Being a #2 is just a load of crap

Posted on February 25, 2010 by carlieblissirwin

I had an interesting thought on the way home from work yesterday.

I commute every day, 30 minutes each way. These 30 minutes, whether in the morning or evening, can be summed up as follows:

Get in the car (this step is key).
Adjust seat and mirrors. Due to my OCD tendencies, I’m always searching for the perfect seat angle/height/distance-from-wheel combination. I’ve never found it and I’m pretty much always uncomfortable until I just start driving and forget about it.
Put on seat belt. The ordering of steps 2 and 3 is essential and very intentional, as I’ve discovered that adjusting my seat with the seat belt on does not work well. Having your esophagus and bladder simultaneously squished by a tightening strap of thick nylon is unpleasant to say the least.
Turn car on and hope it doesn’t make that unnerving squealing sound. My car is getting old, and apparently very irritable as well. If it could talk and own property, it would be yelling at all the neighborhood kids to get off its lawn.
Put the car in drive and, well, drive.
Merge onto highway.
Decide that the semi in the lane next to me is drifting and getting a little too close. Start panicking. See my life flash before my eyes. Ok, this reaction may seem a little extreme to you, but in the back of my mind I see all trucks as evil Carlie-killing machines. I’m pretty sure this stems from an unfortunate incident (or fortunate since everyone in my family is still alive) involving an evil, drifting semi-truck, my family in a small rental car, and spinning across 4 lanes of traffic on the Washington DC beltway at rush hour. So yeah, thanks for making me re-live that moment. Moving on.
Realize that my ears are bleeding because a Nickelback song is playing on the radio (AGAIN).
Curse myself for living in St. Louis for 5 years and still not changing the Chicago stations on my radio buttons. Hey “seek” button – you annoy me.
FINALLY come across a song worth listening to. I bless the rains down in Aaaaaafricaaaaa…. (no, I’m not kidding)

And then I feel it – the urge to sing! And why not? I’m completely alone in my car, my tone deaf screeching audible to no one but me. So I go for it. GONNA TAKE SOME TIME TO DO THE THINGS WE NEVER HAAA-AAA-AAA-AAAVE! OOOHOOOH. Yeah Toto. You rock. And so do I. So ready for this next verse. I can belt it out at the top of my lungs because no one can hear me! No one can see me…except that middle-aged bald guy I’m passing on my right. Did he just make eye contact with me? Crap. Did he see me singing? Ehhh….

Thus brings me to the aforementioned interesting thought I had. You’ll be glad you stuck with me because this will blow your mind.

My theory is that there are three different kinds of people in life:

Those who unabashedly sing along to the radio in their car no matter who can hear or see them.
Those who start singing but become self-conscious and worried that they will attract the stares of fellow drivers, so they tone it down a little and sing between clenched teeth giving the outward impression that they are in fact not singing at all like some sort of idiotic, paranoid ventriloquist. (I fall into this category.)
Those who do not sing ever, no matter what.

I think your car singing habits or lack thereof say a lot about you as a person. The #1’s are confident free spirits, enjoying life and just being themselves. The #2’s want to be like the #1’s but care a little too much about what other people think of them. And the #3’s are just no fun at all. I think if we all lived like #1’s, the world would be a much happier place.

So on your way home from work today, sing along to the radio like you’re freaking Pavarotti – I dare you. And if the person driving next to you starts staring, motion to them to sing along! And, if that thought alone isn’t making you smile, here are a few pictures of some super cute baby meerkats because this is my blog and I want it to make people happy.

You’re welcome.

Happy Surviving Childbirth Day, Mom!

Posted on February 22, 2010 by carlieblissirwin

Readers, I lied to you. In my post last week, I told you that I’m 28 years old. This is untrue. Or I guess I should say this was untrue. When I wrote that post one week ago I was 27 (ah, the good ol’ days), but today I can officially say that I have been a member of the human race for 28 years.

Yes, today is my birthday, but more importantly in my opinion, it was 28 years ago today that my mother survived what I imagine to be one of the most horrific and gruesome of all human experiences: chidbirth. I know that may sound a bit dramatic, but when you get down to brass tacks and think about what giving birth means and what supposedly happens during this process, it is not completely dissimilar from the plot of a horror movie. And I hate horror movies.

Suspense, pain, screaming, blood, and then a small creature emerges from inside you. Hello, did you see Alien???

I’m sorry about that. Hopefully you aren’t eating while reading this post. But let’s be honest, you didn’t need that second granola bar anyway.

I have several friends who are labor and delivery nurses, or “baby catchers” as they sometimes refer to themselves. I know that when they talk to me about what they’ve experienced in the delivery room, it’s all matter-of-fact for them and they are not trying to turn me off to having kids. They are also not trying to make me feel nauseated and light-headed, but that’s exactly what happens when I hear the word “tear” in that context. Ugghh…again, I really hope you’re not eating right now.

Here’s a fun story: Once upon a time (3 weeks ago), I had to get my blood drawn for a life insurance physical. This experience ended in me passed out on my dining room table. The last thing I heard was the nurse saying to Will, “I think we’re losing her!” So now you know where I’m coming from. I’m not sure if it would be possible for me to stay conscious during my prenatal doctor’s appointments, let alone childbirth itself.

Also, did you know that labor and delivery nurses actually notice and discuss amongst themselves whether or not you have a pedicure? Well apparently they do. So that’s one more thing to worry about.

To sum up, the thought of giving birth is very, very scary to me. And realizing that my mom was willing to go through that just to have me (and then do it again with my sister!) is proof that she is amazing. Further proof that both of my parents are amazing is the fact that they were willing to drive 5 hours to St. Louis on Saturday just to take me out to dinner for my birthday only to have to turn around and drive 5 hours back on Sunday in the face of a possible snow storm. So if creating a life makes you care about someone that much, I guess it might be worth it. Plus, hundreds of thousands of women give birth every day so it can’t be that bad right? Right?

Post puppy depression

Posted on February 17, 2010 by carlieblissirwin

First of all, I just want to thank everyone who read my inaugural blog post. I’ve always liked to consider myself a writer, but it took me this long to start a blog because I’m a generally private person – sharing my thoughts and opinions with an audience is frankly a little terrifying. It was literally with a trembling hand and butterflies in my stomach (ok, that part isn’t literal) that I hit “publish” last Monday. I felt like I was back in Mrs. Fenton’s speech class my junior year of high school. Lucky for you, this is a blog so you couldn’t hear my voice shake, and lucky for me, Mrs. Fenton wasn’t there to roll her eyes and say “That’s enough. Sit down. You’re finished,” when I started blanking out. (That didn’t actually happen to me, but it happened to several other kids in my class and initiated my life-long fear of public speaking and snippy, petite, red-headed women.) Because of this, it meant a lot when the page views and comments started coming in – I was genuinely surprised that people were actually reading what I wrote and had something to say about it! So thanks for that. Now that you know I love you, let’s move on.

It was actually one of your comments (shout out to Anna – what up girlfriend?!)** that inspired me to write this next post about a very serious subject: post puppy depression. No, not postpartum. I may have that to look forward to with the advent of Babygeddon, but this is different. Mainly because it involves a puppy instead of a baby. Regardless, remembering this experience does not bring me any closer to shaking my baby-phobic inclinations. Here is my story.

**PLEASE NOTE: This is what I like to call my “shout out” voice. In no way does it reflect the way I verbally express myself in real life. Peace.

It all started about 3 ½ years ago when I devised a brilliant, elaborate plan to convince Will that we needed to get a puppy. It turned out this effort was entirely unnecessary because he agreed wholeheartedly the second the word “puppy” escaped my mouth. So now I have a brilliant, elaborate plan on file for when I need to convince him of something else in the future. Win-win.

We did some research online and found the perfect candidate – a 9 week old toy fox terrier hailing from rural Missouri who was 2 pounds and 6 inches tall at the time. My mind was reeling with the possibility of all the designer luggage and handbags I could fit him in. Sold! We christened him Gatsby and happily drove out to the sticks to pick up our new little family member.

Everything was great the first day. Gatsby slept in a tiny little ball in my lap all the way back to St. Louis, explored his new home for a little while, then slept in a tiny little ball in my lap the rest of the night while we watched a movie. In case you’re wondering, tiny little balls of sleeping puppy are ridiculously adorable and not at all hard to take care of. I think Gatsby knew this – it was all part of his diabolical plot to make me love him before he began his quest to destroy my life.

Maybe that’s being a little dramatic – he didn’t destroy my life, he just changed it. But for a person whose only commitments in life were a fiancé and a job, that change felt pretty destructive at first. I couldn’t put a finger on exactly what was bothering me, but I think I was actually slightly depressed the first month we had Gatsby. It wasn’t that I minded feeding him or even cleaning up poop, puke and fur (granted, I didn’t love that either). I just felt tied down in a way I never had before. We always had to think about what we were going to do with him whenever we wanted to go anywhere. Our solution was to lock him in the bathroom, and while even a bathroom-sized room is a palace for a dog of his microscopic proportions, he always wailed like a banshee (he has big pipes for a small dog) and made us feel guilty. Then some disturbing thoughts started entering my head. Did we make a huge mistake? Am I going to be tied down by a dog for the next 15 years? Do I even LIKE this dog?

Thankfully, post puppy depression isn’t quite as severe as postpartum depression can be. I didn’t have to resort to taking medication and worrying about what Tom Cruise thinks of me. At the risk of sounding glib, within a few weeks the post puppy depression was a thing of the past. In fact, I am now pretty much obsessed with Gatsby. After all, he is the cutest dog in the world.

Am I right or am I right?

I think the problem all along was that I wasn’t prepared for change, and the long-term commitment of having a dog didn’t hit me until we actually brought Gatsby home. The fact that I was able to adjust to that gives me hope that I’m maturing and maybe I’ll be able to use this lesson when other future family members make their debut.

Random thought of the day: The lyrics to some of the popular songs right now are laugh-out-loud ridiculous. Ke$ha – while you’re inefficiently brushing your teeth with a bottle of Jack, remember that gingivitis is a serious risk factor for heart disease. You just think about that, young lady.

Welcome to my not-a-mommy blog: My future babies scare me

Posted on February 15, 2010 by carlieblissirwin

So here I am, a happily married textbook editor living in St. Louis with my husband Will and loving the “young couple” lifestyle. We hang out with friends, try all the new restaurants, travel whenever we want, and obsess way too much over our pseudo-child, Gatsby (a five pound toy fox terrier). All of this is great and I pretty much never want to give it up. But I have a feeling it’s going to change. And that change begins with a “B” and ends with an “aby.”

No, I am NOT pregnant (Mom – you can stop freaking out). Nor will I be within the next couple of years, at least not according to the “life plan” I have carefully crafted for myself. Will and I have always said that the magic number is 30 – we’ll wait until we’re 30 to have kids. Great! Thirty is OLD. Heck, I might not even live that long. But wait – NEWSFLASH – suddenly I’m 28! And I can feel the freedom of my childless years slipping through my fingers. A tiny person-to-be is looming in the not-so-distant future, plotting to invade our lives and my uterus.

FUTURE BABY: Hey Mom, you know how you like to go out to nice restaurants more often than you probably should? Well you better soak that up now because when I’m in the picture? Not gonna happen.

ME: Huh? Mom? Wait – are you talking to me, baldy?

FB: Also, you better start planning and saving for that trip to Europe, stat. I’m not a huge fan of history, museums, good wine, or even solid foods for that matter.

ME: Wow, way to be a party pooper.

FB: Oh, I’m an expert pooper. You’ll see.

ME: <throwing up in mouth>

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t want to have kids. (Again, Mom, stop freaking out.) I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we are lucky enough to have that experience because I know that many people aren’t and it’s often taken for granted. But whether biological or adopted, I’m guessing that in the relatively near future there will be mini people dictating what we can and cannot do in our day-to-day lives. This scares me.

I’m not what you might call a “baby person.” I’ve probably held about five babies in my entire life, and I think I can speak on behalf of myself and the babies when I say it was not good. I mean really, when someone hands you her baby, what are you supposed to do? Support the head – ok I know that, but then what? Do you just look at it? Pat it? Pet it? Bounce? Stand still? I don’t know. And then there’s the whole issue of baby talk. In the presence of a baby, it seems that pretty much everyone in the world suddenly loses the ability to pronounce the letter L, as in “Wook at this wittle cutie!” I cannot compel myself to do this. My conversations with babies go more like this:

ME: Hi! Awww, you’re cute. Yes you are!

BABY: <blink>

ME: You’re heavy…

Note to friends and family members whose babies I’ve held: Don’t worry, I actually loved holding your baby. It’s the other four I’m talking about.

Another sign my maternal instincts haven’t kicked in yet? I don’t think babies are cute. Granted, they do get progressively cuter as they get older. I think most four and five year olds are adorable. I always want to take them by the shoulders, look them in the eye and say “Enjoy it kid, the awkward middle school years are not too far down the road.” But if you’re talking actual babies – most are wrinkly, fleshy, spitty Verne Troyer look-alikes.

Not cute.

So that’s where I stand right now. I do feel like I might be slowly warming up to humans of the ankle-biting, rug rat variety thanks to the fact that I have several friends who have babies or are pregnant. From what I’ve observed, motherhood does have some perks. However, I obviously have a ways to go. Thus begins my quest to enjoy living spontaneously and selfishly while I still can and to mentally prepare myself for what I like to refer to as Babygeddon…