Please head over to Meri-Ann’s place and send her some love and support.  I am so sorry, MA, I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.

http://www.mydearwatson.me/please_head_ove/

Well, today I made a total ass out of myself, but really — what else is new?!

I decided that I was going to take a swimming lesson.  Now I know how to swim, I’ve just forgotten how to swim-swim.  So, even though the very thought of putting on a bathing suit in public, along with goggles and possibly a swim cap, made me queasy, I did it anyway.

People, I am NOT good at trying new things.  Especially in public.  With very little clothing on.  (Not that I’ve been presented with this particular combination of circumstances frequently, but there waaaaas that one time in college…oh wait. I’m getting off track here.)

Ever since the 2nd grade, when my teacher Ms. Lynne told my Mom during a teacher-parent conference that I was very anxious when it came to trying new things, I have had that label.  It’s been My Truth.  Maybe the teacher was incredibly gifted and honed in on something that would become a life-long challenge for me.  Or?  Maybe she was a bitch and her comment was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Who’s to say?

But it is true, it’s very hard for me to tackle anything new, anything I’m not sure I can excel at.  Any endeavor outside my comfort zone and I get all sweaty and twitchy and pretty much try to find any excuse for getting out of said activity.

Strangely, in spite (or maybe because) of this unease with the unfamiliar, I often seek out activities that make me face my fears.  I have a fear of heights so I took a rock climbing class with a friend (and JESUS CHRIST people, did you know they put a harness on you that squeezes your butt cheeks and people stand below you the entire time, just watching your ass in this very unflattering contraption? I did not know this); went trekking in Nepal (at 13,000 ft. above sea level); and took my co-worker up on his offer to take a few of us flying in his small plane.  (Which was terrible by the way and I fervently abandoned my face-my-fears tenet for months after this experience.)

This will sound silly, but I have a fear of trying new exercise classes at the gym and either passing out or vomiting or both, but I try to sign up for new classes periodically even though — no joke — I practically have heart palpitations just thinking about it.  I feel like grabbing a Valium, downing a Jack & Coke and doing yoga breathing just to relax.  (And also?  It’s hard to get through a spin class after this self-medicating routine. Just FYI.)

So, my brilliant idea was to take this lesson, to brush up on swimming and the whole pool etiquette thing which is very mysterious to the outsider.  (Well, I do know enough not to pee in the pool for crissakes!  I just mean how many people share a lane and what if I’m really slow and all that.  Geesh.  You give me no credit.)

Anyhoo, I bought a new, sporty swimsuit in please-God-let-this-be-slimming black. But guess what?  A black SWIMSUIT is just not SLIMMING.  No.  Losing that extra 10 lbs. would have been a lot more slimming, but I didn’t quite have enough time to manage that one.  So, I stuffed my very white body (after my little skin cancer scare this year I’m a sunscreen freak and OH LORDY my sister got all the Italian genes because I am a GLOWING, SHUT YOUR EYES QUICKLY shade of white) into this black suit and I looked like a giant bag of flour tied up with string. Not attractive.

And because I wear contacts, I had to complete the look with new goggles that were WAY too tight and they squeezed my eyes so tightly my eye balls were bulging and magnified like a hundred times and small children ran screaming when I emerged from the locker room.

And?  Speaking of small children…I happened to have this lesson at the exact time a mommy-baby swim lesson was happening.  So as I’m heart palpitating and wishing I had not come up with this stupid idea in the first place, I am surrounded by mommies and babies, and half the mommies with babies were PREGNANT.  Good LORD woman! You already have ONE, what about the rest of us?!?

At the stroke of 11:30, my 17 year old swim instructor emerged and as she guided me towards the pool, I realized with abject horror that other people were also having lessons at the same time. And these other people were, like, seven years old. 

Immediately my thought process was this: 

1)  holy crap I am a friggin’ loser for taking a swim lesson along with seven year olds

2)  I look freaking HUGE  next to these tiny little people

3)  where the hell is that thermos of Jack & Coke when I need it and

4)  OHSHITSHITSHIT fucking HELL they are probably — NO, FOR SURE — peeing in the very same pool that I am about to get into!  AGGGRRGGGG!

But with the perky instructor standing there waiting for me to get in the damn water already, I had to drop my towel and get in the damn water already.  I shared a lane with a delightful little girl named Maya who basically kicked my ass.  As I struggled to follow instructions and stay on my side of the lane so I wouldn’t drown the tiny little child who would just appear out of nowhere like a little wet sea otter, kicking at the right speed and breathing and coordinating all of this with my arms, I felt like a giant, flailing sea creature. Maya probably did three laps to my one.

But you know what? When I finally finished, I told my teacher I would sign up for another class with her.  Even though it was horrifically embarrassing, it felt good to do something that I was intimidated by. And I know, being intimidated by a stupid swimming lesson sounds ridiculous, but hey — we all have our ‘things’ right?

So what are your ‘things’?  The activities and endeavors that seem so easy for others yet cause you anxiety?  BeBop, for example, hates to talk on the phone with people he doesn’t know.  I tell him all the time he has stranger danger and how it’s ridiculous he can’t order Chinese take out or make Bosco a vet appointment. I laugh and point too, because that’s just the kind of wife I am.

But I promise I won’t laugh and point at you — let’s hear your ‘things’ people! 

Let’s fly our freak flags proudly!!

And if no one comments about their ‘things’ I will be forced to face the sad truth that I am, in fact, a little  fraidy cat who’s been paralyzed by the newness of things since the 2nd grade.  And that will make Ms. Lynne right.  And we can’t have that, now can we?

As you may have noticed, I tend to reference Zee a lot on this blog — and will continue to do so thankyouverymuch until that restraining order goes into effect. 

A few weeks back, we had this delightful exchange in the comments section, and ever since, I can’t get the idea of my cervical mucus deserting me out of my head. 

We guessed that perhaps our mucuses (mucusi??) were together, having hit the road leaving us high and dry (HAR HAR). 

At first, I had an image of my CM tying up her worldly possessions in a bandanna on the end of a long stick, and hitting the railroad cars all hobo-like.  But then I realized that having sprung forth from MY loins, that was not very likely.  I hate hobos and I’m sorry if that offends any of you, but it’s true.  They’re scary and have an uncanny sense of direction and nothing you say can make me like them, NOTHING!

Anyway, I decided that my mucus was probably on one of two trips: either digging water trenches in a remote Sri Lankan village, or sitting by the pool of a fancy spa awaiting a massage and seaweed wrap.  (WHAT?  It’s good for the cellulite!!)

So, given that she deserted me a couple of years ago and left me alone to navigate the waters (wow, this topic is just PUN RICH isn’t it?) of trying to get pregnant, I would compose an open letter to her in the hopes of luring her back.

Dear Cervical Mucus,

I know we’ve been apart for several years now. I’m not sure why you determined that this was an appropriate time to leave town, just when I needed you most! Perhaps you felt ignored for so long, since before I read a popular book about you, I didn’t even know you existed, and that was rude of me.  (My friend recommended the book and I read it immediately, and then we would ask each other:  "how do you CHECK that stuff anyway?  Ewwwww… ." And I’d leave messages for her like:  "sorry I missed you but I bet you’re too busy checking your cervical mucus to answer the phone …snort snort!" and then be petrified that her husband would hear the message first. )

So, perhaps that offended you and you were fed up, and instead of confronting me like a mature CM  (and at 38 staring-down-the-barrel- of 39, we’re MATURE, honey child) you decided to take off.  No note, no text message.  Not even a scrawl on a panty shield saying you’d be back once you cooled off.  Nothing!

But, this letter is not about incriminations or blame.  (Except? I do blame you for forcing me to search high and low for a lubricative substance that wouldn’t impede the trying to get knocked up scenario. Buying the homeopathic version at Whole Foods along with organic vegetables and fruit smoothies is NOT pleasant.)  But, onward and upward.  I hope that your vacation has been restful and that you’re ready to return home. Soon.

Each month I search for you, hoping against hope that either the green tea I’ve been swilling or the cough medicine I’m gagging on (and I don’t even HAVE a COUGH — I read about that on iVillage and GAWD, what a nightmare those message boards are!!) will be enough to coax you back home.

And let me tell you, looking for you is NO easy task.  Sneaking into the restroom at work and, well, entering your domain and praying the contractor did not install a secret camera in the ladies’ bathroom when we renovated the office is NOT pleasant.  (And why does that thought even occur to me? I think I must watch too much Dateline or something!)

But alas, each month I diligently look for you. I’ve considered putting your photo on the back of a milk carton, but I’m not sure that’s something people want to see as they’re enjoying their breakfast cereal. 

At this point, I’m not sure what else to do.  I’m resorting to this open letter, hoping that by some miracle you’ll see it and come home.  By the way, your old pals — my ovaries — have somewhat stepped up to the plate lately, what with the ovulating around Day 16, and they would greatly appreciate your help too.

So, CM, please come home. I’ll leave the light on and some milk and cookies on the nightstand.  And watch out for those hobos.  Which, when you think about it, is good advice for ANYONE.

Love,   

Watson

Last weekend BeBop and I went hiking.  On our way back down the mountain (and by ‘mountain’ I mean ‘hill’ but ‘mountain’ sounds much cooler, like we’re all fit and shit!) we rounded a corner and heard a distinctive buzzing noise.

As we came around the bend, we saw a ginormous bee hive/wasp condo type of contraption in a tree.  There were so many stinger-equipped flying menaces, the sound was deafening.  And quite scary.

We walked slowly past the hive, so as not to disturb the little buggers. 

"What would you do," I asked, "if something set them off and a HUGE swarm of bees/hornets/wasps starting attacking us?"

"I would immediately throw you to the ground, cover you with my body and protect you from getting stung," said BeBop.

"Hmmmm…that doesn’t sound like you at all."

"Okay, really I would pour this packet of sugar I carry in my wallet all over you and run like a mother fucker."

"Now THAT sounds like you."

                                                           *   *   *

BeBop started his contract job at Company B this week. And thanks to my teen idol, Zee, I cannot get the line: the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B out of my freaking head!!   Also?  The urge to do my famous Andrews Sisters impression, but that’s a story for another post.

Anyhoo, B LOVES LOVES LOVES the job.  I mean, he wants to MARRY this job.  And have babies with it.  And?  It’s probably not fertilely-challenged like some of us around here, so I’m a little worried.  I bet this job doesn’t have a short luteal phase or ovulate late in its cycle.  I suspect that it might even have plentiful EWCM. Bastard!

But to inject a smidge of seriousness here, he really loves it. It’s still a bit nerve-wracking considering he’s only guaranteed the position for another few weeks, but he’s so happy he literally had tears in his eyes when telling me about his first few days there.      

Wish us both luck that something materializes from this, or I will be forced to draw and quarter him (how does one do that, by the way?) and sell his comic book collection on eBay just have to continue being the gracious, supportive wife I’ve been these last few years, all the while with a smile on my face.

                                                            *   *   *

I asked my Mother for an update on  Mack! 

"Is he still in the slammer?" I asked her the other day. "Oh yes, his sentence is for a very long time, but he’s still predicting earthquakes."

"And did he predict the quake we just had a couple of weeks ago?"

"Hmmmmmmm…you know, I’m not sure.  He did call us a few weeks ago and say that there could be an earthquake sometime in some place, so maybe…YES.  Yes, he did!  He’s pretty good!"

[crickets]

"You know,"  she continued, "we really should try to help him."

"HELP HIM?!?  He’s in JAIL for crissakes!  What are you talking about?" I shrieked, fearing that she’ll try to sell my little sister into white slavery to pay for a new lawyer, because his court-appointed defense attorney was supposedly corrupt. 

"Are we talking about, like, a nail file in a cake helping?  Or making him a shiv out of a Pepsi can and some duct tape helping?  Or perhaps smooshing your boobies against the plexiglass in the visitor’s room one day helping?"

"Oh God no," she reassures me, in all seriousness. "I just mean maybe trying to help him hire a legal team at some point and getting a new trial."

"Oh, just that," I say casually and race to get off the phone and text my sister to warn her she better not accept that offer from my Mother to take an all-expenses-paid trip to Bangkok any time soon.

                                                           *   *   *

And, finally, people:  let’s send some blogosphere love over to Meri-Ann and to Meg who have some wonderful and very happy news to share. 

Hearing their news makes me want to break into a rousing rendition of Roll Out The Barrel and get my Polka on because that?  THAT is something to celebrate. 

And I’m telling you, with enough rum and diet coke my Andrews Sisters impression KILLS.

The lovely and talented Meri-Ann tagged me, and so thankfully today I will not be boring you into a coma with updates on my menstrual cycle. 

(BUT. In case you’re wondering, YES, I did pack my bags and flee from Plimbo last night.  So that makes today Day 1, again.  I feel like I’m living in that movie Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray wakes up to the same day, day after day after day…)

But enough about ME.  Let’s hear some additional and totally irrelevant facts about me.

Four jobs I have had in my life:

1. working at a frozen yogurt shop in high school (and since so many of us wretched kids gave free yogurt to our friends, the owner made us count the cups each night at closing and compare that number to the amount of yogurt sold. So we would count and count hundreds of cups every single day. And put the free yogurt we gave away in drinking cups. HA! We never let The Man get us down. Power to the people!)
2. consulting firm that managed drug testing programs for professional sports leagues (and ‘professional’ wrestling, and no, I am not kidding)
3. legal assistant for a crazy female attorney who routinely smoked pot before going to court and would yell at me so loudly, I had to close the office door to avoid disturbing the offices down the hall. And this happened every.single.day.
4. running a small, youth-related non profit organization

Four movies I watch over and over:

1. The Princess Bride (Have fun stormin’ the castle…God, that never gets old!)
2. Caddyshack
3. LA Story
4. A Christmas Carol (and let me specify: I only watch this over and over because BeBop MAKES me watch it each year at Christmas time, it’s now a family tradition. And each year, he sings along with Ebenezer Scrooge in a terrible, effete British accent. It makes me want to simultaneously puncture my own eardrums with chopsticks AND stab my eyes out with a dull butter knife. But in a weird way it’s also sort of charming and endearing. If I’ve had enough wine to drink, that is.)

Four places I have lived:

1. San Francisco
2. Los Angeles
3. Washington, DC
4. The Gambia, West Africa (for a summer)

Four TV shows I love:

1. Big Brother (I know, so cheesy, but so addictive during the summer)
2. Grey’s Anatomy
3. Gilmore Girls
4. The Office (both the British and American versions)

Four places I have been on vacation:

1. The South of France
2. Tahiti
3. Nepal
4. India (although I use the term ‘vacation’ loosely here!)

Four websites I visit daily:

1. SF Gate
2. Salon
3. Blogs
4. More blogs

Four of my favorite foods:

1. Pizza
2. Burritos
3. Chinese food
4. Chocolate chip cookies

Four places I would rather be right now:

1. A spa, pretty much anywhere in the world
2. In Los Angeles, visiting my sister
3. In the wine country
4. At home with my doggie watching Tivo

Four favorite bands/singers:

1. Dave Matthews Band (And YES, since you ask: I am a fraternity boy stuck in the body of a middle-aged woman!)
2. Nora Jones
3. Counting Crows
4. Frank Sinatra (kickin’ it old school)

And the people I tag to enlighten and amuse us with their answers:

1. S
2. Momo
3. ‘Nilla
4. SaraS-P
5. Zee

And let’s keep our other Cyber Sistahs in mind too — who all have a lot going on in their lives right now — and who are more than welcome to join the game of tag if they feel like a distraction:

1. Nikole
2. Meg
3. The Waiting Line
4. Stella Nova
5. Nico
6. Electric Lady