- Remember when Penny was in the hospital in August and I was all cryptic about what was wrong with her? That was because I didn’t want your reassurances. I know, that makes me sound like an asshole. But the thing is, I had (and have) genuine concerns, and sometimes a person just needs to worry them through without being told “oh, my aunt had that and she’s fine so obviously your kid will be fine!” Anyway, we worried through it all, and now I’ll tell you – Penny has vesicoureteral reflux – or VUR – or kidney reflux. And we’ve gone ahead and scheduled her for surgery for July 5th. It was just one of several possible options, but it was the best option for us. I think. I’m pretty sure. I mean, logically, I’m sure.

BUT SHE’S SO TEENY AND SHE’LL BE HAVING SURGERY OH MY LANDS YOU GUYS.

This is how I intend to distract you from the impending lack of content.

- Okay, remember when I was in the hospital and you were a total jerk about it? Well, I went (or more like, had Phil take me to) the ER because I was dealing with insane vertigo. More than dizziness. I mean the whole world was just whipping around me. It was so miserable. Nonetheless, I was still surprised when I was admitted to the hospital. They made me use a walker and wouldn’t let me pee by myself. Honestly, if I had blogged it in a timely fashion, it would have been some hilarious stuff. In a sad-for-me kind of way, but that’s usually my best stuff. I want you to know that it bothers me that I just ended two sentences in a row with the same word, but I just sat my kid in the middle of the floor with a whole cheeseburger and some french fries so while normally anal about such things, it’s a bit low on my give a damn chart at the moment. Just want you to know that I know.

Moving on, I had a CT scan and an MRI and both were perfectly clear, which is why I didn’t feel the need to alert any of my east coast family that I was in the hospital – I mean, come on. So they could worry over nothing? So I would have to call them multiple times a day to update them on my nothing? I told Phil that if it had turned out to be a brain tumor, he could call them. It didn’t, so he didn’t. Long story short, my mom threatened the shit out of him when we were in Pennsylvania for Penny’s birthday.

Internet, I need your honest opinion on this. Is it my job, as a 30 year old lady, to inform my family, on the other side of the country, of all of my medical issues? Some of them? Where’s the line? Colds? Fevers? ER trips? Broken bones? Admissions? How many days? Keep in mind that YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING from across the country and also family across the country wants CONTINUAL UPDATES from the person WHO IS SICK and DOES NOT WANT TO UPDATE. Seriously. What is an adult’s duty to family when it comes to medical issues, disclosure thereof?

So, the vertigo would have remained a mystery, had the neurologist not arrived right when a ripping headache that the floor doctor refused to treat in case it would mask symptoms was about to kill me. He quickly diagnosed vestibular migraine, which you can Google if you want, and then you’ll know exactly as much as I do, which is about nothing. When I got out of the hospital, the dizziness and vertigo took so long to fade I was resigning myself to the fact that I was going to be desperately clinging to walls for the rest of my life like all of the other sad stories I had managed to find online. Then… it was gone. Mostly. Most of the time. Lots of headaches and some mild dizziness, but no big episodes.

I don’t want to say a lot about vestibular migraines, because as of right now, I don’t have a lot of information. When I was looking for information myself, all I found was horror stories or just more people looking for information themselves. So. Nothing like that from me. I will say that my neurologist is going to be running a couple more tests and as of right now, thinks I’m an excellent candidate for migraine management with medication, so I’ve started on Topamax. I’ve taken it in the past and I know it’s a brutal medication, so we’ll have to see if the benefits outweigh the drawbacks. I have high hopes of no headaches. Well, fewer headaches, since Phil has no plans of moving out.

AAAHAHAHAHA GET IT? PHIL IS MY HUSBAND!

BUH DUM CHING!

- Remember all those times you told me, “You know, you really should go to the eye doctor, and you should let the eye doctor look in your eyes, and also you should do the puff test?” Well, I don’t like to do any of those things. I like to order my glasses online and never discuss it with anyone, ever. But I unfortunately have birthed a violent hooligan who slaps my $8 Zenni Optical frames off my face on the regular and they finally gave up the ghost on Saturday night, when Phil and I were supposed to be having a real live adult date while my mother (who flew back from Pennsylvania with Penny and I under the guise of helping me since Phil had flown back a week early but UNDER THE REALITY of soaking up my adorable child) had the only kind of grandparent-grandbaby bonding time that really counts – the kind where the parents are nowhere to be seen.

I would have loved to order from Zenni again, but with the whole headache mess, I couldn’t deal with being glassesless for any length of time and thus had to deal with the OPPRESSIVE NATURE of shopping for glasses in the real world, where they refuse to just GIVE YOU SOME and instead insist on peering straight into your head.

And you know what? Go ahead and say you told me so. Just get it out of the way. Because guess what? The doctor looked in there? AND SOMETHING WAS WRONG. He referred me to a specialist for papilledema, which as I basically understand it, means my eyeballs are going to explode. But that’s not the CRAZY part.

Like any normal person, before calling any specialist, I of course went home and googled (this was yesterday). This papilledema is caused by high pressure inside your brain bag, and you know what one of the main causes of THAT is?

TUMOR.

Except? I had a CT and an MRI just a couple of weeks ago and there WAS no tumor.

Obvious conclusion?

THE FULL BODY SCANNER AT THE AIRPORT GAVE ME A TUMOR.

(Please note: no tumor has been confirmed and is, in fact, only suspected by the part of me that is convinced that everything from an earache to stubbing my toe is probably caused by a tumor, but when you think about it, what other conclusion could there be?)

There was going to be more here today, including some deeply philosophical questions about leaning your seat back on airplanes, but guys – I am not even shitting you right now – I just got back from urgent care and I have strep throat.

I have crazy migraine managed with the medication from hell, exploding eyeball most likely caused by the naked cancer box at the airport and NOT EVEN FUCKING WITH YOU STREP THROAT.

Here’s my current favorite picture of my baby.

FUCK YEAH, CAKE.

Okay, so, I was only in the hospital from this past Sunday to Wednesday, but you couldn’t possibly have known that. So, you, sack, cracks.

You couldn’t possibly have known I was in the hospital for a couple of days, but you should have assumed that it could have been a couple of weeks, so… look, I’ve kind of lost track of how to make you come out as the bad guy here, you crack.

*****

Awhile back, I got a comment that just put me in a really shitty mood, the kind of “ugh, fuck it,” throwing your hands in the air kind of mood. I have comment moderation set up on my blog, but it only moderates the first time someone comments – I figure if you’re not a dick out of the gate, you’re probably not going to be. At least, probably not an intolerable dick. They tend to make clear what they’re all about right from the jump. Anyway, this is a long way of saying that the comment was caught in moderation, so it wasn’t someone I was familiar with, so you can stop worrying that you’re the one who cheesed me off, because it wasn’t you.

It’s okay if you briefly worried it was you. I think everyone does that. I do that. I mean, when you think about things in the grand scheme of it all, someone talking about one specific person probably isn’t talking about you. What are the chances? So lately I’ve been trying to make a concerted effort to not assume something is about me unless someone directly says, “Hey, ass panda, this is about you.” You know, just like… if it was me, and it was that big of a deal, the person would talk to me. So I assume it’s either not me or it’s not a big deal and whoever is just venting some steam or what have you.

But that’s hard, you know that and I know that. I mean, someone could say, “I wish six foot tall black dudes in priest collars wouldn’t say such offensive shit in Swahili,” and I would be mentally running over all of the things I have recently said that might have been considered offensive because of course that was about me.

Anyway, I’m assuring you, it’s not about you, and I’m also not saying anything about the comment itself or anything, because like I said above, I guess I want to follow the other side of the coin, too – if it is a thing, I should say something to the person involved or maybe it’s just not even a thing. And it’s not a thing. It was a first time comment, not someone who has been around here for a while, unless they used a different email address or whatever, and it wasn’t even… anything. It was a nothing. I mean, yes, it got under my skin, what with the fuck it all and throwing my hands in the air, but it wasn’t anything worth pursuing. I guess it was just a right place, right time kind of thing where it crawled right under my skin and just made me have a kind of disgust for posting at all because UGH. WHY BOTHER. HANDS IN THE AIR. ET CETERA.

Yeah, so, long story not short or relevant, I didn’t post for a while because a random one off comment from a stranger chapped my ass.

*****

This is going to end poorly in about two seconds:

*****

I had this idea that I was going to tell you a little bit about all of the books I’ve read recently, because there’s been a good number of them and a bunch of them have sucked out loud, and I’m not going to lie to you – I enjoy getting especially descriptive about all of the ways I hated a particularly terrible book. Does that make me a bad person? Well, no, probably not, though there may be other aspects of my personality that when ADDED to that fact do indeed total up to bad person, I’m pretty sure taking some delight in outlining the particular terribleness of particularly terrible books on its own is not enough to put me into the category.

But I do want to do that and I will really, truly try to do so soon, but I’m dealing with some medical situation that makes extending typing – or computering – or reading – or televisioning – or most especially OH LAWD FAST FORWARDING THE DVR FETCH ME MY YAKKING BOWL – a bit difficult.

There’s that difficulty, combined with the whole actually having said difficulties, plus some other stresses that, once again I assure you that I’m not going to lie to you, because why WOULD I, it’s not like I have anything to gain from it and besides, the TSA Blogger would probably just post video footage anyway, might delay me in posting again. I’m not well, and we’re preparing to travel next week, and remember how Big P was in the hospital last summer? We knew then that in the future it was possible some decisions would have to be made about how to proceed with her health issues, but we assumed that the future would basically never actually arrive and also that qualified medical professionals would make the decision. But the future is shockingly right now – Penny will be a year old next Sunday, do you even BELIEVE that shit? – and we’ve been tasked with choosing the course of action. And by “we,” I mean Phil and I. And by Phil and I, I mean a couple of idiots.

MAN. You know, you get married and you have a kid, and you get up every day and you go to work or you stay with your kid or whatever you want to do or have to do, and it’s basically the same day to day, and you reach a point in early actual adulthood where you’re like, “Okay, this is life. This is how it goes and we’ll just go on like this. I’m not a rock star and life isn’t a minute by minute adventure like a kid would once assume adulthood might be, but this is how it goes and how it will go and that’s all of it,” and that’s not a depressing thought at all. And I mean that sincerely. But I don’t know if I’m conveying that realization in accurate terms, but I mean the point where you realize that this is all it is – and I don’t mean, “This is all it IS?,” but this is all it is. Does that even make sense?

But I took all that time to explain that, only to say the opposite – time keeps happening and THINGS keep happening, both together. Time happens and the things happen and neither one of those happenings stops for the other. By that I mean, I’m going to lay these plans, the plans to tell you about the books I’ve been reading, but things are happening and time is marching on – A YEAR OLD, YOU GUYS – and even though this is all there is, it’s hard to make promises about something that so recently made you throw your hands in the air, all UGH FUCK IT.

If you’re in a reader and don’t want to click through for the embedded videos, here’s a picture of Penny instead. If you shake your head back and forth really quickly, you should get the basic effect.

Um, why is the zone of infant neglect empty?

Excuse me! How did you get there! You’re immobile! Out your accomplices, immediately!

How are you — are you STEERING? Are you STEERING while you scoot BACKWARDS? I can’t even back out of the driveway without falling into the yard. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME COME BACK HERE BABY.

Do you even know where you ARE? Did you think to bring a MAP when you abandoned  your HOME?

DID YOU EVEN THINK TO SCATTER SOME OF THOSE BREADCRUMBS JAMMED IN YOUR NECK FOLD? PROBABLY NOT. And, okay, I kind of recognize that as a failure on my part, we should probably read to you more, BUT AGAIN THIS IS NOT ABOUT ME GET BACK HERE PENELOPE THURSA.

I don’t understand how this is happening. How do you go from completely stationary one day, to circumnavigating the living room the next? I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU ANYMORE.

Oh, wait. Now I recognize you.

That was by design, of course, as it wouldn’t do to have the whole world knowing who was involved in the ritual.

Ah haha, I kid. There was no ritual. I promise. You won’t find a single mention of the ritual in any of these recaps.

I feel like kind of a butt listing them all when I haven’t written one myself, but honestly, they cover it all. The parts of my weekend left out of these recaps are minor stresses and bumps in the road that barely even register now. Penny was sick and not her normal charming self, which was a huge bummer, and there were some issues with getting everyone into the base. I didn’t get to talk to any one person nearly enough, and I didn’t even buy pajamas until the day of the pajama portion of the party. I was coming off a 3 week stint with Phil being away, and when he got home, he dropped a 65 lb suitcase on my toe.

Oh, also, the night before the party, Sheldon peed on everything. On everything.

Anyway, recaps.

Lara – http://purplelara.com

Noemi – http://noemican.wordpress.com

Linnea – http://beanonparade.blogspot.com

Laura – http://diniwilks.blogspot.com

Erin – http://polkadotsandpearls.com

Jess – http://duwaxloolu.blogspot.com

Another Jess – http://jesabes.com

Brooke – http://buildingakingstoncastle.blogspot.com

Megan – http://deadseriousmegan.blogspot.com <— OMG BRAND NEW BLOGGER who works with DEAD PEOPLE. You know you want to read what someone who works with DEAD PEOPLE has to say on the regular. Go ENCOURAGE THE CRAP OUT OF HER. For me. And my selfish needs.

That’s not all of the attendees, but it’s all of the recaps at this point. If there end up being more, I’ll add them here.

1. This is not a TJ vs. Phil “Settle This,” just a me vs. me “Settle This.”

2. “Crealth” is a word I have just made up, and it means the opposite of stealth, in the way that you do something out in the open because there’s no real reason to be stealthy about it, because everyone does it and it’s no big thing.

Okay, wait, one more thing:

3. Those of you who keep clean cars will not be able to relate to this, and actually probably would also not be able to relate to me, because at any given moment, my car usually looks like I live in there.

ANYWAY. We’re talking about public soda disposal. Or, you know, coffee. Whatever. Don’t get hung up on the details.

So, you’re  me, or someone like me, and you’re about to go through the drive through for a big soda for the third time in a week. The third time, which means, of course, that your two cup holders are already full. Or, you’re walking out of Target with your recently purchased soda and get in the car, only to be confronted with your perpetually full-of-half-full-of-flat-soda-and-melted-ice-lidded-cups cup holders.

So what do you do? You can’t toss a full beverage to the floor of your car like you do with receipts and the mail and that big container of dog treats that I don’t remember – OH YEAH, Sheldon ran away and I had to drive around the block with a tub of treats to try to lure him home, that ass clown.

What you do is that you empty it out on the ground, right? In the Target parking lot or in the drive through or wherever you are. You open the door a crack and pour the soda out the side and THEN you can toss the cup on the floor of your car. Or you roll down your window in the drive through and do the dump.

The thing is, though, in all the years I have been doing this, because, come on – if you spot an empty cup holder in my car, you should take your skills to the wild to help locate a yeti or something – I have always felt that while I can convince myself that I am not hurting anything by dumping liquid on the ground, it isn’t something that anyone should see you doing, because it’s wrong. Or it’s littering? I’m not sure.

So you make sure there’s no one nearby when you empty out a cup between parked cars, or you go through the drive through with your new ice cold soda in your CROTCH so you can dump out an old can away from prying employee eyes, in case they spring through the window to CATCH YOU IN YOUR VANDALISTIC ACT, all, “I JUST MOPPED THAT DRIVEWAY.”

A beverage! On their asphalt!

But is this really something to be stealth about? I mean, really. Think about the alternatives – throwing the entire cup or can out the window. That is LITTERING for REAL, right? Or, I guess, cleaning out your car as you arrive home with each beverage, but that’s unrealistic. I have a baby. I don’t vulture people for close parking spots. I always put my cart away. I don’t huff at people who refuse to acknowledge my superior status and right to GO FIRST because can’t you see I have SPAWNED a portion of this planet’s FUTURE. But I cannot be bothered to carry both baby and trash into the house upon arriving home and don’t you even SAY “two trips” to me, because EVERYONE ON EARTH has hated the phrase “make two trips” since the third grade, so don’t be that guy.

So if you assume that someone dumping a soda on the ground is doing so to be able to throw it on the floor of his car, thus driving away with his trash, OR is emptying a refillable container in order to REFILL it, which is ANOTHER environmentally friendly act, isn’t it okay to be crealth? But it seems hard to be crealth when you’re DUMPING something on the GROUND.

Now, I’m not going to stop doing this, because I can pretty much promise you I will never be a prompt soda-taker-inner. But what I need to know is, do you think that a person should be stealth about such an act? What are you going to think when you see someone dumping out her car window? Would crealthness add a certain air of entitlement or assholery to the act? A brazenness, maybe? In that case, one should remain stealth. One being me, anyway. Because I’m going to do it, I just don’t want people to think something about it.

I think this is a lot like the soda refill question – what is the general attitude on stealth/crealth dumping? Much like refilling a soda at an open fountain, the public opinion (in my mind, anyway) is hazy, and I need this cleared up, because I am, by nature, much more crealthy than stealthy.

I told you we were thinking about joining the YMCA, and we did join. And I was going every weekday, even though I still hate it, even though no one’s promises about the joys of exercise have ever come true, and even though it triggers extreme paranoia about how I smell at any given moment. I had been going every day, because it was good for me, and because dropping Penny off at the child care area was good for her.

The child care area has been great. They really like Penny, and there’s usually one child minder for the babies alone. Penny’s often the only baby, but I’ve never seen more than two or three there at a time, with plenty of attention given to them. And they’re separated from the galloping hooligan older children. Man, I’m glad Penny’s going to stay a baby forever.

Anyway, to add insult to what is sure to be inevitable injury, considering I just now kind of hurt my neck while trying to scratch my back, with Phil being gone for three weeks, I have to somehow convince myself that exercise qualifies as my alone time. No one comes home in the afternoon to give me a little baby relief, so I have to drop her off at the child care center in the Y, and then exercise, and tell myself that it’s great and restful and rejuvenating and totally the same thing as flopping on the couch in my underpants and watching Ellen while Phil takes care of the baby for a little while, but you know what? It’s not the same. I try to make myself at home on the treadmill, with my headphones and my videos and what not, but watching the elegance of upstairs/downstairs life in Downton Abbey loses something when you’re huffing and sweating and trying to stealthily check yourself for stink.

I am pretty sure I will never been one of those people who craves exercise, or feels like the day isn’t complete without a workout, or enjoys any of the benefits that high school gym teachers promise will come from putting on a stinky pinny and trying to be enthusiastic about dodge ball. There will always be something I would rather be doing. There will always be something I would rather be doing that I would never choose to do under normal circumstances. I’m saying I would always rather be cleaning my toilet.

But I’ve KEPT GOING ANYWAY. Even on days where I’ve decided to skip it, where I’m sure I’m not going to go, where I eye up the toilet and its need for a scrub, I have gone. Sometimes the decision  to go is made three minutes before I’d need to be out the door, but I have GONE.

And do you know how I have been rewarded for this? For joining a gym, putting on gym clothes, dealing with smell worries, ignoring the people who are actually working out in favor of plodding along watching television, for exposing Penny to other children and the experience of learning that when we leave her somewhere, we always come back?

PESTILENCE.

Here I am, Phil gone for three weeks, and I’m still going to the gym and taking Penny to experience life outside of my hermitty bubble, and how am I rewarded? With PENNY’S FIRST COLD. Penny’s first cold, which has coincided nicely with Phil’s trip and the cutting of four teeth, along with the frustrated baby shrieks and indignant refusal to sleep that come along with trying to learn a new skill, causing my still-immobile baby to find herself on her belly and confused in the middle of the night, needing not only to be rescued, but also a loving parent on which to rub her snot.

And so we are watching endless Sesame Street and I am dealing with a baby who insists on being held and not held AT THE SAME TIME, because “YOU ARE NOT DADDY AND I ONLY LET DADDY HOLD ME BUT HOLD ME BECAUSE I DON’T FEEL GOOD PUT ME DOWN NOT DADDY HOLD ME.”

So I’ve missed a couple of days at the gym, because she’s been miserable, and I’ve been trying to hold and not hold her at the same time, dealing with a baby who wants both to be cuddled and to headbutt me repeatedly, and also, she PINCHES, and that would be okay, kind of, because I hate them gym and also, PJs@TJ’s is next week and I still have so much to do. And she seems like she’s starting to rally a bit, or at least she did last night, so I took her to Chipotle and she was delighted to eat a quesadilla and then equally delighted to… project it back over the floor of said Chipotle. And then again all over Phil’s side of the bed.

But now I also am sick, because Penny has insisted on rubbing her gross drippy face directly onto mine, and I still have a lot to do, and Phil is still not here, and I can’t even watch Downton Abbey because I told myself I could only watch it AT THE GYM, where I can’t go right now, because Penny brought home pestilence FROM THE GYM.

It is also kind of possible that she might have gotten the plague from that time I was too lazy to put her shopping cart cover down and I turned around for a minute to ponder my choice of frozen chicken products only to turn back and find her sucking on the cart handle. But it was probably the gym.

Here is a photo from happier times.

OH, ALSO? I found an injured baby bunny in the yard and I had to take it to an emergency vet and they put it down. That doesn’t really go with the rest of the post, but I feel like it’s part of the whole package of my suffering right now.

And I’m pretty sure I did tell you, but I’ll tell you again, that I have a major event coming up at my house in… three weeks.

So I took last week off from posting, thinking, hey, no big. Phil’s going to be away for three weeks. The only responsibilities I will have will be to clean my very small house and keep the baby alive and shop for an entire weekend’s worth of supplies for 18 women.

Psh.

PSH.

A week off doesn’t matter, because I am going to post SO MUCH with all of that luxurious time I’m going to have, what with my perfect satisfaction with eating peanut butter and jelly all the time and no need to go anywhere at all.

Yeah, it’s been 12 hours and my ass has already been soundly kicked.

Here’s a picture of my baby eating bacon.

“Look! A man with a baby! A man in UNIFORM with a BABY!”

I GET IT, IT’S ADORABLE. HE FARTS IN BED, THOUGH. THEY BOTH DO. JUST SO YOU KNOW.

I’m not mad. I’m just bitter, probably. Whenever I take Penny through the grocery store, I get some smiles, but mostly a train a passive aggressive olds telling Penny to tell her mommy that her feet are so cold without sockies! So cold! Tell her you need some sockies! Sockies for those feet! Tell her, “Mommy, my feet are so cold here in the store! I need sockies for my feetsies!”

Phil, though? Phil in uniform? All smiles, no mention of sockies.

*****

I think I use Goodreads more than I use any other socially networky thing right now, but there is something that will eternally bother me about Goodreads. I think I’ve talked about it here before, but I’m talking about it again. What are you, the blog police?

Anyway, I had several false starts with using Goodreads (I’ve been  member since 2009) and didn’t really get into it heavily until recently, because I got TOO OVERWHELMED. It’s a simple site, but I, like most people, have been reading books for about a berjillion years. That’s roughly 30 berjillion books.

So, I would start listing books that I’d read, and pretty soon, I’d become hopelessly overwhelmed with the task of adding EVERY BOOK EVER. I don’t think I ever even got to one berjillion. So I’d give up. If I couldn’t add them all, I JUST WOULDN’T ADD ANY.

Coincidentally, that’s very similar to the stance I have on eating potato chips, but usually goes the opposite way.

So the only way I was able to make Goodreads work for me THIS time is to tell myself that I would only list books from that point FORWARD. I have a couple of favorites listed, but aside from that, I WILL NOT fall down the rabbit hole of books that I’ve read since the dawn of time.

This makes me constantly self-conscious, though, that people will think I started reading at 29. I COULD READ BEFORE THEN. I just can’t allow myself to tempt insanity by remembering every book I’ve ever read, because I can’t just list SOME of the ones I read before I started using Goodreads. It’s none of them or all of them. That’s how it has to be. IT HAS TO BE.

Sometimes, someone I follow rates a book. A book I READ, pre-Goodreads attempt 47. And it’s right there. No searching necessary. It’s right there on the home screen. And all I would have to do is just pick a star rating. One click, and there it is. Added to my books. That’s not so bad, right?

EXCEPT IT IS. The only way I can use Goodreads at all is by telling myself that I have an UNDERSTANDING with the larger Goodreads population. We ALL AGREE that I read books before I started using Goodreads, but I haven’t listed any of them. We just AGREE that it HAPPENED.

If I go ahead and list one, the agreement is BROKEN. Now there’s one listed. And that can lead people to assume that sure, I read books before I started using Goodreads. Or, more accurately, I read BOOK.

No. No. I can’t add any of them. So they pop up in front of me, and instead of clicking, I sit here in front of the computer and worry that people are going to think I HAVEN’T READ THAT BOOK. Then I remind myself of the agreement. But I READ THAT BOOK.

You guys, I’m just saying, it’s hard being me.

*****

So I’ve been preparing for PJs@Tj’s, which is now in less than a month, and in my every waking hour, I find myself thinking about tiny details, which stack upon the other tiny details, which add berjillions of things to my mental to do list, which I haven’t actually started, other than cleaning out the pantry, and I don’t see why anyone would really be in my pantry anyway, so, right. I have not gotten very far yet in the whole “preparing the house for a pile of guests” thing yet.

But I’ve been thinking about it, which we all know is half the battle. And here’s something I’ve been thinking: a while ago, we got this hand soap we really liked. It was some kind of Soft Soap, and the smell was blackberry vanilla. Or black currant and pears. Or something and something. Anyway, it smelled great. Next time we were at the store, though, and needed soap, we just got one of those big old refill jugs, and we’ve been refilling the same bottles – one in the bathroom and one on the kitchen sink.

So, while the bottle says you’ll be washing your hands with a delightful mix of berries and puffy clouds, it’s actually just generic soap smell.

And I wonder, does that make the soap a lie? And, as a hostess, am I being rude with this bait and switch? This soap and swap? This scrub and… drub?

Seriously, I have 18 women descending on my house in less than a month, and this is what is keeping me up at night.

*****

We’ve made a plan. Well, not so much a plan as a plan to make a plan. We’ve decided that when Penny is about five, we’re going to take her on a Disney cruise and a stay in Disney World. We figure we’ve got to plan that far out so that we can save up the money, because I’ve always said that when we do take her to Disney, we want to go ALL OUT.

I mean, we want to stay in one of the hotels right there, so that we can go back to rest as needed. And we want enough days to do everything we want. And I want to take her to that place where they do her up like a princess. We want to be able to throw money around like we have it. Sure, you can have a $75 Mickey balloon! Oh, you let it go? That’s okay, here’s a $115 ice cream sandwich. Wipe your face with this napkin, it was only $5.

We’ve also emailed both of our families to extend an invitation to join us, because, why not? We’re planning far enough in advance that everyone can make it, if they wanted to.

But just today, I started thinking that there needs to be more to this plan than just saving the money and picking a cruise.

ONE – We’ve got to start watching Disney movies, post haste. This shit is not going to be even a LITTLE BIT MAGICAL if Penny doesn’t know who the hell Ariel is, you know what I mean?

TWO – I’m thinking that by the time she’s two, two and a half, I’m going to want to start working with her on developing a real allegiance to one of the princesses.

I know you’re about to get your Internet dander all up, what with the princess culture! And teaching appropriate values! And rabble rabble! And girl power! And all of that. And to that I say this: Look. Shut up. Because, come on. Did you grow up thinking that you were an actual princess? I mean, did you grow into the total warped asshole of a she-witch that the anti-princess culture people seem to believe will result from exposure to made up, cartoon fancy ladies? By the time you were of reasonable age, did you understand that your suburban town house bore little resemblance to a castle and no one cared when you lost your stupid shoe?

You did, right? You turned out to be a functioning adult? With only a moderate number of tiaras? AND managed to also enjoy Disney movies as a child?

Yeah, so, now that we’ve established that THAT’S possible… I’m thinking Belle. Or maybe Ariel. I mean, Ariel’s a pretty predictable choice, but come on. Obviously the superior princess.

THREE – We’ve got to concentrate on NOT raising an asshole at all, even more so now. Because we’re not going to tell her we’re going until we’re about to leave. You know, like all those YouTube videos? So, we’re going to want a really sweet, really genuine reaction of joy from her when she finds out we’re about to blow all of our money ever on a cruise and a trip. And then we’ll put it on YouTube.

FOUR – I probably have to get a passport.

FIVE  - I should also probably learn to swim.

Anyway, I’m already excited. Four or five years is just enough time to build this up in my mind enough that I completely ruin Penny’s enjoyment of the whole thing by trying to force some FREAKIN’ DISNEY MAGIC on her at every turn.

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LASTLY, we are considering joining the YMCA. Which seems silly, you say, because there are 800 gyms on base, but look. I can’t go to those. I just can’t. I know people say, “Everyone is there to work out! No one is looking at anyone!” But come on. People look at people. It’s human nature. And while we’d all like to think that no one cares, just a few days on Twitter will net you at LEAST three people saying, “At the gym today… ” and commenting on someone they saw. It’s not always mean or even… anything… but it belies the “no one is paying attention!” crap. So while I’d like to be one of those, “Whatever, I’m above all that” people, I’m not. I cannot go to a gym on base, full of people whose job it is to be in great physical condition.

And I really don’t want any more of that “no but really, no one is paying attention to anyone else” stuff. I know you’re lying. You know you’re lying. There’s no point in trying to get someone to go exercise where they won’t be comfortable, because they will try it once or twice and not be able to stand it, and then, worse than the guilt of not trying, you have the guilt of QUITTING.

So is it silly to pay for a gym membership when you can go to a gym for free? I don’t know. I don’t think so. My mother has had a membership to the Y for a berjillion years, and there’s a gym in her office building. She wouldn’t go to that one. She wouldn’t be comfortable. So it’s the choice of paying for a place you’re comfortable, or not working out at all. So far, the choice for me has been “not at all,” so I’m beginning to be quite convinced that paying for something that is also available for free, in this case, is not totally ridiculous.

It’s not, right?

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I can’t think of where else I’m ever going to work these in, and I need more people than Phil to appreciate me, because he doesn’t laugh, he just says, “Yeah, that’s funny.” Even when I can see him TRYING NOT TO LAUGH. Won’t even give me the courtesy of a laugh. Anyway, two things I have come up with recently, regarding Penny:

1. Count Yak-ula.
2. She had a yak-cident.