The Lube Log

 For years, I have battled my husband on the yearly Christmas gift exchange. At first, it started out great, as it does for many couples. He was an excellent gift giver when we were dating, which is fascinating, because we were in high school and college. We were young and poor, yet he showered me with thoughtful jewelry and clothes I actually liked. A turtleneck in my favorite color. A coat! (I love coats). A CHI straightener! A CHI blow dryer, because I love my straightener so much and look how well it lasted (and both still going strong). 

Over the years, I told him not to get me anything, and those years I truly meant it. We got to the point where we bought the things we needed, especially me, who is constantly buying things I don’t need. I don’t really wear jewelry. We started sharing experiences like tickets to football games and saying “this is our Christmas present” and it’s all good.

But, as holiday shopping started to feel more like work, around the time we had kids and our siblings started having kids, and I literally had to start tracking things on a master spreadsheet every year and he stopped doing the wrapping, I started to get a little irritated with the arrangement. 

It’s not that I need anything, it’s just that for once, I would like to be surprised. You get to a point in your life where no one literally surprises you about anything anymore. Every gift I get I either buy for myself or have sent in a detailed list to someone else. And it’s great to get exactly what I want. But sometimes...just sometimes...you miss being surprised. At least I do. Or the act of someone being thoughtful and picking out something you like without you expressly telling them, “please go get this at Nordstrom in size large, black, thanks.”

So, for a couple of years, I have asked him to get me something small.

“Let’s do stocking stuffers,” I would say. “It doesn’t have to be expensive, just something thoughtful that you would think I would like.”

So one year he got a nice curated box of mini bottles of scotch.

I got nothing.

Another year he got some nice bar soap and shaving products in a scent I thought he would like.

I got nothing.

Kristin Wiig’s Christmas morning SNL skit was on that year and I may have mentioned that I didn’t even get the fucking discount robe. 

Last year, I commissioned his uncle to build him a beautiful chess table and he gave me a wonderful gift card to a spa where I had gotten a massage the year before. I was genuinely surprised. 

And, shit head that I am, still have not used it to this day. 

Touche’

This year we agreed on Endzone Club tickets to a Cyclone game but of course, Josh checked in with me to make sure I had no additional expectations.

“So we are good, right? We aren’t getting each other presents?” he asked.

“I did get you a stocking stuffer a while ago. I would like you to try to get me something small,” I said. I had been dropping hints for two years that I need new, updated perfume and I would be ok with him picking it out. That has yet to happen and I have given up on that. But I did think of something the other night.

After my arms were exceptionally sore from a workout, Josh was trying to give me a back massage and it was not as great as it could be with my dry winter skin. He grabbed some lotion and it was definitely better, but it gave me an idea.

“Why don’t you pick out some nice massage oil for my stocking stuffer this year?” I asked. 

Josh’s mind already somewhere else. “Oh yeah…?”

“Well I mean it can be that too, but also some that smells nice. Like for actual massages. I don’t want KY slathered all over my back, but I don’t want it smell like dirty hippie either. There has to be something and I want you to find it,” I said.

Josh said he would. I came home last night and he was looking on his phone while the mac and cheese was boiling and proudly announced he was “ordering my Christmas present.” 

“That’s not really how it’s supposed to work,” I said, nodding toward the kids.

“Well don’t be opening any strange packages,” Josh said.

Fair point, 95% of the boxes that came to the house were of my doing so I opened just about all of them, but I would recognize if one was not to me.

“Am I going to be able to open this present in front of the kids on Christmas morning?” I ask, anxiety creeping in.

“Hmm..should be fine…” Josh says.

The next day, I’m on a call with my boss and the doorbell rings. 

Strange, I think. I’m not expecting a package today. I diligently track everything I buy and knew nothing was coming today. Also people normally don’t drop by in our neighborhood. I figured it might be one of Josh’s mystery boxes, so I disconnected with my boss and ran downstairs to open the door.

On my doorstep was what I can only describe as a WalMart wrapped phallus with a JPick sticker on it. I could see it was bright orange bottle wrapped in a WalMart plastic bag, secured with a rubber band. I picked up and read Durex and I thought, “oh my god that bastard bought me a bottle of lube.”

To be fair, it’s massage oil that can be used as lube, which is what we discussed as a possibility but it’s a little hard to not feel like a deviant holding a WalMart bottle of lube on your front door step knowing this is your Christmas present, and that some poor asshole had to deliver this to you.

Remembering this I hasten inside and put it on the island to go back to work, trying not to think about my merry bottle of Christmas spirit, trying to reconcile this gift in my head. I mean, lube is really the ultimate love gift right? It’s truly the gift of giving. It says so many things and they are all wonderful.

“I know it takes a while for you to get going, but I also know you want to go to sleep, and I also want to get this done, so we can hurry this along and both win. Here's some lube.”

“Listen, your engine doesn’t quite run the way it used to but I still love you and we are going to push through it. Hand me the lube”

“Neither one of us is really feeling sexy after this pizza roll and busch light dinner but this baby isn’t going to make itself… Lube me up.”

Josh comes home for lunch and I come downstairs as he’s finishing up his brisket. We chitchat about our wine advent calendar and dinner that night and finally I can’t take it anymore.

“Are we going to talk about what is on the kitchen island?” I ask.

Josh raises his eyebrows in question, then turns and looks to where the package is standing erect. 

“What is that?” he asks.

“I think it’s my Christmas present. Don’t worry, I didn’t open it, just like you told me,” I snicker.

“Oh my god, they brought it like this?” Josh said, looking at it through the plastic. “I hope they don’t bring the other ones like this.”

“Sweet Jesus there’s more?!” I scream. “Santa is the one who is supposed to be bringing this stuff, remember? Why does it have to look like a gigantic orange penis? At least I didn’t have to look at the poor soul who had to deliver it to me.”

“They probably wanted to get the hell out of here. They didn’t want to stick around to see why someone got next day delivery on this lube,” Josh said. 

And so we continue our lunch conversation around our Christmas tree and Santa cookie jar, and the jokes got more progressively low brow. And I’m reminded that my husband, and his blunders, are really the best gifts of all, and they give all year round. 

Klein Family Vacations

 A lot of families take annual vacations at a minimum. As I have grown up, I have come across countless people in  my life who list “travel” as a passion and priority. New parents are excited to back their infants on a plane and camping trips because they “want to teach their kids to be good travelers.”

This idea is somewhat foreign to me. While moving around the country has forced me to expand my horizons and fly with an infant, it never felt natural or desired. I do want to travel more but we never seem to make the money or the time happen. And, even getting out the door to go to the park with my kids makes me consider embracing agoraphobia as a full time lifestyle. 

Since it’s popular to blame your parents for all of your shortcomings, I’m going to point a big arrow at my childhood on this one. My first time on a plane was when I was 17, for my boyfriend’s (now husband’s) family vacation. I got to go along because apparently my husband was unpleasant to deal with on previous family vacations, and his family agreed that if I went along, he might not be such a crab ass. I think this went well, but his sisters made a lot of noise about exactly how happy he was that I was along, since they had to share a room with our teenage hormones. Josh and I in one bed, his sisters in the other. It’s all very exaggerated, on their part.

My family did not travel. We did not take vacations, much to my mother’s dismay. There are several reasons for this, either express or implied. I shall list the facts but also my assumptions here. 

1. My dad is a farmer, and livestock doesn’t really stop eating because you wanted to go get drunk on a beach. There is no PTO. Actually, the opposite, you have to pay someone to do your work while you are gone.  So arranging someone to do your chores is an extra expense and a giant pain in the ass.

2. Money was tight when I was a kid. My parents raised three kids on a single income during the farm crisis. 

3. When we were older my siblings were in every sport, so every weekend was a basketball tournament, a baseball or softball tournament.

4. Assumption time: My parents are indoorsy. They do not hunt, fish or swim, and a lot of vacations I heard about included hiking, swimming, boating, or walking around at a wildly hot and expensive amusement park. All things my parents are not into. Plus, my dad gets motion sickness very easily, so I thought he was scared to fly. 

Despite all of these reasons, we did take one family vacation. When I was about five years old, we went to Des Moines.

Now even if you are not a jetsetter, you might be aware that Des Moines is not a hot tourist destination unless you are in about a five hour driving radius, which we most certainly were. For a relatively short trip, this was quite the undertaking, even to my young eyes. My brother would have been about eight, my sister seven. While we all fit comfortably in my mom’s Gran Torino (no car seats) my parents did not yet have a minivan, so they rented a giant club van specifically for this trip. 

Man, that thing was sweet, especially to a young child who doesn’t associate vans with creepy and evil things yet. We could sit in all different places and not be near each other and the back of the van folded down to a bed. There were so many cupholders and air vents, where my mom’s Gran Torino mostly sported ashtrays. 

In addition to the van, we “rented” a babysitter. I was a little confused by this at the time, but now that I’m an adult, it makes total sense. My parents were taking us to crowded and public places and that was very foreign to all of us. So, they hired a sitter to have an extra set of hands and also so they could do some activities by themselves. 

Despite the large size of the van, we managed to pack it to the gills. I remember the trip being very long (though it was probably only three hours) and being very worried about the rosary thing. The “rosary thing” was the fact that every trip longer than 10 miles meant we had to pray the rosary as a family, dictated by my father. And every trip I silently willed my dad to forget. He never did. But I was also worried because our babysitter went to the public school and I never saw him in church. The rosary was not just a thing you could suffer in silence. No no. You were called upon to make an “intention”, meaning something we were praying for. In the car, you would think, of course, we are praying for safe travel. But no, this was already implied, my dad was all about the extra credit church, extra credit prayers, and extra credit intentions. 

Since my intention of “praying that we don’t have to pray the rosary” clearly didn’t work, I didn’t put a lot of passion into my intentions. I was the youngest and was always called upon first. I usually muttered something about harvest when it was clearly spring, and my dad would correct me and say, “you mean a good planting season?” and five year old me is like “Uh...yeah sure…” Being thankful for something or another was normally a crowd pleaser, but in that moment I wasn’t feeling super thankful about not being able to do my Lisa Frank activity book.

For my poor babysitter’s sake, I was worried his turn would come and he wouldn’t know what to do. But I don’t remember this being an issue. He was probably too busy thinking about how he ended up in a van with some Jesus freaks. 

I’m not sure what the focus of this vacation was for my parents, but Adventureland was the goal for us. We had a great time at Adventureland, and this is where our babysitter showed his true worth. My brother wanted to go on some rowdy rides and my motion sick dad was not interested. So the babysitter took my brother on those rides. My dad did venture to the teacups with me, but came so close to throwing up on me he grabbed the center console and forbade me from spinning the little cup around. My mom rode with my sister, and they twirled by merrily as I awkwardly sat watching my dad breathe deeply. 

Some other highlights from the Des Moines trip: Dad got lost on the way back to our condo, which resulted in us driving around rural Iowa in the middle of the night, low on gas, before smartphones. What should have been a 40 minute drive took three hours in the middle of the night, driving around rural Iowa. My sister and I were trying to sleep on that sweet fold down bed, but my brother was very nervous. My parents were playing the part of classic 80s parents. No concerns. My mom kept poking fun at my dad and he kept saying “I think there’s some dairy farmers here, if nothing else they wake up early and maybe we can get some gas from their farm tank.”

They were totally serious by the way, this was the solution. No map, just relying on the kindness of strangers. It was probably a more prudent time to whip out that rosary, but I wasn’t bringing it up, but by some miracle we didn’t have to ask for, we made it back to the condo at 1 am. 

He also got lost on the golf course with my mom the next day. I guess at some point he could not take it any longer. Somehow, he got news from home that a lady from church died, so he felt compelled to go to the funeral. He got a call that he was asked to be a pallbearer at the funeral, so being the resourceful man my dad CAN be, he called a neighbor who was a dispatcher for a local trucking company and hitched a ride with a trucker to catch that funeral. I guess the thought of a lopsided coffin was unsettling but leaving his kids on family vacation? Totally fine. 

Dad and my brother hitched a ride with a trucker who happened to be my cousin’s roommate. Small world. 

And that….was the only family vacation we have taken...Until now. 

Every year at some point my mom would bring up how we never have gone on a vacation and she’s always wanted to. They had traveled here and there but we never had as a family. So this year, for their 40th anniversary, we decided to make it happen. We asked my parents where they wanted to go, and Dad randomly said, “Montana.” 

It was not what we were expecting. When you think Montana, you think beautiful mountains, crystal clear lakes, fishing, hunting, and bears. Not something I imagined for my parents but my dad said he wanted to see Yellowstone. My husband blurted out that his family had taken a trip there when he was young. Then he offered to drive my parents there, stopping to see Mount Rushmore, essentially reliving his childhood vacation. 

This surprised me because I’ve heard of this vacation. The Yellowstone trip is one of the reasons his parents chanced teenage pregnancy to allow me to crash their future vacations. My husband's family, being more frequent on their family vacations, loaded down their own minivan and skipped the hired help. However, while my mother in law is in the driveway with her three kids, my father in law manufactures a “farm emergency” and says he can’t go on the trip. 

My mother-in-law elects to go without him. But they stay married, which is a credit to her. 

Then the long, lonely trek across South Dakota, which apparently did not impress the teenage Josh, who complained about just seeing “rocks and trees” until they hit Sturgis. In the days before the Internet, it was easy to overlook that the family vacation intersected with the Sturgis Biker Rally. To hear my mother in law tell it, my husband’s face was pressed up against the glass drooling over all of the bikes, and leather clad, pierced ladies. My husband says that’s an exaggeration, but I suspect some truth. His favorite shirt, to this day, is his 1997 Sturgis shirt. The sleeves are cut off, the black has faded to some green tinged gray, and there’s holes in it. So..something happened to my young, impressionable Josh, because it isn’t the beauty of this trashy looking shirt. 

So, in the tradition of National Lampoon, we are re-creating this trip, with my two kids and my parents. There’s been a lot of prep done. Routes drawn, luggage racks installed, smart devices loaded. I know it will be rough at times, but I know it will be memorable and hopefully no one leaves early. A pause on all old lady deaths would probably make this a sure thing, and my sister in law is now the dispatcher at that same trucking company, and I’m telling her to screen her calls.   

College Game Day
     I love fall. It took me moving to Houston to realize that. When I was young, I thought of fall in all the negative ways: going back to school, the closing of the pool, leaves dying and the weather getting cold, hinting at the coming brutality of winter. “Winter is Coming” is not only for the Starks. In Iowa, it’s also a thing.

     But, as I’m older, these things are all still true, but I see them differently. College was great, and fall meant tailgating at football games with friends. Even though I was a lifeguard, I never had a pool body, so the pool closing gave me a reprieve to that about that pool body I’d get “next year” as I fill up a second bowl of chili. And that cold weather, well I learned to appreciate those nice cool dry days that aired out the humid swamp ass of August, and allowed me to fully embrace my basic white girl ways, because I like a Pumpkin Spice Latte every now and then. And my plaid blanket scarf and outerwear game is on point.

     When I lived in Houston, I realized all of these things. Around September and October, I would be looking at my friends’ Facebook pages, seeing them opening windows and talking about crock pot chili, and I’m thinking “We still at over 100 degrees and over 80% humidity, I don’t think we’ve ever opened our windows. Chili sounds like the worst thing ever right now.”

     Another reason fall holds a special place in my heart is that a lot of major events in my life have happened when the leaves start to turn. Josh and I started dating in late October, and last year we had our little pumpkin in October. So, in the past couple of years, these cool temps make me feel new again.

     It’s opening day of Iowa State football, and just most college teams in general have their first game today. Josh won’t ever say it, but I think this is his favorite day of the year. It’s like his Christmas, he’s full of innocent childlike optimism, talking about saving money for a trip to bowl game, running wires through our house so we can watch the game on the deck, and smiling when I dressed our son in a ISU football onsie. We try to save the money, knowing full well Iowa State will shit the bed again. Iowa State’s football program often goes the way my pool body goes…glimmers of hope, but not really taking off. So that money will likely turn into flights to Omaha for Christmas, but it’s cute to see Josh so restless, randomly throwing out a wish list for this year. “I really hope the offense can get it together this year.” “We got some new recruits that should really make some plays.”

     Of course I share the excitement. I suggested holding a BBQ, which is our normal mode of celebration, but Josh doesn’t want to be distracted during the game. Bitches still gotta eat though, so I bought some ribs and gave him a time that I wanted them ready, just the three of us. I am cleaning the whole house, every window is open, and I spent a good 20 minutes picking out the right microbrewed ales to try this weekend.  Right now I’m drinking a special birthday edition of Shiner’s Cold Brew Ale, because it’s technically part coffee, and it’s not quite noon yet.

     I think it’s all more fun because we have our son to pass this along to. Josh really wants to take him to a game this year, but I'm being a realist about him staying even remotely still for 4 hours. We have his little ISU umbrella chair all set up in the backyard, and hopefully he can stay awake long enough to watch a quarter and not be a monster.

     Suck it, Panthers.

The Orange Dream

Those who know me well know I don’t like to share things, especially food or drink. I know where I get it. My mom gets flaming mad when my dad declines a drink or a dessert, but then takes a bite or drink of hers. You said you didn’t want any, she would hiss. Why are you taking MINE?

I used to be annoyed by this, but I find myself glaring as Josh takes a sip of my wine after I’ve offered to pour him his own glass. Also, I may offer my coworkers some of my afternoon popcorn, and though I willingly dole some out, I’m dying inside. Yes, I want this whole damn bag to myself. I know how good it smells, that’s one of the reasons I made it.

I grew up with a sister who probably feels the same to this day, as we were often encouraged to share a lot of things, though it often didn’t end well. For Anna’s birthday, she had the Birthday Barbie on her cake. Birthday Barbie’s pretty pink dress went up in flames from the candles (from that old bitches’ entire eight candles, am I right?), and my perfectionist sister desperately tried to trim the scorch marks off her dress, but couldn’t get it even enough and her altered dress looked kind of trashy, even to my careless eyes. But, I still wanted that Barbie, and was encouraged to share.

But, one month later my birthday came, and my Birthday Barbie sat pristinely on top of my unlit cake. My sister, consumed with envy, convinced me to trade her. I think the deal was that I actually wanted to play with my Barbie (shocker I know) whereas hers would be on display in her room like the collector’s item it was. Weirdo.

Anyway, I’m obviously still a little sore about how that whole sharing thing went down. Sharing doesn’t sit well with me.

There are things I knew would come with motherhood, such as my child bursting into the bathroom while I’m doing my business, or attempting to tone down my sailor mouth, but I didn’t think these things would happen so soon. The bathroom thing has already happened numerous times, thanks to the shitty construction of our house, the doors don’t really latch and even my nine-month old crawler can push the door open. As for the sailor mouth, well…using the word “shitty” is an improvement.

On Jim Gaffigan’s “Fried Bread” segment, he talks about eating in his car so he doesn’t have to share with his kids. I thought this might happen when Liam was around aged five, but already, it’s an issue. I splurged on a big box of Blue Bunny Orange Dream bars. Not my favorite treat but hey, 70 calories a bar. It’s been hot and humid for over a week straight and a couple of nights ago I needed an Orange Dream. Of course, Josh wanted a bite, and I encouraged him to get his own goddamn Orange Dream. To which he whispered to for me to watch my mouth. To which I glared at him and politely told him to get his own Orange Dream. He did and offered some to Liam, as we have been instructed to give him whatever we are eating, though I doubt the doctor meant to give him frozen sugar snacks. Which, by the way, feeding a child causes you to face the harsh reality of the garbage you eat.

Liam tentatively put his mouth on the treat, was shocked by the cold and pulled away. Then he tasted the sugar and his face totally changed. As he pulled his little face back to the Orange Dream, I’m like, yep, this is my kid.

I watch this go down and think it’s cute, until two days later when I’m home alone and grab an Orange Dream. I sit on the couch and see Liam lock eyes on it, frozen, with a little toy in his hand. He instantly starts crawling towards me, pulls himself up to standing and puts his hand on my knee and politely opens his mouth, ready for me to share with him. Clearly this has made an impression.

Dammit Josh, this is your fault, I think. He’s so cute. How can I say no? I share my Orange Dream with him. He can’t really chew it yet, but more just slobbers all over it, which secretly grosses me out. I let him mouth it a little bit and throw it away.

Then I go the kitchen and quietly go to the freezer to get one that I can have all to myself. I’m about to close the freezer door when I pause and peek around the door to see Liam has followed me and is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, stuck behind the baby gate. He is zeroed in. He knows what I’m doing. I duck behind the open freezer door and open the Orange Dream and eat it as he makes angry little noises. It’s mean, I know. Part of me is telling myself that I really don’t want to get him hooked on sugar too early, like I am. This is completely true, but also I really just don’t want to share, if we are being really honest here.

Well, guess I’m not winning that mother of the year award, I think. Though, I’m pretty sure I lost my shot at that when I went to his nine month checkup, hung over, in yoga pants, which no makeup and unbrushed hair. To be fair, it was after our first night out without Liam the night before. Why did I agree to an eight am Sunday morning appointment? Of course, my sister told me that doctors respect those Moms actually care enough to show up to their kid’s checkups, so I get a little credit there. I guess I can forgive her for that Barbie thing.

I guess I’m going to have to get used to sharing. But maybe not yet, as I start to play peek-a-boo with Liam around the freezer door and he forgets his rage. The next day, I see a sign on the daycare door that Hand Foot and Mouth disease is going around, and I feel vindicated.

Sorry kid, get your own goddamn Orange Dream.

The Birth Story

Here I am, nine months pregnant. It doesn’t seem real. Me, pregnant, about to pop any second, with a human, that I made on purpose. Well I guess it does seem a little real, that fart I just ripped is real (there’s no containing it these days), my acid reflux is real, that kick in my cervix is definitely really…unpleasant. I always thought that if I were pregnant, I would be writing about every single magical or horrifying day. I even bought two Kate Spade Journals to chronicle it all since I have a bad habit of writing things and not finishing them or posting them. Well, it appears my bad habit is just not writing these days at all. I have maybe three entries in that cute little Kate Spade journal?

I wanted to give a real account of what it was like to be pregnant, that was my original plan. You never hear a real account anymore, or at least I felt like I never did. I find generally two types of mothers who will tell me things. There are the horror story mothers, who make up the majority of my mother-in-law and her six sisters. You hear terrible shit like, “I rolled over too quickly in bed and pissed myself.” Or “I felt like I had a bowling ball between my knees the last month.” My personal favorite came from my sister in law (what is it with my husband’s family?) who said she almost killed her husband when he commented the large laundry pile and said that every time she bent to put clothes in the dryer, it felt like her vagina was going to fall out. I think she also asked him how would he like to have his dick hurt for nine months?

The other type of mother is the one who must love her children so much she sees all this unpleasantness through rose colored glasses. My mother is this type. She would tell me all the time that “it wasn’t that bad” or “I don’t really remember” and that she wasn’t really uncomfortable. I suspected her of being a dirty liar because I knew she wanted grandchildren. I saw the pictures of when she had my sister, the ten pound monster baby. Mom looked like she swallowed a beach ball. She still looked beautiful, but not comfortable in the slightest.

I guess I went into my pregnancy with the worst of expectations and I found myself pleasantly surprised. I got nauseous in the afternoons but never threw up. I got a little tired but that’s pretty much my default state anyway. I love a good nap. I thought giving up alcohol would kill me, but it didn’t. I thought I would gain an enormous amount of weight, another default setting of mine, but it’s been in check despite my efforts to eat as much chips and chocolate as possible. I’m at 37 weeks and can still pick up things off the floor with minimal discomfort. I just did some laundry and my vagina is still in place, I’ve had no swelling in my hands or feet. I’m still wearing my wedding rings and my already size ten feet did not grow another size. Other than the heartburn and fatigue, I have to sometimes remind myself that I’m pregnant. Except when I have to turn over in bed, then I feel like a land monster.

So imagine my surprise at my last appointment when my doctor said I likely wasn’t going to make it to October 2^nd, my due date, because the baby’s head was “very low.” I had mentally prepared myself to go over by a week or so, meaning I would have about a month left. I had heard it was common in first time pregnancies. I thought I would be one of those women who would tell her friends, “I was like, get this baby out of me.” And I still could be, the jury is still out on that. Selfishly, I just want to make it past my hair appointment tomorrow. My roots are out of control. After that, bring it on. I’m not in a huge hurry, I’m not miserable; I’m just kind of bored with being pregnant. I’m tired of waiting.

So, I have made the decision that I’m not going to drive myself crazy thinking I could go anytime. I’m not going to be on pins and needles, I’m not going to sequester myself in to the house. I’m not going to go and find a bumpy field and drive over the rows. I can’t do that anyway, I would have to go too far to find a field around here and there are still crops in them.

No, I’m not going to do any of those things. I’m going to go about my business with the hospital bag packed.

I’m currently working from home, because I feel the most pregnant and uncomfortable when I’m commuting into the city. Especially in 90 degree heat and humidity. I saw that my favorite autumn squash soup is back at Panera Bread so despite the weather, I decided to go there for lunch today. While there, I got an email from my husband confirming he’s going to have friends over for poker tonight. I’m totally good with that, I tell him to golf and do all this stuff while he can. I asked him since I was out and about, did he need me to pick anything up at the store for him? He replied he would like some Baby Daddy beer at the liquor store down the street from where I was. This aptly named beer is his new favorite.

I went to the liquor store and walked the aisles. Before I was pregnant and even early on, I still did the alcohol shopping after grocery shopping. But, in the past few months, Josh had taken to making his own beer runs on his way home from work, so it had been a while before I had been in a liquor store. I couldn’t find this damn beer. I paced and paced down the cooler, remembering that my doctor told me that walking could get my labor going. I stopped when I felt a twinge. Oh. Shit. Nope, it’s gone. I think it was just a mild cramp, but then a thought occurred to me, what if my water breaks in here? Oh god, wouldn’t that be the trashiest birth story? The kind of story that would make my friends and family roll their eyes and say, of course, her water would break there. And I will insist, “no, I was getting beer for Josh, I haven’t been there in months!” And no one would believe me. The only thing worse is if I was at a gun show, which is the first thing my husband thought of a future father/son activity when he found out we were having a boy.

I remembered that Josh said they didn’t seem to restocking his favorite beers so I grabbed a backup brand he liked and got the hell out of there. On my way home, I had a thought: at some point, this thing is going to happen. The biggest thing in my life. And then it will be the birth story, the story I tell my son and my family when they ask. And it could have started in a freaking liquor store. And it’s a separate thing in New Jersey, they don’t sell alcohol at grocery stores here. I can’t fudge my way through it and say I was just there picking up pickles and ice cream or some cute shit like that. Nope, I was buying my husband a beer called Baby Daddy. A beer with an abnormally high alcohol content. That’s how our family rolls, junior.

It’s a lot of pressure. I mean, my son isn’t going to want to hear what could possibly happen. “Well honey, my doctor told me your head was just behind my cervix, and she told me to go home, walk around, and have sex. And I didn’t really feel like walking, but your dad did a hell of a job.” Or, “I was trying for the second time to get skunk spray smell off the dog and then my water broke as I was bending over the tub.” (Also a true story, our dog got sprayed by a skunk last week and he still smells pretty funky, and we are kind of “waiting it out”).

I mean, not that any child really asks this, but it’s not like we got pregnant in a real classy way. “Well son, it was a snowy weekend in January and we decided to go see the Revenant. I really like Leonardo DiCaprio and your dad wanted to see what this bear attack was all about. I snuck three little bottles of wine in the theater for your father and I to share but he was so wrapped up in the movie that I drank all three. Then we had you.”

I guess whatever way it happens isn’t important, just that it happens and everything goes well. I’ll tell myself that as my hair is in foils this weekend. It’s just interesting that everything I think is going to happen never does. I always thought that my water would break at some convenient time in the middle of the night, and I would gently wake Josh and we would make a smooth, short drive to the hospital together. But now I’m realizing it can happen anytime, anywhere, and we could be sitting in rush hour traffic going into the city. Or I might have to shake Josh out of one of his Baby Daddy induced deep sleeps and then I will have to explain the bruises to the nurses…

Ok. Now I’m officially freaking myself out. I’m going to go drink some iced tea and take a bath.

Better in Bulk

     For those of you who have been following my Facebook posts, you will notice that I recently made a wise investment in a rather large case of “Kirkland Light Beer”, a cleverly named light lager for the thrifty deadbeat dad who might still want to maintain his “peaked in high school” physique. That is, by the way, my favorite Rob Lowe.

     While I like a lot of things about living on the East Coast, I have made no secret about my misgivings. The main thing is the insanely high cost of living. My co-workers, who all grew up in New England are probably very tired of me talking about how cheap it is to live in Iowa, or how I rented a four bedroom house in Texas for a lot less than my current apartment. We have kicked around the idea of buying, but I can’t stomach buying a 100 year old non-insulated shack for $500,000.

     This all being said, my husband and I both have good jobs. We do fine, but we have to stick to our budget more than we have before. We have a weekly amount we set aside for groceries, and I stick to that amount. I decide what we need for the week and some items might get pushed to next week. Basically, this means weekly trips to Costco to buy a few things, instead of buying a whole bunch of crap when I feel it. Oh, a cube of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese? Some may ask why, I ask why not? Not a good way of thinking, because there are several reasons why not. But a few strong reasons why…

     Costco is great for certain things. We get meat, frozen food, cleaning supplies, paper products, and another items that are non-perishable that we are sure to use, but the main thing I have been getting there lately is their alcohol. Yes, it is at a good price, but there is a large convenience factor. In Massachusetts, you cannot buy beer, liquor, or wine at any grocery store, you have to go to a separate liquor store. And since it is an established fact that my husband and I enjoy our cocktails from time to time, this is kind of a frequent inconvenience. Between Costco, the regular grocery store, the liquor store, and the market where we get our produce (it’s amazing), and any other random items I might need, running errands can take a full day.

     And no, they do not have Wal-Mart here. I know, where can you find all the Wal-Mart creatures? Well here, they are de-centralized, and everywhere. It’s hard not having Wal-Mart. Where can you go to feel a little better about yourself? Well, there are several places I could mention in another post but at the end of this entry, maybe you’ll find yourself behind me in line at Costco.

     In the scheme of wine and spirits retail, Costco is a little bit of a loophole. They have a wine and spirits “section” that is inside the store. So, you go over there and make a separate transaction.

     A couple of weeks ago Josh was accompanying me on my errands, which is rare. We were in Costco strolling around the wine and spirits store and were just about to leave when I saw a box of Irish beers. I pointed it out to him and he shrugged his shoulders, then smiled.

      “I don’t know…It might be a little too classy for us” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want the Kirkland Light Beer?”

       I laughed. “Oh you noticed those?” I said. “I’ve been eyeing those for weeks because I thought they were hilarious, but I kept forgetting to tell you. I’m sure it’s awful.”

      “Um…could be good. The lovely silver packaging and the catchy name…” Josh said sarcastically. Or in a serious tone. I can’t be sure anymore. This is a guy who went through a serious PBR phase in college. I tolerated this for a while, because he was the one buying the beer. But, I drew the line when I woke up one more morning and my stomach felt like it was turning inside out.

      In the end, we decided to splurge and go with the Irish beer collection. We nursed those for a couple of weeks and even make a great beef stew with the Guinness, but last week we were out of beer and I found myself back at Costco getting eggs and turkey bacon. I’m making my rounds in the wine section when I stop then back up a few steps to stare down a silver box of Kirkland Light.

     No, I think, and walk a couple of steps. Then I walk back and contemplate it. It’s one hell of a deal, 48 cans for 21 bucks. It’s like 50 cents a can. I haven’t’ had beer that cheap…ever. Even my first beers snuck at wedding dances in high school were two bucks.

     Don’t do it. My mind says. It’s got to be terrible. You can’t even get a soda for 50 cents and that is made from the cheapest, most unhealthy shit imaginable. This stuff will probably give you cancer. You aren’t in college anymore, what’s the point? This is not the keg shop. This is not a fire sale. You do not know what you are buying.

      Yeah, but how bad can it be? What if it’s surprisingly good? How great would that be? I decide to buy it. If nothing else, I can surprise Josh and we can have a good giggle. I heft the unwieldy box into my cart and stroll to the counter. The kid checking me out is barely 21, so I figure he’s tried it for sure. I mean, he is probably making minimum wage and would be the person this beer is really marketed to, not a childless woman who is pushing 30.

      “So seriously,” I ask. “How bad is this stuff?”

      “I honestly don’t know. I have not tried it,” he says.

      I’m surprised, but I press on. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not great, my expectations are pretty low,” I say. I realize how painfully obvious this must be to the kid, who probably is attending a prestigious school here and has his whole life ahead of him.

      “I’m betting it’s like a Natty Light or something,” he says. Which I feel is fair. I’d like to say it’s been years since I’ve had a Natural product, but I would be lying, unless you are talking about natural like Whole Foods natural. Last year Josh insisted we drink Natural Ice because he had done a cost/benefit analysis on carbs to alcohol content. It was impressive really, how he researched that and made the presentation to me. I kept thinking what a beautiful mix of practicality and white trash principles. There’s a comfort in this. If we ever find ourselves living in a trailer or shanty, it will likely have some ingenious enhancements to it.

      “Anyway,” he continues, “I would likely never get it. I would only get it if I was having a party or something. Those are too many beers for me. I would never be able to drink them all.”

      Ah, instant embarrassment on so many levels and I instinctively lower my head. Because I wasn’t having a party, it was just a normal weekend at home with my husband. I used to be a party throwing kind of a gal, so it’s also sad that I’m not anymore. I realize if this beer is really bad, I can’t just throw it in a cupboard and pawn it off on my friends during a drinking game. Those days are over. I think about confessing this to my young, apparently studious cashier, but I have reached that level of maturity that I can play out these conversations in my head beforehand.

      First I would have to tell him that it’s just me and my husband. Then I would probably tell him that we aren’t crazy boozehounds or anything, but then I would glance three bottles of wine in my cart. Then I would blush and start to stammer about how it’s a lot less than when we were first married and used the kegerator…that we still own…that we registered for in our wedding. I swear we’re not white trash. Oh wait, yeah, I’m still buying this Kirkland Light. But it will probably take a while to drink it. Yeah, we’ll really plug away at it, because we have nothing better to do than sit around and watch ESPN and drink discount beer while our dog barks at the neighbors.

      I have played this all out in my head and have come to the obvious conclusion that nothing I say will really help my “We’re not white trash” case. Some battles you just cannot win. It’s like when one of Josh’s co-worker’s girlfriends moved to Kansas City from California and I was trying my best to convince her we were not white trash. Then Josh sweetly supported my efforts by constantly talking about NASCAR, inviting her to go bowling, and then to a gun show. We went to said gun show. I had to try to explain the entire time that I had never been to a gun show before…even though Josh had…with his dad…when he was junior high. Yeah.

      In any case, I’d been here many times before. I knew were this was headed. Time to get out. I paid for the beer and loaded it in the back of my dirty truck next to a dirty shovel. Damn. Again. I swear I’m not white trash.

      We are still working on the Kirkland Light. While it inevitably pairs well with wings, mild depression and overall failure, it is a lot of beer. We are not in college anymore, nor should we be drinking as such. Josh refers to it as “middle cup beer”, a reference to an old favorite drinking game.

      After a week we still had wine left too, but with another snowstorm coming up, I headed back to good ‘ol Costco tonight. All I needed was some steak and wine for Valentine’s Day. Costco is normally a total cluster fuck on weekends, but Friday nights are tolerable, if you can stand to face the fact that your social life has hit a new low. Tonight, however, I had to park on the end of the massive parking lot by the mountains of snow. The place was packed. I had to wait in line to purchase my sad little package of steaks and then headed to the wine section. Steak and wine. So classy.

      I buzzed through, ignoring the beers and made my way to the counter when I realized it was a complete dead zone in there. There was nobody in the wine and spirits section. Normally I have to wait in a line four people deep.

      I walk up to the cashier, a different kid, but one who looks like he would be more apt to buy Kirkland beer. He and his counterpart were checking out some woman’s ass across the store and not so discreetly making comments about it. So these are my people, I guess. In their defense, this chick did have a pretty great ass.

      Anyway, I say to one of them, “Where the hell is everybody? The parking lot is full but no one is in here. What are these people buying?”

      “Stocking up for the storm,” the kid said

      “Um..yeah, so am I,” I point to my wine. Which, of course, includes Black Box. Hey, it’s won awards.

      The other kid smirked. “Bread and milk,” he says. “The essentials?”

       I have neither in my cart. To be fair, I have them at home. But apparently I’m the only one out of the hundreds of people at Costco who considers wine an essential. Come on, wine and a blizzard? That's how babies are made. I wouldn't know, but I saw that on a Hallmark card once. I’d bet half the people in the store were conceived that way. On a rational level, I realize there many people making their way toward the wine section as I’m thinking this, and this is merely bad timing, but in the moment it makes me feel awkward.

      My cashier bails me out. “It was busy before. It comes in waves.”

      Sure, buddy. Thanks.

      But, I go to the next grocery store and see people almost getting into car accidents as they fight for parking spots, or the lady bringing 50 items to the express lane, or the person who does not even acknowledge or thank me when I hold the door open for them. I think maybe I’m not so trashy. It’s all about perspective. I pick up some grocery store wings and sushi without shame, because some people drink Kirkland Light, some people are Kirkland Light. Which is nasty. Nasty is what it is.

Pulling Pigs

      Since I have last blogged I have lived in two cities, Houston and now Boston. I must say, Boston is very different than any other place I have lived. Most of the cities I have lived in have been in the Midwest. Even Houston has that Midwestern feel to it even though it has a lot of other elements going, from its ethnic diversity and old south undertones. And, in all places, I was never more than 20 minutes from farmland (in Houston I lived in a southern suburb that was very close to the edge of “town”).

     In Boston, that is very different. Everything is different. I pay 40% more rent for less than half the living space I am used to. I take the train into downtown every day and am now part of that sea of people you see on TV hustling to my office. Everything is densely packed together. I could drive west until I get to a “farm.” But it would likely be a country-like estate that has been in this person’s family since 1700 and the farm is just so they can have horses, not grow corn.

I’m sure the type of farm that I grew up on exists in Massachusetts, but I think I would have to drive pretty far.

     Anyway, that’s not to say I don’t like it here. I do. It’s just very different than where I am from. And I just seem to notice that more and more, and I find myself talking about farm life more than I ever have, which is strange, because my contribution to life on the farm was minimal. I bean walked, mowed the lawn, painted fences, and chased in the occasional pig that got out. But, I’ve never loaded or vaccinated hogs, didn’t do “chores”, and never learned to drive a tractor. I can’t even drive stick. Wow, now seeing it here written in black and white, I was pretty worthless as a farmer’s daughter. What a deadbeat.

    Well, in my defense, my domain was mostly in the house with my mom. I helped with the housework, and that, of course, is how I learned to cook so well (thanks Mom). When I was in high school, I typically had one or two jobs.

    But still, I feel the need to talk about the farm and life at home, especially since most of the people I work with grew up in the city, and maybe have only visited a farm on a “field-trip” like excursion. Also, they have admitted to me that they "are not exactly sure where Iowa is", a fact that is giving me wrinkles. So, I have been known around my office to be a teller of “hog stories.” I don’t mean these stories to be particularly humorous, but I guess they come off that way.

     I was telling a story last night over drinks that makes my family sound exceptionally backwoods. I figured, if I ‘m going to play farm girl in a big city, I’m going to celebrate the role.

     My parents married and started a family during the farm crisis. While I don’t remember my parents as struggling or poor, I’m sure my parents worried about finances. I am the youngest of three kids who are very close in age, and my mom stayed home with us until I was about eight or nine, so for a long while, we were all supported solely by my dad’s farm operation.

     I was about four or five, and I was pulled out of my bed in the middle of the night. Us three kids were piled in our Buick and went to “the other place”, my dad’s other farm a mile down the road. I was sleepy, disoriented, and just not sure what was going on. We got to the other place and were pulled out of the car and into the barn. I knew something strange was going on for sure, because we were not allowed in the barn, for various reasons. The biggest reason was that my mother could not stand the way the smell of pigs completely permeated your clothing, hair, skin, etc. My parents bickered often if dad had to “check on something real quick” in the barn on the way to or from town in his nice clothes. My mom was a reluctant farmer’s wife, as referenced in some of my earlier posts (tornado season was an exceptionally hopeful time to my mom). To her, the farm was a way of life solely because she loves my dad. She was not one of those wives who would haul loads of grain into town, or throw on some jeans to clean out pens, but she would cook you one hell of a meal when you were done, smiling with her lipstick perfectly applied and serving you with manicured nails.

     So, imagine my confusion when my brother, sister and I are unceremoniously seated in front of a laboring sow, my dad giving my mom a pep talk. I don’t remember what was said, I don’t remember what we were sitting on. I think it might have been a bale of straw but that seems too quaint. What I do remember is the labored breathing of the sow, the heat of a lamp, the smell of blood, and my mom’s arm going up into this thing and pulling a squealing piglet out.

     And she kept repeating the process. I was initially horrified, then curious. Here the facts of life were unfolding in front of me, as I am seated on a bale of straw (or likely a smelly old blanket) in my Rainbow Brite nightshirt staring up the birth canal of a sow. You didn’t see that on Green Acres.

    My dad talking to her the whole time, and my mom trying to keep her cool as she pulled out several pigs. To an extent, I understood why this was happening: my father has enormous hands, while my mom’s hands are very petite, like mine. I remember thinking that my dad was super nice to have my mom do this instead. I’m sure the sow was grateful, but the look on my mom’s face was not one of gratitude.

     The process took a little while and I feel asleep, and was eventually carted back home and to bed. And this incident was never repeated. I asked mom about it and she simply said, “We didn’t want you kids waking up in the middle of the night and us not being there.” But that wasn’t the mystery. This was clearly a one-time deal, and I know that sows had difficult births often. When my brother was older, he sometimes had to sit with a sow that was having a hard labor.

     Fast forward 25 years to a bar in Omaha. My husband, my dad and I are having some beers with some of my friends. One of my friends, who grew up in the city, was saying he wanted to get into farming. Josh, my dad and I were explaining to him why this was a bad idea, in his situation. He didn’t have the money to invest in land and equipment. He didn’t know anything about livestock or crops. He didn’t know the struggles of just starting out as a farmer and how long it could take before you were financially established, if it ever happened at all. We explained the struggles and the delicate balance you go through to make sure your farm is profitable. To illustrate a point, I told him about my night of witnessing my mom pulling pigs, and I explained that my dad likely did not want to call the veterinarian to come out in the middle of the night, because that can be very costly. However, losing a sow and her piglets is also costly, so my mom had to step in.

     After telling my friend this story, I turned to my dad and said, “Hey, by the way, how did you ever convince her to do that?”

     My dad scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me tell you,” he said. “It took plenty of convincing. I had to promise her all kinds of things. The whole time I was talking to her. I promised her a fur coat, I promised her a new deck with French doors...yeah I promised her a lot of things.”

     That explained my dad’s constant chatter during the process, but this also created a problem, because my mom didn't have a fur coat and our farm house never had a deck with French doors.

     “You did not,” I said.

     “Well I most certainly did, how did you think I could convince her to do it?” He asked.

     “Dad! You made certain promises to your wife while she was elbow deep in a sow and  you didn’t deliver?” I exclaimed.

      Dad smirked and chuckled to himself. “No, I guess I kind of forgot about it. That’s probably why she never did it again.” Then he laughed and turned to my friends. "You what it really was? I started thinking of all the stuff I'd to buy every time, and figured it was just cheaper to call the vet."

     We were all giggling about this when my mom arrived, who had been delayed by a little shopping. Typical Mom. I told her that I was telling my friends about the time that she pulled pigs and she immediately shouted, “OH MY GOD, that was awful, and did you know your father promised me all kinds of things? I mean, I was supposed to get some new jewelry, a fur coat, and he was going to build me a beautiful deck with French doors?” She turns to my dad.  “Yeah, Mike, whatever happened to that?”

     An amazing thing had happened, my parent’s accounts on a single story had actually matched up for the most part. This was rare. Especially since my dad can’t remember what he asked me a half hour ago, or where I work, or other things. But he remembered all these exact promises that he supposedly forgot? Typical. Apparently I had revived a 25 year old argument. As amusing as it was to watch my dad squirm, I decided to bail him out. They were my ride home, after all.

    “Well dad, you guys got the house in town now, and there’s French doors to the deck right? So you delivered…eventually,” I said.

     Dad grinned at me, then grinned at my mom. She rolled her eyes and laughed, and I saw how my dad can sometimes get away with shit. He turned back to me

     “Thanks sugar,” he said. “Would you like another beer?”

     Yep, he remembered how to keep me happy, though it would take a lot of beer to get my arm up a pig. And if that ever happened, I would ask for it up front.