The co-dependent baby

They say for every good alcoholic there's at least one co-dependent in their lives.

My co-dependent's name is Jackson. He lives in my uterus and he won't leave. My body wants him to come out because it's been having contractions for many, many moons. Jackson, however, is not willing to vacate his happy place. His comfort zone. His place of enormous personal growth.

(breaking for contraction)

I've been contracting since 5pm. They have not become stronger. They are not closer together. They are not getting longer. They come about every 7 minutes just to piss me off and interrupt a viewing of the Chronicles of Narnia. They also interrupt my attempt to blog.

What brought on these contractions? Nothing. They just come when I'm having a good day and I'm enjoying not being in labour. See, now that we've gone beyond when I went into labour with Gutsy, I've accepted that the Spawn of Maven is never emerging from his pod deep inside my womb. Therefore, I've been going on about my life as best I can. The nesting instinct is huge right now. Today I sorted the boys' clothing in the following ways:

- Removed all summer clothing from Gutsy's and Intrepid's dressers.
- Put cold weather clothes in
- Placed clothing that is too small for Intrepid in a box for Gutsy
- Placed clothing that is too small for Gutsy in a box for InUtero Boy
- Sorted through another generous box of clothes for InUtero Boy from the Wailing Bros, washed and put away most everything

Then we went for a hike in the hills.

Then we came home and cleaned out my van, top to bottom.

Then we went inside and I did more laundry.

Then we ate dinner.

Then I started contracting.

(breaking for yet another contraction)

Come to think of it, there may be a teeny, tiny, iddy, bitty chance that I was busy enough to start these contractions. You know, the whole folding of laundry thing might have set them off or something.

I wonder if my doctor will be happy or upset that I went walking on a nature trail at nearly 39 weeks pregnant? I'll leave out the rocks and the mud and the roots. I could tell her it was cobblestone or something, if it'll make her not hit me with the blood pressure cuff.

I'm rather proud of me, personally. The other nature trail enthusiasts were probably a bit taken aback by a walking orca (I was wearing black and white today - quite stylish, really), but I'm sure it gave them something to talk about over tofu surprise later on. The important thing is that, as winded as I was, I could still manage it. It felt great! I should do that every day.

Or, um, not. But every week until this baby comes, anyway.

We still need to buy this boy a stroller. I wonder if that's what is holding back the birth. Maybe psychologically I feel he can't come until he has a stroller. I have a sling and a Snugli, but am not sure how to work the ring sling just yet. My subconcious could be keeping the contractions to a minimum until it's certain I won't drop the poor guy on the floor of the Old People Mall within the first week of his arrival.

Must get a stroller. Then I'm sure my hooha will open up like the Great Canyon...

(another *$#^@%! contraction)

...*ahem* sending the hatchling shooting out into the world. In five minutes, of course. Nice and quick, just like the other births *cough*

Edited to add: Not bad, eh? That entire thing only took me three seven minute intervals, or about 21 minutes to write. Proof that I have mad typing skillz, yo.

Want an update?

Too bad. That would involve me having something to update about.

Everyone's asking me when this baby is coming out. I should just start telling people when I don't think he'll be born, because that will most likely be the day. It makes perfect sense: first, I thought he was a girl (until I realized on ultrasound day that my little princess was packing quite a penis). Then, I figured I was in labour two weeks ago to the day, only to discover that I was dehydrated and my uterus hates me. In the last two weeks I've had maybe a day or two when I haven't wondered if this is the day, including this afternoon, when I winced about every five minutes as my belly hardened like a rock and sent shooting pains into my back, then gradually went away. It was great fun.

So, as you can see, I'm so intuitively flawed this time around that I think a perfect stranger's guess would be better than mine. I should start randomly asking people on the street when my baby's due. Maybe I'll get a better idea.

No matter. I made today a good one. While Gutsy terrorized his teachers at preschool - to the point where they needed to talk to me upon pickup, oops - I had a coffee and breakfast sandwich with a side of Friday morning newspaper, followed by a haircut and a quick shopping trip to get some pyjamas and the most amazing slippers ever. Seriously. It's like sex for my feet. At least one part of me can have sex easily these days.

I also swung by to pick up Intrepid's newly repaired hearing aid. Horray! It's been incredibly loud in the house for the last 2.5 weeks. He can't stand wearing only one aid, so when the other is out of comission his naked little ears come out to play. Nothing like two boys who can't hear well spending a lot of time indoors on rainy days. The television, the keyboard, the playing, the fighting, the laughing, the singing, all so, so loud. Add in that I'm a miserable, pregnant tortoise right now and it makes for many more grey hairs in my thirty-year-old mane.

We don't just want a bigger house for the space. We want a bigger house for the noise reduction. The more square footage, the easier it is to seek shelter in one corner of the home while the decibels bounce off other walls on another floor somewhere. Pure bliss. I can't wait.

I have a KitKat waiting for me upstairs. Did you know it's the most popular chocolate bar in the world? Did you know there was an entire show on Discovery dedicated to its conception and marketing? Did you know only losers like me would actually watch that show with great interest, not once, but twice? Did you also know that, while I would love to boycott Nestle due to their awful formula marketing in third world countries, I simply can't resist a KitKat or Coffee Crisp on occasion and that I'm doomed to a life of bad karma because of it? Nestle the formula maker = bad. Nestle the chocolate bar maker = Irresistable to bon-bon eaters like myself. Bad, bad Maven. Shame on me and stuff.

Confession is good for the soul. Now it's time for chocolate. Everybody loves the chocolate (note the resemblance to yours truly in my current condition).

The good, the bad and the Snugli

Which Nigerian spammer are You?

My dream of becoming a Nigerian spammer has finally materialized. Oh, happy day! This falls on the same day that Dr. Phil had a show entirely dedicated to Nigerian scams and the scammers and scammees who make it all possible. Apparently about $100,000/day is taken out of the U.S. by Nigerian scams. It appears the stupidity of Mr. Dubyah is starting to ooze its way out of the White House and into the drinking water of lonely/horny/greedy citizens. Imagine people like that being victimized. Shocking!

I've been in my pyjamas since 5pm, when I walked in the door with bags full of artery-assaulting McDonald's and two tired gremlins. Here's a rundown of my day:

7:30am

I leave the house and make my way through the Tim's drive-thru. It's just me, some 80's hair bands playing on a CD mix and a lot of commuters. Tims has finally come out with a breakfast sandwich. Not bad, but a little heavy on the fat. It's not the egg, cheese and sausage I'm complaining about, but the biscuit type thingy it's on. Still, it kept me satiated for a good few hours.

8:30am

I arrive at the hospital (and quickly jump into the one preggo parking spot left) for a critical appointment with the chief OB. This was the deciding moment: armed with the surgical overview of my cesarean and a requisition form from my doctor, I will hopefully get the green light to have a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean).

Naturally, the OB was late - he was performing a cesarean, irony of ironies - so I was asked to give a urine sample (?), had my blood pressure checked by the nurse (?), the fetal heart rate as well (?), oh, and to please get undressed from the waist down and sit in the chair with a blanket over me until the doctor arrived (???????).

Why, exactly, I would need to be half naked to speak to the doctor about a VBAC is beyond me. Why, exactly, he would need to examine me when we're supposed to be talking about my previous births and making a decision is, again, beyond the scope of my feeble mind. But I did it, and waited 45 minutes in a cold, faux leather chair reading french fashion magazines and drinking now lukewarm coffee. I also sneered in disgust at all the Ross Laboratories 'gifts' provided to the hospital obstetrics ward; nothing like pushing your formula by offering free stuff to doctors dealing with new mothers, right?

The OB came in and spent five whole minutes with me. He said I was good to go for a VBAC. However, the catch is that the labour cannot be induced in any medical way, as it can increase the risk of placental abruption (which is a bad, icky thing I'd rather avoid, thankyouverymuch). So, I either go completely au naturel, or I get cut open from ying to yang again and a baby is extracted through my stomach. Talk about black and white.

Still, that's good news. Now this baby needs to decide he wants to come out, fairly quickly, painlessly, and without the need for interventions. Obviously he should accomodate me, as I'm his mother. It's not like I'm asking a lot of him.

9:30am

I finally leave the hospital and come back to pick up Gutsy. We head out to Mrs. Wailing's house for our scheduled weekly visit (it's not really scheduled, but we pretty much go over every week). She had yet another box of adorable baby clothes for the gestating spawling, a baby bath and a Snugli, among other things. We had a nice time, ate a yummy lunch and listened to more classic Fleetwood Mac on the Kiddy'corder. I've also nearly memorized an entire Baby Einstein animal video, as it played in my peripheral vision about six times before we realized it was on repeat.

12:45pm

I leave the Wailings' abode and head out with Gutsy all the way back across town to pick up Intrepid at school. It takes about half an hour in good weather and it was pouring rain out. Fun. Then we head back out towards where the Wailings live because this is where their speech therapy is. Ironically, their therapist lives about two minutes from our place, yet we have to go all the way out there to work with her. The powers that be like to make fun of me. It's because I'm such a colossal bitch, so I just grudgingly accept it.

3:00pm

Run, run, run through the pouring rain and back into the van. Now we get to head downtown for Intrepid's piano lessons. I love traffic!

I need to brag a little now because it gives me something to focus on other than the fact that 'stay-at-home-mom' doesn't suit me in the slightest these days. I'm anything but 'at home'. I'm a 'haha-you-wish-you-were-at-home-mom'.

Intrepid is apparently an exceptional pianist (I still laugh every time I say that word out loud. I'm so five.) We've known since he got his hearing aids and started taking interest that he has some musical talent, but he's brought it to a whole new level, it seems. He just started taking private lessons this month after doing two years in a stage band with no formal training. His teacher has been begging us to get him some lessons, and with the in-laws' help we've been able to do that this year.

He's now - get this - learning first year university musical theory and soaking it up like a sponge. His teacher said he's never taught this to someone so young. He went so far as to say that Intrepid will be teaching him piano in ten years at the rate he's going. He also managed to get him a second lesson per week with a classical piano teacher until November for free. Intrepid met with her today for the first time and she admits she had a hard time keeping up with his experience level. That's my boy! This is all due to my exceptional parenting skills and superior genetics, so feel free to send me congratulatory cards, flowers, etc.

All that being said, he's still learning how to play well with two hands and needs to work on his fingering (Teehee! Piano is a perverted instrument). He has a lot left to learn, but I'm so darn proud of him!

Incidentally, Impossible Mom had the ovaries to refer to him as 'gifted'. Then she laughed because I'm sure she could picture my face contorting in disgust at the sheer thought of labels being place upon my child. Sorry, my hearing impaired child. My hard of hearing child. My differently-abled child.

Shudder.

5:00pm

We arrive home. We eat. I snooze. The gremlins play. Geekster comes home. Life is good.

8:15pm

The Madre calls. She's going into rehab. I keep telling her to lay off the smack, but she won't have it. She likes the waif look, apparently. Says her clothes fit better and it makes her eyes stand out more.

Ok, it's actually pulmonary rehab, but that sounds far less exciting than the former so I like to just say 'my mom is going into rehab' and watch the reactions. It makes my days more interesting. She's going in for a whole month as of October 10th. You know, my due date? So she kindly informs me that I need to have this baby now, or on the weekend if it suits me better. Sure, mom. I'll get right on that. I'll try and schedule him in for Saturday morning.

Then she calls back a few minutes ago and invites me over for breakfast tomorrow morning. Hmm, how... convenient. I fear it being laced with castor oil. Or maybe she'll drug me and use a crochet hook up my hooha. You can't trust this woman. She's a determined soul and she's MY mother. I have to get my evilness from somewhere and need look no further than the frightening maternal genetics afoot.

Thus concludes my day. I am now eating cookies and about to watch ER. I don't know why I started watching it again. Probably because it gives my pregnant self more time to work on the ass groove in the new couch before our bundle of horns and fangs arrives.

An explanation to my lack of posting yesterday

Wednesday's post went wayside to catch up on some sleep. Well, there was that and the fact that I wasn't in the mood to post much of anything. A dear mama on my October 2006 due date board delivered the most beautiful little baby boy who, I found out yesterday, didn't make it. He had many known (and some unknown) complications, so this wasn't completely unexpected. However, it was heartbreaking news and I felt so overwhelmed with pain for her and her family. She posted a beautiful photo tribute to him today which brought me once again to tears. He was so very precious. I can't even imagine what they've had to endure.

R.I.P., little one. May you always cast a warm glow around your parents and big sister.

I'll now go post about today. It just doesn't feel right to have it all in the same post.

Prenatal update

That's me about five minutes ago. There's a full portrait here, but it's not as pretty. It was taken in the downstairs bathroom, which is the gremlins' domain. Dirty mirror coupled with my lack of knowledge about how to turn off my new camera's flash resulted in a very icky picture. But it works.

I already posted a huge entry today, so this one will be short (this will make those who think I'm too wordy incredibly happy, I'm sure)

38 weeks and 1 day.

Fundal height: 44cm (up from 42 cm last week). She told me this quietly and with a grin on her face, then said 'Yep, another 10 pounder!' I think she was trying to make sure the women waiting in other examination rooms wouldn't hear her. No need to scare them to death.

No weight gain after a 4lb gain last week.

Cervix is still 2cm dilated, no change.

Benadryl should be taken for the itching if I really can't stand it. No need to repeat liver tests right now.

I meet with the head OB at the hospital for a formal approval of my VBAC. My doc believes he will also agree that a VBAC is the best course of action. Loosey Goosey has already birthed a 10lb 6oz baby, so we know I'm capable of doing it again.

And that's it for now. No signs of impending labour. He's too busy sharpening his horns to come out right now. Little cutie.

Tuesday, bloody Tuesday

Good Tuesday morning. I've been a bad blogger. However, no deed goes without some serious finger pointing. I would like to blame the following people for my absence:

Jobthingy: She made me have breakfast with her yesterday when I could have been here, writing out something shallow and mundane.

The Madre: Who calls every two seconds and asks where her blog is. Apparently anything I do is owned by my mother for all eternity.

The Sister: She invited me out to her place to watch a movie with her and The Madre last night. They tempted me with good cheese, pate and crackers. I'm way too much of a snob to pass that up. It's like playing a game of 'fetch' with Britney Spears and a Prada bag. BTW, what's up with her calling her son 'Sutton'? Can she even properly pronounce that name? Or is it going to sound like Suh-'in? Ew.

InUtero Boy: For having not emerged from his pod of evil yet. The pod is growing quite old and is about as stretched as it can possibly get. Pictures to come. It's not a pretty sight, though. You've been forwarned.

Thac0/Impossible Mom (I shall call her the latter from now on) and other phone friends: For calling me and asking me how I'm doing. How dare you? You take up precious blog time. But please don't think that not calling me will fix this little problem. I will grow resentful if you don't call, too, because that means you don't love me. You just can't win this one, ok?

Life and everyone in it: For generally making me tired, running me ragged and helping me have something to blame other than the fact that, once upon a time (about nine months ago) I had unprotected sex. Screw you all (with protection - I am NOT doing this again.)

So, in short, you have no one to blame but yourselves. I hope you learned a valuable lesson today, kids: pregnant women can blame anyone for anything.

There are two reasons for this:

1. Pregnant women are very good at playing victim. We may lose most of our thought process to "placenta brain", but we instinctively can still find fault with others.
2. People are less likely to smack a pregnant women for being the enraged harpy she often is. By the time we've had the baby, we're too pathetic and tired for anyone to feel right exacting the much-anticipated beating.

I should really start charging for my advice. You know, yesterday I watched the stupid Dr. Phil House or whatever he likes to call it, and I have to say that I could give much better advice than he could and would charge less for it (just enough to cover my expensive cheese/pate/cracker fetish). If you haven't been following the series, this couple is the most 'volatile' Dr. Phil claims to have ever seen. He practically stalks her, she gets restraining orders, they call each other names in front of the kids, she hurts the kids when she's angry and has had a series of affairs over their marriage. Heck, their entire relationship started as an affair.

Dr. Phil has been giving them a bit of advice, but mostly just letting them fight on camera to boost raitings. I have to admit, it's addictive to watch these two scrap it out. However, I wouldn't have been able to contain myself when dealing with these two. My simple solution would be this:

Go home and give custody of your children to relatives. They deserve better care than you give them. But, you should stay together. If you're stupid enough to do all that stuff, you deserve it each other. Wife, if you could stop having affairs that would be great. By remaining in this unhealthy relationship, you effectively take yourselves out of the gene pool. I'd like to thank you on behalf of the world at large.

I bet they'd feel better about themselves after that little bit of therapy. They could keep doing what they obviously love and I could collect my big, fat paycheque and have more idiotic people on my show who must surely know that I'm about to tell them how moronic they are in front of a large, international audience.

Dr. Phil has a sweet job.

Today is prenatal day. I get to tell my doctor how miserable I am and how this itching needs to stop, like, NOW, so I can only have sleep deprivation, contractions and a terrible outlook on life in general. Tomorrow will mark the time in pregnancy when I went into labour with Gutsy. Why do I have a feeling that this guy is going to take longer to cook? How dare he throw me off like that? Does he not realize that this pregnancy is all about me and that I'm rather sick of it right now and therefore it's time for him to come out?

Speaking of which, The Madre is on thin ice these days. She's not letting me complain. In fact, she calls to see how I'm doing and if I say much of anything besides 'Oh mother! Isn't the circle of life amazing? I just love my beautiful, full belly with the precious little life growing inside of it. And, while excited to meet him, I know he'll come in his own time and I'm perfectly content to let him sit in there and gestate longer while I knit him booties and hats' she reminds me that it's not about me, it's about the baby. She'll also bring up that she's sick and has been for years and I don't hear her complain much, do I?

Well, first of all, Madre, did you not see what I said two paragraphs up? It is about me. All about me. ME. ME ME ME ME ME ME! La la la la I can't hear yooooouuuuu!!!

...Ahem.

Also, about this 'being sick' thing. It's just your stomach.

And heart.

And, um, lungs.

So it's not like you're really sick, right? Your liver still works. Oh! And your kidneys. Yes. And you have TWO of those that are functional, even. I bet your colon's looking pretty good these days, too. Ten toes, ten fingers... I don't know if I'd say you're "sick", necessarily.

...

(I'm not just going to hell. I'm going to the sub-floor beneath hell, where they put the people who could corrupt the rest of the souls in hell with their big mouths and nasty dispositions.)

Anyway, the Madre calls me yesterday morning while I'm on my way to get a latte with Jobthingy. She starts going on about being positive and all that other smack that mothers talk (my children will attest to this). So I do what any mature, thirty-year-old woman does. I hand the cell phone to JobThingy and say 'Here, you talk to her.' Thinking that will end the nightmare.

Instead, they start laughing about me. My mother - my own mother! - informs JobThingy that I will have this baby, then breastfeed him 'until he's ten' and complain about that, too. Meahwhile, JobThingy's in stitches and saying how she should get The Madre's phone number and stop by to visit her.

Good thing JobThingy bought my latte to reduce my resentment level of her. The Madre, on the other hand, still owes me at least a coffee and some chocolate.

Alright, must run (limp) upstairs and see who called five minutes ago. I can't make mad dashes to the phone and I keep forgetting to bring it down with me. I must find someone to blame for that, too.

Oh, and fireman pics! One and two . I'm rather disappointed with how they came out. The guy is cute, but he talks too much apparently. I couldn't very well ask him to pose, because that would be too obvious. Pervent Pregnant Lady would be my new title at the firestation.

Also, one of Gutsy and a VERY bad one of the boy and I. Horrible. I look like I'm about four feet tall and my hair is a mess. But whatever. He's a cutie in it.

Blame Geekster

It's what I always do and it works well.

I was going to post tonight, but the man wants to want Syriana (I don't even know if I spelled that correctly) so I'm going to indulge him. He did do a bunch of laundry today, most of the childcare and even poured my decaf for me. He also owes me a foot massage, as my legs are swollen up like giant redwood logs.

Sooo... While Gutsy and Intrepid are in school tomorrow morning I will make a point of posting fireman pics (just for you, Sheri) and updating on our lack of baby yet. What's up with this child, anyway? Does he not realize that he only has two weeks to go before his due date? He's not actually going to make me go the whole way, is he? I might have to call him Jerkson if he does. Hmph.

Until tomorrow. I know you can barely hide your anticipation.

No updates because...

Life is just too exciting to talk about. I just don't want you to get jealous and think that you're missing out somehow.

This morning Gutsy's school went to the firestation. There was one cute firefighter. I made friends with some of the moms by making sure to zoom the new camera in on his attractive self while he was doing the tour. Maybe I can sell the pictures? I could make a black market calendar: Firemen Gone Wild, The Preschool Edition. Talk about a fundraiser!

Then, because Gutsy and I couldn't stand the hunger anymore, I got us take-out for lunch, which we ate at home. I watched three episodes of CSI:Miami with my feet up. I looked around at the mess and figured I should clean up.

In The Maven's world, should does not always equal will. That rule rang true today. In fact, "should clean up" translated into "should post a blog entry", which turned into "should stop writing because I'm too miserable/tired/bitchy to write anything coherent or in any way enjoyable" and ended up with "should take a one hour nap". My mind is like drunk people trying to play 'telephone'.

After my one hour nap (the gremlins watched cartoons and ate junk food, taking full advantage of the snoozing beached whale in the other room) I read a book to Gutsy and then called Geekster at work to inform him that taking a one hour nap in the late afternoon did not coincide well with the preparation of dinner. Thus, it was decided we would go out.

We've spent a small fortune on going out for meals lately. This is because I'm in no way interested in standing long enough to prepare food. There's no excuse other than laziness at this point. I'm a gigantic, snarly, walking contraction. Food preparation is not at the top of the priority list right now.

Since my mood has been so incredibly positive the last few weeks, I felt I should hit my Friday 12 step meeting to spread the joy and love around. I'm really nice like that. The whole meeting was better because I was there and allowed people to bask in my happiness. I'm thinking they'll be surprising me with a 'thank you' cake any time now.

More like 'Thank you for your presence, Captain Bringdown. Don't come back until you pop that kid out.'

After sharing my latest theory that InUtero Boy is actually a giant tumor of evil that has been building up inside of me for years and is destined to crawl out of my stomach and destroy the world, I left everyone in a pleasant mood and headed off to the local book store to grab a latte (pumpkin spice, soy, half-sweet, decaf, no whip) and buy a new Christopher Moore book.

Christopher Moore is the best. author. ever. The guy is so twisted that he makes me look saintly and pure - no easy feat. He's hilarious, witty and I'm putting him on my 'people whom I would do for reasons other than their looks' list. I'm just about done his newest book 'A Dirty Job' and will be jumping in to 'Lamb' after Geekster reads it. He reads faster than I do, so I buy 'him' the books and get them to myself a week later. It's a wonderful way of being generous and selfish all at the same time. Two birds with one stone and all that.

I call those gifts 'Homer Balls'. Have you ever seen that Simpsons where Marge almost has the affair? Homer buys her a birthday gift - a giant bowling ball engraved with his name. Such gifts have been given by me on occasion, such as the Best of Nirvana CD I gave Geekster for Christmas a couple of years ago and has been sitting in my vehicle ever since. Thankfully, he's wise to my ways and makes copies of the CDs before I steal them. He gets points for being a smarty pants.

Even though I'm normally perfect in every way, I occassionally have to pretend to be self-centered or a whiny crybaby or a big bitch so that others may feel comfortable around me. I don't want to alienate people by sitting next to them and making their flaws all that more apparent. It's not a very nice thing to do. Perfect people have a certain responsibility to the world that I take quite seriously.

Speaking of serious things, I was very angry this morning when a new friend of mine told me a story. She immigrated here from Lebanon with her husband four years ago. They now have a three-year-old son who goes to school with Gutsy and an 18-month-old. She's a wonderful woman who, even though she barely knows me, took me out for coffee Wednesday morning and gave me a gift for the baby. No reason other than she wanted to because she was happy for me. I was smitten with her right away. We spoke at length about their move here, how difficult it's been for her, how much she loves her family, her new country, etc.

This smart, educated and kind woman told me about a woman she met not too long ago who welcomed her to Canada by asking her what she's really doing here. 'Are you a terrorist? You are from Lebanon, which is why I'm asking'. She went on to ask why my new friend wasn't wearing a 'scarf' on her head, what it was like being Muslim and all sorts of other lovely questions. My friend told me all this with tears in her eyes. It had been a very hurtful experience for her. I told her 'Welcome to Canada, where we're so priviledged to live in a safe society that we have the option to be ignorant twits and spread our miseducation and hatred around.' Then I gave her a hug. Some people really deserve a punch in the face.

My friend, by the way, is Catholic, not Muslim. It took me two seconds to figure that out (not that I care, but the big cross around her neck gave it away). Unlike a lot of people I know, she's spent time in four different countries, knows a great deal about various religions and world politics. I made sure to tell her that she's way too good for that woman and that I'm glad she found out what an idiot she was early on'. I, in all my whiteness, may not have found out about her stupidity until much later. And then, in all my pregnantness, I may have punched her in the face. I have no time for ignorance. It impedes my perfection.

End rant.

Last thing: prenatal update time.

There's not a whole lot to update. Baby has dropped a bit more. I'm still measuring 42cm this week, but probably because his position is lower. Cervix is quite soft, but I'm still only dilated 2cm. Braxton-Hicks contractions are all day, every day. I'd like to say I'm 'close', but I don't actually think he's coming out, ever. The evil spawnling is just going to continue to get larger and larger until he envelops me in a ball of negativity and uses me as his dark force minion to rule the planet.

Until then I'll enjoy my pumpkin spice latte and play some mundane computer game. Ciao.

Leons Furniture delivery people are big meanies

Thank you, my lamb. It's nice to be here.

Hey, could you help me up? I seem to have fallen down beside you. Only my large, orange stomach is visible. Nice stretch marks, eh? All roads lead to the navel after three kids.

Today's post is dedicated to the less-than-professional deliveries supervisor at Leon's Furniture Store in Ottawa's West End. While I'm sure she's far too important to read my blog, writing this out will make me feel a lot better about the experience I had today.

I should preface by saying that we've been loyal Leon's customers for nearly a decade. Like a cheating spouse, we tend to split our time between dependable, always-there-with-dinner-on-the-table Leon's and cheap-but-easy Ikea. Their junk mail has been a staple in our mailbox. At least one small tree has lost its life so they could give us 'loyal customer' specials over the years. I don't like junk mail, but I've never complained because their service has always been good. Until today.

About a week and a half ago we bought a couch and chair from Leons to replace our old set (the first one we bought from them, back when Intrepid was a baby. They now have large holes under the cushions that have been known to eat small children whole. Now that my daycare is closed, I'm running out of expendable sacrifices, thus time to retire the old idols). We made the purchase easily and received friendly and prompt service from the sales guy. Delivery was scheduled for today, as they only make trips out to our area twice a week and were fairly booked up until now.

Yesterday someone called and confirmed delivery between 11am-3pm for today. I agreed, thinking I could get someone here for the 30 minutes I'd be gone to pick up Gutsy from preschool. Unfortunately that proved difficult, so I called them at 10:30am today and explained my problem to a guy in deliveries. He said that wasn't a problem and that he could make sure the furniture would be here between noon and 3pm instead. Wonderful!

At 11am - half an hour later - I received another call from him. Could I be there over the next 20 minutes? What now? That gave them until 11:20am. I said that was cutting it really close and that I thought they weren't delivering until after 12pm. He said 'Well, they're already on their way'. Fine, I replied, but I really had to go before 11:30. Again, I was reassured they would be there any minute, before 11:20. I hung up and waited for them.

By 11:20, no furniture. I scrawled out a post-it-note and left it on the door, saying I would be back by 11:50 at the latest, but I had to leave. I waited in the driveway another couple of minutes with no sign of them, then had to go get my gremlin.

When we returned home at 11:45, there was a note saying 'Sorry we missed you! Call to reschedule for another day' with a time of 11:25. I had missed them by five minutes. Not that it would have mattered, because they can't show up and have everything finished and papers signed before I would have had to go. There was also a rather accusatory message from the deliveries supervisor, basically saying it was my fault that I missed them, but feel free to call her back. I called her back only to get a 'sorry the guy who answered the phone didn't know our policies, but our deliveries come when its convenient for our drivers and they're not coming back to your house until Saturday'.

A long time ago, I saw a therapist who made me tell him my entire sob story of a life. After I had shouted out all the injustices I had been through, he made me write out 'I am not a victim' in a notebook 1000 times and bring it to him the following week.

I am not a victim, damnit. Especially while bitchy and gestating.

So, here's where The Maven starts to get all pregnant on this woman. It's not that I was rude, but Gutsy has taught me a thing or two about assertiveness. I told her I understood that the guy made a mistake, but that's not my fault and they promised me a delivery, so how could we solve it? She was completely uncommitted to helping at all. In fact, she was rather rude about it. So, I asked for the store manager's contact information. Her breath caught, ever so slightly, but she gave me two first names and said 'But they won't be in until 1pm'. I thanked her (it took a LOT of effort in my current state) and hung up.

Then, I did what any hormonally-enraged pregnant mother does: I called my husband at work and fought back tears of frustration at how rude and unfair this woman was. Geekster, of course, did what any husband of a hormonally-enraged pregnant mother does: he took matters into his own hands, knowing full well that if I went down there I would probably start throwing things and getting all crazy bug-eyed on the poor employees.

He got there before 1pm and spoke to a manager (not either of the names she gave me, by the way). The manager went back and forth between Geekster and the office where we assume the deliveries supervisor was. Apparently she told the manager she had called me five minutes after I had first called the store at 10:30, spoken with me and explained their policy. So basically, she outright lied and Geekster told him so. Back went the manager.

Funny how she didn't leave her office to deal with this herself. My personal belief is that you can't be a supervisor if you're unable to deal with customer complaints in a mature manner and instead must hide in your office. Then again, you probably shouldn't outright lie about things, either. Not very supervisor-ish. Not very nice-ish, either.

To make a long story short, there was nothing they felt they could do except deliver the furniture on Saturday. That in itself sucked, but the fact that she was lying made it worse. So, on principle, Geekster asked for a full refund - and got it without any argument. Leons lost $1200+ in sales and two very loyal customers, plus they had to haul the pretty couches back in from the truck with no home for them to go to. They also earned a negative rant about them on the internet, which admittedly doesn't mean much, but it makes me feel slightly vindicated.

I'd like to say 'Wow, I can't believe she lied!' but I can see why she did. This was her department's fault, and it was easier to put the blame on the customer than take the heat. What she didn't expect, however, was the wrath of a nine month pregnant woman. We are not to be trifled with. Geekster handled the situation eloquently, which is something I couldn't have possibly done, especially with Gutsy as my tag-a-long. Big props to him.

There's always a bright side: The Sister, in all her wonderful sisterness, offered to watch the gremlins while Geekster and I went to The Brick (probably Leon's biggest competitor) to shop for a new couch and chair. We not only got those, but a cute little ottoman, a protection plan, a reasonable and flexible delivery schedule and a nice dinner afterwards for about $80 less than we had originally spent at Leons.

There is a god, and he or she occassionally smiles brightly upon The Maven and her kin.

Deep Thoughts, by The Great Pumpkin. p.45:

Demand to be treated fairly. When it comes to companies, the choice is simple: if you don't vote with your wallet, nothing ever improves. It's a sad truth of a capitalist society. Large companies often forget about customer service in the name of the almighty dollar. So, if we use what they love the most against them, they're more likely to think twice and treat people more fairly the next time.

Oh, and ironically, all of this happened during Leon's Customer Appreciation Week. Thank you for appreciating me, the customer. I guess.