I Swear To God, I'll Burn Down Your House (A Client Vent)

I need to take a moment to vent about something totally unrelated to babies, baby-making, or baby paraphernalia.

This vent is about reading minds. Which is apparently a skill I'm supposed to possess, according to my newest client.

So, the guy wants a needs assessment (or NA for short, because the medical field LOVES acronyms). An NA is essentially a document saying "yo, physicians suck at x, y, and z. They need more education, so hand over your cash and we'll make it happen"

NAs happen to be "my thing." They require you to compose an argument (and I happen to be the Queen of Arguing - just ask my sister about the traumatic Scattergories games we used to play growing up). And then they require you to find information (or twist it, if you're REALLY good) to back it up.

I give the guy 3 examples of NAs I've written in the past. He says, more or less, that they're perfect. He sends me 2 examples of NAs that he would like this new needs assessment to resemble. They're pretty straightforward - a few paragraphs on pathophysiology and economic burden, a couple of identified gaps in knowledge, a few more on why the target audience needs to know this shit, and a wrap-up statement.

No problem.

He says, and I quote,
"I would like to get one on ACS.
Please note that I am more a fan of getting straight to the point and limiting the background information on the disease state, since I have been informed that information is preaching to the choir. So ideally a needs assessment we are looking for would not exceed 3 pages."

That's it.
No more direction than that.
No, "hey, could you focus on this" or "make sure to include [insert important study here]"
Not even a fully spelled-out "acute coronary syndrome"
Just ....ACS.

Okay.
No problem.

So I do the research.
I identify some gaps in knowledge.
I take my time and compose what I think is a pretty stellar needs assessment.


He takes a skim on Friday and tells me it looks good.
And I'm thinking, Awesome. My new client is happy.
I commence partying like a rockstar.
I buy a Rolls Royce, roast a goat in the living room, and do a few lines of coke off of a hooker's ass.
(okay, it was really Milo's ass)

And then...he emails me this morning to criticizes a bunch of things about my NA, including (but not limited to):
1. It's too long.
I guess by "3 pages" what he really meant was "less than 3 pages". I just....WTF....
2. It's telling the grant reviewer information that he or she would already know.
Hey, buddy, your two examples included 2-3 paragraphs of background information. MY NA included 2-3 paragraphs of background info. If you didn't like those NAs, WHY DID YOU GIVE THEM TO ME AS EXAMPLES?!?!? Again...WTF. If I wasn't pregnant, it'd be cocktail hour right about now. Aaannddd your house would probably be on fire.
3. I didn't mention a particular trial.
Umm, didn't know I was SUPPOSED to mention a particular trial. You see, what happens here, is if you WANT an article by Banihashemi 2009 in the needs assessment, you generally have to request it. Turns out, there are A LOT of articles about ACS in the world. Like, tens of thousands. Possibly hundreds of thousands. Since I was only limited to "3 pages" (which is apparently new client code for "less than 3 pages"), I couldn't include all of them. Funny how that works. Douche.
4. I didn't address the comorbidities of ACS.
Again, when all you give me is, "I want a needs assessment on ACS," I'm not going to necessarily know which aspects of ACS should be included. I didn't happen to find any gaps in knowledge related to comorbidities, so I didn't include them. Next time you want me to read your mind, you might want to fed-ex that handy telepathic helmet that you have lying around your office. Because I'm fresh out.

There were a few other criticisms that I won't go into. One was relatively justifiable, although I consider it minor and part of a learning curve that comes with writing for a new company.

But honestly, I just don't get people sometimes.
I'm a relatively smart, moderately educated individual with 8 years of experience in this industry. I'm excellent at following directions.
I'm not sloppy, lazy, or forgetful.
My writing may not be perfect, but at the end of the day, I'll do my best to write what you want me to write in a way that is clear, concise, and audience-appropriate.

But to expect me to read your mind is flat-out ridiculous.

Of course, there's only so much of this I can include in response to an email like that. Defensiveness and excuses are generally viewed as undesirable, no matter how justified they are.

I told the guy that I didn't know he wanted a few of those things, but I'll go ahead and make the changes to try to get it up to par.

As frustrating as it is, it's the nature of the job.
Writers, despite the valuable skills they bring to the table, are generally regarded as the low man on the totem poll. ESPECIALLY in the medical field (where being female and not holding an advanced degree pretty much puts you in the serving class, right between the landscaper and the dude who walks the dogs). True, I may not be able to perform brain surgery or explain the pharmacokinetics of the latest Alzheimer's drug. However, I am employed because those people who CAN perform brain surgery and explain the pharmacokinetics of the latest Alzheimer's drug? ...Yeah...they barely know how to spell their names, let alone put together a research paper.

And still, I smile, grit my teeth, and pretty much have to say "yes, sir, may I have another." Because that's how things are.
So I'll fix this mess. I'll apologize profusely and hope that this new client still continues to use me (because a PITA client is still better than no client at all).

But at the end of the day...it's always wise to treat people well.
You never know who is this close to burning down your house.

:-)

Like Picasso, But With Sausage Toes

Whoo, boy, am I in a mood today.

Of course, there's no real reason for it, other than for some relentlessly annoying Facebook posts I read this morning, coupled with a heavy dose of pregnancy hormones and a lack of proper caffeinated beverages.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. Your baby is adorable. Your life is awesome. The song lyrics you just posted indicate that you are incredibly deep, and the quote about knowing who your REAL friends are suggests that you IN NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM invite drama into your life.
Marvelous.
Do us all a favor and die.

(Well, I warned you I was in a mood....)

What I need to do is just stop reading facebook without a strong coffee/prozac cocktail. Or maybe stop reading it all together, but then what would I DO with myself all day, other than watch TV marathons of The Millionaire Matchmaker and practice my knitting. Oops, I mean work.
Riiiiiiight.

So anyway...
I've been painting the nursery.
Which doesn't sound particularly exciting, except for the fact that I got overambitious this summer and decided to do a mural of Where The Wild Things Are on the walls. Mostly because I've always wanted to paint a mural, but also because painting the walls is way cheaper than buying crap to decorate a nursery, and this girl is about as cheap as a pair of Lucite platform sandals these days.

Now, I'm not going to show you the whole thing (because it isn't done yet, and my time machine is currently on the fritz), but I'll give you a sneak peak.

Here ya go...

Isn't it awesome?
I think I really captured the pain of being a Wild Thing in that chicken-turned-pedifile's eyes.

pppppffffftttttttt....BWAHAHAHAHAH
Okay, I'm kidding.
I didn't paint this mural - I found it when I was doing a Google search.

It turns out some teacher named Miss Renee painted this mural in her school. And I'm not saying it's bad, but personally, if I made a cake, and it fell in the middle, and then it crumbled and the crumbs got all in the icing, which turned out to be the most hideous shade of green, and then I dropped it on the floor, and then I picked it up and it had cat hair all over it, and then a hobo walked by and dropped a deuce on it, I PROBABLY wouldn't post that shit all over the interwebz. MAYBE I'd just admit that, although I'm most likely a lovely person, I'm not that really good at baking, and should spend my time on other hobbies.

Possibly.

Just sayin'.

But this picture was kind of my worst nightmare. Because I've never done a mural before, and I didn't know if I could pull it off, and I'd feel just awful if my hot mess of a mural ended up scarring my kids for life (as Miss Renee's kids undoubtedly are. Sorry Miss Renee, but your mural is the thing nightmares are made of).

But, as it turns out, I'm not half bad at it.

Here's a sneak peak (sorry about the poor quality pic and lighting - it's darker than Ann Coulter's soul in that bedroom):



Anyhoodle, it's going well.

But painting while pregnant, I've discovered, has its own challenges.
Like, for example, when your belly gets in the way and literally knocks a paint can over. Or, when you're trying to paint these tiny, exact lines, so you hold your breath to keep the paint brush steady, and you end up almost passing out because you're only getting 60% of the oxygen you're supposed to be getting on a good day.

And the sausage toes.
OH, THE SAUSAGE TOES.

Apparently my blood stopped flowing sometime around Easter. So when I stand for a long period of time (meaning 5 minutes or more), all the blood pools in my feet. Not only does that cause me to sometimes pass out (which I've discussed previously and is a TOTALLY AWESOME way to get to know your cashier better), but it also causes swelling of the feet and ankles.

Painting a mural = standing for a hella long time = sausage toes of epic proportions.

So that sucks.
(BTW, did anyone else notice my font just changed for no reason?!?! WTF is up with that?!?! Google Booger, EXPLAIN YOURSELF!!)

And then I get all tired and achy, and I have to go lie down to "recover" from painting for a whopping 25 minutes.
Needless to say, it's going slowly.

But I'm happy with the way its going. Plus it's keeping me busy, which is GREAT for Brian, because it means I leave him alone to play his video games. Whoops, I mean brew beer. Whoops, I mean work on the house.

And of course, it soothes my GO NEST, MOTHER F*CKER urges. Which are huge (and foul mouthed), and cause me to make lists and show them to Brian to prove that WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME and HOLY SHIT WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?? and I SUDDENLY REALIZED WE HAVE COBWEBS EVERYWHERE - HOW DID THEY GET THERE - DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!!!!!

(yeah, I'm a real picnic these days)

So that's whats been crack-a-lackin' this weekend.
True, it's not as exciting as when I used to spend my weekends mountain biking (and subsequently face-planting into dried up river-beds), but when your activities are limited to all things sedentary, painting a mural makes for a pretty wild time.

And speaking of wild times - I'd better wrap things up here and start my day.
Work is calling, and somewhere, someone has posted a snarky political status update that I have to internally rage about for a few hours, before leaving a sarcastic comment and swearing off Facebook forever for the next 10 minutes.

Death By Root Beer

So, I'm pretty sure we're going to kill our kids.

Not on purpose or anything...but it seems inevitable. ESPECIALLY after last night's incident. I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say that we had the beverage-equivalent of hand grenades exploding in our fridge.

It seems we found the only flaw in attempting to make home-made root beer. And by we, of course, I'm referring to my husband, who has been dabbling in home brewing for the past two years or so.
The beer he makes?
Delicious.
The root beer?
Equally delicious, but also deadly, FYI.

I heard this giant CRASH in the kitchen yesterday, and came running in to find nothing wrong other than a bit of brown liquid oozing out of the bottom of the fridge.
And then I opened the door.
...which led to me being accosted by a TSUNAMI of home-grown bubbly as it frothed freely past my ankles and on to the kitchen floor.
...which would have been like something out of a fairy tale (who doesn't dream of floating down a lazy river of some type of carbonated beverage?), except for the shards of glass that were bobbing in the wake.

Yes.
Brian's home-made root beer turned out to be more like sweet, refreshing molotov cocktails of over-fermented yeast and hyperactive carbon. The explosion - and there had been only one at the time of my opening the refrigerator door - took out a shelf and the two crisper drawers. There was sticky brown resin and shattered glass everywhere.

I took one - LONG - look at the mess and promptly went out to inform my husband that HIS root beer had gone all rock-star-in-a-hotel-room in MY refrigerator, and that SOMEBODY *hint hint* needed to clean up the mess.

This was about the time we realized that the one exploding bottle was not a fluke, as I had originally assumed, but more like a prelude of what was to come. Needless to say, after the next bottle went whizzing past Brian's nose, a hurried evacuation of all things carbonated quickly occurred.

I tackled the fridge, while Brian was left trying to figure out how to deal with the remaining ticking time bombs. In the end, I'm not sure how he did it, but I'll tell you at one point I looked outside and I saw him wielding a brick and holding a trash can lid like a shield.

Sometimes it's better to just not ask questions.

So the fridge is now clean, albiet with significantly less shelving and drawers with which to crisp vegetables.

The exploding root beers have been "taken care of," which is pretty much all I want to know about the situation.

Needless to say, there will be no more root beer making in this house - unless the government wants to purchase our newly developed secret weapon.

And now we're left to ponder whether we're suited to raise not one but TWO children, or if this whole pregnancy attempt will end with a visit from Child Protective Services and a warrant.

Just your average Wednesday night in our household...

Aches and Pains and Diabetic Cats, Oh My

Allright, so I haven't been blogging much lately.

I've been busy, Okay?!?

It takes a lot of time and energy to gestate these kids.
Which - might I add - are growing bigger by the day, and are causing all kinds of aches and pains. Like round ligament pain, which is the clinical term for yo' ligaments can't hold yo' giant-ass stomach up, fatty, and foot pain, which is the result of tendon relaxation that causes your foot to increase at least a half size FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, PEOPLE.

And then there's the swelling, which is happening....everywhere. And I mean everywhere. My fingers look like cocktail weiners, I'm developing cankles, and my nether-regions look and feel like someone just junk-punched me.

Kind of like this...but without so much claws.

But I'm not complaining, because the little dudes are healthy and happy. And, if I'm not mistaken, are in training for their first mixed martial arts tournament. There's nothing weirder than seeing your stomach pop because something just roundhouse kicked you in the spleen.

But what else is new?

Not much.

The cat was recently diagnosed with diabetes. Which means that she needs daily insulin shots now. Which kind of defeats the purpose of HAVING a cat, because they're SUPPOSED to be low maintenance. I'm all WTF, why do you have diabetes??, and she's all Give me my insulin shots, bitch, and I'm all, no, I can't be bothered, and she's all then Imma drink 100 gallons of water and pee all over yo' floor. So now I have to give her wet food every morning, which is pretty much like kitty crack, and she gets all up in my bidness and I have to make sure I don't trip over her and kill myself and my unborn children. It's ridiculous.

The house is in shambles, which is nothing new, but we've seemed to have reached a new level of shambleness now that we've started (but not finished) every single home project that was on the List Of Stuff To Get Done Before The Kids Get Here. The hubs sanded a bunch of wall spackling last night, and I came home from teaching riding lessons to a house that looked like it had been through the Pompeii eruption. Again. (let's not mention The Great Circular Saw Incident of 2010). EVERYTHING in the living room, dining room, kitchen, and hallway was...or should I say, IS....coated in a fine layer of dust. And of course, I had to have a breakdown because I'm all pregnant and emotional and I happen to like being able to eat off my dining room table and sit on my couches. Whatever. I'm glad the projects are underway...it's just going against every nesting instinct I have, which, BTW, kind of feels like fingernails against a chalkboard. Just...yanno...FYI.

But not major complaints, I guess. I obtained a new client this week, so work will inevitably pick up and I won't have to wake up in the middle of the night worrying that we'll lose the house and have to resort to Plan B (which entails camping out on the median of our favorite shopping plaza for quick access to Cozi, Borders, Cold Stone Creamery, Smoothie King, and a great Indian restaurant). Or Plan C (which involves zombies and is therefore unlikely). The bills are paid, all household residents are healthy, and we've had a glorious respite from the hot, humid weather that we typically get to enjoy all summer long in NJ.

So on that note, I'll leave you folks to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while it lasts.

Nesting: The New Crack

Please excuse me for my recent lapse in posting.

I've been in my own version of hell, which people adorably refer to as nesting.
"Ooohhh" they say, as you describe your recent assault on all the closets in the house, "You're NESTING." And then they give you this knowing smile, as if you've just discovered the secret to life, but you haven't really noticed that you've discovered the secret to life, because you're obsessing over the next Container Store sale.

You want to know what nesting really is?
Nesting is the inability to see anything good in your house.
It's being able to see every flaw, magnified times a zillion, and the inability to do anything about it because you're not supposed to lift it/pull it/scrub it/breathe it in. Nesting is the Simon Cowell of home ownership. But there's no zany Paula to make everything okay, just your retarded dog who is scooching his butt across your bedroom carpet.

Kill me.

I've never been so anxious in my life. Puberty was cake compared to this. College exams pale in comparison. Job interviews don't hold a candle to the nerve-jangling agony of suddenly realizing your kitchen is comprised no less than 4 different wall colors, two different cabinet finishes, and a refrigerator that insists on going clackity clackity clackity and OH MY GOD WHAT WILL THE BABIES THINK?!?!?

And nobody really cares but you. You'll find yourself complaining about your husband - your perfect husband, who has nothing but the best intentions and would do anything to make you happy - because he fails to see the importance of cleaning out the attic before the twins get here. Because GOD FORBID the babies come home to a cluttered attic...they might decide to call Child Protective Services.
Or worse - maybe they won't come at all! Maybe they'll REFUSE to come out until you whip this booby-trapped nightmare of a house into something that resembles a respectable family dwelling. They'll just stick out an arm with a hand-written message of their demands, and then bunker down while you're left swiffering behind the couches and washing the windows at 146 weeks pregnant.

Oh my god, I'm having a heart attack.


Of course, my sister reminded me that perhaps it's not me, but the hormones speaking. And I was all, aaahhh, those crazy hormones. They got me again! Good one!
But knowing that the hormones are making me feel this way isn't making me stop feeling this way. It's just confirming my suspicion that I am, in fact, Krazy With A K.

I've tried meditating.
I've tried knitting.
I've tried yoga and long walks.

NOTHING is helping. It's like an itch I can't scratch.

Somebody hand me my support hose and the environmentally-safe, non-toxic cleaner.
It's Go Time.

20 Weeks: I Just Threw Up, But You Should See My Sweater Monkeys

I hit the 20-week milestone this week, meaning that 20-ish weeks ago, my eggs took a field trip to a petri dish to meet the donor of the other half of my sons' chromosomes.

Isn't it romantic? Like something out of a fairytale :-)

20 weeks means that I'm halfway through this pregnancy. And I'm thinking to myself, I'm ONLY half way??? Because if I continue to grow at this rate, I'm going to need my own zipcode by August. I've told the boys I'll hold out 'till 37 weeks, but after that....it's war.

Last one out sleeps in the closet!!!

Fortunately, by 20 weeks, I've started to get the hang of this whole 'pregnancy' thing. I'm no longer confused by the loss of my belly button or the creepy smiles I get from strangers in the grocery store, and I've mastered the art of keeping a straight face while people tell me the horrible things I'm about to experience.

But for those of you who are considering getting knocked up...I'll tell ya - pregnancy is BEYOND weird. It's a lifestyle. One that chains you to certain habits and patterns, otherwise you'll A) throw up, B) pass out, or C) totally fuck up your kid(s) forever.

So here's a list of DOs and DON'Ts I've learned so far. Read them carefully - you might be in my flip flops one day (because your shoes won't fit), and then all of this will really sink in.

DOs and DON'Ts of pregnancy:

1. DO sleep 14+ hours per day. Not like you really have a choice. These kids will suck the energy out of you like a leach on a hemophiliac. But you can either fight the urge and spend your days miserable and on the verge of narcolepsy, or you can just sleep. Whenever you can for as long as you can. In you car...on a park bench...in the supply closet at work...it doesn't matter. Just sleep. Trust me, the people around you will appreciate it when you don't burst into tears/hysterical laughter/a cursing spree every time Bangkok Palace forgets your eggroll.

2. DON'T attempt to canoe past 15 weeks. I learned this one from experience the other night. It SEEMED like a good idea. But getting in was a struggle - kind of like getting a killer whale in one of those transport hammocks. And I couldn't really enjoy the experience because I had to pee. And my butt hurt. And I felt like my insides were getting pancaked. And the rocking of the canoe made me slightly nauseous. All in all, the trip was a failure, and I won't be stepping back in that green death-trap until I'm back in control of my body again.

3. DO speak up if you're about to vomit and/or pass out. Not much of a puker? Never passed out in your life? Well get ready to experience the joys of both. Pregnancy is riddled with puking and passing out. Every skipped meal...every car ride...every shopping experience....is a puking or fainting incident waiting to happen. I, personally, almost threw up and passed out on the check-out girl at REI, a riding student, and my ultrasound tech. And that was just within the last 30 days, people!! So stay hydrated, eat regularly, and stock up on "I'm sorry" cards, because you'll be writing them to all the people you vomited on, just before sandbagging them on your trip to the ground.

4. DO go for the double-roll. Worried about what you're going to have to spend on diapers? Don't worry - you're probably spending almost the same amount on TP. I know everybody says that you pee all the time, but seriously, you pee ALL THE TIME. Expect to get REAL FAMILIAR with the tile patterns on the bathroom floor, because you'll be spending more time in there than any other room in the house. This is coming from someone who used to pee twice a day, max. So make sure you stock up on jumbo rolls of TP, or you'll run out every 3 hours, and you'll have to do that waddle-with-your-pants-down-at-your-ankles to retrieve a new roll from the linen closet. And if you think you couldn't become any LESS attractive to your spouse, try having him walk in on THAT spectacle.

5. DON'T try to squeeze in those non-maternity jeans. Even if they fit 5 days ago. Because in those 5 days, you might have expanded 3 inches in the waistline. And if you insist on wearing them, you might A) throw up, B) pass out, or C) totally fuck up your kid(s) forever. Swallow your pride, and rock the elastic waistband like everybody else.

6. DON'T plan on breathing. Apparently the extra progesterone in your body causes your lungs to become desensitized to carbon dioxide, and relaxes the muscles. This causes shortness of breath. Which is a clinical term for SOMEBODY PLEASE GET THIS DAMN ELEPHANT OFF OF MY RIBCAGE. Later in the third trimester, the kid(s) actually squish your lungs, making them less effective. In other words, don't expect to get a full breath after week 15 or so. Oxygen's overrated, anyway.

7. DO expect your nails to grow fast. Like, REALLY fast. Like, you wake up after cutting your nails the night before, only to find that they've grown a full 2 inches, and you suddenly think you're Wolverine from the X-men, and you quickly leap out of bed, ready to start slashing shit, which causes you to A) throw up, B) pass out, and C) totally fuck up your kid(s) forever. No, you're not Wolverine. You're pregnant, stupid. Get up, pick the carpet out of your face, brush your teeth, and cut your nails again before you hurt yourself further.

8. DON'T forget to enjoy your ginormous breasts. Especially you formerly small-chested women out there (A cups represent!!). Huge sweater monkeys are one of the few GOOD side-effects of pregnancy, so throw on a low-cut top and shake what yo' mamma gave ya! Well....what your pregnancy hormones gave ya!! Just make sure you strap those puppies down if engaging in any bouncy activities (but who are we kidding, if it doesn't involve sleeping or eating, you're not going to be doing it anyway).

I'm gonna stop there. 8 is a nice, round-ish number, and I actually have a work deadline to meet today.
Plus, I'm kinda worn out from all this blogging.
Time to pee, take a nap, and catch a few good breaths before I A) throw up, B) pass out, or C) totally fuck my kid(s) up forever.

Toodles