trolls

Ever since I found out that I was losing my funding, my job has been a clusterf*** of business managers and voicemails and administrative assistants and paperwork and training and grants. I'm thrilled to be employed, but I have had to fight tooth and nail for this shit.

I thought I had finally worked everything out about a month ago, when I weaseled my way onto another grant so that I could be gainfully employed until my new job is effective when I come back from maternity leave. There was just this little problem with getting paid. Or not getting paid in my case. Some hosebeast in charge of doing the paperwork has been draggin' her feet, so I have been working for free for this grant for about a month now. She finally got around to it Friday. Just in time for me to get a letter saying I had been denied FMLA benefits because I didn't have enough hours in the last year to qualify.

W. T. F.

So because some jaded pencil pushing troll couldn't be bothered with emailing my business manager an account number (yes, that's all she had to do), I have been denied an additional six weeks of job protection. And apparently admin and HR are immune to sobbing pregnant ladies and snarky emails. Bureaucracy and red tape shall not be rushed.

Nothing has sent me into a rage more often during this pregnancy than trying to figure out FMLA benefits. You'd think that I'd have a pretty good handle on it, considering I'm getting a Master's in Public Health with a concentration in Maternal and Child Health (someone should complain to my program director; I really should know this stuff). Apparently the first six weeks after you have a baby is just to guarantee you've had enough time to practice not pissing yourself in public following the assault on your nether regions. The next six weeks are just for additional "bonding." Nevermind breastfeeding. That's not important. And nevermind that "bonding" increases self-efficacy in new mothers, decreasing the incidence of postpartum depression and improving future secure adult attachment in their new infant. It's really only for people who can afford to stay home and engage in self-indulgent baby snuggling. Thank you federal government. Thank you for indulging the selfish whims of new moms. But only selfish moms who have worked a collective 1250 hours in the 52 weeks prior to pushing out the baby.

Anyway, as it turns out, my hours will count retroactively, so as soon as the HR leprechauns give the account parchments their blessing, I'll be eligible for the full 12 weeks again. It also means that I'll get like, two months of back pay in one paycheck. I think I'm going to use it to help jaded pencil pushing troll move out from under her bridge. Sunshine will be good for her.

Nine years in eight pictures.

omg who let these babies get married

I had written a post about our nine year anniversary that was trying to be all sentimental and introspective, and then I deleted it, mostly because sentimental and introspective don't suit me. I don't wear them well, like skinny jeans (but damn if I don't try).

Instead of that, I've decided to do a greatest hits post. Like when sitcoms have episodes where they play all the funniest parts of the show in rapid succession. It's overstimulating and makes you foam at the mouth a little. So submitted for your approval, some of my favorite moments of the past nine years. But mostly just things of which I happened to have pictures.

No beard?

Mitch is dressed as Elmo. He agreed to be Elmo at our friends' kid's birthday party. This was the moment I realized I could procreate with him, since he clearly has no standards. Maybe no dignity. He doesn't have Elmo hands, but rather regular gloves on, because the costume rental place lost them. Some kid at the party had an aneurysm upon seeing him, since her parents didn't believe in TV or something, so fun with Elmo ended early. This kid's parents also didn't believe in immunizations, climate change, or women learning math.

I think I spy some peach fuzz. Nope, wait, that's just some stray Old Bay.

One of our most favorite places on the planet is Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. My dad always curses me that I didn't marry a Lingo, the real estate mob family of the gayest beach in the First State. Mitch's favorite place in our favorite place is Lazy Susan's, a crab slaughterhouse with newspaper covered tables. Mitch happily massacres crustaceans while I, having been a vegetarian for most of our trips there, mourn the loss and judge the styrofoam plates and cups. I think this photo perfectly captures my sentiments. And my super cool hemp and seashell choker. I'm going to bring that shiz back.

Still no beard.

So we got this dog and named her after a TV show. She was kinda wimpy, so one day we were walking downtown, and stopped in one of those cute little overpriced doggie boutiques to buy her a sweater. I picked out that really snazzy one you see featured in this photo, put it on her, and took the tag to the counter to pay for it. SIXTY BUCKS. Mitch almost divorced me on the spot. But alas, it was already on the dog and out the door. Plus look at her. It makes her look so classy. Now we own neither the dog nor the sweater (custody has been transferred to my brother), but at least we have this really awesome photoshoot to help us remember it. We used shots from this as our Christmas card photo that year.

BEARD! This is apparently when Mitch stopped caring.

At some point during our marriage, I lost my mind a little. I was like, minutes from shaving my head and beating SUVs with an umbrella. I sold all our shit on craigslist and moved us across the country. During the trek, I made us dilly dally all over the Corn Belt and Tornado Alley, stopping at every national park and historical site we could find (This is some battlefield in Oklahoma. Or Texas. Not really sure). We're in a death match with some friends of ours to see who can get the most National Parks stamps in their passport book. I'm not really sure what the winner gets (a bunch of wasted vacations?). We agreed on the terms too long ago to remember. Anyway, we finally made it back east just in time to move in with my parents and run out of money. I like living on the edge.

Beard AND long hair. I think he's trying to get me to leave him. Not gonna work!

We went to Guatemala for our fifth anniversary. We almost died getting to our first hotel because we got abandoned at the airport, had to hire a shady cabbie who drove us to the beach and made us get in a creepy motorboat in the middle of the night, and then upon docking said motorboat had to get in the back of an unmarked van to drive the rest of the way. Had we died, we might have won Darwin Awards. The next morning, I clambered out from under the mosquito net to peer out the window at the beach, and started yelling at Mitch to get his lazy ass out of bed. There were sea turtles on the beach!!! He yelled back at me to put my glasses on. Sure enough, the majestic sea turtle was actually a trash bag full of horseshit. Later that day we saw a wild dog rolling all over our sea turtle.

He has totally given up.

Mitch had knee surgery. He was freaking out so much before the surgery that the nurse pumped him full of happy juice just to shut him up. Boys are such babies. Then I asked the surgeon if we could write a thank you letter to the family of the dead guy who gave Mitch his ACL, and the surgeon called security to have the dirty hippies removed from his office.

Maybe our baby has a beard.

And of course, the greatest hit of all. BAM. We made a baby. I know I skipped a bunch of stuff, like Portugal, raising chickens, vocal cord surgery, and putting together Ikea furniture, but the past nine years have been far more exciting because I found an amazing man who can grow an amazing beard. He lets me do stuff, and doesn't judge me for it. I'm a pretty lucky gal.

We had a good run...

So Maybe's back. Apparently my brother wasn't allowed to have pets in his house. This also means we get to keep the crap-tastic humping bunny. My brother swears up and down that this is temporary. He'll take her back as soon as he finds a job. And an apartment that will let him have a dog. And roommates to help him pay for said apartment and that also love tiny snarky dogs.

It hasn't been so bad having her back, considering that now we don't really give a crap whether the dogs get along or not. All the training went down the tube the second Maybe crossed the threshold into single dog-hood. So we're just not even trying. We do shock the bejeezus out of her every time she attacks Buster in his cage (believe it or not, we were able to refrain from posting the $300 shock collars on eBay), and it's still satisfying, but frankly it's not a means to an end anymore. The means is her leaving and the end is us going back to having one (happy) dog and someone else having the other (happy) dog. I'll be making regular sacrifices at the altar until my brother meets aforementioned goals.