santosha: a peaceful kind of happiness in which one rests without desires.
Day three: today I worked on my etsy account (didn’t get too far) and updated some things. I read, had lunch, surfed myspace and ran more errands. I picked up Cheeto’s first bottle! It felt like a momentous activity-buying his first bottle and taking it back to the apartment. There have only been visiting baby bottles in our home, none that took up residence. The bottle deserves some recognition.
Driving home I thought about the strange new excitment we have in our lives but was quickly distracted by a small silver car tail-gating me down the street. As we came to a stop sign I looked in my rear view mirror, and yes-the driver was plucking her eyebrows. Plucking, as in-tweezer in hand and everything. Seriously, I thought: she must not value her eyes all that much. I was half tempted to honk. Since I got busted by a photo radar with cheeseburger in hand this last April, I rarely multi-task and drive. However, I’ve never participated in the infamous act of grooming in my car. Seeing her sent me on a trail of thoughts: where does the plucked hair go? where was she going that she needed to pluck like right now? can anyone be THAT busy? what does someone that busy do for a living? how would she explain smashing into the back of my car or someone else’s after being seen plucking? I could imagine that scenario in talking with my auto insurance company: “yes, I saw her..her car rolled into mine, I honked..but she was plucking her eyebrows..”
After I got back, I emailed one of my best friends. I told her that I was still waiting for someone to stop me and say, “hey you, you can’t have a kid..(insert random immature reason)” I also told her that I realized today that I’ll be living with two males. TWO. I grew up in a household with no less than 5 males and one other female at a time. I was severly out numbered. I spent my childhood watching Rambo, Rocky, Predator and other action movies on repeat. I had to cram my girlness into the corners of our family life. For years I believe my father was in denial that I was a girl as he taught me to smash cans, change oil, hook worms, gut fish, cut weeds and other things that did not spell dainty, fresh or feminine.
My uncle staged an intervention when I was probably 10 or 11. He caught me standing by the fridge, eating out of an ice cream container with a mixing spoon. We, I mean he, had this nice chat about how despite my thinking otherwise, I was a girl and girls did not, I repeat did not eat with mixing spoons for any reason. I think I dressed like a girl, but there were times it didn’t quite occur to me that other girls were doing different things. I didn’t get into glitter, barbies, pink and gushing until middle/high school.
So, I will be living with a baby boy and Michael. And well, I still intend to take up both bathrooms with toiletries. I believe that is the cornerstone of the battle: whomever has control of the bathrooms wins. The dvd player, well I’ll take that one on later.