Be nice.

Be nice. It's the missing commandment. In fact, I feel like "be nice" could easily replace some of the other commandments. I mean c'mon, "I shall not kill"? -- that's so obvious. But apparently, being nice is not so obvious. And, if I can't get people to be nice to me, in my current condition of pregnancy, who can we expect to be nice?
Today, I called my ob/gyn office. Which is actually a midwifery. They have a reputation of being overwhelmingly nurturing. However, when I called I was greeted with an immediate snippy attitude. I began, "Hi, my name is Tabitha, I called yesterday..." and was cut off by Claire who responded, "yes, and it is only 9:08 so I haven't gotten to that yet."
I took a deep breath.
"Thanks for letting me finish my sentence Claire!", I thought. How could I have even known who, if anyone, got my message yesterday. And why the hell does Claire need to immediately get defensive?
She continues, "This is a small office and we usually...". At this point I am barely listening. Mostly, I am trying to contain myself from telling her how rude I think she is. But, I have to go back there and endure more open legged humilating appointments. So, it seems prudent to just suck it up.
As I hung up, I couldn't help but think that maybe I should look for another doctor. I hate being up here and away from the doctor who I know and have trusted for so long. Now I am stuck with the damn midwifery and Claire.
My next call was to my Human Resources department to find out information about maternity leave. The baby is due in mid July. I asked if I could still take the 12 weeks maternity leave beginning in September. The answer I recieved was spoken in a wimpering and sarcastic vioce and went a bit like this, "Well, typically faculty take six weeks and that would take you until September 1st. I suppose you could take the additional 12 if you feel you need 12 more weeks of bonding time."
As many of you know, I am not thrilled about the prospect of caring for an infant. I don't particularly think I need extended time to bond. But, since I now live a minimum of an hour away from anyone I would trust to help me out with the baby, it would be nice to not have to figure out who can care for a 6 week old baby while I go back to work. But, I suppose, even the mere suggestion is enough to send some people into a frenzy of meaness toward the person inquiring.
Don't these customer service gurus know that I am especially sensitive due to varying hormonal levels right now? At least the chic at the midwifery should know. Even if they don't know, remembering the simple rule, "Be Nice" would help to avert these unfortunate interactions.

And then there were none...

For the last three days my office printer has been out of ink. Currently, my office has a very advanced system of keeping track of supplies. One woman in the office just orders large quantities of random supplies in the hopes it will meet the needs of our staff. It's not unlike hitting a pinata for office supplies.
Of course, three days ago when I discovered my black ink was empty and there were no replacements, I could have requested that ink be ordered. I didn't.
Today, I really needed to print something. I tried just printing in magenta, but, that didn't work. I looked through the pile of available printer ink for the 5th time -- no luck. I was desperate and came up with a plan.
I walked around the office and identified another printer that used the same type of ink cartridge. The person at that desk was out to lunch. I put my plan into action. It was easy -- I replaced my empty cartridge with her full cartridge and vice versa. I was back in business.
About an hour later I heard her complaining that she couldn't understand how her printer ink was out. She said that she had just replaced all four colors. Someone else suggested that perhaps her ink was stolen. I just couldn't stop laughing.

Just me

Welcome to my Uterus

It's the big news -- the biggest in fact. It's the news that both begins and ends large parts of your life. There is a baby on the way. I wanted a baby. Quite frankly, I thought I would adopt a baby. But now, in my uterus is a growing little creature. At this moment it is less than an inch long, but has a heart beat of 143 beats per minute. So, this little tadpole seems to be doing alright.
Sometimes I am excited and sometimes I am terrified. I barely feel like I am different in any way right now, so I often find myself in disbelief or in the midst of making plans for the Summer. For instance, I still haven't told one of my colleagues who has staffed me to be in South Africa in July. I really want to go to South Africa to teach for a few weeks, but Steve doesn't think it would be safe to travel while I was so close to being due. I am due on July 11th. He's right, I know that. But still, I am hesitant to change anything about my current life or plans.
This week I will probably begin telling my friends. Some of you might just stumble upon this fabulous post. Either way, everything is going to change now. Hrumph! Oh man, this is going to take a little getting used to.
Either way, welcome to my uterus little creature.

Just another humiliation.

About three months ago I moved from the city that I love, to a distant suburb/rural area. At my new home, we have both a well and septic tank. I was initially a bit put off by the thought of having a septic tank. But, after speaking with a few people, I came to realize it wasn't really a big deal to have a giant tank of crap buried somewhere in your backyard. After all, in the city you are surrounded by crap. If you are lucky, you might even pass someone on the street who is taking a crap. And they don't even bother to take the time to bury it. So, a giant hidden tank wouldn't be so bad.
About a month after moving in, we had our first flood in the basement. It turned out that this flood was caused by the septic tank getting backed up. We called the septic tank gurus who pumped out the tank and all was well.
A week later, the flooding began again. We called the folks from the septic repair again and this time they snaked a camera through the pipe from the house to the crap tank to diagnose the problem. It turned out that the problem was that the pipe was clogged with "baby wipes". Mind you, I don't have a baby. But, I do have a very sensitive bottom. And, they are not baby wipes -- they are adult wipes! And, the package says they are safe for septic tanks -- thank you very much!
Regardless, I was humiliated as this was explained to my husband and noted on the bill. Yes, that's right, our two thousand dollar repair bill contained a notation about the baby wipes. This was all my fault. Me and my overly sensitive bottom. But, at least now it was fixed. And, with the assurance that this new repair would make using wipes acceptable again, I got back to wipin'.
Now, this morning, the day before Thanksgiving, the day before company is coming to stay for the weekend, it seems we have another back up. I mentioned to my husband that I was back on the wipes. I think he would have rather heard that I started smoking crack. The septic tank people are on thier way back out. No doubt they will shake their heads in disbelief as they clear another clog.
Can I help it if I am sensitive and extremely clean? Is it possible that I am way more regular than I realize? Either way, it seems clear that I am going to be scapegoated for this one too. Maybe I will be lucky and they will find one of my husband's shoes in there. Maybe I will go shove a shoe in there now.

Faking it.

Yesterday, for no apparent reason, I tried to pretend I was an interior designer. I brought a photo into Michael's Arts and Crafts to be framed. For some reason, I found myself saying things to the framer like, "this person has a large bare wall where this will be hung". "This person"! ? What is that? Why would I say that?

But, I got this great reaction. "Oh, you're a designer!", the framer exclaimed. She was impressed by me. What could I say? "No, I am actually a college professor who studies education and psychology." Then I really look like I am missing a few screws.

I contemplated my options. I thought I could go at this full George Costanza force. I almost said my name was Art VanDelay. But, instead, I explained that I was not a designer, but just dropping something off to be framed for someone else. This was also a lie, but it seemed like the best compromise in the situation.

Then, for some reason, I mentioned it was a gift. Why? I am not sure? But, as the total for the framing approached $200 the framer couldn't help but notice what a generous gift giver I was. She said so, that I am very generous. Not wanting to be complemented on a complete lie, I added, "Well, I am going in with someone else."

Clearly, I have lost my mind.

Procrastination Station

I hesitate to admit that I am a procrastinator. This is actually a new hesitation. Actually, only a few years ago, I would admit it readily. It was the source of much self-depricating humor. But recently, there was some kind of article or TV special which painted procrastinators in a very bad light. I actually felt ashamed. My identity was rocked. I thought I was a procrastinator. But surely, I wasn't the low life, malcontent that was portrayed in this report. So, I have taken more time to decide who I am and how I fit into this world.

Now, I am faced with reinventing myself. Still, while I should be working on the results section of my dissertation, I am posting to a blog. However, I feel that this is something I need to do. Get it off my chest, allow others to relate to me and realize -- there is no shame in being a non-procrastinator who may or may not be putting off what should really be getting done. Ultimately, I don't think finding my identity can be put off any longer.

I don't feel badly for still having my pajamas on. It isn't even 10:00 a.m.. If it were noon, I would have a problem. But, at 10! Really, what could anyone say?