FlipSide:Starting July 9, 2001

A journal of the trials, tribulations, and triumphs in the life of a woman in the 21st century.

Well, I'm back! Where have I been, you ask. Well, there have been a variety of factors keeping me from you, my friends. First of all, there is the fact that it has been stinkin' hot and humid around here, and that tends to make me tired. In fact, of late, it has been making my mild asthma flare up and for the first time in my life, I am having trouble breathing. (And I have no fast acting inhalers, only preventative ones. Two of them. Explain to me why a doctor would prescribe 2 preventative asthma inhalers? To someone who has very rare asthma flare-ups? And, of course, I can't get in to see the doctor until Thursday afternoon and my doctor has not called me back yet with a short-term fast acting inhaler prescription. I really hope the humidity has gone some like the weather idiots have forecast so I can sleep tonight.) It is very disconcerting (to say the least) to find that the act of breathing that you have taken for granted for 30+ years does not happen with the ease that you have become accustomed to. Especially at night. You know the feeling you get when you start paying too much attention to your breathing and the rhythm gets messed up and you can't get it back? That's how I feel, except with an intensity that can cause a gasping sensation in the upper chest area. Not pleasant and rather frightening at times.

My second reason (excuse?) is my busy social life. STOP LAUGHING!!! It actually has been busy. We had a picnic on the 4th of July with friends we haven't seen in a while, a picnic at the Zoo with the kids on Thursday (with a side trip to Daddy's ~~Zoo~~office, the weekly trip to the farmer's market, some cooking, baking, and cleaning, helped some friends celebrate their anniversary on Saturday, and had a friend over for dinner on Sunday. See I do too have a life!!!.

My final reason? Well, it's technical. It seems the dangly dongle thingamajiggee that connects the laptop I use to our network (yes, my husband the turbo technogeek has an in-home network for our overcrowded 2 bedroom apartment that barely has room for 1 desktop machine, let alone the four we have plus a server, for God's sake . . . oops, went off for a minute there, now where was I? Oh yes, the dangling dongle). Anyway, that whatchamacallit broke off a little plastic thingamabob due to some unkind handling by someone in our family who will remain nameless in the hopes that they will see another birthday. So I have had a hard time getting any computing time. (Some boys don't share their toys very well.)

Pretty cute, huh?

They call him "Mr. Body Function". At the dinner table tonight, my son let loose with several roof-raising, silverware- rattling belches. After each one, he giggled. I looked over at my husband, most displeased, for it is his rude behavior my son is exhibiting. His response? "Hey, I didn't say 'Good Out'!" (ed. In the interests of fairness, it should be noted that I was glaring at the little ape while he was conducting his gastrointestinal serenade. At no time did I applaud or approve. He could have done soooooo much better... -- jd.) What is it with the male of the species and their never ending fascination with their body functions? John has told me tales of sitting around the boy scout campfire, playing "Pull My Finger" and seeing who could fart the loudest. Then, as they aged, they graduated to attempting to light the gaseous emissions. Sigh. I just don't get it.

Since I am discussing the incomprehensibilities of the male, let's talk about countertops, shall we? How is it that a man can come out of the kitchen, pronouncing it "clean" yet there is still spaghetti sauce all over the stove top? Or crumbs or spilled kool-aid all over the counter? Is it something on the Y chromosome? I know it is not just my husband, as I have consulted with several married women on the subject and almost all report the same phenomena. (Except Marcia. Brian is the clean freak in their household.)

Then, there is the preoccupation with . . . you know. It is never far from their mind. A man can be too exhausted to take out the garbage, but, at bedtime, he is quite ready and willing to expend a great deal of energy simply trying to convince his wife of the desirability of putting off sleep for a little while longer. The wife who wiped up the stovetop, cleaned the counters, and took out the garbage, mind you. But, I must admit, I have a good husband. He does laundry. He has other, equally good qualities. But the fact that he does laundry and goes to the grocery store with me is enough to earn me the envy of many a married woman.

However, he doesn't always see this as a good thing. Apparently he has a history of hearing phrases like "You're a nice guy but. . ." and "you're such a good friend." According to him, those phrases are the "kiss of death". Then, there was the complement that wasn't. At least to John. Several girlfriends of mine and John and I were sitting in a restaurant talking one day. One girl was lamenting her boyfriend's behavior and the conversation degenerated into a general session of discussing the shortcomings of the various men in our lives. At which point John felt compelled to stick up for his sex. "Oh John," sayeth Saundra, "Don't worry, we don't think of you as a man."

Well, I have to go. My son is sitting naked in the bath tub. The empty bathtub. He is beginning to notice something is missing. I need to go give him a clue and turn on the water. Ciao!

It is the little things that make life worth living. A hug and a "I love you" from your child, a smile from a friend when you're feeling down, a pat on the back for a job well done, a working gas gauge . . . Yes, it happened again. Less than 2 miles from home, three blocks from daycare, my engine made that horrible, all too familiar chugging sound that signals an empty gas tank (since my gas gauge can't be counted on to give me that signal.) My lesson: Assume the tank is empty when it is telling you that you can still go 60 miles. Silly me, I thought I could make it until pay day, I only put 16 miles a day on the car, when I take the bus. (Okay, so Thursday isn't pay day, but any check I write isn't hitting the bank the same day I write it anyway). So my knight in shining armor had to come to rescue his damsel in distress. (And trust me, I absolutely abhor the fact that that particular analogy makes me out to be the helpless damsel, no matter how apt it is in this case. I am not the helpless type.) John had an interesting take on the knight thing. Sayeth my spouse "... that armor had better have an adjustable belly plate and expandable codpiece (addition and emphasis mine -- jd) - though the thought of me in armor has me thinking more of a pot-bellied stove..."

(ed- Humph. I also pointed out that she was not a "damsel in distress" but rather an efficient modern woman, who chose to make the best use of her resources. See if I try to make her feel good about it next time, she gravitates to the self-deprecating portion of the e-mail I sent rather than the nice stuff. Humph, and double-humph. Bother. Piffle. Feh. -- jd)

So, while awaiting the arrival of my pot bellied stove, er, knight, I walked the kids the three blocks to school. The kids' biggest concern was had I locked the car doors.
"Guys, the car isn't going anywhere."
"But what if someone steals it."
"Only if they bring their own can of gas to start it." (Last I checked, criminals (other than arsonists) don't tend to wander around with cans of gasoline, just hoping to steal a car with an empty gas tank. They don't want to work that hard. That's why they're criminals.)

Ahh, but there is no reasoning with the superior knowledge of a seven year old. And I can guarantee that she shared the story with her friends and teachers before I even made it out the door.

(ed. - have I introduced you to the bad luck fairy? He lives for stuff like this... -- jd.)

Apparently my day could get worse. That damn gorilla in the pink tutu certainly gets around. Keri and her hand and walking into her grandfather clock, all within 24 hours of each other, and yet, that damn chimp doesn't manage to forget me. I'm all choked up. In my case, all things motorized were against me yesterday. I obviously didn't pay proper homage to the automotive gods (and what would one sacrifice to the automotive gods? A hood ornament perhaps?) When I got on the bus last night, all seemed to be well. Then, after about a block, the engine killed. The driver got it started again and we were off, hoping it was only a short tantrum due to the heat. Nope. It killed again, just before we got on the freeway. Considering the long wait for another bus during rush hour, we pressed on. Ever two to three miles, the bus loses power. We tried turning off the air, letting it sit awhile, petting it and calling it baby. No joy. Image driving the 20 miles from St. Paul to the park and ride, with the bus killing every 2 to 3 miles. Bad juju. Bad bad juju. I must tip my hat to the driver, however. Despite what must have been great frustration, never did a word stronger than "oh no" pass his lips. Me? I would have been cursing the bus, anyone who had ever touched the bus, every person on the assembly line that had anything to do with putting the bus together, and the fates that had made me the driver of this accursed behemoth.

Today didn't start off much better. Although I am now breathing a bit better due to the lower due point and my trusty inhaler kicking in, my children have now taken to disturbing my rest. Jack has been in the past two night, complaining of bad dreams. Probably of someone depriving him of his chocolate. I got him resettled in bed around 3:30. Around 5, Rhiannon made her appearance. Her complaint was a tummy ache. So, I pranced her into the bathroom for a dose of the vile pink cure-all, Pepto Bismal. (Personally, the way it tastes, it should be called Abysmal.) By the time I got back to the bedroom, John's alarm had gone off and he had the morning news on, our morning ritual. Hey, we've been married 11 years, that is the only morning ritual I am interested in at this point. (A friend, who shall remain nameless to protect the those who would like you to believe they are innocent, was also complaining of lack of sleep at work today. When I asked her, "What's your excuse?" she replied with "naked man in my bed." Eeewwwww, TMI TMI TMI!!! Then again, I have a mostly naked man in my bed every night and I've adjusted just fine, thank you very much.)

Where was I? Oh yes, that damn bad luck fairy. Anyway, I got everyone up just a little bit late and dragged my sorry butt to work, only a few minutes late. I was leaving early today due to my doctor's appointment, so I had lots of stuff to get done before 1 pm. Phone rings at about 9:45. It's daycare. Rhiannon is not feeling well, can I come get her? Sigh. I have a remarkably understanding office. Not only does my boss say to not worry, just take care of my family, she comes up with some stuff I can do at home so I don't have to burn more vacation time that necessary. When I get down to daycare, I find that it isn't so much Rhiannon's upset stomach, it is the fact that some little budding serial killer has kicked her in the chest. Hard enough to leave his shoe print. I am NOT a happy woman at this point, but there isn't much I can do at this point (as killing the little hoodlum, although doing society a favor in the long run considering this is not his first offense, is frowned upon by those in authority) so we go home. Rhiannon is terribly perky in the back seat for one who had just been on death's door an hour ago. Oh well. Go home, do some work, feed her and myself and head to the doctor to complain about my breathing.

As I am finishing up with the doctor, Rhiannon starts complaining that her chest hurts when she breathes. Considering she was kicked right below her heart and between her lungs, this concerned me more than a little, so we go across the hall to her pediatrician. They don't have an opening until 4:30, so we head off to the urgent care. 45 minutes, a horrified nurse, stunned doctor, and a chest x-ray later, we are assured that nothing is broken, just very bruised and may be sore for up to a week. Damn bad luck fairy is picking on my kids now.

However, I have been told that my day is not the worst. Alicia called me to let me know that her neighbor who has car parts in her yard came to her house to complain that Alicia's children were wandering around the neighborhood and need to be restrained and if they weren't she would get a petition going. To accomplish what, we're not sure. Then, of course, their is our friend who is getting divorced. His soon to be ex wife wants him to buy her a $200,000 house, because "she deserves it". Hmmm . . . she up and left her husband of 15 years and her three children with no warning to move in with another woman and he owes her? She wants access to the children (which she abandoned, mind you) whenever she wants it, no matter what his plans are, she has a key to their house (which they are moving out of this weekend, thank God), so she breezes in whenever she chooses and she is owed? Words fail me to describe the nerve of that woman. Guess my day wasn't so bad after all.

Then again, on the up side, he made the observation to my husband the other day that he could "go out and find a woman half my age and she'd be legal!!!" John was not quite so elated by this, as he viewed this as a statement that he is getting old (Psst. Honey? Let me let you in on a secret. YOU ARE!!!) and the fact that if he went out and hit on a woman half his age, I'd hit him. Hard. With kitchen implements.

(ed - she's had a rough day, contemplating the eventual purification of the gene pool hereabouts to remove certain thuggery-inclined individuals and their thuggery-inspiring parental units, so she's passing on the posting portion of the day's activities. -- jd)

Today has been a hard day. Emotionally as well as physically. It was moving day for Jon, our friend who is getting divorced. He and his three children were moving out of their new, 6 bedroom, 4000+ square foot house into a 4 bedroom 2400 square foot house. And, actually, that was the easier part. The hard part was saying goodbye to the dreams that were built in that house. The realization that the family that lived there is no more. On the patio of that dream house, three sets of handprints were set in the concrete. You can't move that.

All of his friends, most of which used to be "their" friends, came to help him. John has known him since 2nd grade, others since high school. His parents, and even his soon to be ex in-laws came as well. Although we laughed and joked and had fun, there was an undercurrent of sadness. His littlest, Rachel, a beautiful blonde 2 year old was not taking the move well. She did everything she could to stand in the way. Literally. Then her mommy came. I'm not sure why. Maybe to try to be a part again of the camaraderie of "the group". It just made everything harder. As happens in a divorce, especially when one party walks out on another, everyone had taken sides. Her mother cried softly. Her little girl clung to her, trying to recapture the only home she had ever known. Probably hoping against hope, that, now that Mommy was here, everything would be all right and Daddy would put everything back in the house. So conversations were hushed and stilted. Jon tried to carry on as if everything was okay for his kids, but it wasn't. She stayed for the last hour, not helping, just watching and trying to pretend that everything was still okay.

When we drove the trucks to the new house, she showed up there too. She didn't stay too long, having finally, I think, given up on trying to be part of everything, and Rachel sobbed. Long wrenching sobs of a little girl who's world has fallen apart. Her older siblings didn't cry, but, when you looked into their eyes, you saw the same lost little child that was their younger sister.

Rhiannon asked me to promise that her daddy and I would never get divorced. I told her it would just be easier if I killed him. She solemnly agreed. As did most of the adults present. "Build an in-ground pool to hide the body," advised some.

It is amazing how filthy dirty children can get running around in back yards. The first back yard was all grassy, but the new house had a great deal of dirt. Rhiannon was running in her shorts and a swimsuit top and Jack was topless. Well, not exactly true By the end of the day, he had a fine layer of top soil covering his chest and back, much like a shirt.

Last night, we ran errands. Went camping shopping, got John and Jack haircuts (buzzzzzz), and I got a new swimsuit. Now, this is newsworthy. I haven't bought a new swimsuit since the last time I was in a size 16, which was, well, pre- kids. Kmart was running 1/2 price on all their swimwear, so this seemed to be a perfect opportunity. You know, women are somewhat masochistic when it comes to swimsuits. You see, you need to find a suit that emphasizes all your good areas and effectively camouflages your faults. We are expecting a whole lot out of damn few yards of cloth.

After several tries, I found one that I thought did a fairly good job of showing off my assets and minimizing most of my detractions. As I looked in the dressing room mirror, starting at the top, I was fairly happy. Nice proportions, not too much chest hanging out, tummy not too unsightly, butt fairly minimized . . . then I looked lower. Damn, ain't nothin' hidin' those thighs. Nope. Swimsuits just don't cover there. I looked in the dressing room mirror in dismay. They didn't have any cover-ups large enough. Oh well. I bought the suit anyway and resolved to do something about those thighs. For the umpteenth time. But this time, I told myself, I MEAN IT.

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Copyright © 2001 Ann Dominik. All rights reserved. Complaints about the technical details of this page can be directed to the abused geek who takes care of it for me, and is grossly underpaid for what he does, he thinks. No reproduction without written permission. The opinions and content of this site are my own, and not the responsibility of this site's host, my employer, my pets, my parents or anyone else you may care to blame. Please respect my opinions and I will do the same for you. I may on occasion publish e-mail to me; if you do not wish your mail to be published, please write CONFIDENTIAL or DO NOT PUBLISH at the top of the e-mail. If you would prefer to remain anonymous, please note that as well. If you're incapable of reasoned civilized discourse but feel compelled to correspond with me, I'll be happy to filter your mail out after a few choice comments regarding your ancestors, upbringing, and the likelihood of your family tree not