Anne Nahm

Today’s embarrassing confession: Unresolved Guy Issues

Ever have one of those days where you just realize that your adolescent insecurities are kicking your thirty-something butt?

Like you hear yourself stutter, or giggle in octave High C , and somewhere deep inside what is left of your Big Girl Brain, you think, “whoa! I haven’t done that since summer camp 1989. What’s up, self?”

Like, yesterday, when I said to my doctor, “hey, I live like a calendar year away from your office. And I don’t want to keep hassling you guys if this is just a little sinus infection. How ’bout next time I have a problem, I just go see my local doctor?”

And the doctor gave me a little confused smile and says, “Oh don’t worry about that, it’s not a problem for me. See you in two weeks then?”

And I giggled? Because I thought that was charming? You know how he totally thought I was concerned for his well being and not for the whole-day-eating trip I had to make so he could look at me for 20 minutes and give me a grab bag of medicine. And lots of those meds may dry up my breastmilk, but I’m evidently going to take them anyway because that is what good patients do. And hey, didn’t I do a great job of standing up for what I wanted with my grown up voice?

Except nope. Hi, I’m Anne and I have a problem with authority figures.

I started this post to tell you about how later, on the drive home? I did a really stupid thing: I ran over a curb and got my car stuck. Yes, quit laughing, I know, on a curb. On a curb, in a semi-abandoned parking lot, in a strange town, with no cell phone, and no AAA. Stupid, no?

A postal worker saw me do it. She leaned out of her window and said, “I don’t think you can drive yourself out of that.” And though kind, she must have assumed I was both deaf and learning impaired, because she said it about 10 times over the course of 3 minutes while I inspected my car from the outside.

I asked her if she would get behind my wheel and drive in reverse while I pushed. She told me she wasn’t allowed to do that sort of thing. Then she told me she didn’t think I could drive myself out of that. Maybe if I used my jack and jacked the car up, but then it might hurt the car to drive off the jack…

The postal worker also then said that there was a tire shop right next door and the guys there could probably help me. Because she didn’t think I could drive myself out of that.

K thanks, Postal Mistress. What do you think? Can I drive myself out of that? No? Ok, then I’m going to walk over here now and ask some people for some actual help.

At the office of Steve’s Wheel & Tire, I said, “I just did something really stupid to my car.”

And the gentleman looked at me with infinite kindness and said, “there is no ‘stupid’, there are only accidents”.

Which made me bawl like a little kid. And on that note? You want to make a group of men run in circles to fix things as fast as they can? Use a woman starting to cry, a room full of mechanics, and a car that can be easily fixed. Just sayin’.

Three mechanics followed me to my car and fixed it. They did so and then they refused to take any payment. Then they all gave me hugs and sent me on my way. I told them I would tell all my friends how awesome they were. One of them hugged me again and kind of begged me to stop tearing up because everything was really, really going to be ok, ok?

So if you are in Buellton, California? And you need some kind of car service? I most highly recommend the Zen masters of calm and niceties at Steve’s Wheel & Tire.

But also back to my point (did I have one? Maybe.): Twice yesterday, I was in situations where I felt like a stupid and incompetent girl, and the best arsenal in my defense was nodding, smiling, and crying.

And I’ve been sitting here for a while now, wondering what the follow up statement is to that. I don’t know what else to say, but it’s time to go pick up my daughter. I’m not sure this is a good thing to talk about, but I know I’m sweating like a monkey just thinking about it, so it meets my basic qualification for hitting the publish button.

Basically, there is part of me that is still about 5 years old. I don’t see it much, but when it is exposed, I feel helpless to act my age. And that feels really icky and out of control.
Anyone else out there come to the realization that you had a big weakness in your ability to act like a grown up? If so, what did you do to start fixing it?

Whoo-hooo! Aunt Flo came to visit a week early. She rode a crimson wave right into town. The husband and I saw The Departed last night. That scene where Jack Nicholson comes out of the back room up to his elbows in blood? I could totally relate. I kind of get that weird, incoherent look on my face when that happens too. Hey Jack, call me! We’ll pop Advil and bitch about cramps.

I’m very glad to not have to wait the extra week to be in the clear. Then this morning? I dragged myself out of bed, fumbled under the bathroom sink, and was met with this:

Certainly I would remember using the last tampon, no? That is not the kind of thing a girl who likes to be prepared forgets. And yet, I live in a house where the only other post-puberty person is a man. I almost asked him if he knew what happened to the last tampon. But after careful consideration, I decided that I was 99% sure he would (rightfully so) look at me like I was crazy. And on the off 1% chance that he did know? Well… I could go my whole life without needing hear that my husband was using tampons. Even if it was for something super macho, like changing the oil in the car.

I’m choosing to believe we have a Tampon Gremlin.

Good news is that the insurance did decide cheekbone implant removal was covered. So Christmas is back on at the Nahm residence!

For all those curious about whether I have cheekbones anymore, the answer is kinda. It doesn’t look much different than it did before. My face looks more like a little kid’s face now without the more prominent cheekbones. But if I press hard on my cheekbone with my finger, I can feel a groove in the bone where the implant was. I guess silicone eats into bone over time. I’ve already had great fun grossing several people out by grabbing their fingers and making them touch it. Whee!

On the downside, it seems I probably have another infection somewhere in that noggin of mine, likely cheekbone extraction related. Am driving down Monday to see the doctor again. Just really hoping the doc didn’t leave a surgical sponge in there or something.

The husband is (naturally) weeping over what is likely another sentence of 10 to 14 (days) in the latex pokey. This makes it about 40 days in the last 50 that we will have to use the dreaded condom because of antibiotic use. I swear, if his wiener has to do any more time in the little rubber suit, he’s gonna get himself a gold chain, a blunt and a bitchin’ hook for his prison rap. He’ll pour a tall boy into the gutter for all his spermies that never made it to the cervix.

And finally, thank you for your encouragement on the ads thing. Hopefully the husband can get them up this week and I can start making two shiny pennies a month.

Hi! Here’s what I’ve been doing since I saw you last:

1. Wishing I had not divulged pregnancy nervousness, so I could just lie to you and say, “holy crap, was I ever drunk when I made that last post! How embarrassing.”

And you could say, “oh Anne, you crazy drunken monkey! You sure do say some wacked out things when you are on the sauce.”

Or better yet? Wishing I could just suck that whole post back into my brain. Thanks for being nice to me when I act like an ass. Also? Thinking about all the nice things you said and wondering if I can pay you back in kisses. Is that wrong?

2. Visiting this web site. And before you click there? Kiss your family and loved ones, as they will likely miss you. Also, prepare to grow moss under your ass whilst shaking your fist at the screen and cursing. I am on level 18. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

3. Running until I have completely crippled myself. The running? It has never worked for me in the past. But then Julie suggested it. And as I am easily suggestible, I read through her links and found myself thinking really dumb-ass stuff like, “Ok, yeah, wow… Run slower? That’s a really good idea! And you say, keep running as slow as you can? Effing brilliant my friend!”

Until the next morning, (and to be quite frank, like 4 mornings after that), when I woke up needing assistance to get myself out of bed. Uh, sore much Anne? Then I was not thinking it was such a brilliant effing idea.

But on the fifth day? When I could sit without squealing like a pig? You bet your sweet ass I started running again. So, just in case you are wondering, running is evidently not related to even marginal intelligence or anything.

And To Round Things Off With An Embarrassing Confession:

Before children? I had flat nipples. Playboy centerfold nipples, if you will. After the first baby? They became Farrah Fawcett nipples. Not like tiny bananas on the end of my boobs or anything, but definitely different than before. Especially if you exchange the word ‘different’ for ‘tiny bananas’.

After the second baby? Well let us just say that on more than one occasion, someone has walked in front of me while I lay on my side and the only body part that has been stepped on? Nipple. That’s how far they stick out, people. Can you imagine me on a cold day? I could poke your eye out.

The downside of this(if you consider the first an upside at all, which is totally debatable)? I have to make sure both the ‘headlights’ are going in the same direction before I go out. Otherwise, it’s like a lazy eye or something – the guys never know which one to look at when they talk.

Hi! Here’s what I’ve been doing since I saw you last:

1. Wishing I had not divulged pregnancy nervousness, so I could just lie to you and say, “holy crap, was I ever drunk when I made that last post! How embarrassing.”

And you could say, “oh Anne, you crazy drunken monkey! You sure do say some wacked out things when you are on the sauce.”

Or better yet? Wishing I could just suck that whole post back into my brain. Thanks for being nice to me when I act like an ass. Also? Thinking about all the nice things you said and wondering if I can pay you back in kisses. Is that wrong?

2. Visiting this web site. And before you click there? Kiss your family and loved ones, as they will likely miss you. Also, prepare to grow moss under your ass whilst shaking your fist at the screen and cursing. I am on level 18. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

3. Running until I have completely crippled myself. The running? It has never worked for me in the past. But then Julie suggested it. And as I am easily suggestible, I read through her links and found myself thinking really dumb-ass stuff like, “Ok, yeah, wow… Run slower? That’s a really good idea! And you say, keep running as slow as you can? Effing brilliant my friend!”

Until the next morning, (and to be quite frank, like 4 mornings after that), when I woke up needing assistance to get myself out of bed. Uh, sore much Anne? Then I was not thinking it was such a brilliant effing idea.

But on the fifth day? When I could sit without squealing like a pig? You bet your sweet ass I started running again. So, just in case you are wondering, running is evidently not related to even marginal intelligence or anything.

My year anniversary of blogging is coming up next month. I was getting ready to expound about how much I’ve learned from this whole writing thing and how I’m not as much the anxiety-riddled person I was a year ago. And so yay blogging, blah-blah-blah.

Except, on that point? I am still sucking ass. I mean, an anonymous blog, on the anonymous internet, and I still having failings of my guts to say what I think without trying to pretty it up and dumb it down and make it palatable for whoever might breeze by and feel free to pass judgment. And also, despite getting nothin’ but love from you all.
I guess if I were looking back at a year’s worth of paying for therapy, I’d be really pissed.

So without further adieu, out all these ugly thoughts go, not prettied up at all for your entertainment, but hopefully for my sanity so I can later go put on my mom face and be palatable to the real world. Enjoy!

Stupid Things Cluttering Up My Head That I Didn’t Want to Tell You.

1. After a month straight of wearing the Jim Hat due to antibiotic usage and surgery, there was one day after being antibiotic-free and before birth control pills kicked in that the husband and I were real stupid. The kind of stupid people usually are on 90210 Prom Special. You know, Brenda did a bad, bad thing.

And now I get to feel stupid for at least the next two weeks before I can go take my test, thank God, and have a glass of wine. And just having to turn my mind to the fact that at the age of 31, I am still having potentially life changing bouts of irresponsibility (and melodrama as well) makes me want to drop a dime on myself to the Parent Police and strongly suggest they come and revoke my Adult Card.

2. I’ve been thinking about putting up advertisements. You’re not even reading this yet – I just typed that sentence with my delete button on standby for emergencies – and cringed at my seat. I actually hallucinated someone whispering “Wear the scarlet letter, you advertising whore!” And also? “Crap on toast, get over yourself already. No one cares except you.”

Seriously. Maybe it’s time for medication.

My mom worked when I was a kid. When I was growing up, I thought that I would be happy being a mom because I knew how important it was. I love my mom, but I’m not like her. She was driven to do things. I was warm and snuggly with a need to do nothing. And I knew from an early age that the hand that rocked the cradle ruled the world. And that is who I wanted to be.

But as I enter my 4th year of mothering, I am finding there is no place for my demanding/needy/aggressive side to play. Putting up ads takes who I am and what I do, and it gives it a dollar amount. I can look at it whenever I want and say to myself, “someone thinks what I do is worth that. And if I work harder, I can see that my value has gone up by X in the past Y amount of time.” And I can curse and cry and gnash my teeth if it goes down and I can cheer and puff out my chest and brag to myself if it goes up. And my kids can watch me do this, but they can also walk out of the room with no penalty while I’m doing it.

If I don’t find a place to exercise all my hard, zero-sum, ass kicking thoughts, I am afraid I will turn them on my family. And then it will suddenly be important that they make all As in school, or that they are the next Tiger Woods or something. And if that happens, I might as well start buying them therapy on the lay-away program.

And as a last point, making two quarters a month with some advertising is something that is easy to walk away from. I won’t have to worry about being the mom who says, “oh honey, get yourself a band-aid, OK? Mommy has to finish this first.”

On the down side of advertising? All that annoyingly meta stuff about being a sell-out. And I wanna say, hey man, I’ll never sell out! I’ll never hawk a product to make two extra pennies! But I suspect greater than I have said similar and fallen further. I guess if that starts happening I’ll have to pull the plug and start over.

And the last little fart of a thought on the whole deal is that I feel terribly territorial about this space, and so I’m not sure I want to share it with anyone at all. So perhaps if it feels intrusive to me, it will have to go.

And Holy Crap, Anne! Meta much? Enough!

3. When I got pregnant with the three year old, I ended up in therapy (guessing that is no surprise to anyone at this point, huh?). The therapist suggested to me that I think about what I had told her, and to see what I thought after I had sat with myself for a few hours. I did not point out that it felt like she was putting me in Big Girl Time-Out, but it did.

Naturally, I protested. I said that I was afraid if I let things out to examine them, I could never get them stuffed back in.

She said to me, “you are an expert and keeping the cork in. You will not have a problem corking it up after you have looked at it.”

Which was true. Kind of.

Also, when I got pregnant with the three year old, my mother started telling me what my childhood had really been like. For example, when I was childless, she told me that there were 4+ years between me and Middle sister because at the time, that was what the child developmental specialists recommended as the optimal time between kids. (Pretty nerdy, huh? Genetically speaking, I am like a dork to the fourth power) Something about every kid being an only child, blah-blah-blah.

Later, she said that was true… But what was also true was that she had such bad post partum depression that it took 4+ years to get back to the place where having another child was even remotely palatable.

As an adult child, I am not sure what I think of this. I am glad for the knowledge now that I am a mother who has been depressed. But I’m not sure she did the right thing by telling me one part of the story first and then another part later. Maybe she should have stuffed the second part.