kill me?
I had packed a large carrot in his lunch which was chopped to fit into the container. This was my reply:
Oh don’t eat THAT – that goes up your bum.
Kurt hummed the Smurf song over an over again just to annoy me, and then said something Kurtesk. I replied with the usual, “I hate you.”
Non-French speaking, Kurt: Moi?
Only took one quarter of French in college and not remembering or caring to use the correct word, Erica: Yes, moo-woo!
Kurt, laughing: What the hell is that?
Erica: You, of course.
Kurt: Moo-woo?
Erica: Yes, Moo-woo.
I think the proper word is supposed to be “vous”, but I don’t know how to pronounce it because the French use too many damn vowels! I bet they’re awesome at Wheel of Fortune. They own all the fuckin’ vowels already.
What is the proper French word to use on a Yooper anyway?
We went to the county courthouse on Friday to the licensing section of the administration building.
Me: We would like to get a marriage license.
Lady: Will you be getting married within 60 days?
Kurt: Yes, we want to get married before she’s born (pointing at Sophia).
Both ladies at the counter had an understandably confused looks on their faces. One of them stood up slightly to see over the counter to check how pregnant I am. I’m not. I stood there with a smirk on my face and shaking my head. They finally got it. Kurt’s just an ass.
Kurt: What, can’t you postdate it?
Lady (laughing): No, it doesn’t work that way.
She handed us a paper to print our names on, then as she handed us the forms to fill out she asked us to hold up our right hands. Kurt, holding Sophia, also held up her hand for her.
Lady: Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth so help you God?
Kurt answered yes without flinching and later told me he didn’t even hear the “so help you God” part. I however grimaced and answered, “Sure”, then under my breath, “whatever”. *gratuitous eye roll*
May the Invisible Pink Unicorn strike me down should I ever tell a lie.
Because of how the health care industry is rigged up here in the U.S. where insurance is doled out by employers or can be purchased at an exorbitant rate and still requires copays and has coverage limitations since no insurance company wants to actually pay out in the event that someone comes down with something as expensive as cancer, Kurt and I are getting married. Romantic isn’t it? No, I don’t have cancer, but I do need health insurance.
I don’t recall ever saying I would never get married, but since I had a job with benefits and never intended to be a stay at home mom, we never planned on getting married. There was also my ex-husband, who continues to be a royal pain in my ass. He has finally put HIS house that’s still in MY name up for sale. Only it’s the worst fucking market EVER, he refuses to list it with an actual real estate agent, and he’s put so much money into the dump that he believes it’s worth more than it is. Oh, and he has lost his “job” so now I’m watching my credit report like a hawk. Six dings so far on my credit so far. Bastard!
This morning I made it clear that I truly needed a break from the child. Kurt stayed home from work and I locked myself in our room. I told Kurt that this arraignment wasn’t going to be a good substitute because I would just be a prisoner and if the princess was having a bad day, I could still hear it all. Not exactly the most relaxing situation especially when I feel bad that his taking this day off would be no different than the weekend we just had where I got to sleep in a bit but otherwise had to hear all the lamenting and gnashing of teeth once I come down to the kitchen for food.
Sophia actually had a good morning which was a relief, and Kurtie being the sweetheart that he can be when pressed hard enough brought food to me. The first thing he brought was an apple and knife with which to cut it. A few minutes later he literally brought me, the prisoner, a glass of water and piece of bread, the heel no less. Smart ass. Then he brought me scrambled eggs with cheese. He’s so awesome.
This morning Sophia at almost sixteen months had her fifteen-month check up. I scheduled it rather late because I had her get a flu shot before we left for our Christmas trip and since it was her first time it was a two shot deal. They give two separate half doses thirty days apart.
Sophia is thirty-one inches tall and twenty-one pounds. Not much of a height change since the last visit. The doctor said that should be seeing another growth spurt soon. She is at the fiftieth percentile for height and twentieth for weight. As usual, the nurse read a list of questions to determine is Sophia is progressing. She’s walking and climbing? Yes. Does she drink from a cup? No. the nurse advised that we switch her to a cup to avoid problems with her teeth and ear infections. Does she feed herself? Yes. Does she use any words? No. Does she know her body parts as in can she point to any body parts? No. That’s not something I’ve purposely worked with her on. I’ve been concentrating on colors, number, letters, and shapes. None of which can she identify. I really don’t think she’s paying any attention. Does she enjoy listening to you read? No, not really. She could care less. The nurse gave us a look and Kurt quickly jumped in with, “She’s not autistic, she listens and can obey commands.”
After the nurse left the room Kurt started making kissy sounds at Sophia and she being super ultra cute, leaned in so that Kurt could kiss the top of her head. It became a new game and the two of them did this several times. It was disgustingly cute. She got off my lap and started exploring the room. When the doctor came in she freaked out, slipped on the floor, and hit her tooth against her lip. Good thing we were already at the doctor’s office. *sigh* Her mouth bled but not badly. On the up side, her crying allowed me to see that she has two molars coming in on the bottom. She only has two teeth on bottom so there is a big gap between them and the two new teeth.
Despite it being my day off from baby, I had to go to the appointment with Kurt because he insisted that I bring up a medical issue that I’m having while there. We also asked about Sophia’s lack of language and her extreme clinginess to me. I told the doctor that Sophia doesn’t say ANYTHING. Nothing at all. I don’t count that when I went to Alaska in early December that while she was crying one night I distinctly heard, “ma ma ma” because she also runs around the house saying, “ma ma ma” and sometimes, “da da da”. It’s like saying her other favorite consonant combination of “tur lur lur shlur lur” or “ba ba ba” are also words. Just for the record, I’m rather fond of the “tur lur lur shlur lur”. It’s the one she uses very quietly while analyzing the intricacies of an object as she dissects or disassembles it. I like this one because if she happens to be out of my sight I know I need to check on her to make sure whatever it is that she’s destroying is Kurt’s and not mine. I love you Kurtie. *cheesy grin* She also uses those sounds to talk to her food while she inspects it’s consistency.
The only “words” she has EVER used is the sign for “all done”, which she actually invented before I started using signs with her and just happens to be very close to the real sign. She uses that one very regularly. She regularly claps her hands to show she has accomplished something she’s proud of and sometimes, very rarely, she’ll clap her hands to mean “more”. Only one time has she EVER used the sign for eat and that one was very clear and deliberate. On Thanksgiving, we had some awesome pumpkin pie from an actual bakery as opposed to Costco or some other grocery store which simply isn’t the same quality and Sophia LOVED it. She made the sign “eat” a couple times for the pumpkin pie after a few bites and never repeated it EVER again.
On a side note, I gave her an adult bite sized chunk from my slice of pumpkin pie and set it on her tray. Instead of picking the whole thing up like a regular toddler and smashing it into her face or maybe taking bites of it, my child took tiny pinches off the top and turned one adult bite into about 42 baby bites. Ok maybe 42 is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea.
The doctor said to wait until 18 months to see if maybe there’s an explosion of words. He says that kids often go from zero to six words quite literally overnight and at this point she should have a three to six word vocabulary.
A few people have suggested I get this DVD or that set of children’s songs to help Sophia. I don’t think they understand when try to communicate that, “SHE DOESN’T CARE!” Oh, and I don’t like children’s songs. I know I’m such a scrooge, but don’t find them in any way cute. They are actually quite irritating to me, so they don’t get airtime in our home. And even though I take Sophia swimming twice a week where we recite nursery rhymes, for the life of me, I can’t remember any of them, so they don’t get airtime at home either.
I don’t watch TV during the day. I occasionally put on a Baby Einstein DVD, but Sophia shows no interest in them whatsoever. She’s more interested in playing with measuring cups, boxes, and her favorite Christmas present, a $3 box of alphabet flashcards from Kurt’s mom. She may in fact be listening to the DVDs but it’s not obvious and probably not as effective as listening to my voice. She does listen and often obeys when I tell her, “That’s not ours put it back on the shelf.” The only exception to Sophia’s personal TV rule is still M*A*S*H. Oh and the other day I saw a Biography on Lindsey Buckingham in which they played one of his solo songs and Sophia danced to it. She bent her knees to the beat in a very ‘white-man’ sort of dance. My dad, a Fleetwood Mac fan will be so proud.
About Sophia’s extreme attachment to me, the doctor looked up some info on Separation anxiety though it’s not what we described as the problem. Kurt told him about me not being able to leave the room at home and about the times Sophia is fine with him *until* I show up. I described how we went for a walk on Sunday. I became too tired to hold her so Kurt took over and she screamed and cried the entire time he held her despite me walking alongside them. The funny part was while I was holding her I tried to get her to walk along with us, but as I set her down it was like putting a cat in a bath. Her legs came up higher and higher as I bent lower and lower, so I passed her off to daddy. Kurt mentioned how nice it was to walk along though nature with the grass, trees, fresh air, and screaming toddler. Beautiful, just beautiful, it really warms the heart.
The doctor couldn’t think of another term that fit this situation or for this age group since a certain amount of toddler clinginess is normal. He gave it to us with the idea that it could give us some hints. The basic gist of the handout is to not be emotional when separating. That’s not too difficult especially when all I need to do is go to the bathroom. It’s not that emotional an event for me. It also said not to sneak away when the child isn’t looking. Again, I’m just going to the bathroom. Do I really need to announce my departure upstairs when Kurt is home? When it’s just Sophia and I at home, I do tell her I’m going to put laundry in the washer or get groceries from the car. She takes it well sometimes. Other times, not so much. And it said, on return don’t pick the child up. What? Not even to say good morning on a day that Kurt gets up with her instead of me? Yeah, I don’t think this applies to our case. It’s not as if I pick her up after I get groceries out of the car. I have her follow me screaming in to the kitchen while I put things away. Sometimes she’s fine with the whole process, sometimes she gets distracted by taking groceries out the bag for me and distributing them throughout the house, and other times I really want a couple shots of rum.
If anyone still thinks I’m just caving in to the desires of the princess I swear I’ll go get copies of the security tape from the last two times I’ve taken the demon seed to Target. She wanted to play with stuff on the selves and wouldn’t obey when I told her to stop so I put her in the cart. She didn’t want to sit in the cart, so she tried standing. I wound up carrying the screaming child like a football so it wouldn’t seem as if I’m condoning her behavior, and so she wouldn’t kick me. I proceeded to retrieve the items I wanted before leaving and everyone smirked at the lady carrying the evil tantrum child. I think they’ve all been there.
After the doctor left the room enough time passed for Sophia to get comfortable exploring the room again before the nurse appeared again to administer shots. When Sophia saw her, she literally shrieked and hid her face against my leg. I can’t say that I blame her on that one. Oh, and my own problem I went to this visit to discuss – I didn’t bring it up. I have no idea where Sophia gets her stubbornness. It surly isn’t from me.
This exceedingly long post was made possible by Kurt giving me the day off and is brought to you by grey hair and possible hearing loss. I dedicate this to one of my stalkers most dedicated commenters, Susan, and her family consisting of Hubby Henry, seventeen month old Chloe, and baby girl in the belly due in May.
For our unexpected Christmas time at home Kurt and I bought a few groceries that we knew we could finish within a week and things that don’t spoil. On Kurt’s annoying additive infested list, canned soups and boxed Mac & Cheese. On my list, bulk steel cut oats, eggs. We’re truly like yin and yang. I want to get rid of all that crap but every time I take him shopping with me he buys more of it. I swear if I have to smell Mac & Cheese cooking with nasty cut up chunks of unidentified leftover animal parts (hot dogs) I’m going to heave. That shit is nasty! Any “meat” that expands when cooked just ain’t right. Think about it, what fuckin’ steak puffs up when cooked?
Anyway, tired of only being able to feed Sophia zucchini omelets and Dutch Babies (recipe to follow) for breakfast I decided to force some oatmeal in her. I’ve heard steel cut oats have more nutritional value because they’re less processed than regular old-fashioned rolled oats, so that’s what I use. They texture is a little different and they take twenty to twenty-five minutes to cook verses five to ten, but other than that it’s all the same to me. One part steel cut oats to three parts water cooked until tender, add raisins and/or dates, add milk for preferred consistency, and brown sugar or maple syrup for preferred sweetness, and viola!
I put three tablespoons of oatmeal into a bowl for Sophia and offered her some on her spoon. She pushed the spoon away. Oh no you don’t, you’re going to at the very least try a bite you little shit. I know many people insist that all things should be pleasant joyful experiences for kids. Everything from eating to toilet training is supposed to be made into a ‘fun game’, but at some point I want my kid to try new stuff and she just isn’t doing it on her own. One stupid bite that’s all I want. If she doesn’t like it that’s fine, we can go back to the standby and try it again another time, but just take a fucking bite!
Holding her arms down I used a heat seeking missile spoon to find an opening somewhere around the mouth area. She turned her head back and forth, looked at the ceiling and fought it off until the spoon found it’s perfect opportunity. She paused. She chewed. I readied another spoonful and this time her mouth was wide open. I knew you’d like it you stubborn little shit.
After coming back from Christmas vacation, I tried another oatmeal like breakfast food with Sophia. I learned of it in the “What to Expect When you’re Expecting” book that a friend gave to me, it’s called Morning Muesli, or just Muesli.
Mix all the ingredients together and enjoy. I make mine the night before so the oats absorb most of the moisture and I wind up adding more milk. I don’t add the fresh fruit until it’s time to serve.
DUTCH BABIES:
INGREDIENTS
DIRECTIONS
Dust with powdered sugar and serve with warm maple syrup and wedges of lemon
Or pour on clarified butter, sprinkle on lemon juice and dust with powdered sugar
OR dust with powdered sugar and serve with strawberries and whip cream on top
Serves 2
When I make this for Sophia I only use enough butter to coat the pan, I leave off all the sugary parts and just top it with frozen fruit that I’ve warmed up. I’ve tried to make this with wheat flour, but it just doesn’t come out the same.
Yesterday I heard a commercial that began with, “If money could talk, what would it say?” I don’t know what the commercial was for but I heard that as I came down the stairs and answered the question without skipping a beat as if the TV could hear me, “I’m covered in cocaine and feces.”
On Black Friday Kurt and I went out to run some errands one of which was to grab some lunch. We didn’t want to drive far to get something to eat, so our choices were limited. After running through the list and not hearing anything that really struck a chord, Kurt jokingly suggested McDonald’s. “The McRib is back on the menu.” He said in mock cheer. Kurt, as with most people that know me at all fully would expect one of my famous sneers which very clearly convey, “What are you fucking retarded?” That’s not what he got.
I avoid chain restaurants especially ones that have a drive-thru. That doesn’t mean I never get dragged to them or even that I don’t go voluntarily on occasion. I just avoid them. Thanks to their attempts at trying to offer healthy options, I can usually find something to pick at. I sheepishly told Kurt that I actually like the McRib. I know it’s something that most people only confess to their priests, rabbis, or other equivalent. It’s my deep dark secret. I like the McRib, and I ordered one with extra pickles. Apparently, their idea of extra pickles and my idea of extra pickles don’t match up. I think I need to go back and order the way I used to, “I want a cheese burger with extra pickles. No, scratch that. I want a pickle burger with a meat patty and cheese. Yes, I want everything on it. And don’t forget the pickles.”
Sophia had a couple fries, but we brought with us a banana and some bread for her. She can’t finish a whole banana so Kurt and I took turns taking bites of the other half. Each time I took a bite of the yellow phallic symbol Kurt would say, “That’s a girl”. I glared at him. Kurt offered me the last bite and as I leaned in, he took the banana away. “You BANANA tease!”
Kurt: How did you remember about the pumpkin?
Erica: Huh? What pumpkin?
Kurt: On your blog.
I was still confused.
Kurt: The pumpkin carving, I just read about that.
Erica: OH! You didn’t remember that?
Kurt: No, I read your blog post and got to the part about, “we can’t show each other till weren’t done.” And I thought, that really does sound like me, so I kept reading. When you got to the part about turning the pumpkins around at the same time, I thought,
[Kurt raised his fists to the side of his head and made them tremble excitedly side to side as he said the next line.]
Kurt: “oh my gosh, I wonder what I carved.”
Erica: Are you kidding me? You really didn’t remember? Do you remember carving “Kurtie [hearts] Erica” on the metal railing at Grand Coulee Damn?
Kurt: I defiled government property?
I’m not the girly girl romantic type. As a matter a fact, I don’t think I’m girly at all. I can appreciate the sentiment behind a bouquet of flowers, but I’ve never demanded, begged or other wise hinted for anyone to send me any. I have a few treasured pieces of jewelry such as the one pair of earrings that I have worn since I was fifteen, but again I don’t get sparkles in my eyes as I pass by stores nor do I become envious of people dripping in ice. I just don’t care. It’s not my bag.
I’m not a big shopper. I don’t mind going to stores, but I never buy anything. I don’t wear makeup and I don’t keep up with any sort of fashion. Upon returning to work from maternity leave, one of the guys congratulated me on my “mom pants”. I knew he was being a little shit, but I thought he was insinuating that my pants looked like a sausage casing that I had been stuffed into. I wear I size six. Even if just after maternity leave I was bursting at my size six seems, nobody could honestly look at me and say I was fat, so I protested. “These are the same pants I’ve worn since high school.” He had to explain that “mom pants” had to do with the long pants zipper, not weight. Whatever, I don’t do fashion. I don’t like the show-off-your-belly pants, and I certainly wouldn’t couple the fuck-me-tattoo across the small of the back with the ass-crack-and-thong-display pants. I used to wear super short shorts in high school (as in wore it to school) and then wear a pullover top that was barely longer than my shorts. I was asked on a regular basis if I was wearing any pants underneath, and if I moved in a certain way the bottom of my bottom could be seen, so I’m not judging anyone’s fashion. I’m just sayin’ I had my own twisted sense of style.
Until I met Kurt I really didn’t care for kissing or cuddling. No, that isn’t a euphemism for something else. If I meant to say fucking, I would say FUCKING. MYGOD you really didn’t like kissing or cuddling? No, no I didn’t. And no, I’ve never been raped so spare me the wealth of Dr. Phil-isms and other such things that pass for psychology knowledge.
The first fall season Kurt and I were together, I went over to his apartment one night and he wanted to go buy pumpkins to carve into jack-o-lanterns. Really? Huh, ok. We walked across the street to the grocery store and picked out a couple of pumpkins. It was our eighth month together. My one girly trait is that I knew after four months that he was “the one”. I waited for him to indicate he felt the same because I knew if I said anything too soon I’d scare him off.
We took our pumpkins back to his kitchen and laid out newspaper for the ensuing mess (not that type of mess my twisted little monkeys). I had only carved a pumpkin once before so I didn’t really know what I was doing. Mr. engineering spreadsheet ruler and protractor fanatic went to town laying out his secret design. I followed suit and started with the typical triangle eyes. I turned my pumpkin around to face Kurt for design approval. “No,” he said, “we can’t show each other till weren’t done.” I turned my triangle eyed pumpkin head around again. I continued with my basic, very traditional toothy grinning pumpkin face and finished long before Kurt with all of his precise measurements. It was obvious that he was doing something much more elaborate than I had. I had no clue what type of decoration he was doing, but is was freehand, so sight unseen I was impressed. He finally finished his masterpiece and asked if I was ready to turn mine around. We turned our pumpkins around to show each other at the same time. He didn’t do a face at all! He wrote, “Kurt + Erica”. He didn’t actually tell me he loved me until after we’d been together for a year, but I knew.
Last night Kurt and I were watching one of George Carlin’s old comedy acts. I’ve seen them all before. I’m a huge fan of Uncle George and was in a odd daze for a couple days after his death. Kurt thought that he had found an act that we hadn’t seen yet, but it turned out he simply didn’t rate it on Netflix. It didn’t matter. I love Carlin. I may not laugh at every bit like I used to, but I appreciate and enjoy it just the same. The comedy bit we heard last night had the seven dirty words skit plus three add on words and an informative history of the word fuck. It turns out, according to Uncle George, that the word fuck in old English originally mean to hit something as with a stick. It has somehow morphed into a sexual word. Some people combine sex and violence as Uncle George acknowledges, but it seems odd to marry the two with one word, unless describing a specific act. Towards the end of his fuck tirade he says,
“The person who thought up the slogan, ‘Make Love, Not War,’ . . . his job was over that day. He could’ve retired at that moment. If it would’ve been me, I would’ve walked away. So long, I’m goin’ to the beach. You guys work it out.”
“Now I have a slogan, too. It’s not as euphonious. It doesn’t roll off the tongue. It’s ‘Make Fuck, Not Kill.’ Substitute the word ‘fuck’ for the word ‘kill’ in all of our writings. I’d love to see it. Just for awhile. Just for a year or so. And we would change.”
He gives some examples of the switched words like, “my horse broke his leg, guess I have to fuck him now”.
Another comedian I like to watch is Jeff Dunham. He’s a ventriloquist with several puppets. My favorite is Achmed the Dead Terrorist. Achmed is easily upset by audiences that laugh at jokes told about him and will say, “Silence! I kill you!” Except that it sounds like, “I keel you!” which is what we currently yell at our cat when he sits just outside our wide-open bedroom door and meows incessantly. Thanks to the two comedians, we’ve decided it might be more effective if we yell, “Silence! I fuck you!” as our threat to the cat.
We also decided that instead of yelling, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you” when we’re upset at each other or the cat we shall kill and then fuck. It seems only humane.
