It's Your (My) Funeral

  So, I kind of phased out during Relief Society on Sunday and started planning my funeral in my head. Here's what I have so far, it's a little rough, I just banged it out after church:

1.) DO NOT BURY ME IN SOME FANCY EXPENSIVE BOX. Cremate me. Do whatever you want with the ashes, just don't come visit my rotting corpse in an expensive plot. That's weird. Also, if there are billions of people on this earth, they can't all be buried! There's not enough room! You should do that thing where you turn me into a tree. That's cool. I saw this thing online where they talked about how if a bunch of people did that, then cemeteries would be forests. Seriously, isn't that a good idea? If you do that, though, don't freak out if the tree dies. It's not symbolic of anything, trees just die sometimes. Plant another one if you want and pretend it's the same one.

2.) NO VIEWING. I'm super serious on this, guys. I'm still traumatized from the one viewing I went to as a kid, and I don't want that to be the last way everyone remembers me, with my eyes all sunken in and crap. Why would you want to see that, anyway? I don't care if you find it comforting in some weird way, I am not cool with you all staring at my corpse. Remember me as I was ALIVE.

3. ) No hymns at the funeral. I don't feel as strongly about this as the first two, but really, I'm just not into hymns. If you play "Til We Meet Again" I'm going to be a mad ghost. You don't want a mad ghost, trust me. Don't torture yourselves with that hymn, please. Have James or Andrew make a compilation of instrumental songs from some of my favorite video games (I know you're rolling your eyes, Mom, but I don't care. There's some good music in video games!). Y'know, some Final Fantasy X or VII, Kingdom Hearts, Dragon Age. Not like the Chocobo Song or anything, the classy-sounding ones, guys. If James and Andrew are dead, then . . . Well, hopefully I'll update this before then.

4.) As for who gets what, Fay gets all my jewelry. She doesn't have to keep it if she doesn't want, no guilt, she can just choose her favorite pieces. Mom's going to give me the pink tourmaline ring Dad made when she dies, and that's actually a nice piece with some meaning, so Fay can have that. Lincoln . . . I dunno, I don't have any special trains stashed away. He can choose whatever he wants of mine. Kellie gets my beanie babies (or just one representational one if she wants. Or none. I don't care, I'm just trying to honor my promise to her from when I was 8). Everyone else can take what they want, give the rest to Goodwill. You don't need to hang on to my stuff or anything. What I hung on to due to sentimentality won't be sentimental to you, feel free to give it to Goodwill. OH, but keep the baby blessing dresses for the kids' kids someday. Don't throw those out, please.

5.) Burn my journals. Really, they're very boring, just a day-to-day account, they're not creative or funny or even that interesting, I promise. And a lot of people would be hurt because of stupid stuff I wrote when upset. I loved you all, I promise, I just vented a lot and you don't want to read it. If you can't bring yourself to burn them (though, really, you should), lock them away for my great-grandkids or something, people who didn't know me personally or would be offended by them. But, seriously, they're boring, I don't think even my descendents would want to read them.

6.) Something you COULD do at my funeral that I think would be fun would be to read excerpts from my blog, or facebook posts, or bits from my books or something. That's more personal to me than some talk we've all heard at every funeral ever about resurrection and stuff. You can throw it in at some point, like, "Hey, Julia believes in resurrection and so do 99% of people at this funeral, so that's cool, we'll see each other again someday, blah blah, now let's talk about something more interesting." OOH, also, if I'm not published, maybe print up some copies of the books I've worked really hard on so whoever wants to can read it. Not "Super", it sucks, but the Shadow book and How We Came to Quest are decent-ish. It would be nice if someone got to enjoy them. But, you know, remind people they are fantasy, so if they're not into that, don't read it just because they feel obligated.

7.) Sorry to keep harping about the funeral (wait, why am I apologizing? I should not have to keep apologizing beyond the grave!), but I want it small. Like, people who actually really knew me and loved me. Family and close friends. I don't want the big, impersonal kind with a bunch of people who barely knew me. Keep it intimate, the kind of thing I would like to go to in real life, with people I'm comfortable with. If there's someone that it would be awkward not to invite, I guess you can. But seriously, try to keep it small.

  That's what I got so far. Am I forgetting anything?

All Hail Me, Winner of Failing at Life!

  So, first The Bloggess wrote THIS amazing post about failing at being human, which made me laugh-cry (I had to read it in doses because it hurt my throat and stomach too much to laugh so much in one sitting). Then my BFF Kellie did THIS, and it was fantastic. And basically it's just bringing back too many painful, horrible, hilarious memories that I have to share. I think many of them have probably been posted on here years ago, but meh.

 These kinds of things seem to happen to me daily, which is probably why I don't talk to people much anymore. I really shouldn't be allowed to, anyway.

1. At EFY, Cute British Boy sat next to me at a John Bytheway talk. He introduced himself to me and I blanked, thinking, "My brother James would know JUST what to say to make this guy his best friend!" Held out my hand, said, "Hi, I'm James! . . . I MEAN JULIA." He later tried to whisper something to me three times, but it turns out I can't understand whispered British accents, so I gave up trying to understand and fake-laughed, assuming he was telling me a joke. "It wasn't funny," he said.

2. Used to exchange babysitting for use of washer/dryer in Oregon, so I lugged two heavy bags of laundry into my friend's house and chatted with her for about ten minutes before she finally said, "Um, it's Thursday." It took her several more hints before I realized I'd come on the wrong day.

3. Had a crush on 18 year old boy at church when I was fourteen. After sacrament meeting I was walking to class with BFF and swooning (loudly) over how much I loved him. "Haha, what if he was behind me?" I said. BFF turned around, "Um, he is." "Yeah, right, not gonna fall for that." He was.

4. Asked a man at Foot Locker if he could get me my size. He said something, but I couldn't hear well, so I laughed, assuming he told me a joke (I do this a lot, apparently) while handing him the shoe. He repeated, louder, "I don't work here."

5. At drama club, loudly complained about my assigned dance partner for musical number. Friends pointed out his father, standing feet away from us. "Dorian [name changed] isn't SO bad," I tried to course correct. "Julia, just stop," they begged. I did. Finally.

6. Went out with a group of friends to eat at Chipotle. One friend got a phone call and turned his head slightly for "privacy". I thought this was hilarious and mimicked him, slamming my head into the booth.

7. My very first trip to an OB was when I was pregnant with Lincoln. The nurse told me to take everything off and left a sheet on the table. Did not tell me robe was beneath sheet, nor that I could put it on. I hate being naked, but tried to seem nonchalant as OB walked in on me, casually standing there naked. She told me I could put on the robe. After giving me once-over.

8. Got a phone call from an insurance company with a very automated-sounding female on the other line. Halfway through something she was saying I blurted out, "Are you a robot?" I fully expected her to say, "I'm sorry, I don't understand," like most automated services do when you say something weird. Instead the woman said, "No, I'm a human being. Do I sound that bad?" I apologized, but her voice still sounded super robotic, so I laughed every time she spoke. Couldn't find a way to hang up for another five minutes.

9.  Called my male, ex-military fourth grade teacher "mom". I don't know which of us was more embarrassed.

10.  On a date at the movies. Used the cover of darkness to pick a scab off my arm. Accidentally flicked it onto date's leg (who was wearing shorts). Kept eyes glued to the screen as he brushed it off while glaring at me.

11. While we were dating, McKay took me to a fancy dinner at his professor's house, where I promptly dropped a plate of red sauced pasta on their pristine white carpet. Also, on one of our first dates he took me to a friend's house. After them joking about trusting me to not spill soup on their couch, I did just that.


  This is seriously just the tip of the iceburg. More like a speck on the iceburg. I've done so many humiliating things that I've managed to even forget some of them. What are your best worst memories?

[Also, hi. I know it's been forever. And I'm pregnant and living across the country since my last post. Maybe we'll cover that stuff later. Maybe not.]

Rash, Day 2!

So, here are three pictures of my arm. The first picture is from the beginning of the day, the second around noon, and the last a few minutes ago. I think it's progressing quite nicely.

One . . . 

Two . . . 

THREE!

  See, it's funny 'cuz in this last one, it almost looks like it's cleared up or something. WRONG. That sucker is ALL OVER ME. Those tiny white patches? Those are the ONLY PARTS NOT RASHY. All those little spots have multiplied into what is essentially one giant spot. All over me. My face looks like it's sunburned. MY RASH IS EATING ME, GUYS.

  Fun stuff! All I can think is . . . Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me? (dontcha? Dontcha?)

GUESS WHAT I GOT FOR MY BIRTHDAY?!

  A FULL-BODY RASH! Aren't I the lucky one?

  Turns out I'm allergic to some medications. It'll probably last a week or so. They also told me my skin could eventually peel off like a sunburn. Oh, baby!

  To make myself feel better, let's look at some pictures of fall going on!

It was so cloudy it was like nighttime when I took this pic, guys. Oregon-style!

One of my favorite parts of fall is the leaf confetti on the ground. So pretty!

   Hmm. Still not feeling great about the rash on my birthday dealio. Let's try some Lincoln pictures!

I had to document this because it's the first time Sylvester has every willingly laid on Lincoln's lap. BUDS. Lincoln, after being assured that Sylvester did not want to be laid on as well, did some excellent petting.

This was Lincoln's present to me this morning. 

  Any of you have unexpected birthday surprises?

Day 23: My First Job

   My first job was working for my Dad. My Dad is an ophthalmologist (meaning eye surgeon), and I worked as a filing clerk/gopher. I didn't mind filing or collating or any of that stuff. What I minded was that there was never ENOUGH stuff to keep me busy the whole time. I may not be the best worker, but I am a quick one, so I would burn through whatever they had for me to do, and then end up sitting around. And I hate sitting around and getting paid to do nothing.

  This was a problem for me at my other jobs, too, because I would quickly organize/fold/sweep or whatever my duties were, and then have nothing to do. And management never saw when I was dedicated to my work, plowing through without pausing. Of course not. No, they always saw me when I was looking around, trying to find SOMETHING to keep me occupied. And then they'd get huffy. I PROMISE I was trying to be a good worker! I'm just not good at looking occupied when there's nothing to truly work on. That's my problem.

  A highlight from working with my Dad:

  One summer I was also Dad's . . . scribe? I don't know what it's called, I wrote on the charts for him while he examined patients. I always felt awkward when we'd go into a new patient's room, not knowing if I should introduce myself, act like I wasn't there, etc. Dad usually ended up introducing me.

  One man, after our introduction, cheerfully said, "I see you're looking at my pee bag!"

  I was taken aback. I had not noticed any "pee bag" and was unsure how to respond. Then I noticed he was indicating to a bag with a tube that went into his pants leg. I had assumed the bag was an IV type of thing, and it wasn't unusual (since most of Dad's patients were older) for patients to be toting such a thing. But now I noticed the bag was, indeed, full of urine.

  "Oh, I, uh--" I stumbled, but he didn't seem to be looking for a response.

  "They hooked it in through my penis!" He told me happily.

  Okay, then.

Day 10: My Most Embarrassing Moment

  My entire life is pretty much a giant embarrassing moment, let's be honest.

  I actually already answered this in the last 30 Day Challenge I did, although that one was the Most Awkward First Impression I've Ever Had. It covers both of them, though, and I remember thinking I was quite funny when I wrote it at the time, so you should click on the link and read it.

  Other than that, there was the time I fell down some stairs, which opened up to the main quad at school. All my friends would regularly hang out right at that particular area, too, and they found it highly amusing. I found their amusement amusing, and also a bit disconcerting. I mean, they are supposed to like me, right?

  OOH, I thought of a good one I haven't told you yet, though! It's slightly disgusting too, which I think gives it a bonus.

  I was on a date with a guy I'd thought was cute for a very long time. We were at the movies.

   I had a scab on my arm that had been driving me nuts for a few days, so I did what I secretly hope everyone does with scabs when they're bored: I picked at it.

  I finally got it off and flicked it at the floor (yes, I was contributing to the grossness of movie theater floors. Sorry).

   Unfortunately, my aim was off, and I flicked it on my date's leg.

  Did I mention he was wearing shorts?

  He totally felt it.

  He gave me his best WEIRDED OUT face while rubbing his leg. And yeah, he was looking at me.

  He totally knew.

  For my part, I stared resolutely at the screen, pretending to be oblivious and hoping he'd think the scab I flung on his leg was in his imagination.

  We never went out again.


  Tell me your embarrassing stories! Especially if they're date-oriented, I love a bad date story.

Day 3: Most Physical Pain I've Endured

  Giving birth. Duh.

  And, yeah, I had them give me all the drugs available. And once I had that, the contractions were a breeze. But squeezing my spawn out? That was like no other pain. But then, I have low pain threshold and my baby was 90-95th percentile in head circumference, height, and weight.

  Imagine the worst constipation you've ever had. Times a bazillion.

  Imagine exerting so much force and having so much pressure that you TEAR YOUR FRIGGIN JUNK UP.

  If you want the knitty-gritty details, check out the post Happy Birthday. I've been told my multiple people that this post is an excellent form of birth control. Enjoy.

Me, "Helping" During Set Building

ME: Where's the nail-remover thingy?

SET DESIGNER: You mean a hammer?

ME: No! The . . . you know, thingy? That looks like monster teeth?

SET DESIGNER: A stapler remover?

ME: Yes! Staples. Not nails. Blonde is my natural color, in case you couldn't tell.


  In my defense, I had just ingested an awful lot of paint fumes.


  Any of you guys sound like an idiot lately?

What Did I Expect?

  Last night at rehearsal, a man asked us for permission to take some photos while we acted. We all agreed, and I didn't think too much about it. Until the photographer came up to me during our break to show me some of the shots he had taken.

  I meant to glance at it, give some generic praise and go back about my business. But as I looked, my heart fell through my butt and I yelled, "My legs look SO FAT!"

  "What did you expect?" The photographer asked, mystified.

  I tried not to take this too personally; I DID have a ten pound baby, after all, I feel like I should be entitled to fat legs. But the real kick in the gut for me was that I actually have been trying really hard to lose my excess baby weight. I've been dieting for months, and exercising more than I ever have in my life (not that that's saying much, but still). And here I was, (stupid me!) thinking it had made some kind of difference.

  I went back to the side project I'd been working on, trying not to wig out. The photographer then handed me his camera to show me another picture, which he deemed as "better". Like an idiot, I reached for it, full of hope. That last picture must've been a fluke, right? I thought.

  "I have a huge muffin top!" I cried. Trying to salvage my reaction with a joke, I said, "At least there's photoshop, right?"

  "Oh, yeah, good idea!" The photographer said.

  I came home and cried.


  Any of you guys have an illusion shattered lately?

When Bed Bugs Bite

  Last night I dreamed that, due to some natural disaster or another, there were a large amount of baby ducks that had recently became orphaned. Due to logic similar to "you can't help them get out of the shell or they'll be too weak" (never understood that), these baby birds could not be flown to their next location, but had to go via a tiny raft that would eventually drift them to some kind of safe haven or another. I saw on TV that many people were volunteering to transport these baby ducks from their last raft to a new one that would then take them to their final destination. There were short images of attractive firemen herding baby ducks onto tiny canoes, and a number to call if you wanted to volunteer.

  I quickly headed down to the harbor to offer what little help I could, and was thrown in a group of like-minded people. We were greeted by an obese woman in a hideous sweater, who was knee-deep in the water, grabbing at an incoming raft. Rather than the cute, yellow down ducklings I'd seen on TV, these guys obviously had not had an easy voyage. Most were black and brown with muck, and many were in a state of decay. The obese woman grabbed one and said, "These guys aren't good for anything anymore except hors d'oeuvres." She then took a huge bite out of the dead duckling. Its insides looked like a hard boiled egg.

  Horrified, I looked at the rest of the ducklings on the raft. The majority of them were dead, and probably going to be the greeter's snack.

  "Yuck, this one's slimy!" Another volunteer exclaimed as they picked up a rotting duckling, covered in mucus.

  Another raft came in. "Oh, yeah, I heard about these. They definitely didn't mention these guys on the commercial," another volunteer chuckled. On the raft were decapitated baby human heads. I gaped, thunderstruck. One, a toddler, still had their torso and arms. The arms flailed when the volunteer picked it up by the hair, and I realized it was not dead. Or at least it was still capable of reflexes. The volunteer chuckled affably and patted it on the head before setting it on a new raft to take it somewhere else.

  In the morning, I told McKay about my dream.

  "You are a sick and twisted person!" McKay said.

 "It wasn't me! It was my subconscious!" I protested.

 "EXACTLY." McKay said, backing away from me.


   Seriously, what is wrong with me?

Five Ways to Raise Nerdy Kids

  You might have seen my facebook update yesterday about being fired from a writing job before I even started. My potential job was to write articles for a website called Nerdy With Children (I'd include a link, but I'm still feeling a little bitter about the whole thing, so I'm not going to make traffic for them any easier). I thought it was a perfect fit. I mean, I'm nerdy, I have a child, and I'm a semi-decent writer.

  They enjoyed my sample of writing and asked me to write a sample article. When I did that, they told me it was good, but they already had something similar. Which made me feel like a complete moron, especially since I had actually looked through their articles to make sure I DIDN'T write about any topics they'd already covered. But I either missed that one or subconsciously did the opposite of what I'd intended, but either way, it may have looked like I was semi-plagiarizing. Oops. So they gave me a new topic, and I wrote on that.

   Aaaand, then they told me they "loved my enthusiasm, but . . . ".

   Yeah. It almost felt like a break-up.

  Anyway, since my original article will never see the light of day on their site, I'm sharing it with you special people here (I'm not going to do the second one because it was just an expansion of one part of this article).

Here you go!

 

Five Ways to Ensure Your Child is a Nerd

            Has your child shown a tendency toward the cool and trendy? Does your child shun computers and other pasty-inducing activities? Does your child enjoy (*gulp*) competitive sports? If your offspring is displaying these, or other troubling signs, you may want to take a few steps to alter the troubling path they are currently heading down. If your child is still in their diaper stage, this is an opportune time to indoctrinate them from the get-go and avoid these symptoms entirely. 

1.) Encourage cosplay early in life. Otherwise known as "playing dress-up". Nothing inspires a child quite like random, fanciful pieces of clothing. You have a long, striped scarf and a stick? Great, you're Harry Potter! Or the fourth Doctor! Make sure to grab some pointy ears, because those things are nerd gold. Put them on, and you're an elf from Lord of the Rings, Mr. Spock, or Link from Zelda. Snag those flippers that you only use twice a year and you become a creature from the black lagoon, a mermaid, or a blue-footed booby (the bird. Get your mind out of the gutter). With these imagination skills and learned affinity for costumes, your child is guaranteed to be twenty percent more nerdy.

2.) Make learning fun. Whether it's science experiments, like making a volcano in a cup (as seen here), or crazy art projects that involve throwing eggshells filled with paints at a canvas (as seen here), there are ways to make any subject more hands-on and engaging. Or pick up some cheap test tubes, petri dishes, food coloring and normal kitchen items (like vinegar and vegetable oil) and let them explore their inner mad scientist. Let their curiosity be your guide!

3.) Ditch the classic lullabies we're all sick to death of. You know the ones--Beethoven's fifth that goes off with every turn of their mobile. "Hickory Dickory Dock" in that fake phone that you want to smash to pieces (if you're like me, you rue the day you bought battery operated toys). Not to mention that creepy one about babies falling from trees. There are so many nerdtastic things that have amazing soundtracks, why put up with the hum-drum, done-to-death songs? Make your own CD for them to fall asleep to at night, filled with Final Fantasy goodness, or whatever awesome soundtrack that makes you close your eyes and smile. It doesn't matter what, pick your geek poison and let it infect your child with lovely music as they drift to sleep.

4.) Read. Read, read, read. Anything and everything; read mountains of books to your children every day, and let them see you reading, too.

5.) If your child insists on being sportsy, try geeking up your exercise. Grab a ball and some brooms, make a hoop out of whatever materials you have lying around, and you've got yourself a Quidditch match. Or take any sports ball of your choosing and play Calvinball, where you make up the rules as you go. Make your own foam noodle Lightsabers (as seen here) and have a fencing tournament. Fun for the whole family, and you can write off your own exercise for the day because those little buggers can run fast. I'm assuming they do, anyway. It seems like all children do.

  Hope these ideas help! If you'll excuse me, I need to go purchase some pointy ears. Because the more I think about it, the more awesome and versatile they seem. . .

Visiting the Sick, or Please Don't

  Today in CTR 5's (the class I co-teach at church), we talked about keeping the Sabbath Day holy. In the past I've found that this mostly consists of a long list of things we SHOULDN'T do, and a small list of things we CAN do, which largely consists of reading scriptures and praying. One of the things on the CAN list was "visiting the sick". This immediately triggered a memory from a few years back, like soldiers with PTS, only not like that at all.

  This was back during our summer in China, a non-stop thrill ride of a time. Except not at all. Most of the summer I was holed up in our one-room apartment (roughly the size of a normal bedroom),  extremely sick with mystery Asian illnesses. At one point I was honestly worried I might die in China, and then there would be all sorts of complications about sending my body back, except I really just want to be cremated, and I'm pretty sure that's the main thing they do in China, but maybe McKay wouldn't respect my wishes and then I'd have to haunt him forever. Anyway, I often missed church because it was a forty-five minute drive and I generally couldn't be more than thirty seconds away from a bathroom. One such Sunday, a sweet little family in the ward decided to check off an item on the Sunday CAN list, and told McKay they were going to come visit me.

  Now, think about this. I've been sick all week. I have not been able to do dishes (which I had to do in our bathroom sink because our apartment did not have a kitchenette), or change the litter box of the devil cat we agreed to take care of for the summer. I haven't swept, wiped, or dusted any surface, and I have not taken a shower or done my hair or make up in days.

  Which of course means it is the PERFECT time to come visit me in my tiny one-room apartment.

  One of the things on the SHOULDN'T list is clean. But heaven help me, I dragged my sick butt up and cleaned like I was scrubbing my very soul clean. In between toilet trips, that is.

  I put on a minimal amount of make-up, just enough that I didn't feel self-conscious, but little enough that it didn't look like I wasn't actually sick and had been faking to get out of church. It's a fine line. I stayed in my pajamas, but put on a bra.

  I don't like entertaining people under the best of circumstances. I find it stressful. And when I'm making trips to the bathroom every five minutes, all I ask is that you please leave me alone and let me die in peace. But McKay, being someone who actually LIKES people, did me wrong and let those sweet, caring people come to our apartment. I can't strain the heinousness and treachery of this act enough.

  When the three arrived (mother, father, and son), I realized we only had two chairs in the apartment, plus the bed. I offered them the bed so they could all sit, but they opted for the chairs for some mysterious reason (what, the sick girl's bed ain't good enough for ya?), making the son stand.

  So they sat. And smiled. And watched.

  "So . . . how are you guys?" I asked, croakily, trying to smile as if this visit were the highlight of my week.

  "We're fine, thanks." They smiled.

  [pause]

  "Um, would you like to play a game or something?" I asked, not sure what one does when being visited for the sake of illness.

  "No, no, we're not here to be entertained, don't worry."

  [pause]

  "Oh, uh, okay. So how was church?"

  And so it went, with me forcing small talk (one of my least favorite things) with three people who were completely content to sit and smile and watch me in my state of illness. Because THAT IS WHAT GOOD MORMONS DO, DARN IT.


  Anyone else get to have an uncomfortable encounter due to someone else's thoughtfulness?

Fantasies

  I remember listening to a review of that incredibly stupid-sounding movie Hall Pass on NPR a while back. I really enjoyed the review, as they approached it intellectually, which was hilarious. One part of it actually hit home, though, as they discussed the premise: how all married people secretly carry around the idea that the only thing keeping them from being able to hook up with ANYONE at ANYTIME is their spouse. If it weren't for that wedding ring, no doubt EVERYONE would want to date them. For some reason, our egos are incapable of letting that idea go.

  Which reminded me of a fantasy I'd had the other day.

And this one, which takes place on a plane:

  And even this one that I've had as long as I can remember:

 But, because of the whole SPOUSE thing, these all end the same way so I don't have to feel bad.

  What's one of your fantasies? I KNOW I'm not the only one who is this embarrassingly egotistical. NPR said so.

So Call Me, Maybe?

  I try to go on a walk with Lincoln every day, if only so I can breathe non-cat hair air for a half-hour. I was really good at this initially, strolling around, getting acquainted with my neighborhood, checking out the variety of houses (one of my favorite things about Albany is that none of the houses are the same), all that jazz. Then that got boring. So, as you may remember, I started taking pictures of people who still had Christmas decorations up and keeping count of how many cats I saw (I saw six on one lawn yesterday. New record). Then that got  boring, too (except I forgot to show you the Halloween sign I saw by someone's front door. In MAY, people! I love this town sometimes). So then I started calling people to chat.

  You may not know, but that's kind of a big deal. I do not call people. The dread that fills me when I hear the phone ringing after I dial is comparable to how I'd feel if I saw ravenous wolves running in my general direction. This is because I secretly fear that everyone hates me and when they see my name on caller ID they roll their eyes and say, "Great. That JULIA girl." So, as the only people I was reasonably sure this would not happen with were my mother and my best friend Cara, they became my go-to caller-upper-people-thingies. My other best friend Brooke was later added to that list. Unfortunately for me, Cara and my mother both work at my dad's office now. And I can't call Brooke everyday, because I can't stand being that obnoxious. Which leaves my list rather bare a good portion of the time. My iPod tried to fill the void, but talking to people who are older than six months is far more compelling for me than the music I've been listening to since high school.

  So, yesterday, after unsuccessfully dialing my go-tos, I looked through my phone for someone else I could chat up. After deleting old boyfriends and classmates that I worked on a project with a year ago, I reached the end of the list. I considered several people, but the gripping fear of being hated stopped me.

   What are you guys afraid of? Also, do you possibly want to talk on the phone with me every few weeks or so? I know, using actual voices to communicate is so retro, but still. If I start jabbering too much (which I have a habit of doing lately), you can tell me to shut up and listen, and I swear I won't be offended. I'll just be like, "Yes'm, please continue your train of thought." Which, that line right there, may be why I think people hate me.

 

Julia's First Love Story, in Pictures!

  In my first grade class, there were three "Ben"s--Ben A., Ben B., and Ben C.

  Ben A. was tall (for a six year old), athletic, and handsome. Ben B. was a chubby, nice sort of fellow. Ben C. was short, quiet, and funny.

  I was in love with Ben A. I daydreamed about him. I surreptitiously watched him in class and in the cafeteria. I even named one of my baby pet mice after him.

  I had a "stalk from afar and hope he notices my eyeballs peaking from behind the corner of the wall and falls in love with me" strategy going on, but that didn't seem to be cutting it.

  So  I decided on a new course of action.

 This was a thrilling, though terrifying concept. I had once been popular in kindergarten, due solely to the fact that my best friend had been. She had since moved away, though, and everyone had discovered that I was sub-normal. Subsequently, I was at the bottom of the first-grade pecking order. Still, I thought it was worth a shot. What was the worst that could happen?

  Recess that day:
 

  So, we proceeded to walk around the playground. We jabbered away, instant best friends, just as I'd always fantasized.

    This went on for about ten minutes or so, and I was flying high as a kite, not drug-wise.

     Until . . .

 Soon after, Ben A. the mouse was sold to a pet store. Most likely to be snake food.

WARNING: Do Not Read if Squeemish/Uncomfortable With Nursing Stories

  I've been worried about Lincoln not eating so much lately. Today, after he latched for less than a minute, I decided to test to see if there was still milk all up in mah grillz. Or lady lumps, or whatever you want to call them. So I squeezed said lady lumps a little bit to see.

  Milk squirts up in my face.

  ME: Well, that was probably the most disturbing thing I've ever experienced in my life.


 The end.



Anyone else feel like sharing something that's probably TMI?

If a Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes, There is Something Seriously Wrong With Me

  This is a dream from a few weeks ago.

  I'm in a play and I don't know my part (this happens a lot in my dreams). So someone fills me in really quick before we go on-- I have one line, then I blow up the auditorium. I repeat, National Security, THIS WAS A DREAM. As in, the asleep kind, not the life-long wish kind.

  So, the play is a disaster. And I say my line, and blow the place up. Then it ALL STARTS AGAIN. It's like Groundhog's Day with Bill Murray, only much shorter and I don't learn any life lessons. The second time, the play goes well, and I blow up the auditorium again. And here we go again!

  This time, my boyfriend (who is played by generic subconscious) is in the middle of a monologue, when an old-timey gangster car comes a-roaring onto the stage, tires squealing. It stops in front of Subconscious Random Boyfriend and the window rolls down. Drive-by shooting. Then the car runs over Made-Up Boyfriend a few times, just for good measure.

  I sprint to Boyfriend, crying and screaming. Everyone yells at me, "Blow it up! Blow it up now, we'll start over!", but I'm too distraught to pay attention. And I know this will be the reality that sticks.

  Why can't I dream about going to school in my underwear, like normal people?

  Anyone else have some seriously disturbing dreams?

Three and Four

Day Three:

  My dentist commented about how all wives and new moms cut their hair short like me.

 ME: [smiling through gritted teeth] It's trendy.

  Also, I need a deep cleaning apparently. Like, where they cut open your gums and scoop out a bunch of bad stuff. I jumped for joy at the news.

  Searched three more stores for Lincoln's magic binky. We were unsuccessful.

Day Four:

  Got my hair cut. I decided to finally ask if my hair dresser knew of any good shampoos for scalp itch, something I've always been mortifyingly embarrassed about.

"I don't know!" she sounds pleasantly baffled. So she sends her assistant to ask the chick at reception. Who is at lunch. So they ask her replacement. And the stylist next to us. Everyone seems thrown out of their depth by the question. Scalp itch?! Such a calamity actually exists?? Might as well ask if there's a shampoo to help hunchbacks.

  I quietly crawled into a hole and died. After I purchased a shampoo and conditioner upon the suggestion of one of the dozen people my hairdresser asked.

  Mom and I check the last possible store that could possibly have The One Binky to Rule Them All.
No luck.

Depressed for All the Wrong Reasons

 (If you are friends with me on facebook, you can skip this post. It's more of the same. I'll have something new to say next week when I'm in my beautiful CALIFOOOOOOORNIAAAA! Well, my ghetto and desert-y California, but still.)

  I remember hearing that some people were depressed after watching Avatar because the real world isn't as beautiful as Pandora. I also remember thinking this was stupid. I'm now eating a hearty slice of humble pie (and a larger slice of crazy pie), because "Doctor Who" makes me incredibly sad.

  The Doctor would never ask me to join him; I'm practically a hermit, and doing new things terrifies/exhausts me. I would probably ask if I could just hang out in the TARDIS on every new planet he took me to because I'd be so overwhelmed. But even if that weren't the case, I would have to say "no" because of McKay and Lincoln. Althoooough . . . TECHNICALLY he can travel through time, so I could go with him for years and only be gone a minute. . . but then again, he always says that, and he tends to screw up a bit on getting back when he says (just ask Rose's mom. Or Madame de Pompadour. Or Amelia. Five minutes, riiiiiight). Oh, and also, he's fiction. Anyway, it JUST WOULDN'T WORK. And that makes me sad.

  But then I look at my boys.

  Suck it, Daleks.

  P.S. Lincoln is like the Godzilla of babies. He's in the 90th percentile for height and weight, and he's close to outgrowing his bassinet. At two and a half months. What the what?? How my baby so gigantuous? He must stay small and cuddly!

Happy Birthday

Friday the 13th:

Midnight: I've felt contractions for about an hour. Nothing out of the ordinary, though, I'd been having Braxton Hicks contractions every night when I went to bed for the last week or so. I shrugged it off, even though these were actually a teensy bit uncomfortable. McKay and I watched the latest Mentalist, which was awesome. I don't know how anyone has hair that perfect, I swear.

1:00 AM: Still having contractions, but I shrug it off. A week and a half late, I'd given up hoping for labor. Must be another false alarm, nothing to get excited about. I go to sleep.

3:30 AM: I wake up, possibly because I was having a nightmare, possibly because the contractions have gotten stronger. I decide to start timing them, since I know true labor contractions happen regularly, and Braxton Hicks do not.

4:30 AM: The contractions are almost exactly seven minutes apart. McKay wakes up from my constant sitting up to look at the alarm clock, and I tell him my suspicions. Then I tell him to go back to sleep because I want to wait until 8:00 so I can have my doctor check me out instead of some random person at the ER. Plus I want McKay to be conscious during the difficult parts of labor. Otherwise who will I scream at?

6:00 AM: Getting too painful to just lay in bed anymore, and I can't sleep. I decide to take a shower and shave my legs, since I figure lots of people may be looking at them soon enough. Probably the smartest move I made.

8:00 AM: McKay wakes up and commences running last-minute errands. He is anxious about labor, but excited to be missing work. I put off calling my doctor because I'm not quite five minutes apart yet, and I know that's when most doctors want to see you.

11:30 AM: Go to the doctor's. She was in surgery and couldn't see me before then. I am two and a half centimeters dilated (I was zero at my last visit three days previously). My contractions are five minutes apart, and are not feeling too hot. Still, I feel cocky, thinking labor isn't going to be nearly as bad as everyone goes on about.

3:00 PM: Been in the hospital for about an hour. They break my water. The leaking, oh my goodness, the leaking. . . Thank goodness for the nurses, they are all amazing. I don't know how many times I apologize, so embarrassed, and they're all incredibly kind and supportive. I had no idea how quickly I could get used to random people feeling up my hoo-ha, or helping me change my underwear, and other TMI stuff. You rock, nurses. Mad respect.

5:00 PM: SO MUCH PAIN. Tears leaking out after every contraction. Which is pretty much every other minute. McKay looks like he's in agony just watching me. Poor kid. I ask for an epidural. At that point, I would have begged on my knees for one. I'm four centimeters dilated.

6:00 PM: I had heard epidurals can be extremely painful, and I'm very touchy when it comes to needles, so I'm a bit freaked out. You're supposed to be very, very still when he puts the needle in, but I keep acting like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Only instead of giggling as someone pokes me in the tummy, I arch my back like crazy every time I feel the needle get anywhere near me. Finally, I grit my teeth and use every once of focus I have to STAY STILL. And you know what? It isn't too bad. And fifteen minutes later, I am feeling gooooooood. I keep saying, "I love drugs" in about as conked-out a voice as you can get.

9:00 PM: Dilated to a five. They start giving me pitosin to speed things along, but with that epidural, I didn't mind the long wait.

10:00 PM: More pain. Didn't realize the epidural medicine wears out and you can press that button thingy for more. I press it about five times in forty-five minutes, but it stops giving me more because it's set up so you won't OD. A good thing in my case. Anesthesiologist comes back and gives me a different drug to help with the pain in my pelvis. It does nothing. "This isn't fun" I moan to McKay every other minute. He keeps telling me I'm doing amazing. Liar.

11:00 PM: The nurses change shifts. I'm sad because the last one was super sweet. Doctor comes in with new nurse, and I'm practically crying from extreme pelvic discomfort. She does a routine check and says, "Oh! You're ten centimeters! Just wait for us to set up and you can start pushing." The set up takes an excruciating amount of time, and the pressure to push compounds amazingly. I'm chewing at the bit, and McKay becomes my water slave, fetching my water bottle every time I have a contraction, because I pant so much my mouth dries out.

Saturday, January 14th:

Midnight: I can start pushing. The nurse and McKay keep saying I'm doing amazing. I say, "All those years of constipation--finally paying off." TMI, but I still think this is true. They keep saying after each push how amzing I'm doing, so after twenty minutes, I assume they must see his eyes by now. Nope. They can barely see the top of his head. They tell me he has hair. I'm extremely thrilled by that.

12:30 AM: They get the doctor; the head's about ready to come out completely. I thought I knew pain. Those contractions, that pressure, that was all a cakewalk. THIS is pain. I scream things as the doctor stretches me out when I push (I think something along the lines of, "THIS HURTS TOO MUCH, TOO MUCH"), but when I asked McKay what I was saying, he's not sure. "You were crying and screaming, and it made me sad" he says with his best puppy-dog face. I'm so dramatic that I hear the new nurse snicker at me once. I can't really blame her, I guess. The doctor puts up with none of my nonsense and directs me to PUSH, PUSH! Finally I manage to focus through the excruciating pain and  PUUUUUUUSH. Keep pushing, keep going, they tell me. Somehow I do, though all I want to do is lie back down and sob. It hurts. It hurts so bad. McKay helps the doctor pull Lincoln's head out, and pulls as she helps get the shoulders out. After that, the rest felt like a walk down Main Street, USA, comparatively.

12:45 AM: Lincoln is officially born. They tell me to open my eyes, he's here! I'd been keeping them squeezed shut the entire time, trying to block out everything. Opening my eyes is hard. I'm terrified. I'm about to see my son for the first time. I finally crack them open and see a gooey baby. They hand him to me and begin to wipe him down. I'm shocked. He has my nose. Poor little guy. I hold him and marvel. I hardly even notice I'm getting stitches. Apparently, I had a small tear. The pain is a whisper. I finally relinquish my little baby to McKay. My heart melts as I watch him smile and cradle our baby boy.

 Happy birthday, Lincoln. I can hardly comprehend how much I love you already.