Something for the bunny nerds

This is an excerpt from an email I just sent to a fellow rabbit-owner. I'm sure I haven't shared my current bunny drama with all of you, but let's just say there's been a lot of it...

"We took Chomper in to see Dr. Maas today for the first time in about 6 weeks, just for a check-up - although I guess it's not JUST a check-up when you already know the animal is sick. He's been on this new medication for a week and a half, and seems to be doing better in all ways except his weight. Which, confirming our suspicions, is now 2/3 what it was six weeks ago. Dr. Maas also did a PAC (to check overall cell level in his blood) and found that he's now anemic - the next progressive step in the suspected leukemia. So Dr. Maas wanted to do a white blood count, which we agreed to, telling him that we may get the results and then make the decision to relinquish him to the office and, ultimately Rabbit Haven. Obviously we'd had to do some soul-searching for this one, but concluded that it would be better for Chomper to be with people who could really care for him 24/7, which we can't, and better for us not to have to watch him decline over the next few months.

So we're sitting in the waiting room, crying, when Dr. Maas comes back and asks whether we'd like some good news. Apparently, Chomper's white blood cell count was not only lower than it had been six weeks ago, it was within the normal range, and so was his lymphocyte level! This was better than even Dr. Maas had hoped - he said he ran the test twice just to be sure there wasn't some mistake. He said the medication he'd given us is one of those ones that, "we're not quite sure what exactly it does, we just know it does good," and that, although he won't say we're out of the woods yet, we're definitely making progress toward getting there. So he sent us with three more meds: a very low dose of steroid to treat the anemia, something to calm down Chomper's immune system (he found a slight auto-immune reaction in his blood - that the system was attacking whatever disease he has or had, and just kept going), and then an anti-biotic to prevent a secondary infection that could result from the immune-calming med. And we're switching him back to alfalfa pellets and a tablespoon of oats per day, to try and get the weight back on him, then bringing him back a week from today to do another weight check and see where we're at. Obviously, we - Dr. Maas included, I think - are all over the moon about this."



Chomper's the white one sticking out his tongue.

Date Night

So this is gonna sound totally lame, but we just had our first little date night in, oh I dunno, months? Payday is tomorrow, and we had a little drug money - er, a little money - leftover from the last two weeks, and figured we owed it to ourselves to spend it on ourselves. So we went to - wait for it - Red Robin. A brand-new restaurant, just opened on Monday, which happens to be on our commute to work (so, you know, we've been waiting for it). And I swear this thing went up in a matter of three weeks, which kind of makes me wonder about the structural integrity of the building...

But I digress.

We got off work at 7, and headed straight over to the restaurant, which was, as they say, a-hoppin'. As far as the gourmet burgers and drinks were concerned, the night was everything we'd dreamed it would be. But then there was our waitress. As she was obviously new to the food-service industry, I sympathized with her when she had to pull out a cheat sheet to tell us what she had on tap, and when she admitted she hadn't tried one of the burgers Irish was considering, but that she wanted to. But then she came back to check on us... before we had our drinks... after we had our drinks... when we'd just gotten our fries (good girl, because we did need some ranch)... again before the food arrived, interrupting us kissing... as soon as the food arrived, before we'd even taken a first bite... then a few more times while we ate... then to bring us the bill... then to check if we wanted our plates cleared... then probably another two times before we'd finally finished our drinks and handed over the debit card.

At first, it was annoying Irish, and I was just kind of laughing it off. But then, and I think it was the pre-first-bite-"How-is-everything?" that did it, it started annoying me too. So I feel like the enjoyment level of the date was compromised. And mind you, we only get one every couple months, apparently. (Although we have amazing ways of enjoying our days off, which I may or may not detail at a later time - and no, that's not a promise to detail our sex life.) So we came home, each filled out the little survey, and complained a little. I don't want the girl to get fired or anything - I get that she's still learning, and if some Red Robin head honcho calls me up to ask more details, I'll say as much.

...But I'm hoping we can get another (free) date out of it.

Oh, and on an unrelated note, do you think I should move this blog to a new URL? And by move, I mean recommence? I feel like it might be time for a fresh start, with real names, and no historical baggage. Weigh in, my darlings.

Something to do with gender roles?

I would not make a very good caretaker/nurse/whatever.

Irish is sick, probably with the same cold I had a few weeks ago. And last night, I was doing a really good job of coddling him, forcing him to take Tylenol and shoot Emergen-C and drink tea and sleep under all the blankets (because I believe that care-taking is an act of force: when I'm sick, I don't want to be asked whether I'd like something; I want to be told, "Here, drink this"). This morning, I sent him off to work, with a few final attempts: Do you want to call in sick? Do you want to trade shifts so you can sleep in for a few more hours? I was shot down on both ("I need the money"), administered some DayQuil, and figured my job was done until 10:00 tonight when I'll get home.

A few hours later, I sent a text to see how he was feeling, and I get this: "Like crap. [Manager] says he might let me go home an hour early, but he has to see."

Now this is where I get frustrated. Because suddenly my role has to change from caretaker to, I guess, cheerleader. How can I be full of "aw, poor baby"s one minute, and the next have to remind him that he said he needs the money? Or that I was sick and miscarrying and, despite being a little whiny and unstable, was still at work, working, for every hour of every shift?

I don't feel like I do well with Irish when he's sick, even though I try (I made Jell-O!), because it reminds me of Lui's hypochondria, how there was always something, and how babying or being babied became so much the norm that it wasn't a desirable thing anymore. I think I'd do better in a "real" situation, but for a cold? You get like one day before I'm like, "Yeah ok, but Vicks makes miracle drugs. Take some, feel better, can we go back to our lives now?" And I think he's gonna want more than one day here. And then I'll feel bad for my callousness.

And ok, for the blunt honesty? I want to be the weaker sex. With Lui, I wasn't. We were equals, more or less, but I always felt like the stronger person - and he surprised me when he held so strong in our breakup, stronger than I did, or at least he wasn't letting on, even though I was the one who'd pushed for it and I was the one with the new boyfriend to distract me. I want to be the one who needs to be held and protected, because, let's face it, most of the time I do. So when my "big strong man" is suddenly reduced to a big baby, it's a major turn-off, and sends me looking for another "big strong man" to give me attention, albeit harmless and for-the-moment, because, well, somebody needs to make me feel like a woman around here!

It's time

Let's just say there was a mess. And that the mess took place (where else? what else do I talk about here?) in my vagina. Or more accurately this time, in my uterus.

Non-babies. Twins that didn't grow. Two blighted ova, which is almost unheard of. Five weeks of waiting, agonizing, grieving, and ultimately anger and frustration as I kept hearing, "Let's wait one more week to make sure." And then, finally, what I didn't want, a week of miscarrying: bleeding, cramping, extreme nausea just before one of the empty sacs, in it's entirely, fell into the toilet. The next morning, a quick, easy (longtime planned) D&C surgery, followed by more (lighter) bleeding, more abstinence, more feeling crazy as my hormones plummeted back to their normal (textbook abnormal) levels.

Yesterday - maybe a day or two before, but definitely yesterday - I finally felt like myself again. Sex sounded desirable for the first time in six weeks. And for the first time in six weeks, I didn't bleed. I can drink again, too, without worrying that it'll make me sick. I can take a joke again, I can handle people at work again (I mean, as much as I ever could). I want to go to the gym again, if not today, then tomorrow for sure.

I feel like I had a life-changing experience. A near-death whatever, but without the death part. Just, sort of a wake-up call. Irish is starting manager training, so we can afford our future, eventual, years-from-now-if-we're-careful-but-you-know-we-probably-won't-be children. I've resolved to spend less of my free time playing online solitaire and watching TV that I'm not really interested in, and more time blogging, reading, drinking warm beverages (or, you know, red wine), maybe working on the Christmas stocking that I started for Lui two years ago (because he said, when I moved out, that he'd still like to have it if I ever felt like finishing it, and it doesn't feel so awkward anymore, and I feel like maybe I owe him that). And I want to get my pre-divorce body back, the awesome one that I had when I was so unhappy and spent all my time in the gym so I wouldn't have to be at home. I want to take more naked pictures while I've still got it, before I really start to fall apart from age or motherhood. I want to make myself the most important person in my world. Irish can be second, and we'll go from there.

(I need recommendations on good, cheap mascara, too, because I can't afford Lancôme anymore, and when it comes to beauty regime frivolous spending, I've got to pick my battles, and as always, I pick hair removal.)

For your reading pleasure

Something I wrote in college...

Madrecita

I've met Elena. She's beautiful, with a round face and huge, expressive, brown eyes. When we were first introduced, she wouldn't look at me. "She's afraid you're going to pinch her cheeks like this," Anabella said in her thick, melodic voice, squeezing her own pretty face with one hand. "People do that to her a lot, and she really doesn't like it." She laughed a little as she spoke, the way she is apt to do, and then we began working.

Anabella, one of the 18 college freshmen that I tutor, is nine-month-old Elena's mother.

The Story

I met Raul at school. He asked me to go to Homecoming, and I said alright, and then I kind of started to like him. A couple of my cheerleader friends were already going out with football players, so I thought maybe I should go out with one too. We started talking, and then at Homecoming, he kind of kissed me. So we started going out, and then, I guess a couple months later… I got pregnant.

The Family

It was towards the end of my junior year, and it was scary. I didn't even know what I was doing! And I needed to tell my mom because… well, with some people, you can't hardly tell until like five months, but I was at a month and already getting a little chubby and puking every morning. So I had to tell my mom what was going on. And since we're Catholic, my whole family is very much religious - well, I am too, you know, but things happen. So I was tripping out. I didn't know what to do, so I wrote a letter to my mom explaining what happened and telling her that if she didn't want me to be in the house, that I'd understand. I disrespected her teachings, or whatever you want to call them.

It was the last day of school when I did it - that was perfect because then I could leave if I had to. So that day was very stressful because I'd called this teenage parenting program - I didn't know who else to call, so I called them. This lady came to my school, and I was crying, and she was like, "It's okay, just sign these release forms." (They were to give her permission to take me in her car and take me away from my mom or whatever. I don't know.) So we were walking out - she was going to take me to Planned Parenthood to get a test - and then my mom comes.

I was so scared. I was already crying and all nervous, and then my mom comes! And she was all green! (When my mom gets mad, she turns green.) And I was like, "Oh my God, she's green!" At that time, I didn't think it was funny, but now that I think about it, it's like… she was green!

She'd already suspected cos I would fall asleep on my grandma's couch, and when you're first pregnant, you're really tired, and you're giving all these signs… And my grandma was noticing it and telling my mom, and my mom would ask me if I was going out with anyone. And I always said no, but she'd say, "Your grandma notices! She's had seven kids, so she knows." So when I told her, she was like, "See? I told you!"

Anyway, I didn't want to go with my mom cos she was gonna scream at me and yell and all this bullshit, and I didn't want that right then. And the lady said she was taking me to Planned Parenthood, and my mom was like, "Hell no! You're not taking my daughter there!" So the lady got all scared and left. My mom didn't want me going there because she would go in front of Planned Parenthood and pray the rosary, because they do abortions there. And a lot of people that know her from church go there and pray during the day. So she was like, "If you were to go there, and my friends are there praying for no girls to go in…" My mom's very much with her… her what people think of her. Reputation. She's very up on that.

That day, right away she went to the pediatrician and the gynecologist, and she came back giving me all these numbers. She was very quiet. That whole day, she didn't scream at me or nothing, she was more like thinking for herself, like what had she done wrong? She thought she was a bad mother. She felt disappointed in me in a way, I guess, but what were people gonna think of her? She wasn't thinking about me; she was more thinking about her! She's a catechism teacher and one of the first things she teaches is to follow the ten commandments and to do all that good stuff… And then I come out being this "rebel". So she was very disappointed.

My dad, he doesn't live with us, but he doesn't really care. He's like, "Whatever you want, mija. It's all good. Just don't have another kid." In a way, that's good, but in a way… I dunno. I kind of don't like my mom being too strict, but in a way, when you think about it… I think it's alright.

My brother and I don't talk anymore. Up to this day, we still don't talk. He got mad cos a lot of people were saying I was a "hoochie mama". (That's a nice way of saying I'm a whore.)

The Peers

I don't know why they were saying that stuff. People started saying that I went with a lot of guys, and then I found out that it was my ex-boyfriend talking about me. I guess he was jealous cos I never did anything when I was with him. I saw him this summer with his friends, and I slapped him, and he got all red and embarrassed. He was like, "No, I didn't say nothing! I didn't say nothing!" Sure, sure. But it was sad. I didn't do anything with guys before and now people were talking about me. Like all these negative… A lot of people were like that.

When I was pregnant, all my friends were saying, "No, we'll always be your friend!" But that's bullshit because now they never talk to me. Like, they'll be your friend while you're pregnant, but not after you have your kid. Most of the people I talk to now are my cousin and my aunt and Raul…

Every couple months I find my friend that has a baby too. We're both very busy, but I find her and we talk sometimes. She had her baby when she was a freshman in high school. My mom didn't like her, and I always got mad because she was a very good friend of mine. Now that I have a kid, my mom can't say nothing about me going out with her. Cos before, my mom would say, "She's living a different life; you can't be with her anymore." Now my mom's more quiet, she just says, "Now you're the same, how do you feel?"

The Boyfriend

In the beginning, I told Raul, "You know what? I don't really feel good." And he asked if I thought I was pregnant, and I was like, "Uhh… I dunno, maybe." So we went to Vons and we bought a little test thing. Then we went to Nordstrom's, cos those bathrooms are big and all covered - they're private. I went in there with the test - and I've never done one of those things! So I was in there reading the thing and it said to pee in the little box, and so I did. And then I put it on the thing where you take out the toilet paper and I waited… And two big bright pink lines came up, and I looked and it said two lines you're pregnant, one line you're not. Oh shit. I kind of already knew, but I was hoping that it wasn't - I'd been telling myself "I'm not, I'm not. I just feel a little bloated." So then I took it to Raul and I just showed it to him real quick, and then ran back in to throw it away cos I didn't want to hold that thing! He was kind of surprised, but in a way he was kind of expecting that, so he was like "I guess we have to make the best of this." I don't know. It was just like, okay, what are we going to do now?

His parents didn't really care. They were happy. I wasn't there when he told them, but he told me they were like, "Oh cool!" I thought they would've kicked him out of the house or something. But that gave my mom more ammo; she was like, "See? His parents planned it! Yeah, they did, they provided you with a house and everything!" I was like, "No, they didn't. They didn't have any part…"

My mom doesn't want me to go over to their house because she doesn't want me to get pregnant again, which pisses me off because I wanted his mom to see the baby. So I figured, if my mom doesn't want me to go to their house, I'll just invite them to our house. So I invited them to come to our house. What pisses me off the most is his brothers - they didn't say, "Oh, okay, we'll come to your house;" they were like, "Why don't you come to our house?" They're assholes. And then they told Raul, "It's your baby too, you should just take the baby and bring it over here." Hello? Stupid asses. He can't do that; he doesn't even know how to take care of the baby. When she was first born - I'm not like a natural born mother, you know? I didn't know how to quiet down the baby. So I learned. And I was tired, cos when the baby's first born it's awake like 24 hours a day and your head gets all swollen up. So I got so fed up by the third day, and I told Raul, "Here take the baby so I can sleep for a couple hours." And 20 minutes later, he comes in whining, "The baby won't shut up." Oh my god, I was barely getting to sleep and then he comes… So that just shows that he's not capable of taking her for a couple hours. And I would never do that anyway cos I'm breast-feeding her, and when you're doing that, the baby needs you more. So I dunno, his brothers… they're just assholes. Do you know what a macho is? They are the most macho guys I have ever seen. They think that women are very inferior to men, like when they heard I was coming to UCSB, they were like, "No, really? How can you do that?" They were tripping out. And one of the brothers comes here too. And if he sees me, he ignores me. I don't know what that means.

Raul's not like them, even though my mom says that he is. He did admit to me that in the beginning he was macho, but he told me that my ideas and the way I am has made him see that being macho is not the way. Cos he wouldn't have thought a girl would want to go into law enforcement or anything like that, but I'm interested in criminology, so…

The Prejudice

My family's from Mexico, and they don't like the dark people and the dark people don't like the light people. Raul is a darker Mexican, and when I was pregnant, my grandma prayed that my baby wouldn't come out dark. It just pisses me off because what does it matter? I'm friends with everyone. I have blonde friends, black friends, Mexican friends… but since my family doesn't like the dark people, it makes me want to be more friends with the darker people. I guess I'm actually a rebel, huh?

I'm still with Raul, but I don't know. A lot of the bullshit my mom puts in my head makes me wonder if I really love him or not. My family's trying to pull me more towards their side and he's pulling me more towards his side, so I'm in the middle like a little ragdoll. I tell my mom I don't like him so she won't get mad. But I don't know if I do or not. You know how people get in your head? But then when I'm alone and I think to myself… Why does it matter? Why shouldn't I have the right to choose who I want to be with? And I don't know if it's for that alone that I stay with him. Like, am I really thinking I wanna be with him cos he's this way, or I'm just gonna be with him to go against my family? I don't know what I'm thinking! I'm so confused right now!

The Doctor

My gynecologist is very funny. When I first went in to see him, he was like "I wanna know about you because, you know, I'm gonna be looking at you in places no one else has looked before. Wouldn't you be more comfortable if I knew more about you?" So he wanted to know how I met Raul. And I said at school, cos he was a football player. And then he asked me, "Have you done any sports?" And I told him, "Yeah, I was a cheerleader." (I had to quit once I got pregnant.) And he was like, "Oh my goodness! So it's a cheerleader meeting a football player!" And then he opened the door and walked into the hallway - it's a small office, so he told all the people working there, "We have here a cheerleader that just met a football player, and they're gonna have a baby!" And every time I went back, he would ask me, "So how's the football player?" Oh my God, it was so embarrassing. But he was very open like that. Every time I went, it was like a family. Cos you're for nine months going at least once a month, so you really get to know those people. I got to know how he got to be a gynecologist, and he got to know about me… And then he told me the same thing like my dad told me, he said, "I don't want to see you for another pregnancy, I wanna see you in one year for your next pap smear!"

The Birth

It was like 7:30 in the morning, I remember. I was asleep and this pain woke me up. I was so tired, I was like, "Shut up you little pain." And then at 7:45 it came again. I wasn't thinking I was gonna go into labor that morning, but then it started coming like every five minutes. So every five minutes for an hour I timed myself. And my mom was like, "Hmm… Well, we should go to a hospital." My gynecologist had told me to call him first, in case it was false whatever you call it - false labor. But it was a week before my due date, so it was probable that it was true. And when I called my gynecologist, he wasn't there, and I thought, "I've already waited two hours. I don't think I want to give birth to a baby in my house!"

So we went to the hospital, and I went in there walking all perfectly, and my mom was like, "Hey, we need a room." And the lady looked at her and asked, "For whom?" And my mom's all, "For my daughter, she's gonna have a baby!" And the lady was like, "Oh. Have you called your doctor yet?" Cos it seemed I was not in pain. And we told her yeah, but he's not there. So she said okay, and it took about five minutes and then she said, "You can go into this room". And then I was like, "Mom are you sure? Maybe we should talk to the doctor first." Cos I felt weird putting on my robe, and they gave me this band to put around my stomach, and it hit me: "Oh my God, I'm in the hospital!" I'd never been in the hospital.

So then this chubby nurse walks in, all like toppling over - not toppling over, but all wobbly. Oh my god, this is my nurse? And she was like, "I'm gonna do an exam on you and see if you're really in labor, okay?" And then she puts a glove on and stretches it out like this - it was just like the movies! And then she told me to open my legs so she could check if I was dilated, and she checked and I was breathing all hard cos she put her whole hand up there, and not even my doctors did that! And then she said "You sure are dilating, your cervix is very thin." I guess that means you're going into labor. So then she told me, "You're going to have your kid today!" And I was just like, "Okay." I couldn't believe it. That morning I had talked to my cousin and she'd asked what I was going to do today and I said, "Oh, I don't know." I had already started feeling the pains, but I didn't want to tell her then, and I didn't have a chance to call her back and tell her I was going to the hospital. So then afterwards, my aunt called my cousin telling her I'd had my baby, and my cousin was like, "No! I just talked to her this morning!" She couldn't believe it; she thought it was a joke.

Anyway… my mom went home to fix my room and get my bag that I'd packed with my pajamas and pink slippers with the fluffy things… she brought everything over while I was in labor. And I was like, "Why don't we just go home? I'm sick of being here." It was so boring in that room; I didn't want to watch TV. I was just sitting there. So I thought maybe I'd go walk around the hospital. I told them to give me another robe cos I didn't want to show my butt. I felt kind of weird walking around not wearing any underwear - cos you can't, they're constantly checking you!

When I was walking around the hospital, I saw the babies and I was like, "Oh my God!" I couldn't get it in my head that I was about to have a little baby like the ones in the window. Walking made me feel better. I go for walks when I get stressed out. And I noticed that all the other ladies were just sitting in their beds complaining. And I thought that was so useless. I mean, what are they gonna do, inject more painkillers? Walking around was so much better. When I was walking through the section where the rooms are for risk pregnancy, like multiple births, I saw that two of them were taken. I was amazed, cos usually they're not full because those things aren't that common. I overheard that one of the ladies was having three kids that same day that I was having mine. That doesn't matter, but I thought it was pretty cool. She was all calm - I was really thankful that I was just having one!

So I was just walking around and then the pain starts getting stronger and stronger… and then I started losing my patience and then I didn't wanna walk anymore. I just wanted sit in my bed and complain like all the ladies. So I went back to my room and then the lady checked me and she was all, "You're six centimeters dilated, and ten centimeters is full dilation." So I'm like okay, I'm halfway and I'm already starting to die. The pain started getting so intense that I wanted to go away from the hospital, cos I thought if I went away from the hospital, the pain would go away. So I was like, "I wanna go home! Take me home!" And my mom was all, "No you have to stay here." And I started cursing a little bit, and my mom said, "Don't do that, people are listening." I was like, "I don't care, this isn't funny. This is not funny!" She wasn't laughing or anything, I just started saying that. And then the nurse started injecting the thing… I don't know what they call it in English, that white liquid? The IV stuff. She started putting it in me, and she couldn't find my vein! Since I was such pain, I didn't care what she was doing to my arm. But now that I think of it, she left my whole arm purple. My whole arm was bruised. You know how many times they stick you with needles? Oh my God! They give you like three blood tests while you're in the hospital. I was like, can't they just use all that blood for many blood tests, you know, at the same time? I don't know. I don't know their system.

The pain you feel when you're gonna have a baby is not like anything you will feel… It's not like a pinch, it's not like a punch, it's not like you got ran over by a car. It's not like that. It's different… like you're in a box and your head is all blown up. You feel like you're stuck; you can't go anywhere. I didn't even get a thing for my back because I heard that if you move you can go paralyzed, and I didn't want to go paralyzed. I'd rather feel the pain for a couple hours than be paralyzed for the rest of my life.

When you're actually in the pushing stage, it's not that much pain. It's mostly just weird. But when her head came out, I screamed and I don't know why. It didn't hurt, it just came out. I just yelled really loud. The whole thing is just weird. Like, I couldn't hear anyone, I could just see the light - they put this big light in your face so you'll have to keep your eyes closed. I guess they do that on purpose. And all I could hear was a little bit of the voices that were talking, and my aunt came from Ventura to help me, and she put her hand on the back of my neck, and my mom was so nervous she just left. She thought I was gonna die cos my aunt died. The one I'm named after, Anabella, died giving birth, so my mom was all scared that I was gonna die too. I think that's the end… Oh, the doctors cut me twice… down there. Cos her head wasn't coming out. I thought that was sick.

The Result

It's not easy. You get very stressed out. And sometimes I wish I could just take a long shower like I used to, but I really can't anymore cos I have to go and take care of the baby. My longest shower has been ten minutes long. I only have time for shampoo, scrub, put conditioner in and get out. That's all! You don't have time for yourself; it's all for the baby. I used to have a lot of time for myself: trimming my nails, putting makeup on… now I have pimples. You know, it's so different.

But I'm here. I'm in university. A lot of people's opinions of me change when they hear that I'm in a university. They know that I'm not just a lowlife. Cos it can happen to anyone, not just the lowlifes. The lady in the counseling center in high school, she was like, "We can help you get into a city college," and I said, "No I'm going to UCSB." She couldn't believe it. She was like, "My daughter didn't even get in there!" And I thought, "well maybe your daughter's stupid!" I don't want to be mean or anything, but why does she automatically assume that since I have a baby, I'm stupid? I mean, maybe it was stupid, but it doesn't mean that I'm stupid. I don't regret it. Sometimes I wish I… were free. In a way, I'm stuck, but I love her, she's my baby. And it's cool cos when I'm stressed out, she starts laughing. I'll be really mad and she'll pull my hair or something and in a way - she can't talk yet, but - you can see in her eyes, like, "Don't worry. Everything's okay." She's like, there, you know? She's very happy. Everything would've been different if I wouldn't have had her. But… it's hard to say… since I've already met what I've made.

New address

16720 North Road #B110
Bothell, WA 98012

...and then you realize that all your blog posts are about your vagina...

Have you ever had one of those moments where you hate the phone so much it almost puts you in a bad mood for the rest of the day? All because you're scared to call the poshy salon down the street to make an appointment for a bikini wax, because it's been six weeks and you know it's gonna hurt, or because you have to work later that night and you know that's gonna hurt, or because you're just a little too phone shy to explain all that to a receptionist, and you think that asking for an appointment "right now" would be rude, but then again walking in would probably be ruder?

Just me then?

Echapper

We found a new place, half the distance from work, and on the right side of town. They've got a one-bedroom (unfortunately on the first floor) coming available in July, and we're breaking our lease here and moving. The new place has ample parking, washer and dryer in the unit, ice maker in the fridge, indoor pool & jacuzzi, tanning bed, sauna, basketball court - all open until 10 p.m. Plus, it's down the road from a Gold's Gym that has Les Mills classes. I'm just so happy to get out of here.

My brother's in town, and he and Irish are watching Good Luck, Chuck and creaming over Jessica Alba. My old roommate once told me that I kind of look like her, but I think I'd need a nose job to really pull it off. I don't know why it upsets me, but I guess I'm just used to Irish only making those sorts of lewd comments about me. On the other hand, I'm glad he's bonding with my brother.

Irish found out yesterday that his aunt (mom's brother's wife) has brain cancer, and that one of the tumors is inoperable, and that she's been given 8-12 months to live. So that's hard. It may be the first really hard thing we have to deal with together. I mean, aside from both our pasts, with the deaths and divorces.

Speaking of which, my divorce (which still just feels more like a breakup, or an edit-undo) is final as of today.

Elle from the block

It occurs to me that, as much as we think of all of our colorful neighbors as illegal immigrants, or crazy people, they probably consider us to be the local white trash.

Seriously, I can't walk from my car to my apartment without hearing somebody crying, screaming at a crying baby, having a domestic argument - whether in English or otherwise... Some nights I'm actually kept up listening to this sort of thing making its way through the closed windows. Once, while watching American Idol, we even heard a gunshot.

But I feel that Irish and I make up for it, or at least claim our piece of the noise pollution, by having sex. Loud sex. Lots of it.

And if anybody ever confronts us on it, maybe I'll just tell them we feel left out, so we're trying to get a baby to scream at, too.

The weekend at home

Sure, it had its moments, like getting to meet my new nephew, hanging out at the salon with Lindy long after she'd finished with my hair, and singing in the SDCC concert, but overall?

Let's just say I'm summing it up by saying I was home long enough to remember why I left.

There's nothing quite like telling your mother you carry a lot of guilt around and having her ask why, and then moments later in the same conversation hearing the disappointment in her voice when she asks why you lied to her about your new boyfriend. I also didn't like the embarrassment of having to explain to all my old choir friends - who were hearing about my wedding plans last time we all saw each other a year go - that I'm not actually married now.

Guilt, shame, embarrassment, general awkwardness - yes, I changed states just in time. Too bad the residual self-ickyness from the trip hasn't quite worn off yet.

I think not

So I've come to the conclusion that my broken mirror was not a coincidence after all, because the other morning, after dropping me off at the airport so I could go home for Mother's Day weekend (more on that later), Irish walked out to his truck to find the back window broken... and the culpable rock still in the back seat.

We both remembered the time, about two weeks ago, when we came home from work after midnight to find a car in our parking space, and, in the interest of not waking the tons of kids we see on the playground outside our bedroom window every day, instead of honking like we usually would, we called the 24-hour courtesy phone and had the car ticketed.

It sucks to know that there are mean, vengeful people like that out there, and that they live in our neighborhood, and that they're essentially stalking us. It sucks more that there's nothing our apartment manager can do because both cars were on the street when the incidents occurred. But in reporting it, we moved to the top of the list for a second parking space or garage, and rumor has it we won't be paying the fee to get that space either.

We'd been seriously considering renewing our lease when it's up in August, but now maybe we'll look into moving downtown (oh, so much safer, I know) or out by work (assuming we each get, like, a five-dollar raise in July).

Somehow, I haven't broken down.

Today:

I'm still sick - going on two weeks now - and on the last day of my period. This cold is going to make it hard to sing in the SDCC concert this weekend, which sucks.

I took my car in to get the driver's side mirror replaced - you know, the one that was obliterated in a hit-and-run while my car was parked on the street over the weekend - and it cost over half of what I just (finally) got back from closing my NatWest account.

As Irish & I were walking around the U-district, waiting for the call from the VW dealership, a bird shit on me - on my face. I was actually a little happy that it missed my hair and clothes, but still.

In other news, I can overhear Irish on the phone with his evil stepmother out on the porch, talking about getting me a puppy for my birthday.

We're not in California anymore, Toto

I guess everyone needs a bikini wax horror story.

There are an abnormal number of independent salons on the main road leading to our apartment complex (in the opposite direction of the ghetto). Yesterday, Irish and I walked in to the one boasting the lowest prices - probably our first mistake - so that he could get a haircut and I could get waxed. It'd been almost five weeks, and I was getting desperate. I had told myself, when I knew I was going to have to find a new waxer, that I didn't want a little Asian woman. This stems back to my first waxing experience, in Solana Beach by the 24-hour donut shop, with Pigeon, or maybe it was Suzy, sometime in high school. I don't remember much except that the woman was little and Asian, and I must've been dissatisfied because didn't do waxing again for like eight years. So the second clue should have been that the woman was little and Asian.

So Irish, like most guys, gets a #2 buzz on the back and sides, scissor cut on top. My third clue really should've been the horrible job she did on his hair: the buzzed part was fine, but the scissor cut? She used a comb, and from what I could tell, thinning shears. And cut it way too short. He came out looking like he'd had a buzz all the way around, except that his bangs are slightly longer than the rest, and there are random long pieces sticking up all over his head. And yet, when she was finished she proclaimed, "Now you hahn-sohm! In he hahn-sohm?" We're considering getting some clippers so I can just buzz the whole thing for him - properly, this time - until it grows back.

Then, onto me. The waxing was relatively painless, and she did a pretty good job with my eyebrows (which were already shaped). But the bikini - I explained to her that I basically get a Brazilian, leaving one little triangle just on top so I don't look like a child. So she waxed the top and sides. "Now you beautiful!" I asked her to do underneath as well. "Oh, that hurt. That vewwy hurt!" ...I know it hurts. I've had it done before. So she did the outside of the lips, and then, for some unknown reason...

refused to wax the inside!

She told me to go home and "clean myself". And only charged me $35 total. So I went home. I cleaned myself. I found insane amounts of wax left over, mostly on the part she'd refused to wax. Gross. And then I inspected. Imagine a whale's baleen if you will. Imagine a Venus Flytrap. Imagine my self-image deteriorating at record speed.

Naturally, I told Irish we weren't having sex on account of my vagina being retarded. And this is the sweet part, because he told me he wouldn't have even noticed if I hadn't said anything ("There's hair on the inside?!"), threw me down on the bed, and started telling me everything he loves about me. We went to bed at 11 and were up until almost 3. Just talking. Mostly.

This morning, I got up early, and went to the expensive spa/salon down the street, the one that, until last week, was advertising, a "COLOR ME PINK HEART SHAPED BRAZILIAN" on their marquée. I figured they would take pity on me and fix it. And they did. For another $35 (half of what they'd charge for an actual Brazilian). So basically, I could have paid the same amount to get it done right the first time, and just tweezed my own eyebrows like in days of yore. It's something worth considering for next month - saving myself the personal cost in favor of the financial? I think so...

Dreams and Spaghettios

"I love you, Irish."

Thursday, February 21, 2008. 5:45 a.m. I was still half asleep, in our Motel 6 room in southern Portland, and he, just out of the shower, was lying on top of me, his through-the-covers response to my demand for an early morning hug. I could feel him smile against my cheek. He smiles every time I use his name, which I don't very often: I explained to him early on that I don't use names for fear that I'll use the wrong one. But I think it often enough, when I'm talking to him, and every once in a while will decide it's not all that awkward to say "Irish" instead of "honey" or "darlin'" or "handsome."

Less than five hours later, we were getting a walk-through of our one-bedroom, in one of Seattle's, as Monica would say, "more colorful" neighborhoods - what we can afford right now. I guess it makes sense that if you pick up, run off, and move three states away, whatever savings you've had time to accumulate in your three months of planning gets eaten up pretty quickly by UHauls and gas to fill them. So you end up bordering the ghetto. We joke about this six-month lease being a good transitional phase for us - there's a taquería next to our local Fred Meyer, and a butcher on the way to our closest 24-Hour Fitness location that specializes in carne asada, tripas, y lengua. The cable guy, after joking that we were his first white clients all day today, assured us there are worse areas, and that our apartment itself is really nice for this part of town. It is. It's pretty nice in general, actually, despite being small. (Then again, I've never lived in a one-bedroom before.)

Our escape plan hasn't worked as well as we would've liked. I still have moments when I think about things I should've done differently, or how I got married - had a whole wedding, for God's sakes - and was supposed to be happy, or how I wish all the lies we've been telling people were true: that we waited a while after my breakup, to give time and space for healing, out of respect to Lui or myself or my parents (who still think we're just friends that will probably eventually end up dating, who still think Irish is going to get in his truck and drive back to San Diego once he's convinced that I'm safe and settled in)... But I'm happy to get the chance to start fresh. We start work tomorrow, at a Trader Joe's about half an hour away - in a rich neighborhood, so we can better relate to the customers. (I jest.) Our new captain is giving us the same shifts so we can carpool. We'll be telling the new people we meet that we came up here for the weather ("rain and coffee"), or we'll be honest about wanting a fresh start, but leave out the parts about dead girlfriends, divorced parents, failed marriages, and Catholic guilt. And yes, it's soon - really soon - to be moving in together, but if it doesn't work out, we can probably each afford to live here, which we couldn't have done down south, so I'm not too worried. We still make each other happy, still make each other laugh, argue effectively and openly when we do argue (I was a horrible opponent to Lui's emotion-bottling strategies), and are keeping up with our New Year's resolution to have sex every day.

Since day one, which, yes, was pretty much the same day Lui kicked me out, Irish has been fond of promising me, in response to my concerns about relationships going stale or making the same mistakes again, that "it will never go away." His latest theory is that if we can make it to April 1st without killing each other - as a lack of money, a lack of friends, and such close quarters will undoubtedly try to make us do - we'll be set for life. For now, this guarantor, protector, caretaker (men always think they are) is face-down on the couch next to me, snoring, one hand still on the remote.

...Any questions?