This and That
A random collection of feeble-mindedness.
Yesterday was an important day, so important in fact, that we had to celebrate by baking a cake. What made this day so auspicious you ask? The equipment truck left from Fenway Park bright and early on its yearly pilgrimage down to City of Palms Park in Ft. Myers, Florida. It carries more than just bats, balls, fungoes, and rosin bags - it's all the high hopes and anticipation of a Nation. Spring Training is just days away. I can almost breathe again.
Mr. F is very concerned about the fact that I am due in October. Should the Red Sox repeat their incredible run through the playoffs to the Fall Classic again, he says he is going to tell my OB/GYN to forbid me from watching baseball. He's worried I'll send myself into labor or stress the baby out.
Our local sports station has been replaying games 1-7 of the 2004 American League Championship Series, now known as the greatest sports comeback story of all time. We were watching Game 4 the other night. It was the 14th inning, David Ortiz was up at the plate, fouling off pitch after pitch for what seemed an eternity. Of course I knew how it ended, I knew he was going to hit a bloop single to center and Damon would haul butt from second to score and win the game around quarter of two in the morning. I knew that. I saw it the first time. But watching it again, I couldn't breathe. I got up and started pacing around the room.
Can you say post-traumatic stress disorder, boys and girls?
* * *
Tonight we're going to see Kathleen Turner & Bill Irwin in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. This is not a play for the faint of heart or easily offended. We got the script ahead of time so Mr. F could familiarize himself with it, and I reread it again for the first time since college (oh so many years ago). Mr. Albee is one messed up dude.
No doubt I will get all nostalgic for my time in the theatre, I always do. Somedays I miss it so much and wonder what the heck I was thinking to ever give up on it. Then I remember a friend who's still fighting the good starving artist fight in New York City and I remember how it all went down. I like eating and paying my bills.
Back when I was slaving away as a non-union assistant stage manager, my mother once predicted that I wasn't "hungry" enough, not ambitious enough to stick it out long term. When you're making $130 dollars a week and living on ramen noodles or tomato soup and one slice of Wonder® bread a day, you get a little testy with people who say you're not hungry enough.
But looking back, she was probably right. Not long after I got my first "desk job". Once in a blue moon I buy ramen, just for old time's sake.
* * *
Haven't told my parents that I'm pregnant yet. I know, I know, it's terrible isn't it? All of you folks know, and we've never even met! I'm torn. I want to tell, but I suddenly feel an overwhelming shyness about it. It's still early yet, what if something were to happen? But that's not the reason.
Truth is, I've been blissfully floating along, just happy and hopeful. I haven't started to worry about this or that yet. I haven't started making To Do lists or reviewing our insurance policy (I'm just glad we have one!) I can just bumble along in my little happy mommy land - no well-meaning but unwanted advice, no horror stories about difficult labor and deliveries, no one (save Mr. F) worrying about how I feel every minute of the day. That will naturally all change in the instant I tell my mother.
Not to mention the fact that everyone in the family will now have irrefutable proof that my husband and I have had uh, relations. *BLUSH* It's very strange having grown up in an era of so much promiscuity & prevalence of birth control. Women who were born circa 1970 will understand what I'm talking about when I say "you spend so much of your life worrying about not getting pregnant." Even though it's OK now, I still feel a bit tarty. Another friend confessed feeling the same way. Though she was married and living a stable, respectable life, she felt a little like a bad girl for getting pregnant. Some sociologist would have a field day studying my generation and this "bad girl" phenomenon.
I think we might tell today. Or tomorrow, if I chicken out. Eventually I won't be able to keep the secret under wraps. It will be plainly evident in another six weeks or so...
Mr. F is very concerned about the fact that I am due in October. Should the Red Sox repeat their incredible run through the playoffs to the Fall Classic again, he says he is going to tell my OB/GYN to forbid me from watching baseball. He's worried I'll send myself into labor or stress the baby out.
Our local sports station has been replaying games 1-7 of the 2004 American League Championship Series, now known as the greatest sports comeback story of all time. We were watching Game 4 the other night. It was the 14th inning, David Ortiz was up at the plate, fouling off pitch after pitch for what seemed an eternity. Of course I knew how it ended, I knew he was going to hit a bloop single to center and Damon would haul butt from second to score and win the game around quarter of two in the morning. I knew that. I saw it the first time. But watching it again, I couldn't breathe. I got up and started pacing around the room.
Can you say post-traumatic stress disorder, boys and girls?
Tonight we're going to see Kathleen Turner & Bill Irwin in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. This is not a play for the faint of heart or easily offended. We got the script ahead of time so Mr. F could familiarize himself with it, and I reread it again for the first time since college (oh so many years ago). Mr. Albee is one messed up dude.
No doubt I will get all nostalgic for my time in the theatre, I always do. Somedays I miss it so much and wonder what the heck I was thinking to ever give up on it. Then I remember a friend who's still fighting the good starving artist fight in New York City and I remember how it all went down. I like eating and paying my bills.
Back when I was slaving away as a non-union assistant stage manager, my mother once predicted that I wasn't "hungry" enough, not ambitious enough to stick it out long term. When you're making $130 dollars a week and living on ramen noodles or tomato soup and one slice of Wonder® bread a day, you get a little testy with people who say you're not hungry enough.
But looking back, she was probably right. Not long after I got my first "desk job". Once in a blue moon I buy ramen, just for old time's sake.
Haven't told my parents that I'm pregnant yet. I know, I know, it's terrible isn't it? All of you folks know, and we've never even met! I'm torn. I want to tell, but I suddenly feel an overwhelming shyness about it. It's still early yet, what if something were to happen? But that's not the reason.
Truth is, I've been blissfully floating along, just happy and hopeful. I haven't started to worry about this or that yet. I haven't started making To Do lists or reviewing our insurance policy (I'm just glad we have one!) I can just bumble along in my little happy mommy land - no well-meaning but unwanted advice, no horror stories about difficult labor and deliveries, no one (save Mr. F) worrying about how I feel every minute of the day. That will naturally all change in the instant I tell my mother.
Not to mention the fact that everyone in the family will now have irrefutable proof that my husband and I have had uh, relations. *BLUSH* It's very strange having grown up in an era of so much promiscuity & prevalence of birth control. Women who were born circa 1970 will understand what I'm talking about when I say "you spend so much of your life worrying about not getting pregnant." Even though it's OK now, I still feel a bit tarty. Another friend confessed feeling the same way. Though she was married and living a stable, respectable life, she felt a little like a bad girl for getting pregnant. Some sociologist would have a field day studying my generation and this "bad girl" phenomenon.
I think we might tell today. Or tomorrow, if I chicken out. Eventually I won't be able to keep the secret under wraps. It will be plainly evident in another six weeks or so...
posted by Feeble Knees at
12:16 AM
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