I'm sorry its been so long since I wrote, but I've been in shock. I still can't believe it -- the bastards fired me!! I'll write again as soon as I can, but I'm going to go back to bed with Ben and Jerry right now.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
DAMN IT
Some day at the end of November
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Empty Sleeves for Arms
In addition to the sciatica and the inability to finish a multi-clause sentence without taking a bathroom break, I've developed a new symptom: dead arms. Now, my shoulders have been aching for weeks and I haven't complained. They hurt because I've been forced by the the pregnancy police to sleep on my side. (Wait, don't arrest me...I meant my left side.) But today I woke up and my arms were numb. I figured they were asleep (But both? What was I, doing barrel rolls?) but they are still tingly and numb. They're not quite dead, but feel worse than with your standard-issue pins and needles.
You know what it looks like when you slip a jacket over your shoulders, but don't put your arms into the sleeves? So when you make a turn to your right, the sleeves swing around after you and slap ineffectually at your back? Well that's what it feels like, walking around with pregnancy-induced dead arms.
You know what it looks like when you slip a jacket over your shoulders, but don't put your arms into the sleeves? So when you make a turn to your right, the sleeves swing around after you and slap ineffectually at your back? Well that's what it feels like, walking around with pregnancy-induced dead arms.
Friday, November 19, 2004
The Baby's in their Court
So I just faxed my proposed maternity leave over to my bosses. I compromised and asked for something between what I’d get in a small West-African nation and in Scandinavia. I requested 20 weeks off, with pay and a weekly Swedish massage, which seemed reasonable to me, especially after I learned that in Canada, not only can you take a year off, but the government sends a Lapp teenager around to your house every other week to prepare you well-balanced meals and shovel your driveway.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Maternity Leave
I’m home doing a little research before presenting my bosses with my proposal for maternity leave. The company is so new that I’m the first person to get knocked up and need to address the issue. The last place I worked, all you got was an office baby shower, a turtle cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory and a termination notice.
(Turtle cheesecake was to die for.)
((While you’re eating it, it almost compensates for the company’s lack of actual maternity leave. Of course the next day you’re up 2 pounds and jobless.))
Where was I? Oh yes; did you know that The United States is the only country in the Americas to pay women 0% of their wages during maternity leave? And that we also have the shortest leave duration? We are the maternal-leave misers of the free world; we are the temporal equivalent of that restaurant in the old Woody Allen joke with terrible food ‘and such small portions’. This really infuriates me; for such a so-called progressive nation we offer a leave package only marginally better than that of Papua New Guinea.
(Mothers in Papua New Guinea get 6 weeks, unpaid, to our 12. However, that nation is the #2 ‘Most Murderous’ in the world, having the second-highest murder rate per capita. Therefore, they are operating under a population deficit and are under considerable pressure to return people to the workforce as soon as possible. As such, our maternity leave policy still rates as one of the worst in the world. It is exactly the same policy the working mothers of Lesotho get.)
((Now before I get letters I want to be perfectly clear: I am proud to be an American and there are a myriad reasons why I would rather live here than in Lesotho, not the least of which is the fact that one cannot procure Stoneyfield Farms non-fat yogurt in Apricot Mango at ANY of the finer food shops in Lesotho. I know -- I googled it. Although there is a convenience store in Thaba-Tseka that says they’ll order it for me if I can wait 6 months.))
So I really love it here in America, but was startled to learn how badly we stack up against other countries in this respect. For instance, if I lived in Sweden, I’d not only be entitled to 96 weeks of maternity leave and get most of my salary throughout, but I’d bet I could get cute IKEA baby furniture without paying exorbitant shipping charges.
(Yup, my assistant Trevor just googled them and found I could get an adorable Blǚurka dresser and Stoole changing table shipped to my home for only 11 krona. Then again, I don’t know the exchange rate….Trevor?....so this may not be that much of a deal.)
(Turtle cheesecake was to die for.)
((While you’re eating it, it almost compensates for the company’s lack of actual maternity leave. Of course the next day you’re up 2 pounds and jobless.))
Where was I? Oh yes; did you know that The United States is the only country in the Americas to pay women 0% of their wages during maternity leave? And that we also have the shortest leave duration? We are the maternal-leave misers of the free world; we are the temporal equivalent of that restaurant in the old Woody Allen joke with terrible food ‘and such small portions’. This really infuriates me; for such a so-called progressive nation we offer a leave package only marginally better than that of Papua New Guinea.
(Mothers in Papua New Guinea get 6 weeks, unpaid, to our 12. However, that nation is the #2 ‘Most Murderous’ in the world, having the second-highest murder rate per capita. Therefore, they are operating under a population deficit and are under considerable pressure to return people to the workforce as soon as possible. As such, our maternity leave policy still rates as one of the worst in the world. It is exactly the same policy the working mothers of Lesotho get.)
((Now before I get letters I want to be perfectly clear: I am proud to be an American and there are a myriad reasons why I would rather live here than in Lesotho, not the least of which is the fact that one cannot procure Stoneyfield Farms non-fat yogurt in Apricot Mango at ANY of the finer food shops in Lesotho. I know -- I googled it. Although there is a convenience store in Thaba-Tseka that says they’ll order it for me if I can wait 6 months.))
So I really love it here in America, but was startled to learn how badly we stack up against other countries in this respect. For instance, if I lived in Sweden, I’d not only be entitled to 96 weeks of maternity leave and get most of my salary throughout, but I’d bet I could get cute IKEA baby furniture without paying exorbitant shipping charges.
(Yup, my assistant Trevor just googled them and found I could get an adorable Blǚurka dresser and Stoole changing table shipped to my home for only 11 krona. Then again, I don’t know the exchange rate….Trevor?....so this may not be that much of a deal.)
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
The Belly-rubber must die
11/17/04: 22 weeks, 3 days
Today I experienced a first: a woman in the supermarket tried to rub my belly.
I was waiting in line and reading about Reese Witherspoon’s annoying supermom-ish abilities in my favorite tabloid when she tried to cut in front of me (the stranger, not Reese Witherspoon)to purchase a bag of celery and a Lean Cuisine. Now this pissed me off for 2 reasons:
1) there is no emergency situation which would necessitate the purchase of a bag of celery and
2) I’m a pregnant woman who cannot spare her the extra minutes at this juncture because
I HAVE TO PEE.
If you need more convincing that this woman was taking up room on the planet that could be put to better use, here’s a bonus reason: she bought a stupid 3-point Lean Cuisine. For those who have never been on Weight Watchers, a 3-point Lean Cuisine has the lowest possible calorie total of any of the frozen boxed concoctions and pretty much consists of 3 BandAid-sized strips of compressed chicken thigh meat with faux-grill marks laid over a colorful, though flavorless mélange of frozen vegetables.
As compared to say a 5 or 6 point box, which although containing an equally hamster-sized portion, might actually be fortified by the decadent addition of overcooked pasta or non-fat cheese-food.
OK, so back to the check-out line. I told the woman, ever-so-gently, that I was a pregnant lady in need of a comfort station and that if she tried to cut in front of me I would not be accountable for what I did with the plastic grocery divider wand I was now brandishing like a light saber.
Somehow, she managed to reach out and rub my stomach without being hit by the grocery divider, but once I looked down to see her manicured nails caressing my bump through my Target maternity top (Liz Lange, stylish and reasonably priced) I think I blacked out.
I remember only the sharp sound of contact as I brought the plastic saber down on her skull.
I came to in the manager’s office, or rather, his wood-paneled cube on stilts. I cunningly got him to leave me alone for a moment by asking if I could lie down on the floor and practice my kegel exercises. Once I explained the concept, he could not have disappeared faster had a transporter room been involved.
It’s a lesson to be remembered: mention your ‘pelvic floor’ or the pithy phrase ‘clench the muscles you’d use to stop the flow of urine’ and you can instantly create a bubble of privacy.
Once alone, I got up and watched through the two-way mirror on the wall until the manager drifted away towards some shelf-stocking crisis or another and I made my hasty escape.
I am embarrased to say I don't know what happened to the woman. She very well may be dead, although I would like to point out that she does bear some responsibilty for the fate that befell her. Suffice it to say that there are a lot of hormones waging war in a pregnant woman's body, and they may seize control at any moment.
If you must approach us, use caution. So now you've been warned.
Today I experienced a first: a woman in the supermarket tried to rub my belly.
I was waiting in line and reading about Reese Witherspoon’s annoying supermom-ish abilities in my favorite tabloid when she tried to cut in front of me (the stranger, not Reese Witherspoon)to purchase a bag of celery and a Lean Cuisine. Now this pissed me off for 2 reasons:
1) there is no emergency situation which would necessitate the purchase of a bag of celery and
2) I’m a pregnant woman who cannot spare her the extra minutes at this juncture because
I HAVE TO PEE.
If you need more convincing that this woman was taking up room on the planet that could be put to better use, here’s a bonus reason: she bought a stupid 3-point Lean Cuisine. For those who have never been on Weight Watchers, a 3-point Lean Cuisine has the lowest possible calorie total of any of the frozen boxed concoctions and pretty much consists of 3 BandAid-sized strips of compressed chicken thigh meat with faux-grill marks laid over a colorful, though flavorless mélange of frozen vegetables.
As compared to say a 5 or 6 point box, which although containing an equally hamster-sized portion, might actually be fortified by the decadent addition of overcooked pasta or non-fat cheese-food.
OK, so back to the check-out line. I told the woman, ever-so-gently, that I was a pregnant lady in need of a comfort station and that if she tried to cut in front of me I would not be accountable for what I did with the plastic grocery divider wand I was now brandishing like a light saber.
Somehow, she managed to reach out and rub my stomach without being hit by the grocery divider, but once I looked down to see her manicured nails caressing my bump through my Target maternity top (Liz Lange, stylish and reasonably priced) I think I blacked out.
I remember only the sharp sound of contact as I brought the plastic saber down on her skull.
I came to in the manager’s office, or rather, his wood-paneled cube on stilts. I cunningly got him to leave me alone for a moment by asking if I could lie down on the floor and practice my kegel exercises. Once I explained the concept, he could not have disappeared faster had a transporter room been involved.
It’s a lesson to be remembered: mention your ‘pelvic floor’ or the pithy phrase ‘clench the muscles you’d use to stop the flow of urine’ and you can instantly create a bubble of privacy.
Once alone, I got up and watched through the two-way mirror on the wall until the manager drifted away towards some shelf-stocking crisis or another and I made my hasty escape.
I am embarrased to say I don't know what happened to the woman. She very well may be dead, although I would like to point out that she does bear some responsibilty for the fate that befell her. Suffice it to say that there are a lot of hormones waging war in a pregnant woman's body, and they may seize control at any moment.
If you must approach us, use caution. So now you've been warned.
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