OB/GY-Me?

I’m not elegant.  Have I mentioned that? 

I’m not, but that’s ok.  I think my lack of grace and total agonizing awkward self-awareness is part of my charm.  But it’s just that, at times, it would be great if I could summon some deep part of myself, a hidden little Grace Kelly inside of me that is lounging lovely on a plush green velvet chaise, delicately plucking at her rich pearls, and gently placing a rogue wisp of hair back in place, waiting politely for her cue to come forward and take hold of the rest of my slacker personality.

Sadly, I think Ms. Kelly must’ve gotten terribly bored hoping for a call that never came, and instead packed up her exquisite leather luggage and ditched me for good.  Maybe it’s for the best….up-itty bitch.  Who needs her, when I can have Rosanne Barr’s personality instead, right?

But there are times when being perfectly composed and elegant would come in handy, like at the theater or the opera. 

Or a gynecologist appointment. 

Take a few weeks ago…

Joe and I arrived at my new gynecologist office for my very first pregnancy appointment (also known as the first major-reality-check-up).  We walked up to the brightly colored one-story building and I immediately noticed how updated it all seemed.  The lettering on the exterior was shiny and bright, the plants surrounding the entrance were all verdant, and the parking lot was freshly paved.  When we walked in, I was further impressed by the waiting room.  Happy colors covered the walls, big comfy couches were everywhere, and even the magazines looked from this century. 

As my name was called and we were lead deeper into the building, I was relieved to see such state-of-the-art equipment in every room, and the typically gross, health book pictures of birth canals and purple newborns on the walls were replaced with actually cute professionally-shot baby pictures from the many “satisfied customers” that had gone through this office.  To be in such a modern and sleek office soothed more of my anxiety. 

More, not all. 

And still more came to replace it.   This place looks too nice for likes of me, I thought looking at what appeared to be granite countertops in the examination rooms.  I better not touch anything unless expressly asked to do so.

Being in such a nice place made me wish I hadn’t worn my old stained flip-flops and stretched-out jeans, but I told myself I would try harder at my next appointment.

So a few weeks later, without Joe to lean on, I went in for my second appointment.  I was still in my work clothes, so I looked relatively presentable.  And I made sure to arrive early.   I didn’t want to do anything to piss off the people that would be helping me through one of the biggest events of my life.  They could get mad and replace my epidural with Capri Sun, which would be deliciously ineffective.

I walked up to the big glass entrance, seeing a few people sitting inside, and felt relatively confident.  Yes, I thought, I WILL be one of THOSE expectant mothers, the kind that have that internal peace and tranquility, that natural aura of grace and elegance that just shines from them.  Yes, I will be one of them.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see the tall cement pillar by the front door and smacked my elbow right on it.  After I had finished howling and hopping with pain for a few seconds, I shook off my visible embarrassment and walked in, trying in vain to regain my elegant composure.

I gave my name to the front desk receptionist and then turned around to locate a place to sit.  One couch was totally unoccupied so I casually strolled over to it, about to take a quiet seat.  Sadly, my ass did not make the most dignified contact.  The couch was much more overly-stuffed than I realized and as I went to sit down I surprised myself, and the other people in the waiting room, by practically falling into the sofa with an audible thunk.  I tried to blithely scoot myself into a better position, but with every movement, the couch groaned under my weight. 

When at last I was seated, I remembered that at this appointment I was to have chosen a prenatal vitamin.   I began pulling out sample box after sample box from my shopping bag, dropping a few loudly in the floor,  and fumbling for the one I had selected.

Finally, I was checked in, seated, with chosen vitamin brand tightly in my hand, and just waiting to be called.  As I began to berate myself for lacking any level of sophistication, my ear happened upon the conversation of the two people to my left.  It appeared to be an elderly woman and either her son or just a male friend waiting with her.  He was reading her stories from a magazine and explaining whom the people were.

“Now he had posed naked with just his medals on.  Just his medals.  And they say now she is going to do the same thing, just pose naked with nothing but medals on,” he gushed.  The older woman just stared ahead of her with a small smile on her lips.  I think she muttered something to him, but then he went on.

“Now she’s famous for making a sex tape with some guy, but that’s about it,” he said looking back down at the magazine. 

I looked around to see if I could find the hidden camera for some reality or game show.  I couldn’t believe this guy was filling his elderly friend in on all this celebrity gossip about people she might have never even heard of, let alone cared about.  But she seemed content and interested enough that he kept going, and I just chuckled to myself, realizing something.

I may never possess the elegant dignity of old Hollywood movie stars, but I hope I never lose my ability to find humor in the most unexpected places, however bizarre and tasteless, because that’s the person I truly am.  And I hope my friends, family, and yes, kids, will love me for that, especially when they are reading to me years from now about the space orgy that Justin Bieber, Jr. was busted for.

5 Junk Pop Songs that Need to Die

Ok, ok, so I know I hoodwinked you all a few weeks ago but this time I’d like to talk about the truly major event that happened recently that has changed my life.  It’s been a bit of an adjustment, what with losing some of my old favorites. 

Joe says I’ll get used to it, but of course he has to say that since it’s his fault we’re in this situation.  I think all along he was just excited to finally cut the cord.

Yes, you guessed it.  I’m finally talking about us cutting off cable TV.  Talk about significant life adjustments!

But seriously folks, I know people out there might be waiting for a Baby-Bott-Blog post, but to be truthful, I haven’t been able to find a well-rounded or genuinely humorous story to wrap it around.   Have no fear, however, as I return to the doctor’s office after my birthday and hopefully I’ll have a good story to tell.

Instead, I’d like to discuss something else that has been eating at me for the past few weeks…crappy contemporary music!

“Music”. Psh.  That’s like calling a trash bag something pretty, like a receptacle sack or a refuse satchet- a nice way to label something that’s basically just a lot of garbage.

Too harsh?  Well, you wouldn’t be saying that if you were confined to a space and forced to listen to the same damn eight songs on repeat.  There is an epidemic of bad junk pop music out there and I know I am setting myself up for an “Old Fart” brandishing, but after listening to these songs over and over again, I've had time to really assess the ass-yness of these songs.  Hear me out. 

Lately, I have been working a lot of evenings at my job to build up some overtime.  The long hours do suck, but they become downright painful when my coworkers insist on listening to this one radio station.  It calls itself “The Mix” and it’s quite appropriate considering every time I hear the music on it I want to stuff the radio into a blender.

I realize the reason everyone wants to listen to this music is mostly because it’s catchy.  And catchiness alone isn’t a bad thing.  Most of the music I love has some very pleasing hook or refrain that is accessible and easy to sing along to.  The difference here is substance and subtlety.  Substance being the craft that is required in constructing something musical and the subtlety of lyrics that are written in such a way that it evokes some level of emotion without needing to reach inside your throat to yank it out of you.   

These songs lack both, and for me, it becomes torturous to hear the cheap auto-tune or bland lyrics constantly repeated, night after night.  It needs to stop.  The bad junk music epidemic has to stop.

And these are the worst offenders…

(Editor’s note:  I realize that music is objective, and what is audible drivel to me might be a pleasurable experience to you.  However, I hope you will notice my tongue securely in my cheek as I rip these songs apart.  And if you don’t see the humor, and genuinely think these songs are AMAZING…well, we might need to reconsider our friendship).

1.)  Elle King, "Exes and Oh’s"

This song aggravates the hell out of me.  It is a prime example of this over-inflated ego that this generation has been accused of having.  I’m all for “owning your sensuality” and what not, but I wouldn’t think banging a bunch of guys all over the world is exactly admirable.  And I might be willing to forgive that if the song was decent.  It’s not.  Her voice is whiny and crackled, almost as if she was trying to channel Janis Joplin, but whereas Joplin sang without a hint of pretention, King comes off as bloviating.

2.)  Taylor Swift, “Wildest Dreams”

This is the only credit I will give Taylor Swift- she actually plays an instrument.  That alone is pretty remarkable in this day and age.  But this song needs to die for two reasons. Ah. Haa.  The girl just breathes and calls that a line in a song.  That’s not a line!  That’s an involuntary biological response!  You wanna be experimental with sounds like that?  Jump back to the 90s and go on tour with Bobby McFerrin and Michael Winslow.

3.)  Charlie Puth, “One Call Away”

Boring, boring boring.  This song comes on and I really want to rip my ear drums out.  It’s just the same old idea of “always being there for ya! Yay!” that a lot of songs employ.  And sometimes I hear lyrics so dumb it makes me nauseous.  “Superman’s got nothing on me?”  What the hell does that even mean?  Does Superman take house calls?  I don’t think they ever broached that on Smallville OR Lois and Clark.  Charlie Puth, maybe you should count your blessings with this one and just disconnect your phone.

4.)  Katy Perry, “Teenage Dream”

This song sucks for so many reasons, but in particular because it doesn’t send the best message to girls supposedly in love with their high school boyfriends.  Yes ladies, drop those panties and go all the way tonight, no regrets!  Or STDs.  Or prom night “accidents”.  Just love! Awww.  And then we can run away together because I know in my wise fifteen-year old heart that there will never possibly be another man I could ever want or love more than you, Billy.  Because we'll be young forever....

5.)  DNCE, “Cake by the Ocean”

Ugh. This song is so factory-direct, the MP3 probably comes with the tags still on it.  Such uninspired and self-important, corporate-generated bullshit, it is so obnoxious to listen to.  You can just imagine the executives sitting behind a solid black desk with one guy standing in front of a chart that reads “These Words Are Good.”

“So, what do kids today like, Johnson?” the well-dressed boss says with a cigar at his lips.

“Well, sir, they like cake, the ocean, living dangerously and going crazy.”

“Brilliant!  Build a song and get some young guys with annoyingly high falsettos to sing it.  Oh and make sure there is a chorus where they say ‘yeah’ a lot.  Kids like to all agree to the same thing.”

And what’s with all the pushiness?  I hate any song that is so damn pushy.  “Why you walking so seriously?  Let’s live dangerously.  Go crazy crazy!” God, enough already.  I’m leaving alright?     

Ok, now that I’ve gotten all that out of my system, let’s hear you slam back.  Defend your honor (if you can or care to) or let me hear the songs of today that make you want to yank your own teeth out.  Let's stop the madness.  

Dishonorable Mentions: 

Justin Bieber, “Love Yourself”.  Adele, “Hello”. 

Path Finder

Several times at work today, I found myself sitting at my desk hands clasped in front of me, my eyes staring blankly forward, and my shoulders hunched over.  I would attempt to summon energy and interest, glancing back to the pile of invoices waiting to be processed or dozens of bundled coins waiting to be identified, and just sigh instead.  It was as if my entire body was on strike, refusing to do these tasks. 

Sure, part of it was just laziness.  I’m sure another part of it was just the typical mid-week doldrums that we all go through until that blessed Friday rolls around.  But the bigger part, the more powerful part, was that physically, emotionally, and mentally, I was immobile.  It felt like I had a transplanted organ that my body was rejecting.  I just couldn’t do it anymore.

In an attempt to refuel my energy, I let my mind wander over to my mental “Blog Vault” and began thumbing through ideas to write about for tonight.  Suddenly, one emerged from the shadows and came abruptly forward.  It was a story I had been meaning to write for ages but other ideas kept popping up in it’s place.  And it was especially significant since it relates precisely to the mood I was in all day.

About a year ago, I received a note at work requesting my presence for “business luncheon” with the head of the company and the COO.  Initially, I panicked.  What did they want to see ME about?  I wondered.  I asked my supervisor about it and she directed me to another coworker who had been invited to the same luncheon some time before that.  I drilled her with questions. 

“Is it just me and the two head honchos?  What do they ask?  How long does it take?” I asked fervently.

She reassured me that it was no big deal. 

“You just sit in there with about six other colleagues and discuss how you found this job and how you like it.  It’s not bad.  And they pay for the lunch,” she smiled. 

Ok, so maybe it won’t be so bad.  A free lunch is nice.  But you know what they say….there’s no such thing as a “free lunch”.

Along with the terror if being put on the spot with questions, I now had to figure out what to order for this lunch.  I was given the menu and began scanning it for something that looked appealing.  I figured most people were going to order something simple and cold, like a salad or sandwich.  Since I’m not a huge fan of either of those, my eye happened upon something called a Seafood Burrito.  It sounded good enough, so I checked it off and handed it back to my HR person before I could think about it anymore.

When the day arrived, my stomach was in knots.  Even though I knew that I wouldn’t be alone, I still felt like I was entering a pressure-cooker.  I walked into the elegant conference room and sat down, being joined one by one by both familiar and unfamiliar faces.  The owner and the COO had not come yet, so we all sat there, quietly fiddling with our clothes or looking around absently.  I began cracking a few jokes, as I often do in uncomfortable situations, and even got a few laughs before the two finally joined us as well.  Then we all fell deadly silent.

The COO came in first, greeting us all warmly and trying to break the ice.  She began passing out the labeled Styrofoam containers.  As each one was opened, a simple uncomplicated salad or sandwich was revealed.  As I opened mine, I was assaulted.  Or should I say, a-salted.  The pungent smell of spicy seafood immediately overtook my senses and I worried it was going to drift into the nose of every person in the room.  I thought about closing the lid and faking a stomach cramp, but I was afraid I would draw more attention by not eating.  So, despite my tangled nerves, when the head of the company finally entered and sat down, encouraging us to eat, I took a few polite bites and swallowed hard.

After we had all had a few moments to eat, the two heads began to explain the purpose of this meeting and what they hoped to accomplish with us.  I nodded along, my mouth full of shrimp and rice that I willed to enter my stomach without issue.  Then they asked us to go around introducing ourselves and telling them how we each happened upon this job.  They began on the other side of the table, which I hoped would give me ample amount of time to come up with a respectable answer. 

The truth was that my stomach wasn’t just churning because of being in such close proximity to my big bosses or the food poisoning I might be receiving from a tainted fish burrito.  It was because I knew deep down how I wanted to answer that question.

“Why am I here?  I am here because I was foolish enough to believe my degree in English would be broad enough to land me a job anywhere and that at any moment I would easily find the jobs that would lead me down a successful and happy career path.  Instead, after floundering for years by sending out resumes to countless faceless companies, but only offered job interviews for jobs I wasn’t interested in or was over-qualified for, I accepted any position that would just pay my bills, promising myself that someday I would get back on the path I was meant to be on.  But as time continued to roll on, and the workday became longer and more numbing, I found myself so strayed from my path that it had become overgrown and lost to me. 

I’m here because I threw my hands up and accepted mundaneness instead of profundity.  I’m here because I had finally convinced myself that that path was just a mirage anyway, that it wouldn’t have made me happy, and that maybe this was the way I was meant to go.  Because surely if I was meant to go a different way, the path would have revealed itself by now.

But more importantly and truthfully, I’m here because I wasn’t brave.  Because I didn’t want to give myself a chance, because I feared making a mistake, and because I didn’t think I deserved anything more.  And now I am so mired in the muck of my indecision that I fear it will eventually overtake me and all that will be left will be a single tear in my blank face that said to the world I wanted more.  I could’ve had more.  Done more.  Been more.  If only I tried.”

I had just finished my inner monologue when suddenly the focus had fallen on me.  It was my turn.

“I’m here because I thought it might be a great opportunity to foster my love of history as it pertains to a practical form of art that we all tend to take for granted because it’s so often nestled in our wallets or purses.  I hope to learn all I can, and what I’ve learned so far is an interesting insight into the ideals that make the countries around the world so unique,” I replied as if I were on a job interview or competing for Miss America.  My answer satisfied my boss enough so that he could move onto the next victim, and I just breathed a sigh of relief.

I thought back to that luncheon today, recalling the sour feeling in my stomach brought on by the realization that I was once again doing something I didn’t care about and unsure as to how to release myself from the constraints I bound myself in.  I stared down at the work laid in front of me, sighing once again with frustration.  It was months later and I was still in the same spot.  Stuck. 

Something has to change.  I have to change- especially because it’s not just about me anymore.  I owe it to my family and loved ones to find a way to be happy.  It’s time to get the weed-whacker out and dig up that path before another year rolls over and I sink deeper still into my professional quagmire.  I guess that’s the one bright spot of that memory.  It forced me to face my reality and encourages me to make changes to my life.  

And I think I’ll start by swearing off fish burritos.