So GB is a middle child. And my awesome cousin, KJ is a middle child... and they've had surprisingly similar childhood challenges. GB is convinced that this simply IS the middle child experience, and everybody should stop ignoring that fact-- the same way they ignore the middle child, dammmit. And he may have a point.
The oldest is the first one, and usually gets extra special everything, until the next child comes along anyway. More photos get taken of that child, more new clothing and "just for you" toys get purchased... But the second child usually gets the hand-me-downs. And any harsh rules generated by the first child's escapades. Then the third child comes along. The baby of the family.
I don't think this is always the case-- and I know the dynamics in four and five-child households are quite different... but it's been an interesting comparison to make. Especially in light of the number of my friends who are suddenly pregnant or trying to GET pregnant. I tell you, I've switched to bottled water just to be safe.
Saturday, July 11
Monday, July 6
Bang Bang Bang
There has been on-and-off construction on the house next door, and specifically on the roof-patio that looks into my bedroom windows, since I moved in. And apparently, for two years prior to that as well. Now that house, and the one on the other side (ten feet to the right, if you include the upstairs hallway) both have little 2-year-old boys living in them. Bang Bang Bang.
Actually, I was originally going to call this post "In With A Bang," and then I was going to talk all about the Fourth of July, and the total lack of relationship between today's fireworks parties and any sort of leftover patriogtism about the colonists's war with the British. Except, of course, for the fact that everyone was probably drunk and stogned at the signing of the Declaration of Independence (History Channel), and so were most of the fireworks partiers we encountered on Saturday. But seeing as how this is already the 6th, what happened two days and over two hundred years ago... Well it just seems like old news.
SO... to sum up... Humperdink gonna marry Buttercup in a littlelessan khalph-an-hour. And GB and I went downtown and watched the big fireworks display from the bridge, with 50,000 of our closest friends. It was very cool. Bang Bang Bang.
And then the insurance claims dude came to look at GB's bike this morning, and declared it totaled. Which shocked the hell out of everyone, because there's basically some scratching, a dent in the gas tank, and maybe the handlebars are bent crooked, and some lights and a mirror snapped off... but other than that, she was just fine! Wait... when you put it like that... there doesn't seem to be much left undamaged besides the engine. Huh.
Anyway, GB first introduced me to his motorcycle soon after we started dating. "Innt she beauuuuutiful??" So for him to think of trashing her for the insurance money... well, I suspect it feels a bit like a cold-blooded murder. So as soon as the insurance claims dude left, GB called me up, totally upset that the most logical option seems to be agreeing that his baby is totaled, and letting the cold-hearted insurance robots drag her away. Because the truth is that he was just planning to fix her up and sell her anyway. But going against all his carefully organized manly reasoning and well-thought-out acknowledgment of the financial reality, he just doesn't FEEL LOGICAL about it. And in the background, I could hear his fist on the desk... Bang Bang Bang.
There were three other serious examples of "bang bang bang" in my world today, but one was the sound of my head hitting my desk, one is the way Abbigale's sneezes keep getting louder and closer together, and the other was this new and bizarre "Rule of Three" that the nurse practitioner told me about at Planned Parenthood. Somebody should have told me that a long time ago, thank you very much. And honestly, I just don't want to talk about any of them at the moment. Sorry. Bang Bang Bang.
Actually, I was originally going to call this post "In With A Bang," and then I was going to talk all about the Fourth of July, and the total lack of relationship between today's fireworks parties and any sort of leftover patriogtism about the colonists's war with the British. Except, of course, for the fact that everyone was probably drunk and stogned at the signing of the Declaration of Independence (History Channel), and so were most of the fireworks partiers we encountered on Saturday. But seeing as how this is already the 6th, what happened two days and over two hundred years ago... Well it just seems like old news.
SO... to sum up... Humperdink gonna marry Buttercup in a littlelessan khalph-an-hour. And GB and I went downtown and watched the big fireworks display from the bridge, with 50,000 of our closest friends. It was very cool. Bang Bang Bang.
And then the insurance claims dude came to look at GB's bike this morning, and declared it totaled. Which shocked the hell out of everyone, because there's basically some scratching, a dent in the gas tank, and maybe the handlebars are bent crooked, and some lights and a mirror snapped off... but other than that, she was just fine! Wait... when you put it like that... there doesn't seem to be much left undamaged besides the engine. Huh.
Anyway, GB first introduced me to his motorcycle soon after we started dating. "Innt she beauuuuutiful??" So for him to think of trashing her for the insurance money... well, I suspect it feels a bit like a cold-blooded murder. So as soon as the insurance claims dude left, GB called me up, totally upset that the most logical option seems to be agreeing that his baby is totaled, and letting the cold-hearted insurance robots drag her away. Because the truth is that he was just planning to fix her up and sell her anyway. But going against all his carefully organized manly reasoning and well-thought-out acknowledgment of the financial reality, he just doesn't FEEL LOGICAL about it. And in the background, I could hear his fist on the desk... Bang Bang Bang.
There were three other serious examples of "bang bang bang" in my world today, but one was the sound of my head hitting my desk, one is the way Abbigale's sneezes keep getting louder and closer together, and the other was this new and bizarre "Rule of Three" that the nurse practitioner told me about at Planned Parenthood. Somebody should have told me that a long time ago, thank you very much. And honestly, I just don't want to talk about any of them at the moment. Sorry. Bang Bang Bang.
Saturday, July 4
Smack me Gently
So GB and I decided we'd be sneaky and avoid yesterday's blistering heat by driving to the Gorge and going for a hike by the waterfalls, in the shade. Of course, when we got there, we realized that everyone else had the same idea, only earlier in the day, so there were no parking places left.
Now, I'd spent a whole 8 hours the previous day in a hot little office with buzzing flies, no a/c, and a terrible lot of accounts that needed settling. And then I worked on job applications until midnight, when a girl supposedly got abducted just below my bedroom window (or saved from her drunk-ass self-- in this neighborhood, it could go either way, or it could be one of the local crazy men-- the one who likes to ride his bike and sing in falsetto at the top of his lungs, for example).
Anyway, there was frantic screaming of "don't touch me, you hurt me" followed by the slam of a car door, an engine driving away, and then silence. And apparently, I'm the only person in the whole freaking neighborhood who didn't have a functional fan that night and/or wasn't drunk out of their skull, so nobody else I've asked had heard the woman scream. At 1am, a neighbor lady I know went into her back yard, sang a little ditty about the cat and the fiddle, and then went back inside. I think that's what finally let me sleep. The neighborlady singing happily to herself in her garden after midnight on a Thursday.
And then I woke up freaking early because my cat had a sneezing fit all over my toes. So I was pretty darn grumpy by the time GB and I had stood in line for biscuits and bacon (for over an hour), sat on the increasingly hot front porch to EAT the biscuits (mine had applebutter, mmmm), drove to the Gorge, and then realized that neither of us knew what already-full parking lot area was the one for the hike we'd decided to take. (I love that my roommate not only KNOWS all the hikes in the entire pacific nw, but has books showing you what they look like and how long/strenuous they are, too!!) So I snapped at him a few times in the process of parking SOMEWHERE THAT MIGHT BE WHERE WE WERE GOING, and felt awful (but still grumpy) when he got really small and quiet on his side of the car.
But as soon as he'd loaded my sandals and my water and my other water and my purse and my emergency pack that looks like another purse into his backpack, and we were actually hiking, in a breeze, toward waterfalls-- I was able to shed my grumpy, and GB started talking to me and smiling again. And when we got to the part where the bridge was washed out and you had to scramble down where no path is or was, and then leapfrog across if you didn't want to get your hiking shoes soaked, and then scramble up again on the other side...
He totally stopped, scouted our chosen descent for poison oak (he thinks he might be immune at this point, but isn't going to test the theory and also REALLY didn't want me to suffer with it), and then also checked the whole potential crossing to make sure he wasn't asking me to do something too risky and uncomfortable. He went first, and tested each step, and warned me when a rock was tippy, and watched to make sure I got past that rock okay. And then when I had trouble with one of the actual leaps in the path he found across (as opposed to a long step from big flat rock to another rock), he held my hand and made sure I landed okay on the other side. Totally without making me feel like a wimp or a loser.
It's been a long time since I've had a guy take such good care of me. Like, maybe the last time was my dad when I was little. And GB wasn't trying to impress me or anything-- he's just that much of a considerate sweetie. I felt so cared about, and having him support me all the way down and across really built my trust for him. Like-- I felt it start to grow in a waivery uncertain way that told me really clearly how long it's been since I felt like it was safe to put my well-being in someone else's hands. The ex usually got me into a situation, and then ran on ahead impatiently while I struggled with fear, slippery rocks, and much shorter legs all by myself, mid-stream.
Total brownie points for the boy, and he didn't even know he was being awesome. Then we wandered upstream, past all the people sitting in the water to cool off, and found our way out to a big flat boulder in the middle of the river. It was a wonderfully cool, shady place to sit for a few minutes and talk about how we want one of these rivers-- for natural air conditioning purposes, as well as aesthetic value-- in our back yard someday.
Of course, once we'd survived the way-too-hot 2-mile hike back up and down and up and down to the ovencar, made our way home, showered off all the sweat and blisters from the hike, and were actually starting to FEEL the a/c in the room-- he smacked my ass so hard it left a red spot, which totally made him giggle every time I glared at him for the rest of the evening. I will never understand this man.
Now, I'd spent a whole 8 hours the previous day in a hot little office with buzzing flies, no a/c, and a terrible lot of accounts that needed settling. And then I worked on job applications until midnight, when a girl supposedly got abducted just below my bedroom window (or saved from her drunk-ass self-- in this neighborhood, it could go either way, or it could be one of the local crazy men-- the one who likes to ride his bike and sing in falsetto at the top of his lungs, for example).
Anyway, there was frantic screaming of "don't touch me, you hurt me" followed by the slam of a car door, an engine driving away, and then silence. And apparently, I'm the only person in the whole freaking neighborhood who didn't have a functional fan that night and/or wasn't drunk out of their skull, so nobody else I've asked had heard the woman scream. At 1am, a neighbor lady I know went into her back yard, sang a little ditty about the cat and the fiddle, and then went back inside. I think that's what finally let me sleep. The neighborlady singing happily to herself in her garden after midnight on a Thursday.
And then I woke up freaking early because my cat had a sneezing fit all over my toes. So I was pretty darn grumpy by the time GB and I had stood in line for biscuits and bacon (for over an hour), sat on the increasingly hot front porch to EAT the biscuits (mine had applebutter, mmmm), drove to the Gorge, and then realized that neither of us knew what already-full parking lot area was the one for the hike we'd decided to take. (I love that my roommate not only KNOWS all the hikes in the entire pacific nw, but has books showing you what they look like and how long/strenuous they are, too!!) So I snapped at him a few times in the process of parking SOMEWHERE THAT MIGHT BE WHERE WE WERE GOING, and felt awful (but still grumpy) when he got really small and quiet on his side of the car.
But as soon as he'd loaded my sandals and my water and my other water and my purse and my emergency pack that looks like another purse into his backpack, and we were actually hiking, in a breeze, toward waterfalls-- I was able to shed my grumpy, and GB started talking to me and smiling again. And when we got to the part where the bridge was washed out and you had to scramble down where no path is or was, and then leapfrog across if you didn't want to get your hiking shoes soaked, and then scramble up again on the other side...
He totally stopped, scouted our chosen descent for poison oak (he thinks he might be immune at this point, but isn't going to test the theory and also REALLY didn't want me to suffer with it), and then also checked the whole potential crossing to make sure he wasn't asking me to do something too risky and uncomfortable. He went first, and tested each step, and warned me when a rock was tippy, and watched to make sure I got past that rock okay. And then when I had trouble with one of the actual leaps in the path he found across (as opposed to a long step from big flat rock to another rock), he held my hand and made sure I landed okay on the other side. Totally without making me feel like a wimp or a loser.
It's been a long time since I've had a guy take such good care of me. Like, maybe the last time was my dad when I was little. And GB wasn't trying to impress me or anything-- he's just that much of a considerate sweetie. I felt so cared about, and having him support me all the way down and across really built my trust for him. Like-- I felt it start to grow in a waivery uncertain way that told me really clearly how long it's been since I felt like it was safe to put my well-being in someone else's hands. The ex usually got me into a situation, and then ran on ahead impatiently while I struggled with fear, slippery rocks, and much shorter legs all by myself, mid-stream.
Total brownie points for the boy, and he didn't even know he was being awesome. Then we wandered upstream, past all the people sitting in the water to cool off, and found our way out to a big flat boulder in the middle of the river. It was a wonderfully cool, shady place to sit for a few minutes and talk about how we want one of these rivers-- for natural air conditioning purposes, as well as aesthetic value-- in our back yard someday.
Of course, once we'd survived the way-too-hot 2-mile hike back up and down and up and down to the ovencar, made our way home, showered off all the sweat and blisters from the hike, and were actually starting to FEEL the a/c in the room-- he smacked my ass so hard it left a red spot, which totally made him giggle every time I glared at him for the rest of the evening. I will never understand this man.
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