Subtitled Rabies is Scary
So, as most of you remember from the bat blog the other day, there was a bat all up in my house on Saturday. And if you don't remember, you should re-read it. But I'm not linking to it, because it's, like, two blog entries ago, and you can probably find it on your own.
Well, a friend of mine had messaged me after I wrote it saying, "Hey, not to alarm you, but you can't always feel bat bites and you might need a rabies vaccine." Which freaked me out a little, but whatever. I called our doctors' afterhours lines. My line said we were probably ok, Rhi's line said get the vaccine.
So, I'm confused. So I call Mike, and do a lot of Googling, and after a lot of upset, we decide to wait until Monday, talk to our actual *doctors* and go from there.
My appointment was this morning. And my doctor was totally unconcerned. She said she doubted a bat would just bust up into my bed and bite me for no reason, and that she wouldn't advise the shots, because the chances are slim to none of rabies, anyways.
Whew, right? Not so fast.
Rhi's doctor calls, and he advises that we get the shots. Because if you do get rabies, you die. The end. And you don't die nicely, you die horribly. And, apparently, of the cases of rabies discovered that led to death, 26 of the 28 appear to have come from bats. 20 of those people had never mentioned being bitten by a bat in any way, shape, or form. Not even to their families and closest friends.
So I inquired how to get the shots, and Rhi's doctor said that they didn't carry them and to call the county health department.
So ok.
I do, where they, of course, don't have them, or have any idea where you get them. OF COURSE. Because god forbid anyone know what to do if something serious as hell totally happens or anything. *rolls eyes*
But, they do put me in touch with a very nice woman who handles animal type issues for the county. And she tells me that about 1% of bats are rabid, that the fact that the bat went away from Shane and didn't just lie fluttering on the floor or go towards him is a good indicator of health. And also that rabies isn't in season, which makes no sense to me, but whatever. She advises not to get the vaccine.
Then Rhi's actual doctor calls me. (I know I said doctor before, but it was his nurse. Which probably makes sense if you have a pediatrician, as they seem to never want to get on the phone.) And he's still skeptical, but agrees that it is hard to get the shots. But he says he'll totally write a doctor's order for us, but he wants to run it by the state animal health person (which is probably not their actual title.) So he'll call back tomorrow and let me know what's up.
This entire thing has made me utterly confused. I have no idea what's happening or what to do, or if I have to make my poor three year old and I get a series of 5 shots over 14 days (no, the rabies shot isn't in the stomach anymore, and, yes, it's considered safe for preggos. And I'm not including Shane in this equation because he has flatly refused to even consider the vaccine anyways.)
But I do know this.
If you have a bat in your home ever, KILL IT AND SEND IT OFF TO BE TESTED. Don't crush its head because they have to test the brain. And then you won't have to go through a confusing nightmare of utter annoyance like we are.
Sigh.
I'll update you all on this tomorrow.
UPDATE #1
Rhi's doctor called and said the state guy can't call him back until tomorrow, but he's done his own research and believes that, according to information from the CDC, that we are at extremely low risk. However, it still all hinges on what the state dude says, and he will call tomorrow. Hence the update #1 part.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
I don't wanna...
I have to be a responsible adult today.
This kid is due in 9 days. Nine. Freaking. Days. The LONGEST I could still be pregnant is 28 days, if my doctor were allow me to go to 42 weeks (which she may or may not, depending on many, many circumstances) but, most likely, I will have another kid in 16 days or less.
We are, as you may remember me mentioning before, not even slightly ready.
We have most of what we need. Well, except for a couple things. One of which I may have just ordered last night. And it may take 7-10 business days to get here. So, Keira has to wait 7-10 business days to be born. Which probably means I'll be in labor tonight.
Anyways. I really just don't feel like doing responsible things. I feel like lying on my couch reading and eating Ben and Jerry's (by the way, Ben and Jerry's has a flavor now with fair trade, and subsequently slave-free chocolate in it, which fills my heart with joy. If you have no idea what I mean by slave-free chocolate, you should go here, to the blog of the lovely and talented Maria, and spend less than 5 minutes educating yourself.)
But I can't lie on the couch today.
Because within 16 days (probably,) we'll have a baby.
And I have a HUGE laundry list of things to do.
Like wash baby clothes. Now, understand, this seemed like it wasn't at all a big deal yesterday. Because I was looking at this small bag of clothing that I'd purchased from Goodwill for Keira and thinking, "Yeah, no problem, that's like a half a load."
Except, I'm an idiot.
What I totally forgot was the fact that, at our baby shower, we got 80 acres of baby clothes, and blankets, and washcloths, and other things that you have to wash before using on a baby.
Annnnddddd, I also just remembered that I forgot to ever write thank you notes. So if you bought me a gift and think I'm a jerk, I'm not. Ok, yes, I am. A little. But I'm mostly just really forgetful.
This has nothing to do with this blog, but I JUST ORDERED PIZZA ONLINE. I'm pretty excited about this, because I didn't have to wait through the annoying fake person on the phone telling me all of Domino's specials. And, I know, I know, I'm trying to eat better, but I've been doing really well with that and sometimes you just need someone else to make you pizza. And this someone else is apparently Heather, who put our order in the over at 12:14, according to the Domino's website, which is strangely specific about stuff.
Oh, and I have to sterilize bottles. I can't remember doing this with Rhi, but that may have been because she thought bottles were evil and only breasts could dispense milk. Which was fine, except that sometimes, I really, really would have enjoyed being able to go anywhere for over 10 minutes without taking her. So when the threat of nipple confusion passes, I plan to occasionally try to get her to take a bottle. That won't be for awhile, and, honestly, I *could* slack on washing and sterilizing now, but, really - I will hate myself when I have this child if I haven't done it all. Because doing anything with a new baby is damn near impossible. I can remember begging Mike to take Rhi for like five minutes so I could just, please god, take a shower. So yeah.
And I have to check my infant Tylenol for this recall. Recalls increasingly freak me out, especially when they're for baby products.
In other news, my daughter is walking around with puppets on her feet.
****UPDATE****
Wait, can I put an update on a blog that I haven't actually posted yet? I'm doing it anyways. I'm a blog maverick like that. You can't touch me, Sarah Palin!
So, Shane failed to mention to me that, "Hey, baby, let's order pizza and I'll pay since we're both hungry and also I love you and stuff," came with the stipulation that *I* had to remove myself from the couch and go pick it up. And nothing I said to try to get out of it worked. Even when I told him that I was blogging, he wouldn't let me off the hook. In fact, he just said that I was probably writing about spiders or bats or how much he sucked and that it wasn't that important.
Which is wrong, because the fate of the world probably somehow depends on me writing blogs. Somehow. In some strange butterfly effect kind of way.
I, after much whining, did go get pizza where I discovered that "Heather" actually appeared to be a portly man with no hair and flour smeared on his apron.
And the boxes also tell you to tip your delivery driver and that they carry less than $20. Which seems like a crappy time to tell you that, after you have your pizza. And you may or may not have already robbed a driver or not tipped someone by then, so that sucks.
Sigh. I really should get up and do something constructive now. Also, I'm pretty sure that this blog is probably not at all amusing or even coherent. Until next time, blog readers.
UPDATE #2, actually written AFTER I posted!
How do I sterilize bottles again?
This kid is due in 9 days. Nine. Freaking. Days. The LONGEST I could still be pregnant is 28 days, if my doctor were allow me to go to 42 weeks (which she may or may not, depending on many, many circumstances) but, most likely, I will have another kid in 16 days or less.
We are, as you may remember me mentioning before, not even slightly ready.
We have most of what we need. Well, except for a couple things. One of which I may have just ordered last night. And it may take 7-10 business days to get here. So, Keira has to wait 7-10 business days to be born. Which probably means I'll be in labor tonight.
Anyways. I really just don't feel like doing responsible things. I feel like lying on my couch reading and eating Ben and Jerry's (by the way, Ben and Jerry's has a flavor now with fair trade, and subsequently slave-free chocolate in it, which fills my heart with joy. If you have no idea what I mean by slave-free chocolate, you should go here, to the blog of the lovely and talented Maria, and spend less than 5 minutes educating yourself.)
But I can't lie on the couch today.
Because within 16 days (probably,) we'll have a baby.
And I have a HUGE laundry list of things to do.
Like wash baby clothes. Now, understand, this seemed like it wasn't at all a big deal yesterday. Because I was looking at this small bag of clothing that I'd purchased from Goodwill for Keira and thinking, "Yeah, no problem, that's like a half a load."
Except, I'm an idiot.
What I totally forgot was the fact that, at our baby shower, we got 80 acres of baby clothes, and blankets, and washcloths, and other things that you have to wash before using on a baby.
Annnnddddd, I also just remembered that I forgot to ever write thank you notes. So if you bought me a gift and think I'm a jerk, I'm not. Ok, yes, I am. A little. But I'm mostly just really forgetful.
This has nothing to do with this blog, but I JUST ORDERED PIZZA ONLINE. I'm pretty excited about this, because I didn't have to wait through the annoying fake person on the phone telling me all of Domino's specials. And, I know, I know, I'm trying to eat better, but I've been doing really well with that and sometimes you just need someone else to make you pizza. And this someone else is apparently Heather, who put our order in the over at 12:14, according to the Domino's website, which is strangely specific about stuff.
Oh, and I have to sterilize bottles. I can't remember doing this with Rhi, but that may have been because she thought bottles were evil and only breasts could dispense milk. Which was fine, except that sometimes, I really, really would have enjoyed being able to go anywhere for over 10 minutes without taking her. So when the threat of nipple confusion passes, I plan to occasionally try to get her to take a bottle. That won't be for awhile, and, honestly, I *could* slack on washing and sterilizing now, but, really - I will hate myself when I have this child if I haven't done it all. Because doing anything with a new baby is damn near impossible. I can remember begging Mike to take Rhi for like five minutes so I could just, please god, take a shower. So yeah.
And I have to check my infant Tylenol for this recall. Recalls increasingly freak me out, especially when they're for baby products.
In other news, my daughter is walking around with puppets on her feet.
****UPDATE****
Wait, can I put an update on a blog that I haven't actually posted yet? I'm doing it anyways. I'm a blog maverick like that. You can't touch me, Sarah Palin!
So, Shane failed to mention to me that, "Hey, baby, let's order pizza and I'll pay since we're both hungry and also I love you and stuff," came with the stipulation that *I* had to remove myself from the couch and go pick it up. And nothing I said to try to get out of it worked. Even when I told him that I was blogging, he wouldn't let me off the hook. In fact, he just said that I was probably writing about spiders or bats or how much he sucked and that it wasn't that important.
Which is wrong, because the fate of the world probably somehow depends on me writing blogs. Somehow. In some strange butterfly effect kind of way.
I, after much whining, did go get pizza where I discovered that "Heather" actually appeared to be a portly man with no hair and flour smeared on his apron.
And the boxes also tell you to tip your delivery driver and that they carry less than $20. Which seems like a crappy time to tell you that, after you have your pizza. And you may or may not have already robbed a driver or not tipped someone by then, so that sucks.
Sigh. I really should get up and do something constructive now. Also, I'm pretty sure that this blog is probably not at all amusing or even coherent. Until next time, blog readers.
UPDATE #2, actually written AFTER I posted!
How do I sterilize bottles again?
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Nomenclature
If you have any idea why I titled this blog that, you're better than me. At life, possibly. The word has been stuck in my head today, like that popcorn piece that always seems to get stuck in my gums and then I have to floss my teeth, no matter what the time, place, or extenuating circumstances or life sucks. Except the word isn't inherently annoying like that popcorn piece. So really it's not the same thing at all.
I'm in a strange mood today.
Perhaps it is because I am slightly rabid, although I certainly hope not, as I suspect that that would be a negative for the child incubating in my uterus.
You see, Shane and I - and Rhi - live in a house. We rent said house. The house appears to be just like any other house, except that the outside has a Santa Claus tethered to the porch, and it's May. No one quite knows why the Santa is there; it appeared quite randomly one day and, honestly, I am too lazy to move it. I realize that it is possibly 5 pounds of plastic, so this shouldn't be difficult, but it seems like a considerable amount of effort somehow, so Santa stays where he is. On the plus side, I image that anyone who has thought for even a second about robbing our home has come to the (correct) conclusion that anyone who has a plastic Santa tethered to their porch in May probably does not have overflowing heaps of riches.
Anyways, I digress.
So, my house seems perfectly normal, despite the fact that it's a little more festive than yours, but I remain convinced that, once upon a time, Bruce Wayne lived here. Now, Bruce Wayne was not known for his humble beginnings, so I have no idea why he lived in a rental in a small, poor, and utterly lame Missouri town, but there is just no other explanation for the fact that bats are attracted to this house like the plague.
(I'm segueing here to mention that, yes, I know Batman was not actually known for his association with bats in the comic books and or movies, but this is my blog and I can write whatever I want. Also, if you were a bat, and a famous superhero had your name in his heroic moniker, wouldn't you want to visit his house? You totally would.)
Anyways, back to the bats and why I may or may not be rabid.
So, Shane has lived in this house since...um...last spring, I think. So a year(ish)? And I've lived here a few months less, but since he got the house while we were together, it goes without saying that I've spent a lot of time here. And since I have been spending time and/or living here, there have been no less than 24* bats that have somehow maneuvered into the house at night time, intent on killing us all. Or flying around in circles around the house, which curiously has no doors on anything but the bathroom in mysterious patterns that may, if correctly interpreted, lead to the truth about life and/or the endtimes. Or it could just be some crazy bat game that they get off on. Who knows.
We have literally no clue where these bats originate from. It began last spring, ended over the winter, and, as of last night, has begun anew.
Usually these nocturnal visits occur while someone is still awake, but, last night, Shane apparently woke up to the interesting and unmistakable sound of a bat flying through our bedroom. So, being extra heroic, he leaped from bed, suited up for battle (and by that, you should picture him grabbing a blanket and pillow to chase the bat, knock it down, and catch it, and he was probably wearing Halo boxers and a t-shirt. Hey, I believe my loyal readers have a right to know all about Shane's studliness as a bat avenger. [wait, that sounds like he's avenging the bats, and not us. Ah, well, you get the point.])
So Shane apparently chased the bat into our kitchen, where it landed on a little shelf next to the cabinet that I never use. Assuming that he had beaten the bat into submission (but not, for my animal loving friends, having hit it at all, since Shane refuses to kill the bats and instead catches them and releases them outside where they can make their way back into our house for whatever fiendish purposes they have,) he left it lying there and went to get something to pick it up with. This is probably due to the fact that I have long lectured him about bats and rabies and how he is NEVER allowed to touch a bat with his bare hands EVER as I refuse to watch him get rabies shots and also he has no insurance for rabies shots, and so I would obviously just have to shoot him, a la Ol' Yeller, and that was a very sad book/movie and not something I want to do to my fiance. So, while he is gone, the bat scoots itself into a corner of said shelf, and is hovering there, looking pathetic and not evil when Shane gets back. Then, because bats are sneaky, sneaky jerkfaces who want you to think they're all nice when they're really bloodsucking harbingers of death, it, quick as a wink, shoves itself into a space roughly as big as the one between these two lines / / and goes behind our cabinet.
Shane, being extra heroic (and also knowing his fiancee will kill him in the face if she finds out he left a bat in the house while her pregnant self and her small child are asleep in said house since she is utterly convinced that bats are there to steal her soul or infect us all with rabies that will be totally incurable and turn us into zombies, somehow,) attempts to get the bat out by poking it with a spatula, but this apparently doesn't make the bat feel like leaving the area behind the cabinet. So, he seals up the space around the cabinet with plastic bags from grocery shopping (and that is why you should always save your bags for recycling, ladies and gentleman.)
Except, at some point in the night, the bat escaped.
I know this because after I woke up this morning, and puttered around the house, and woke Shane up, and ran some errands, I looked up at the ceiling to discover the bat, hanging and asleep, off of the trim stuff that has an actual proper name that I can't remember or bother to Google right now.
Being the brave soul that I am, I yelled, "Shane! Bat!" and barricaded myself and Rhi in the bathroom while he released the demon bat outside. (No joke, he didn't even touch it with his hands, and I made him scrub them afterwards for fear of him being infected by bat funk or something. That's how paranoid I am.)
So that's fun.
Seriously, I have no clue how these bats get in. There are no open spots in the house that appear to court a bat entering, and the only window that was cracked was in our room and is fairly new, with no holes or gaps in the screens. It is a mystery to me as to why bats seem to think our home is the bee's knees and why they don't just stay outside and eat bugs or whatever like normal bats do. Are we doing something, inadvertently, to attract them? I don't know, and you get a surprisingly few helpful entries when you try to Google such things.
I was, however, joking about the rabies. I'm 98% sure that any of us would have known if a bat landed on us through the night, and I checked myself and Rhi over for bite/scratch marks just in case. Although Shane is coughing a lot and acting quite grumpy today. Hmmmm...
*readies shotgun, just in case*
*by 24 up there, I meant 6. I'm prone to exaggeration sometimes. Still, try to tell me 6 bats isn't a wtf-inducing amount. You can't.
Also, I would never shoot Shane. Ever. Unless he really did become a rabid zombie and I had to to save humanity, and, man, even then, it'd be really hard and I'd cry a lot.
I'm in a strange mood today.
Perhaps it is because I am slightly rabid, although I certainly hope not, as I suspect that that would be a negative for the child incubating in my uterus.
You see, Shane and I - and Rhi - live in a house. We rent said house. The house appears to be just like any other house, except that the outside has a Santa Claus tethered to the porch, and it's May. No one quite knows why the Santa is there; it appeared quite randomly one day and, honestly, I am too lazy to move it. I realize that it is possibly 5 pounds of plastic, so this shouldn't be difficult, but it seems like a considerable amount of effort somehow, so Santa stays where he is. On the plus side, I image that anyone who has thought for even a second about robbing our home has come to the (correct) conclusion that anyone who has a plastic Santa tethered to their porch in May probably does not have overflowing heaps of riches.
Anyways, I digress.
So, my house seems perfectly normal, despite the fact that it's a little more festive than yours, but I remain convinced that, once upon a time, Bruce Wayne lived here. Now, Bruce Wayne was not known for his humble beginnings, so I have no idea why he lived in a rental in a small, poor, and utterly lame Missouri town, but there is just no other explanation for the fact that bats are attracted to this house like the plague.
(I'm segueing here to mention that, yes, I know Batman was not actually known for his association with bats in the comic books and or movies, but this is my blog and I can write whatever I want. Also, if you were a bat, and a famous superhero had your name in his heroic moniker, wouldn't you want to visit his house? You totally would.)
Anyways, back to the bats and why I may or may not be rabid.
So, Shane has lived in this house since...um...last spring, I think. So a year(ish)? And I've lived here a few months less, but since he got the house while we were together, it goes without saying that I've spent a lot of time here. And since I have been spending time and/or living here, there have been no less than 24* bats that have somehow maneuvered into the house at night time, intent on killing us all. Or flying around in circles around the house, which curiously has no doors on anything but the bathroom in mysterious patterns that may, if correctly interpreted, lead to the truth about life and/or the endtimes. Or it could just be some crazy bat game that they get off on. Who knows.
We have literally no clue where these bats originate from. It began last spring, ended over the winter, and, as of last night, has begun anew.
Usually these nocturnal visits occur while someone is still awake, but, last night, Shane apparently woke up to the interesting and unmistakable sound of a bat flying through our bedroom. So, being extra heroic, he leaped from bed, suited up for battle (and by that, you should picture him grabbing a blanket and pillow to chase the bat, knock it down, and catch it, and he was probably wearing Halo boxers and a t-shirt. Hey, I believe my loyal readers have a right to know all about Shane's studliness as a bat avenger. [wait, that sounds like he's avenging the bats, and not us. Ah, well, you get the point.])
So Shane apparently chased the bat into our kitchen, where it landed on a little shelf next to the cabinet that I never use. Assuming that he had beaten the bat into submission (but not, for my animal loving friends, having hit it at all, since Shane refuses to kill the bats and instead catches them and releases them outside where they can make their way back into our house for whatever fiendish purposes they have,) he left it lying there and went to get something to pick it up with. This is probably due to the fact that I have long lectured him about bats and rabies and how he is NEVER allowed to touch a bat with his bare hands EVER as I refuse to watch him get rabies shots and also he has no insurance for rabies shots, and so I would obviously just have to shoot him, a la Ol' Yeller, and that was a very sad book/movie and not something I want to do to my fiance. So, while he is gone, the bat scoots itself into a corner of said shelf, and is hovering there, looking pathetic and not evil when Shane gets back. Then, because bats are sneaky, sneaky jerkfaces who want you to think they're all nice when they're really bloodsucking harbingers of death, it, quick as a wink, shoves itself into a space roughly as big as the one between these two lines / / and goes behind our cabinet.
Shane, being extra heroic (and also knowing his fiancee will kill him in the face if she finds out he left a bat in the house while her pregnant self and her small child are asleep in said house since she is utterly convinced that bats are there to steal her soul or infect us all with rabies that will be totally incurable and turn us into zombies, somehow,) attempts to get the bat out by poking it with a spatula, but this apparently doesn't make the bat feel like leaving the area behind the cabinet. So, he seals up the space around the cabinet with plastic bags from grocery shopping (and that is why you should always save your bags for recycling, ladies and gentleman.)
Except, at some point in the night, the bat escaped.
I know this because after I woke up this morning, and puttered around the house, and woke Shane up, and ran some errands, I looked up at the ceiling to discover the bat, hanging and asleep, off of the trim stuff that has an actual proper name that I can't remember or bother to Google right now.
Being the brave soul that I am, I yelled, "Shane! Bat!" and barricaded myself and Rhi in the bathroom while he released the demon bat outside. (No joke, he didn't even touch it with his hands, and I made him scrub them afterwards for fear of him being infected by bat funk or something. That's how paranoid I am.)
So that's fun.
Seriously, I have no clue how these bats get in. There are no open spots in the house that appear to court a bat entering, and the only window that was cracked was in our room and is fairly new, with no holes or gaps in the screens. It is a mystery to me as to why bats seem to think our home is the bee's knees and why they don't just stay outside and eat bugs or whatever like normal bats do. Are we doing something, inadvertently, to attract them? I don't know, and you get a surprisingly few helpful entries when you try to Google such things.
I was, however, joking about the rabies. I'm 98% sure that any of us would have known if a bat landed on us through the night, and I checked myself and Rhi over for bite/scratch marks just in case. Although Shane is coughing a lot and acting quite grumpy today. Hmmmm...
*readies shotgun, just in case*
*by 24 up there, I meant 6. I'm prone to exaggeration sometimes. Still, try to tell me 6 bats isn't a wtf-inducing amount. You can't.
Also, I would never shoot Shane. Ever. Unless he really did become a rabid zombie and I had to to save humanity, and, man, even then, it'd be really hard and I'd cry a lot.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Real Women Have Curves
So, lately on Facebook (and, seriously, how many of my blogs are inspired by something on Facebook? Nice. I'm so pathetic) there have been a bunch of "likes" lately on pages like "Curvy girls are better than skinny girls!" "I eat. I have curves. Get over it" and the like.
I have some issues with these pages.
It's not that I don't agree with the general idea that if you are not predisposed to be super skinny, you shouldn't fight to be. Let's face it, not everyone will be a size zero. I'm pretty sure my skeleton wouldn't fit into a pair of size zero jeans. It's not how I'm built. However, a few of my friends are so tiny that if they wore the same size that I wore, pre-pregnancy, they'd be overweight.
So I looked at the "Curvy girls are better than skinny girls!" page. And the default picture is of Kim Kardashian - a chick that is certainly built very curvy and also appears to be at a healthy weight for her body type. Right on. But the posts had a lot to do with things like "chubby chasers" and many, many, many of the fan photos were of women who are overweight to obese.
Understand, I am *certainly* not judging people who are overweight. I tipped the scales at over 300 pounds when pregnant with Rhi. And I've gained more with this pregnancy than I should have; it will absolutely take me some time to return to my target healthy weight after I have this kid.
But this country is becoming more and more obese and unhealthy by the hour. It is a serious problem that should actively alarm us. We eat refined, processed shit for every meal, we wash it down with jumbo sized sodas, our portion size is ridiculous (fun fact on this: Rhi's "kids meal" from a restaurant the other day - one that was only for people 12 and under - had enough food in it for her to eat to her fill there, for both of us to have adequate portions for lunch the next day *and* there was some left over,) we don't get enough physical activity, and it's not getting better. We're passing on unhealthy habits to our kids, too, making them think that this is ok.
All of that is a travesty.
I firmly believe that people can be healthy in an array of sizes. I know chicks who wear size 12s who are just built large, who have less fat on them than I did pre-pregnancy, when I was wearing a size 5 and hitting the gym 6x a week. I know girls whose ribs you could count who consume more food in one sitting than some obese people I know. Your body size/type/metabolism isn't something to be ashamed of. If you have a healthy body that you take care of, with the right foods and exercise, you should be celebrating yourself, no matter what societal standards say about you. But if you're not, don't justify it away by calling it curves. Instead, love yourself enough to make a pledge to start down a healthier path. Don't worry about being skinny or curvy. Worry about your quality of life when you get older. Worry about the example your unhealthy actions might be setting for your child or someone else you love. Take care of yourself.
And then celebrate how strong, healthy, and amazing you are, no matter what body type you have.
I have some issues with these pages.
It's not that I don't agree with the general idea that if you are not predisposed to be super skinny, you shouldn't fight to be. Let's face it, not everyone will be a size zero. I'm pretty sure my skeleton wouldn't fit into a pair of size zero jeans. It's not how I'm built. However, a few of my friends are so tiny that if they wore the same size that I wore, pre-pregnancy, they'd be overweight.
So I looked at the "Curvy girls are better than skinny girls!" page. And the default picture is of Kim Kardashian - a chick that is certainly built very curvy and also appears to be at a healthy weight for her body type. Right on. But the posts had a lot to do with things like "chubby chasers" and many, many, many of the fan photos were of women who are overweight to obese.
Understand, I am *certainly* not judging people who are overweight. I tipped the scales at over 300 pounds when pregnant with Rhi. And I've gained more with this pregnancy than I should have; it will absolutely take me some time to return to my target healthy weight after I have this kid.
But this country is becoming more and more obese and unhealthy by the hour. It is a serious problem that should actively alarm us. We eat refined, processed shit for every meal, we wash it down with jumbo sized sodas, our portion size is ridiculous (fun fact on this: Rhi's "kids meal" from a restaurant the other day - one that was only for people 12 and under - had enough food in it for her to eat to her fill there, for both of us to have adequate portions for lunch the next day *and* there was some left over,) we don't get enough physical activity, and it's not getting better. We're passing on unhealthy habits to our kids, too, making them think that this is ok.
All of that is a travesty.
I firmly believe that people can be healthy in an array of sizes. I know chicks who wear size 12s who are just built large, who have less fat on them than I did pre-pregnancy, when I was wearing a size 5 and hitting the gym 6x a week. I know girls whose ribs you could count who consume more food in one sitting than some obese people I know. Your body size/type/metabolism isn't something to be ashamed of. If you have a healthy body that you take care of, with the right foods and exercise, you should be celebrating yourself, no matter what societal standards say about you. But if you're not, don't justify it away by calling it curves. Instead, love yourself enough to make a pledge to start down a healthier path. Don't worry about being skinny or curvy. Worry about your quality of life when you get older. Worry about the example your unhealthy actions might be setting for your child or someone else you love. Take care of yourself.
And then celebrate how strong, healthy, and amazing you are, no matter what body type you have.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
HFCS and other news
So, high fructose corn syrup appears to be a pretty awful thing to ingest. And it seems like people everywhere are deciding not to use it, which is awesome.
But a lot of people are also saying that it should be banned in general in the United States. And I don't necessarily agree with that.
Why?
I'm just not a big fan of the idea of banning everything that's quasi-dangerous or bad for you. I favor labeling things with HFCS - much like how companies have done with trans fats. I am all about legislating to keep it out of things like children's school lunches. Absolutely. But beyond that...I don't like it. I just feel like there's this real mindset that we have to save everyone from themselves. If the risks of something are known, it's obviously stated that the component is in it, and you doing it doesn't pose risk to someone else, then if you make the decision to use something, it's all you. I'm a huge fan of personal responsibility. If you're an adult, I don't have to hold your hand and make you do anything.
Especially with something like this. This isn't drinking and driving, where there are serious risks involved. It's not even driving without a seat belt, where, yes, you can conceivably harm another person in your car by your irresponsibility. This is "you'll probably get fat and you might get cancer." Bad deal, yeah. But you'll also probably get fat and increase your risk for cancer by not working out. No one's banning being a couch potato.
Please note, if you're a friend of mine who is all about banning hfcs, it's not like I think you're a bad person or anything. I'm not being a douche here. I just think it's unnecessary. But good call for caring about the health of yourself and others, for sure.
But onto other news.
I am dragging my feet with preparing for this kid. Seriously. When I was pregnant with Rhi, I had my bag packed, my birth plan printed, the nursery ready by, oh, 7 1/2 months. With Keira? I *just* wrote my birth plan. The car seat? Not even close to installed. (Ok, although, in my defense, that's partially because the Radian is a little complex and I'm taking it to a car seat safety inspection place for help.) The bags are unpacked (despite Shane telling me more than once that we should get on that.) Her bed isn't set up; I'm not even completely sure I know where all the screws for it are, either.
I kind of feel like, at some point, I'll get a burst of energy reminding me to get on all this. But right now, I'm just...eh. Really, if she is born before her due date, the worst that'll happen is I'll have to beg my mom to wash some stuff for her to come home in and bring it to the hospital, and Shane will have to figure the car seat out on his own in the parking lot. The world probably won't end. The baby can sleep in a pack and play for a day or two while I sort out the bed situation.
Someone should tell me what to use to safely clean a crib and mattress, too. We wound up, for financial reasons, not doing the co-sleeper, so I'm just using Rhi's crib and mattress. We'll do what I did with Rhi - pop the mattress up to the highest level, drop the drop side as low as it goes, and sidecar it to our bed. Presto co-sleeper-o. But I need to wash both and I'm not sure what to use. I disinfected them a few weeks ago, so now I basically want to remove any chemical residue from that and also remove any lingering dirt and such. Someone should suggest something.
But a lot of people are also saying that it should be banned in general in the United States. And I don't necessarily agree with that.
Why?
I'm just not a big fan of the idea of banning everything that's quasi-dangerous or bad for you. I favor labeling things with HFCS - much like how companies have done with trans fats. I am all about legislating to keep it out of things like children's school lunches. Absolutely. But beyond that...I don't like it. I just feel like there's this real mindset that we have to save everyone from themselves. If the risks of something are known, it's obviously stated that the component is in it, and you doing it doesn't pose risk to someone else, then if you make the decision to use something, it's all you. I'm a huge fan of personal responsibility. If you're an adult, I don't have to hold your hand and make you do anything.
Especially with something like this. This isn't drinking and driving, where there are serious risks involved. It's not even driving without a seat belt, where, yes, you can conceivably harm another person in your car by your irresponsibility. This is "you'll probably get fat and you might get cancer." Bad deal, yeah. But you'll also probably get fat and increase your risk for cancer by not working out. No one's banning being a couch potato.
Please note, if you're a friend of mine who is all about banning hfcs, it's not like I think you're a bad person or anything. I'm not being a douche here. I just think it's unnecessary. But good call for caring about the health of yourself and others, for sure.
But onto other news.
I am dragging my feet with preparing for this kid. Seriously. When I was pregnant with Rhi, I had my bag packed, my birth plan printed, the nursery ready by, oh, 7 1/2 months. With Keira? I *just* wrote my birth plan. The car seat? Not even close to installed. (Ok, although, in my defense, that's partially because the Radian is a little complex and I'm taking it to a car seat safety inspection place for help.) The bags are unpacked (despite Shane telling me more than once that we should get on that.) Her bed isn't set up; I'm not even completely sure I know where all the screws for it are, either.
I kind of feel like, at some point, I'll get a burst of energy reminding me to get on all this. But right now, I'm just...eh. Really, if she is born before her due date, the worst that'll happen is I'll have to beg my mom to wash some stuff for her to come home in and bring it to the hospital, and Shane will have to figure the car seat out on his own in the parking lot. The world probably won't end. The baby can sleep in a pack and play for a day or two while I sort out the bed situation.
Someone should tell me what to use to safely clean a crib and mattress, too. We wound up, for financial reasons, not doing the co-sleeper, so I'm just using Rhi's crib and mattress. We'll do what I did with Rhi - pop the mattress up to the highest level, drop the drop side as low as it goes, and sidecar it to our bed. Presto co-sleeper-o. But I need to wash both and I'm not sure what to use. I disinfected them a few weeks ago, so now I basically want to remove any chemical residue from that and also remove any lingering dirt and such. Someone should suggest something.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Marriage
So I posted a pretty awful story on my Facebook yesterday. You can read it here.
But that's not really what this blog is about. Well, not totally.
So, in the comments, a friend of mine wrote something about how he didn't have a problem with gay couples having the same rights, as long as it wasn't called a marriage. This is actually something I've heard more than once - not at all just from him - and it's something that always perturbed me. It seemed like an issue of semantics more than anything.
But you can't really simplify it that much. You can't, because marriage is a highly personal thing.
I could write the dictionary definition of marriage. I could give you the history of it. I could go on and on about it. I could overload you with facts about it, I could write pages on religion and marriage. I could talk about the belief of many that marriage is an antiquated notion that just allows the government a piece of your love.
But I'm not going to.
How I will start is this: I believe that this country, more than most others, has a very picturesque view of marriage. Girls play brides as toddlers, we talk about getting married, we fantasize about our wedding days. We decide who our bridesmaids will be in high school, sometimes. We hold it up as this amazing, life changing, miraculously romantic event that will turn our lives into roses and flowers and never-ending love and fireworks.
We do ourselves a vast disservice.
We have terribly high divorce rates in this country. And I honestly believe that a huge part of that is the fact that we assume marriage is going to be some amazing event that will make us all whole. That we've found the person we're meant to be with forever, and nothing can change that.
But a lot can change that. In the years you're with someone, you are going to change and grow as a person. Think about it. I'm not even close to the same person at 28 that I was at 25. And 25 year old Star and 20 year old Star were certainly not the same either. Technically, it's the same person. But I had different priorities, different thoughts, different assumptions, different ideals. And five, ten, twenty years from now, I will look back on the me of today and probably say the exact same thing.
It's normal. But when you're in a relationship, one of two things happens. You either grow together, or you grow apart. And, honestly, it's probably easier to grow apart.
Yup, that's the big, giant secret of marriage. Marriage is work. It's not all sunshine and rainbows, it's a lot of compromise and not necessarily doing what you want, and sometimes being really pissed off at the other person. It's realizing that that adorable quirk that he has that was so adorable is actually really fucking annoying. It's running the way you want to spend that tax refund by someone else, it's making your dinner in two portions because you will die without mushrooms but he will vomit if he even sees one, it's making someone else as important as you are, and, sometimes, putting them first even when you don't want to. Honestly? It's easier to be single. Less sacrifice, too.
But I sound pessimistic and cynical, don't I?
Well, I'm not. After a marriage that, believe me, was spectacularly bad at the end, I'm planning to do it allllllll over again. I'm doing it all over again even knowing how hard it is, knowing how much parts of it suck, knowing that I'm taking a huge gamble that statistics say has a higher chance of failing than succeeding.
I'm doing it because of what marriage has become to me. My connotative definition of it.
Marriage is right when you're so pissed off at the person that you seriously want to just throw a brick at them because they're being SO DAMN STUPID and WHY CAN'T THEY JUST UNDERSTAND the REALLY OBVIOUS POINT you're trying to make and they're infuriating you so much that you can't even put it into coherent words - but you still don't think about calling it quits, because you love them and know that eventually, they'll realize how dumb they are. (Or, ok, you *might* be overreacting. A tiny, tiny bit. Maybe.)
Marriage is right when they're talking about something that you really have no interest in - in fact, it bores you about as much as, say, reading Dentistry Today, and, also, they're using so much jargon that you maybe understand every other word anyways - yet, you honestly make an effort to pay attention and note some of it, because you can see that gleam in their eyes and tell how totally important it is to them. And you know that this is them sharing something with you that, to them, is really special.
Marriage is right when you have the option of going out on a Saturday night but you really just want to stay home and play video games or watch a movie with them.
Marriage is right when you can be the person you truly are in front of them, with no stupid pretenses. When they can make you feel just as sexy when you're in jeans and a t-shirt with bad hair as when you're in stilettos and a hot outfit. When they buy you a present that you know damn well they thought was ridiculous and unnecessary, yet, because you wanted it, you got it. When they really, truly listen to your dreams and don't discourage them - although they may not give you the perfect, rose-colored glasses view of them, they believe that you can do it despite the adversity. When you know that if something horrible and tragic happened, you could be there for them. When you know that you don't get to take only your own opinion to make important steps, and you know theirs will sometimes be totally different, and yet you're ok with that. When you can look beyond the white dress and veil and know that after the honeymoon period, you will, absolutely, hit horrible, rocky patches at some point and that one (but probably both) of you will act in a way that is just not cool at all and there will be times that everything is terribly hard and frustrating but, even knowing all those things, you can't think of anyone else you'd rather weather all of that with - well, then, that's the right kind of feelings for a successful marriage.
None of that has to do with sexuality at all. It has to do with love, commitment, unselfishness, and a willingness to work. I firmly believe that straight OR gay people can have a successful marriage, just like straight OR gay people can probably royally screw a marriage up. And I'm aware that my definition and yours, or your pastor's, or your friend's, or your family's, are probably totally different. But *your* definition is only my business if I have an interest in marrying you. (And I don't, I'm off the market, lol.) The only people who should have the inherent right to decide whether to turn their relationship into a marriage are the people in it. Those are the only important ones in the equation.
But that's not really what this blog is about. Well, not totally.
So, in the comments, a friend of mine wrote something about how he didn't have a problem with gay couples having the same rights, as long as it wasn't called a marriage. This is actually something I've heard more than once - not at all just from him - and it's something that always perturbed me. It seemed like an issue of semantics more than anything.
But you can't really simplify it that much. You can't, because marriage is a highly personal thing.
I could write the dictionary definition of marriage. I could give you the history of it. I could go on and on about it. I could overload you with facts about it, I could write pages on religion and marriage. I could talk about the belief of many that marriage is an antiquated notion that just allows the government a piece of your love.
But I'm not going to.
How I will start is this: I believe that this country, more than most others, has a very picturesque view of marriage. Girls play brides as toddlers, we talk about getting married, we fantasize about our wedding days. We decide who our bridesmaids will be in high school, sometimes. We hold it up as this amazing, life changing, miraculously romantic event that will turn our lives into roses and flowers and never-ending love and fireworks.
We do ourselves a vast disservice.
We have terribly high divorce rates in this country. And I honestly believe that a huge part of that is the fact that we assume marriage is going to be some amazing event that will make us all whole. That we've found the person we're meant to be with forever, and nothing can change that.
But a lot can change that. In the years you're with someone, you are going to change and grow as a person. Think about it. I'm not even close to the same person at 28 that I was at 25. And 25 year old Star and 20 year old Star were certainly not the same either. Technically, it's the same person. But I had different priorities, different thoughts, different assumptions, different ideals. And five, ten, twenty years from now, I will look back on the me of today and probably say the exact same thing.
It's normal. But when you're in a relationship, one of two things happens. You either grow together, or you grow apart. And, honestly, it's probably easier to grow apart.
Yup, that's the big, giant secret of marriage. Marriage is work. It's not all sunshine and rainbows, it's a lot of compromise and not necessarily doing what you want, and sometimes being really pissed off at the other person. It's realizing that that adorable quirk that he has that was so adorable is actually really fucking annoying. It's running the way you want to spend that tax refund by someone else, it's making your dinner in two portions because you will die without mushrooms but he will vomit if he even sees one, it's making someone else as important as you are, and, sometimes, putting them first even when you don't want to. Honestly? It's easier to be single. Less sacrifice, too.
But I sound pessimistic and cynical, don't I?
Well, I'm not. After a marriage that, believe me, was spectacularly bad at the end, I'm planning to do it allllllll over again. I'm doing it all over again even knowing how hard it is, knowing how much parts of it suck, knowing that I'm taking a huge gamble that statistics say has a higher chance of failing than succeeding.
I'm doing it because of what marriage has become to me. My connotative definition of it.
Marriage is right when you're so pissed off at the person that you seriously want to just throw a brick at them because they're being SO DAMN STUPID and WHY CAN'T THEY JUST UNDERSTAND the REALLY OBVIOUS POINT you're trying to make and they're infuriating you so much that you can't even put it into coherent words - but you still don't think about calling it quits, because you love them and know that eventually, they'll realize how dumb they are. (Or, ok, you *might* be overreacting. A tiny, tiny bit. Maybe.)
Marriage is right when they're talking about something that you really have no interest in - in fact, it bores you about as much as, say, reading Dentistry Today, and, also, they're using so much jargon that you maybe understand every other word anyways - yet, you honestly make an effort to pay attention and note some of it, because you can see that gleam in their eyes and tell how totally important it is to them. And you know that this is them sharing something with you that, to them, is really special.
Marriage is right when you have the option of going out on a Saturday night but you really just want to stay home and play video games or watch a movie with them.
Marriage is right when you can be the person you truly are in front of them, with no stupid pretenses. When they can make you feel just as sexy when you're in jeans and a t-shirt with bad hair as when you're in stilettos and a hot outfit. When they buy you a present that you know damn well they thought was ridiculous and unnecessary, yet, because you wanted it, you got it. When they really, truly listen to your dreams and don't discourage them - although they may not give you the perfect, rose-colored glasses view of them, they believe that you can do it despite the adversity. When you know that if something horrible and tragic happened, you could be there for them. When you know that you don't get to take only your own opinion to make important steps, and you know theirs will sometimes be totally different, and yet you're ok with that. When you can look beyond the white dress and veil and know that after the honeymoon period, you will, absolutely, hit horrible, rocky patches at some point and that one (but probably both) of you will act in a way that is just not cool at all and there will be times that everything is terribly hard and frustrating but, even knowing all those things, you can't think of anyone else you'd rather weather all of that with - well, then, that's the right kind of feelings for a successful marriage.
None of that has to do with sexuality at all. It has to do with love, commitment, unselfishness, and a willingness to work. I firmly believe that straight OR gay people can have a successful marriage, just like straight OR gay people can probably royally screw a marriage up. And I'm aware that my definition and yours, or your pastor's, or your friend's, or your family's, are probably totally different. But *your* definition is only my business if I have an interest in marrying you. (And I don't, I'm off the market, lol.) The only people who should have the inherent right to decide whether to turn their relationship into a marriage are the people in it. Those are the only important ones in the equation.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
You are destroying yourself and your entire family and other fun facts
I read voraciously. And I read lots of things, from novels to nonfiction, from internet satire to newspapers, from children's books to magazines and everything in between. I love fiction, but I also really like expanding my mind and world view, so I also study a lot of nonfictional sources.
And, man. Sometimes it really blows.
I read an article today on going green. Except, instead of giving helpful advice on how to do something constructive, it basically went on and on (and on and on) about how everything you give to your children ever is doing terrible things to them and you basically suck at life.
Really, it was the least optimistic article on Earth.
Listen, I want to be more green. I like the idea of reducing my carbon footprint, I like knowing what I can do to make my family healthier. I want to incorporate more organics. I want to compost. I want to do eighty billion things. But, really, writing something that says, "Everything that you use is killing yourself and your child, and by the time you pop out the kid you're baking right now, she will already be practically poisoned beyond repair anyways," just depresses me.
I won't even terrify you all by repeating ANY of the awful things in the article, nor will I give them any publicity by telling you where it was.
But I will tell you my stance on the whole thing.
Listen. We, as a people, are living longer than ever before. People have the ability to function in this society and be ridiculously healthy - even if they eat fast food every once in awhile or use Windex instead of all natural eco friendly stuff. A lot of people become unhealthy because they make terrible choices - like eating NOTHING but fat laden, processed crap and never ever working out.
But I'm also not a proponent of "You can NEVER do..." Well, I mean, in some cases, yeah. You probably can't be healthy and have the occasional crack, for instance. But with most things, moderation is key. I can spend fifteen minutes in the sun not slathered in sunscreen and probably not get skin cancer. I can let my kid eat pizza and cookies for dinner every once in awhile and not be dooming her to a life of obesity. If I don't buy everything organic because I can't afford to pay organic prices on everything and feed my family, I can still make healthy choices.
If you focus all the time on how dangerous everything on Earth is, when do you ever get to live? How soon until you take it to the extreme? If nothing is safe and nothing is healthy, what do you do? How do you fix that? How do you survive in a modern society?
I want to know what I can do to help my family. But I don't want a depressing, pessimistic opus on how I'm making all the wrong choices. Especially when the right choices appear to be unattainable outside of Utopia. I just want a common sense view on things.
And, man. Sometimes it really blows.
I read an article today on going green. Except, instead of giving helpful advice on how to do something constructive, it basically went on and on (and on and on) about how everything you give to your children ever is doing terrible things to them and you basically suck at life.
Really, it was the least optimistic article on Earth.
Listen, I want to be more green. I like the idea of reducing my carbon footprint, I like knowing what I can do to make my family healthier. I want to incorporate more organics. I want to compost. I want to do eighty billion things. But, really, writing something that says, "Everything that you use is killing yourself and your child, and by the time you pop out the kid you're baking right now, she will already be practically poisoned beyond repair anyways," just depresses me.
I won't even terrify you all by repeating ANY of the awful things in the article, nor will I give them any publicity by telling you where it was.
But I will tell you my stance on the whole thing.
Listen. We, as a people, are living longer than ever before. People have the ability to function in this society and be ridiculously healthy - even if they eat fast food every once in awhile or use Windex instead of all natural eco friendly stuff. A lot of people become unhealthy because they make terrible choices - like eating NOTHING but fat laden, processed crap and never ever working out.
But I'm also not a proponent of "You can NEVER do..." Well, I mean, in some cases, yeah. You probably can't be healthy and have the occasional crack, for instance. But with most things, moderation is key. I can spend fifteen minutes in the sun not slathered in sunscreen and probably not get skin cancer. I can let my kid eat pizza and cookies for dinner every once in awhile and not be dooming her to a life of obesity. If I don't buy everything organic because I can't afford to pay organic prices on everything and feed my family, I can still make healthy choices.
If you focus all the time on how dangerous everything on Earth is, when do you ever get to live? How soon until you take it to the extreme? If nothing is safe and nothing is healthy, what do you do? How do you fix that? How do you survive in a modern society?
I want to know what I can do to help my family. But I don't want a depressing, pessimistic opus on how I'm making all the wrong choices. Especially when the right choices appear to be unattainable outside of Utopia. I just want a common sense view on things.
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