(in)appropriate work conversations

S: The baby has dropped. It's in position! I'm gonna win (referring to the office pool for the delivery date).
Coworker: How long has it been in position??!
S: A week! ... AND she waddles.
Coworker: Eh. That's nothing... you can be dilated for like, three weeks.
S (gasps): Nooo.
Coworker: Yes.
S (looking shocked): I am never, never having babies.

quick update pt 2.

I went and saw The Peanut yesterday and she's doing great. Which really, is a small miracle in and of itself.

Happy New Years, friends.

quick update

at 5:30 this morning I woke up to find policeman standing in the living room of The Aunt and The Uncle's house. Walking up the stairs I remember an "oh no!!" slipping out of my mouth, and shortly thereafter dissolving in a puddle of tears. Jackie was laying on the couch, in a full blown seizure making a sound as if she was clearing her throat. A few minutes later the paramedics showed up and began taking her vitals. I lost it all over again, when one of them looked shocked at the response to the standard "How long has she been like this??" The answer: "30 minutes". As they got ready to take her away, I leaned down, touched her head noticed that her lips were blue.

It's really hard not to freak out in moments like this.

The last time this happened, we were really close to losing her. This time didn't seem as bad, but then details of what was happening at the hospital would slip out "...did he tell you that she stopped breathing?" Not panicking for me, wasn't really an option. The strange thing though was that I seemed to flip between the two. Falling apart, and then making coffee. Incapable of finding words because the words are directed at a crying 11 year old, and then starting a load of laundry. I think you move because you have to. Because it brings logic, and normalcy to a time that is anything but. So at 7 in the morning I sat there with my coffee, wondering if it was an inappropriate hour to have a drink. All day I found myself doing stupidly mundane tasks - laundry, cleaning, running the kids to practice, cooking, making paper snowflakes... I wanted to feel something other than helplessness. I don't think I succeeded at all. I came last night because I'd missed her since I moved to Brooklyn. I came so that I could cuddle with her, and remind her what I looked like. I held her 24hrs ago, and didn't see this coming at all.

She's still in the ICU, and probably will be until monday. The good news is she's stable, and will hopefully stay that way.

To everyone that threw up prayers on Jackie's behalf, thank you so much. It means alot.

What. The. Fug.

My dad didn’t seem especially sympathetic when I exclaimed on the telephone “It’s BRASS paint that they DRIPPED everywhere”. He quite logically pointed out that this is NY, and therefore unless you’re living in monstrosities like thisaone, there’s bound to be 10 coats of paint on everything.

Which is all good and fine, and probably very true. In all fairness to him, quite likely, me complaining about my really friggin’ fugly apartment fixtures is sort of like the skinniest girl in the room casually mentioning that her New Year’s resolution is to “go on a diet!!” and get “really, really fit!!” saying it with such seriousness, that you want to wallup her and simultaneously shove a burrito down her throat. In other words, it’s annoying. That being said, the slightly obsessive part of me is still very much obsessing about how I can remedy the affront that is brass paint. Lo, the "before" and "after" photos.I've decided that I won't bother with the door jambs, or door handles. The light switches, outlets, and lighting fixtures however, should probably fear for their lives.

To the former occupant of 1R:

Somehow, though your reasoning dumbfounds me, you managed to paint every surface including, but not limited to the door jambs, light switches, outlets, coat hooks, door knobs, and light fixtures in a tacky bronze metallic paint. Not once, but apparently multiple times, so that removing said light switches, outlets, and coat hooks required raw determination and the strength of a friggin’ Viking (thankfully, I have both). Anyway, I just wanted to drop you a line and say thank you for your unbelievably thorough display of bad taste.

-s-