File this one under “Tidbit, Embarrassing”

This morning I had to give a talk.  It’s the kind of talk I give often, so I wasn’t too worried about it.  Regardless, I take the public outreach part of my job very seriously, so I prepared for it with a scrupulous attention to detail, carefully looking over previous presentations, taking notes from past evaluations, updating statistics, estimating time allotted for each section, practicing in front of a mirror, that sort of thing.

Okay, that’s a total lie.  I cobbled together a few pages of notes the night before, whined for a minute or two about how much trouble it all was, and then set off this morning hoping I didn’t make a fool of myself.  I joked with my coworkers on the way out the door, “I’m totally underprepared, but I figure if it starts going south I’ll just play the pregnancy card and fake a swoon.”

So I’m up there on the panel, and I’m scheduled as the third of three speakers. I have lots of time to doodle, I mean, “peruse and improve my notes,” so I’m feeling pretty good when I actually get up to do my little song and dance (note: there was no actual singing or dancing involved).  It takes me my usual minute or two to find my groove (note: no actual grooving, either) but then I hit my stride (note: nor striding) when, all of a sudden

(wait for it…wait for it…)

I ACTUALLY SWOONED (note: there was ACTUAL SWOONING).

No crap.  Here’s the thought process that went through my little head:

My, it’s warm in here.

No, actually it’s a bit hot in here.

Wow, it’s really hot.

Oh no, I’m sweating.  I hope no one can see that.

Hey, wait, my hands are going numb.  That’s never a good sign.

I think I might…no, way, I’m not actually going to…I’ll just keep talking and I’ll feel…

“Ummm…can someone bring me a chair, please?  I don’t feel so well.”

And they did, and gave me a glass of water, and opened a window, and they were all very nice.  I kept going (THE SHOW MUST GO ON) and I think it went okay despite the incident.  Afterwards everyone said it was very helpful and that they enjoyed it but I know.  I know the score.  My helpful advice and suitable jokes and clear expertise were all for naught.

I am forever branded in their minds as the pregnant chick who swooned during her presentation.

*sigh*

On the plus side, after it was all over someone bought me a doughnut.

Thoughts on the penis

We have several friends with little boys around the Buddha’s age.  Occasionally we do some babysitting to help each other out.  It’s always a good time until the diaper change.  When I pull off that diaper and suddenly I’m faced with the mini-penis, I panic.  The teeny weenie.  The diminutive general.  It’s a mystery to me, that thing.  Am I supposed to do something special with the diaper?  Aren’t there rules about pointing it up?  Or is it down?  Should I be attempting some special wiping action or should I just fling another diaper on and hope for the best?  I just finesse it the best I can, usually with the Alias Father cackling in the background, and reason that one flawed diaper change is unlikely to lead to permanent damage.

When I was just a young’n, I did some occasional babysitting.  Very occasional, as I was neither very skilled nor especially motivated in that area.  Once I was hired by a family to watch their two-year old boy for an evening.  We had a generally delightful time reading books and playing, and at bedtime, I did as instructed and tried to take him to the potty.  I walked him into the bathroom and helped him with his pants and then…froze.  What now?  What the hell was I supposed to do now?  Do little boys stand?  Do they sit?  Was he supposed to hold it?  Oh, dear heavens, WAS I?  This little boy was looking to me for guidance and I?  Had no idea what to do.  So we stood there for a minute and then I shrugged, took him to his room, slapped a diaper on, and called it a night.  I never babysat for them again.

In Anne Lamott’s excellent book Operating Instructions, she relays the thoughts she had upon discovering that she was having a son.  They went something like this: OH MY GOD, I’M GROWING A PENIS.  She, a woman with a bumpy history with men, was concerned about the “penis as power symbol” angle.  I, a woman who grew up in an all-girl family, always have been baffled by the sheer logistics of the thing.  It’s been a common agreement of all the friends throughout my life that I am a Girl Mom.  I am.  I just am.  Now that I have one, it is abundantly clear that, for me, girls are where it’s at, yo.

So let’s all take a moment and ponder that my recent ultrasound showed that I am, in fact, going to have a little boy.

OH MY GOD.  I’M GROWING A PENIS, YOU GUYS!

Humorlessness is the new black. Or brown. Or grey. Or whatever is the new neutral this year, I don’t know

I think my sense of humor is dying.  Dead.   Gone.  I was e-mailing with someone this morning, someone who I think is terrifically funny and who used to feel that way about me.  And even though that someone lives miles and miles and miles away, I could feel her boredom with me coming through in waves.  And that’s not her fault, because I was being breathtakingly boring.  I am always being breathtakingly boring these days.

Perhaps you’ve noticed?  Or at least noticed the silence as I write and delete 100 entries trying to find one that isn’t dull as dirt?  As maybe even dull as a butter knife that has been dragged through the dirt, only instead of dirt perhaps jagged rocks?

I can only hope this is a passing phase brought on by stress and pregnancy hormones.  Until then, may I send you to a few things that have made me laugh in the few weeks or so?

Bejewell’s post on torturing her husband via Facebook.

Editorial Anonymous losing her rutabagas over one too many idiotic queries.

Um, this.

The whole Kanye West nonsense.

Tess’ latest rant.  Tess, your ranting is a gift from the heavens and I thank you for sharing it with the rant-impaired such as myself.

People taking that stupid website way too seriously.

Swistle showing her sick side (which I didn’t even know she had, so…BONUS!).

That last picture on Beth’s otherwise loving picture tribute to her children.

And, finally, from my own life (technically this is older than a  few weeks, but it makes me laugh daily):

My humorlessness has gotten so bad that even the dolls need a little nip to get through the day.  May the humor gods help us all.

Don’t leave me hanging out here on this sad and lonely branch

Here’s the scoop.  I recently applied for a job.  A good job.  A job that I didn’t know was going to become available when I turned down the other job but wowee, this is such a better job.  And, no, I don’t know if it is wise to switch jobs right before giving birth but, really, this is such a good job that not applying would have been ridiculous beyond measure and the equivalent of career suicide in my field.  It’s that good (and rare) of a job.

So what’s the problem?

I submitted my resume last week.  Today I was contacted for my salary range, which they didn’t ask for in the original materials so I suppose that means I made it through the first cut.  So I told them.  I gave them the number that I had already decided was the minimum acceptable salary that I could take given that I will have to have two kids in full-time day care to do this good job.  It was an ambitious number for the field but reasonable given my experience, what they are looking for, and the salaries of comparable positions in the area.  It was a well-researched and thoughtfully considered number.

But now, I am filled with PARALYZING FEAR that I sent in a number that was too high and my application will summarily be sent to the reject pile with no further glance.  Maybe I was too ambitious.  Maybe I’m overestimating my experience.  Maybe I didn’t take into enough consideration that the comparable salaries were for people who had been in the job for a while and my higher education level doesn’t make up for that like I thought.  Maybe I’m just delusional.  Oh my god, what have I doooooonnnneee?

You want to make me feel better, don’t you, you beautiful people you?  Righty then. This is what I need from you.  In the comments please either:

1) Pat my head and tell me I did the right and responsible thing or (and this might even be better);

2) Tell me your story about how you once stood up for yourself in a work-related instance and it all turned out just wonderfully.  Beautifully, in fact.  You’d do it again in a heartbeat, yes you would, and you encourage everyone to do the same.  Stick it to The Man!  Or something like that.

Go.