I had one thing and one thing only that I needed to accomplish today. At 8am I needed to go to the midwife’s office for my regular checkup and get my swine flu vaccine on the way out. It was the failiest fail ever.

Last visit to the midwife’s office was wonderful and exciting. We found out we were having a girl and got to watch Penny squirming on the ultrasound machine for a solid half hour. Matt was with me, and held my hand as I laid down and received my regular seasonal flu vaccine. At that visit I had planned on getting both vaccines, but after barely making it through the seasonal flu shot, I opted to get my H1N1 on my next visit which was scheduled well in advance so Matt could come with me.

Well, he wound up not being able to come today. February being a short month and Tennessee being snow-day happy, he had to squeeze in a couple extra hours today with a client, so I went alone. I’ve known for about a week and a half that I would be going alone and psyched myself up for it. As in, not sleeping a wink last night and walking into the office this morning shaking.

When I arrived Brandy took my blood pressure, and her eyes opened so wide I thought maybe SHE was going to pass out and suddenly I’d have to really pull myself together and give her mouth to mouth or something. She asked me to take the standard pee test to find out if I had preeclampsia. I told her I thought maybe my blood pressure was high because I was so nervous, but she wanted to opt on the safe side.

So I waited in the room for what felt like decades before the midwife and her midwife-in-training came in to see me. Before I could even say hello I blurted out, “Do I have preeclampsia?” Midwife Melissa smiled and assured me that I was fine, no preeclampsia, and that they’d try taking my blood pressure later in the appointment.

And that’s when I burst into tears and told her that I was so nervous about coming in and getting a shot by myself, that my husband couldn’t make it (and he’s the one who really wants me to get the swine flu vaccine anyways!), and that my car was in the shop so I’m driving this brand new loaner car from the dealer, and what if I passed out and crashed the loaner car on the way home?!

“You really don’t need to get the shot today. Why don’t you wait until your husband can come with you?”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’d like you to get the vaccine, but you’ll be fine if you put it off another four weeks. We have to do a blood draw at your next visit anyways, so we can get it all done at once. And you get another ultrasound at that visit, which will be fun! You’ll get to see your little girl again!”

This is where I kissed her on the mouth. We finished up all the routine stuff, and she re-took my blood pressure which wound up being perfectly fine, in fact a little on the low side of normal.

I really wanted to be brave enough to get that shot all by myself today. I’ve had my blood drawn before by myself, but the thing that freaks me out about the flu vaccine is that you can feel it in your arm long after you’ve had it done, unlike a blood draw. And for some reason, my physiological response to feeling that sting hours later is to get queasy all over again. But I wanted to overcome it. I wanted to make Matt proud of me, especially because he knows that despite what everyone says, I still don’t believe it’s necessary to have the silly vaccine, but I am willing to do it because it matters so much to him. I wanted to kick this fear in the crotch once and for all.

I have gone to so many midwife visits over the past few months, have been poked and prodded with needle after needle and haven’t passed out once. I have gotten so much better. But then days like today come along, and I feel like I’m back to square one with no improvements made.

I mean, what would you do if you were told you needed to go sky diving once a month to usher in world peace. You’d be scared spitless at the door of that plane, and the only thing stopping you from vomiting would be the sexy G.I. Joe character whose back you’d be strapped to for the free-fall. So you get a little less scared each month cause G.I. Joe makes you feel a wee mite safer. But then one day you have to jump alone. And you start crying and say to yourself, “WHY DO I NEED TO JUMP OUT OF A PLANE TO STOP ETHNIC CLEANSING?!” So the plane takes you safely back to the airport, and you drive home hating yourself because c’mon, what’s so scary about jumping out of a plane?! ALONE?! People do that all the time, right? A BABY COULD DO IT!

That’s basically what it feels like. And now, because of my big needle fail the whole world is going to die of swine flu.

I think it’s too early to say that my nesting instinct has kicked in, because I think that isn’t supposed to happen until my third trimester. But over the past week I’ve had more and more interest in pulling lost and forlorn items out of boxes that were packed over six months ago. There’s been a lot of “Oh yeah! THIS!” along with the realization that my house doesn’t feel quite as spacious as it did before I had all this stuff out and everywhere.

Last week I was motivated to install the tile backsplash in the kitchen and after five hours of painstaking labor, I stupidly insisted that Matt stay up until 12:30 am helping me grout the thing. We’re both happy with how it looks, but I fear my husband is starting to think of me as one more of his cases.

Inevitably I’m running into the same old stupid problems that you always run into when you’re working with what you’ve got. When we first moved into the house I loved the color on the walls of the living room and dining room, but there were a few patches where the paint needed to be touched up. Luckily we had an original paint bucket in the basement that the previous owners left, but it had no lid with a color code, and was empty with dried gray paint on the interior. I had high hopes that my favorite paint guy at Home Depot could match it for me, but after painting my touchups with the new paint I’ve discovered what I have is a shade darker. So yes, this means we need to completely repaint the living room and dining room. The optimist in me keeps saying to Matt, “Yeah, but I wanted to repaint the trim anyways.” And again, he jots down notes about my behavior in his little black notebook.

Last night I decided I was going to hang some shelves on the wall while watching the Superbowl. Matt was in front of the computer doing some last-minute work.

“Look at me! I’m even measuring where to hang them so they’re perfectly centered!”

“Good job, hun.”

“But I’m not going to screw them into studs.”

“You should definitely screw them into studs.”

“Well, I’m not going to. I won’t put anything heavy on them.”

“But they’re pretty heavy as they are.”

“Yeah, well… <sound of drill>… too late.”

So the floor is open for bets. How much longer before Matt decides to murder me? And/or institutionalize me?

This morning I awoke to the beautiful realization that the bathroom renovations were complete, and that for the first time in almost a week I would be able to shower in my own bathroom instead of at the gym. So I grabbed my towel and danced into the bathroom to hop in a steaming hot shower.

Now I say that the renovations are complete, and they are. Except for one small thing. With the installation of a new threshold in the doorway, the bathroom door has been taken off its hinges so an inch can be cut off of the bottom allowing it to fit snugly back in place. Currently the bathroom door is leaned up against a wall in the living room. But that was of no concern to me. The cat and dog have both seen me naked, and into the shower I went.

Just as I was starting to lather up, I heard a hissing and swatting. And then, out of nowhere, Berlin had hopped in the tub with me. I was, frankly, stunned. After thinking about it for some time, I have no reasonable explanation except to say that I believe the cat chased the dog into the shower. Yes, I do.

Berlin is quite familiar with the shower, so her hopping in of her own accord is really not that crazy. Someone told us when we got her that the easiest way to bathe a big dog is to just take it right into the shower with you. And as strange as it may seem, it really is the easiest way. So about every 5 weeks or so, Matt, who is in charge of bathing the dog, takes her into the bathroom and about fifteen minutes later they both come out sparkling clean. (If you could only hear their conversations in there, and the singing, you would think much differently about my husband than you currently do.)

So after my shock wore off this morning, I realized it might be a blessing in disguise. After all, Berlin hasn’t been bathed in over 7 weeks, and is certainly overdue for a shower. But I had neither the dog shampoo nor her towels in the bathroom with me. So I told her to sit, and sit she did at the other end of the tub while I figured out a plan.

I might as well clean myself up, I thought. So I looked at her and she looked at me while I washed my hair and shaved my legs. All the while she was getting soaking wet, and all I had in that doorless bathroom was MY CLEAN TOWEL.

If I had even so much as thought of walking out of the bathroom to get her towel, she would have followed me dripping through the house. So I did what any decent person would do – I dried her off with one side of my towel, and I dried myself off with the other. And I daydreamed about a day in the near future when I really COULD have that new bathroom spa experience that I had been longing for. A shower in a clean bathroom, with a clean towel all to myself, AND A DOOR CLOSING OUT ALL OTHER CREATURES.

And then I saw it – my hair elastic on the floor. Berlin must have been between it and the cat; never a good place to be.

I’ve been contemplating this post for quite a while because I keep bumping into people who ask about my blog and want to know why I write what I write. I’ve had people wonder if I’m in it to make money, or because I fancy myself a good writer (no, to both of those). And I’ve had people get offended that I openly talk about things on my blog that they think I should only talk about with people who are close (in real life) to me.

I’ll tell you first and foremost what drives me to blog, and then I’ll fill in a couple of gaps. You know how the internet is killing off print media and is even doing a number on tv and radio? Well, sure it’s because you can get your news faster and watch pirated videos easier and all that good stuff. But it’s also because for the first time ever, there’s an actual CONVERSATION taking place. People toss around the phrase “online community,” but it’s only as good as the people involved. And just like any community, there has to be give and take. So on a blog, the author puts thoughts out there and the readership responds.

This part is going to offend the lurkers on Verbal Intent, so I apologize in advance. But if you lurk on blogs, you’re basically reading the paper. And the paper is dying. The thing that keeps blogs alive is an active readership that is commenting, and posting, and cross-linking. And even if the readership of Verbal Intent chose to never do that, I would still blog. Because blogging (along with commenting on other blogs) is my way of contributing to the greater online community, something I think is important.

See I read tons of blogs (check out that blogroll on the right!), and throughout the years of reading these blogs I have learned a whole host of things. I learned how to program in PHP by reading blogs. I learned why I should just stick with V-neck shirts by reading blogs. I learned that I love wallpaper and I love that it’s coming back! All from blogs! I formulated many of my political opinions because of blogs. I learned how to get through a miscarriage by reading blogs and participating in communities. And if I don’t give back by commenting and by blogging in return, I am really sucking up the benefits of online community without doing anything to grow it. KINDA LIKE WHAT WE’RE DOING TO OUR NATURAL RESOURCES.

I’ve also benefited greatly from the specific “community” of Verbal Intent since I’ve been blogging. By being the first to open myself up to people who read this blog, I have seen my relationships with them blossom offline in a really cool way. I also got through a really tough loss last year in many ways because of how many of YOU came out of the woodwork to send me emails about your experience with loss and how you got through it. I’ve seen how we can mutually respect each other in that when I ask you to keep your negative opinions to yourself, you did. A whole host of you read that post and never remarked, so I thank you for keeping it to yourself that you think Penelope is a stripper name.

So that’s the “why”, but here’s the “in spite of.” Bloggers face a lot of criticism, even a very little fish in a big pond, as I am. So I have to have a tough shell, or as I often choose to do, only put myself out there when it’s something I’m confident in. Bloggers get a lot of unsolicited advice. But I have learned a lot from unsolicited advice, the biggest lesson being that you can go your own way. Bloggers have to put up boundaries. While it may seem that I’m willing to talk about anything on my blog, that is far from the truth. For instance, I don’t talk about my sex life, because I assume you don’t want to hear about how great Matt is in the sack. And I’ve never spoken about the work I do except in the most positive of lights, because I have some old bosses who read my blog. And straight up, there are still some subjects I call up my sisters or my BFF, Kiki, to discuss over the phone because it’s far too personal and I need their one on one advice. And of course there are many things that I’ll only discuss with Matt, because he’s all I’ll ever need.

I speak about people frequently, but if you haven’t caught onto it yet, if they’re not a celebrity, I will always make myself look like the bad guy. Obviously this isn’t the whole story. There are many many times when people near and dear to me do stupid, rude and mean things to me that really hurt. But this will never be a place for me to rat them out. It’s a place for me to rat me out.

And that brings me to my final point. Will I blog about my kids? Heck yes. Because it’s going to be a crazy new experience for me to be a mom, and I’m going to need help. But not only that, I’m going to be proud! And if they look anything like I did as a kid, they’re going to be flipping cute! But I’ll always use the same rule for my kids as I do for everyone else. I will always show myself to be the inept mom, as this is not a place to rat them out or embarass them.

Is this post as long or longer than a Grateful Dead song? Have I missed anything?

It’s been just shy of two years that I’ve been writing on Verbal Intent, and I thank you for coming along for the ride. I hope you stick around in the future because I really treasure the conversations we have together.

You might have heard me loping around these parts bragging about the $12 lawn mower that I picked up for Matt at the dump. Well here’s the whole truth.

There’s a man who picks through stuff at the dump, and if he thinks it’s in working condition, he pulls it out and tries to sell it to people who are dropping junk off. Our conversation went a little bit like this.

“Sir, I need a lawnmower. What do you have for me?”

“I’ve got a few good ones. This one is the best. All it needs is a new spark plug and some gas, and it should be good.”

He then proceeded to start it. The engine refused to turn over.

“Ok, well how much do you want for it?”

“Twenty five dollars.”

“Well, I only have $12 on me. Anything for sale for $12?”

He then sauntered around a bit debating what he’d give up for such a low price. I could see the argument inside his mind. Finally, he walked back to the “best” lawnmower.

“Want me to put this in your car?”

“That would be great, sir. I appreciate it.”

So I drove away from the dump feeling MIGHTY good about my find. After all, my father-in-law is notorious for trash picking lawnmowers and getting them back into working condition with a little bit of brains and elbow grease. I was going to be the next Pops!

I headed to Home Depot where Keith helped me find the right spark plug for the model. Then I hopped in the car to fill my emergency gas tank. Called my dad on the drive to find out what kind of gas to get, and I could hear pride in his voice. “My little girl’s gonna get a lawn mower working and mow the lawn!”

It was too late now. I could not let my two dad’s down!

So I headed home with my mower, gas and spark plug and set off to do the miraculous. My first issue was a rusted old spark plug that I wasn’t strong enough to remove. Then I couldn’t figure out how to pour the gas out of my emergency gas tank. Very frustrated, I left the project for Matt.

Now, I need to stop for a moment and explain to you why it was such an urgent need for me to fix up this lawn mower… and not just to gain some parental approval. Our lawn had not been mowed since about a week before we closed on the house. We’re goin’ on a month here, with the last week being a complete rain fest. The grass in our football-field sized backyard was LITERALLY a foot tall in most places.

I’m a new homeowner and all, and granted we are in the process of renovating the kitchen. IE: there are bigger fish to fry, which was Matt’s argument all along. But I couldn’t do this to my neighbors! My dear sweet neighbors who have a male dog that is in love with Berlin. And the other neighbors who let us borrow their minivan to haul drywall home from the store. I can’t walk around having a foot of grass in my backyard with these sweet neighbors!!!!

This is turning into a novella. Let me wrap things up.

For days, I was pushing Matt to please figure out how to fix the lawnmower! So one day, during a break from drywalling, he squatted down by the lawnmower and replaced the spark plug. Then poured the gas into the tank effortlessly. And then he tried to start her up. Wouldn’t budge.

“Honey, Keith at Home Depot said that maybe we need a new air filter. Should I go get an air filter?”

“Babe, I really think this mower is going to take a little bit more work. And I really think we should finish the drywall.”

“Ok, but it wouldn’t take me long to get the air filter. We could at least try it.”

“Babe, let’s stay on task.”

Cut to yesterday when I went over to the house to put a second coat of paint on the master bedroom. When I opened the front door I was overwhelmed by the smell of gasoline. This couldn’t just be paint fumes, I thought. There’s gas leaking somewhere! I ran into the basement where we were storing the behemoth, and sure enough… two HUGE pools of gas underneath the mower. Right about now is where I flipped out. Because there was GAS! IN THE BASEMENT! And I could touch off an enormouse house fire if I so much as MOVED incorrectly! Should I turn off all the breakers? But could they potentially spark if I did that? And the spark could set off a house fire!? OMG! OMG!

And I proceeded to run around the football-field sized yard with foot long grass waving my arms in the air and screaming like a lunatic. Or I just sat on the basement steps for a moment to collect my thoughts. One or the other – you choose!

I opened the double doors in the basement, pushed out the mower to drip its gas in the backyard and add to the pleasantness out there. And I tried my darndest to air out the basement. Gas will evaporate eventually, right? And then it’s not dangerous? I’d make an awful terrorist.

Matt came by the house a few hours later in between his appointments, and I vehemently insisted he take that trash heap of a mower back to the dump, and get it out of our lives forever! He took a look underneath it, and sure enough… there was a massive hole. Like HALF OF THE ENGINE missing. Maybe for the full $25, I could have gotten the whole engine?

Back to the dump we went, where Matt explained the situation to the guy who sold it to me, and gave his steely judicious eye. Matt can be so MORAL sometimes, and can very calmly explain what you did wrong, and make you feel like Satan Incarnate. Usually he’s only doing it to me, but in this case I was glad he pulled out all the stops for the lawnmower salesman. Even though the whole time I was writhing in my seat and couldn’t look at them.

Then it was off to Home Depot to visit KEITH! Who hooked us up with a new self-propelled Toro that cuts! And mulches! And collects clippings in a little bag! And can also spit the clippings out the side! THANKS KEITH!

($10 off the purchase by showing my Lowes coupon! YAY!)

The story ends with me mowing my football-field sized backyard yesterday – my first experience with mowing. And I got halfway through it before I was rained out. I loved it! I loved mowing! I want to be The Official Mower Of The Matt Hofmann Family. Talk about instant gratification!

Except there was this one moment where a little snake slithered in front of the mower to safety. And I jumped when I saw it. And last night I had terrible nightmares where I kept hitting snakes with the lawnmower and their bodies would get all chopped up in the blade. And bloody bits of snake body would fly up from the mower and splatter all over my face.

So now, I want nothing to do with mowing or lawn mowers. Ever again. I don’t care who I’m letting down.

From @pigstubs: What is the most ridiculous thing (in hindsight) that you and Matt have ever argued about?

Oh boy, what a great question! Matt and I used to argue a TON when we first got married because we were two pretty opinionated and stubborn people. Most of the time those arguments were about stupid stuff, but the fights themselves were always of value because we learned so much about marriage through them. Nowadays when we argue we tend to either come to an agreement halfway, agree to peacefully disagree, or realize that one of us is just being a plain old idiot.

Probably our most ridiculous fight was about driving from Massachusetts to Ohio to buy Berlin. I know. Dumb subject matter for a fight, and a dumb fight to have. Most of you who have been reading Verbal Intent for a good stretch of time have probably figured out that my fatal flaw is having an irrational idea and then convincing myself it is TRUTH! And very much worth fighting for til the bitter end! Matt’s fatal flaw is getting off on being withholding. It makes him feel powerful. And right! You know the end of this story already, don’t you?

So here we were, in the first apartment we had ever lived in that allowed a large dog, and I wanted a goldendoodle! I had done my research, and knew everything imaginable about the breed. Their personality, lack of shedding, and goshdarnitall adorable looks made them the perfect dog for us. And although I’m a HUGE proponent of adopting dogs in need of good homes, you cannot find a goldendoodle in a shelter, period. They are considered “designer dogs” and haven’t been around for too long, so the best place to find them is at a breeder. For $2,000.

Well I hunted high and low and finally found a “breeder” in Ohio who would sell me one of her 10 month old goldendoodles for $250, a virtual steal in the goldendoodle industry. She needed to get rid of these dogs because who wants a 10 month old goldendoodle with serious emotional issues? ME! I DO! PICK ME!

So I told Matt about the great deal, hoping to win him over to the idea by mentioning how CHEAP she was! Cheap AND cute! Remember, Matt? That’s why you chose ME!?

And you’re right with your guess – he thought it was a ridiculous idea. “Let’s just wait around until we can find the same price somewhere in New England that doesn’t require a 30 hour round-trip drive.” And then the bells went off, and we entered round One. We fought back and forth, nine rounds to be precise, each of us digging our heels in more about the issue. I’m pretty sure towards the end he was just saying “no” to watch me cry.

It got to the point where I didn’t care what he said, and I was planning on driving out to Ohio alone to pick up the puppy. “Go ahead. I’ll be here when you get back.” When my mom heard that I was going to make such a nonsensical trip she canceled everything she had planned that weekend to come with me and make sure I was safe. This was the clincher that changed Matt’s mind. That Saturday, he was in the car with me setting out for Akron.

Moral of the story is this: yes, we definitely could have found a dog in New England that would have been perfect for us. There was really no need for me to force a crazy trip to Ohio by means of what Matt calls my “emotional strong-arming.” But we also have the World’s Most Wonderful Dog, and she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us.

I’m pretty sure the number one way to make up is to pick out a new puppy.

From Daily Daguerreotype