Zesty Enterprise » Whinging

First world whinging about my couch

Jenny — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 21:40:19 +0000

So, when we moved into our first house in 2005, we bought some great, brown, leather couches. But did you know about this? Unless a couch costs like thousands, it is most likely not ALL leather. The part you sit on is leather, the arms, and the part you lean against, but then the sides of the cushions and the back are all pleather. Same in your car. Anyway, the pleather parts of our sofa and loveseat have started to peel and SB has taken to referring to them as “our crack den couches”. It’s a big bummer, because they are otherwise super comfortable and quality.

Over the weekend, SB’s mom decided she wanted to get rid of a couch she bought about a year ago. It’s brown and non-offensive so we figured why not? It’s free, it will look better than what we have, and it’ll last for a while until we can buy what we want.

So we borrowed my dad’s truck and made two trips hauling The Biggest Couch in America to our house.

And this isn’t all of it. There’s another sectional piece and two kitchen table sized ottomans, of which we kept one ottoman, not pictured.

Right off, I’m not a fan of the stack of pillows. But it looks nice, right? I can put up with it, I thought.

But then we sat down on it, and you guys? IT’S SO UNCOMFORTABLE. You wouldn’t think so, right? But oh man. It’s a piece of crap. Just not good quality. It’s broken-down and slanty like it’s 10 years old or something. May I remind you that our old couches were super comfortable, sturdy, and well made?

And we’re stuck with it. And I can’t get anyone on freecycle to take the old ones. And of course, there’s this:

I know we’ll get something new at some point, and when we do, it’d be awesome if I could push a button somewhere and get a report delivered in a tuneless computery sing-song, “You have spent FIVE days, SEVENTEEN hours and THRITY-SEVEN minutes of your life straightening these pillows. You have spent THREE days TWENTY-TWO hours and ELEVEN minutes of your life picking lint off these cushions.”

She works hard for her money, doot doot, doot doot

Jenny — Fri, 28 May 2010 22:54:24 +0000

Hello friends! As I mentioned in my goal post, I’m working full time again. This is, understandably, a big transition for our family, since I’ve been off work since I was 8 months pregnant. All that time, I was Clark’s main care taker, I kept groceries in the fridge and the house mostly tidy, and now, all that is no longer true.

I am not Clark’s main care taker.
I do not do the grocery shopping.
There has been a pile of laundry on my couch since Monday.

I don’t want to get too bogged down in how SAD I am about this. There are definitely some good things, which I’ll get to. But I’m seeing Clark an average of an hour and a half per day and it’s KILLING me. Kill. Ling. Me. He’s being raised by his village at the moment, not his mama. I leave the house at 6:30am and I get home at 6:30pm, and he goes to bed at 8.

SB and I are both IT contract workers and there was about a month there where neither of us were working. I’m glad to be contributing financially to our household again. I was basically offered my old job back and we were not in a position to turn that down, no matter how much I’d rather make a better quality of life or mothering decision. So, a paycheck! A paycheck is good.

Good things list:
1. The aforementioned paycheck
2. Getting dressed and showering and whatnot every day
3. My commute is terrible, (2 hours each way) but I’m now taking a train and a bus instead of driving, and as I’m a big dork for public transit, that’s kind of cool.
4. I enjoy getting to eat ample snacks and a proper lunch every day, which hardly ever happened as a mom.
5. Workplace’s kitchen. All the freshly brewed quality coffee and sparkling water I can drink.
6. I like my boss and my coworkers a lot.
7. It’s nice to use my brain again.

I’m hoping that this is just a difficult transition period and that we will all be fine. I know I’m not the only working parent in the world, and the fact is, I got to stay home with my baby MUCH longer than most. This contract will be 6 months to a year, so this isn’t forever. And I know already that I’m never doing this again. I’ll just have to find something closer to home next time, and take the pay cut. Any advice from the mamas among you would be appreciated!

A lesson in seat saving.

Jenny — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 21:47:39 +0000

Last night, I went to a photographer’s meeting to hear some famous dude speak. I always feel a little like a poser at these things, like I’m not QUITE cool enough to be there. So when I found the meeting room at the hotel where it was held, I took a deep breath, activated Ginger, and strode confidently into the room. I glanced about for any open seats and found one in the middle of the 4th row. Other seats nearby had coats and notebooks or humans guarding them, but not this one. I sat down, got comfortable, then heard my name called from behind me. Oh! A friend from a Me Ra Koh workshop! Hooray! I began chit chatting, starting to feel a little more comfortable, when I heard all of a sudden, in a snippy tone I might add, “That seat’s taken.”

Here’s where the lesson in seat saving begins. When I am queen of the universe, the rules will be like so: You cannot save a seat with air. A coat will do, even a pen. If you’re at a bar, you must leave something on the seat, or put your coaster over your beer. You must leave SOME INDICATION that you plan to return. Alternatively, a person may save as many seats as she likes, if she’s there guarding them, and she tells you BEFORE YOU SIT DOWN that the seat is saved. Those are the rules.

If, for some reason, one has followed all the above rules and still someone has sat in one of the “saved” seats, it is on the saver to phrase their request in a way that allows the sitter to be the nice one. For instance, “Excuse me? My friend was sitting there. He just got up for a second…” This, or something similar, should be said while making apologetic facial expressions or hand gestures. This will allow the sitter to smile and say, “Oh, okay, no problem,” and feel good about what a nice person they are as they search for another seat.

But when someone declares, IN A SNIPPY TONE I might add, that your seat is somehow taken by proprietary air molecules, all I wanna do is say, That’s right, bitch! BY ME.

Seriously. This is something that has always bugged me that I find it impossible to be zen about. Line cutters? I’m fine with it. Bad driving related lameness? No problem. But this, “that seat is saved” business is more than I can breathe through.

Shameful Vanity

Jenny — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 04:04:09 +0000

I used to have a collection on my fridge of pictures I’d cut out of Us Weekly of moms who looked good. It had to be a papparazi picture, not an event they were all dolled up for. More like, Michelle Williams caught at Starbucks, sporting a cute ensem with Matilda in tow. Or Gwynnie lunching with Kate Capshaw, well-coifed, with little Moses chewing on her keys nearby. I collected shots of put together moms for inspiration. When *I* had a baby, I was going to be put together, too. If the gods were on my side, I would manage not to gain a ton of weight when I was pregnant, and then I would continue to wear fashionable clothes. To the stars I turned for inspiration. I would be just like them.

Ha. HA HA HA.

Here’s where the whining starts. If you’re not in the mood for vane, pathetic ramblings, please just move along and come back another day. I’m ashamed. Really. But I just gotta say, there’s almost no way to avoid getting a big ole Mom Butt.

I worked out every day of my pregnancy once the puking stopped. I walked a half marathon at 30 weeks. I did an hour on the treadmill the day before Clark was born. I ate healthily, indulged occasionally, and I gained exactly what the charts say you should, 27lbs.

[Disclaimer: PLEASE OH PLEASE understand that I have so much love for the pregnant woman, so much awe in that miracle. I in NO WAY mean to place a value judgement on my weight, nor do I have any judgement when it comes to the pregnancy weight gain of others. We are all Unique Birthing Snowflakes and this is all just related to my own personal, body image, crazy cocktail, you know?]

I thought I was HOME FREE. Like, phew! Dodged that bullet! Am still hot!

Ha. HA HA HA HA.

I had no idea that the real period of ass expansion occurs when it’s suddenly Really Hard to get to the gym. When the breastfeeding makes you VORACIOUS and if you don’t eat something R.F.N you will fall over and die. The first thing in sight is rarely a salad. This is all fairly obvious, but dude. I’m shocked.

Then there’s the whole stupid and unhealthy ‘food as reward’ thing I got going on. More specifically, I don’t get to indulge in the ways I used to, I don’t leave the house (or the living room, even) that often, so the day’s excitement really is Dinner. Or Dessert.

**SIGH.**flop limply on sofa**ponder the injustice of the universe**

So, I’m trying to make the healthy choice, do my 30 Day Shred as often as possible, and remind myself how fortunate I am to have the luxury of whining about my ass. It’s still early, right? In the meantime, I’ll just try to focus on loving my awesome, child-bearing, milk-producing body, and also, try to channel Miss Holloway.

NOOOOOOOOO!

Jenny — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 22:57:03 +0000

You’ve GOT to be fucking kidding me. SB is not going to be pleased.

Wah!

Jenny — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 05:58:46 +0000

I seem to be experiencing a bit of pre-partum depression. (I don’t think that actually exists. I just made that up.) I feel like tears are on the verge of brimming at all times.

Things I have cried about in the last week:

- The chiropractor not accepting my health insurance. (Yes, this was a bummer, but I found a different one who did. I cried because I felt REJECTED.)

- The involuntary yelp of pain I made when attempting to step over the edge of the tub the other day, which led to tears of woe at how I will never be able to handle labor.

- Running out of orange juice.

- Running out of sparkly water.

- Dog hair tumbleweeds.

- The fact that right now, I can’t remember all of the myriad un-tear-worthy things I have cried over lately.

Anyway, just wanted to let y’all know that I am in fact alive, just super weepy. This weekend holds blog worthy events, so hopefully, less whinge-y posts are on the horizon.

Weekend this and that

Jenny — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 17:58:23 +0000

We saw two really good movies this weekend, one at the theater and one courtesy of Netflix. On friday, we saw Tell No One at the Grand. It is a French thriller and SO GOOD! The twists! The turns! The beautiful French people and their lovely language! It was totally worth reading for two hours. The other movie was Death at a Funeral, a hilarious little Brittish romp, that was just delightful. Those Brits. Everything is funnier in a Brittish accent, I’m convinced.

On Saturday night, we attended the 30th birthday party of one of my bestest friends. I hate myself, but GAH! I was such a grumpy stick in the mud. I guess I was just in a bad space and should have kept myself away from others. I wasn’t happy with my outfit. I wanted to drink fun cocktails like everyone else. I tried to dance but I just wasn’t into it. I felt old and stiff and unattractive. We ended up leaving at 11. I just felt SO LAME. Yuck. I’ve been trying to shake this off, with minimal success. I did a lot of bitching about pregnancy, and after I just told you it’s been good lately. I felt like it was some sort of weird internal identity clash or something. My fun, party-girl self, fighting with my matronly old mom new self. Blech.

And finally, SB and I tried Upper Crust Pizza on N. 21st on Sunday night and it was REALLY good. I had a totally amazing salad and a calzone that was simply beautiful. Really, the food was remarkably good. It took them a long time to make, but it tasted like it, too. Aside from a few questionable decorating choices, I give them an enthusiastic thumbs up. I happily wrapped half my calzone in foil and eagerly anticipated eating it for lunch today.

But SB ate it last night after I went to bed. Who steals food from a pregnant woman? Food is our only remaining pleasure after all. He is going to be SORRY.

Hate you, Brangelina. Hate.

Jenny — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 16:22:56 +0000

Mother Fricking Fracking Brangelina stole my #1 girl name. I AM SO PISSED.

I can show you a baby name list from the mid 90′s with Vivian (without all those stoopid extra letters, BTW) on the top. I am finally with child and THEY RUINED IT!

SO. MAD.

**Edited, with futher whining:

The thing is, I grew up Jenny, and as God as my witness, my child will not suffer the same fate of always having to use their last initial, or having to have a nickname or worse, being referred to as “Big Jenny” or whatever. So. I agree that if I named my kid Vivian, only the most US Weekly obsessed of my friends and famliy would make a Brangelina connection. It’s not like it’s Suri. But it might make for a few other Vivians in her classes, because now it’s OUT THERE. I don’t plan to name my kid Moonbeam or anything like that, but before yesterday, Vivian was an officially uncommon name, and now it may not be.

sulk. pout. sigh.

Woe.

Jenny — Wed, 07 May 2008 03:50:02 +0000

On my way to a beautiful Sunday brunch up in Seattle at the Boat Street Cafe, I got rear-ended. In my formally perfect Prius. My less than 6 months old Prius. In my black, shiny, loved-too-much Prius.

But I’m fine. The other driver was fine. He had insurance. It’s just an accident. (if I keep repeating all this to myself, maybe I’ll stop crying…)

As with most things, there was some humor in the situation. This happened at the intersection of 1st and Pike, right in front of the Pike Place Market. I was stopped at the light, looking at all the tourists, admiring the flowers, congratulating myself for being on time, when SCREEEEEECH! CRASH! He plowed right into me.

We pulled over, exchanged all the info, the cop came, etc, etc. Then two funny things happenned.

1. the cop goes, “Oh, it’ll be fine. We’ll just get you an Obama sticker to slap over that.”

2. the guy that hit me had Oregon plates and was a tourist. In his limited English, after the exchange of insurance, the accident report and all, he asked me for directions to “the Space Tower.” He must have been admiring the market, too.

(These scratches go all the way across, and that’s part of the bumper dangling there at the bottom. Ouch.)

That’s right.

Jenny — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 16:42:21 +0000

I almost never write about work, because duh, I’m not stupid. But I think an email thread that recently went down can be presented in general enough terms. I summarize it briefly here:

team member #1: “I’m having problems with Big Complicated System! Wah! Jenny, please figure out what’s wrong, over email, with minimal details!”

team members 2-6: “Wah! Me too! Wah!”

Jenny: “Well, I’m no expert, but this has worked for me in the past. You need to blah blah blah.”

team member #1: “Oh, no! You don’t know what you’re talking about! That can’t be right.”

annoying, know-it-all, totally not involved team member #7: “He’s right. Let’s ask BigWigConnectionofJenny’s for help.”

Jenny: “Can we please try my solution before we go bugging BigWigConnectionofJenny’s?”

team member #3: “Good idea! I just forwarded him this thread.”

Jenny: (outside of email thread: Fuck!)

team member #1: “Jenny is dumb. That can’t be the way to do it.”

team members 2-6: “Yeah! She’s dumb! Wah! Wah!”

BigWigConnectionofJenny’s: “Jenny’s information in this thread is spot on. Unfortunately, we don’t have a debugger for Big Complicated System and can’t troubleshoot these issues very well. I recommend first trying the steps in the ‘Troubleshooting Tips’ located at….”

Ha ha, suckers! I confess to dorkily thrusting my fist in the air when my BigWigConnection weighed in. Jeez! People are so lame. Don’t you hate it when someone asks you for help and then insists your help is wrong?