I recently changed my personal email address. Since we’ve been toying with getting rid of Road Runner, I figured I may as well join the web hosted email arena. Well, I did the Emily Post thing and sent an email stating the new email information to my friends and family. This brought friends from the woodwork back and I’ve been steadily writing back and giving my, What I’ve been up to, spiel. There is nothing like writing a What-I've-been-up-to spiel to let you know how utterly boring you are. For once, I'd like to write something exciting. "Lrudlrick and I just returned from a lovely holiday in Egypt where by chance we found the Holy Grail. If not for my clumsy ways, we would have never fallen into that trap door in Tutankhamen's tomb. Must go. National Geographic is here for an interview."
My favorite response came from my FIL who immediately contacted my husband wondering why I changed my email address. Was I getting ready to leave him? Now, honestly, if I were to leave my husband, why would I send a forwarding message to my FIL? “Let’s keep in touch. I’ve left your son and I've got a lawyer that will leave him destitute. But I want to still be friends. Call me.” I laughed when my husband told me. I wonder if it's wishful thinking on his part?
This move to a web hosted email is a big step for anal retentive pantrygirl. In my outlook, I still have emails dating back to the late 90’s. Need to reference when I told you about that big handbag sale on the eastside? I can pull it up in less than 5 mins thanks to my filing method. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the only person who related to Monica from Friends. I live to label. I swear, if my brother found that bumper sticker, he’d give it to me. It would be a close choice between that and Honk, if you love to file.
When The Container Store opened in the city, I could have been a one woman welcoming parade for them. My favorite part of the store, and please don’t call me a dork (This fact I am very well aware of, thank you.) is the mat at the front that says, “Contain Yourself.” It makes me laugh every time. It's The Container Store's disclaimer. Pantrygirl, before you step inside Mecca, breathe. We don’t need you dying in there from eternal happiness. I frequent that store so much, people have asked me for help finding items. I imagine retirement will lead me to a fruitful and fulfilling part-time career at The Container Store. I’ll be wearing a blue container store smock helping young whipper snappers organize their lives.
I have such an affinity for nesting boxes, I’m sure my husband fears, when the time comes, I’ll choose a nesting box coffin to bury myself in.
So baby is on the brain again. My cousin emailed me yesterday. It was one of those, I’m a heel emails. You know. The ones that start with, I’m a heel for not keeping in touch. How are you? Yada Yada. BTW, I’m pregnant.
Well it’s her first and she’s due in May. Guess I’m heading to Babies R Us this weekend. Then my friend called me yesterday afternoon. It was an “I’m-a-heel” call. He asked me when I’m going to realize that work can’t consume my life forever and that I must sustain the human race and spawn. Personally, I’m not sure how well off the human race would be if I spawned. Well, it may be more organized.
At the doctor's, my gynecologist asked if I was ready for prenatals. My co-worker IM's me for advice for an impending baby shower for a male co-worker who is expecting twins. (The wife not him.)
Then finally this morning, another co-worker who has been out on maternity leave came by with her baby. I spent the last half hour holding a baby and hearing my boss say it looks good on me. As if a baby is the new hot fashion accessory. I asked her if she was ready for me to be out for 4 months. She quickly changed her tune.
I know I’ve gotten to a point in life where people are going to start asking me more frequently. I can understand they are trying to make nice. What I don’t understand is how people talk about it so non-chalantly.
I may be freaking out a bit too much. Sure, it’s not like I’d be the first woman to spawn but yikes! Pushing the vanity issues aside, financially a kid is a mortgage you never pay off. Sure you can pay off the interest but the principle is always there. Heck, your first payment is your DNA! DNA, people!
How the heck did our parents do it? Back in the days, people had 4 kids without blinking. Unless I’m living out on a farm in Nebraska, there is no way I would be able to support 4 kids. Back in the days, Grandma or Aunt Lola watched the lump of clay while you went to work. Now, Grandma’s working at The Container Store while you’re paying what amounts to rent to let your kid stay with 20 other kids in a room for 8 hours. Why don’t they just call it what it is, storage.
God, I’m freaking out too much about something that isn’t happening anytime soon to me, if at all. For my sanity’s sake, if you see me, don’t mention babies, eggs, children and/or shelf life. If you slip, I’ll be cordial, but you’ll be re-opening a can of anxiety the likes Woody Allen would envy.