blakspring

Because Ron Russo is a teacher at my school, we’ve been pretty careful about keeping our relationship under wraps.  When we first started seeing each other, I had only been recently separated and didn’t know if this would become something long-term.  The last thing I wanted was to have gossip, whether by faculty or students, going around the school about us.  Now that we’ve been together almost a year and a half and having a baby, I figure all will be known soon enough.  When we return to school in September I will waddle in on that first day with my big belly, no doubt surprising almost everyone, but until then I’d like to go into summer vacation keeping this whole thing fairly quiet.

Only a few of our coworkers know about our relationship, and those are the coworkers that we also consider friends and see outside of school.  And only three of them know about the baby.  Between having gained very little weight in the last four months and constantly camouflaging my belly by always carrying books or papers in front of me or pushing my book truck around, our baby girl has been surprisingly easy to hide.  As for the relationship itself, I think some people suspect something but no one (other than those few friends) has any actual proof.  Of course, that doesn’t stop the gossip.

In terms of students, the younger ones are pretty oblivious to anything because they’re just knuckleheads but the seniors (who thankfully have graduated last week) and some of the juniors seem to have their suspicions.  Before we started dating, Ron Russo used to stop by the library all the time.  He once came in with his guitar and serenaded me while the kids got wide-eyed and giggled.  So it’s not surprising that the most popular theory is that Ron Russo has a major crush on me which is not reciprocated.  He’s actually had students giving him pickup tips, one student even offering to teach him Polish to get brownie points with me.  After last month’s senior/faculty softball game, when we took the kids out for food, some of the boys approached him and kept trying to get him to ask me out.  Aaah, if they only knew.

But the kids are kids, their attention spans are short, and all their focus is now on summer vacation.  What I really don’t want is for the adults gossiping about this.  There’s one teacher in particular who spreads rumors all the time and cannot keep his mouth shut.  He will not be back next year which means if we can get through the next ten days without him finding out, we’re in the clear.

Perhaps it sound like I’m being ridiculous but this guy is something else.  He’s very creepy and I’m always expecting to see him on those To Catch A Predator shows.  He’s already asked other coworkers about us, and he often asks me questions about my divorce and other aspects of my life.  When I once told him that D and I are on good terms, he proceeded to tell me about how he and his ex-wife continued to have sex even after their divorce.  Then he looked at me as if expecting me to tell him a similar story.  A few weeks ago he actually asked Ron Russo, “Are you and the librarian still on good terms like you used to be?”, implying that he knew we were together.  Ron Russo simply told him No which this guy took as meaning that we broke up, which is totally fine with me.

My last day of work will be next Wednesday. I will tell my principal the news a few days before that. I will also tell my athletic director so she she can start looking for a new volleyball coach, since the season will coincide with my last two months of pregnancy.  I will be big, tired, constantly peeing, and going to the doctor often.  Last season there were days when I wouldn’t get home till 9 p.m. if we had a doubleheader, completely exhausted.  So I can only imagine how worn out I’d feel this time around.  And if this kid decides that she wants to come out three or four weeks early, then my girls are left without a coach and that’s not fair to them either.

So about ten more days and I can let my belly loose.  Oh, sweet freedom.

Between the fact that it was my fourth time in Amsterdam, the weather was still cold and rainy, and Ron Russo not owning a camera nor caring much about documenting every moment of our trip, I took very few photos in the city itself.  But I just had to capture this cool Van Gogh mural outside the central train station:

Next to our hotel was a large store which sold clothing, furniture, and housewares.  Or at least that’s what I saw displayed in the window since Ron Russo refused to step foot in it on account of the name (and the fact that I threatened to photoshop him next to the name):

What really excited me about this trip was that we did two side trips outside of Amsterdam, so that I finally got to see what the Netherlands is truly known for, namely tulips, windmills, and clogs.  Our first stop was the gorgeous Keukenhof Gardens, only open two months out of the year.  Since it had been a cold spring, the gardens weren’t in full bloom but still beautiful nonetheless:

Slavic cultures scare their children with the Baba Yaga, a witch who lives in a hut standing on chicken feet.  I almost fell over when we came across it in the gardens:

The next day we went to Zaanse Schans, a sort of Dutch Colonial Williamsburg.  I had expected it to be cheesy but it was actually pretty cool.  (Though the cheese shop was cheesy since it was wall-to-wall cheese that made me wish I was a cheese person like Ron Russo, who elbowed his way through a gaggle of Russion grandmas to get to all the samples.)

The highlight of the town are the windmills, which have been preserved in their original state:

Each windmill produces a different product like oil, mustard, or pigment for paint.  Going inside was quite the treat, to see the various gears and whatnots working:

I really enjoyed the clog factory where we watched a pair of clogs get made in three minutes using special machines (as opposed to about three weeks the old-fashioned way):

Of course the three-minute clogs were very basic, unpainted with no frills.  The exhibits in the clog factory not only showed the history of clogs in Dutch life and culture but also unusual ones, like these clog rollerskates and iceskates:

And then there were some uniquely decorated ones like these “Dutch Fisherman Fantasy”:

Ron Russo won’t admit it, but I know they were his favorites.

My procrastination reaches all new heights as I finally put up photos from Paris, almost TWO months ago.  (With the Netherlands hopefully soon to follow.)  I figured everyone has seen postcard-perfect pictures of iconic Paris so I will try to go a different route and find the quirky.  Do you really want to see another shot of the Eiffel Tower:

Probably not.  But this was my first time climbing and I’m so glad I did.  The views were amazing and the workout I got from all those stairs was not too shabby.  But I really loved that there were various “exhibits”, images of the tower from yesteryear, and this fake elevator operator:

One of my favorite spots in Paris is the Rodin Museum and Garden.  Since Ron Russo and I had recently been in the Philadelphia Rodin Museum, we skipped the indoor museum itself and strolled through the gorgeous garden which has numerous statues.  There is also a lake with a lovely view of a derriere:

Then on to underground Paris, to the catacombs, where I hit Ron Russo with 300-year-old bones and released the Bubonic Plague on us:

But lest we get too dark and dreary, here is some fun stuff, like this French version of Operation:

And what is probably the creepiest advertising campaign for Orangina - sexy, bikini-clad animals like a giraffe and this zebra:

But it was at the Pere Lachaise cemetary where we snapped Ron Russo’s favorite photo.  While looking for the graves of Jim Morrison and Richard Wright, we came upon this unfortunate fellow:

Now you can think about your own name and realize that it’s really not bad.

I had him for a week and now he’s somewhere in the NYC sewer system and I have no idea what happened.  A few days ago I noticed that he was very lethargic, sort of floating around near the top of the bowl but not eating his food.  His fins looked raggedy, which made me more nervous because I remember this happening to my bettas in the past.  By the next day he looked worse and seemed to have a clear film forming on him.  The next morning he was dead, floating vertically, bent in half, covered in more film.

Ron Russo did some research, looked at photos online, and his diagnosis was that Fishstick had some sort of fungus, though we couldn’t find any information as to the cause.  I did everything the same that I always did with my previous bettas.  Was he sick already?  Could I have prevented this?  Do I have a black thumb when it comes to pets?

I’ll probably get another betta soon.  And fingers-crossed, the next one will thrive.  But if this happens again, you might find my fishbowl on ebay.

because I want this kid to murder me in my sleep in about 15 years.

Seriously, none of you need to worry.  I’ve got more sense (and better taste) than that.  This baby will not be named Kid, Human, Person, Tot, Fetus, etc.  I will also not go too far in the other direction with a name like Yo Xing Heyno Augustus Eisner Alexander Weiser Knuckles.

I just wanted help with a fish name.  And so far it’s between Pez and Fishstick.  So, unless there are any other suggestions, it’ll be one of these two.

PS - Just found out yesterday that it’s a girl.  (The one in my womb, not the one in the fishbowl.)

Since I’ve lived my whole life in small apartments, there weren’t many pets in my past.  And the few that I had probably could have used some better names.  My only pets as a child were two parakeets.  The bright yellow one I named Sunny and the blue/green one with the fluffy feathers was Fluffy.  You’d think at age eleven I could come up with something better, but there it is.

In my “adult” life, I’ve had a chinchilla…named Chi Chi.  Yeah, very original.

I also went through a few bettas, aka Siamese fighting fish.  The first one I named Banana because I had mistakenly thought that bettas were Japanese fighting fish and I was reading a lot of books by Banana Yoshimoto at the time.  The second betta was Killer; I don’t remember why.  The third betta was Banana Killer.  There may have been a fourth betta called Banana Killer II.

I have been petless for about three or four years now until yesterday:

.

.

This little guy needs a name…and I should probably not be the one to name him.  I need suggestions, please.  Help me name my new baby before he ends up as Fishy.

Yeah, I know, you were expecting photos of the Eifel Tower and tulip gardens.  And I promise I will get my lazy butt around to those soon(ish).  But for now, you get a conversation that I had with Ron Russo one day in early March:

You realize that you jinxed yourself.

Why?  Just because of the April Fool’s Day from last year?

And you were Juno for Halloween.

Oh yeah…

Face it, you got yourself in trouble karmically.

Actually, I got myself in trouble spermically.  Duh.

So, um, no April foolin’.  I got myself knocked up.  Baby blakspring due to arrive in early November.

I guess this Halloween I can be Juno without the pillow tucked under my t-shirt.

I am finally going through the Europe pictures so I should have some up soon!

In the meantime:

• finally had my first banh mi, aka Vietnamese sandwich - which was AMAZING.  Why have I never eaten one before?
• took Ron Russo to see Million Dollar Quartet, his first Broadway show (and got Folsom Prison Blues stuck in my head for three days)
• watching The Biggest Loser makeover episode.  What is it about makeovers that fascinates me?  And why do I love to eat while watching this show?  (Ron Russo calls it perverse)
• cannot wait for the Massive Attack show next week.  I’ve wanted to see them since the early 1990’s.  And Martina Topley Bird is opening.  (swoon)

Spring is in the air and I’m feelin’ good.  I hope you’re all well too.  In case you need a laugh (and who doesn’t), my friend Broc turned me onto this hysterical trailer for The Shining as a romantic comedy. It is too funny:

Shining trailer

PS - having trouble embedding the video directly in the post, so click on the link.

People, I am alive.  It was a full two weeks and I’ve never had an illness drag on for so long but finally it’s over.  In the meantime I’ve done about as little as a human being could possibly do and the last thing on my mind was going through the photos I took in Paris and Amsterdam.  I will try to get to that sometime this week but in the meantime one of Mel Heth’s posts reminded me of something that happened in Paris that I had forgotten completely.

The hotel that Ron Russo and I stayed at in Paris was called Mr. Bed City, located on the last stop of one of the metro trains, pretty much off the map.  It was no-frills, barely bigger than my living room, with a bathroom so tiny that I could pretty much stretch my hands out and touch two walls.  Not that we minded very much because the whole point of the trip was to get out and enjoy Paris, not hang out in a hotel room.

The first day when we got there we took a very long nap, and with the six-hour time difference my sleep cycle was completely thrown off.  I woke up at 2:30 in the morning unable to fall back asleep because my brain was convinced that it was 8:30 in the evening.  About half an our later Ron Russo also woke up and we lay there in the dark, talking, and tossing and turning.  Other than the occasional sound of our voices it was completely quiet.  Then, at about 3:15 AM, we heard a noise.  The single noise turned into multiple noises and for about the next half-hour or so we listened to a headboard banging, and a woman whose vocal range went from high-pitched shrieks to animalistic guttural groans and everything in between.  In the dark and somewhat disoriented we could not even figure out where it was coming from.  At first I was convinced it was from the opposite wall, then it seemed above us, then above us and one room over, until finally Ron Russo put his ear to the wall right behind our heads and said, “Umm, I think they’re next door to us”.  I too put my ear to the wall and it’s as if I was right in the room with them.  Eventually the monkey sex stopped and we finally fell asleep too.

The next night I woke up about 3:00 AM as my body and brain still had not adjusted to the time change.  I tried to go to the bathroom quietly and not stir too much but Ron Russo still woke up a few minutes after me.  So again we lay the dark wondering when we were ever going to fall asleep and stay asleep when, at precisely 3:15 just as the previous night, the headboard banging, screaming, growling, and moaning started up.  It was so loud and intense that the only thing I could think was what the hell is happening in there?  After about five minutes of lying there and occasionally giggling, Ron Russo turned to me and said, “You know what?  She must be getting it in the ass.  Why else would she be making all that noise?”.

People, you know how everything just seems more intense and surreal at night?  So here I was in the middle of the night in Paris in crappy little Mr. Bed City, I am half out of it because I can’t get adjusted to this time zone, and like clockwork there is butt-fucking going on in the room behind me.  I started laughing hysterically which made Ron Russo laugh which made me laugh even more so there we were lying in the dark laughing our asses off.  And I guess if we can hear moaning and groaning from across the wall, they can hear laughing and giggling because all of a sudden everything went dead quiet in the other room.  The fornication apparently ceased and finally Ron Russo and I had nothing to laugh about.  Eventually we fell asleep, and when I woke up the following night at 3:00 in the morning (thankfully the last night of broken sleep), not a sound was to be heard.

We never did find out who the noisemakers were, but we were eyeing everyone in the breakfast room suspiciously.  Maybe Paris really is the city of love.

These last nine days have been a health nightmare for me.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt so horrible and recovered so painfully slowly in my life.  I spent most of last Thursday in bed in my hotel room in Amsterdam hoping that my flu-like symptoms would go away.  The next day I felt worse and spent the whole eight-hour flight back wearing my winter coat, furry hood on my head, and covered by a blanket.

Since getting back to NYC, I’ve basically either been on my couch or in my bed.  I tried going to work on Monday but had to leave before the day was over.  Drove straight to the doctor’s office only to be told that it was a virus and I just had to let it run it’s course.  In the meantime, the cold turned into a full-blown sinus infection.  My face felt like someone punched it, the pressure on my cheeks so intense that I started to think the bones in my face would cave in, and my teeth felt like they would fall out.

Woke up the next day and realized I could not go to work.  Besides, during the night, my eye had started crusting and leaking fluid till it was sealed shut.  People, I managed to give myself pink eye by rubbing the horrid virus into my eye somehow.  This was confirmed by such experts as Little Sister, a teacher at my school, and (finally) my opthamologist.  Yes, I am breaking down.  I have no strength when I get home.  Dishes are stacking in the sink, laundry is piling up, my hair is in serious need of shampoo, and most nights I don’t have the energy to turn on my laptop.  Ugh.

Today I finally feel somewhat better (though my throat took a turn for the worse) and perhaps I will recover by Monday.  I’m used to being sick about three, maybe four, days and then quickly bouncing back.  I don’t know if this is some mutant super-virus from Europe (in which case we may all be doomed) or if it’s the temperature changing back and forth so much.  Perhaps it’s a curse put on me for hitting Ron Russo with 300-year-old bones in the catacombs of Paris.

I promise, after I recover, I will never use a tibia as a weapon again.