I’ve been blogging less than a month, and already I’m changing pages and jacking stuff up. The new and improved Belly Up can be found at: bellyupblog.wordpress.com. Please use this URL for all future posts. For old news, you can cruise this site.
In the amount of time since I posted the baby cage missive, she’s made another escape attempt. Unfortunately, she’s suffering in the playpen’s 29 square foot confines. By suffering, I mean she’s surrounded by toys and playing contentedly. For now.
This morning, my husband asked if I’d written any posts lately. I told him that yes, I’d written two yesterday. He said, am I in them? I said, well, you’re mentioned in the house one. He seemed disappointed in this answer, then shrugged it off as though he was joking. Something tells me he wasn’t, so let me tell you a little more about him.
We met 2 years and 3 months ago. Wow, and we’re already married and have a baby? Wow, indeed. We met the week before my 33rd birthday and one month before his 39th, so no one is a spring chicken in this scenario. About a week before we met, I severed ties with a singles group I’d belonged to for a few months. Prior to that, I had used every remotely reputable dating website (Lavalife (sort of reputable), eHarmony (told me there were 80 men in the area who were a match for me, ha!), Match.com (same people as on Lavalife and every other site), etc.) off and on for 3 years, looking for Mr. Right. Obviously, these were all unsuccessful ventures.
So what happens? I finally finish recording my voice over demo, and now I need to have the graphic design, manufacturing, and replication done. I have no clue where to begin searching for a vendor to perform these tasks. Thankfully, I have a friend in the industry, and she directed me to the big dog in this field. I check their prices, get sticker shock, and keep looking. As with most things, when you try to save a buck, you really pay the price, so I turn my radar back to the big dog. If memory serves, I filled out a form on their website, and the local sales manager called me. We chat a couple of times on the phone and set up an appointment.
I didn’t gussy up for the appointment, but I didn’t dress down, either; this guy sounded nice enough on the phone, but like your typical white shirt and tie sales type. It was bordering on hot that day; the first true warmth of the year, so I remember thinking that the long-sleeved shirt and black pants were a not-so-great idea. Take a cab to the sales office, open the door, and about fell over. A guy with shoulder-length dark hair stands up, one arm slathered in tattoos, and says, can I help you? I’m thinking, oh dear god, please let this be the sales guy. I say, I have an appointment with so-and-so. He says, that’s me. And suddenly, all of the dating bullshit and fuckovers and nights of being stood up might all be worth it, because I now have proof THERE IS A GOD.
We talk about my project, and we’re flirting so incessantly, it’s got to be making the kid at the next desk want to puke. I wanted to puke, but I couldn’t help myself. He was so goddamned sexy, and those tattoos drove me wild. Turns out the office was new, and he had just moved to Chicago from the west coast. Even better? We lived in the same neighborhood. Before the appointment was over, he had given me two tickets to a band competition sponsored by his company to be held two days later. I hadn’t even gotten up to leave when I decided what shirt to wear 50 hours later at our next meeting. White, not necessarily low-cut, but low-cut enough to showcase the chunky necklace/homing device I planned to pair with the shirt.
I went back to work, and the friend that referred me to this company asked how the appointment went. I responded, you didn’t hear me panting from your office? That sales guy is HOT! I asked a different friend to accompany me to the band competition, but she was travelling for work. And thank god. So, I flew solo. In the two days between our appointment and the band thing, we e-mailed quite a bit, but I was trying so fucking hard not to come off like a party girl or whatever, that I think I sounded more like the queen of the mood swing. To date, my experience with dating had been so atrocious, so full of bullshit, so full of lies, that I trusted no one, least of all myself.
Finally, the band competition evening arrives, and when I walk into the bar, there he sat, waiting for me. We had an awesome time, and I purposefully drove “in case” he needed a ride home. Well, he did. There was much smooching in front of his building, and I was so keyed up that I had to drive around for another hour to quell my excitement. We made plans for the next night, and again, we had an awesome time. From the get-go, he called me on my bullshit, and although this can be infuriating, it’s wonderful to think that someone can and does understand you. And they’re not going to tolerate your foolishness, whatever that may be.
After our first official date, I called a good friend in NYC and told her, if this guy isn’t completely full of shit, I’m in big trouble. When I described how close his apartment was to mine, she said, that isn’t even delivery, it’s fucking DiGiorno!
We continued to see each other every week, and my stealthy ways had us “accidentally” ride the same train to work many times. I was getting so good at figuring out his schedule, I thought I might blow it. And it seemed that I almost did 3 weeks in when I left him a voicemail on a Wednesday night asking if he wanted to grab a burger. Saw him on the train the next morning, and I panicked, thinking, shit shit shit he didn’t return the call he doesn’t want to see you all of the time and here you are on the same fucking train shit shit shit. It was cool, but two days later, he told me that he didn’t want to see me every day. Then I really panicked. The only thing that brought me back from the ledge was a male friend who explained that guys don’t want to see a woman every day early on, even one they’re totally into. This makes no sense to women, but WHATEVER.
Within 4 months of meeting, he moved in with me. At first, I said no, I didn’t want to live with anyone unless we were engaged. I quickly explained that this was not some passive-aggressive way of asking for a ring, which he understood. My dad, of all people, was the one whose feedback convinced me to change my mind. Three months after we started shacking up, we found out I was pregnant. I did not handle this news very well, but he was ECSTATIC. Turns out that while we were buying pregnancy tests and getting confirmation from the doctor, he had already ordered my engagement ring. He proposed on the Monday morning after we found out. I was a mess, all crabby and wearing my bathrobe. I never hesitated, and haven’t since.
We waited until 3 months after the baby was born to get married. Goddammit, I didn’t wait this long to meet the right guy and not be able to drink at my own reception. I mean, shit, come on.
In another 2 months, we’ll celebrate our first anniversary, and I can tell you, it’s the first of many.
I love you, baby.
It’s been several days since I posted, and what can I say? I’ve been busy. Thursday afternoon was spent on my hands and knees in the kitchen and dining room. The house we’re renting has vinyl floors in these rooms (really, it’s a combination room, but whatever), and those bitches have been filthy since we moved in. On move-in day, the baby crawled into the kitchen and her knees, feet, and hands immediately turned from their lovely pink to a disgusting dirty black color. I’ve mopped that goddamned floor every week since, and it’s only improved slightly. So, on Thursday, I bit the bullet, pulled out the kneepad I use when scrubbing the bathtub, and went to work. Over two hours later, the floor was done, and so were my wrists and knees. Please insert all manner of filthy jokes here.
For the first time in many, many years, I had a positive experience at the local post office. We’ve only been in TN for about 6 weeks, and this was the maiden voyage (had to get more Star Wars stamps). I packed the baby up this morning so we could return before the goddamned temperature reached 95 degrees at 10 a.m. We walk in, and I am stunned to see that every single postal worker is white, speaks English as their native language, and is seemingly interested in helping customers in a timely manner. All three employees were also men who in turn made duck noises to amuse the baby, chatted with me about real estate, and asked if I was a Bears fan since I shared that we’d just moved here from Chicago.
It’s so nice to be back amongst my people: chatty white folks with a work ethic. Hallelujah!
And this is what you get for posting a bulletin on your MySpace page about your new blog and telling people that “most comments are welcome, especially those without spelling, grammatical, or punctuation errors.” When you’re being a snarky, self-important beyotch, it bites you in the proverbial ass. How, you ask? I just realized that I’ve been misspelling my new real estate agent’s first name in all of our correspondence thus far. For the record, I did send her an apology, and as an addendum to that record, her first name is an unusual spelling of a fairly common moniker.
Still, that does not absolve me, so I’ll take the heat.
Ah, to write again! After approximately 30 seconds of convincing via IM, a friend got me to start blogging again. It’s been awhile and my life is vastly different now (husband, baby, new city and state), but the urge to write hasn’t abated. Allow me to warm up a bit, and I’ll post a real tirade shortly.