The Blue Devil

Seth bought this old tin can of a car. It's so old that when I tried to research the last year the car was made, not even Google could find any relevant information. And it's so small that it can fit in our recycling bin.

This car is so ugly that I'm afraid if I'm even unfortunate enough to have to hitch a ride, I'd have to sit in the back seat, all hunched over, embarrassed teenager style, lest someone I know see me.

Originally, Seth had talked about buying this car for "rainy days"...so he didn't have to walk to work in the rain. Originally I said "I don't want that P.O.S. car in my driveway." Originally, he said "Honey, it will stay on the street". Originally, that was the plan.

And then we went on a week long vacation. And Seth decided that this car, dubbed "The Blue Devil", would make a magnificent anti theft device if parked in the driveway while we were gone. Perhaps because anyone that owned a car that ugly couldn't possibly have anything worth stealing? I certainly don't think the car gave off the impression that someone was home. Looking at it, it was far more likely that the car was sitting there because it couldn't' quite chug it's old self into the garage.

And that is where The Blue Devil lived. For three weeks. Because it died. Right there in the driveway. The very first day of ownership.

No worries though; Seth figured out the cause of death, revived the car, and now it sits once again, in my driveway, as a deterrent to thieves while we are away.

True (pregnancy) Stories

True Story: So I went to Target to shop for baby shower gifts for a friend. I’m standing in the baby section, surrounded by 800 billion different products, and I start BAWLING because I don’t know the purpose of ANY of these contraptions. Like, there are these dispensers for stuff, and little ovens for certain types of bottles and wipes, and these kits with these attachments, for what I cannot even imagine, and special dishwasher baskets and hand washing baskets and these crazy devices where I guess you can pump certain stuff out, or keep other stuff in (and fresh! Don’t forget fresh!) and special designs for every single thing! I know what baby powder is, I know how to get the right size diapers, and I know what onesies are. Beyond that, I got bupkis.

True Story: Overnight my boobs, once a cute duo of Volkswagen Beetles, are now a couple of Cadillac touring sedans. I don’t care who you are, or what size your airbags were before that sperm drilled into your egg, nobody likes to be forced to rent a cargo van when they are used to driving a compact car. And I keep hearing that this is just the beginning. Which freaks me out. A lot.

True Story: Before you decide on a baby name, I’ve discovered that it’s incredibly helpful to yell out said name very loudly, followed by a pretend offense the forthcoming child will surely commit, and see how it feels. If I feel embarrassed to yell out “Neil Steele, did you smear peanut butter on the TV?” (Which incidentally, I would feel embarrassed to yell out, due to the rhyming), then it’s just not going to be a good fit. I also found it to be highly amusing to be downstairs, folding laundry, and yelling fake names at fake kids for fake naughtiness. Total stress reducer!

True Story: The grocery store is the worst place ever. I thought if I could just avoid the meat and fish departments, I’d be fine, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. And do you know why? Because. People don’t brush their teeth. And they don’t shower, and they don’t put on deodorant and they just don’t care. And being pregnant magnifies all of these scents about 6,000 times. I cannot help but glare unabashedly at these people and make low growling noises. If the offender is particularly disgusting, I say “gross” out loud when I walk past. I figure it’s nicer than punching them right in the face. Plus, this way I don’t have to touch them.

True Story: Our neighbors and good friends have 2 cats and a dog, a black lab I’m in love with named Luke. I stopped by the other day, entering, as usual, through the side door. And I must have turned an ugly shade of green because my friend immediately asked me what was wrong. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs, “OH MY GOD!” Where is the litter box and why haven’t you cleaned it EVER???” Of course, I wouldn’t normally say anything like that, because it’s rude. However, as I am quickly learning, I no longer have a “Don’t say that out loud Erin” filter. And that lack of filter, coupled with an overwhelming sensitivity to smells, did in fact make me say “Jesus, woman. Where the F is the litter box? It smells like ass in here!” And I said this in the kitchen, and the litter box, which had been emptied and freshened just a day or two before, was in the basement and on the complete opposite side of the house. As so I learned that litter boxes, no matter how clean or how far away, are so pungent that you could swear a cat just took a shit on your upper lip.

True Story: I was almost asleep, thinking about the delivery room at the hospital (OK, mentally decorating the delivery room at the hospital) when I suddenly realized that I am to give birth at a Catholic Hospital. So I roused Seth from his near sleep and asked “Seth, am I not allowed to swear at the hospital? Because that is not going to work for me.” Seth is of the opinion that if you’re giving birth, you get kind of a free pass for swearing, but I’m worried. I don’t know what I’ll likely yell out, but I can tell you that I’m no stranger to the phrases “Jesus Christ” and “God Dammit”. They, along with a plethora of other ‘non-taking-the-Lord’s-name in vain but shouldn’t be yelled in public’ expressions are kind of part of my everyday vernacular. I guess the best I can do is hope those nurses don’t dole out Hail Mary’s and stuff while I'm in labor.

Tidbits of chicken

First, let me say that I'm the baby of the family, not the first born. And I'm exactly the same way as my friend Jacoba in the "must control the kitchen" department. I'm not totally proud of it, but for real, if raw chicken touches the blade of the kitchen shears, then they better be washed. In hot water. With soap. The antibacterial kind. Along with the sink, the counter, and anything else in the kitchen that could have raw chicken germs on it, either from direct or indirect contact.

So when Seth cooks with chicken, I either stand in the kitchen, hovering and hovering and wincing and making nonsensical outbursts that consist mostly of short bursts of air leaving my lungs and traveling noisily through my lips, or I leave the room. And try really hard not to think about what's going on. While cradling my antibacterial spray bottle that will make everything all better in the morning when he leaves for work and I start the disinfecting process.

And the thing about it is...Seth and I get mad at each other, or alienate the shit out of one another, while Cob and Rob joke around and laugh it off. Is this a duration of marriage type thing?

i am quite sure that to Rob, it's rather irritating for you to say "go make dinner" and that you "don't care", and then you back seat cook the whole time he's in the kitchen. or maybe it's not irritating anymore? does he accept it, and love you even more for your crappy kitchen maneuvers? honestly...