Lemon Gloria

Let my love open the door. It's all I'm living for.

2012-01-27T14:18:00.001-05:00

So, when you walk in the front door after work and the first thing your mother says is, "I have to talk to you about something," it makes you a little nervous.

Here's what happened.

You know how Jordan has become particularly interested in poop? Which just means that now he fits in with the rest of the family? Except Betty, who used to regularly say when I was growing up, "Can we please have no anal talk at the dinner table tonight?"

Poor woman.

So, anyway, he has.

We've been very open about all of it, in an encouragement of heading towards potty training. We let him flush the toilet, which he loves.

Now, he spends two days a week at home with my mom, plus a lot of time in the evenings and on weekends. They're tight. And typically, at least in our house, if it's just you and Jordan, you leave the bathroom door open when you go in.

It's just safer. Because Lord only knows what he'll get into left to his own devices.

So that particular day, Jordan ambled on into the bathroom and said, "What are you making, Nana?"

This is his new thing. What are you making?

As it turned out, she was engaged in an activity of supreme interest to our little friend. And so he marched over, pushed her forward on the toilet, exclaiming, "Move! I want to see!"

He wants to see the poop come out. I am not kidding you.

So Betty said, "You know I would do anything for Jordan. But this is just beyond what I can handle."

It's beyond what any of us really want to handle. So now, here's what you have to do.

You wait until Jordan walks out of the room. And then, making sure he's not looking in your direction, you scurry towards the bathroom, closing the door behind you. He can't yet turn the handle.

Sometimes it all goes fine. But sometimes he walks back in, notices your absence, and he suspiciously inquires about it. If responses are vague, he makes a beeline for the bathroom door.

If he finds it closed, he bangs. He wails, "What are you making?" Bang! Bang! "I neeeeed to come in! OPEN! I NEEED TO COME IN!"

His distress is palpable. He's pretty singular of purpose and hard to distract from this endeavor.

It doesn't help that the spectators in the house are supremely amused by the whole thing. Who wants to be laughed at when you have a serious objective?

So far, it's only at home, and guests are exempt. Let's hope he grows out of it before it gets all awkward and we have to warn his prom date or something.

So if any of you have suggestions on how to smother the little voice in your head

2012-01-26T17:25:00.001-05:00

I know I'm an ingrate in that you all said such nice things on my last super-angsty post...and I've not yet thanked any of you for it. Thank you. I'll comment back soon, I will.

I mean, not that you're on pins and needles. But I want to. I just...haven't.

It's been one of those crappo weeks that claws at your self-esteem from multiple angles. The kind of weeks were if one weren't pregnant, one might go home at night after work and open a bottle of wine and sit in the corner and swill the whole damn thing. And do it again the next night. Which I don't think I've actually done since I was single, now that I think about it.

It sounds pretty good to me, actually.

Anyway.

Tuesday started with a fight with Nick, and then turned into a day in which my abilities at work were called into question even though it was a misunderstanding and not something I hadn't actually been on top of and I just felt fucking miserable all day long. Even if I don't love my job every minute, I'm a first born rule follower. I get my stuff done. If people think I'm doing a bad job, I feel like shit.

Wednesday began at the midwives with MY WEIGHT. The nurse didn't even have me pee first!

You know how last time I didn't let them tell me how much I weighed? And it was just a big surprise at the end?

This time I thought I'd grown (personally, I mean) and that I could take it. But no matter how many times I tell myself YOU'RE PREGNANT, I still cannot take the numbers in stride.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

I've now hit the weight I was freshman year of college. When I spent most of the time sitting on my dorm room floor, crying, eating chocolate, and not being able to fit into any clothes but sweats.

Weight gain for me is inextricably linked with misery. And panic. And self-flagellation. I cannot handle the numbers. I should never know them.

I emailed Nick while waiting for the midwife to come in. "I'm a big fat cow. Here's proof: LARGE (for me) NUMBER."

And then I was all, "But I had my sneakers on. (It's true - the thought of relacing was just too much.) And I'm wearing a very heavy necklace. Oh, plus, I had rocks in my bra."

Here's what makes me so mad at myself about it. My midwives are totally happy with where I am. I'm doing the things I need to do for my own body and for a healthy baby. I'm eating well. I'm not eating crap. And I'm exercising.

I'm not going to cut down on my food intake, because that's just stupid and unhealthy in pregnancy. I'm so totally within the guidelines. Except by my panicked calculation, at this rate, I'm going to be heavier at the end than I was last time. When I was one week overdue.

Which is fine. It's still within reasonable range. Technically, It's all fine. Really.

And still, there's this little asshole Danger! Danger! Fix it! voice in my head telling me how fat I am.

I'm closing my eyes next time. I totally am.

Midas is king and he holds me so tight and turns me to gold in the sunlight

2012-01-23T17:37:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I have to drag my own self down there kicking and screaming, but I'm still working out in our office building's gym at least a couple times a week. You know, the gym with the shiny red button.

So last week it was brought to my attention that my stomach is roughly the same size as the 15-pound medicine ball. Although what it really feels like is this:
Now, I've tried to be a lot more measured in this pregnancy about what I say on LG, partly because I got berated in my Jordan pregnancy for complaining about how fat and gross I felt. I mean, I got a lot of support, too, so it's not just fear of people thinking I'm an asshole that's holding me back.

Although naturally, I'd rather people didn't think I was an asshole, if I had my druthers.

But I've also tempered my complaining nature because fuck, it took so much time, so much work, and so much money to get to this pregnancy. And part of me is scared that if I'm not grateful enough, it'll get taken away.

Don't step on the crack. Don't walk under ladders. Don't break a mirror. That sort of thing.

Thankfully, with Jordan, I didn't realize how fragile it all can be. I'm well fucking aware with this one. And so, at least publicly, I've tried to hold it in. Hey, look at me with the medicine ball belly!

But you guys, I hit a huge wall this weekend.

Sunday morning I was all kinds of mad at Nick for not loving this sweater I'd gotten him. And he kept saying, "Why are you getting so angry?" Which just made me angrier.

And so I snapped, "Because it's so hard to find XXL sweaters that actually fit you and this one actually fits and I AM SO TIRED AND OLD AND HAGGARD AND UGLY AND I HATE MY BODY AND I HATE MY FACE AND I HAAAAAATE BEING PREGNAAAAAAAAANT. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT."

At which point I just leaned over and started sobbing onto the kitchen counter. Like the snuffling, hiccuping, gasping for breath sobbing of abject despair.

Nick curled me in his arms and said he thinks I'm beautiful, and he patted my just-highlighted hair and said, very sweetly, "I think you're beautiful. And I like your new hair." (He's a good man, that one.)

And Jordan came over and asked me if I wanted to put some animals in his backhoe. Which is pretty much like saying I love you so much.

I'm loved, and I'm lucky. I love the family I have. And I'm lucky to be having another baby. I'm grateful, I am. Really and truly.

I just suck at the pregnant. And the pregnant, coupled with the sped-up aging it seems to be doing to me? Super mindfuck.

I am the opposite of glowy. My skin and my hair and my nails are so dry. I have 500 more wrinkles than when I started. When did I get so old and wrinkly?

It's one thing to feel fat and full and exhausted and achey and uncomfortable all the time. But it just feels so unfair to have to feel so hideous on top of it. And so old. So fucking old. It kills my self-esteem.

I feel all superficial saying that, because I am so much more interested in what people are like than what they look like. But it's true. I need to feel attractive in some way, shape or form. And I don't. I just don't.

I hate it.

Well there ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe if you don't know by now

2012-01-20T13:13:00.002-05:00

Nick has been gone all week.

And so, while we do set our alarm nightly - the alarm that to my surprise doesn't go off in a tiny little model of our house at the police station - I sleep with my cell phone right next to my bed. Even though we have a land line right there. Just in case of some unexpected calamity like someone smashing a window and cutting the phone lines or a vampire attack or what-have-you.

I have always been afraid of whatever might be lurking in the shadows. Also, I have always been Team Jacob, despite the alabaster vampire loins and rainbow sparkly skin.

So anyway, Nick has been calling me on my cell first thing in the morning to wake me up.

And this morning, when the house phone, which we almost never use, rang, I was surprised.

I answered, and Betty said, "Lisa?"

"Hi, Mom!"

"Hi! Where are you?"

"In the kitchen. Where are you?"

"I just got up."

"So what are you calling about?"

"I'm not calling. You called."

"I didn't call you. You called me. The kitchen phone just rang."

"Well, my phone just rang, too."

And then it dawned on me to stop talking...which gave me a chance to hear my husband's slightly fainter voice in the background saying, "Lisa! Betty! Lisa! I'M CALLING YOU."

Oh. Hi!

Now that there are two of us, this is probably even more true. Poor man.

Almost two and a half. Look at me!

2012-01-19T15:53:00.001-05:00

Dear Jordan,

This smidgen of video pretty much sums you up lately:

I don't mean that in a bad way. I think you're acting like a very typical two-year old. And the fact is, you have good reason to think the world revolves around you. Very candidly, we're all about you, all the time. We just love you so much.

The other day Dad asked me when I thought boys grow out of being so self-absorbed, and I said, "I think right about...when they die."

He didn't think it was as funny as I did.

But the truth is, while you're very MEMEMEMEME!, you're also very sweet and thoughtful. You regularly go around the room and ask us how we're doing, and you wait for each of us to reply before moving on.

"You OK, Mama?" "Yes, thank you."

"Are you OK, Nana?" "I'm OK, Jordan."

"Daddy, are you OK, Daddy?" "Yes. Are you OK?"

"I'm OK."

You've also begun giving praise for tasks well done. The other night you told me, "Mama, you did a very good job with your dinner!"

Or you'll say things like, "Daddy put clothes on me. He did a very good job."

And while you don't thank us regularly for doing things like giving you a glass of milk, you'll gush about something out of the blue. Like when Nana got home from the store and you inspected her purchases and said, "Oh, thank you for buying me more oatmeal, Nana!"

"Thank you for putting on my warm socks, Mama!"

As you talk more and more, we get a bigger picture of what's going on in your mind. It's really cool.

Your dad takes you on weekend adventures to places like the firehouses around town, and to Rock Creek to throw stones in the river. The other day he took you to the stables down there. And these are things you talk about for days and days afterward.

He also tends to buy you a treat on every adventure, so now you also ask to go to The Treat Store.

The other night you were up when we peeked in on you around ten, and so Dad sat with you in the dark while you chattered away. You listed all the places we don't climb because we could get hurt.

"We don't climb on the dresser because we could fall."

"And we don't climb on the elephant shelf because we could fall down and that would hurt." (The shelf way up high on the wall with mirrored Indian elephants which are specifically up high because I'm not inclined to let J destroy them. And now I know he's scheming the scaling of the wall to get to them.)

It turns out, my darling, that you've given thought to climbing on every single object in the house. Even the precipitously high shelves and cabinets. Good to know, I guess, although I don't know what's to be done about it.

I'm glad you're still in a crib and in sleep sacks, which hamper your leg-over-the-side abilities. But not for long...

It's not all sunshine and puppy breath, however.

You've almost cut out the whining, but you've replaced it with hitting and sometimes even biting when you're super frustrated. I can occasionally head you off by asking if you want to make Mama cry. And you stop and look as if you're going to burst into tears yourself. "I don't want to make Mama cry."

But the other day you bit me hard enough to leave a bruise on my arm. When you get into the windmill hitting, I know you're just so worked up...but I don't know what to do about it. Your dad can hold you at arm's length until you calm down. And we can do time-outs.

And last weekend I was carrying you down the hall towards your room, which you were pissed about, and you started hitting and clocked me on the side of the head. You're now so big and strong, and it hurt terribly, and I dropped you. I dropped you onto your feet, but you still fell down, and it made you hysterical.

This wasn't my goal - I just wanted you away from where you could hit my face again. I know there must be constructive approaches; I have to do some research on this.

Those are the less common occurrences, though. Mostly you're entertaining and delightful. Not always cooperative, necessarily, particularly where bedtime is concerned. And often exhausting.

As the head of our day care said, when I told her how tired I am, and how adding another is kind of daunting: "Most children are not quite as active as Jordan."

But you are still our biggest joy, and our greatest source of amusement and delight. Right up there with Downton Abbey.

Love you love you love you.

Mama

In which I inflict my belly button on you, merkin (rhymes with gherkin!) redux, the cat anus topic, and I seem to be rather tangenty

2012-01-18T16:53:00.000-05:00

And no, this isn't my merkin. It's my belly button.

I know it's gross. I'm sorry.

And yes, I'm wearing the Justin Bieber polish. I'm one less lonely girl today.

But anyway, because of my last post, I didn't want the Investigator's Wife to think that I had only seen cats with hemorrhoids. Now that I've typed that, I don't know why it matters. I mean, what if I had only seen hemerrhoidal cats? But there you have it. I'm pretty sure the cat anuses I've seen have been normal.

I haven't seen many, though. I'm really really not a cat person.

Also, I don't have a merkin. Not that I think you're judging. But I don't. I just can't seem to get away from the topic.

Also also, the Parisian cat, Gaspard, has stopped with the rapey behavior. One has to assume it was just brief post-ball-snipping madness. Since he's totally calmed down and it doesn't seem to be affecting his self-esteem, I didn't suggest neuticles.

But back to the merkin at hand. My lovely friend Jessica emailed this morning to say, "Whenever I see something about merkins, I think of you. I'm not sure what this says about our friendship, but I suspect it's something magical and delightful."

I'm certain it does. Seriously.

Anyway, she sent me this link, which, as the topic might suggest, should be opened either not at work, or only if you have colleagues who don't freak out about pubic wigs. Also, for the anti-fur among you, it could really piss you off.

Although I suppose it would be a good use of fur scraps, since you really wouldn't need much, even for a rather large merkin. I also saw an article about a designer using road kill in her creations. Her take is that if she weren't putting them to use, they'd be going into landfills. And she makes some lovely, dramatic pieces.

Drawback for the merkin set, however: it would be very hard to market roadkill in your pants. Which is the opposite of sexy.

And I really have nothing to say about pickles. I just like the word gherkin, and it rhymes! I do always get confused by the H in there, though.

Finally, it occurs to me that maybe I live on a tangent?

Week 25: cat @sshole territory

2012-01-13T14:05:00.001-05:00

Here Mama, I'll hold it in for you!I'm definitely bigger this time, but while I could be wrong, I don't think I'm significantly bigger at this point than I was with Jordan, but one thing is certain: my belly button is firmly in what my friend Maude terms the "cat asshole" stage.

It got there fast. It's been there for a while. It grosses me out.See?

I'm not sure why I find it so much more horrifying than other icky pregnancy-related things, but I do.

So naturally, when anyone asks if my belly button is poking out yet, I say, "Oh, it's so disgusting! Wanna see?"

(I promise, this will not be my response when people start to ask if I'm dilated yet. Which they will, if history is any guide. It seriously becomes hallway conversation.)

Jordan is the only one who actually wants to see. He's fascinated by the state of my belly button. He points to it and pokes it and says, "That's where the baby girl will come out!"

Uhh, sort of.

And then he lifts his own shirt to show his belly button.

This morning I put his hands on my tummy while she was moving. I said, "That's your baby sister! Can you feel her moving?"

He nodded. He inspected my belly button very closely. And then said, "Pretty soon, she's going to come visit us!"

Oh, and back on the cat assholes, or rather, an asshole cat...

My friend Kristin in Paris is having this cat problem. She had her male cat snipped yesterday, and as soon as he got home he was all out of control and rapey, totally humping and molesting the other cat.

So she locked him in the bathroom and posted it on Facebook. And poured herself some wine.

She was worried maybe they snipped the wrong thing. I thought it might be post-surgery insanity (does that happen?). Or do male cats go through a rapey period after being de-balled? I suggested sedatives. Seriously, sedate the shit out of that fucker.

Not being a cat person, I wanted to suggest shoving him into a box and heading to Le Animal Shelter tout suite. However, I refrained.

For the cat people out there, any thoughts?

Name struggles

2012-01-12T12:47:00.003-05:00

I always thought boy names were harder than girl names, but now I find it to be just the opposite.

I was so certain that this kid would be another boy. And Nick and I had several names we agreed we really liked. And they sounded nice with his last name.

And it was nearly settled! So easily!

Except that we're having a girl.

What I will tell you very candidly is that while I am not remotely secretive (I know you just laughed at the obviousness of that statement), I'm not going to talk about whatever name we choose until she's born. For two reasons.

One, because there are always people who find fault with it. You mention what you're thinking about, and they don't like it and they wrinkle their noses and tell you so and why and what's wrong with it. And two, with this one, the odds are we will be making our final really absolute decision at the hospital, with the way it's going.

Here's the thing. Years and years and forever and as long as I can remember ago, I decided that one day I would have a girl, and I would name her after my grandmother. It was just fact. This is what I would do.

And then I was certain I was going to die alone. But in the moments when I wasn't, I was going to have a girl, and I was going to name her after my grandmother. No matter who I married.

Also. If you know me you know that I am firmly of the opinion that whoever carries the kid around for 9+ months (and wrecks their abs and/or vagina, anus, internal organs, God knows whatever else) has final say-so in the naming. I mean this in a hand-to-God, stare-you-down, do not fuck with me kind of way.

So the girl name has been settled for years.

However.

Now my grandmother's name is popular, as is the nickname for her name. Very very popular. Apparently everyone is naming their daughter after my grandmother.

And while I still love the name, here's the deal: I have been named Lisa my whole life. There were lots of other Lisas when I was growing up. It is not remotely interesting. I have never been particularly fond of it.

When we came up with Jordan's name, which sounds great with Nick's last name, I genuinely considered ditching Lisa and becoming Jordan Nick'slastname. I thought about it, I talked about it, and several friends ridiculed me for it.

And then I gave the name to Jordan and we can't both be Jordan Nick'slastname. That would just be too weird.

So I'm still Lisa and there you have it.

I mean, Lisa is not offensive. I don't think it's ugly. It's just so fucking boring. (No offense, other Lisas.) The best thing I can say about it is that no matter where I've gone, no matter what language, people have been able to pronounce it. (And in Japanese class, it didn't matter, because we called each other by our last names, with "-san" attached.)

So I am determined NOT to have a girl with the same name as everyone else.

Nick doesn't have an issue with it, because there weren't other Nicholases around when he was growing up. His biggest issue with his name was the McDonald's commercial Nicholas Pickle-less. But that was short-lived.

I love Nicholas and Nick. Both good, solid, non-boring names. In my opinion.

Here are names either Nick or I like, but we won't be using, either because one of us doesn't like them or they have other issues:

Autumn (issues: Fall makes me depressed. Which is too bad, because Nick loves the name and it's his favorite season.)
Carol-Anne (issues: Over my dead body.)
Cleo/Clio (issues: Nick hates it.)
Emma (issues: Very popular; also, Madame Bovary.)
Gaia (issues: Nick hates it.)
January (issues: I hate winter; nickname Jan; also, January Jones - terrible actress.)
Ophelia (issues: meets a tragic end; possible nickname Oph, which sounds like "oaf" which, just no.)
Persephone (issues: Stuck in the underworld; nickname Percy would be awful.)
Phaedra (issues: Lisa, what is it with you and the Greek names? Um, at least it's not Terpsichore.)

We're casting a wide net. Any thoughts?

The reason I almost removed my pants walking home last night plus photos that go with prior posts and no, there isn't a no pants photo

2012-01-11T13:40:00.000-05:00

I always aim to post more photos or drawings because they spruce things up but most of the time it just doesn't happen. Even though I love it when other people add pictures to their posts.

But I'm trying.

And sometimes I feel like one needs evidence. Last night I walked home past the pee bottle and decided that I'd walk by again this morning, and if it was still sitting outside the wrought-iron fence of the nice building, I'd call 311 and see if pee removal was under the purview of DC government.However. When I walked by this morning, the pee bottle was in the yard. Meaning, well, two things. One, that someone picked it up and chucked it over the fence. Ew. And two, it's now clearly the lawn-owner's problem, and not DC's. Right?

Also. I'm still bummed about my glove. See how cute?And finally, these are some of the animals Jordan has a creche on. If you come over, you are likely to wind up with at least one or two in your pocket or your shoe.Also, I damn near pulled off my pants on my walk home last night, and only modesty/fear of being arrested/bigger fear of people pointing and laughing kept me from doing so. Because my maternity coat only comes down past my bum.

I don't know if all the laundry detergent didn't wash out, or what the deal was, but they were so burny! It was kind of like the insides were covered with shards of glass that were making itty bitty cuts with every step.

Which made me think back to my tobacco dipping days and how apparently they put fiberglass into dip to cut your gums so the nicotine gets in there nice and fast. Which is why it's such a quick little buzz.

Those days are long past, though. And there weren't that many of them. Fun, though.

But last night with my fiberglass pants I was seriously fantasizing about the chilly air on my thighs and it took every ounce of my willpower not to just pull them right off and pretend I had on the whitest tights one could imagine and that I thought they were pants.

As soon as I got in the door I stepped out of them and dabbed my legs with water. I couldn't bear to put on more pants, and all evening Jordan kept saying, "Mama, you have no pants!"

That's right, honey. And when you grow up, you can have no pants whenever you want. And eat cake for breakfast every day if you so choose.

Then Nick came home and said, "You have no pants!" I briefly considered feigning surprise but was too tired.

I'm not sure what the deal was there. I started getting hurty little red bumps but they didn't get any worse. Today my skin is a little aggravated, but not terribly. And if it were laundry detergent, wouldn't you think my shirt would be bugging me as well? It's not like your legs are the tenderest parts of your body.

I dunno.

So hand in glove I stake my claim. I'll fight to the last breath.

2012-01-10T15:17:00.000-05:00

What I can't remember is if I still had my gloves on when I saw the bottle of pee.

Wait. Let me back up.

Here's what happened. I lost one of my delightful turquoise gloves. Betty gave them to me, and I've been wearing them for years, and they fit perfectly even though I have such short figures that most gloves have too much room at the ends, and they're turquoise!

And now, now I only have one.

I've lost one of them three times, and always gotten it back. A friend who had happened to stop by just after I lost one the first time had spotted it down the street on the way to our house. The next time, I'd fortunately dropped it in my office. The third time, a man in a crosswalk saw me drop it.

Thrice-lost...nobody says fourth time is a charm, do they?

Anyway, it's not that the bottle of urine figures largely into the story, except that I was retracing my path to work, and it occurred to me that it would be helpful to be able to remember when I took off my gloves. Before or after the pee at 16th and O?

Typically, I would know exactly where I walked, because until recently I walked the exact same way back and forth every day. So Nick was wondering why I went down 16th Street, I said so I wouldn't get kidnapped.

He smirked at me.

"No, really. Because of that recent incident with that woman who was forced into a van at knife-point and then sexually assaulted."

"Then what happened?"

"The guy dropped her off."

"I hope she was at least closer to her destination."

They didn't say. Clearly shoddy reporting.

Anyway. Sexual assault is not funny. And as friends have said, I'm the kind of oblivious person who will wind up dragged into the back of a van. So I decided it was probably best to mix up my route.

Good for not getting kidnapped. Bad in terms of retracing steps.

Not that I think I'm all kinds of important and likely to get premeditatedly kidnapped. Just, more, who knows? Plus it's boring to walk the same way every day when you know where you're going.

But back to the pee. A bottle of urine! A large bottle. Like one of those big glass orange juice type bottles.

I mean, I didn't examine it closely or open it and smell it. But I have seen plenty of pee in a cup at this point, and in fact almost knocked an entire shelf of pee-filled cups on myself, thank you very much, and I can tell you that this, my friends, is a bottle of strong pee. I use the present tense because it was still there this morning, and I'm going to doubt it's been picked up by a passer-by.

You know, that makes me think maybe I should've peed on my gloves as a precaution. Although then I'd have been wearing urine-soaked gloves. So forget it.

But it made me wonder. Such volume! Was this multiple pees' worth? Or does someone have that large a bladder? Is it vendetta pee? I figure if you were homeless, you'd just pee in an alley, no? That seems to be the norm in our neighborhood.

Seriously. We're always saying, "Jordan, don't touch that! It has pee pee on it!" Because we are certain it does.

So basically, if you see a turquoise glove, could you grab it and let me know?

Sheep go to heaven

2012-01-05T17:05:00.005-05:00

Betty has all these nativity sets from around the world.

There's one from Peru that's made of carved stone, with a million little white and black stone animals - mainly myriad sheep and llamas. Jordan saw them and immediately appropriated them ALL. He needed the entire flock.

Baby Jesus? Not of remote interest. Sheep! Llamas! NEEEEEED.

As with most things Jordan wants, Betty was fine with it. They're now his own personal stone herd.

We find these animals everywhere. He loads them into his backhoe. He puts them in bags and carries them around. He slips them into pocket - his and everyone else's. He transfers them from basket to boat to dump truck and back again.

This morning I had to dump a number of them out of my commuting sneakers before I could put them on.

I said to Nick, "He sure loves those animals."

"I wouldn't necessarily say he loves them. I'd say he has a creche on them."

Coming to terms with who you are

2012-01-04T15:04:00.002-05:00

I went to Costco on my day off - Monday, January 2. As did 800 million other people.

The nightmarishly packed Costco parking lot, the shoving giant carts through giant aisles engorged with people staggering around like they've had head injuries, the thronging hordes clogging every single sample-offering intersection - all of it makes me hate humanity.

It makes me question who I am at core. Which, it is my understanding, is how old-school Republicans feel in the current political world.

And yet, going back to Costco, yet I am drawn back time and again by the 50-gallon jars of pickles, the 84 dozen organic eggs, the 600 boxes of Kleenex. We really do go through them.

In fact, now that I think about this, I'm pretty sure we blow our noses a lot more than normal people. Seriously. And in related news, Jordan, who has had a runny nose since he started daycare, has recently taken to walking up to you, pointing to his nose, and saying, "Blow me!"

On this trip, however, I didn't buy paper products because our coupons for those don't start until January 5.

In other words, Costco, I can't quit you.

One of the things I did purchase was a tremendous box of Dr. Praeger's veggie burgers. It turns out I quite like them, as do Jordan and Betty. Tasty, and you have all those healthy veggies squeezed into one convenient patty!

It's lucky we like them - I bought them on a whim (I'm breezy!) - because, if you are familiar with Coscto-sized anything, you know I have approximately 3 trillion of those patties in my possession.

Something I will share with you, based on recent experience, however, is as follows: Just because they cook very nicely under the broiler in your toaster oven at home - as per the instructions on the box - does not mean that you can just pop them sideways in the toaster at work.

As per nobody's instructions and against the cautions of your more sensible colleagues.

Just in case it might seem like an equally good idea to anyone else.

Starting 2012 off with a...plop?

2012-01-03T16:47:00.000-05:00

Jordan has started talking about poop. A lot.

(Happy New Year!)

He's also gotten back to wanting to read "Where's My Potty?" (to Nick's chagrin) on the regular.

This, to my mind, proves two things: One, he is inching towards potty training. And two, the Lisa Family Force is strong with this one.

He still likes to list where we don't poop. "We don't poop on the couch! We don't poop in Nana's shoe!"

No, we certainly don't, my friend.

So the other day, Australian Builder's dog Tiga pooped on the rug. She's getting old, and she wasn't feeling well. She was terrified. It was clearly an accident.

Jordan was the one who discovered it. He said, "Somebody pooped on the rug!"

Now, you or I would've seen it and realized immediately that Tiga had done it. But in Jordan's world, there was a houseful of possibilities. Was it Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick? Daddy in the kitchen with the roll of toilet paper?

Nick explained that it was Tiga who pooped on the rug, and it was an accident. We all have accidents sometimes.

Mine tend towards the spilling of beverages and walking into walls, but I suppose you never know.

In further poop news, we now announce when we're going to the bathroom to poop. In the toilet. "I'm just going to the bathroom to have a poop in the toilet! I like to poop in the toilet!"

Jordan has gotten fascinated with this.

The other day Nick was looking for a little privacy. I know he wanted to head in there with the Sunday paper and enjoy some manly alone time. Even though I keep telling him it causes varicose veins and the toilet is no place to sit for an extended period of time.

It's true. Seriously. Plus, I just think the fact that men do this by choice is fucking weird.

Anyway, Jordan shot that all to hell by making a beeline for the bathroom as soon as he realized what Nick was up to.

They emerged in much less time than it might take to read the front page of the Times.

"Do you know how hard it is to take a poop with someone staring at you?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"And then, as soon as I did, he handed me one square of toilet paper and said, 'Get up, Daddy! I want to see!'"

That's my boy.

Hopes and resolutions

2011-12-30T11:20:00.000-05:00

HOPES

Personal: A Healthy Baby
I haven't been told any stillborn stories lately, and I've managed to keep myself off the Internet in that regard, and so I've calmed down on the fretting. I know I'm lucky to be pregnant, particularly after the first IVF.

On a related note: that month, while waiting to see, people told me so many friend- or friend-of-a-friend stories about multiple (like, up to 12) failed IVF attempts. It was kind of like the stillborn thing. Then they'd say, "Oh! But I'm sure it will work out for YOU!"

And we'd look at each other awkwardly. And then it did.

I know, I know, how fortunate we are. And please god, let the rest of the pregnancy go well.

Global: World Peace
I don't expect it really ever, but if you don't hope for it, it definitely won't happen, you know?

Which of course makes it totally unlike true love and getting pregnant, where if you stop thinking about it and stop trying, it will just happen for you. (Ohh, hahaha! I just cracked myself up. It's actually shocking that I never facepunched anyone who said those things to me along the way.)

DC: The End of the Fucking Construction on 18th Street, Already
Who do you have to blow around here to get the construction crew to speed up their glacial pace and get to the top of goddamn 18th Street? Actually, forget I said that. I'm sure someone, and, uh, ew. I'm in favor of supporting our troops, but I'm not that into public service.

But I don't believe they're in any hurry, and I do believe someone is profiting, and it being DC, I'm sure that there's someone high up with an open palm. I mean, we tip the trash collectors quarterly. Yes, we feed the system, but trash pickup turns out to be critical. And people like to be appreciated for their work.

RESOLUTIONS

Write and send Thank You cards. I have such good intentions. I am grateful. And yet, I suck at sending the cards. I owe years' worth of thanks. This year, I am going to write and send them. Instead of just feeling guilty about not doing so.

Be more patient. I'm giving myself until mid-year to start this one, though. Because with pregnancy and newborn, really, all bets are off.

Revamp LG. I should finally grow up, blog-wise, don't you think?

Potty train our son. This one I dread. But I want him out of diapers before the next poo-factory arrives. Plus, his man-poops now almost make me puke, even when I don't stick my head in the trash can. And we need his changing table; I'm not buying another one.

Get back in shape post-baby. Also to begin mid-year.

WRITE WRITE WRITE. No explanation needed.

And, because this is my favorite one ever and easy to succeed at, I am going to make it a resolution every year: Eat more bacon.

I hope your 2011 ends happily! Huge New Year's hugs to all of you!

Kind of like if the Yeti were blue and worked in a law firm downtown. Plus a brief poll.

2011-12-29T00:54:00.000-05:00

In Nick's office Santa Swap game, Nick wound up with a Forever Lazy bodysuit. Have you seen these things?

Naturally, he donned it immediately. One of his colleagues snapped this photo.

I had seen pictures but I'd never felt one all up close and personal. I certainly didn't know anyone who owned one, nor aspired to spend the day in something that doesn't even have to be lowered when you have to use the facilities.

Not to imply that I'm above this sort of thing, but, uh...

Then Nick gave me the socks (there are matching socks!), which are spectacularly soft and fuzzy and warm. They look like Grover feet. They're kind of like wearing little blue feetmice.

I imagine. Although I assure you I'd never actually thought about wearing mice.

Anyway, he said the whole suit is like that inside. Which, after the socks, so made me want to get all naked and put it on immediately. Seriously. Really kind of terrific.

Plus, he said it was so warm! Although he did have clothes on underneath. He wore it the other day while we watched Brideshead Revisited in our TV room, which is approximately as cold as my memories of ice skating at Christmas in North Dakota.

So I huddled under a fleece blanket up to my nose and he wore his fleecy suit and was plenty warm. And then eventually he stuck is legs under my blanket.

His ankles were cold.

Turns out the suit shrunk in the washing, and now it's a bit too small for him. The backflap for convenient bathroom use is nowhere near his bottom - rather inconvenient if your goal is to really and truly be lazy in your Grover outfit.

More importantly, however, it cleaves his manly nutsack in twain.

And thus the short shall inherit the earth. Or whatever the expression is.

So what do you think?

A. Horrifying. Should be given to Goodwill stat.
B. Comfort above all.
C. Keep it, but don't tell anyone.
D. Put it on immediately and take a picture for my amusement.

Warm fuzzy blue hugs to all!

Where are me?

2011-12-28T15:23:00.001-05:00

Please behold the train table, tracks, and land of magical wonders that Jordan's grandparents gave him for Christmas.

Nick started putting it together when we got home from our annual Christmas Eve festivities with dear family friends. I waited up being all supportive as long as I could, and then pregnancy exhaustion took over, and right around 10 pm I had to go to sleep.

So when I got up in the morning, it was seriously like Christmas fairy dust for both Jordan and me.

While all the adults were still all, "Ooh, look! The tracks go up in the air!" and "Hey! A gas pump!" Jordan discovered The Drawer.

This table, it has a large drawer underneath, in which to stash the multitude of toys that would otherwise be strewn about the room. We were excited about the drawer.

Not half as excited as Jordan.

He promptly climbed in, looked at Nick, and said, "Close me!"

The kid loves to be closed in the drawer. And then he says, "Where are me?"

To which we respond, "I don't know! Where's Jordan? Is he in the bathroom?"

Jordan pipes up with a soft little, "No!"

"Is he behind the radiator?"

You can see a blue eye peering through the gap between table and drawer, Jordan barely able to contain his glee. "No!"

"Is he under the kitchen table?" And we go through places in the house, each time with Jordan's delighted and unsuppressed "No!"

Finally, finally one of us says, "Maybe he's in the drawer! OH! HERE HE IS!"And then he climbs out, runs around, then climbs back in and says, "Close me!"

He could do this all day. We don't even necessarily have to play the Where Are Me? game. Sometimes we just close the drawer and then wait until he says, "Open me!"

Where's your child? Oh, he's just hanging out in the drawer.

The nice thing is, we know where he is and what he's up to and he's not banging, climbing on, or breaking anything. On the downside, um, our kid likes to lie quietly in a closed drawer.

Also, we're pretty sure Closing Your Kid in a Drawer is a no-no on the Social Services checklist.

It's Christmas and I love you

2011-12-24T17:14:00.002-05:00

Dear Invisible Friends,

This year, this 2011, was going to be the year that Lisa Sends a Christmas Card.

Because I absolutely adore getting annual family pictures of friends and relatives. I know people who think it's cheesy; I eat it up. I love seeing kids change year to year. I love knowing what people are up to. If you have extras annually and do not know WHO might appreciate them, let me tell you: me.

Go ahead, make fun, it's fine. I love these cards.

So I thought, this year, I will be one of the organized people who sends them!

We had a number of attempts at Family Picture - all failures. And then, then at a Christmas party, where all of us were dressed up, someone took a very nice picture of all of us (except that I'm doing something weird with my face/jaw - but this is comparatively minor, let me tell you) and yay! Family Picture! Make a card, Lisa!

And then I...didn't. I tried, and I couldn't decide - Shutterfly? Tiny Prints? Snapfish? This design? That one? - Truly, I am best when I have like three options, tops. Too many and I just can't do it.

So I spent more time than I'd like to admit furtively comparing card designs at work (because home, home is too busy!) And then I didn't decide, and then, well, truth be told, I just...didn't.

And here we are, on Christmas Eve, and nary a Lisa and Family card has been sent. I'm considering sending a Happy 2012! card, but let's be frank: the odds are low.

But even though I cannot get my act together to get a picture on paper and paper in the mail, I love all my friends and I adore all of you. I hope you're all comfy and cozy and happy and surrounded by people you love for who love you right back.

Big hugs,

Lisa, Nick, Jordan and Betty

What I want for Christmas

2011-12-22T15:41:00.000-05:00

We are having a very low-key, practical Christmas this year.

Honestly. Like, slippers and tools and such. None of us actually need anything (besides slippers and tools, of course). Except Jordan. Jordan is getting a train table.

Also, further simplifying our Christmas plans: our oven is broken. Well, not broken. The gas to the stove is turned off.

You know, so that it doesn't cause the entire house to explode.

It turns out we had a gas leak inside the oven. The part doesn't arrive until next week.

Betty and Nick are talking about grilling Christmas dinner. I was wondering if you can do a whole turkey on the grill, but I think they're going to make lamb. Sticky buns, however, Betty's awesome North Dakota sticky buns? Cannot be baked on a grill. This, this I find is the tragedy of the situation.

But truly, it's all good. I'm embarking on four days off with my family. And the weather, while not Chrismasy, is really quite nice.

You know what I would really, really like? Like, if I could ask for anything within reason?

I want two solid weekends of movie watching. Two entire weekends in front of the TV with absolutely nothing to do and nobody asking anything of me.

One weekend would be entirely devoted to Star Wars. The original three.

The other weekend would be a Harry Potter-a-thon.

I'd take breaks to make popcorn and take naps, of course.

But I want them AFTER Christmas. Because Christmas is about spending time with the people I love most in the world. We're going to wear our new slippers and put stuff together.

Like train tables.

Itchy and squarchy

2011-12-21T12:42:00.002-05:00

So if you've been pregnant you know that it's this big body- and mind-fuck of an evolving science experiment.

Of course, if you've never been pregnant but it's something you want, then what I really mean by the above is that it's a beautiful, serene experience. Nothing alarming happens to very personal parts of your body like your anus and you never have daily WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME kinds of moments.

Although truthfully, I'm not so freaked out by body stuff this time. If you were on the pregnant ride with me last time, you know that I had these daily hysterical preoccupations.

This time I'm all, oh, right. This is the point where I feel like I've been run over by a bus. But eventually, I won't feel that way. And oh, here's the sticky sticky 5-million wipe poo. Must remember to bring baby wipes with me to work. And also to push my sleeves up before I get to work.

Fortunately, I kept my squarch bottle. This morning, I sang myself the following ditty:

"I wanna squarch right now
I'm Rob Base and I came to get down..."

In case you, uh, lived through the 80s and remember that fine tune. Otherwise, nevermind! Look, a squirrel!

Anyway.

I know that eventually I'll hit the I CAN'T SLEEP AT ALL AND IT'S YOUR FAULT AND NOW WE'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE SEX TO SOFTEN MY CERVIX AND DON'T EVEN TRY IT I HATE YOU MOTHERFUCKER point. But hopefully that's a couple months away.

See how much calmer I am this time?

One thing I have gotten recently is incredibly TIRED. Like, back to first trimester exhausted. I pull myself out of bed in the morning by my fingernails. Even when I go to bed at 9 pm, I wake up so wiped out I can barely function.

I drag through the day, doing the bare minimum. Nick and Betty are really picking up the slack. I am lucky about this.

Also, I've gotten so ITCHY! Itchyitchyeeeeeeeee kinds of itchy. I've been putting on Palmer's cocoa butter cream and Lubriderm and then slathering Baby Oil or Vaseline on top of it. All over my body.

And still! Within a couple hours! Itchy!

The other day, I was about to pull up my pants and put hand lotion on my legs when my boss appeared at my desk. I seriously had an entire handful of lotion that I then had to rub into my hands.

Lots of awkward hand rubbing. It wasn't a situation where I could be all, "Hey, want some?"

So what I'm wondering is, does anyone have a suggestion for an insanely moisturizey moisturizer? I'd love to not have to add the serious grease to my body and clothing. I'd love to reduce the itch.

Also, you can't necessarily itch the places you need to in public. So then you're stuck in a meeting trying not to think about your itch when really all you can think is HOLY CRAP MY NIPPLE ITCHES!

In other words, I need help. Seriously.

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly. He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye...

2011-12-19T14:24:00.001-05:00

After the last story that I was told about a stillbirth, I started wondering if they're kind of like plane crashes.

They're terrifying, and yet the odds of your plane going down are lower than you winning the lottery or something like that.

These stillbirth stories are tragic, upsetting, horrifying stories...and somehow, somehow people keep telling me about them. At least once every other week, I'd say. Something that happened to them. To their wife. To a friend.

But then I gave it some thought, and realized that plane crashes, while sensational, can't be as common.

A friend of my cousin's died in the Lockerbee explosion. But other than that, I don't think I have any friends of friends who have died in plane crashes. Knock wood, of course.

But the late-pregnancy miscarriages, the stillbirths (which is what they call them after 20 weeks), Christ, it seems like every third person has a story.

And they tell them to me.

And then, then after they've told me the worst piece - that the baby died in-utero at five months, six months, full-term...they all of a sudden look stricken, look down at my belly, and stop, and say, "I shouldn't be telling you this."

Silently, I think, "No fucking kidding."

Out loud I say, "I can't really talk about this."

The most recent person to do this to me is a friend of Nick's. He was telling me that their first child was incredibly premature - and now she's a healthy 19-year old. This led to him telling me about the 5-month stillbirth...

But in a case like this, once you know the worst of it, you don't want them to stop. Because you want to know the WHY?

You want to know that this won't happen to you. Was there a logical reason?

No, not that they know of. There was nothing apparently wrong with their baby. It just happens.

You can't worry about everything, all the time. But somehow, I do try.

It's like the punch in the face versus the $1,000 for leaving your house kind of thing. I just haven't had Nick lay it all out for me in those terms yet.

Assorted unmentionables

2011-12-16T14:44:00.001-05:00

So I was going to talk about underwear, because it's very much on my mind, or rather, my abdomen. I mean, it was, until I folded it down.

Because postpartum, once I was out of the gigantor hospital undies, I went out to Target and got huge cotton underwear that came up way past my scar and kind of helped hold in my sloshy belly. Which I made the mistake of putting on today and now they're squeezing my little baby house.

But then I was thinking, does anyone really want to hear about my underwear? So that's probably all I should stay about that.

Speaking of baby houses, the kid is all kicking and turning and flipping and generally, I assume, keeping herself amused in there. She's busy, I tell you.

I'm now 21 weeks, which means that due-dately speaking, I am more than halfway done. Even though it is likely that I will go past it, it's nice to have the countdown to the end be smaller numbers than the ones behind you.

If that makes sense.

Speaking of behinds, which I'm sorry, kind of leads back to my underwear, or rather the reason I thought the big ones were a good idea. Ass containment and all.

Because this! Sometime between Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon, when I was doing squats and happened to look sideways in the gym mirror, my ass doubled in size.

Doubled. I am not kidding.

And because I have been through this science experiment before, I was all, "Crap. The ass explosion has begun."

I apologize for how that sounds. You understand that what I mean is that my ass is just going to just grow exponentially from here on out. Kind of like a chia pet in my pants. God, that's not a better visual, is it?

Anyway, it is about size and NOT that I suddenly have no control over my fecal matter.

Oh, god, which reminds me. Also: one of Jordan's diapers - we have to assume dirty, although also we can fairly safely assume JUST PEE - somehow made it into the washing machine. We only realized it once our clothes came out of the dryer with shockingly tenacious white clumps on them.

You know how sometimes you run a Kleenex through? And you wind up with tons of white speckles that are a pain to get off? But they're not like totally industrial white chunks that cling to your clothing like it's the only thing between them and death?

We're running the load through the washer again. In case. Because, well, really, does anyone actually need a because?

OK, I'm stopping now before it gets any worse.

The opposite of air fresheners

2011-12-15T12:07:00.002-05:00

I don't know if you've spent any time looking at air fresheners.

There's a spray can in the bathroom at work. It's called Morning Linen. Which, if you think about it, is kind of an odd name for a smell.

Because linen on its own doesn't really have a smell, does it? And you can only associate times of day with particular smells if you associate them with what's going on.

Like, morning might smell like breakfast cooking. Mmm, coffee and cinnamon and maple syrup!

But morning could also smell like last night's debauchery. Eww, too much alcohol and, uh, I can't believe I brought you home with me.

I get that they're trying to conjure up crispness and cleanliness. I looked up some others. Linen seems to be popular. Linen and breezes and spring and water. Linen and Sky, Crisp Breeze, New Zealand Springs, Refreshing Spring...

So then I started thinking about names for air fresheners that would be distinctly unpopular:

Gingko-lined Street
Damp Wool
Afternoon on the Ganges
Adams Morgan Alleys
New York Subway Breeze
Kiddy Pool
Evening Rush Hour on Metro

You'd think I'd put my mind to a higher purpose, wouldn't you? Or maybe you know me well enough by now.

It wasn't the milk; it was the whine

2011-12-14T16:49:00.001-05:00

So Jordan has been kind of a whiny little bitch lately.

I mean, yes, I adore him and the air he breathes and of course I consider it an honor to call him my son and to wipe the poop off his bottom.

But he's still been behaving like a whiny little bitch.

In fairness, he's had a cold, so he's not feeling 100 percent. But cripes, the WHIIIIINING started weeks ago, and so I know it's not totally cold-related.

And it makes my blood pressure go through the roof while simultaneously causing my head to melt.

I pick him up from day care and he's all excited to see me and we have a nice little walk home and we chat about his day and then he just hits this point where he starts to WHINE. It's the whining. The whining fucking kills me.

Honestly. I'm walking along all normal-headed and then the whining starts and what used to be my head is now like 300 degrees and oozing down my body. There's steam rising from my neck hole.

So last night there was the WHINE SOB! "Fiiiiix it!" from the living room as I was cooking. Because the backhoe, which is too small to pick up the car, couldn't pick up the car.

I've explained this 54 million times. The backhoe is too small. The car is too big. It can't pick it up. It's just not big enough.

And still, he insists. "Pick it up! You do it!" And he whiiiines.

And there was the WHINE because I NEED GOLDFISH! I NEEEEEEEEED GOLDFISH!

While I contemplated saying no, that he could have goldfish after dinner, I weighed it against the quiet I might have while he worked his way through goldfish and I got dinner ready.

I gave him the damn goldfish.

No, I'm not proud. Just...tired.

And I couldn't ask my mom to step in because Jordan had been a huge dick to her for a couple days. Seriously. He was hurting her feelings.

She would ask him something and he'd say, "Don't talk, Nana!"

We'd make him apologize, and tell him we don't talk to people like that. And then he'd do it again.

We were finally having some dinner with a mere modicum of WHINING when he knocked over his milk.

It was an accident, completely inadvertent.

As was my reaction. Which was: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRERAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!"

I yelled. Very loudly. It was maybe more like a roar. I can't exactly recall. It was just this extremely loud sound that came out of my mouth. And made me feel a whole lot better.

Jordan just sat there, eyes wide, with a "holy shit" look in his face.

And then I mopped up the milk. I said, "I know it was an accident. You didn't mean to spill the milk."

He reached up his arms for a hug, and I hugged him, and then he ate some more dinner.

Things you do for a discount on your caulk

2011-12-12T16:04:00.002-05:00

I got an email last week that a Living Social coupon for Logan Hardware was about to expire.

It gave the option to email it as a gift, so I emailed it to Nick. Not to be all stereotypical, but he adores hardware stores. Somehow he can always use things like more caulk.

I joke about the caulk at work, but in this case I'm not even kidding.

He bought four tubes. He brought it home and immediately went outside and caulked the shit out of the holes in our house.

Anyway, he said he was in line and these two guys behind him were totally flirting and making inane conversation. One of them needed a hex key, and the other guy said he had one for him. And then the first guy said he needed a special size, and the other responded he had his special size...

You get the picture.

So Nick was standing there thinking, "Idiots."

And then he realized that the guy in front of him was looking down at his felt slipper-clogs, and kind of looked Nick up and down and gave him a, "you idiot" look.

"So basically," he said, "there we all were judging each other, thinking we each the only non-idiot in line with a bunch of imbeciles."

Anyway, he got to the register and presented his coupon, and the woman said, "You're Nick Lastname. This coupon is for Lisa Gloria."

He said, "Lisa Gloria is my wife."

The woman just looked at him. So he started thinking about how to prove it.

He took off his wedding ring and showed her the inside, which reads: LG + NL September 27, 2008.

So then she said, "Oh, you just had your third anniversary! Congratulations!" And then she looked at his hand and added, "And you wear your ring all the time! So sweet!"

And he knew that everyone in line behind him was just rolling their eyes, all, "Get over it, you idiots, and move on."

Coupon success, however. And our house is well caulked. At a discount.

How to make friends

2011-12-09T13:47:00.000-05:00

We have neighbors who have a daughter just a bit younger than Jordan.

She and J go to the same day care, and we've just started getting to know the parents. We keep making neighborhood friends with kids J's age...and then they move away. These people said they're here to stay. So I'm trying to cultivate them as friends.

So I ran into the husband on the street last night. Apparently his wife had told him I'm pregnant, as he said, "I heard congratulations are in order!"

I thanked him, and then he leaned in and said, "How did you make the decision to have another one?"

I was a little surprised - it's the first time I've been asked that - but he went on to explain that they'd originally thought they'd have two, but then they had their daughter, and it's so much work...and the thought of having a second is so daunting.

Which is true. I admitted that even though Nick and I had set out thinking we'd have two, for much of the first year after Jordan was born, I was adamantly opposed to having another child. No way in hell.

"But you know," I said, "Nick is 43 and I'm 42. ."

"We're in a similar situation."

"So we figured it's kind of now or never. So, we just went, 'All right! Fuck!'"

And then I realized how that might sound. So I added, "I don't mean...That's not what...ha ha ha!"

"Oh, yes. Ha ha ha!"

We both laughed awkwardly, all, "OK, then! See you later!"

We don't poop in the bathtub!

2011-12-08T13:02:00.001-05:00

Yah, so, Jordan pooped in the bathtub the other night.

Apparently, this happens to everyone. It's just a matter of time.

We have these texturey sliding doors on the tub, and lately, once a bath, he likes to close them and splash around all privately for a couple minutes. I see no harm in letting him. I can see, so I know if he's up and about and not drowning.

So he announced that it was time to close the doors, and I let him. I could see that he was sitting up. He was being awfully quiet, but I figured that maybe he'd discovered his penis.

After a couple minutes of quiet I said, "I'm opening the door!"

"No, mama! Keep your face away!"

And then I went ahead and slid open the door anyway, and there were three long strings of poop, bobbing in the tub.

I won't bore you with the cleaning up and scrubbing down details, but after we both got over the poop trauma and got all clean and into jammies, Jordan announced, "We don't poop in the bathtub!"

"No, we don't."

"And we don't poop in Daddy's bed!"

"You're right. We don't poop in Daddy's bed."

"And we don't poop in Nana's bed!"

"Actually, we don't poop in anyone's bed."

He pointed to the toy-filled tub in his room. "But we can poop in that bathtub."

Because we are not raising him in the same places and way that my brother and I were raised, this seemed a good time to say that we only poop in diapers, and potties and toilets - and nowhere else.

We now have regular conversations, however, of where we don't poop. The sofa. The floor. The chair.

Um, right. No, no, and no.

She doesn't get eaten by the eels at this time.

2011-12-06T15:07:00.001-05:00

I don't know what the descent into depression is like for other people.

I've talked about it like falling into a hole, but lately, I realized that it's not like that for me. I think it would be easier if it were. Like, one day you'd be walking along singing what you think is an upbeat tune that actually turns out to be about a dark teenage mind contemplating a Columbine-like killing spree.And then suddenly, you'd find yourself in the bottom of a hole.The contrast would be so stark, you'd realize immediately, I think.

For me, however, it's more like stepping off the sandy shore and slowly walking further and further into the ocean. The change is incremental. Once the initial shock of getting your feet wet wears off, the downward slope is gradual enough that you don't really realize what's going on.With each step, your footing gets less secure, as the ground shifts beneath your feet. You reflexively readjust.As you get further in, the vicissitudes of currents beyond your control pull at you. And you resist, without consciously doing so. As they get stronger and stronger, it takes more work.

You get a little colder, a little less secure, with each passing day and each step forward and downward. And somehow, somehow still you do not recognize that you have been here before.

You just know that you hate your life and everyone in it. How come people suck so badly? How come you suck so badly?At some point, though, you're in deep enough that you're not only over your head, but you've lost your footing entirely. It's so dark, and so cold, and so very scary.

This is the point at which, finally, finally, you realize that unless you get some help, you are fucked.You push for the surface, and you reach for the strongest hands around. You gasp and you sob, and you choke out, "I'm in a very bad place."

And while they cannot fix you, they can pull you into their laps, and put their arms around you, and say, "We know, and we're here for you."

With the support of those hands, that warm towel of reassurance wrapped around you, you have the impetus and strength to seek out the help you need.

Having hit that point last week, I'm back on the shore. I fully expect to resume singing about pumped up kicks any day now.

When politics of smugness try to creep into my uterus

2011-12-05T14:16:00.007-05:00

I never, ever thought I'd say this, but Rick Santorum has been on my mind recently.

(Yes, I still think he's the Devil. And if you haven't ever googled Santorum, please do so. It's kind of a delight.)

So, during the 20-week sonogram on Friday, one of the things the technician pointed out was that the baby had her hand open flat, and she said that if she had Trisomy 18, she wouldn't be able to do so - her hands would be clenched. Now, we had the amnio, so we knew already, but I found it interesting.

There is all this news about Rick Santorum and should he be campaigning when he has this critically ill daughter with Trisomy 18. She's three, and needs 24/7 care, for which his wife quit her job.

Presumably, they have good health care, the Santori, because the fraction of babies diagnosed with the disorder who live much past birth require astounding amounts of medical intervention and care. So the choice they made - to have the child - is manageable from a health-care perspective. And presumably they make enough, even with eight kids, that his wife was able to make the choice stay home.

But it underlines for me that it needs to be a fucking choice. And this man who lives with a child who suffers, perhaps daily, who knows how much money and work a special needs kid requires, wants to take the choice away.

Oh, and isn't interested in health care for all. Devil ass douchebag fuck.

And I feel like people like this are always so fucking smug about it.

I don't know if you remember back a number of months when I wanted to rear-end that anti-choice minivan and wrote that mind your own uterus post?

Yah, so, now I'm almost 20 weeks pregnant. Last week I spent over an hour looking at my daughter-to-be flipping around on the sonogram monitor. When you watch what's going on in your uterus, it's extraordinary what a little human being it looks like is bopping around in there.

I came into the office after my sonogram appointment on Friday. I showed some of my colleagues the strip of pictures.

We were talking about how extraordinary it is that at 19 weeks of development - which is actually just 17 weeks, because the first two really don't count - you have this little human with all her organs and bones and what-have-yous.

One colleague, who is Catholic, pointed to the strip and said, "And this is why I just don't understand people who believe that life begins at birth."

Comments like that make my hair stand on end. I'm pretty sure I physically backed up. I don't know when I think life begins, but I know for a fact that at this stage, one of us can breathe on her own, and one of us can't.

I said, "Listen, you're talking to someone who is relentlessly pro-choice."

I think it's miraculous, I do. And I want this baby so badly. I worked hard to get her, and I try not to fret about losing her. I'm so thankful that our tests showed she was healthy.

But people need to have the choice.

Our other colleague, who pointed out that she is also Catholic, said she is pro-choice as well.

So the first woman said, "Well, if there were something wrong with your baby, I would still pray for her."

I believe she meant it kindly. I do. I smiled, but I couldn't really respond.

Because like boats against the current, my refrain is always: mind your own fucking uterus.

Week 19: the 20 week sonogram. Yes sir, that's my baby!

2011-12-02T15:05:00.000-05:00

So this morning we got to see our girl in all kinds of detail.

Like, she has a real face! It was easier to tell on the monitor than in this picture, but you guys, she has a little facey face! And little fingers and toes and, thank god, all her itty bitty organs as well. Oh, it just made me teary.Today was resident interview day at GW. We rode up in the elevator with a bunch of nervous-looking people being led by someone all official-y. I couldn't get Grey's Anatomy out of my mind. I swear that show has colored how I think about hospitals for life.

But the sonogram.

Much like Jordan looked like a naked boy sitting on a glass table, she was all girly bits to the camera when they turned on the sonogram.

Nick was all, "Hey! There's the girl!" and the woman doing the sonogram said "Oh yes, absolutely!"

I was all, "How can you tell? I can't tell any of it."

So Nick of course had to say, "Well, as someone with plenty of experience in this area..." And then I gave him a shut-uppy look.

I think because he's an extrovert, he just needs to interact so much of the time. Sometimes it's really helpful, because he asked a lot of intelligent questions and we learned a lot. And sometimes it's just too much. At which point I suggested that he sit back and enjoy his coffee.

But did you know that girls in utero have all the eggs they're ever going to have? They're already there! Isn't that insane to think about?

I have to say, I'm incredibly impressed with GW so far. You check in at a kiosk with your credit card or your name. They're pleasant. All of their equipment is so high tech. And today we had the head sonographer (which, I have to tell you, spell check wants to change to stenographer or pornographer - oh, do I have Damn You Auto Correct on my mind!), who was incredibly nice and patient and positive.

It would've been much more awkward and much less productive if she were a stenographer or pornographer.

In any case.

She explained everything about the organs and the amniotic fluid and the placenta and the cord. It all looks great with the baby. Not that I didn't expect it to...but it's such nice confirmation. And someone being so kind to you through the process makes the whole experience smoother and happier.

She was genuinely enthusiastic, so excited that everything was checking out healthy. Really. She said things like, "Oh! Look at your cute baby!"

When honestly, it's hard to see the cute even in the 4D pictures. But even so, I appreciated it.

Anyway, that's my good news. Happy weekend to all of you!

Ell Oh Ell

2011-12-01T16:22:00.002-05:00

Have you laughed hard, like really laughed out loud, lately?

One of the things I am supposed to be doing in pregnancy is seeking joy.

They didn't put it exactly that way, but that's what it comes down to. They want you laughing and having sex and doing things that make you happy and up your endorphin levels.

And it occurred to me that apart from a giggle or a chortle here and there, and the occasional laugh out loud - but short laugh, not like laughing so hard you cry and it hurts - I have spent very little time laughing lately. Appallingly little.

Granted, I have been low on the humor front lately. I need to start seeking it out.

So I am wondering - has anything made you laugh out loud lately? A movie, TV show, stupid cat video, hilariously-written blog post, book, joke? If so, what?

But since I don't work in advertising or have a penis, nobody has to worry. In case you were in the first place.

2011-11-30T13:50:00.002-05:00

I have now given some thought to how to best display four fingernails and a thumbnail-worth of nail polish.

Gripping a nail polish bottle, as Jenn suggested yesterday, is a less clenchy-looking way. And, I believe, how they do it in the magazine ads. But it's still very staged and weird.

So I picked up a cup. My hands aren't big enough to reach all the way around. You couldn't see the nails. Nick's hands are, but giant manhands are an unlikely choice. Granted, I have short fingers. This might work with longer fingers. And maybe a thin glass.

Then I thought, what about hand weights? Some of them are probably the right size. Although how often are you standing around gripping a hand weight? The ad would have to be set in a gym. And then would you be advertising how strong the polish is? Not as fun.

Maybe a large carrot. Or zucchini. But then again, you'd have to be holding them very artificially. Like, you're poised to make victory salad! With your new manicure!

No. With a new manicure, in my fantasy ad world, I'd want to be taken out to dinner. Not make my own salad.

And then it occurred to me!

The average penis is probably the perfect prop for showing off a handful of painted nails. It wouldn't even have to be a bizarrely contorted pose.

Which is not to imply that I sit around with a penis in my hand more often than hand weights. Because I don't. Sorry, Nick.

And I guess you wouldn't necessarily be just sitting around, really. Even if you were feeling patriotic next to a serviceman. Because that in itself would be odd. But you know what I mean.

You also know that if I had my own, I'd totally be waving it around all the damn time. So we can all agree that it's better that I'm a woman.

There is, of course, the awkwardness of the ad being centered around a penis. I suppose it could only run in porn magazines. And how many people looking at porn are likely to notice the nail polish and want to buy it?

Maybe if you had celebrities wearing the nail polish, so guys would then be prompted to buy the color for their partner and then fantasize about, I don't know, Alyssa Milano or somebody giving them a hand job. So you wouldn't want Justin Bieber advertising his own stuff. I mean, not in straight markets, anyway.

But would men actually be paying attention to how the nails were painted?

And no, I don't know why I spend my time on this kind of thing. I really don't.

I've got a fieber and the only prescription is more, uh, cowBieber?

2011-11-29T14:55:00.000-05:00

I don't know if I'd be as horrified about my attraction to Justin Bieber's nail polish if I didn't get hung up on grammar.

Although I probably would. Wouldn't I?

Also, I know my hand looks kind of deformed and clenchy, but it's kind of hard to take a normal looking photo of your own hand while trying to show your nails. You try it. I'm not kidding.

So I was in Target all by myself and just that fact alone felt like magic and then I didn't have time pressure and so I headed over to the nail polish section. And driven by my love of all things shiny and sparkly, I immediately noticed this clear nail polish with large silver sparkles. Exactly what I neeeeeeed.

Upon inspection, it was Justin Bieber for OPI. His One Less Lonely Girl collection.

Did you know about this? I didn't. Which was OK with me, really.

One Less Lonely Girl. Naturally, I was all: It really should be "One Fewer Lonely Girl." Girls, as we all know, are nouns you can count. In which case, fewer is appropriate. Not less. Unless, of course, she's just less lonely when she's with you. But still lonely. In which case, you're still an idiot.

An idiot whose nail polish I really like.

The specific name of the concoction I chose is Make U Smile. From the Justin Bieber One Less Lonely Girl collection.

Puke.

But...it was so...full of prettyshinysparkly! I put it in my basket. I carried it around the store. I liked it, and yet, it was so stupid.

I texted a friend. He said to walk away. I walked away...

And when I returned, it was gone. There was only one bottle to start with.

I thought about it for a whole week. Yes. Because I have nothing better to think about like my family, my job, pregnancy, nutrition, etc. I mean, intermittently. Not solidly.

But still. I spent a week of my life, time I will never get back, thinking about Justin Fucking Bieber and his glittery nail polish.

And then, when I dashed into Target to get snacks for the ride home from Thanksgiving, I minced by the nail polish aisle. And there it was! One of two bottles!

Made Me Smile!

My nails, they are less lonely now.

I promise, I'm thankful. Just...not so much around the end of November.

2011-11-28T16:40:00.001-05:00

I know I'm about to voice an extremely unpopular sentiment. I'm quite sure nobody is going to chime in and be all, oh, me too!

I hate Thanksgiving.

It seems popular to hate Christmas. Lots of people hate Christmas, which is a holiday I love, despite family baggage. But last week the Internet was full of posts of thankfulness and joy. It's a holiday of family and food and more food and who doesn't like that?

I just couldn't muster it. And you sound like an ingrate and an asshole hating thankfulness, right?

The thing is, I used to think it was about weight paranoia and fear of pie and everything food-related. But it isn't.

Honestly, holidays in our house were very stressful. You never knew how my dad might behave on any given day, but Thanksgiving and Christmas tended to be bad ones for him. And consequently for us.

He might drink and be belligerent. He'd certainly be moody. He'd pick on my mom. I'd fight with him because she wouldn't. I can't remember a winter holiday that wasn't stressful and fraught with emotional peril.

The best Thanksgiving I ever had was when I traipsed off to Cancun with Jen just before I started dating Nick. It was so much fun. Nothing but fun. And Latin porn.

Now we go to Nick's family in New Jersey for Thanksgiving. Even when nobody is being an asshole, there's nothing relaxing about it. Typically we drink our faces off. Self-medication, I know, I know. It wasn't an option for me this year.

And fall and winter are not my friends. The lack of light sucks out my soul. I am never at my personal best this season. And pregnancy is its own mindfuck.

Truthfully, I'm kind of struggling. Which is a whole nother post. I'm currently working on the illustrations.

So the Sunday before the holiday, Nick called his mother. He had us all on speakerphone.

Wait, let me back up. Nick has never liked her cooking. So the last several years we ordered a honey baked turkey sent to her house. So we could have delicious turkey and she wouldn't have to do a lot of work.

Turns out she hates turkey. Last year we bought turkey AND ham. They love the pork products. We figured that would make everyone happy.

This year we were told NO MEAT. She wanted to make pork roast. We could bring dessert.

And so on this call, Nick asked, as I mentally clapped my hand over his mouth, "So, mom, what should we bring?"

Before I could give her a chance to say something like "suet pudding" or "lard tart" I said, "We're bringing pumpkin and pecan pies."

Normal, traditional, delicious. No? I love pecan pie.

To which she responded, "Don't bring pumpkin pie. I HATE pumpkin pie. Nobody likes pumpkin pie."

I'm not proud of my behavior, but I will say that for me right now the line between rational and able to bite my tongue and raving batshit crazy is not so much in existence.

And so I said, "That's right! Let's just never fucking have turkey or pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving again!"

She snapped, "It's MY house and I get to have things the way I want them."

She may have said more, but I stormed upstairs, slamming doors and such. Like I said, I'm not proud of any of this.

I raged around. I threatened to stay home with Jordan so Nick would have to go and be miserable all by himself. I was very Very VERY angry. She's unreasonable and immature, yes. But I was fantasizing about fiery car crashes and the like.

Not good at all.

Nick asked me, in the interest of family harmony, to please go, and to behave nicely. We were talking in the kitchen. I was standing at the sink when he said, "We make compromises in marriage. We both do things we don't want to because they're the right thing to do. I'm asking you to do this. Do you agree that it's fair?"

I agreed it was fair, and the right thing to do. And in a small voice added petulantly, "But I just don't want to!"

We went...and most of Thanksgiving evening was incredibly uncomfortable. His mother didn't speak to or look at me except when absolutely necessary. It got better as the night went on, and later in the evening, she invited me to go shopping on Friday.

I got up the next morning, found his mother alone, and apologized for the outburst on the phone. All I could say was that I'm really emotional and irrational right now. And I don't really care about the pie.

She said that the pumpkin pie (because we brought three) turned out to be very popular. She'd had no idea.

And then we were fine.

But I fucking hate Thanksgiving.

Weird science. Not what teacher said to do.

2011-11-21T16:52:00.002-05:00

At this point in my life, I don't actually think there's anything available in a drug or grocery store that I'd be embarrassed to take to the register.

Seriously. I've bought plenty of things that might make people twitchy: Condoms. Dipping tobacco. Ovulation tests. Pregnancy tests. Sperm-friendly lube. Fiber powders. Laxatives. Stool softeners. Preparation H.

I just can't think of other products that might embarrass me. In fact, the last time I can remember being embarrassed checking out of a store was a couple years ago at a Trader Joe's.

And along these lines, it wouldn't have occurred to me that anything could shock me at the register either.

So last week, I found myself standing behind a man buying three cartons of Marlboros. And two giant bottles of Pepto Bismol.

The cashier said, "$210.37."

At which point I got really interested. Seriously? That much? And who knew they made Pepto Bismol in what practically look like liter bottles?

The man pulled out a large wad of cash. His hands were shaking severely, but he managed to give her two $100 bills. And then, pile of cash in hand, he kept checking his various pockets for the rest of the money.

It was a long process. I was starting to think I was going to be there all day. But I was also rather interested in the scene.

Does he always carry big wads of cash? Does he really smoke that much? What's the deal with the Pepto Bismol?

She eventually reached across the counter and took a $10 bill and a $1 bill out of his hand, telling him as she was doing so. I was so grateful. It was painful to watch him struggle. I couldn't imagine him counting out 37 cents.

She double-bagged his purchase, and then he kept asking for more and more bags. I think he had at least four or five by the time she turned her attention to me.

What does he need with all those bags?

He was still puttering around as I was getting ready to walk out.

I told Nick about this very heavy smoker. He said not to be naive; the man clearly does crack, and crack tears up your stomach and gives you instant diarrhea.

The cigarettes? Probably to calm him and his cronies. The bags? No speculation.

He said it so authoritatively that I totally believed him. Even though I know for a fact that his only real-life experience with crack is watching David do crack with the crazy hitchhiker on Six Feet Under.

But I don't have a better theory.

Maybe if I were the Georgia O'Keefe of vegetables. And here we are at 17 weeks. With news!

2011-11-18T12:47:00.005-05:00

This week the kid is the size of a turnip. And if I wasn't willing to draw an avocado with toenails, I'm damn sure not drawing this one out.

So we had the amnio and we were supposed to get early results in 48-72 hours.

The genetic counselor we met with was very nice. When she called the following week she said, "The preliminary results look good. No Downs, no Trisomy 13 or 18. [Thank God] And it's a girl. [What?] BUT..."

BUT is not what you want to hear in this circumstance. I sucked in my breath.

Turned out it wasn't a punch in the face but. It was this kind of but:

"But they got some maternal cells in with the sample."

"What does this mean?"

"It means that at this point, they can't be certain that these are the results from the fetal cells. The odds are that they are, but..."

"In other words, it could be a healthy girl..."

"Yes."

"OR they've verified that I don't have Downs, or Trisomy 13 or 18. And I'm a girl."

"Well...yes."

So we had to wait for the culture to grow for 10-14 days. Apparently they feed those little suckers something that only promotes the growth of the fetal cells. So they really really know by the end.

And then the cells were slow growing. Which I took as a very bad sign. Slow growing? Slow? They assured me this had nothing to do with the cells. It could just be lab conditions.

Nick called for updates twice a day. Just to see if they'd gotten results. He was very polite. Just, you know, persistent.

I am sure they were sick of him. He was fine with this. He wanted them to be tired of him to the point where they'd give us results the minute they had them just to stop the calls.

This is not something I can do. But I am so grateful he can.

He said, "I don't care if I annoy them. We're paying them a lot of money - and it's not like we're going to invite them to dinner next week and it's going to be so awkward."

And they called - the minute the lab reported the results. In fact, the genetic counselor spoke with the head of the lab to get his assurances that there were no concerns about maternal cells.

And so...

It's a GIRL! A little vagina-having turnip!

And she doesn't have Downs, Trisomy 13 or 18, or any of a host of other potential genetic things they test for!

And neither do I.

Sh*t Jordan's dad says

2011-11-17T15:25:00.001-05:00

In response to me asking him to make sure I'm in bed by 9:30, because if I go to sleep any later, I'm barely functional the next morning:

"Absolutely. Even if I have to drag you up the stairs in a headlock every night."

Talking about dealing with a particularly not-bright judge in a trial:

"I've realized that the line between dumb and fairly sharp is extremely thin."

When I said that Sibley is going to send my labor and delivery and operating room reports to the midwife group:

"OH ARE they?"

And now they're going to refer to us as the Genital Table.

2011-11-16T13:11:00.003-05:00

Which, now that I think about it, is better than the Bedbug Table.

Also, this makes me think of the phrase "the curtains don't match the drapes" - which is not actually the phrase, is it? It's more like "the curtains don't match the rug" or something like that, I think.

And anyway, this has nothing to do with curtains. Nor really the rug. Or it sort of does. Depending.

Also, I'd like to point out that while I wind up in a lot of penisy genitally kind of conversations, I am not always the initiator. I don't know if this matters to you, but I just want to have that out there. OK?

So.

What this post mostly has to do with is this: BEDBUGS.

Which we do not have. We don't. Really and truly.

But because of these friends, on my last trip to NY, staying in a Hilton, I set my suitcase on the desk, and immediately hung my clothes in the closet not touching anything. My typical behavior is to just let my suitcase explode organically as I try to figure out what to wear.

Also, I only changed in the bathroom, perched on the tile floor. It was very hard to force non-maternity panty hose on a preggy belly balancing on one foot and holding onto the sink.

The price of paranoia. And not being organized enough with hose for business meetings.

I tiptoed across the room in my underwear. I don't know why, but it seemed like the less surface area on the floor, the better. I wore disposable socks from the doctor and threw them away on my way out the door.

Thus visiting the bedbug capital of the world seemingly unscathed.

But anyway. We had dinner with friends last night who had bedbugs. They have just, after months and months and two expensive rounds of house treatment, just gotten rid of them.

Doesn't just hearing the word bedbug make you all clenchy?

The wife, M, said there's such a stigma attached that she's just been telling everyone to get it all out in the open. Kind of like when she got out of prison.

I'm just kidding. She hasn't been telling anyone about the bedbugs.

Oh, I crack myself up. However, candid as she may be, I told her I'd write about them anonymously.

So - get this - the second treatment, which has a one-year warranty - leaves residue on the floors, walls, everywhere. And you cannot clean or mop for two months or it voids the warranty. Nor can you move any of the furniture. For a year.

What they said was that you move out for the weekend, the bedbug people come in and put all this (ostensibly child- and pet-safe) chemical all over the house. And then after 48 hours you move back into your house, unpack, and start living your normal life.

In fact, you have to. Because you are the bait.

The bedbugs have to think life is back to normal so they come out of hiding and head towards you and then walk all over the poison and die. And you have to wait for their sticky sticky eggs of evil to hatch so they can do the same.

I dislike insects and suspense and I think this combination would pretty much kill me.

So far, it's been a couple weeks, and they haven't been bitten once.

Now, there we were, last night, discussing this over Thai food at this nice, low key place with very friendly service. We always seem to wind up there when the four of us meet for dinner.

We were across the table from them, listening intently. For my part, I was slack-jawed, goose-bumped, with arms clenched tightly across my chest.

It's the universal pose of warding off evil, no?

And then our friend M said, "But they don't bite palms of hands or genitals!"

"They don't bite hands or genitals?"

"Or maybe it's that they do...The bedbug guy said something in particular about the hands and genitals...but I was too upset to process it."

"Genitals seem like a prime target. All that blood flow. I'd want to know."

Unfortunately, this was said in the moments juuuust prior to the moment that our server chose to refill our water glasses. So he was reaching in, hovering across the table, as M said:

"Anyway, my genitals are always covered when I sleep, making them hard to bite." She looked across at us and shrugged. "I don't know about your genitals."

And our server, this very gracious man, paused, ever so briefly, mid-reach.

He kept the same smile, but you could tell that he'd heard, processed, and couldn't quite decide if it was better to just keep pouring, or back away.

Meager Mushroom

2011-11-15T16:19:00.001-05:00

November 22 update: I got an email from one of Mellow Mushroom's co-owners, and she was incredibly kind and gracious and wanted to make it up to us. We will be going back to try their pizza, and I will report back.

-----

I don't know if you've tried the new pizza place the Mellow Mushroom in Adams Morgan?

I was excited to try it. Until we did. And I'll never get pizza from there again.

We've been eating really well, but last Friday we all decided was a pizza night.

So I called Mellow Mushroom, which I'd heard good things about, and ordered a large pizza with gluten-free crust, tomato sauce, two kinds of cheese, peppers, sun dried tomatoes, and Italian sausage.

(We were splurging, health-wise, on pizza for dinner, but being a little virtuous with the gluten-free. Plus we used to go to Rustico and have amazing gluten-free pizza. So that was my frame of reference. I miss Rustico.)

Nick and I walked over to pick it up. It was $27. He plunked down his credit card.

And then they handed me the box.

It was so light and small, I was sure they'd given us the wrong order. "This is your large?"

"Oh, no. There's only one size in gluten-free. They should've told you that."

Huh.

And then we got home, and opened the box. There was a suggestion of sauce, a hint of cheeses, a giggle of sausage, perhaps three to five sun-dried tomatoes, and a pirouette of peppers on it.

In other words, a very thin, tasteless crust with the pretense of a number of delicious-sounding toppings.

For $27.

I wanted Nick to go back and complain, because he is good at that sort of thing and I am not, but it was Friday and he was tired, and he said fuck it and ordered a white pizza from Astor instead.

It was about half the price and fucking delicious.

And now I think it's just too late. You can go back later in the evening or the next day, but you can't really show up a week later and say that your pizza is really fucking expensive and skimpy and tasteless.

Or can you? Because candidly, it still pisses me off. I don't know why it's stuck with me, but it has.

Or should I just remind myself to breathe and there are children starving all over the world and one overpriced crappy pizza is nothing to be worked up about?

All the dishes rattle in the cupboards when the elephants arrive

2011-11-14T16:42:00.000-05:00

We met four years ago last night.

I must mention, because a friend asked, that this is a NOW picture, not a THEN picture. Although it made me think how funny it would be if I had whipped out a camera to document each first date.

Awkward, no? Plus, I'd need an extra hard drive just to store them all.

So, I wanted a picture that showed us and showed the couch and the room so it included some atmosphere. But Nick chose to ask a couple sitting like 15 inches from us to take a picture. And so we loom LARGE in the photo.

(And no, I'm not sure why I'm hell-bent on capitalizing shit today.)

And also: I have to show you what I wore. I love this dress. I got it in Paris and it is A-line and knit and accommodating and I can still wear it and it has such cute flowers and embroidered collar and sleeves and did I tell you I love it?I love the anniversary of our meeting more than our wedding anniversary.

And not just because the service at the Tabard is so much kinder and friendlier than our wedding venue. Even though the place is spectacular and I do feel very fortunate that Nick's father is so into genealogy and found an illustrious dead ancestor (are ancestors necessarily dead? I think so) so that he could belong to this particular society and Nick therefore could belong, which ultimately resulted in us getting married at an affordable and spectacular venue.

But also at the Tabard they let you drink red wine and set things on tables and aren't all pursed-lipped and unhelpfully rulesy, thus making you want to spray urine in their corners.

Which I would of course never do. Of course.

So they do have a couple things up on the wedding venue. Plus I don't suppose anyone actually celebrates their anniversary precisely where they had their wedding.

God, I can speculate about useless crap, can't I?

ANYway.

I think the main reason I like our first date anniversary is that first dates are so fraught.

By the time our wedding happened, there was no uncertainty left. Walking into a first date? No certainty whatsoever. When I started doing all the Internet dating, I was excited about first dates. Honestly.

Oh, the possibilities!

And as you know, by the time I met Nick, I canceled our first first date, because I had already had so many that not only had all the excitement been squozen out of me, but I was tired and jaded and fully prepared to loathe him by halfway through the first glass of wine.

I write about this every year, so I won't bore you with the rhapsodizing or the oh-thank-Godding on luck turning my way again this year.

But...I still feel lucky, so very lucky. And not only because meeting Nick meant I never had to die alone again.

So far, of course. I suppose he could always get hit by a bus.

Look both ways, Nick. I mean it.

Week 16: Mama's belly button! (while I still have one)

2011-11-11T15:51:00.000-05:00

Nick was reading the Richard Scarry book What Do People Do All Day? to Jordan the other day.

This is low on my list of books to read. I love the illustrations, but I have a hard time with these books that are sort of but not really stories. Nick, however is great at being all, "Oh, look, there's a tractor! And a farmer! And a big truck!"

He makes it all very exciting.

So, there was a mama bunny who had a big tummy and went to the hospital...and then had a new baby to bring home!

It's kind of suspect in that Dr. Lion, her OB, instead of eating her right up, delivered her baby bunny.

Anyway. Nick thought he'd capitalize on the moment.

So Nick said, "Remember how much you liked David's new baby at his house?"

"Yes."

"Would you like a new baby at our house?"

And Jordan said, "No."

Also, yes, I buy boxer briefs to sleep in. I love them. They're comfier than any jammies I've ever had.

Which reminds me. We recently were given the Boynton book Pajama Time. Love love love! Except I've realized I pronounce pajamas "puh-jah-mas" but I say "jammies" like a plain old normal American.

Or maybe this is regional? Pajamas Dunno.

Happy weekend, all!

Everybody bump and grind... it was porno for pyros

2011-11-08T16:45:00.001-05:00

So I was initially going to title yesterday's post "Racist porn got me where I am today."

But then I realized that it might sound like I had actually been featured in racist porn. Which I have not. And really, if I were going to be in porn, it would definitely be of the non-racist variety.

Once I went down that path, though, I realized that it was very much like the whole erection skirt thing and I would probably get all wrapped up in something tantamount to the size of the penis I don't have and really I should just pick a whole nother title entirely.

It also reminded me that I have this story from my single and going out all all all the time days that I never told you.

Back when I started this blog I went out almost every night. Sometimes I had dates, but I also had this close circle of single friends who lived within blocks of each other. And we'd make last-minute plans all the time.

So it was one of those random Mondays or Tuesdays that a group of us found ourselves out at Chi Cha Lounge, which, was (and perhaps still is?) low and couchy and a comfortable place to hang out.

And early in the week it was maybe about half full of small, quiet groups. It was decently lit, wiht low music, and an setting to make conversation.

Conversation which turned, in our case, to opinions on talking dirty in bed.

One of our friends said she thought it was ridiculous. "I mean," she began loudly, "what am I going to say?" She continued just as loudly, happening to coincide with one of those 8-minute lulls in room conversation, "Ooh, I just love your big cock!"

This kind of thing will garner the attention of pretty much everyone in the room.

And one of our guy friends, who is Indian, responded without missing a beat: "Brown. You forgot to say big brown cock."

Those were the days.

Although for all I know, racist porn may have gotten us where we are today

2011-11-07T15:29:00.002-05:00

So you know I did the IVF.

For me that entailed a bunch of shots and having my blood taken 85 million times and then having my eggs sucked out and then having a couple of them put back in. When they suck out your eggs, they give you an IV with some very nice drugs, I have to say.

When they stick them back in, they're so itty bitty that the doctor has to take his syringe thingy into the lab and have them look in a microscope and tell him whether he got them out or not. So he did, and they determined that they were, in fact, set up in their new home, and they drew a little line on the sonogram screen to show where they were, and sent me on my way.

They were always all, "Good job!" Which of course is exactly the kind of thing you want to hear, even though really, you have absolutely no control over what's going on.

Anyway.

Nick's piece of the process entailed giving me a bunch of shots, being incredibly supportive of me ALL THE TIME GODDAMMIT and then leaving his, uh, contribution on the day of the egg-suck-out-ing.

He said they really need to improve their customer service towards men. They make you feel cheap and dirty. You walk in and they don't really meet your eyes and they hand you a cup and they're all "There's the bathroom."

He said he really wanted to ask them if he could leave the door open, and if they'd mind watching.

Me, I see no reason to joke in these circumstances. If you get a humorless nurse who thinks you're an icky icky creep, I'm the one who is going to have to see her multiple times a week. And even if you don't. For God's sake, man.

So then, without saying anything idiotic to the nurses, cup in hand, you head into the bathroom. He said there's a variety of porn to appeal to a variety of taste. The one he mentioned as example was called Whorientals.

Seriously.

I didn't ask for details, because I just don't want to know.

Also. Whorientals? Who picks these?

15 week goings-on

2011-11-04T16:30:00.000-04:00

So today was AD, or Amnio Day. It all went fine.

We were hoping to find out the whole BOY or GIRL, but the kid was turned away from the camera. Nick is always all chitty-chatty with people, and sometimes this works with their personalities and sometimes not.

Hell, sometimes it works with my personality and sometimes not.

He was talking too much for my taste while they were doing the sono and prepping me for the amnio and at one point he said, "You're doing fine!"

And I said, "So are you, but it would be nice if you would do it a little more quietly."

Anyway, they got their basic measurements, confirming that we are, in fact, at 15 weeks and 1 day, and there are still arms and legs and a brain and what-have you. But Nick was holding out for the sex. Nick asked the sonogram technician, who was nice but not one of those humor-you types, if she'd prod the baby a bit to get it to turn.

She was all, "Look. It's on its tummy. We wouldn't be able to tell your sex if you were on your tummy, would we?"

And Nick was all, "Oh, you'd be surprised!"

I just lay there and cringed, naked belly towards God.

Seriously?

---

Also, what's your opinion of belly pictures? I quite liked having them with Jordan, but I wonder if it's silly to do twice? But I am house-bound and it just seemed like why the hell not.

One remarkable thing (to me - not to anyone else who has ever been pregnant more than once) is that my stomach poked out significantly faster with this one. It's not surprising. I had kick-ass abs prior to our friend J, and then they went all to hell.

I think I'm poking out about a month faster than I did the first time. I need to look back.

---

And! Big news in my world! something just happened to me that has never, ever happened in my whole life.

The midwife I met with on Wednesday? Called to check on me.

Have you ever had a health care provider call to see how you're doing?

I told her, very candidly, that I felt like she had taken what I assume is her hostility towards the medical establishment and directed it at me. I said I felt very put on the defensive, when I would never have chosen to have a C-section, and wasn't happy about how things went the first time...but this was what my OB was supporting, and nobody was suggesting otherwise.

I told her that I was so upset when I left. I was just very frank about how bad she made me feel.

And she apologized! She didn't try to justify, except that she said that they have to bring up some very difficult, negative things, to make sure that this is what you are looking for.

She said she was sorry that she made me feel so bad. She didn't mean to put me on the defensive. Especially when I'm in such a vulnerable position, being pregnant. It's the opposite of how they want to make you feel. Their goal is to make you feel very supported and to give you a good experience.

Which, I told her, is what I'd heard from everyone. Everyone I know who has gone to her, including two friends of mine, everything I have read, has been nothing but positive.

We spoke for 15-20 minutes. We talked about all my concerns.

There is an increased risk of fetal death past 37 weeks. It is small, but it is there. She said it's 2 babies per 1,000 after 41 weeks. Which is a small number...unless it happens to you. So it needs to be talked about.

She asked if I'd made a follow-up appointment, and I said no, I'd been too upset when I left and I was thinking about what to do. That she had caused me so much anxiety that I wasn't inclined to put myself through what I assumed would be another hugely anxiety-provoking appointment. But that our conversation had made me feel a million times better.

And I do. I've never had a medical professional call me to ask how I'm doing. I've never been apologized to.

This woman has already spent more time talking to me than my OB did at almost all my prenatal appointments combined. And she actually talked about FEELINGS. How I FEEL emotionally. Something I'm sure my OB would rather have cut off his toes than do.

So I am going to go to another appointment.

I will be 19 weeks, and if at that point it doesn't seem right, I still have time to switch. And if it seems like a supportive, safe place to be, then I will feel like I'm in the right place.

Nick, however? Still mad. If you hurt someone he loves, he takes a long, long time to get past it. He is not in any hurry to get past this.

In this regard, he's just like me. I get it. I used to follow Maude's horrible ex-boyfriend around at parties just to give him the stinkeye and make him twitchy. I did this for years.

It made him very uncomfortable. Which I found profoundly satisfying.

I'm not saying it's normal. Just, you know. Uh. That it's probably not, now that I think about it. But I appreciate the protectiveness, and I have a huge dose of it in me, even if it comes out in weird ways.

Happy weekend, all!

And now I totally have "The Ides of March are come" stuck in my head. Whatever, Caesar.

2011-11-03T14:19:00.002-04:00

So, I got all weepy waiting to see if there was a baby in my uterus, and if it had a heartbeat, but I'd never, ever been made to cry , like, really cry, at a prenatal appointment. Until yesterday.

When I saw my OB - the one who complimented my hair - for the first time this pregnancy, he said that we would just schedule me for a repeat Cesarean at 39 weeks. They cut on the same scar. Easy.

And I was thinking, Yeah, easy for you. Not your abdominal muscles. In fact, you don't even have a vagina. What am I doing?

But I said, "Uh...that's the next thing on my list to ask you. What's your approach to VBAC?"

For those of you who haven't jumped through the Cesarean hoops (Hahaha - it's not really a hoop, just a small incision in your abdomen and uterus. A small incision through major muscles.), VBAC stands for Vaginal Birth After Cesarean. Those in the club pronounce it Veeback.

On a sidebar: in the fertility/birth world, I believe there are more acronyms than in the military. I don't know if you read Julia, but if you've ever struggled with fertility, or even if you haven't, you might love her. I think I've read her entire archives, would stalk her if she lived in DC, and love this post about dippos.

Anyway.

My OB, who I actually really like, gave me a verbal pat on the head and said, sure, sure, we could think about it and discuss it later in the pregnancy. Although very candidly, he strongly favors repeat C-section.

At which point I promptly started shopping for another practice. I might wind up with another C-section, but I don't want it to be automatic.

So I was very excited when I got into this highly regarded midwife practice, which is part of one of DC's major hospitals. You deliver in the hospital. But they are midwives, really focus on nutrition and exercise, and will work very hard for you to have natural childbirth.

This approach appeals to me. And the midwife I got to see is THE recommended person in DC for natural birth and VBAC.

(And I am deliberately not using names. They have an extraordinary reputation, and it's a a well-respected practice. They just take a harder line than I am equipped for. So if you're in the DC area, and this rings a bell, please don't guess.)

So.

As soon as we began talking about my prior birth experience, the conversation became, well, kind of hostile.

WHY did I have a C-section?

Well, I was induced at 41 weeks...and I never dilated...and...

WHY was I induced?

Well, my OB was in favor of it, and it was August, and I was huge, and it was so hot, and I just couldn't handle being pregnant anymore.

Long story short, I found myself defending the choice I made to be induced at 41 weeks. The choice that was highly supported by my OB. Who would've made me induce at 42 weeks in any case.

I wound up bursting into tears, explaining how my dad had killed himself two months prior, and we had moved into this row house with a 4th floor kitchenette, and I was just so big and everything was so HARD.

What I didn't say was: first we moved out of Nick's place, and then there was my dad's suicide attempt, and then my dad's suicide, and then we moved again into this asshole of a house where everything was broken and dark and creaky and creepy and there was no normal kitchen and I had to lumber up to the 4th floor. And sometimes I would just waddle over to the liquor store and buy 10 pounds of ice because they don't sell it in smaller bags and waddle home in the hot fucking hot August sun with the goddamn ice melting down my leg.

And then I would haul both of us - the ice and me - up to the 4th floor and drink iced drinks and refuse to come down. And my husband worked ALL THE TIME and my mom was in her own crisis and FUCK YOU LIFE WAS REALLY REALLY HARD IT'S NOT LIKE I WAS SMOKING CRACK AND HAVING SEX WITH STRANGERS.

But I didn't say all of that. I just cried. And she asked me if I was under the care of a therapist.

I'm not currently.

She suggested that it would be helpful.

I said I'd had a lot. I'm on a break.

Her response then was as follows: I need to understand that with their practice, there is no induction because you're tired of being pregnant. I will probably go past 40 weeks. Given my profile, I will probably go to 42 weeks, because in their practice, you wait for the baby to come. And I could be in labor for five days.

If this is what I want, they will support me in this. It's a lot of risk for them, and so you have to sign a risk statement. Which makes sense to me. It's a litigious world, and their liability is high.

Also, I need to understand that the risk of stillbirth increases every week after 37 weeks. Every week after 37, the chance of your baby dying goes up. Am I prepared to take these risks? I need to really think about this.

(I didn't know about this. Nobody told me about this, as Jordan was happily cooking away, week after post-37 weeks week.)

Also, she said, having IVF increases your likelihood of a C-section. So there's also that.

Oh.

Plus, being older, you could just take longer to dilate. And clearly that's an issue, since I didn't before.

I see.

"So," I said, "you think I'm a bad candidate for VBAC?" (At that point, it seemed silly to even ask the question.)

"Not at all. I think you're a good candidate. You just have to really think about all these things and be prepared to deal with the risks. And your husband has to be on board."

I am dramatically condensing the conversation. We talked for at least 45 minutes, I think. I'd say I was on the defensive for 43.5 of those minutes.

So finally, finally when she said it was time to get on the table to listen to the heartbeat, I was so relieved. And then it took her a while to find the heartbeat. And I almost started to cry again.

She then found it, and said it sounded good. She added, "You have a lot of anxiety, don't you?"

I nodded. But I really wanted to say, "I was fine when I walked in. The only way you could possibly have made me more anxious would be to set my hair on fire."

Five on Monday

2011-10-31T12:27:00.002-04:00

1. We went to a delightful wedding at the Hay-Adams this weekend. It was beautiful and elegant, and after 10 years in DC, I realized I'd never had a view like this. Amazing, no?

Even the oh-so-important-they-take-away-your-chairs W doesn't have this.

I'd only been to the Hay-Adams twice. and both times to the downstairs bar, Off the Record. Once for a happy hour, once for a first date just over a month before I met Nick. And I really quite liked the guy, who never asked me out again.

Lucky all around, it turns out.

2. We watched The Social Network on Friday. It made me want to quit Facebook.

3. I have had this terrible plague cold that Jordan brought home from daycare for almost two weeks now. I hear it's going around. I'm really fucking sick of being sick.

4. I was thinking the other day that now that Sarah Palin isn't fake campaigning for president, she's really not getting any attention. So I realized that she should probably drop in on the Kardashians.

I don't know what their politics are, and it's kind of hard to picture them interested in moose chili. But it would be great for Sarah. I mean, they're better at getting attention than anyone, don't you think?

5. We saw a guy dressed in a giant green bodysuit about 9:30 on Sunday morning. He looked ridiculous. He was hurrying.

And Nick said, "When I was in college we called that the Walk of Shame. He's just now going home."

And I was all, "Those don't look like pajamas. Maybe he's out exercising?"

"Lisa. That was his Halloween costume."

You guys. I have completely turned into my mother.

Propitiation

2011-10-27T15:59:00.000-04:00

So I was totally wrong and he doesn't weigh two tons and his name isn't Mahadev. His name is actually Mahavira, and he is an incredibly important Jain deity.

Also, Nick says he probably weighs about 400 pounds. In any case. He's too heavy for me to lift.

Be that as it may, Jordan still calls him Buddha, and I don't correct him.

Growing up, I was very used to offerings to the gods. I mean, they weren't our gods, but they weren't not. I can't remember living in a house that didn't include statues of deities. And while we weren't leaving daily food or flowers for them, we might if we went to a temple. When we were in Thailand, we would always buy flowers to put outside the spirit houses.

I like this idea. It's very hard to imagine leaving a bowl of milk at the feet of Jesus, though, isn't it?

Anyway, the other night I brought home a bag of clothes my friend Michele had given me. Her son had grown out of them.Jordan peered into the bag, saw some Thomas the Train underwear, and was enchanted.

"Oooh! What do we have?"

This is now what he says when he sees something new.

"Underwear."

Man, was he excited about the underwear. Oh, the underwear! The trains! The underwear!

"Here Buddha. Want some underwear?"

Two in August

2011-10-24T14:32:00.003-04:00

Dear Jordan,

So now you are two years and two months old.

It's always bugged me when people talk about their child's age in months when they're past two. Although really, the leap between two and three is huge, and two doesn't accurately cover it.

So now, whenever people ask me how old you are, I say, "He turned two in August."

Yesterday, when you and your dad were talking about there being two of something, and he said, "two," you replied, "two in August!"It turns out you truly are listening.

In fact, we learned this on a recent car trip. Your dad made a wrong turn, and said, "Fuck!"

And from the back seat we heard a little, "Fuck! Dammit!"

He and I both blanched. Yikes. We need to be a lot more careful.

In fact, we passed the Friendly's on the highway where we stopped last year and had the terrible Jesusfuck incident. Hopefully that family has long forgotten it. I, on the other hand, will never eat at Friendly's again.

So the trip.

Two weeks ago, we drove to upstate New York to visit your friend David's family. You two hadn't seen each other in almost a quarter of your young lives, and yet you walked over to him, pointed to his jammies, and said, "You have fire trucks on your shirt!"

And then the two of you turned to his toys. It was like no time at all had passed. You guys had the best time together.

I love our city life, but seeing you run and run - safely, I might add - on the grass up there made me feel bad for you that we don't live out in the country. Of course, if we did, I'd probably just sit home and drink a lot, which would be fairly unhelpful, so I suppose it all evens out.

Halloween is coming up, and I bought you the cutest little dragon costume at Old Navy. We put it on you and you had a fit. "OFFFF! TAKE IT OFFFFF!"

So I returned it. Last year you were the angriest little frog, but you had significantly less muscle control. This year, you're old enough and strong enough to rip off your clothes when you choose.

Plus, I figure you don't actually know what Halloween is, and you don't particularly need the extra sugar. When you figure out it's all about candy, boy howdy do I bet you are you going to be more open-minded about the costumes.

Your fascination with all things backhoe, front-loader, skid steer loader, and general digging machine continues unabated. You now have very strong preferences for clothing, and if it doesn't have some kind of vehicle on it, you are not interested.

I might start a line of vehicle-focused kid's clothing, because I do think there's a lack of cute clothing with cars and trucks that don't also say stupid shit like, "Mommy's little dirt monster!"

Anyway.

Another good month, all around. Except for you getting really sick and then Nana getting your cold and having to spend a couple days in the hospital. But now you have Nana living with us full-time, and that makes you really happy.

I myself have been fairly tired and crabby and haven't had as much patience for you as I would like. You're still my joy, my best thing ever. Let's just cut it out with the fuck dammits, OK? And maybe eat a few more vegetables, even though I'm not currently doing so?

Love love,

Mama

Good thoughts for Betty

2011-10-20T08:22:00.001-04:00

I was just wondering, if you have any extra energy, if you could send some good thoughts in Betty's direction.

Jordan got sick two weeks ago, and sicker and sicker, and it turned into a double ear infection and conjunctivitis. (I love his day care, but he's been sick since he started part-time in August. And the pediatrician said to just expect a year of sick.)

And then Betty got sick. And sicker and sicker. And sicker and more frail and feeble.

Until she called me yesterday, as I was almost home, to say that she was going to call an ambulance and go to the ER.

Betty is not an alarmist.

I asked if she wanted me to go with her, and she said no, there was no reason to come and sit in the waiting room. And so I didn't.

I know this is not about me, but I just couldn't do it. I've sat in so many ER waiting rooms. Or rather, I've spent so many hours, so many times, in the waiting room mostly at INOVA Fairfax. I no longer get all clenchy in my stomach when I hear and see an ambulance, but I just didn't feel like I could be pregnant again, sitting in a hospital waiting room. And I'm so tired.

So I didn't go. And I felt like a horrible daughter.

Our dear friend Pat joined my mom there, and she called last night to say they didn't know if it was pneumonia, but were treating it as such and had her on IV antibiotics. And a nebulizer to open up her lungs.

So Betty spent the night at GW hospital. She just called, and she already sounds a lot better. It's bronchitis rather than pneumonia, thank God.

Oh, yeah, and conjunctivitis.

Honk if you love cheese sauce! (A Nick post)

2011-10-19T12:08:00.000-04:00

Let me start by saying that I have a deep and abiding love of all things cheese. With English ancestry, I love strong cheeses like Stilton. But I'm equally happy with cheddar.

Lisa hates Stilton and seems to be indifferent to most cheese, something I cannot understand. But cheese is not as divisive as politics, and so we coexist (mostly) peacefully.

And in any case, it's not as if cheese is a regular conversation topic in our house.

Yesterday I was walking through Farragut Square, and noticed a guy mumbling/chanting something into a bullhorn. I assumed that he was part of the Occupy DC crowd that moved into the square on occasion to protest capitalism and to annoy that tool Eric Canter.

The guy was chanting something over and over, but I didn’t understand it all. He was also alone, and that meant that he was more likely crazy than enraged with Wall Street.

Then I heard him saying “Cheese sauce, sauce, sauce...cheese sauce, sauce, sauce..."

He was actually repeating "sauce" - it was not the effect of the bullhorn. He was making the echo effect into the bullhorn like a kid would mimic a commentator at a stadium sporting event.

"Honk if you love cheese sauce, sauce, sauce!”

I thought, “That guy really likes the echo effect he is making into the bullhorn. And, of course, cheese sauce.”

As a fellow cheese enthusiast, but on foot rather than in a car, I began to raise my arm in solidarity. I do love cheese sauce!

And then I realized...

"Jesus, sus, sus...Jesus, sus, sus...Honk if you love Jesus, sus, sus.”

Which of course makes far more sense than “honk if you love cheese sauce, sauce, sauce,” -- and I say that as a cheese sauce enthusiast.

So if you saw a man in a business suit raising his fist for Jesus and then changing his mind, well, it's not that I'm anti-Jesus. It's more that I'm pro-cheese sauce.

Queso ra! sera, right?

$1,000 vs. a punch in the face

2011-10-18T12:28:00.001-04:00

This has been kind of a hold-your-breath pregnancy. I've been counting week by week.

I held my breath for thee two weeks between the doctor sticking in the eggs and the nurse taking blood and calling me. And then I held my breath for the next couple weeks, at which point I started spotting, freaked out, and the doctor let me come in to see if everything was OK or it was going all to hell.

They did a sonogram and determined that there was indeed a little gestational sac in there, plus a little smaller dark spot of...something...

And then we went in later in the week for our scheduled scan, and it looked just fine, and the spot was disappearing.

Again at eight weeks we went in, and I was holding my breath, literally, until they said there was a little heartbeat. And the other spot was gone. (I'm now all, the kid totally ate his or her twin.) There was one little fetus in there, and it was measuring perfectly, and it was fine.

OK. So there was a heartbeat. And possibly healthy.

Also, let me tell you. When you do assisted reproduction, you get used to a lot of attention. At one point I was having my blood taken daily. Once you graduate to the OB, and they're all, "See you in four weeks!" you feel very neglected.

Anyway.

At this point I started waiting for 11 weeks, 1 day, for the nuchal scan. And of course started obsessively reading everything possible on the Internet about things that can go wrong. Reasons for miscarriage. Statistics for Downs, for the other trisomies.

I found this helpful chart, which put it all together. At my age - 42 - my risk of any of the trisomies is 1 in 42. (For the sake of comparison, it's 1 in 526 at age 20.)

Which, of course, is not so great, right?

Nick likes to take numbers such as these that cause me hysteria and put them in terms that he feels like will make them real-life for me. He put it in the following way:

"OK. So 1 in 42. Let's say that you walk out the front door on any given day for 42 days. On 41 of those days, someone will hand you $1,000. On only one of those days, someone will punch you in the face. Your odds of not being punched in the face are really good, aren't they?"

Naturally, I continued to fixate on the punch in the face. While remaining hopeful that a stranger actually will hand me $1,000, just for leaving my house.

And then we had the nuchal screen, where they take blood and do a sonogram and match up the bloodwork and the measurements that they see and then give you your odds.

I walked in terrified that it had stopped growing. So afraid they'd see a lot of fluid in the neck. No nasal bone.

And then the results turned out to be so dramatically much better than 1 in 42. And in fact, better than Jordan's results when I was pregnant with him. And he, of course, is perfect.

At 11 weeks, 1 day, no face punch.

And now, now I've started breathing...mostly. We're still having an amnio at 15 weeks, because I cannot handle these degrees of uncertainty. There could be a face punch right around the corner.

But so far, we seem to be winning.

Push the door, I'm home at last, and I'm soaking through and through.Then you hand me a towel and all I see is you.

2011-10-17T15:55:00.001-04:00

So yesterday I realized that as of last week, I've been blogging for five years.

Five years.

I've known some of you invisible and not-so-invisible friends for longer than I've lived most places, longer than many of my friendships, longer than I've kept all but my current job.

I've made some in-person friends who are really my people, who I'm quite sure will be my people for life.

Those of you who have stuck around have known me since I was single, broken-hearted, and trying not to walk by my ex-boyfriend's place, which was inconveniently located just around the corner from mine.

Some of you stumbled here with my job rant, in which I fantasized about my backup career as a foot prostitute. You subsequently saw me contemplate placing dead bugs in my new boss's office.

(In other words: you probably wouldn't hire me. But that's not what this is about.)

You saw me make one bad choice after another, go hopefully on date after date after...and do one stupid thing after another. I'm pretty sure a number of you cringed in vicarious shame after I smeared butter on that guy's nose.

You were outraged when that journalist asked me what was wrong with me for being single.

You rooted for me when I finally met Nick, because he seemed like a good one. And thankfully, by that point I'd had enough therapy to be able to articulate what I'd learned about love. You rejoiced with me when we got engaged, and not a single one of you told me it was a bad idea, even though we were complete strangers who'd just met on the Internet.

You were equally horrified with Nick's taste in wedding attire. You sent us off with the best honeymoon wishes.

You supported me immensely through my dad's suicide attempt and subsequent long hospitalization in 2007. Through another attempt, and then his death in 2009.

You welcomed Jordan to the world when he was born, and you sent me notes when you thought (and you were right) that I might have postpartum depression. You shared amazing stories with me.

You opened your arms in virtual hugs when I talked about my struggles with infertility, and you were so kind in your joyousness last week when I shared our big news.

I just want to thank you for making me laugh, and laughing with me (rather than obviously at me). For making me think. For supporting me in my struggles, and for sharing your own and making me feel less alone.

Thank you for still reading, and thank you for still caring. Five years is no small feat. (Although five is kind of small for feet.)

Big hugs to all of you.

How I realized I totally wasted my youth. Brought to you by the letters I, V, and F.

2011-10-12T14:46:00.003-04:00

So in May, when it was clear that we were not getting pregnant through our own efforts or mild interventions, we realized we needed to turn to what we had been considering the nuclear option.

Although in retrospect, except for the heart-stopping expense, the whole process wasn't that terrible. Although I do wish I'd taken a picture of my stomach after all the shots.

I'm not going to say that it looked like the Ho Chi Minh trail, which is how Nick likes to describe some of DC's worst roads, because though I like the simile, it would be a gross exaggeration. Mostly it looked like I'd been beaten by teeny tiny angry little fists.

But honestly, the injectable drugs were so much easier in terms of side effects than the Clomid I'd been taking. Those pills turned me into a rabid little hate machine.

I'm not exaggerating. I told Nick I hated him in front of one of our friends. And I meant it. I gnashed my teeth all night long. I woke up loathing my husband just for breathing. I spent my days wanting to kick puppies and shove pregnant women.

Not so good.

So we met with our doctor who was basically all, yah, at almost 42 you have like 37 seconds of fertility left, and let's get going.

Right. So.

My insurance, it covers nothing in terms of fertility procedures or medication.

And thus, when I got the call from the pharmacy telling me that my grand total for medication was going to be $5,300, I nearly passed out, right there on 17th Street. I called my nurse. She found coupons. She called alternate pharmacies.

We got the total down to $4,000. For 10 days of medication. My math is not great, but it was pretty easy to work this out to $400 per day.

It got me thinking.

I don't know what kind of quality you'd be talking, but it seems to me that if you're going to be sticking drugs into your body, you could probably have a really good time on $400 a day. I'm not saying you could have this major hookers and blow binge, but something along those lines.

Don't you think?

And then, then I started being all, why the fuck didn't I have a drug problem in my early 20s? Your 20s are the time to do it! Look at all these things I'm never going to do now: Threesomes! Sleeping around! Drug experimentation!

I totally fucking wasted my youth with that first-born-rule-follower bullshit.

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto

2011-10-11T12:53:00.000-04:00

So you know that my blog is all about my day-to-day and what I like best is writing about what is happening here! and now! And ooh, listen to this!

And I am all about putting it out there, rather than being all secret secret, I've got a secret?

Yah.

And then I just couldn't write about my days. When I can't write about the biggest thing going on, well, for me it's just easier not to blog.

And as I said, I couldn't.

It was too many months of hormones that made me batshit crazy, and monthly disappointments...and then this whole giant science experiment - this very expensive, surprisingly common, highly-monitored science experiment - that I was dying to write about...

And then finally some really, really good news. The kind that makes you burst into tears on the corner of 18th and Mass when the nurse calls. You were really scared to answer your phone but not as scared as you were of missing the call.

And then you stayed scared every. single. day. Because odds are not in your favor at your age. And so it had to stay a secret because what if what if what if?

So I've been carrying around this huge secret. Which is the opposite of how I comfortably live my life.

Right.

But on Thursday he or she will be 12 weeks, and while bad things could still happen, right now, all it looks like is something very, very good. (I mean, I know it actually looks like a marshmallow alien. But it's not. It's a little potential human, you guys!)

Finding Bob

2011-10-08T14:30:00.002-04:00

Betty has this 11-year old Camry that is in hot demand. I should actually say had, because in about half an hour, Betty will have sold her car to a man named Bob.

A few months ago, when she had a garage sale, this man named Bob turned up and said, "Hey, are you selling your car?"

It turned out she was, or anyway, would be when she moved in with us.

And after that happened, several other people asked her about her car. People left notes on it. The woman who coordinated the clean-out crew offered to buy it. There was this sudden and odd interest in this decade-plus car with a scratched and dented bumper but new air conditioning.

OK. So last week, with a lot of help from professionals and dear friends, we got Betty moved over. The house closed yesterday. Only the car remained to be sold.

The transaction was going to happen Thursday or Friday.

Now, through conversations with my mother, it became clear that Bob had asked if he could keep the plates for a couple days after buying it, just to have time to get new ones. Which was cool with Betty. Not so cool with the law. Or Nick.

Nick suggested that she sell it Saturday, when he could go with her, just to make sure that everything went as it should. She gratefully agreed.

So Thursday, when I asked if she had organized everything with Bob, she said, "I don't have his number."

"What do you mean, you don't have his number?"

"Well, it was on a little piece of paper stuck to a shelf in Dad's office. Maybe it got packed."

Uh, maybe. Or thrown away.

"Mom. Does Bob have your cell number?"

"I don't think so. He always calls the home number."

The one that was disconnected on Friday.

Also, it turns out that Betty has, very cheerfully, been giving out the wrong cell phone number. It's only one number off, but you know how one number can make a big difference when you're talking phone numbers?

So.

There was no way to get in touch with Bob. And Betty had his $50 deposit on the car, so she couldn't turn around and sell it to someone else.

Last night, Betty remembered his last name. It's not Jones, but it might as well be. We began calling the Bob Joneses around her area.

I'm not kidding you. There are a lot of Robert Joneses in Northern Virginia.

We didn't find him. We did, however, speak to a Bob Jones who expressed interest in the car.

So our plan was such. We were going to park the car in front of the house of her old neighbors, who are very dear friends. We were going to leave a note in the window saying: BOB PLEASE CALL BETTY and giving her phone number.

Because of course we didn't want Bob to think that Betty had made off with his money. Plus we needed to unload the car.

And then today, today Bob called. There was much rejoicing. We didn't tell him we'd been trolling the area for Bob Joneses.

With any luck, they'll be back in a couple hours with a wad of cash and no car.

Deities and stuff

2011-10-04T13:25:00.001-04:00

So Betty is almost almost moved in.

Or rather, I should say that Betty is almost almost completely out of her house.

I believe that the last of the stuff will be out and off to donation/junk yard/somewhere else on God's green earth besides our house in about an hour or so. When she calls and says that the haul away people have hauled the last bits away, I will breathe a huge sigh of relief.

I was going to say that this has been a Herculean task, although truthfully, for the longest time it felt like a Sisyphean one. In fact, it still does to some extent. And not to get all Greek goddy on you.

Oh, which reminds me. They moved all of Betty's furniture and statues in on Saturday, and at some point Nick looked around our dining room and said, "We cannot have Buddha central in here."

It wasn't exactly Buddha central. Because the enormous two-ton marble god on the stairs is actually Mahadev.

But they're all Buddha to Jordan and Nick. In fact, Jordan saw these huge pre-Columbian terra cotta statues in my mom's living room and said, "What are those Buddhas doing?"

I don't correct either of them.

This move, this move that is thank the sweet Lord above almost over has really stretched us thin emotionally.

Nick tends to get really stressed out when his physical environment is chaotic. And our house is now not only loaded up with too much furniture, but it's also piled high with boxes. It's a huge house, and it is bursting at the seams at this point.

Which is to say chaotic.

And when Nick gets stressed out, he can get dickish. And when he gets dickish I tend to get all shrill and hatey. Although I have not been lying in bed dividing up the furniture. Mainly because at this point, that imaginary task would make me cry.

The good thing is, we recognize where we are, and where we need to go. We ALL need to get rid of stuff. Betty has brought waaaaay too much stuff over. I've taken waaaaay too much from her house because things have such sentimental value to me.

And Nick, Nick has held onto things that he is now realizing do not matter in the grand scheme of things.

It's like a friend of ours said: It's hard to be sentimental when you're drowning in your own stuff.

Need any stuff? You know where to find me.

SERENITY NOW.

Peace out.

Only fools rush in

2011-09-27T15:50:00.000-04:00

Last night I said, "Hey, you know what? Tomorrow is our anniversary!"

And then we got all ooey gooey. Three years!

Nick looked me in the eye and said, "After only three months together, I knew you were the absolutely perfect person for me."

So I did a little bit of mental math, and realized that if he asked me to marry him at 10 weeks...

"But we were engaged by then."

"Oh. Yeah, well, I was already pretty sure before that."

And here we are.

But wherefore I know not

2011-09-26T15:52:00.002-04:00

So, this thing happened recently. I ran out of funny.

And I haven't been blogging with the fierce urgency of now because really, what do I have to say? Particularly when I'm so not funny?

The concrete realization that the last drop off funny had left my body happened right around the same time that I started hating my life, which was about 8:30 last night.

I mean, the life hating had probably begun slowly, and was in full force during the weekend. But the revelation didn't hit until 8:30 pm.

There's nothing magical about the hour, except that it was just shortly after I'd put Jordan to bed and the approximate time that our sheets were dry and I was pulling them out of the dryer, which coincided with the precise moment that Nick walked in the back door from work.

And said, "How are you?"

To which I replied, "Fine except that I fucking hate my life."

And I know I have a good life, I do. I married a man I love. We live in a house that only gets nicer with each passing day and sweep of construction dust. We have an amazing kid. My mom is moving in, and we have a good little family.

But I couldn't see past the long week, followed by a weekend filled with six loads of laundry and three loads of dishes and the rushing off to do errands or help Betty at her house, and then the rushing back so that Nick could go to work in the afternoons, and then the struggle through dinner, through bath, through getting teeth brushed and jammies on and ready for bed.

And our house is a disaster. There's stuff everywhere. Jordan can destroy a room in three minutes flat. So can Betty, it seems. Plus we lack storage space, and we have a constant influx of stuff. And so the piles grow. And grow.

And when the fuck is one supposed to figure out where to shove the piles? Sometime between cramming the kid in bed and cramming yourself in bed? That time when you're eating dinner and breathing?

It's all just so tedious and exhausting and endless. And when I look down the hallway of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, it's full of piles of more of the same.

Nick has a better outlook - of course - and it's not like my life is half fuller or half emptier, or more full of tedious tasks than his. He just has, you know, the better outlook. The one I don't have.

The 3 am certainty that I would rather be a lesbian

2011-09-21T14:40:00.008-04:00

You know how when you're awakened at some ungodly hour things seem so much more dire?

I don't mean that I was ready to leap up and find a lesbian partner at 3:00 this morning. No. Well, sort of. But not exactly.

What I mean is this: Men are idiots. Or anyway, men I am or have been related to, and men I love. And by love I mean have slept with. Because there are certainly men I love as friends who are likely not idiots. Although I can't be sure.

But if you're a guy and you're reading this, I probably don't mean you. Unless I've slept with you. In which case, sorry, but I'm putting you in the idiot bucket.

Also, I don't want to give readers the impression that either of these categories cover a large swath of the world. Because they don't. I have a small family. And there are plenty of idiots I've never slept with.

In fact, we all know I wish I'd slept around a whole lot more in my 20s.

But anyway. I say this because the men I am related to or choose all have one thing in common. They decide how their realities are going to work, and they hold firm to their belief that they can make it so, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Idiots.

Nick has been in trial this week, which means he worked at least 24 hours last weekend and has been coming home around midnight and getting up and out by 7 am. They won't convene on Friday, which happens to be the day that he had long-ago scheduled to drive to Charlottesville for lunch.

Also, and more important in this story, he hurt his back about a month ago.

Now, the back injury is a recurring one, and every fucking time his back goes out and I try to harangue him into seeing a doctor, he insists he doesn't have time, and then he hobbles off to work and has a similarly-overweight man walk on his back and he insists that this miraculously fixes it.

Honestly. I'm not heavy enough to shove his disk back into place or whatever the fuck the man does for him.

So a few weeks ago his back went out, and he limped around for days without the miracle cure at work and then we ran into a family friend who is a physical therapist who focuses on sports injuries who was all, "For god's sake, stop being an idiot; come to my office."

(This was well before I'd had my Men Are Idiots epiphany, so I was all, "Yeah, stop being an idiot.")

They did a rundown of Nick's issues, and then talked about his lifestyle.

Nick said they were just chatting about Nick's normal life and routine and then our friend said: So basically, you work 12 hour days, and you play with your kid before work, and come home and deal with the house?

Nick: Yes.

Friend: And you probably have a couple drinks to unwind when you come home?

Nick: Yes.

Friend: So, you're an overweight, middle aged man who works really long hours. You come home and have a couple drinks, which shuts down your metabolism, and you don't get enough exercise. And you're really surprised when your back gives out.

Nick: Uhh, when you put it that way.

Our friend is both candid and cagey - qualities I appreciate.

So Physical Therapist Friend basically said something needs to change, and Nick has to start exercising daily. He showed him things like how to pick up heavy stuff (like Jordan) while still protecting your back.

Nick saw him a couple more times and started feeling a lot better. And then he stopped picking things up the way he should, started working even more round-the-clock, didn't have time to exercise...You may see where this is going.

So at 3:00 am, I woke up to see Nick getting back into bed, and wincing as he was doing so. He was clearly in a lot of pain.

And so I said, knowing that in the next two days, he will have no time to take care of it, "I think you should see someone Friday morning."

"We'll see."

"I would also ask you not to spend six hours driving to sit for two hours for lunch on Friday."

"We'll see."

I know what "we'll see" means. I means that that idiot motherfucker thinks that he's invincible. And the he can spend all day Friday doing whatever the fuck he wants and not taking care of himself. And then be incapacitated all weekend.

And so I there I lay, stewing on The Problem With Men. I know I've talked about this before, and my friend Steve is likely right, and I would just suck at being a lesbian. And because he's a gay man I defer to him in all things gay.

Even though he's not a woman and even if he got a sex change, he still wouldn't be a lesbian because his partner is a man. He still knows more about the gayness than I do.

But seriously. I'm quite sure that if my partner were a woman, we wouldn't be dealing with this idiocy.

And also, if that man spends the day in the car and then thinks I'm going to feel remotely sorry for him, rather than take it out on him all weekend, he's got another thing coming.

Motherfucker? Oh, I don't think so.

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!

2011-09-19T16:08:00.000-04:00

So Jordan, my adorable dumpling of two-year old belligerence and lovebugness, today you are two and a month.

It turns out I LOVE writing these letters and documenting how the past month has changed you. And us. All of us.

You've started expressing an extreme preference for articles of clothing. Like these blue crocs. Which you insist on filling with wood chips while at the playground. Seriously. You sit down and very patiently and carefully shove as many wood chips as possible into your shoes.

And then walk around like it's all fine.

At least you're no longer eating them.

I don't know when you stopped doing this - sometime in the last couple weeks - but for the longest time you said "dooying" - as in "What's mama dooying?" "What's Jordan dooying?" And now you say "doing." I really miss the dooying. It was so cute.

One of the things I enjoy less is when you knock something over and then say, "Why'd you do that knock it over?"

What you have suddenly begun, just recently and out of nowhere is speaking Cockney. Out of the blue you pronounce things like lady "liedy" and table "tieble." It's like I have my own little Liza Doolittle around.

We performed that musical in high school, and so I will always, always have a soft spot for it. I'm tempted to teach you the Rain in Spain rhyme.

Nana and I left you for a week and it rocked your world a little bit. Your Grandma Rosemary and your Grandpa came and stayed while we were gone, and it was a nice opportunity to get to know each other.

Well, you got to know Grandma Rosemary. By the end of the week, you were still pointing to your grandfather, asleep in Daddy's chair, and saying, "Who is that man?"

Before your grandmother came, we told you all about how Grandma Rosemary LOVES backhoes. So you already had this in common. And you hit it off like a house on fire. I'm not exactly sure what that expression means, but I quite like it. And you did, you had a great time.

We had explained to you, over and over, that Mama would always come back. But you didn't quite trust it. And so when I walked in last Tuesday and you looked up and beamed, and said, "Mama come back!" it broke my heart a little.

And now, every day, whenever one of us leaves, we need to reassure you that we will be back. We will always be back.

We love you love you love you.

Mama

He took it all too far but boy could he play guitar

2011-09-16T16:24:00.003-04:00

I have been fixated on these boots ever since I saw them in Paris.

(I did mention that I was in Paris, didn't I?)

These boots, should you have the inclination and the means to purchase them, are available at Zappos for $700. I have seriously thought about them every day for the last week. And although I am the queen of justifiers when necessary, there is no earthly way that I can do so.

I'm pretty sure that part of the reason I want them so badly is my deep and abiding love of David Bowie - because aren't they so Ziggy Stardust? It started in 7th grade, has lasted through many life ch-ch-ch-changes (sorry, couldn't resist), and surfaces every once in a while.

His Major Tom song? Probably one of the reasons I have no interest in space travel. Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?

Anyway. I had this huge epiphany on our trip. Wanna hear it? Here you go.

It is SO EASY to find beautiful things when you are looking beyond your means.

How this took me this many years of concerted shopping to realize, I have no idea. All it took was one entire day spent at Galeries Lafayette, and BAM! There it was. Really expensive things are that much prettier.

Not just a little. THAT MUCH.

I was raised by parents who were kids in the Depression. I had a father who used to round us up for toilet paper runs. It was drilled into me early to never spend beyond my means.

And I don't.

I weigh purchases, I really do. My car is old, fine, and paid off. The only debt I have is property. I don't carry a balance. I have never, ever been a "that's what credit cards are for" person. Neither is Nick.

But I waaaaaaant these boots. They would change my life. They really would!

Aaaaand I know myself. I'll obsess about these for another week and then move on to the next thing. Nick is pretty glad it's no longer rabies or raccoons. But there's a wide world of potential obsessions out there.

Scary monsters, super creeps! Keep me running, running scared.

(Let's be frank: I'm probably too dorky for those boots anyway.)

Happy weekend, all!

Also, I will post Paris pictures soon, I really and truly will.

It's called a spork, the opposite of camping, and also it turns out I like creepy little freaks.

2011-09-11T19:40:00.002-04:00

It's not that I hadn't ever heard of a spork; it's more that I'd never been face to face with one.

Also, by creepy little freaks, I don't mean in person. Although for a while it did seem like that was the subtext of my Internet dating profile.

But the spork.

See, last Tuesday evening we got on this flight to Paris. (And if you've ever seen Love, Actually, and you know the part where Laura Linney is about to hook up with the hothothot guy and she excuses herself, goes into the stairwell and does a silent little super-excited dance, well, that's the kind of emoticon I need to insert here.)

So the flight to Paris (yippy kazippee emoticon!). A flight for which I'd received an email saying there would be no meal service. Naturally, I freaked out. Because if you are going to have me hurtling through space for seven and a half hours, I want to be overfed.

So we packed an insane amount of food. Really. Buns and chicken and fruit and more fruit. And when I asked Betty why her carry-on was so heavy, she had no idea. Upon inspection, she had no fewer than 10 Kit Kats, three huge Snickers, and approximately 72 Butterfingers. These will weigh a person down.

If you think I exaggerate, you need to meet Betty. Anyway, we were set. Plus, they did actually feed us semi-wretched pasta. Which I ate, because, you know. The oatmeal cookie was pretty good.

And then they woke us up at 5 am Paris time, which was a scant hour after I'd fallen asleep, and handed me this little packet with a yogurt and a bread product and this sharp edged implement. And I was all, "What the fuck is up with this mean, angry little spoon?"

Then I realized I was staring into the sharp pokey little teeth of a spork, which maybe is useful for varied meals when camping, if one does that sort of thing, but not as clearly so for yogurt.

And then I was wondering why they didn't just put a serrated edge on one side and call it a sporfe. Which so sounds like something you would buy at Ikea, doesn't it?

There would, of course, be the danger of slicing one side of your lip while trying to use it as a spoon or maybe even a fork, but eventually you'd learn to keep your mouth fairly wide open while putting things in. Although it occurs to me that that technique would make those food items more likely to fall out as well.

So then you'd have to choose - perpetually sliced side of lip, or food staying in mouth? Which would really only be relevant if you camped all the time. Or maybe were an astronaut. Do the astronauts use them? The only thing I really know about them is that they like Tang - or anyway they did in the 70s - and so do I.

And also I now recall that the whole bathroom in space thing is kind of iffy, what with the no gravity. Outer space is not so much my thing. Outer space and camping and mean little sharp spoons.

And anyway, listen, enough with the sporfe and the dubious poops in space.

Because, my friends, we are in Paris, Betty and I. Which is kind of the opposite of camping and all around really spectacularly delicious.If you don't know me in person I know it sounds like last week we were just all, "Oh, it's Tuesday, let's fly to Paris."

When in fact this trip had been planned in concept for several years, and in actuality since February, and I was only talking about it in person for weeks and weeeeks leading up to it. To the point where I'm certain everyone who saw me on a regular basis was kind of like, "Paris, yes, yes, I know, fuck you very much."

I was kind of insufferable, I'm certain. "Oh, yah, I won't be able to attend that meeting. Because I'll be in PARIS. Have I mentioned it?"

Things like that.

By the time I left I'm sure my office was all, "GO ALREADY"This is a trip that was three years coming, and when it finally arrived it was kind of perfect timing in terms of family stuff and kind of stressful timing in terms of Betty selling her house and moving in with us. When we return we have three weeks to race to the finish line of empty house and closing. This only came together the day we were leaving.

It's a little bit of an enormous project.

But here we are, and it is amazing. We arrived last Wednesday and we've only got one more day.

We've seen old friends, we've shopped, and we've eaten and eaten and eaten. I had this hot chocolate that was a melted chocolate bar in one jug and hot milk in another, and you just poured whatever amounts you wanted into your cup.

We turn out to be Philistines and so we've spent a great deal more time eating and shopping than doing anything cultural but it seems that whenever we go to a church - Saint-Séverin and Sainte-Chapelle, to name the, uh, two - the things that catch my eye are the creepy little freaks.

No, wait! The well freak was taken at Cluny! Although I must be honest and admit that we arrived just as they were closing, so it doesn't honestly count.

Actually, Sainte-Chapelle has the most extraordinary details, and I took a ton of pictures of little carvings and bits of wall and such and if anyone is remotely interested, or if I decide I want to take on the project of resizing and posting a number of photos, I will post them.

But aren't the creepy little freaks compelling? You can click to embiggen them.

And now, my invisible friends, it is one-damn-forty-something in the morning Paris time, and I am still awake because the time change seems to fuck with me like nobody's business.

Sporfe that, I say.

I hope you're well! I know I'm the one who went away, but I've missed you!

Oh and one more thing. I've disabled anonymous comments because of this one particular dickbag. I delete the comments, because I see no reason to respond to anonymous dickbags, really. And I see no reason to encourage anonymous dickbaggery.

Sorry for the inconvenience, though.

OK. I must sleep now. Bonne nuit!

(Ooh, I'm so bilingual! I think when I get back I'll pretend that I can't remember the right word in English. Because I was in PARIS, did you know?)

Yeah, neither of us have any idea why I do this kind of thing either

2011-09-01T16:44:00.003-04:00

Some background: So, before Jordan was born, one of the things I was most worried about, aside from how to keep my baby alive in general, was what do do with all the shit.

I mean that quite literally.

So after asking friends and reading on the Internet and what have you, I went out and bought a Diaper Champ. We immediately all hated it. And then we were all, do we spend more money on a Diaper Genie? Do we get another kind? What do we do?

And then we realized we had this great kitchen trash can we weren't using. It's metal, and opens when you step on it, and has these two flaps that close tightly at the top. You just use normal garbage bags.

It is kind of perfect. I mean, when it's closed.

When you open it, if there's poop in there, you get a whiff of death. But it does the job we need it to, and I would go this route again without dicking around with stupid baby diaper pails.

OK. So the metal part does not get stinky, but the plastic trash can inside does. Which is why I like to pull it out and clean it and let it bake in the sun on the deck every so often.

So the other night Nick was changing Jordan, and I came in, opened the trash can, and pulled out the entire inside can. Nick thought I'd made a mistake and said, "Just pull the bag out!" (See below. And no, I don't know why he looks like he has mutant hands and wears bell bottoms. Neither are true.)
Anyway, this was NOT what I wanted to do, because the stink, it was not limited to that bag.

But Nick decided to take charge of the situation, and grabbed the bag by the handles and cinched it. (Also, sorry for making him look like he has a pea-head. He actually has an unusually large one.)

This made me mad.
So I said, "But the plastic can smells too! I need to clean it."

And then, as if to prove my point, I bent over and stuck my head in and inhaled, really deeply.

I'll show him, I will.And then I almost threw up, right then and there.

I don't think I've ever seen Nick laugh so hard in all the time I've known him.

Where I am right now

2011-08-29T16:10:00.001-04:00

I have always had extremely intense friendships. I've never had many at once, because I put a lot of myself into relationships.

I don't know how not to. I've always been drawn to intensity. I still am.

The thing is, it took me years to realize that I was also drawn to crazymakers. Those people who suck you in and make you all about their issues. And you spend all your time focusing on them which is kind of cool when you're in all kinds of denial, because that way you effectively avoid dealing with your own shit.

It's not that it was what made me happy, and it certainly wasn't healthy; it was just very familiar.

Plus I can look back and see that I myself did pleeeeeenty of crazymaking.

Thank God for therapy.

So.

Years ago, when my friend Maude and I were in our very early 20s, we lived together in Mount Pleasant.

We were roommates for almost a year, until the serial rapist broke in. And then I went off to the Peace Corps and Maude went back to school and then she and I didn't live together until our late 20's, when she taught me how to drive stick (well, really, how to drive at all) and we drove from DC to San Diego.

Anyway, I can't remember which time it was that we lived together that what I'm about to tell you happened. But if you know my Maude stories, then you know that we've known each other since we were born (separate mothers, she always adds) and we have this very long history together.

Also, this is such a bigger lead-up than it merits, because I'm not going to say anything earth-shattering, but this is the only way that I can get to it.

At some point, someone was trying very hard to befriend me. I don't even remember who by now, probably because she and I never became friends. Because Maude sat me down and said, "You don't have room for her. You only have enough for one high maintenance friend, and that person is me."

Or something to that effect. And I was all, "She's right. I've got no room for this woman." It was very clear. And that was that.

Which brings me to this. I have a lot of stuff going on right now. Things I can't write about even though I would really like to, because I just can't. Although when they're over or different, then I will, and it will be a relief. But for now, I'm full, and I'm tired.

I'm not trying to be all mysterious or cryptic. You know I'm about as good at opaque as a glass of water.

But what this all means is that I've been backing away from blogging a bit, and from my blogging relationships. Because, true to my nature, the blogs and bloggers I love are the intense ones. The ones who talk about emotional things, who pull me in, who make me care.

If I don't care, I don't care.

But it takes a certain amount of energy to care, and while I give it gladly, I don't currently have any extra.

And this is where I am right now. It's not that I don't adore you. It's just that I only have room for one high maintenance person in my life right now, and that person (besides my entire family, I mean) is me.

Let him eat cake

2011-08-26T16:43:00.003-04:00

This year's birthday cupcakes were a much bigger hit than last year's.

For comparison's sake, here's last year. What the video misses is Nick demonstrating how deeeelicious his birthday cupcake is. Jordan was not falling for it. The last thing in the video is me saying, "Don't make him eat cake."

However.

In the intervening year, Jordan discovered the deliciousness that is cake. Often, when you offer him the choices of eggs or waffles for breakfast, he'll say, in a tone that's all, hey, I just had a great idea! "How about cake?"

Anyway, here he is all pleased. He got to choose his cupcake flavor, and then was rather delighted with the candle. We had to light it again three times.
He was so proud. We sang and clapped and re-lit the candle and sang and clapped. Boy, was he pleased.
He quite liked his choice of cupcake. But of course, everyone else's looked just as good, if not better.
Betty gave him a bite, and then, rather than thank you, he pointed to his plate and said, "Put it down there."
And finally, my boy loves to sing. He doesn't always stay on task, but ooh he loves a song, that one.

Lovin' an elevator

2011-08-25T15:34:00.001-04:00

First, I owe you all a huge thanks for checking on us and being glad we're OK.

I know the Californians were making a lot of fun of those of us in DC who kind of lost our shit over the earthquake, because, yawn, it happens all the time out there. And theirs are so much bigger and scarier and oh, double yawn, DC wimps. To which I say, huh, well, I absolutely love this Penelope skit.

Anyway.

I'm not actually here to snark at the Californians. Because what I really want to show you is how the elevator works!

From the outside:

From the inside:

It's kind of cool, you guys.

A holy crap kind of post

2011-08-23T15:44:00.001-04:00

OK, so I didn't even know DC had earthquakes.

I was leaving a doctor's appointment when it hit. So when the old elevator in the old building I was in started shaking and swaying I was pretty sure that the elevator had finally snapped a cable. Because the lights indicating the floors and up and down don't work and sometimes the door is kind of persnickety.

Lights are one thing. Swaying on whatever charming old materials they use to pull elevators up and down is entirely another.

Naturally, I started to scream.

Because if I'm going to plummet to my death, my friends, I am not going quietly.

I was still screaming when the doors shimmied open on the ground floor of the building, and people were hurrying out. Feeling slightly foolish but mostly very relieved I stopped shrieking and very casually said to the man I bumped into while sprinting out of aforementioned elevator, "What's going on?"

Earthquake. Holy crap!

It was kind of crazy walking back to my office, because the sidewalks were just teeming with people. Everyone was outside, or on their way.

After 73 million attempts I got through to Betty, who was fine, as was Jordan. She said our house shook like nobody's business. And then I got Nick, who was also fine, and also standing in front of his building. He said that his office furniture jumped up and down and the koi in that nice pond that I wanted to stick my feet into had been sloshing violently up and down in the water.

They probably had little koi heart attacks, poor things.

So anyway, we are fine. But holy crap. Seriously.

With tea for two and two for tea. Just me for you and you for me.

2011-08-19T16:25:00.000-04:00

Dear Jordan,

Today you are TWO! I'm officially dispensing with the months now that you are TWO WHOLE YEARS OLD!

At some point in the past month, you began responding to questions in a way that leads to actual conversation. Like, before we would say, "How was your day?" And you would say, "How's your day?"

Now you say, "Good!"

Sometimes you even ask, "How's your day?" when I get home from work. It makes my heart explode, I love it so much.

You're still so sweet and affectionate and sometimes you say, "Have a hug?" or "Have a kiss?" and I know one day this will stop but I wish it never would. It's just the best.

I never know what you'll say when you wake up. The other day I greeted you and you looked up at me and said, "'Dump it right there,' she shouted. And they all dumped it right there!"

All that Richard Scarry is really paying off. You can also spot Goldbug like nobody's business.

You've also taken to using the world "understand." Like, this morning you leaned towards me, looked me straight in the eye, and said, very gravely, "I understand to put it down there."

I had no idea what you were talking about, but was completely impressed by both the length of your sentence and the seriousness of your tone.
A couple weekends ago we took you to the Natural History museum.

You were not remotely interested in the exhibits, but you found a number of very intriguing pieces of trash on the floor. And a quarter, which you insisted on calling a penny. You were delighted. It was almost as terrific as when we discovered the lockers. Or the water fountain.

There's a nice ramp going up to the Hope Diamond exhibit, and we ran up and down that approximately 547 million times. The ramp was a lucky find, as it was pouring outside and you had energy to burn.

The quality of this photo is terrible, but I love it. To me it is so you. You're not at all a daredevil but you just have to check everything out. And see if one thing will fit inside another...
It's good that your birthday is today, and not last weekend, which was my birthday, because you were a screamy, shrieky, belligerent little pill all weekend, and my note to you wouldn't have been nearly as flattering. But by this point, I've pretty much forgotten all about it.

I love you more than puppies and chocolate and sunshine, which is to say, a LOT.

Love love love,

Mama

In which I realize that I'm actually very pro-underwear

2011-08-17T16:33:00.004-04:00

Have you noticed how the quality of sunlight has already shifted here in the northern hemisphere? It's fall light.

It hasn't started making me nervous. Yet. The crepe myrtle is blooming and it's still plenty warm out, although this morning I felt a slight chill in the air.

And by chill in the air, I mean it wasn't 1000 degrees. Normal humans probably wouldn't go so far as to say chill.

But it's got me thinking about fall. Well, that and the fact that Boden keeps sending me emails of things I might like. Because even with all the unsubscribing I've done, Boden, I just can't quit you.

And I would like this blazer, I really would. Except that I'm not so much on paying $224 for a spur-of-the-moment jacket. No matter how British it might make me feel. Also, I can't really think about touching wool right now either. I need an actual chill.

Plus, here I must admit that I've never aspired to feel British in my life. Although I would quite like one of these kilts.I wouldn't wear them together though. I promise.

I mean, I'm not big like Nick so there's no chance of this gigantor wall of plaid walking towards you like when he wears his seersucker. I'd probably look more like a small plaid side chair and ottoman. Still not a look I'd be aiming for.

Also, why are men in kilts so enticing? Is it because they're Scottish and so they have those deliciously unintelligible accents, which makes them all the more intruiguing? Is it the fact that they're not wearing underwear underneath?

I mean, if I met a man in a bar and he told me he wasn't wearing underwear, I'm quite sure our conversation would cease then and there. But if I met a Scotsman in a kilt, even though I would have no idea what he was saying, I tell you, I would follow him around all damn day.

I once did so in Peru. He was wearing jeans, though. I have no idea about his underwear situation. And I wasn't exactly following him, because we were on the same tour. But I probably did walk a bit too close. The accent! The inability to understand what he was talking about!

So I don't think it's the underwear issue.

And actually, I imagine that that wool would be hot and scratchy on your penis. Don't you think? It's actually kind of icky, now that I think about it, because how often would you dry clean a kilt? You'd just have all those sweaty penis germs hanging in your closet or folded in your drawer (how do you store kilts) just accumulating every time you wore it.

Maybe I'm more pro-underwear than I think.

And PS, I don't really sit around imagining how scratchy a kilt would be on my penis. Or maybe I do.

Ooh, look, shoes!
Image credits: Boden, Boden, and Bloomingdales (Sounds kind of like a law firm, no?)

They have lots of mutual friends

2011-08-16T14:40:00.001-04:00

I think I've mentioned Jordan's fascination with Richard Scarry before.

Right now, it's all Cars and Trucks and Things That Go all the time. All. The. Time.

The other day Jordan pointed to a parked car and said, "Looks like a shoe car." And actually, it did.

So last Sunday, Nick and Jordan were sitting at the breakfast table and I was making tea. I heard Jordan say, "What's that man doing, Daddy? What's that man doing?"

"He's waving."

Jordan repeated, "He's waving."

I was standing at the counter with my back to them. And I was thinking, "Man?" I started mentally going through our books. Man? Waving?

And then Jordan asked, "What's that woman doing?"

"She's waving, too."

"She's waving too, Daddy. She's waving too."

"Yes, she is. They have lots of mutual friends."

Mutual friends?

I turned, curiosity piqued. And there they were, poring over the front page of the New York Times.

The object of their intense scrutiny? Ron Paul and his wife in Iowa.

Augusty thoughts

2011-08-15T16:42:00.000-04:00

It's August.

My birthday was on Saturday, and it was nice. Low key and nice.

I tend to like throwing a party for my birthday, but this year I didn't have the energy. I kind of wish I had, because while I got tons of lovely birthday wishes, and Nick took me out for a nice dinner, it just felt like any other day.

Is that super-narcissistic? I mean, of course for most people it is any other day. And I wasn't looking for presents or an orchestra. It was just a little too quiet.

---

Years ago my friend Pat told me to put a wish out to the universe on my birthday, because your birthday has magic in it.

This year I forgot to do so on my day. It's really been bothering me.

---

There was a full moon on the 13th, too. Jordan loves the moon, and he always reaches up towards me for me to pick him up, and says, "Touch it!"

I love that he thinks that with my help, he can reach as high as the moon.

One day he's going to be old enough to realize that I can't even reach the top shelves in our cupboards.

---

Jordan's birthday is coming up on Friday. And he is going to be TWO! Here I have to be all cliched and say time just goes so fast.

But it does. It does.

Except when he's screaming his head off. Then the seconds tick by like cold molasses.

I think we're just going to have a small family celebration. It's not like he understands presents yet. At least this year I know he's not going to be afraid of the cupcakes.

---

And speaking of molasses, that's about the pace of people moving on the sidewalk in DC right now. The air is just so warm and thick, and there's a mass of us, trudging molassesly forward.

I love summer, and I love August, but I've decided it's a trudgey kind of month. That said, I need another month before fall. I feel like this summer just started.

Regarding yesterday and who is in charge

2011-08-12T16:36:00.001-04:00

So, I want to make sure you know that yesterday I wasn't all, "Oh, I met my warthog and my life is all sparkly and perfect and I'm so awesome and hahaha look at me!"

Although I fear it may have sounded like that. Which is just irritating.

What I really meant was that things had been so NOT good for so very very long.

(Those of you who are long-time readers have heard all of this before. Sorry.)

I'd gotten pretty invested in some extremely manipulative, unkind - even downright mean - men. I'd gone out on dates with scads and scads of Perfectly Nice Human Beings. And some not. I went on a date with a guy who flat-out asked me what was wrong with me, because I'd never been married.

And every time I liked a guy, and I'd held off reallyreally liking him until it seemed like it might work out, and it would get to the point where I was invested, the guy would just...stop being interested.

My self esteem had gotten very very small. And fragile.

And then the spring of the year I met Nick, my dad attempted suicide. Which just made me more fragile.

And then every once in a while, but with enough regularity, these ex-boyfriends, the ones I had fallen hard for, would email or call and ask me out. And I would say yes, because I lack judgment and maybe also because they were really hot.

This kind of thing is a mindfuck-and-a-half.

So by the time I met Nick, I was almost numb.

I won't say that I'd stopped looking, because: 1) I always want to slap people who say they stopped looking and then they met their spouse; and 2) I was on Match. Of course I was fucking looking.

But I was dating very defensively by that point. I was on my guard.

Do you know how exhausting it is to be on your guard all. the. time? And on your guard but hoping for your heart to go pitter-pat or whatever sound it makes? If you know what I mean, well, you know what I mean.

So when I said oh, thank God. That's what I meant.

I meant, thank the powers that be that I'd had enough therapy to let a good one in. Thank the universe for letting me meet one who had had enough experience with Crazy that he could not only deal with my family and me but even really appreciate us. Thank Krishna or whoever you might turn to for lining up our singleness and senses of humor.

Basically, I just wanted to thank whoever is in charge for changing things from so very bad to good, in one moment.

(Also, just to be clear here, by "whoever is in charge," Nick, I don't mean you.)

Warthogs and unicorns revisited

2011-08-11T16:22:00.001-04:00

Out of the blue the other day I got an email from my old upstairs neighbor - someone I haven't seen in almost three years.

He and I both live in the same neighborhood, just north of where we used to live. And so, he said, he's seen someone he thought was me on the street corner several times, and do I pass by there? Not to imply that I loitered on street corners.

I replied that in fact, I do skulk on that very corner, and if he's seen a disheveled blonde sweating profusely and tapping her foot waiting for the light to change, then he's seen me on my way to work.

Which firmly established that it was me he'd seen. And so we had lunch.

He's just recently gotten married, to someone he met shortly before I met Nick. He and I went out a couple times that summer - now four years ago. When thinking about this post, I looked back through my archives to see what I'd written, if anything, about him during that Summer of Deepest Darkest Despair.

And it was this missive about warthogs and unicorns. It came from a very terrible, hopeless place of utter hopelessness and pointlessness and pointless hopelessness.

But in the end, Warthog Theory turned out to be right, and I meet my very own warthog - no offense, Nick. And no implication that you're graceless or grunty.

Because actually, if you were, you'd most certainly have been meant for someone else. And I'm sure the two of you would be very happy. And hopefully I'd have met someone who suited me just as well.

This is not going anywhere that I expected it to. So I'll stop now and just say boy, am I glad things worked out the way they did and also, oh, thank God.

Unless the police are involved

2011-08-10T16:38:00.001-04:00

Betty is currently in Vegas with six of her high school friends.

Every few years, this group of women gets together. And they've passed their 50-year high school reunion. Only one of them still lives in North Dakota, so they meet in different cities. This year, it's Vegas.

All of them are pretty staunch Republicans except my mom. When they came to stay with her, she made them watch Michael Moore movies.

Betty isn't a gambler, but she loves playing the coin slots. Probably because she always wins.

Seriously. When I moved back to DC from San Diego, she flew out and drove cross-country with me. And when we were driving through Nevada, they had slot machines every where. Every. Where.

So we'd stop to use the bathroom, or to get gas, and she'd stick a quarter in the gas station slot machine, and out would pour $25 in quarters. Almost every time. We had bags and bags of quarters.

Before she left, Nick said, "I know that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but call us if the police are involved."

So far, so good.

Exercation 2011

2011-08-09T17:00:00.006-04:00

It wasn't a goal, as such. It began with a scoop of deciding to give my body a break, covered in a sizable dollop of malaise.

It's so hot, after all. And it's summer. And it turns out I like to nap.

All this to say: I've been on exercise hiatus for the past month, and I have to admit that it is startlingly easy to...just not exercise.

I mean, I have an almost four-mile round-trip commute to work, and whenever I go anywhere I walk, so I actually do a decent amount of walking most days. But I haven't been doing much of anything beyond that, when typically I also lift weights, run, or do some kind of cardio.

And oddly, I haven't gained weight. Or rather, size. Because I do not weigh myself. But my clothes fit the same. My arms and derriere are getting a little, uh, softer than I like. But it's been fun while it lasted.

I'm not advocating sloth, but do you know how much more time you have to surf the Internet when you remove exercise from your life?

I had no idea.

In any case, my little exercation is coming to an end. But in the past month, I have read a number of books that I've really enjoyed. I've made a serious progress in clearing out my closet and dressers. I've napped every single weekend. I've almost caught up on email.

I'm not saying that you have to choose. I do. Lots of people seem to fit it all in. I am not among them.

And now none of you are ever going to want to shake my hand again

2011-08-08T17:10:00.000-04:00

I don't know how much you know about suppositories.

I'm not claiming to be an expert, but I know a thing or two about them. And even before I ever used one, I knew that the word "suppository" did not automatically mean "thing you put in your butt."

Which put me one step ahead of my husband.

Anyway, last week, I was prescribed these vaginal suppositories. Not a big deal. They're little pills, not greasy, not messy. At night I make sure my hands are clean, then stick them in and go to sleep.

It's not like I'd never put my finger in my vagina before, you know?

I was going to say that in fact, I've had plenty of fingers in my vagina, but it doesn't sound quite right. But once you've had a baby, you've been examined so many times by such a variety of people that it's kind of all, whatever.

Not that I sit around with my finger in my vagina. Maybe if I were a guy. In which case I wouldn't have one. But you know how men are always shifting their junk around? Because they need more ROOM in their pants or something?

Imagine if women did that.

"What? My vagina just needed a little adjusting. It's just so huge and sometimes I just need to reposition it."

Christ, am I so far off topic.

So the suppositories.

The other night I took a shower and got into bed, and Nick asked if I'd washed my hair, and I said no. He commented that it looked like I had. It was wet around the edges from washing my face.

To which I replied, "Yeah, that's a little trick I picked up in 'Nam."

No, I don't know why I say this shit. But I'm glad I do, because I then added this, "Kind of like the vaginal suppositories."

I reached over and shook the bottle.

"Vaginal! Vaginal! You put them in your vagina!"

To which I was all, "Yes, and?"

"I thought you stuck them in your butt!"

"My butt?"

"Yes! So every night, you get in bed, and you stick one in, and I was thinking, ew, isn't she more hygienic than that? And then last night you reached over and put your hand on my face when you kissed me goodnight, and I was so glad it was your other hand!"

The man has been sitting around thinking I stick my finger in my anus and never bother to wash my hands.

AND HE WASN'T GOING TO SAY ANYTHING.

Well, don't you know that other kids are starving in Japan, so eat it, just eat it

2011-08-05T16:04:00.000-04:00

Yah, so in the last couple weeks, my good-eating, broccoli- and Brussels sprout- loving child went from being an omnivore to rejecting almost all food and subsisting largely on air. And ice cream.

Everything is no. Things he used to love - and things I know he still likes - are immediately rejected.

"Would you like eggs?"

"No."

"How about pasta and broccoli?"

"No."

"Do you want some oatmeal? Mmm! Oatmeal!"

"No."

"Want some French toast? With syrup!"

"Nooooo."

"Would you like to stand in the corner and scream?"

"NO!"

And then he'll suggest ice cream. Or 'nack. "Want some 'nack!"

"How about pasta for snack?"

"NO. Want some 'nack."

"Would you like some yogurt for snack?"

"NO! Want some 'nack!"

I'm not quite sure what snack is for him. But not cookies, not berries, not crackers...

It's not that he's ill-tempered. He just doesn't want to eat. Meals have become infuriating.

Seriously, sometimes it takes every fiber of my being not to pry his little jaw open, shove a forkful of food in, and then hold my hand over his mouth until he swallows. "Eat it! Just fucking eat it!"

However. I'm pretty sure that's: 1. abuse, and 2. a good way to get a kid to hate broccoli/pasta/whatever for life.

If this doesn't offend you in one way, it probably will in another

2011-08-02T12:41:00.000-04:00

So, yesterday I got this email from a friend asking for advice.

I'll call her Molly.

She's about to head to Asia for three conferences during which she will be working with local counterparts, and she wanted to know what I thought about the following: "I’m still pondering whether it’s completely rude to tell them I don’t eat dog when I answer their question about dietary restrictions. You’re a woman of the world…what do you think? It’s Taiwan."

To which I could only say, "Yikes! I have no idea."

When I lived in this little village in Ecuador, I made sure everyone knew I was a vegetarian. Because I just couldn't handle eating guinea pig (an expensive delicacy) or blood pudding, or tripe or various and sundry organs.

I say I'll try anything once, but weird meat is a grand exception.

So I told her this knowing it's not an option for her. Molly is vegetable-averse. She practically subsists on beef.

And so she said: "That’s it. I’m bringing crackers. One guy keeps threatening me with puppy milkshakes."

So then I thought, oh, he must be one-upped! "Make him cupcakes iced with dog poo!"

This idea delighted her. She pointed out, however, that she'd have to check it and it would likely get smushed. Because you simply cannot carry a dog-poo cupcake on the plane.

And then, we wondered, does TSA even allow feces on planes? What if it's under three ounces?

She's considering just making them there. Fresh is best, after all.

Houston, we have...bathtub

2011-08-01T14:22:00.000-04:00

So the elevator, is it not quite totally hooked up. We are close, though. Close.

However. For all of you who were enthusiastic supporters, we do have claw foot bathtub! (For those of you who voted "trashy" - um, we still have bathtub.)

Australian Builder (AB) was finally able to convene four big, strong men to deal with the bathtub. The piece Nick kept referring to as "a widow-maker." He'd shake his head, "That thing's a widow-maker."

FYI, none of the men kicked it. And actually, Betty said they weren't as big as she expected, but they weren't accountants. And they were certainly strong.

AB said that they used the winch and lowered it through the elevator hole, thus avoiding stairs and so that they only had to carry it the length of one floor. He added that he was really nervous, though, because they were dangling this insanely heavy piece of cast iron through a hole over an incredibly expensive elevator.

When he put it that way, I was so glad I wasn't home.

Apparently these medium-sized strong men cursed the whole way down the hallway. Because our hallways, they are narrow. And so they had to lift it high up in the air to clear the railing.

Yikes. And yay for medium-sized, strong men!

So now I have to figure out what to put on the bottom of it. It needs a big pad of some sort, but I think it needs to fit pretty well so it's not slippy. AB suggested a "cot pad" would fit perfectly and I was all, um, maybe in Australia? Oval cot pad?

I was also thinking that maybe I could just get one of those big rubber non-slip pads for bathtubs, and then pile things on top of it. But it does seem like there needs to be a large foundation for all the pillows to sit on, because otherwise don't you think you'll constantly be sliding through to the cold cold bottom?

Or maybe that doesn't matter? I feel like it does, though.

Nick also thinks we need something around the rim so that Jordan doesn't crack his head on it. I think he's right, but not sure what.

We movin' on up in the world like elevators

2011-07-29T16:24:00.001-04:00

The elevator pieces arrived yesterday! They put many of them together! They are putting them more together as I type!

Tomorrow, my invisible friends, we may have liftoff!

The coral room is on the ground floor, and the blue room is Betty's. There's another blue room that it goes through as well, but that seemed superfluous. How many people are interested in pieces of elevator in two very similar rooms?So.

There was, as you may imagine, great commotion and excitement at our house yesterday. Alas, I was at the office. I rushed home after work to see it.

I got home just minutes before an old family friend arrived.

Betty greeted us both and said, "They put the elevator in and I learned to make pesto!"

The friend, she was confused. As you yourself may be. How do these two connect? Nick, had he been there, would've asked the same thing.

Because he does not yet speak Betty. Yet.

This is the news of the day. Offered (but not necessarily) in order of importance: Elevator! Pesto! Cool!

Duh.

Also cool: the motor hole. I don't know if there's more to it, but that whole elevator runs with one little engine at the top. Kind of crazy, huh?Also crazy: the fact that it is supposed to be 95 degrees tomorrow and people are excited about the relief from all this heat.

Even more crazy: It is July 29 and what is going on with those teabagging asswipe doucheballs on Capitol Hill? But I'm not really a political type.

Happy weekend, all!

Turns out normal people don't talk about stabbing their spouses

2011-07-28T16:36:00.001-04:00

And in my defense, I hadn't thought about stabbing Nick in months.

So over the weekend, we went out to dinner with Nick's partners and their spouses.

They know me by now. This is the same group I went out with and bellowed about my porn name in a very quiet, conservative dining establishment.

And yet, I still manage to surprise them.

All of us have children, and we were all talking about new babies and how much work they are. And I said, "You know, for about six months after Jordan was born, I'd lay in bed mentally dividing up the furniture and thinking about stabbing Nick."

It turns out this is a surprising thing to say, and in fact, while everyone has their challenges,it had never occurred to any of them to stab their spouse.

So after they'd all recovered, talk turned to house renovations. And the elevator. Which should start going in tomorrow, you guys! Anyway, that's the rumor.

One of the men said, "You know, when you sell, I don't know how much of the elevator cost your going to recoup."

Nick replied, "It doesn't matter. We're going to die in that house."

The woman to his left said, "Particularly if Lisa stabs you."

And now all kinds of things sound like normal conversation to me

2011-07-27T14:55:00.001-04:00

I now say all kinds of things that would never, ever have occurred to me.

Like, "We have to put on clothes if we're going to go outside. Everyone wears clothes outside."

And, "Wow, what a big poo! Good job!"

Also, "Look what I have for you! A BIG spatula!"

And, "We don't drive cars on the food, remember? We can park our cars next to the plate, but no driving on the food."

That one I say all the time. Jordan tends to eat more if he can have his cars with him. The cars, they go everywhere. He almost always has at least two clutched in his little hands.

In Charlottesville, Nick kept putting on his shoes and then wincing and saying, "OW!" Because he'd stepped into a car.

I didn't fess up to it at the time, but it was my fault. Because Jordan kept trying to park his cars in his little crocs or in my sneakers and then they'd get stuck and he'd scream.

So I started saying, "Jordan's shoes are too small. Mama's shoes are too small. We park the cars in Daddy's shoes." I probably said this 54 times an hour.

Uh, sorry Nick.

Oh, I could throw you in the lake, or feed you poisoned birthday cake. I won't deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone.

2011-07-26T11:19:00.000-04:00

A couple days ago, Moue left this comment about what she and her sister used to do to her brother. It had me laughing so hard.

I mean, yes, it's terrible. But...also funny.

"We used to tell him when he was little that he was a K-Mart Blue Light Special. And that when the blue light went off while we were in the store our parents could trade him in.

So we finally go to a K-mart (We were military so there were few and far between overseas at the time) and sure enough the blue light goes off. My brother, petrified he was going to be traded in starts screaming. It took my parents forty-five minutes to get him calmed down enough to tell them what was wrong."

And then FoggyDew said this: "Moue's story reminds me of what my sisters used to tell my youngest brother: Mom and Dad really wanted another kid, but instead of having one of their own they adopted him...from the monkey house at the zoo. This went on for years.

In the end, though, he got even by telling the same story. To their kids."

Me, I did some terrible things to my younger brother when we were children. When he was really little, I tried to leave him in the park for the wild dogs to eat him.

Turns out that fear of abandonment and being consumed by dogs will really make a kid cry.

It was post-war Bangladesh. There were wild dogs. They really would've eaten him. If someone didn't steal him first.

Fortunately, we had adult supervision.

And that brings us to the present. In sextuplicate or so, with yellow sticky reminders.

2011-07-25T15:21:00.002-04:00

Alive and Kicking

OK, so the AC came back on at the end of the day, and none of the guys dropped dead on the golf course, and in fact, after drinking far too much the night before, they even played doubles tennis the next morning.

Nick was kind of insulted when one of them - who was semi-pro when he was younger - told me over breakfast that Nick's a good tennis player with "cat-like reflexes" and I thought he was kidding.

I love the man, and he's strong like bull, but who knew?

-----

Filed Under Shit I Don't Know Why I Do This Shit

So, here's the deal. I have three email addresses now. The Lemon Gloria one, and then two that are my real name (I know, you totally thought it was Lemon Gloria), one Yahoo and one Gmail. Both of which forward to Yahoo, because I can't have LG@gmail and MyName@gmail open at the same time. So I keep Yahoo and LG open.

Still with me?

And so last week, at your suggestion, I started importing my Yahoo email into Gmail. It pulled a few hundred of them, and then stopped. I thought about not forwarding, but then I thought, oh, I should forward just to be safe.

And then I went away to the charming country club in Charlottesville. Which is full of bucolic charm, if not powerful air conditioning or Internet.

So while they have Internet, the signal was too weak in our room, so essentially I had no access to the World Wide Web which made me a little frothy at the mouthy but then I was all, ferchrissakes, Lisa, just chill the fuck out. Plus I had my iPhone, although I find it tedious and exhausting to read or type email of any particular length on it.

Also I was all busy swimming and eating waffles and drinking milkshakes and shaking with rage in Target.

In other words, I didn't check the email so much.

Here's what happened during that time. I now have almost 1,000 new emails in my Yahoo. I have up to eight copies of all recent emails in my inbox. It's multiple copies, but not the same number for every email.

I think it's all been arriving into one account and forwarding to another and then bouncing to another.

It's bonkers.

-----

And One Further Reason I Don't Work in I/T

Which reminds me. The other day I was in the examining room at the doctor, reading blogs while I waited, and he walked in and looked at my iPhone and burst out laughing.

Because I had a yellow sticky note pasted on the back of it.

What? Saves me from writing on my hand. Which never got me anywhere good in the past. And you know, the funny thing is, I didn't even eat butter on my bread back then.

So Jordan thought we donated him and then I seriously considered it

2011-07-22T15:04:00.003-04:00

We are at a country club in Charlottesville for Nick's partners' retreat.

They had meetings all day yesterday and this morning, and now they are playing golf. Yes, in the five kabillion degree heat.

Lemme tell you, nobody's husband appreciates the suggestion that overweight middle aged men would do well to take it easy in the extreme heat and please don't drop dead and you don't even like golf.

Anyway, the place, it is lovely. The pool is fantastic. Did I mention there is no AC? Because the city does not have enough power. You know, because everyone runs AC in the five kabillion degree heat.

Right.

And my poor kid, he isn't sleeping enough. He is tired.

See, Nick and I went out with the other adults last night, leaving the kids - ranging in age from two to 11 - with a lovely sitter, tons of snacks, games, and videos. Everyone had a great time. Except Jordan, who, certain he'd been abandoned, wailed for a solid hour. He'd finally fallen asleep. He was a hot, tear-stained mess when we picked him up.

This morning, he saw one of the big kids on our way in to breakfast, and he burst into tears and tried to drag me out the door. He was not about to be LEFT WITH CHILDREN again.

Apparently, the six-year old told his mom that last night, Jordan thought he'd been donated.

I will say that I very nearly did donate him several times while at Target looking for water wings and a special toy for the pool.

Because yes, today I was that mom, the one with the wailing, screaming, flailing on the floor toddler. I got several looks from mothers with kids sitting happily in carts, and I wanted to be all, "What?"

At one point I seriously considered leaving him on the floor of an aisle, grabbing the other things I needed, and picking him up on the way out. I figured he'd still be shrieking when I got back and nobody would kidnap a screaming banshee. But then I realized that if he stopped screaming and I wasn't there, he'd be scarred for life thinking he'd been donated twice in 24 hours, you know?

And now the shriekalicious gem of my heart is awake and the pool beckons.

Fingers crosses for Nick not getting apoplexy and keeling over on the golf course. I don't thinking could handle driving home alone with the kid.

Stay cool, my invisible friends!

Month 23: What's Jordan dooying?

2011-07-19T23:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Jordan,

You're now 23 months, which means almost TWO! I can't believe it!

When I came home from the airport last week, you and Nana were on the curb, waiting for my cab to pull up. You looked like such a big boy! You gave me such a big hug!

You've gotten so huggy and kissy and cuddly and affectionate. I just love it.

On Saturday morning I came downstairs and you and your dad were watching videos of planes taking off and landing on his computer. You were fascinated. You seem to like real-life videos much more than cartoons.

While I can totally relate, I hope you get into cartoons. Your dad needs someone to watch the Simpsons with.

Your language has gotten more and more developed, and now, instead of you just constantly observing and reporting, we can have little conversations.

You often ask, "How's your day?"

Language acquisition continually blows me away. Last month, you started using "I." And while I was gone, you started using the past tense! The other day you said, "Monroe left his lawnmower." And, "Mama, you dropped ice on the floor."

Holy crap!

Something I find adorable is your struggle with diphthongs. You call your friend Liam "Lilam," and instead of saying "doing" you say "dooying."

In fact, "What's Jordan dooying?" is one of your favorite phrases.

Of course, the other day, what it turned out Jordan was dooying was pushing the table with the built-in lamp over so that it was leaning precariously against the window.

You continue to love books, and you're particularly fascinated by Richard Scarry's Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. It's a book I'm slowly beginning to loathe.

Because seriously, you'll say, "What's that?"

And I'm tired of being all, "That's a hippomobile! That's a tamper-downer!"

Seriously.

Also, last night, I was pretty certain that if I had to answer, "What's that?" one more time, my head was going to melt. I'd just walked the two miles home from work in air that feels like hot dog breath, and instead of a cool gin and tonic, I had Richard Scarry thrust into my hands.

I wilted into a chair, you clambered on my lap, book open, and I had to be all, "That? Oh, that's an owl on a broom-o-cycle."

The hell?

Fortunately, Lilam's mama called us just in time, and we headed over to their house for some chaos creation and dinner. We are really going to miss them when they move away very soon.

Now, when we meet potential friends in the neighborhood, I make them sign a piece of paper promising they're never moving again, or at least not for 10 years. We've made some great friends in the last two years.

One of the best moments I have ever had in my life happened last week when I was cuddling you in my lap and I said, "I love you love you love you." And you snuggled back into me and said, "Love you love you love you."

The best.

Love,

Mama

Technical things

2011-07-18T16:03:00.003-04:00

So, I still use Yahoo.

In the era of Gmail and Gchat and Twitter and The Cloud everything and whatever, it feels like a shameful secret. Like telling you I wear my underwear three days in a row.

Which I don't. Although when I was trekking in Nepal, I did wear the same clothes for a week straight without taking them off. Not my socks, not my undies. Because it was too damn cold.

I feel no shame.

So anyway, I change my underwear daily. And I use Yahoo.

I have a Gmail account - two of them, in fact. I've had them pretty much since Gmail accounts became available. And yet, for my primary email, I hang onto Yahoo.

I know it's so 1990s. People get judgy. I know, I know.

Plus, Gmail just works so much better. It's easier.

But here's the thing.

I have years and years of history in Yahoo. I have all these messages from my dad, messages I don't want to lose. But also, messages I can't handle going through, one by one, to forward to a new email. And I don't want to print them all out.

I just want to download my entire Yahoo account. And then move on. So I can keep it for when more time and distance has gone by.

You know how some things are like that?

Facts on reptile genitalia. For those awkward times when you have a lull in conversation. And want to make it more awkward.

2011-07-15T13:25:00.001-04:00

Because I can never leave well enough alone, I went ahead and wandered the Internet in search of alligator penises.

Thanks for the prompting, Go-Betty. Horrifying.

Yah. So, I found this guide to reptilian care, and in particular, the following: How do you sex a crocodilian? (This may go without saying, but it's penisy! NSFW!)

But the title! "How do you sex a crocodilian?" Doesn't that sound like the beginning of a joke? Like, "A piece of string walks into a bar..."

So of course, being slightly repulsed, I had to read all the way down. And then, then this! "And just in case you're confused, males have a single penis, not a pair of hemipenes like most other reptiles."

I desperately want to work that line into a conversation one of these days.

So anyway, the hemipenes! led to further googling. Snakes! Snakes have two penises! (Note: also a penisy picture page.) They only use one at a time, in case you're wondering. Some of them have spines or hooks to "anchor" the penis.

Yikes.

Now, if you'd asked me if snakes had penises, I'd have said I doubted it, because really, what would they do with it while slithering along? It would be terrible to constantly get your penis caught in the shrubbery.

Uh. Anyway.

I'm pretty sure that's all I have to say about that.

Oh, except this: If you're all, "Huh, you know, this makes me wonder if flies have penises," DO NOT google "insect sex." I am not kidding.

One of those posts that starts out relatively normal and then just goes all to hell

2011-07-14T16:47:00.001-04:00

Dear people of the Internet,

Tampa made me very tired. I just couldn't sleep. And I am a sleeper. I do best with right about nine hours a night. Seriously. It's tragic.

But I just couldn't sleep. Not to be all princess and the pea, but the pillows - all six of them on two beds - were too big. I need a squishy-downy pillow.

Also, it was too hot. And too cold. And too quiet. Until there was a noise in the hall. Then it was too noise-in-the-hally.

And THEN, then one of my colleagues went ahead and mentioned bed bugs. Just out of the blue and for no good reason. She said not to put your suitcase on the floor and then up on the bed because they can live in the carpet.

It didn't keep me up at night, but here's what it did: it made me itch. You try thinking about bed bugs for more than 30 seconds and see if it doesn't make you want to scratch.

Also, it made me extremely fretting about taking some of those potential carpet bed bugs home with me.

I told Nick about the bed bug possibility and he asked if anyone had seen a bed bug or if I'd gotten bitten by anything or if this was just hysteria for the fun of it.

Nobody wants to admit to hysteria for the fun of it so I was all, "They're a problem. Just like the boa constrictors that escaped during the hurricanes and now they're moving all the way up the east coast. Also the alligators in the Everglades with the penises one seventh the size of their grandfathers."

These are problems, people. Even if they have nothing to do with each other. Except they all happen in Florida.

Also, the penises, they are a seventh the size of the penises of their alligator grandfathers. Not that they're a seventh the size of those old alligators. Because that would be an entirely different problem.

I imagine. Not that I'm imagining alligator penises. Although I kind of am. Do you think they're scaley? Or do you think they poke out of a little lipstick case like dog penises?

My brain is running on half power. It's good I got out when I did.

And hi! I missed you!

Licked but not in a good way. With hoarders and rum sauce.

2011-07-12T14:52:00.001-04:00

Tampa Weather

It’s pretty here. But hot as balls doesn’t begin to describe it. Actually, I don’t even think it’s that it’s all that hot. It’s that it’s so damn moist.

As we walked out of the hotel last night, one of my colleagues said, “Walking outside here just feels like being licked. And not in a good way."

Yup.

Tampa Nightlife

Apparently, there are things to do at night. Me, I’ve been cuddling up with the TV. I caught the end of Forrest Gump. I love that movie. I watched the Bachelorette. I hadn't seen it in years. She's so cute!

And you guys, I watched Hoarders! For the first time! I flipped back and forth. I can’t handle the hoarders I really can’t. It's just so sad.

Bread Pudding

I don't know if bread pudding is a thing here, or it's just coincidence, but I'm pretty sure I've eaten my weight in bread pudding since arriving. With rum sauce. I mean the pudding. Not my arrival.

And tomorrow I go home. I can't wait.

And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain

2011-07-11T11:25:00.001-04:00

So at 6:30 this morning, just as I was about to begin work at the meeting, I wrote:

> Hi Nick,
>
> I'll call you later. I miss you and can't wait to come home.
>
> love,
>
> Lisa

Later, while sitting in a very interesting, intense, and quiet breakfast meeting, I checked my phone.

On Jul 11, 2011, at 8:59 AM, Nick wrote:

I miss you. Cuddling with your mom just isn't the same.

Some of us are just better than others at knowing when to let go, OK?

2011-07-08T15:29:00.001-04:00

So, I painted my toenails orange because I have to go to Tampa tomorrow for work. Which actually has nothing to do with anything.

Because what I really want to talk about is this: there are people who are good at using pull-down shades, and people who are not.

I fall into the second category.

Somehow, I am always letting go of the damn things too quickly, and they flip way up to the top. Or I don't stop pulling when I should, and then they wind up 15 feet long. And then I do the little quick tug to make them go up. And they get longer. Or whiz themselves all the way up.

When we lived in Nick's condo, I loved our plantation shutters that Nick refused to peek his penis out of, but we do not have them in our house. And they are not in the budget. So we have shades and blinds.

Which means Nick is constantly giving me remedial shade-pulling lessons.

The other day, just before naptime, I let go of the shade in Jordan's room and it zipped up to the top of the window. Jordan was right there on the changing table, and I wasn't sure what to do. Because my options, as I saw it, were twofold. I could shove him out the door, close it, and hurriedly pull the shade down while he wailed in an abandoned panic.

I guess now that I think about it I could also have stuck him in the closet. But it didn't occur to me at the time. And also might've been a little traumatic as well.

Anyway.

My second option was to let him watch me drag the chair over, place it against the wall, skibble-scooch up on the back of the chair and also kind of balance on the bit of window ledge that sticks out next to the air conditioner while clutching the window frame...and then reeeaaaach up and pull down the shade.

Here, Jordan! Here's how to climb to very high places! It's not safe, but it works! And wheee, doesn't it look like fun?

This turns out to be the option I chose.

And he just giggled at me as I clenched the window frame, reaching for the shade.

"Mama's funny!"

Yes, my little friend, she sure is. Now don't you try this little trick.

And no, nobody wants to go to Tampa in July and try to look semi-professional while sweating like a stuck pig. And yes, I think orange toes might help. Also, do pigs really sweat?

Which just feels kind of like begging the sucky ex-boyfriend to get back together with you and he's all sure and then stands you up

2011-07-07T13:41:00.000-04:00

Yeah, so we tried to sign up for Comcast. Again.

Go ahead, call me an idiot. If you've been with me through this journey, you know all the bullshit we dealt with when we had them, to the point where I started referring to them as douchemonkeys and Nick accused them of being likely to pee on his rug.

Also, I should mention that I've never had an ex-boyfriend pee on my rug. In fact, nobody has peed on my rugs, as far as I know. Jordan did pee on my foot the other day, but we were outside.

Right. So, anyway.

So we've had DirecTV since we moved into our house two years ago. Sometime last year Verizon said they were putting in FiOS!, any minute now! Many, many minutes have gone by, and there's no FiOS available. Plus we wind up paying a lot having the cable with one company and the Internet with another.

Also, I hate the DirecTV interface. We liked being able to have TiVO. I understand how it works. Betty, who will be moving when the endless construction ends, understands how it works.

The understanding of technical functions, it is not a small thing.

Now, cable and Internet are not critical in the same way as access to clean drinking water and antibiotics, but you know, such is our world.

Anyway, Nick clenched his teeth and called Comcast. When their service works - if you can get it in the first place, I mean - it's very good. A week or two ago, he set up an appointment for this morning.

He took half a day off work to be home for the installation. The installation, which was scheduled - and confirmed, I might add - for between 8 and 11 am.

And then they called at almost 9 am all, "Yeah, the guy is running a bit late. More like 11:45." And then somewhere past noon Nick called, and they said, "Yeah, he stopped by, but nobody was home."

To which Nick said, "Bullshit."

He then went on to rant about things that to my mind have no connection to cable service, like child molesters and prison. But I think it made him feel better.

By better I mean completely furious and powerless, because when you really want to give someone your money for service and they can't be bothered to show up...what can you do, really?

I got a fever, and the only prescription is more spatula

2011-07-06T16:54:00.000-04:00

There is something about spatulas that Jordan finds so intriguing. This is a kid who loves him a spatula.

They've always been one of his favorite things to play with. He used to pronounce it "shashla." He'd reach up in the air, "Want shasla!" Or he'd just say, "SHAAASHHLAAAA!"

But his language skills have advanced and he has learned how to say please, which he says probably 50 percent of the time.

So now he heads into the kitchen every day with his request. "Have spatula please."

One of us hands him one. Sometimes he'll reject the one you give him, and you have to pull them out one by one until one of them is deemed acceptable.

(Also, lest you think we own a freakish number of spatulas, let me explain. Any large plastic or wooden spoon, stirrer, whatever is considered a spatula.)

So he'll finally accept one. And then sometimes he'll just feel like one is not enough. So he'll say, "Another one spatula please."

It's polite but very matter of fact. This is a necessary object I'm asking for here. It's kind of like on those hospital shows where the doctor is all, "Forceps. Suction."

Somehow life is more complete with a spatula in hand.

So over the weekend we had friends over with their daughter, Kirthi. I was in the kitchen getting water.

Jordan came marching in and said, "Spatula, please."

"OK. Here you go."

He held out his other and and said, "Another one spatula. For Kirthi."

He clearly likes her.

Journey 4 A Cure

2011-07-05T01:07:00.001-04:00

My friend Kiran at Masala Chica reached out to ask for help winning money to fight pediatric cancer. The son of a dear friend of hers passed away last year, just before his first birthday.

It is devastating to think about. In fact, I can't think about it without getting all teary. So it's not something to which I'd given much though, except for reading Kiran's posts and feeling so sad for them.

Then Kiran started mobilizing people to vote for Journey 4 A Cure, which, if it gets enough votes, will winn $250,000 towards pediatric cancer research.

Because she knows what she is talking about, and because she said it well, I've stolen the text below from Kiran. (Here's her original post.)

Statistics are hard to look at. They are even harder to believe. And they give a whole new perspective to where our children might be most vulnerable.

Reality: Pediatric cancer is the #1 disease related killer of children in the United States.

Reality: Only 1 drug has been approved by the FDA in the last 30 years to fight pediatric cancer. In comparison to the 50 medications approved for adult cancers in the same time span, we are looking at a truly crippled treatment process for children.

Harsher Reality: Childhood cancer research is not only underfunded, but funding has declined.

WHY?

Really, really crappy reality: It's a numbers game. With children cancer comprising only 5% of all cancer diagnoses annually, pharmaceutical companies don't see a business case to fund treatment research.

No family should hear the words, there is no known cure.

For any disease.

Sadly, too many parents will have to hear those words in our lifetime if we don't mobilize.

Journey 4 a Cure is dedicated to seeing beyond the business case and working to build a case around the lives of families that need the research, that are praying for their children, and who are bravely fighting the odds to keep their journey going.

This post is a request to help Journey 4 a Cure to meet their goals. Ways you can help:

1) Vote for Journey 4 A Cure every day on the Vivint project page. Vivent will be giving 1.25 million dollars to worthwhile causes, and we are trying to win our regional grand prize of $250,000 - 100% of the proceeds will go towards pediatric cancer research if we win.

2) Did I mention voting EVERY day? Oh yeah. I think so. Please keep it going until August 27th.

3) If you are a blogger, can you repost one of the badges from the Vivint site in honor of Journey 4 a Cure? Would you ask other bloggers to support the cause?

4) Would you post the project in your facebook status? I cannot stress how much winning this money would do towards the fight against pediatric cancer.

5) Hug your kids. Love them. And pray that they never have to face cancer or any other disease that can rob them of the youth they all so deserve.

6) Beyond praying, please join us in our journey. Every vote counts.

PS from Lisa: In order to vote, you are going to have to allow Vivint to access your Facebook information. Yes, it's kind of annoying to allow one more company access to your info...but it's so little effort for a very good cause.

Cool blue reason I'm just talking to myself

2011-07-01T11:48:00.001-04:00

It is a beautiful, beautiful day out, and I am curled up into myself sad.

It's easier to understand the downs in the winter, when the weather is grim and the cold makes me clenchy.

But now?

The weather is spectacular, particularly for DC. It's sunny and gorgeous and not so humid and just basically yellow sparkly and pretty.

It's the start of a long weekend. A long summer weekend! We have a pool party to attend on the 4th of July. Cookout and splashing in the pool with kids and friends. What could be better?

Nick comes back tomorrow. He's been in New Orleans for work. Yes, it is hot as balls. Yes, I believe that's an industry term.

And Jordan, Jordan is adorable. He likes to put things on his head, thus rendering himself invisible, and then if you don't notice immediately, he says, "Jordan! Where are you?" Which he pronounces: Dodan! Wheeaahyo?

It is, without question, the cutest thing I've ever seen. I mean, aside from all the other adorable things he does.

I have all these spectacularly fantasticularly lovely things that I am thankful for.

I'm enumerating them, envisioning all the best, with clear salty teardrops sneaking down my cheeks. I don't understand. And I do.

Sometimes it's just like this, you know? I know. Fuck.

I was quiet as a mouse when I snuck into your house and took roofies with your spouse

2011-06-29T15:20:00.001-04:00

The state of the hole:
Seriously, look at this! And look how beautifully they curved the wall and did the molding!Still unclear when the actual elevator is going to arrive. But we've got some beautiful holes in the meantime.

Rat update:
Stacey said the rats ate the parsley as well. Those motherfuckers are shameless. Next they'll be asking for mints and turndown service.

Nick's giant electrifying trap has not yet arrived.

Speaking of elecrifying:
We have a bunch of electric green paint, and I have to figure out which room could appropriately be that particular color. It's a color I like. It's just, uh, complicated.

See, we have this kitchen that's painted yellow - I'm sure you've seen it in some of the photos or videos. And we have a room right behind it which shares a wall. It's kind of arbitrary where the kitchen ends and the back room begins.

As I have an overdeveloped sense of confidence in my color-picking ability, plus caution is boring, I picked the kitchen yellow from one small paint chip. And I picked the back room green from one small paint chip...

It turns out that strong yellow lining up next to electric green makes you dizzy. And nauseous. You'd hit the edge of one and practically fall down.

It's all yellow now.

Splishy splashy kisses

2011-06-28T15:38:00.000-04:00

If you ask Jordan if he wants a bath, you get one of two answers: "No!" Or a dash for the stairs all, "Take a bath take a bath take a bath!"

Either way, once you've got him near the water, he can't wait to get his clothes off. You cannot take them off fast enough.

It's kind of interesting how the bath has evolved, as he's grown from a little lump whose head you had to hold up to a big boy who can do all kinds of things for himself. And prevent you from doing the things you want to do for him, like maybe wash his bottom. Ahem.

But as Jordan can do more and more stuff, it's gotten both more fun and more irritating, depending on what he's up to.

For instance, he will lie back in the tub, but first he'll announce it. "Jordan lie down!" He'll lean back with a mixture of fear and glee on his face. And then he'll look up and say, "I see you!"

This I love more than I can say.

He will also, however, try to sprint from one end to the other, which seems a surefire way to crack one's skull and head straight to the emergency room. Also a surefire way to annoy one's mother.

One of the things that started out as irritating has become superfun, though. He'll lie down and then kick his legs to splash me. And since I hate being splashed, I'll close the sliding doors on the tub.

It's this process of kick kick splash splash, doors close kicking stops, doors open, kicking starts, doors close...

At some point I started mashing my face against the door as soon as I closed it and made kissy faces. And this is now what we do. We close the shower door and mash our faces against the side.

We both find this hilarious. We do it a lot.Although now that I'm looking at that picture, I wonder if my nose gets that red as well?

Reason will not reach a solution I will end up lost in confusion

2011-06-24T15:42:00.000-04:00

I need a lot of external validation.

This may come as a surprise to you.

I know exactly where this comes from, thanks to thousands of dollars in not-covered-by-insurance therapy. But blaming your dead dad is a cheap shot.

But it's just a fact. I know when I do good work, and I know when I've produced something I really like. But I also know that when it's something creative, like textiles or writing...I need the opinion of others. Preferably the positive opinion, although I prefer honesty over blind positivity.

Ever since my friend Sam told me that LG stopped being entertaining when I got married, I've periodically wondered whether I should keep writing here, or if I'm just boring the crap out of people.

I feel like weird, funny things used to happen to me all the time. And then I stopped going on Internet dates.

I still work in a crazy factory of sorts. But you know, the boss whose office I wanted to put the bugs in left a long time ago, and for a while things have been pretty normal there as well.

So I wondered if it's that odd things no longer happen to me? Or is it that I'm so occupied with work/kid/life that I don't notice?

And while I don't blog for praise or for the good of humanity, I do like the interactive aspect of it. I'm deliberately writing in public, right?

If I think I'm boring you, I'm going to beat myself up over it. Which is why, periodically, I also get all dramatic, back of hand to forehead, swoon on the divan, I should just give up right now! I have nothing further to say!

And then I'll realize I have a story I want to tell. Or I'll see my mom's neighbor, Martha, who I adore, who tells me that she loves LG. Doesn't just like it, loves it.

Or I'll hear someone call my name in Target, and turn to see an attractive blonde woman wheeling a baby in a cart towards me, saying, "I just want to tell you I love your blog! You said you like it when you meet people who read, and I saw you a couple aisles away and I've been stalking you!"

So I beamed and thanked her and said hi to her baby, and I refrained from spontaneously hugging her. I really have to pat myself on the back; I've seriously reduced my hugging of unsuspecting strangers.

Let me clarify that. I don't sneak up to people in the produce aisle and give them furtive hugs. But I do have a penchant for hugging people I barely know.

Boy, did this make my day. And then she walked away and another woman in the aisle turned to me and said, "I bet that really made you feel good!"

I beamed at her as well. (No hugging.) "It did! It really did!"

Happy weekend, all!

You know how sometimes you hear yourself asking a question but it's already out before you can stop it?

2011-06-23T16:26:00.004-04:00

If you don't live here, let me tell you, you've never heard so many sirens in your life. There is always an ambulance or fire engine, or police car passing by.

I think I always knew that there were a lot of police cars in the city, but I'm even more aware of them now, because Jordan loves them so much.

Sometimes police officers will see us gawking and will turn on the lights. It's like magic to Jordan.

So the other night Nick and I were out for a walk, stopped at a light at a big intersection. A cop car turned on its siren, sped through the light and down the street. It was really going fast.

It occurred to me that I would never be able to drive that fast in city traffic. I seriously can't imagine.

Which prompted me to say, "Wow. Do you think they get some kind of training in driving that fast?"

These are the kinds of questions that make Nick all sarcastic and all, "No. No training. I think they just say, 'Go ahead, drive this car as fast as you want! Turn on the siren if you want and just have fun with it!'"

Month 22: Airplanes, mud, and dining suggestions

2011-06-22T13:29:00.001-04:00

Dear Jordan,

This has been a huge month for you. You were on an airplane! Multiple airplanes! And the runway! And you got to TOUCH AN EEPLANE!

"Touch an eeplane" for you is a perfectly valid conversation opener.

As is, "No alarm today."

This was your conversation starter with pretty much everyone you met at the wedding we attended. This necessitated our explaining how interesting our alarm system at home is, and how the rental didn't have one.

You have gotten simultaneously needy and bossy.

In the last month, you've stopped wanting to walk anywhere, and demanded to be carried. You don't ask; you demand. "Uppa Mama!" "Daddy cayy you!"

I think you get shy in crowds, which was why you wanted to be carried around at the wedding. That I get; I get shy too. It was frustrating, but understandable.

However.

Whereas you used to revel in your new-found ability to walk, and in the freedom it gave you, you now refuse to walk down the sidewalk, even to the park. To the point where you will throw a tantrum. NOOOOOOO WAAAAAALK MAMA CAYYYYYOOUUU.

You have definite preferences depending on the day. The days you are all about Daddy, you are not subtle. If I'm around, you look at me, wave, and say, "Bye bye Mama."

You are having a wonderful summer with your nana. I come home so many days and you're both soaking wet and running around on the back deck having a great time.

I've gotta say, though, she's not the role model I thought she was. In fact, she's a corrupter.

She's single-handedly introduced you to: milkshakes, ice cream cones, chocolate pudding, and pound cake.

I should thank my lucky stars she's not a crackhead. I mean, for many reasons, of course.

But seriously, sometimes I'm feeding you dinner and you're not all that interested, and you look at me and suggest, "Go to the Diner?"

Which is where Nana takes you for batter-fried shrimp and milkshakes.

Yesterday I came home and you had chocolate ice cream all over your face. You'd had an ice cream cone and gotten it all over the steps. And in the process of washing the steps, she of course squirted you with the hose, because oh, you love the hose. Almost as much as you love dirt.

It was impossible to tell where the chocolate ended and the dirt began. You were delighted.Your little friend who'd stopped by in clean clothes and real shoes was very envious. Until we took you both out back, got you nakey nakey, and put you in the pool. You love it. You run around saying, "Jordan's nakey!"

That served as your bath. I missed a lump of dirt in your ear, I later discovered. Nobody's perfect.

These are the best days, they really are. Although I keep thinking that, and then they get even better. So these are the right now best days.

Love love love,

Mama