A and I have realized that the era of Disco Station has come to an end. Our lives have changed so much since we first started, young and single and full of political venom and alcohol and questionable decisions about men. We've been trying to keep the magic alive but it's just not happening here.
But! We've both found new spaces to write in.
So if you'd like to keep following our ramblings, just email us directly at our respective personal emails for the info.
Thanks for seven years!
I'm late.
How late?
...Late.
Oy. That one little word: LATE. Do not you have visions of gobsmacked boyfriends, sticks peed upon in bar bathrooms, panicked/overjoyed calls to girlfriends?
So very many plotlines start with those very words, those very actions. Grown women lose their shit and/or get married to variously suitable or unsuitable suitors, snarky teens grow big bellies in their high school hallways, etc. etc.
Then you get to the other end of those exciting, screen-worthy 9 months and what do you have? In the movies, you have the drama of water-breaking in the grocery store, or at the office. A rush to the hospital, where the mom glowingly pushes four or five times and out pops an unwrinkled, unconeheaded wee babe. Or you have the comic OMG BIRTH IS SOOO GROSS CAN YOU BELIEVE VAGINAS etc thing.
Anyone who knows anyone who has had a baby or who has had one themselves knows that ending is make-believe. But little did I know until now how BORING the whole thing could be.
I'm late.
How late?
...Late.
Or rather, she's late. My precious lil womb-dweller has decided that her cozy spot is, well, super cozy. We had a pretty good snowstorm last week, just before Thanksgiving (just before my due date). All that day I was crampy and contraction-y and grumpy and overall I felt like a ticking time bomb with a baby about to POP. Thanksgiving was basically the same drill but with turkey. And then...nothing. Everything stopped. No cramps, no contractions. Nothing. Just a happy, wiggly baby girl camped out in my belly.
My fabulous plan to stop working one week before my due date - just so I might have some spare time to do those-last minute projects? BACKFIRE. Now I am almost two weeks into my "maternity leave" with nothing to show for it but an organized pantry. And freezer. And linen closet. Does anyone have a linen closet I can organize? I will organize the shit out of your linen closet.
Also I made a pretty good chocolate cream pie. And biscuits. And beef stew. And gingerbread bars. And turkey chili. And pasta with sausage and broccoli.
...And she wonders why she is growing out of her maternity shirts.
Seriously, the only outfits that "work" are cracked-out dress-over-pants deals. Unless I care to treat the world to a glimpse of the bottom few inches of my belly. Blessedly, it's not scary ugly with stretch marks, but it is RIDICULOUS BIG.
So. Yeah. The other Late? Can go suck it.
At first the waiting was sortof thrilling; everytime we left the house over the holiday break we would pack all of our bags into the car and alert the media. 6 days into BabyWatch 2011 and I can barely remember to bring my phone as I venture out, solo (Little A. is at daycare, the FYD's at work), for my little stupid time-wasting errands. I am so BORED.
So, who wants to come to Target with me? Anyone? I promise my water will not break in the store. And, later, I am going to rake a bunch of leaves. Maybe I will give birth on my front lawn.
Wouldn't THAT be exciting??
xoxo, A
p.s. OK, officially, thank you for indulging the complaints. Overall I am a lucky pregnant lady, and totally get that at this stage of the game, boredom is a luxury. But this pregnancy has been juuuuust annoying enough to convince me that I will never house another fetus again. Never. Mark my words. NEVER.
(And then, she got pregnant with TWINS! Har har.)
Have you heard that I love me some Pixies? This blog loves Pixies. And indeed, I love the Pixies. A lot. I might have memorized every song and every line of chatter from their every album in the years between middle school and college. I might have seen them 3 times on their reunion tour. Yeah, I might be a CRAZY HUGE FAN.
Last week, I was able to physically embody my huge fan-ness at a show right here in my fair town. My enormous belly and I (and the FYD) took in the Lost Cities tour, to hear the seminal album Doolittle performed front-to-back (along with some B-sides and two encores).
So because I love this band so, I've no critical capacity to go blah-de-blah, the mix was good and they were off during La-La Love You or whatever - and can only say that it was a treat. A treat to be in the same space as these four musicians, who seem to truly enjoy each other and performing to people who enjoy them, and a sold-out auditorium of loyal fans, all with ear-to-ear grins on our faces (and no small number of pregnant ladies!). There was no veneer of cool, no posturing, just fun. Which is odd for a performance that begins with a showing of Un Chien Andalou.
I will say that the visuals behind the band were beautiful. And while I thought I might be banished to the balcony by the LOUD, the mix was so balanced that I was able to keep my ass down on the floor (the venue handily provides seats on the same plane as the sound guy, so I was able to sit and stand and sit and stand and sit and very very gently dance during some of my most favoritest parts). So I got some OK photos, but here are some from a pro. Gorgeous happy-making celebrate good times, come on!
xoxo, A
p.s. I am having a baby in two weeks. HOLY FUCKING SHIT.
Some moments crystalize how much life has changed for your bloggess-in-Maine over the past few years. Whereas once I would call in late to work due to "alarm failure" which was more than likely MY failure to not drink 8 whiskey and sodas and stumble home singing Liz Phair at the top of my lungs at 4 am, now--well, now, I call in late due to rogue chickens.
So. At first, yesterday morning was typical and, Little A. and I were on time. But then as we took the first turn towards her daycare - I spotted a chicken. A chicken just pecking away casually at bugs or whatever on the side of the road. Like, whassup dudes, nice weather we are having, what's so weird about a loose chicken wandering the roadside?
After a moment of processing, all hell broke loose (in my brain): OMG IS OUR CHICKEN ALL THE CHICKENS ARE LOOSE COOP IS COMPROMISED WAS A FOX MASSACRE MAYHEM HALP!!!11!!!
So I pulled over, put the hazards on, gave Little A. a magazine to while away the time (as if watching hugely pregnant Mama attempting to corral a chicken wasn't enough entertainment) and waddled after the reddish little chicken beside the road. After a few minutes, I realized I could never waddle fast enough to catch the girlchik, so I called the FYD, basically gave him the all-caps message above, said I AM GOING HOME TO CHECK ON THE OTHERS GET HERE FAST 911 EMERGENCY STYLE.
But at home? All chickens were present and accounted for. I counted heads over and over, but each time I got six. Six was right.
SO WHO IS THIS MYSTERY CHICKEN?? I know you are just dying to know.
A theory started percolating in my brain as I drove back to the chicken-spotting site with a box of feed to sprinkle around. If I couldn't catch her, at least I could keep her from going deeper into the woods until the FYD got there.
Which he did, just a few minutes later (we take our chicken emergencies seriously around here). We worked together to bumrush the poor lil chickin into an impassable patch of weeds. She crossed the road once, much to the merriment of some trucker dude (or maybe it was my pregnant ass hustling across the road that was so funny), but once she was in those weeds, the FYD made a heroic tackle and came up with an arm full of protesting bird.
She quickly calmed down after she realized she was caught for good. We looked her over to see if she had any injuries - nothing. She seemed healthy and bright-eyed and, you know, dumb. But that is just the chicken way. I told the FYD that the rest of our flock was safe at home.
We looked at each other - could it be? Could this be one of the chickens we thought was killed by a fox in the great massacre of Summer 2011? We lost 3 in one night, which seemed like a bit of over-achievement on the fox's part. Had she been living in the woods all this time, scavenging bugs and avoiding dangers? We thought, maybe. Maybe. We couldn't QUITE remember if one of the lost chickens had been that color, with those markings.
So the FYD took her back to our coop and let her loose just outside the main containment area, so the birds could sniff each other out. Little A. and I continued on our day, having an interesting story to tell.
(Little A's version went something like this: We caught a chicken and took it home! Well, Daddy did. Mama had to call Daddy. There was a loose chicken in the woods! Mama couldn't catch it. It was a friendly chicken, but it didn't want Mama to catch it. Mama was too slow.)
That night, after the post-dinner and bedtime rush, I went out to check on the chicken-ladies. The FYD had cautiously integrated the rogue into the flock. And there she was, roosted up next to her sisterfriends. Like they remembered each other. We'll never really know what she went through during those months she was in the woods, but we're glad to have her home.
Or, you know, we stole someone else's lost chicken. In which case, don't share this story TOO liberally, ok?
xoxo, A
So much excitement around here lately! Countdown to New Baby is officially ON (8 weeks to go, eeeeeeeeeep), so we're trying to prepare. Step 1: Potty Training. The goal: only one butt in diapers. The method: Big Girl Panties. All the time. The results: um. Well...
OF COURSE WE DID CLEAN IT UP. Just in case you were feeling the suspense.
Yours in the battle against dirty bums, xoxo A
While my co-bloggess was off bestowing blessings at her adorable friends' wedding, a lot of other people got hitched. Did you notice? My social media feeds were RIGHT BLOWIN UP with the wedding photos. It was a good date, I guess, hard to forget as an anniversary, a good time of year weather-wise in most parts of the country, etc. etc.
Not one but TWO of my old boyfriends got married on that very day. If we're going to be all Rob Gordon about it, one of them was not on my top-5-desert-island list of breakups. It was Kevin, a sweet, cute, but kinda vague* guy I liked quite a lot but never took terribly seriously. Kevin's had a rough couple of years - his dad passed away unexpectedly just after Kevin got engaged, money's been super tight given his chosen employment in the construction business...so I feel nothing but the warm-fuzzies that Kevin got hitched to a by-all-reports-really-awesome chick on a beautiful day. He deserves that day and a lifetime of happiness just by virtue of being an all-around decent human being who loves his mom and is good to his dogs.
[*Majored in geology, got kicked out the dorms for excessive drunkeness at our local townie college when I knew him. Taught me how to enjoy pot and put salsa in my mac n cheese. Took me on my first and only motorcycle ride. A perfect summer-before-college and summer-after-I-dropped-out-of-college boyfriend. ]
The OTHER wedding of note in my list of lists, though. Hm. It was The Prince. You remember him, right? The entirely dysfunctional relationship that I had to move 400 miles away from to finally, finally, escape? God, he made me so mad in so many ways, and god, how we just simply could not end things. That was mutual. Until I met the FYD and got all domesticated. And you know, MOVED 400 miles away. That part was me.
Of course I never exactly wished him ill. We have a small raft of mutual friends so the Event was not a surprise nor has it been too short a time since we broke up or anything like that. And while I am glad that he found someone who I imagine "understands him" (his most crucial relationship need, and one that I am sorry to report I did not fulfill) - it just feels...weird. Weird. He is my first serious boyfriend to get married.
It feels weird because we haven't been in touch once since our last correspondence (wherein I told him I would not visit NYC for a weekend, because I was getting serious with the FYD). Weird because I am sure he knows that I know that he got married; still a good friend, his brother sent me a sweet message (albeit one that did not mention the Event) two days post-wedding.
Not really sure how to sum this up at all. I don't want to get married now, not really, I didn't imagine the Prince and I would get married, then. It seemed to me he would never get married. So maybe it is the mere fact that he did something that feels so...uncharacteristic? that is so weird? He didn't marry the girlfriend prior to me, the 10-year girlfriend. To switch romantic comedies, maybe it's not that he didn't want to get married, it's that he didn't want to get married to ME. To the first serious girlfriend after ME.
So, readers. Here is a question. I really want to write him an email. Just a very simple acknowledgement of the Event and an offering of best wishes. Nothing to open a correspondence. Doing nothing feels...weird. Should I? Or is that...weird?
Thanks in advance - and may warm rain fall on your wedding day. Or something. Maybe should read that bit again.
xoxox, A
This is one of the funniest videos I've seen on youtube this year.
So when I found myself dog-sitting two naughty puppies last weekend, I had to give it a try. Its easier than you think, except I don't have the sad music.
Bad bad puppies. But so cute. Good thing for them.
E.
From a beautiful wedding I attended last night in my old apartment. It was just perfect, so romantic, comfortable and full of love. Like a wedding should be.
E.
_______________
I first met B right in this room. I was sitting here in the window and she came in the door to meet Rachel wearing an adorable black dress, as per usual, I know, with the black and the being adorable. The second occasion we spent time together we sat up, in this windowsill, until about 4am. On a weeknight. Obviously we were smitten with each other. I was also sitting right here when she told me she had a crush on a boy. And his name was MK. MK was a bit shy to come right out and ask her out on a date, so it took a few weeks. It was in this apartment where we discussed their upcoming first date, and I made the suggestion of the venue. I think it was their third date that he came over here and brought flowers, and carried a briefcase, and then later asked if it counted as a date. Beth found this all so very endearing.
We both fell in love about the same time with these wonderful boys who also loved us to bits. We felt so lucky. We seemed to take the same trajectory, sharing our delights and our very minor complaints about the boys together. In this room. Over many many glasses of red wine. She knew pretty soon that she wanted to marry him, and he popped the question before I left the apartment to take up a new life with my boy.
It was hard for me to leave this apartment, and all its memories, but knowing that it was going to be a starter home for this wonderful couple made so much sense. And seeing them get married today in this room really makes me believe in fate. There's a reason why we met those years ago, right here, B. There's a reason why you are both here today. Wishing you the happiest of days to come, for many glorious years.
And for you both, an Irish blessing:
Happy is the bride that rain falls on
May your mornings bring joy and your evenings bring peace.
May your troubles grow few as your blessings increase.
May the saddest day of your future
Be no worse than the happiest day of your past.
May your hands be forever clasped in friendship
And your hearts joined forever in love.
May you always have enough happiness to keep you sweet, trials to keep you strong, success to make you eager, friends to give you comfort, wealth to meet your needs, enthusiasm to look for tomorrow, and a growing love to make each day better than the day before.
I'm reminded of this short story I wrote many years ago that I never finished. How would you like to see it end?
E.
(your soft porn queen)
__________
The Mason Always Knocks Twice
It was my first sick day in over a year. I was coming down with something, but work had been kicking my ass and it was a good excuse to stay in and catch some bad talk shows and sleazy soaps as well. I made the most of it by getting the girlfriends to go out until 1 am on Thursday night, and I came home and fell into a t-shirt, and into bed.
Instinct made me look at the clock at 9, momentarily panic, and then remember my plan. I only had to leave about 5 voicemails to get the day off. My guilt was somewhat alleviated by the fact that I worked until 7.30 the night before, and it was summer hours, and a half day on Friday at any rate. I rolled over and slept some more, for some reason having very naughty thoughts run through my subconscious haze of REM-deprived sleep.
I was awoken at nearly 11 am by a thunk on the side of the building. Always the worrier, I ignored it and fell back asleep. Ten minutes later I heard a more pronounced thump against my building. Curiosity and annoyance got the better of me. I threw open my dusty blinds facing the street to be encountered by a surprised look of a man right outside my second floor window. Sleepiness and pleasure froze me in place. He had sandy, dishwater blonde hair, bedraggled, crisp green eyes and dirty, dirty hands similarly frozen in place on his ladder.
I stepped back from the window and realized I was clad in only my pink Victoria Secret cotton panties and a tight t-shirt. He seemed to get a grasp of himself, smiled subtly and lowered his eyes. I ran to the bathroom adjacent, forgetting to close the blinds. Which would be the appropriate thing to do.
Stealing into the kitchen I made myself a cup of mint tea and found an errant cigarette on the kitchen table. I tried to gather myself - why is there a man in overalls at my window? I tiptoed to the front windows and saw two utility trucks parked outside. “Lupacic’s Masonry” read the lettering on the doors. Ahh, yes the decorative facades on the 1920s three-flat had been needing some repair. Last week was the final straw, a chunk of one of the lions had fallen onto the sidewalk, almost injuring the teenager who lived in the basement (and loved on the sidewalk after dinnertime). The landlord was finally making a smart investment in his treasure. God, did real masons even exist anymore?
When I snuck my head back into the bedroom, the face and the ladder were gone. I threw on my velour pants and snagged the blinds closed again. The various sounds around the outside of the house were fascinating to me at this point. Where was he? How many of them are there? Marybeth, stop. Wake up, I thought.
After an hour of General Hospital interspersed with TLC at commercial breaks, I decided the charitable thing to do would be to make a big pitcher of lemonade and take it outside to Lupacic and his crew. I would get this whole half-naked thing behind me and show the eastern Europeans how cool I can be with a trivial matter such as this.
I stole a frozen can of pink lemonade from my roommate and begin to mix it up, getting into a strange rhythm, stopping myself. What is up with me today? Everything is charmed, set to a musical beat. I grabbed tumblers from the glass pantry and dumped in huge of chunks of ice from our old fashioned ice cube trays. Stacking them on top of each other, I strolled down the stairs in my bare feet and emerged outside to find the workers. The two trucks were still there, but the noises were coming from the side of the building. I gingerly stepped around bits of stone and broken glass from teenager revelry the night before and found three men on ladders around the corner. They were each eagerly chipping away at the fading decorative work on the outside of the building. Sandy-haired spied me immediately.
“Umm, hi. I was wondering if you boys were thirsty? I had the day off and..sortof made some lemonade.”
There was an awkward pause as all three stopped working and eyed me.
“Ah, yeah. Thanks.” They mumbled in some agreement.
They began to descend their respective ladders and a nervousness I had for some reason not felt just before this moment overtook me. I put the pitcher down on the concrete, not so elegantly, and began to hand out the drinks.
The eldest of the group, a contractor in his 50s, saddled over first with a friendly grin.
“You live here - building?”
“Umm, yeah. Just have the day off, wanted to make sure you guys are all right. Thanks for this. Its such a beautiful place.”
“Ah, yes great work on this. We fix real good. Make good, better maybe?”
Sandy haired god and another brunette hunk joined the old man.
“Hey thanks. Getting warm out here.” Sandy-haired smiled sexily at me.
I took the opportunity to notice exactly how warm it had got. There were well placed sweat marks on sandy-haired, highlighting his chest muscles.
My newfound shyness took the better of me.
“Well, if you boys need anything, just give me a buzz.
Number 2. Casey.”
“Are you Irish?” asked the man who was responsible for my own stains now, wettingly, apparent only to me.
“Just a little,” I taunted, turning on my heel and flouncing back around the corner.
As I dug the keys out of my waistband I cursed myself.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
I settled in for a short endurance of humiliation. In the end I was only doing a charitable thing. So what if they saw me as some cliché of American youth, living alone in an an apartment with no husband, trying to make nicey-nice with the immigrants. As I combed through my bar-hair, I remembered that my overalls-wearing hunk didn’t have a trace of an accent. I ventured into the kitchen for a mango, eating it above the sink. Naturally, as the juice was falling from my hungover lips, a face appeared at the kitchen window. Again, I froze in place. He couldn’t see me as I wasn’t making a spectacle of opening window coverings and standing in panties. My jaw went slack and I couldn’t touch the dribble coming from my mouth. He noticed me, and smiled. I smiled back and rose my mango to the air in a mock salute.
Dork. What was that? Happy Mango to you? I felt as if should leave the house in order to let them get on with their work. But the more rational part of me realized that would be foolish. How often do I get to spy such hot ass on a Friday afternoon? I settled into the front windows with my fascinating lexiconic book and another cup of tea. I could hear them still working on the side of the building, and as three p.m. turned to four I realized I was way too caffeinated to sit still and cracked open a beer from the fridge. About a half hour later I heard the buzzer go off.
“Hello?” I questioned.
“Sorry, we seem to have a problem with one piece. Do you have a phone I can borrow?”
‘Sure, come on up.”
Thankfully, I had brushed my teeth and thrown on a pair of my favorite jeans at this point. Sure my hair wasn’t combed and I still wasn’t wearing a bra, but at least it seemed like I made some progress with my day. I opened the apartment door and watched him mount the steps. He looked intrigued and humble.
“Sorry, my brother called off today and he’s got the right tool for this thing.”
‘Sure, the phone is in the kitchen.” Or, the bedroom, I thought, as I watched his taut ass walk away and saw him try not to stamp too much on my hardwood floors through the dining room.
“Christian, you have to get over here and bring the drill. What? You’re drunk already? Dad is going to have a heart attack. We said we’d have this job done in two days and this is all we need. I can’t believe you’re going to....”
I sensed some family discord and politely gave space.
I retreated to the window again and picked up my book. After some inaudible grumbles I heard the cordless being replaced and gentle giant footsteps coming back through the apartment.
“Well, I think we’re done for the day. My brother fucked up again. Oh, sorry. Pardon my french and all. Just that he’s such a bastard slacker.”
“Quite all right. So it sounds like you’ll be at it again tomorrow?”
“Yes, should be all set then.”
“Would you fellas like a beer in the garden? Its quite lovely. Lots of flowers.”
My face turned bright red at this suggestion, but I awaited his response eagerly.
“Yeah. well, let me see if my Dad has any more plans for us. Can I give you a buzz if that’s cool?”
“Sure.”
Smiles all around.
“Whats your name?”
“Marybeth Casey. Number. Two.” I swallowed hard.
That’s such an unsexy thing to say. Number. Two.
“OK, well I’ll let you know either way,” he replied with an unbelievable grin. “I’m Mikeal.”
Outside I heard some foreign words I could only assume to be curses against Christian. Ten minutes later, after staring at the same page in my book, I heard the trucks take off. I felt deflated. Bored. What am I doing with my day off?
Then the buzzer again. Fed Ex? Ring and split?
“Hello?”
“Hello! Its Mikeal. Is the beer still on offer?”
“Come on up!”
_________________________
Hee hee!
Little A., loudly singing: Ma-yee had a yittle yam, yittle yam, yittle yam! Ma-yee had a yittle yam, fees as white as snoooooow!!!
*pause* Me, interior monologue: Should I help her out with the next verse? Nah, she knows it. Then she'll sing something else.
Little A., singing LOUDER: Ma-yee had a yittle yam, yittle yam, yittle yam! Ma-yee had a yittle yam, fees as white as snooooow!!
*pause* Me thinks: Hm. Maybe she DOESN'T know the next verse. We sang it just a minute ago though! Surely she'll remember, finish the song, and move on to another.
Little A. again, LOUDEST: Ma-yee had a yittle yam, yittle yam, yittle yam! Ma-yee had a yittle yam, fees as white as snoooow!!!
*pause* Repeat sequence for 10 minutes with absolutely no variation, while I sink lower and lower in my seat under the weight of so many yittle yams, until....
Little A., wistfully: Mama, that's my favorite song!
***************************
Little A.: Mama! You have boobies!
Me: Um, yes I sure do.
Little A.: I have boobies too! I have NIPPLES!!
Me: Yes you do!
Little A.: Daddy has nipples too! He no have boobies.
Me: No, sweetie, most men and boys don't have boobies. Most ladies do have boobies. And boobies and nipples come in all shapes and sizes, just like people.
Little A: (Thoughtful pause....then)
You have BIG BOOBIES!!!
Me: Yeah, I do right now. So, um, what do you want for dinner?
Little A: BOOBIES BOOBIES BOO BOO BOOBIES!!!! BO BOS! BEE BEE! BOOOOOOOOBS!!!!
Yeah. Toddlers are basically cuter, miniature, insane frat boys.
xoxo, A
People sometimes mistake us for sisters, but we like it better when they mistake us for bandmates.
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