slices of life

On Friday afternoons, Ghoulie goes to work with Jake. Which means I get to blog with two hands, no one in my lap, both feet on the floor instead of jiggling the bouncy seat. And it's scary just how novel this is.

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Have had many bizarre observations lately, all connected to our consumerist-driven, high-anxiety, ultra fast-paced culture. They are as follows:
1) Two weeks ago, answered the phone at a friend's house to hear an automated voice say, "HELLO. DO YOU FEAR DEATH???" Still reeling, I of course had to stay on the line and figure out what this was about. The voice went on, "Do you have anxious thoughts? Do you worry about your future? . . . If so, an exciting new church in your area has the answers! Press one to hear more!" Oh, gag.
2) Preparing for yet another wedding, I called the cleaners to find out about getting some alterations. When the seamstress came to the phone, I said, "I'd like to get a skirt hemmed." She answered, "YOU'LL HAVE TO BRING IT IN." Jake said sarcastically, "You mean you can't just fax it?"
And best of all:
3) A commercial about new treatments for anxiety and depression. It discusses at length how awful it is to live with anxiety, how everything feels out of control and there is just so much pressure. This new treatment is not a drug but, I don't know, counseling or self-help tapes or something. The end of the commercial features, I kid you not, a timer counting down. Then a voiceover says, "LESS THAN TEN MINUTES LEFT. CALL NOW!" Well damn, just when I was starting to feel relaxed.

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At 14 1/2 weeks, the teething has begun. Still mild at this point, just a few bouts of fussiness at unusual times. Nothing bouncing on the physio-ball can't fix. But man that is a lot of bouncing.
I researched teething, only to read that Orajel is frowned upon, because it can dull the gag reflex and cause Ghoulie to choke on her own (excessive) saliva. And I'd rather avoid the Tylenol for as long as possible, for fear of developing a psychological dependency. (Me, not her.) So it looks like nothin' but bibs and bouncing for the next few weeks. (Or months?) Oh, and some wet washcloth sucking. (Her, not me.) It's a glam life, let me tell you.

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Now I'm gonna go try to create the image of a woman who actually has her life together, and go teach some yoga classes. No physio-balls, though.