Stupid Names

So, everyone knows that Frank and I picked out the name for our little one - Ella Marie. I think it's beautiful, and it seems to have gotten a lot of compliments from everyone (or perhaps they read they previous post and were too afraid to say anything that I might deem impolite). But I hope that she likes it. What if she hates it? I guess that's what legal name change procedures are for.

On this subject, I would also like to discuss something - people that tell you the name you've picked for your baby is stupid. Someone that I know asked if I'd thought about names when I first announced I was pregnant, and I said I had, and that I'd actually picked out two girl names and two boy names. This person asked what they were, and I told her. On the last boy name, she snorted and said, "Don't do that to the child! That name is horrible!" (For the record, it was Henry Francis, and he would go by Harry.)

...

Seriously? I don't walk up to you and tell you that your cat's name is stupid or that your name is stupid. Here's a hint: DO NOT DO THIS. Even if I was naming my child Starry Haze. My baby is my business.

If someone persists in giving their opinions to me about these things, next time they look fat in something or tell me something incredibly dumb, I'm going to say, "Do you realize how stupid that is? My God, what a pity you're doing/wearing that!"

Things I Hate: Yankee Manners Edition

The thing I hate today: Yankee manners (or as I like to term it - one of the biggest oxymorons in the world!). This post is inspired by someone that I used to know well, and some of you may figure out quickly exactly who I'm talking about (although I won't mention names).

Most people know that I am from Texas (and if you don't, you had better learn that quickly, it's probably my second most distinguishing feature, the first most distinguishing being my chin). I view myself as a Southern girl - bigger is better, attitude is everything, always be gracious, and begin an insult with "Bless his heart, but...". I've got a stock pile of phrases for almost any occasion and I say "ya'll" without finding it funny. My favorite movie: Steel Magnolias. But the most important part of my Southern-ness: my manners. You say "please" and "thank you" and "yes ma'am" and "no sir", anyone person that appears to be older than you or is in a position of authority is "Miss", "Mrs.", "Ms." or "Mr.". Men hold doors for ladies, younger people give up their seats for older people, and you always say "excuse me" and you do not cut in line.

This is a telling story from my childhood: I only said "yeah" to my mother once. ONCE, and I never did that again.

I have since been introduced to "Yankee manners" which are a peculiar thing, as well as Midwest manners. Now, Missouri isn't exactly the North, but it sure as hell isn't the South. Someone tried to argue this point to me, saying that Missouri was the South. No, my friend, you are not. I'll grant you this much: you are south of Canada. Now, I'm not picking on the entire state, and I have met some lovely people while living here. Like I said, this is focused largely on one individual, who prided themselves on being from the North and having good New England manners (ha!). I heard more about finishing school and fine breeding than I thought humanly possible. And oddly enough, all of that training to be gracious did not pay off one bit.

Examples of bad manners that were mistaken for good:

• I gave this person a small thank you gift for something they had done for me. Instead of saying thank you, this person said to me, "Well, now I feel like I have bad manners, I don't have anything for you." There was never a "thank you" involved, and they were right, they did in fact have bad manners.
• A fork was dropped on the floor, and this person informed me that well-bred people didn't pick up silverware that they had knocked there, they waited for the "help" to do that. During this same dining experience, I never heard a "please" or "thank you" muttered to the server.
• Explaining to me that being "gracious" and well bred was dependent on how much money you had in your trust account. Poor people (i.e., me) could apparently not be gracious. We didn't have the money to buy our proper manners, which come from prep schools.
• Telling me that I would do a favor for them because it was the right thing to do, and acting as if it was expected.

The even better examples would too quickly give away too much information about this person. But suffice it to say that a "thank you" never left their mouth, even after I had gone out of my way to help or do something that I considered unpleasant.

Midwest manners are something of an improvement, although not much. "Brazen" and "crass" are the words that most often come to mind. But I digress. For those of you who were not lucky enough to be raised by a good Southern mother (bless your hearts!), then let me provide a little guide for being polite.

1. "Please" and "thank you" are really golden phrases. Say them genuinely and appreciatively. People will notice and appreciate your appreciation.
2. "Excuse me" is also a golden phrase. Don't shove yourself in front of someone or behind someone or even just walk in front of them without providing some kind of apology. And DON'T push someone out of the way. We're all in line and we all want to get to the front. Unless you are in labor or your wife is in labor, there is no excuse to push someone out of the way.
3. Don't park in expectant mother/new mother parking unless you are either an expectant mother or new mother. If you do this, you are a turd. If you do this, I will pray that one day when you need to park in a handicap spot, there will be some young hot shot sitting in the only handicap spot, obviously not needing that space. Trust me, it will happen, and when it does, I will laugh at you.
4. If someone opens a door for you or holds it open after they have walked out, say thank you. There is nothing more irritating than someone not taking five seconds to say those two little words. I have been known to follow someone into a store and say "You're welcome" to their faces when they have failed to be polite, so hopefully they get the hint that they are rude.
5. There is a time and a place to be outrageous. I've been known to be outrageous. It's okay. But bad language is also not acceptable in some situations - like when you are out with a bunch of superiors. It's not funny and you're probably embarrassing the people who are out with you. If you're unsure if something is appropriate, then don't say it. That should be your initial indicator that what you're going to say is NOT okay. This includes reference to semi-private things, disgusting stories, all bad words, family drama, totally private things, and generally things that you would not feel comfortable sharing (or doing) in front of your grandmother.

I'll stop here, because I could go on forever. And I also don't want to offend the few readers that I have. I still love everyone that has inspired this post, even if their manners are a little bad. After all, none of us are perfect, right? (Well, some do come closure to perfection than others, and I maintain those people were born within the confines of the Texas state lines.)

But to get to the point: I hate Yankee manners. They don't exist. I've never seen the allure of the east coast - why would I want to hang out with a bunch of people who stake their reputation on the prep school they went to? If you suffer from a case of Yankee manners (or a mild affliction of Midwestern manners), let me make this suggestion to you: get yourself a pair of good jeans and some cowboy boots, pull your prep school stick out of your butt, and get yourself to Texas. Spend a day in Dallas and find out how friendliness and cosmopolitaness can adequately mix. Then go to Chuy's and eat some Tex Mex. You'll thank me later, and so will everyone who comes into contact with your good manners!

My Moment of Panic on Encroaching Motherhood

The other night I woke up as usual to make one of my many nocturnal bathroom trips (thank you, Ella, for pressing on my bladder! Mommy loves you!), and I climbed back into bed. While trying to fall asleep again, I started thinking about Ella and wondering how I could possibly love her as much as I feel like I'm supposed to. I mean, how do you just unconditionally love a person? It was scaring me, and I thought, "I just don't know how I'll do it. How could I when I'm already doubting my ability to do this now?"

At the same time, another part of my brain was registering that my sciatica was acting up again, and so I needed to shift on my body pillow some. Unfortunately, my cat, Archie, had taken up right in the middle of where I needed to shift. I considered shoving him out of the way for a moment, and then quickly decided against that. He was just too cute curled up there. I decided that I didn't mind being a little uncomfortable, after all, how much difference could a few inches really make?

And then it hit me. I could love Ella unconditionally, and I could love her just as much as I should. If I was this crazy about Archie, and I preferred his comfort to my own, of course I'd be able to do that with her. So I finally fell asleep, my moment of panic passing.

Things I Hate: Pacifier Edition

Okay, I've written the positive post. Now on to something that I feel truly passionate about: things that I hate. This is going to be a multi-part series, so don't worry, I won't tell you everything I hate in one post.

So, without further ado, part 1 of this illustrious series called "Things I Hate".

Thing that I hate today: pacifiers.

I really hate pacifiers. You can ask my husband: if I see a baby with a pacifier, I'm likely to lean over and say, "Well that just looks stupid." Now, before my friends with children get on to me, please know that I understand that they are supposed to help babies be soothed and calmed, and for some children they do work. But I never EVER used one. My mom said that she tried a few times and I would either spit it out or throw it on the floor. In fact, I was more fussy when she was trying to force it on me than I was without it. In fact, she said I gave her a look that said, "This is a fake nipple, not a real one, I won't be fooled."

This is what pacifiers are to me: stupid little supple plastic fake nipples that fool your baby into thinking she is nursing. They smell weird and there is no possible way they can be hygienic (not that I'm a germ freak, but really, how could you possibly hope for them to be clean enough to not be totally gross?).

Now that we're having a baby, this is a point of contention with Frank and I. I want to ban them, he thinks they're necessary. What will probably end up happening: a confused child who wants a pacifier when Daddy's around and doesn't want a pacifier when Mommy's around. I don't want to have a toddler with a pacifier addiction and have to break that habit.

What do I hate more than pacifiers themselves? The term "binky". If that term is ever used in my presence to describe those horrible little fake nipples, I want to scream.

Maybe it's because I've worked in children's retail for so many years. It was always some stupid looking toddler with a snotty nose and a pacifier half-hanging out of his mouth that would be a terror and scream and pull things off of the tables. All I know, is that when I see a kid like that, I want to turn and run the other way, because I know that nothing good is going to come from that encounter.

Happiness is...

So, apparently the last time I wrote a blog entry was in September and I was going through something really sad. Now, in February, several months later, there's something to replace that sadness. Ready?! My little girl is due in June! Ella Marie Farese is going to be lovely and spoiled (and it'll be my fault, I just bought her a Muffy VanderBear today, but in my defense, it was on sale).

Since I've been expecting her, I've made two resolutions: [1] finished unfinished projects (most of these are craft projects, and I'm working on them, slowly but surely); [2] dwell on the good things in my life, because otherwise the life is going to be sucked out of me.

Happy Friday!

In other news...

Essica told me to be happy and post the following: she is going to see Shrek the Musical, and we have a new friend at the desk: a cut out of Simon's Cat.

That is all.

Sadness is...

It's fall, and that makes me happy. Why? Because it promises cooler weather, beautiful leaves, and (my favorite!) apple picking! I went apple picking two weeks ago with Frank, Sara, and Tim, and it was so much fun. $57 and 27 lbs. of apples later, we left, and Sara and I made a fantastic apple pie.

Life has been hectic: we're moving, I'm taking 20 hours of classes, we've got people coming in from out of town literally all fall, and babies... What, you ask? Well never you mind - there will be more on that when the time comes. For now, it's a thought passing between Frank and I.

To be honest, I've been kind of down lately. I just keep seeing everything that needs to get done, all of the major changes happening, and I get tired. Not to mention, I got some really traumatic/sad/depressing news a few weeks ago.

Over the summer, I had thought I was possibly pregnant. Turns out, I wasn't, or so I thought. After a few months, several doctor visits, and a lot of blood work, I found out that I had a miscarriage. At first I felt like I shouldn't be sad, because I really hadn't known until after the fact. But I was, and I cried a lot, felt down, thinking my body was broken. You know, I was talking to someone about this, wondering why I felt this way, and it struck me: a girl's entire identity is almost built around her ability to make babies. Think about it: from the time we're 11 or 12, we get out period, and we know that means we can have babies. When we're teenagers, we're lectured about responsibility and how being stupid can lead to having a baby. We see commercials EVERYWHERE, all about birth control or periods. In short, our lives are almost made to revolve around our reproductive health and the many different ways we can prevent pregnancy. I struggled with this for a long time, and I didn't tell anyone. I finally told Frank and my mom, and I've opened up to a few of my friends, and I feel so much better.

But I can't banish this thought from my mind. What if I am broken? What if I can't have a baby? What if...? My mom and Frank have both told me to stop thinking that way, and I'm trying. And I don't understand why I was so sad for losing a baby that I wasn't even sure existed at the time.

It's getting better though, it's getting a little better all the time.

In the mean time, I'll think happy thoughts, and listen to happy music. After all, I always know that the sun will come out tomorrow, and maybe it'll bring a little ray of hope with it. And if it doesn't, I'll just wait until patiently until the day that it does.