Synonyms

The first two things I learned about Himself when I met him was he didn't like bread and he didn't like Italian food (which I later realized was really a dislike for certain Italian spices and red sauce). I LOVE bread and almost anything Italian (except Italian meats). I'm surprised, based on that alone, that the relationship progressed passed "Hello."

Several weeks and two or three dates later I sat in my front yard with him, talking, and thought, "We really have nothing in common."

Now, more than 8 1/2 years later, I realized just how much we have in common. Last night, when I got into the car Himself has been driving for weeks, the radio was set to a radio station I listened to in college. Radio stations are something we've NEVER had in common. It prompted a stream of thoughts on how much we really did have in common, though it isn't always apparent on the outside.

Himself is the one person I love to go out to eat with more than anyone else in the world because I know he's just as adventurous about food as I am (though I owe my introduction to adventurous foods almost entirely to him). I know that he doesn't have a problem ordering two different things just so we can "sample" from each other's plates. I know that we can have an entire conversation that revolves around how the food compares to similar food at another restaurant, what ingredients are in it, how we could possibly make it at home or what would make it better.

He is also the person f orwhom I love to cook more than anyone else. He gets just as excited about a new-found recipe and its success as I do. He always lets me know exactly what he thinks of the food - acting as my own personal culinary critic - so I never have to wonder if it's good or not. My cooking skills have gone from "average - I can follow a recipe and make 400 versions of anything with basic ingredients" to more exotic and creative as a result of his tutelage and our mutual passion for all things edible.

While music has been a dividing point when it came to radio stations, we both share a funny love for The Rat Pack, Enya, jazz and 80s bands fronted by gay men (I realize that is a very broad category - it seems EVERY 80s band was fronted by a gay man at some point).

Television is another area (if you factor out Himself's bizarre affinity for cartoons) in which we share oddball passions - we both love American Chopper, anything on the Food Network with Alton Brown and medical docudramas. Upon getting satellite, we recently discovered we both have loved the Smurfs since we were kids.

Neither of us like chocolate particularly or have much of a sweet tooth (except DH's fondness for ice cream). We both sleep exactly the same way (when I'm not pregnant) - half on our stomachs, one leg stretched out, the other bunched up - even from the very beginning. We both love board games and card games - games of all types really - the outdoors, having couples friends and having our own space.

Now, there is a new mutual passion (and it's not just the radio) - Baby Girl. The miracle that is a part of both of us, an illustration of our similitude in some ways. We are synonyms - not exactly the same thing, but having the same common purpose, the same common message and the same deep love for the little girl who will be joining our family any day.

Funny, how bread and red sauce no longer factor into the equation.

Sheer Torture and Idiotic Statements from Well-Meaning Folks

I am still here.

By that, I mean Baby Girl is still content to remain nestled in an ever-shrinking environment in which her feet are crammed under my ribs and smooshed against my right ovary; her head pressing against muscles I've never felt before in nether regions of my body. She is her father's child - doesn't take direction, kicks you in bed, listens only long enough to make you *think* she's going to comply and responds eagerly to food.

Alas, I think she is so comfortable in there she might have to be forced to come out, which is not in the Birth Plan. I haven't given up hope, I'm still six days from my actual due date, but I am planning on attending my brother's university soccer game on Saturday - having given up hope she's going to be convenient and arrive before Labor Day weekend, just because it works out better for everyone.

Over the past week, I made the mistake of deciding that we would never be ready for Baby Girl's arrival, and so she might as well come right now. Before, I was so paranoid she'd make her grand entrance before I was ready, that I think I willed her into a state of permanent residency in utero. Once I made the decision that I could be ready, Baby Girl decided she was not ready and all contractions promptly ceased.

Now, I fidget. The nesting energy remains, but my concentration is shot. I stopped planning after last Saturday, clearing my schedule for Baby Girl from now through eternity, which means I face day upon day of empty calendar blocks staring back at me. I fidget at work - barely able to concentrate on the mundane things, let alone the two proposals sitting on my desk staring back at me. I fidget at home - wandering from room to room, driving Himself up the wall (and driving myself slowly mad). I can't concentrate to read, watch tv, scrapbook, do laundry - anything. Except cook. Himself thinks I'm trying to kill him with all the cooking - homemade apple/peach pie, french onion soup, roast with veggies and sour cream gravy, pad thai, Indian baked rice and chicken, homemade tomato garlic soup to freeze (Himself isn't a fan) - the leftovers are piling up and Himself last night finally said, "No more cooking!"

Now I really am fidgeting. I'm actually looking forward to having to water the lawn tonight - an hour where I can focus on getting the sprinklers just right to reach the dry spots.

Meanwhile, well-meaning folks have chimed in, right on cue, with what friends promised would be "ridiculous statements." The following are some of my favorites, of course, with editorial commentary following:

* "Relax and enjoy these last few weeks." (This from a pregnancy "congratulations you're 39 weeks" newsletter yesterday)
Relax?! I'm not even sleeping. I'm plagued with insomnia from all the fidgeting, not to mention that I have body parts stuffed into every available crevice. Enjoy?! Same thing. I am peeing so often I am thinking of moving the TV into the bathroom so I can at least be entertained in there. And weeks? As in plural? Oh no. They said 40 weeks. I'm almost there. That means I'm down to single-digit days. Not weeks. They have to be wrong. Please be wrong.

* "Enjoy your sleep now, you won't get any when the baby comes."
You think I'm sleeping now? Okay, I KNOW I won't be sleeping when the baby comes, but I haven't slept for the past 9 months. I'm lucky if I don't see every hour on the clock each night. Every time I move to get comfortable, Baby Girl takes the opportunity to expand into whatever new available space has appeared. Then the fidgeting. You'd think I had pregnancy-onset ADD (hmm ... maybe I'm on to something?).

* "You should take some time off before the baby comes."
Um, okay. No work = no pay. Besides that, while I AM ridiculously uncomfortable at work (some days more than others), I am a one-woman disaster at home. It's bad enough that weekends have two days - I burn out on the first day and have to recover the second. If I stayed at home this week, I'd be able to feed a small, third-world country with the food I generated. The towels would be washed again (third time in two weeks) because I would be scrubbing things again. We'd be bankrupt or own a large stock in Harmon's due to the increased grocery volume - I'm not sure which. Baby Girl's closet would be re-arranged for the third time in as many weeks. I'd walk the entire valley, giving my suddenly over-protective mother a coronary. Himself would check himself into the looney bin to escape. No, it's better I keep working.

* "Be patient. You want the baby to be done."
Done? As in fully-cooked? I'm not baking a roast here. And yes, I do want her fully developed. I didn't start being impatient until well after I hit "full-term." I can handle six more days. I can't handle weeks. In plural. I have been patient for 39 weeks - that is a record for me. Patience is a virtue, but not one I posess.

* "You'll miss being pregnant."
I will miss feeling Baby Girl move. I will miss feeling like she's all mine - that we have some sort of "all girls" secret club. But I am relatively confident that I will NOT miss being pregnant. I won't miss having a meltdown because stretchmarks and zits (the first of pregnancy) hit on the same day (39 weeks exactly - I wasn't nuts when I started willing her here LAST week) or because I've already worn the three pairs of pants that fit TWICE in the last week. I won't miss not being able to breathe. I won't miss feeling like everything is "off limits" because I am pregnant. I won't miss the not feeling good for a single 24-hour period since before Christmas.

* "You haven't had the baby YET?!"
Actually, I have. I just loved being pregnant so much I invested in a fat suit and waddle by the end of the day because I'm practicing my runway modeling spoof. Really. I know I live in a new place, but I PROMISE I don't look like this in my other life.

Yes, patience be darned, I'm never going to be any more ready than I am now or any less nervous about screwing Baby Girl up. Bring on the contractions, let's get this show on the road.

Weird Parental Smothering

I probably was not a cuddly baby. I'm not a huggy person. My "intimate" space is about four feet in diameter. And I LOATHE being smothered.

That said, last night I was on my (almost) daily walk ... I've almost given up on yoga, due to various inconveniences, none of them having to do with actually being pregnant, so I've replaced it with walking several miles a day (or trying to). I had to call and ask my mom a question and since we don't have long-distance on the land line or get good cell reception in the Hobbit Hole, I thought I'd call her while I was walking.

We chatted for a few minutes, then ended the conversation like this:

Mom: You're not going to be walking after dark, are you?
Me: No, mom. I'm almost done (and it wasn't even close to being almost dark).
Mom: Is Himself with you?
Me: No, mom. He doesn't like walking, and I like the quiet time.
Mom: You should make him go with you.
Me: (Trying, very hard, not to sigh loudly into the phone while rolling my eyes)
[In background: "Ask her if she carries pepper spray"]
Mom: Your dad wants to know if you are carrying pepper spray?
Me: [what I wanted to say]: MOTHER! What on earth is all this?!
Me: [what I DID say]: No, mom. I have my cell phone and my keys.
Mom: You should get some pepper spray.
Me: *sigh*

I refrained from reminding my mother that I have lived on my own for well over a decade now, that I've been married for nearly half a decade (yikes!), that I am ready to produce my first child, that I've lived (and walked and jogged) in bigger cities than the one in which I live now, that I stick close to home and take precautions and that I'm thinking more about going into labor during my walk than having any sort of altercation - which is really why I bring my cell phone with me.

Since then, I have been telling myself that the weird parental smothering is only because of Baby Girl's pending arrival and not because my parents have actually decided that I now live close enough to smother (that would be my worst nightmare about moving to The Frontier).

When I got home, I told Himself about the conversation. He was as puzzled as I was, especially the part about him accompanying me as some sort of body guard.

I'm thinking the next phone call home will be announcing the arrival of Baby Girl. We'll just skip the "Hi mom, going into labor, headed to hospital now" conversation, because if I'm getting smothered over walking I can just imagine the smothering that will go on regarding labor and delivery.

300 miles is too close some days.

Viral Marketing At It's Best

I have to post this - I heard about it through a blog I subscribe to for work on viral marketing.

A woman got $142 for her $2 pack of Pokemon cards, due, mostly, in part to her humorous story in the auction listing.

Of course, it's spread like wildfire. The woman is a natural with words and the world is still puzzled at how she managed to make $140 profit on her kid's "accidental" contribution to the grocery cart.

Of course, it is great leverage for me to use when telling clients how to craft messaging that will enable something to become viral (it does not, as it seems the entire non-marketing world thinks, just 'become viral' for no reason and with no effort).

More than that though, I have another blog to read, Because I Said So. It's just as funny as the E-bay post.

It makes me never want to have six kids, but I definitely admire a woman who can and still be sane enough to be humorous and write about it.

And I'm happy to have a great viral marketing case study to peruse.

I would just like to say ...

...Himself and I learned how to play killer bunnies last night.

Oliver is right - it is a wonderful game.

Love Thy Upstairs Neighbor ...

Love Thy Neighbor ... even when they go on vacation for two weeks, don't answer their phone and let their adult children have free reign, which means ...

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when their washer hose bursts and floods your kitchen.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when said flood necessitates a week of multiple industrial-sized (and industrial-sounding) fans occupying the kitchen and very small bathroom.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when aforementioned children REPEATEDLY turn off the air conditioning, even after the landlord turns it back on, then again after he leaves a note asking them to please leave the a/c alone. (Love them even more when you're 9 months pregnant and it's 100 degrees outside).

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when the children utilize ALL of the extra parking during the periods in which they are there, doing who knows what.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when the children only show up after midnight, congregate noisily in the dining room (over our master bedroom) and have long, heated discussions long into the night.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when they wake up the next morning and use all the hot water (we share a water heater) by taking long, luxurious showers.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when those long, luxurious showers result in bathroom flooding this fine Saturday morning, because the shower curtain wasn't closed all the way and the large puddle ended up causing a wet bathroom ceiling and dripping for us.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when the shower debacle results in needing yet ANOTHER fan in the bathroom (thankfully this one a small, much quieter one) for several days to dry out the ceiling.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when you KNOW they are home, because you can hear them, but repeated attemps to knock on the doors (front and back) fail to rouse them regarding leaky bathroom, air conditioning and mail.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when you haven't received any more mail than you can steal out of their mailbox (slot in the house) for two weeks, because the postman doesn't sort the basement mail and the children, even though they come nightly, don't bother leaving our mail on our stoop inside.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when you had high hopes of having wonderful neighbors, retired, quiet, considerate, but instead end up with hermits with grown children who repeatedly fail to remember the basement dwellers in the Hobbit Hole.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) ... but I'm having one heck of a time convincing myself that I can, indeed, love my neighbor. Right now, I confess I don't love them very much.

*sigh*

This is My Town - in Books

When my mom was helping me unpack/move boxes in the Hobbit Hole awhile back, we tackled the bookcase in the den (which has since been moved and re-arranged). As she was digging into a box, she stumbled across my "random collection of ultra-boring books" (this according to Himself, not me), which included several autobiographies and biographies of well-known people. She looked at them as she put them on the shelf and commented on the number of democrats represented in my collection.

Honestly? I had never realized this. I LOVE to read. I can't think of anything I like to do more (including anything to do with food). I love biographies of fascinating people. I make LISTS of people about whom I want to read. I don't necessarily think about whether or not I agree with the person's philosophy, I choose them based on how fascinating they are to me. I like to read about people who made surprising contributions to the world or did something different or were influential during a particular period for whatever reason. Beyond that, I love to read non-fiction books on things about which I am passionate.

I looked at the books. What I saw was not a representation of political leanings/ideology, but a representation of DC - a compilation of so many of my passions. I realized that it might appear to an outsider that I am slightly obsessed with all things DC - architecturally, culturally, anthropologically - everything. I have a stack of DC-related coffee table books, which I often find myself thumbing through. I have Meg Whitman's book on her perspective of Washington (in which she comments so accurately that DC is the place to which over-achievers come to congregate and and find their place in the world - so true!), Katharine Graham's collection of essays on Washington Life, a collection of essays written by Marjorie Williams - a prominent Washington-based writer, autobiographies of Madeline Albright, George Stephanopolous, Sandra Day O'Connor, Katharine Graham and others.

Then there are the books which have Washington connections and reflect my life's passions (which do a pretty good job of explaining why I love DC so much): the Joseph Ellis biography of George Washington, A People's History of the United States, several books on journalism, by journalists and commentary on the media - all with some sort of Washington insight.

The fact that I want to read a biography on every President of the United States probably should be revealed, in interest of full disclosure on all obsessively DC things. I am dying for a particular book on the history of Washington and another detailing the architectural significance of some of its greatest buildings and monuments.

I love that city, the people, the culture, the flaws, the insanity, the precise nature of everything there, the symbolism, the history - everything (okay, everything but the traffic). It was the city of my coming-of-age, the city in and around which Himself and forged our relationship, the city that encompasses such a rich part of my life.

Maybe there is no "slight" obsession. It is probably no wonder there is a shrine to my beloved city in my bookcase.

Speechless

Last night, my new neighbors - the women from church - threw me a baby shower, hosted by an elderly woman in the congregation who picked up on my love of food and my pending delivery and "adopted" me - her husband (now suffering from alzheimers) was a professional chef and she has a long-distance great-grand-baby due to be born the week after Baby Girl.

I walked to the shower, excited at the prospect of getting to know these women a little better - maybe well enough at some point to count them as friends.

I left, stunned. Completely overhwelmed at the generosity of women who have known me only at a distance for 8 weeks or so. My sister and best friend from high school threw a shower for old friends a few weeks ago, organized a month prior. Most didn't come - life is pretty hectic for twenty- and thirtysomethings with kids. Last night, a week after invitations went out, there were about 25 women there - some I didn't even recognize - none of whom I knew more than on a "Hi, how are you?" level. I left with armfuls of beautiful things for Baby Girl - many of them hand-made.

The talent, the generosity, the love that filled the room was almost too much for me. I hate being the center of attention and I'm not good at dealing with emotion. I almost didn't know how to react other than to repeat over and over, "I don't know what to say ..." Everyone left saying, "Please call us when she arrives - we can't wait to meet her." Baby Girl is loved by a group of women we will grow to know together.

I have friends who chafe at organized religion. I've had people who have tried to "save" me from being brainwashed. To them I would say, "if this is being brainwashed, I will take it." One of the greatest comforts in my life is knowing that wherever I go in the world, there will be a group of people who will welcome me with open arms, a group of people of a like-mind, a group of people with whom I can begin to forge friendships in each new place I reside. The congregations are composed of individuals and are all different in how they "adopt" new members into their midst, but there is genuine good and caring in each one.

People ask how it is that I have moved cross-country or to a completely new area or city multiple times. If they knew how truly introverted I am by nature, they would scratch their heads even more. It is because I know that no matter where I go, I will find someone who shares my outlook on life. Where I find spiritual substence, I will also find food for my soul - nourished by a myriad of activities, events and opportunities to reach out.

My greatest fear was having Baby Girl and knowing no one.

Right now, my greatest fear is not being able to adequately express my gratitude for a group of women - most of them old enough to be my mother or grandmother - who reached out last night to figuratively hug me and welcome me and my little girl "home."

The Twin Evils

Himself has had a rough week.

He has a raging, nearly psychotic, hormonal wife who goes from blissfully happy and calm to agonizingly difficult and weepy in 6.5 seconds flat. Add to that that she is up multiple times at night to traipse through the house in search of the little girls' room, her turning over in bed requires either a crane or a lot of rummaging, huffing, puffing and general sleep disturbance and the fact that she is in pain, which means being touched anywhere is liable to start the 6.5-second transition from stable wife to homonal maniac instantly.

He's getting no peace or sleep.

On top of that, there are the reappearance of the Twin Evils. There are two things Himself dislikes more than anything else: Heat and Spiders.

Problem #1: The upstairs neighbors (where the thermostat is located) are on vacation. Their adult children (who practically live there), dutifully watching over the fort while they are gone, saw no need to keep the A/C on while their parents are away. This was last week, during the hot, humid portion of The Frontier summer. On Thursday evening, the temperatures reached 92 degrees INSIDE the Hobbit Hole after 4 days of no air conditioning.

Himself was miserable. (Heck, me, the queen of "I grew up in a desert, heat doesn't bother me" was miserable - for some reason, my body fails to cool itself down since when pregnant - if I get hot, I stay hot for a good, long time).

The landlord rescued us and we enjoyed two days of blissfully cool air inside the Hobbit Hole. Saturday night, the watchdogs, er, children, came back. Off went the A/C again (still trying to figure out if they thought it just turned itself on without help?!). The weather IS cooler this week - by 10 degrees or so - but last night, after 2 days of no A/C and Himself finding the need to bake his potatoes at 425 degrees, we were miserable again. (Cooking in the oven is hereby banned until the solution is resolved - we don't need to CREATE any more heat!)

Himself tossed and turned all night. I frantically thought, "Oh no - my water broke!" every single time I woke up - a result of the volumes of sweat Himself and I were producing in our sleep. It was not a good night.

The neighbors have been gone for 10 days. No one knows when they are returning.

Problem #2: The Hobbit Hole had a visit from the exterminator, who sprayed the entire perimeter for spiders. Unfortunately, while the long-term solution means fewer spiders, the short-term solution means an influx in the 8-legged monsters, who then have the gall to up and die in inconvenient places. (Due to Himself's irrational near-phobia of spiders, I am the only spider-killer in residence - try not to laugh as you picture places where spiders dwell and a 9-months-pregnant lady trying to contort her body in such a way she can reach and smoosh said intruders).

Last night, for the first time in weeks, I found two spiders. Himself, already driven to near insanity by his wife and the stifling heat, nearly threw up his hands and retracted an earlier statement in which he said, "I'm really happy here. I like The Frontier." Instead he calmly retreated to the den and shut himself in, telling me he'd come out when I had disposed of the spdiers.

Yes indeed, Himself has had a very rough week. Bad enough, I've almost stopped wishing that men knew what it was like to be pregnant. He has enough on his plate at the moment. Poor guy.

Culinary Adventures 2, 3 and 4

It's been awhile since I posted about food - probably because, for only the second time in my pregnancy, I've actually wanted to eat food, which means I've spent more time cooking and eating than blogging about it.

We've managed to find enough time and money to venture out to a few venerable eating establishments in The Frontier, with mostly pleasant (and definitely surprising) results.

One of my reasons in dragging my feet in the move to The Frontier was the extreme lack of culinary offerings to be found the last time I inhabited the state. I, thus far, have been pleasantly surprised that there have apparently been some drastic changes on the food landscape.

Our first foray together into The Frontier's exotic food offering was E Jo, a Korean restaurant not far from our house that announced $6.99 lunch specials. Since Korean food is one of Son's favorites (okay, the meat is - he doesn't actually eat any of the rest of it), we treated him when he was out here. I am happy to report that it was not only good, but the bean paste and bulgogi (thinly sliced, grilled beef) are the best I've had. And there are a lot of Korean places in DC. Though they haven't yet served the slightly sweet Korean-style mashed potatoes I love to eat with the bulgogi, their kimchi is fantastic. I think we schocked the apparently all-Asian waitstaff in the amount of kimchi Himself and I can consume in one sitting. Strangely enough, Baby Girl LIKES kimchi - it is the one slightly-spicy food that doesn't give me heartburn, for reasons yet undiscovered. And, at this point, what she will let me tolerate is what I eat - so on our second trip there I had multiple helpings.

We want to go back and try their sushi menu, as they have Spicy Scallop rolls, a favorite among both Himself and I at our favorite sushi haunt in McLean. Unfortunately, they are stricken from the "approved pregnancy foods list," so we'll have to patiently wait for that. We did try the eel however, and it was excellent, as well as being well-sized for the price.

The second experience, at Lemongrass Thai downtown, was a lesson in extraordinary patience or complete stupidity - not sure which. They are, apparently, ill-equiped to manage large crowds. We dined with friends (from Virginia - are there any other kinds?), failing to realize that The Frontier's largest convention was going on that evening. The host seemed only to be able to deal with one person at time, meaning there was no list to put our names on. We simply stood in line for a very long time, waiting to be seated at one of the many empty tables.

The tables were filled eventually, which meant that the waitstaff was overtaxed. They ran out of glasses, so they served Himself's drink in a paper cup - a common practice among New England seafood shacks, but not one I've run into elsewhere. We waited for ages for our order, our bill, refills, etc., turning the whole escapade into a 2 1/2-hour affair that involved only about 30 minutes where food was on a plate in front of us.

Fortunately, all that was not completely wasted. The food, in large part, was excellent. Himself's duck curry was amazing - the best either of us have had. My sweet and sour (a deviation from my standard Pad Thai) was excellent as well, though it's remarkably hard to kill Thai sweet and sour, as it's a pretty basic dish. The calamari itself was melt-in-your-mouth-good, but the breading wasn't so great - it definitely merited more of a tempura batter. Something lighter that didn't clash with the squid itself. The soup ordered by friends was good, though not the best (I secretly thought my Tom Yum was better). The major problem were the portion sizes - they were outrageously large. Not sure if it's common in The Frontier or what, but we've noticed that - the portion sizes wherever we go seem to say, "We've supsersized for you!" which is not the most endearing thing to me.

Still, we'd go back. We would only order one entree, possibly with an appetizer, and split it all, we definitely won't go on a night that it's busy, and we'll make reservations, but the food was good, and since Thai food is one of my favorites, it's high on the list of "Must visits" for that reason alone.

This past Friday, we joined Heidi and family at Harvest, one of the restaurants at Thanksgiving Point. She promised a good meal, so we went with high hopes. We were not disappointed. In fact, we were surprised at how good everything was - the pepper steak Heidi & company so graciously shared bites of, the rock shrimp quesadilla and Himself's lamb. In fact, Himself raved about the lamb all weekend, which is good because he is extraordinarily picky when it comes to lamb. The bread tasted like my mom's homemade bread. The basil and tomato soup was divine as well (Himself will tell you that when tomato soup of any sort is on the menu it is incredibly hard for me to resist it - and I'm just as picky about it as Himself is about his lamb).

The atmosphere was wonderful as well, though again the portion sizes were beyond ridiculous. We were glad for the heads-up that we might want to share, or just get an appetizer ( I still ended up taking half of if home).

All-in-all, not a bad start to our food discoveries in The Frontier. To make it even better, I found an Asian market that, while not terribly convenient, seems to stock everything I need to continue to make Thai curries, Udon noodle salad, Chinese chicken noodle soup, Pad Thai, etc.

I still miss my beloved Wegmans, but I'm forced to admit The Frontier might not be the end of the culinary world after all.

Switchpoints

When I was out walking the other day, trying to escape the raging heat of the Hobbit Hole (we discovered that the a/c got turned off upstairs by the upstairs neighbor's adult kids, while the neighbors are on vacation, turning the Hobbit Hole into a 90+degree furnace for three days), I was pondering how we ended up in The Frontier, when it was so far out of My Life's Plan.

It led me to think about other points in my life where drastic things happened as a result of one action, one response, one event - switchpoints, of sorts.

The first was the summer just before I turned 11, when I bravely embarked on my first airplane flight, my first foray to the East Coast and my first "all-by-myself" adventure. I spent the entire summer living in Northern Virginia with my uncle and his family. It was there that I fell in love with all things East Coast (okay, most things East Coast - The Frontier has far better dairy that the East ever will). It wasn't just a matter of falling in love with a suburb or a city - I had been to plenty of both, before and after my Virginia sojurn. It was Washington, D.C., itself. I faithfully recorded my adventures in a small journal that summer, for which I am forever grateful, as it has kept my memories in almost pristine condition. I remember the first day we went to Washington, D.C. - the 4th of July. I remember sitting on the curb along Constitution Ave. for 3 1/2 hours watching the Independence Day Parade. I remember eating freeze-dried neopolitan ice cream at the Air & Space Museum, and huddling under the trees outside of the Museum of American History, trying unsuccessfully to get out of the rain. And I loved it. Every single minute of it. I loved each subsequent trip back into the city - it was a passion that consumed me the minute I could see any of the familiar landmarks. When I returned home, I told my mom, "I am going to move to Washington, D.C., when I am old enough." Another trip to DC while I was in high school did nothing but continue to fuel my love of the nation's capitol.

Nine years after the original declarations of an almost-11-year-old, I moved to the DC area for the first time. It started out as a semester-long break from school. It ended up beginning a 9-year-odyssey that changed my life forever, but more on that later.

The second Switchpoint came in the 9th grade. I was 14 years old and terrified of being in front of people, talking to strangers or taking a risk. I suspected that I wanted to be a journalist and knew that I would have to talk to people somehow, so I did what every rational, shy teenageer would do - I joined the speech & debate team. Somehow, even though I hated it my Freshman year (probably as a result of going 0-40 that season), I came back the next year, and the next and the next. I learned how to structure a speech, how to debate, how to use logic and evidence and the power and cadence of words and delivery to win. I learned about masculine and feminine endings and when to use them. I studied case briefs, body language and practiced my arguments and speeches in front of the mirror with a pen in my mouth (for proper tongue placement, to ensure better diction). By my Junior year, my partner and I were the top-ranked debate team in the state and had been offered full-ride debate scholarships to a local college. In my Senior year, I took state in my individual event, weeks after having major jaw surgery.

Not only did it drastically improve my confidence and my interpersonal skills and hone my hidden persuasiveness gene, it taught me how to structure my thoughts, how to think critically and how there was always another side to an argument - all things that led to future success in college and my career. Nothing else - no teacher, no class, no event, no skill - impacted my life as much as the decision I made that fateful September day; a decision even my Freshman coach questioned after I showed no discernable talent that first year. The results of that decision have been the reason I have landed every scholarship, every internship, every job I've had since.

The third Switchpoint came when I moved to the DC area at the ripe old age of 20. I came for a semester and stayed for a lifetime - or so it seems now, given everything that happened in my life in the ensuing 9 years. I took a break from college and took a job, seeking adventure, freedom and the ability to become someone I could never become in the confines of my home state. I wanted to create myself, not be forever defined by the people with whom I had grown up. I wanted to be sophisticated, confident, knowledgeable beyond what I could find at home.

It was just as alluring as it was the first time, and I was quickly intoxicated by everything to do with my new life - the DC area, the history, the power, the politics, my friends, my freedom, the vast world that stretched beyond me. It led me to one of my best friends, Shaliece, which led me to Himself, to my marriage 4 1/2 years later, to the life I now lead. Like the decision to join the debate team, my move to suburban Maryland 9 years ago is ultimately responsible for everything else that has happened since.

As I neared the end of my walk, I realized that my move to The Frontier was the result of another Switchpoint, which occurred in the pre-dawn hours of Christmas Eve 2006, when the second line unexpectedly showed up on the test and my world changed forever. While I didn't realize it at the time, that line would be responsible over the ensuing months for every major decision Himself and I made. Decisions that ultimately led us to leaving my beloved city behind and returning to The Frontier.

Four times have I come to a Switchpoint in life, completely oblivious to what lay in the path before me, content to set off down a road that seemed intriguing. Each time, the result has brought a rich tapestry of hapiness, tempered by a little sorrow, and a stunning array of opportunities, experiences, friends and cherished memories. Four times have those Switchpoints proven to be powerfully positive, though some required more pain and sacrifice than others.

I have 16 days until Baby Girl is due to arrive (according to the all-knowing-estimated-due-date-chart). Sixteen days until the potential Switchpoint #5 - when the doctors will place her in my arms and life will change all over again. For the first time, I am seeing the crossroads before I arrive, and it is a bit daunting.

I wonder where the rest of my life will take me ...

Nesting, Part Deux

I have come a long way since the last time I posted about Nesting.

I have found both the blender and the bathroom trash can (and put them both to good use, I might add). Baby Girl's bed has been set up.

But ... the Nesting has been in full force the past two Saturdays. My mother says it's because Baby Girl is ready to come. I say it's because I was raised that Saturdays meant cleaning. I don't know what else to do but clean on Saturdays. I can't help it, it's genetic.

Last week, I went walking, made blueberry cornmeal pancakes, did six batches of laundry, unpacked countless boxes, got the shelving up in the bedroom (it is ugly, but functional for the moment), unpacked and washed the extra linens, re-organized the master bedroom closet, and organized Baby Girl's closet. Himself helped me assemble the stroller, unpack the car seat, relocate two bookcases (and then re-load all the books from said bookcases) and clean up the den (sort of - it still looks like he's taken over).

Today, we went adventuring to Target for another bookcase (for Baby Girl's room), trash cans, cleaning supplies and a mop (Himself flatly refuses to mop without one. I myself hold my mother's opinion that the only good mop is the rag you use to scrub the floor on your hands and knees - but I'm 9 months pregnant, so I'm not going to argue if Himself thinks he needs a mop). I went walking, made oatmeal for breakfast, did another six batches of laundry (lest you think two people can generate six batches in one week twice- three of those batches were Baby Girl-related - washing all her 0-6 months clothes, blankets, etc.), put the books, etc. on Baby Girl's bookshelves (which Himself set up), put the baby animal posters up in Baby Girl's room, scrubbed the bathroom (including the tub - no small feat at this stage), scrubbed the kitchen, re-organized the pantry, vacuumed and put all the laundry away.

Then I took a bath - the first one I've taken since I've been pregnant, and the first in the Hobbit Hole. It felt lovely, but I missed my nice big garden tub in Virginia that had arm rests and a back. The cramped cast iron one in the Hobbit Hole is no comparison, but it did help my backache.

I'm sitting now on the couch in my fluffy blue robe Himself gave me for Christmas, trying to decide if the fact that I completey neglected the living room means I should finish it tonight or save it for Monday.

Somehow, I think Monday might win. After all, one can only Nest so much in one day.

My Favorite Lady

You would think, knowing what I know about life and death and all that, that having someone die would be a momentary sadness, tempered by time and the comfort of knowing I belive in eternal families.

But I still miss my Grandmother. Every single day. And it's been just over three years.

Last night, in an attempt to have clothing on and still maintain some semblance of cool in the Hobbit Hole, where it was a raging 90+ degrees, I had on her old "summer robe" which I snagged when going through her effects after her funeral. I don't wear it very often, but I was desparate last night. I sat, sweating buckets, and all I could think of was how much I missed her.

My Grandmother was the best friend I've ever had - the woman who influenced me more than any other person outside my parents; the woman who was more like me than anyone else in my family; the woman who is responsible for many of the things I love in life. She wrote to me faithfully in her spidery handwriting, nearly weekly, when I moved away. Since she died, I've not received a single letter (cards excluded) from anyone. Every time I came home, I begged her to visit my parents, so I could see her. The last time I was home before she died (8 months), she had a commitment and couldn't come. It had been 10 months since I had seen her when she died suddenly of a massive internal infection. She had plans to go camping with us 6 weeks later, which made it even worse.

My Grandmother was raised dirt-poor on a ranch near the Arizona Strip. During the school year they lived "in town" - a small cowboy community (to which she and my grandfather relocated after retirement) in southern Utah. She was the oldest of 5 children and the strong-willed one who dreamt of something bigger than her childhood existence (just like me). She was tough, wore pants and chafed under the different rules set for boys and girls.

She couldn't afford college, though she longed to go, so she took a job with the railroad concessions and eventually met my grandfather, the son of a wealthy textile merchant from NYC. Their two worlds couldn't have been further apart, but they had the strongest marriage I've ever seen. In lieu of formal education beyond high school, my Grandmother was determined to learn all she could. She had a passion for fine art, good food, good books, poetry, writing, sewing, painting, drawing, throwing dinner parties, the Old West, crossword puzzles, travel, "going out into the hills," hiking and her grandchildren.

She taught me to paint and draw, instilled in me a love of poetry (especially Walt Whitman and Longfellow), taught me how to appreciate art of all types (and accompanied me to any art show within an hour's drive as a child), ignited my passion for food and cooking and dinner parties, taught me to quilt and passed on her obsession with crossword puzzles - specifically the New York Times puzzles.

She chided my East Coast all-black wardrobe, and encouraged me to be daring enough to try color in my clothing. She didn't believe in "frumpy" clothes, and dressed primarily in suits when going to church or a formal function. Since we were about the same size, I inherited some of her clothing when she died - and gained two beautiful suits (not in black) as a result. She was reserved in crowds, as I am, but had a great sense of humor and an even deeper sense of compassion. Until the very end - at 88 years old - she was still "visiting the old ladies," many of whom were decades her junior - she took them meals, read to them, did their hair and sat and talked.

When she was inside, she was every bit the lady - always wearing shoes, always proper, never used paper plates for a sit-down dinner. When she was "in the hills" she was every bit the child who had grown up on the dessert prairies - wearing men's jeans (they fit her long legs better) with a floppy hat and a walking stick, talking of adventures past and yet to come and longing to be "out" for as long as possible.

She believed in a woman's divine nature and their critical role in bearing and nurturing children, but she also believed in independence, in having an opinion and sharing it, in being equal in her role as wife. She could be stubborn, strong-willed and adamant, which made her all the more charming to me. She believed in wearing a hat when outside, investing in good toilet paper and shoes (though she always bought generic tissues for some reason), eating good food, letting the linens air out before making the bed and the importance of memorizing things to keep her mind healthy. She loved to play Yahtzee! and cards, write stories, poems and essays, go to the symphony and read to us when we were small. Best of all, she adored having her grandchildren come to visit, and always made it special.

It is no wonder that I too developed a love for fine art and music, a love for good food, dinner parties, crossword puzzles, reading, poetry, card games, learning, writing and being outdoors.

My greatest joy will be getting to see her again. My greatest sorrow is that Baby Girl will never grow up having the chance to know the woman who so strongly influenced her mother. I have a feeling I will miss her even more upon Baby Girl's arrival.

Obviously, You're Not Talking About Me

This wasn't going to be today's blog post, but I am too aggravated to not comment on it, and I'm the only person at The Factory who is in the office today, so there is no one with whom to have a conversation.

Today's Salt Lake Tribune ran the following article: "Who Will Replace Faust as Counselor to LDS President Hinckley?"

Obviously a slow news day, even for Salt Lake City, given the fact that it's not like anyone is out there truly obsessing over it, nor is it like choosing the next Pope - with clandestine meetings and smoke signals and large crowds waiting outside. The article gives an interesting history of succession and some tidbits about the lives of "potential candidates." There, lying in the article, is one explosive sentence: "There is only one rule for choosing a member of the First Presidency: no women." Not exactly true, but guaranteed to keep people talking about the article while the Trib thinks of something else to be newsworthy.

It's The Frontier, what can one expect?

Knowing that the comments section is ALWAYS full of ridiculous fodder, I was still dumb enough to actually read them. All was fine, just benign observations until I read this:

There can be no women because, regardless of what Mormon men say about women being being "special" because of their ability to "give life" the life of a Mormon woman is ultimately one of subservience. It might not seem that way to them, and it might not be the general goal. But it's so much a part of the Mormon culture that it's become second nature. Regardless of how smart or how "good" a woman is, she's told that she cannot reach the kingdom of heaven without a man. Anyone with critical thinking skills is just not going to buy that for very long.

And that's when my blood pressure rose and Baby Girl kicked me in the ribs, not because it disagrees with my whole outlook on life, but because it is so patently untrue - at least for this woman.

My favorite, chuckling, moment came with the phrase, "It might not seem that way to them." It certainly makes me happy that someone is so dilligently looking out for my welfare by insulting my intelligence - assuming that I'm not smart enough to figure out my sation in life. Again, my intellect is insulted when the author continues, "anyone with critical thinking skills is just not going to buy that for very long." I'm not even going to go there. I'm not sure I'm smart enough.

For me, my religion is a way of living, but that certainly doesn't mean that I signed a form waiving my right to have my own thoughts, opinions and agency to live. And I consider myself reasonably intelligent - I'm no nuclear physicist, but I can hold my own in intellectual conversations, when given the chance (and when not pregnant - Baby Girl is slurping up my brain cells with every week gone by).

I had to laugh though - I wanted to tell Anonymous that he or she should speak to Himself regarding my subservience. Ask HIM what kind of trodden-down, always-defer-to-you, eyes-cast-downward woman he married. I daresay Himself would die laughing before he'd even be able to describe how (for better or worse - not always proud of how my fiercely independent streak manifests itself) his wife is pretty opinionated and isn't afraid to let him know how she feels.

He would also tell them how I supported him financially and emotionally through two bachelors degrees and a startling number of career paths. Then would come the bragging (it is really embarrassing) about my career, what I've done, and how smart I am. And how I'm the best cook he knows. And that someday, life events willing, I really want to go back to school for my Master's. I know, because I've heard him. Many times.

Then would come the discourse on proving that I couldn't possibly be mistaken for subservient, because I make HIM mop the floor, pick up his own clothes and make him check is own pockets before clothes go into the laundry (resulting in two ink explosions, a bad experience with an entire package of gum and several billion tissue particles he had to pick off his scrubs - you would think one of us would learn!). He would explain how I am a horrible housekeeper and would rather adventure than clean. He would tell them that I said "No you may not visit your father 3 hours away," when he proposed the idea (twice) 3 1/2 weeks before I was ready to give birth, and then proceeded to tell him that if he thought it was a good idea, then I was capable of making his life more miserable than any ex-wife ever would (prompting both of us to dissolve into laughter).

He would say that just because he doesn't want to do something, doesn't mean I forgo it msyelf. He'll remind them that I comfortably go to art museums and the opera by myself because he doesn't enjoy going, and I'm not sitting home hoping he'll change his mind.

He would comment how, even though I get up before him and he leaves later than I do, I don't ever cook him breakfast, except on the weekends, because mornings are "my time." He would let them know that I come home from work every night and cook dinner because I LOVE to cook, not because I think I should be expected to. He would make sure they knew that I ruled the checkbook with an iron fist (or try to), that he has to pack his own lunch, that he has two dress shirts that go to the cleaners because I don't iron, that I don't sew, loathe crafts, use my maiden name in conjunction with my married name because I love it more than I love my first name, had the nerve to tell my mother I didn't want children at one point and instigated a campaign against a senior-level executive at a former company for sexist behavior and treatment. He would also continue with how if you ask for my opinion, you'll probably get it, even if you disagree with me (and that he doesn't even have to ask - he just gets it unsolicited!).

Lest I paint myself as an inept, horrible hag, I have to say he would also say that I am fiercely loyal and will defend him to the ends of the earth, that I have my own unique way of showing love, that I am head-over-heels in love with both Baby Girl and her father and secretly loathe the fact that my primary mission this month is to find someone else to love her while I'm at work. He will also say that my family is the most important thing on earth to me, and that I would give everything up to save any one of them.

Maybe that is what makes me subservient. If it is, go head and call me that. I won't even disagree.

(And, for the record, I'd like to point out to Anonymous that men cannot make it to the kingdom of heaven without a woman, either. We're pretty much all in this together).

Save Me From the Voices!

Update to Slowly Going Insane ...

The fans are staying for another 72 hours.

72 hours of torturous noise.

72 hours of hugging the monster-sized fan between my knees every time I visit the little girl's room and having to shut them all down before showering (I tried to do it without shutting them down on Saturday - VERY VERY BAD IDEA! It's like showering in a hurricane, and about as destructive).

72 hours of sharing a counter and half a sink with the "petite" fan on my bathroom counter.

72 hours of holing up in the den with Himself, where there is some form of entertainment (his computer, my scrapbooking) and the fan noise isn't so bad.

72 hours before I can clean the kitchen/bathroom and their respective floors after having nasty water spread all over them.

In 72 hours (for a total of 144 hours), I might well be insane. Either that or VERY prepared to handle a noisy, wailing infant. At least she will be cute and not have "Disaster Recovery" printed on her side.

My mind has wandered into the "Hmmm....how can we make this torture on the upstairs neighbors as well?" field. Bad, Sara, bad. I think I might be hearing voices ... Maybe the fans keep them up at night too.

Sleep is Entirely Overrated...

...Or at least that's what I'm telling myself these days.

For the past several days, I have awakened on the half hour every hour after midnight. No matter what I do prior to going to bed, I can't seem to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time.

Last night was no different. Rather, maybe it was - because I just couldn't sleep, period.

First it was Baby Girl - who has already commenced to get me to lie in bed and worry. Last night it was about her sluggish, sporadically-spaced movements (or lack of them). I even sent Himself out to buy Orange Juice at oh-dark-thirty (yes, on a Sunday), to kick-start her into hyperactive mode. (Side note: this is the FIRST time the entire pregancy where I have sent Himself to buy ANYTHING that I "must have now," so he has got off rather easily).

Himself returned with the OJ, and I retired with a book (on my left side, of course). Baby Girl, who had been drugged the night before with a Tylenol PM and worn out due to my excessive nesting, was having nothing of it. She stubbornly refused to do anything more than make her presence known with a few hiccups and two well-placed, painful kicks in the ribs.

Second, I could not get comfortable, no matter how many pillows, body parts belonging to Himself or new positions I tried. It didn't help matters when Himself, in a stupor, rolled over almost on top of me, prompting me to a state of full alert in under two seconds, at which point I muttered, "You're squishing the baby." Himself muttered something about me taking up all the bed, rolled back over and went back to sleep.

I tossed and turned (as well as one can toss and turn when feeling like a beached whale). About 3:30 a.m., I got up. I thought I should put the OJ in the fridge. Unfortunately, I had failed to put the lid on tight. I got to the end of the bed before disaster struck, dispensing OJ onto the carpet. I groaned. I got some water and a beach towel (the only thing I could find with no lights) and sat on the floor, attempting to mop up the sticky wet stain I couldn't even see. Himself slept grandly on. Finally, after the towel would absorb no more, I rattled around the Hobbit Hole, trying to decide what to do.

The darn fans made such a racket, I wanted to scream. The living room, bathroom and kitchen were out of the question. There is no comfortable furniture in Baby Girl's room (well, the rocker is comfortable, but it is full of books that need shelving) or the den, so reading was out. Finally, I settled on scrapbooking. I had set up shop yesterday afternoon when Himself and I were hiding out from the fans, so I switched on the lamp and began a two-hour scrapbooking session.

At 5:30, I decided I should try and get some sleep. I vetoed any thoughts of getting up at 6 a.m. to exercise, so I gleefully shut off the alarm and tried to sleep. Himself wiggled over to hold me. Baby Girl decided that now was a good time to reassure Mom that she was indeed alive and well in her cramped quarters. For a minute, the fans sounded a little like over zealous white noise.

I slept for an hour and ten minutes. A record!

First Light

I am the strangest person you will ever meet.

I LIKE getting up before anyone else on the weekends. I like the fact that I wake up early, and the whole world is standing still. Early weekend mornings make anywhere seem magically like it belongs only to me. A particularly cherished morning memory is of walking to church on the Upper West Side in Manhattan one Sunday morning (8:30 is early for Manhattan, after all!), watching the joggers and the first light flooding Central Park West, and thinking, "If Manhattan was like this all the time, I could live here." (Still, at stretch, but it was a beautiful walk, nonetheless).

I'm not sleeping much lately (anyone surprised?), so yesterday morning I got up and made Blubeberry and Cornmeal pancakes. Himself had to take the Hoopty to the other side of the valley to get new plates (brilliant budget-saving move, there is one DMV open in the ENTIRE STATE on Saturdays). The horrid fans were so loud yoga was out of the question, so I decided to go walking instead.

I started the sprinklers on the front and back lawns (it's our turn to be in charge of keeping the lawn from dying), and set out through the neighborhood. I reveled in the just-warm-enough sunshine, the fact that the streets were nearly silent, that the whole world was waiting, perched on the brink of awakening from it's Friday-night slumber. I immediately noticed that the contingency of early-morning walkers in The Frontier are different than they were in Virginia. In VA, if you made eye contact and were on the same side of the street as someone, you said, "hello." If you didn't feel like greeting, you avoided eye contact. In The Frontier, if you are within shouting distance of any human being who appears to not be an axe murderer, they say hello to you and comment on the weather (or your pregnancy - I got so many "good for yous!" I'm not sure what to think of it).

In Virginia talking to strangers always made me feel weird, like one of us had somehow accidentally invaded the other's space. But yesterday I felt happy - happy to be part of a neighborhood, to actually recognize a few souls out walking or watering their yards, happy to have someone say "hello," since I know so few people.

The day continued on, blessed by the morning's endowment of beautiful summer weather and the magic of being among the first to experience it. At some point today, I realized why the weekend had felt so wonderful - and it wasn't just the fact that I had been up since first light on Saturday - I realized that, even though I have "lived" in The Frontier now for 2 1/2 months, this weekend was the first weekend that Himself and I have spent, together, alone, in a VERY long time (and, ironically, one of the last, as Baby Girl can technically arrive at almost any point from here on out).

We did nothing fantastic - we ran errands, cleaned, read and spent all of today hiding in the den from the humming of the maddening fans, but the entire weekend had the same, "I'm on top of the world" glow as the early morning walk on Saturday.

All is well.

Slow Trip to Insanity

Anyone who knows me really well knows I cannot stand chaos or chaotic noises. I'm not sure if it's because my migraines or my anxiety are triggered by chaos, but whatever it is, it is the fastest way to put me on edge and torture me to the brink of insanity.

I absolutely cannot stand the sound of the dishwasher (run only at night or while we're at work), air conditioner (a bonus to living in the Hobbit Hole - we get the air, but don't have to listen to the actual air conditioner run), etc. Loud, reptetitive noises drive me crazy.

The Hobbit Hole is being dried out, which means there are large, industrial-sized fans in our quaint abode that have to run for 72 hours straight. Guess what kind of noise? You've got it. Guess who hardly slept last night? (Granted, our bedroom is MUCH quieter than the rest of the house, but you can still hear those monster machines working, no matter how many pillows are over your head). Guess who is trying to work on a talk for church with the constant cadence of industrial wind in the background? (Fortunately, the den also has doors, but those darn machines are just on the other side)

I can't even escape to the bathroom for peace, because I have to hug one of those monsters between my knees to use the facility.

Slowly, I am going insane, and it hasn't even been 24 hours yet.

Fare Thee Well, Old Dominion

With all the wetness going on at the Hobbit Hole, I forgot to mention - I *gulp* have divested of all things Virginian now.

I am not sure how to feel about that.

I now am the proud(?) owner of license plates, drivers license and a library card in The Frontier. My last piece, my voter registration card, came in the mail on Tuesday.

It's official. I officially belong to The Frontier now.

Fare thee well, Old Dominion.

The Hobbit Swamp, Part II

Yesterday, as expected, was not exactly par for the course, starting with the minor flood in the kitchen. It continued to be interesting, if nothing else.

Turns out, the deluge of water came from the upstairs neighbors. Their washer hose had been faulty and finally burst, sending the water down the electrical conduit in the wall into the Hobbit Hole.

A disaster clean-up crew (kind of a drastic name for such an innocuous proposed solution) paid a visit. They used their magic wands, determined how wet the walls were in the Hobbit Hole, and determined that fans were needed to dry the place out.

Those fans arrived this morning, just as I stepped out of the shower. Frantically, I dressed and answered the door - sans make-up, with my hair in a towel, looking rather disheveled. I had been warned of the fans' arrival. What I had failed to realize is the sheer size of said fans. They are enormous. No exaggeration. 4'x3' at least. Which wouldn't be so bad if the Hobbit Hole didn't have 7' ceilings and was built pre-ADA era when hallways and bathrooms were required to be a certain width. And, if I wasn't 36 weeks pregnant.

What it means is that I have to suck my breath in and move sideways between the largest fan and the refrigerator, to enter the kitchen. Minor inconvenience, really. Then there is another fan in the bathroom. This one occupies the small space between the tub and the toilet. Essentially, to sit on the toilet one now has to hug the fan between one's knees. This should provide three days' of amusing fodder, since Baby Girl is now sitting on my bladder. The third fan sits on the bathroom counter, which is just wider than the sink. In fact, the fan hangs over into the sink a bit. At this point, I should probably remind you that the Hobbit Hole has just one bathroom.

You can just picture the circus o' fun occurring this morning as I stood at the bathroom mirror (the only one in the house), trying to apply my make-up and do my hair, as the disaster clean-up crew tried desperately to work around my growing bulk, the teeny Hobbit-sized bathroom and the fact there is one outlet in there. For a minute it was a matter of who would win the race to the outlet - my hairdryer or their fan. The fan won. I went to work with wet hair. In the end, the outlet position in the bathroom didn't work out, so the fan is now run via extension cord to the living room, adding yet another layer of comedy.

Oh yes, and the fans, being industrial-sized, disaster recovery fans, are LOUD. As in loud enough to drown out any sort of conversation occuring in the half of the house that contains the kitchen, living room, den and bathroom. Loud enough to make one go slowly insane as she is trapped with only her own thoughts for company for three days.

Next time, I'd prefer the flooding to occur on a Monday so that the drying out could occur while we were at work, instead of facing the prospect of being home for two of the three drying days.

It's going to be a wonderful weekend. I can already tell.

Tales from the Crypt, er Hobbit Hole

This morning didn't go as planned. Mornings rarely do in our household, but this one was beyond anything I could have (or would have) scripted on my own.

Mid-way through my morning yoga routine (stop laughing - I realize the mental images conjured up of a very pregnant woman doing yoga in her living room is a little much this early in the day), somewhere between moving from Downward Facing Dog (my current favorite position, in hopes it gets Baby Girl to move out of breech position) into Warrior One, I noticed a waterfall coming out of the kitchen light switch.

Not kidding.

I nearly topple over (you try balancing with a basketball under your shirt!), as I try to decide if I turn off the yoga DVD, try and mop up the water, which is rapidly spreading into the kitchen and entry way, or yell for Himself first. I end up yelling for Himself to bring my cell phone and some towels in while I lunge for the DVD player to stop the "inhale, now bring your arms slowly..." incantations.

Except there is a problem. The boxes in which the "not-as-nice" towels were used as packing material haven't been unpacked yet. The water continued to flow, unimpeded, out of the light switch, down the wall and into various nooks and crannies as Himself frantically tried to get ready for work and I tried to reach the landlord via his cell, while diving into various large boxes looking for towels. (There are days when I loathe the fact that Himself does not have a flexible schedule).

I reach the landlord, who, I find out, is in California on business. It is 7 a.m. in The Frontier, making it 6 a.m. in California. I was the very first person the landlord got to speak to this morning, since I woke him up. He told me where the master water shut-off was. I groaned. Shutting off the water meant that I wouldn't get a shower. I have to have my insides examined today by the doctor, to make sure I'm not going into labor anytime in the next seven days - the thought of having to do that sans soap and water made my stomach lurch. Obediently, I shut off the master water valve. (On a side note - the upstairs neighbors should really be nice to us - I could cause ALL KINDS of issues, since I now realize I have total control over their water supply).

I ran upstairs in my ghastly outfit (remember I was working out in my living room, not dressed to make social calls) to let the neighbors know that the entire contents of their washing machine were now on my kitchen floor and asked them to please turn it off. Then I ran back downstairs. The Landlord called again and instructed me to cut power to the kitchen, since the water had obviously come down the electrical system and out the switch. Then I had to run back upstairs to tell the neighbors to call the landlord, since someone was on the phone and he couldn't get through.

Meanwhile, Himself finishes getting himself ready (minus water at this point), has a stroke of genius and remembers where the not-as-nice towels are and yells over his shoulder as he leaves, "Have a good day!" I had half a mind to call the university and tell them that "I'm sorry, I need Himself at the moment more than they do." (After all, I am 36 weeks pregnant - anything can happen), but his job is critical in our master plan to actually get ahead in this life, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

I mop up the floor the best I can, leaving the puddle under the refrigerator for later, as there is no way I can move it on my own. I go into the bathroom and discover that the water came out of that light switch as well, soaking a box of kleenex. At this point, I contemplate running away. I find some rags (we're out of not-as-nice towels and I steadfastly refuse to use the good ones) to mop up the bathroom mess. Then I sneak back to the water valve, turn it on and dash for the shower. Leak or no leak there is no way I'm going to see the doctor without showering. I get out, wrap a towel around me and dash back to turn the water back off.

Then the upstairs neighbor knocks. Now I'm truly in no position to be opening the door - it's no longer just a matter of embarrassing clothing choices. I answer him through the door. He explains that they've found the source - the water source to the washing machine - and cut it off, so I can turn the water on.

I count my blessings that The Factory is flexible, since it is now impossible for me to make it to work on time. Then I remember the landlord said he is coming back to town today and will be by mid-day to investigate the issue with a plumber. I realize the house looks like a bomb went off. I scramble to straighten the living room, shut off all views of Baby Girl's room and the den due to the looming messes in there and scrub Son's Coke stains out of the carpet. Stains I've been meaning to get to for a week.

I sigh, get ready for work, grab my lunch and the trash Himself forgot to take out and bolt far, far away.

I will return home this evening to smelly towels on the floor, a kitchen, hallway and bathroom in dire need of a full-scale clean and mop job and the contents of several boxes strewn across two rooms, the victims of The Great Towel Hunt.

It's going to be a wonderful day. I can already tell.

Baby Girl Goes Trendy

My child - trendy. Ha! The thought of it makes even me giggle.

Trendy is NOT a word I would use to describe myself, ever. It will likely not be a word used to describe Baby Girl at least until she's old enough to protest my bargain-shopping ways.

But ... while searching for a discount code to my favorite Baby Store that I can only afford off-season when things are on clearance, I came across this. I stared closely at the picture of Jennifer Garner's daughter, Violet. Indeed! She is wearing the same jumper I bought for Baby Girl back in May. Only I bought the matching sweater instead of the onesie.

Okay, I bought mine on clearance - I paid $15 for it, not the $40 or so it was originally. And Baby Girl won't actually be wearing it until closer to Spring of '08, which means that she will be a year behind in fashion - so not technically trendy.

Still - I apparently have good taste in clothing for Baby Girl. I don't think I've ever seen a celebrity wearing anything remotely close to what I have in my closet.

I might have to remind her of this when she's in jr. high and complaining that I am "so fashion challenged," complete with eye rolling. (I can see it now - "Once upon a time, I had a clue - accidentally, but still. It wasn't my fault you weren't born yet and couldn't wear it for a year.")

Friendly Frontier

Oliver beat me to the punch in his post on Friends.

Himself was dragging Son back to the East Coast, so I again played single pregnant woman. I spent the weekend with Heidi and Family, who fed me good food, didn't laugh too hard when I slept through an entire movie (except the gunshot part) and introduced me to the family cabin.

It's great to have a friend in valley. Except, well, I met Heidi when I lived in Virginia. Even though she's lived in The Frontier for a few years, I still met her in Virginia, thereby classifying her as an "East Coast" friend.

Last night, I went and had dinner at the home of some friends who lived across the street from us in Virginia and recently relocated to The Frontier as well (is this becoming a trend?! Maybe all my Virginia friends will move here!). We dined on mushroom risoto and comiserated about the lack of (as Oliver calls it) "The One True Grocery Store." We also mourned the loss of our beloved church congregation in Virginia, noting that if we had moved into congregations like that one, our social calendars would already be full of something.

And ... The Hobbit Hole's first true visitor was Julie - yet another friend from Virginia (who, unfortunately, is not moving here). Clearly, there is some sort of pattern.

Not that I really have the energy or drive to even be friendly at the moment. I keep forgetting I'm 9 months pregnant and relatively antisocial by nature (the two together are a rather deadly combination).

I realized today, if I keep up the way I've been going, my only friends will be those friends who live(d) in Virginia, and I really will become a hermit. I'm running the risk of letting my entire existence be overcome by East Coast friends because it is easy - my congregation at church is on the smallish side - and everyone seems to busy with extended family and hoardes of kids to be interested friends (at least yet). I work for a company with three full-time employees, significantly limiting the number of people with whom I come in contact daily.

Clearly, I need to get out more.

Burritos and Bassinets

For the first time in my married life of more than 4 1/2 years, I nearly ruined dinner.

I didn't mean to, I just got caught up in other things. I made the world's easiest dinner, which only added to the aggravation that it wasn't perfect. Black Bean and Mango burritos aren't supposed to be able to be nearly ruined. I didn't have canned Black Beans, so I quick-boiled some ("quick" being a ridiculous term in this sense - they take 2 hours to cook). I overestimated how much time it had been since I had put the beans on, and started cooking the onions, garlic, chicken, cumin and pepper. They cooked a little too long - dry. The beans didn't cook quite long enough - chewy. The mangoes, however, simmered in lemon juice and a touch of brown sugar, were perfect. Himself graciously ate the burritos, even though they weren't nearly as good as they usually are. I had frozen yogurt, because after hours of waiting for the beans to be done, I had had enough of them and was no longer hungry. Sometime before I went to bed, I ended up having a grilled cheese sandwich.

There is something to say about being an adult - you can cook a fabulous (okay, it was intended to be fabulous) meal, choose not to eat it, and no one cares.

In my defense, the reason dinner was nearly ruined (I say "nearly" because it was still edible, it looked pretty, and no one died of food poisoning) was because I put my foot down. I told Himself that tonight, even if it meant shoving boxes to the other side of the room, Baby Girl would have a bed. Himself took me at face value and shoved the boxes across the room, assuming, I suppose this meant I would completely forget their existence and not make him unpack them. I drug the Pack-n-Play my sister so generously bought for us into Baby Girl's room.

Dinner remained on the stove, the beans boiling away, the chicken just beginning to cook.

Himself questioned whether or not we should wait until after dinner to commence the handyman project. I scoffed, "the beans take forever to cook - it will be too late after." (Too late for what, I'm not sure).

Himself dumped out all the parts. I dove for the instructions.

Two minutes later - the Pack-n-Play was installed, complete with mattress pad thingy at the bottom. Then I turned the page. It said, "If you are installing the bassinet component, do not install the mattress pad thingy" (I'm paraphrasing here). Why they couldn't have put that on the PRIOR page, I have no idea.

So we take the matress pad thingy out and resume reading, or, rather, staring at the teeny little images in the instruction book that seems to think one doesn't need words to describe what is going on in said illustrations.

Twenty minutes later - Himself and I had nearly come to blows on whose idea it was to put this together "right this very second." The bassinet remained in seemingly 100 pieces on the floor (okay, really there were about 7 pieces, none of which seemed to make sense). We both went to retrieve the packing box, which had a full-color photo on the outside.

Lightbulb moment. Aha! That's where such-and-such piece goes.

Five minutes later - I remember the chicken is still "cooking" and run to investigate. Himself realizes that the bassinet has a vibrator. Several jokes ensue from the back room (I wish I could say "shocking," but I'd be lying).

Five minutes later - Himself declares we cannot possibly finish assembly now because the vibrator needs D batteries. We're lucky if we have AA batteries on hand. I patiently explain that Baby Girl isn't due for another month, and do we really need a vibrator in the bassinet anyway? He acquiesces, we finish the bassinet.

Ten minutes later - we are having one heck of a time getting the changing table component put together. I give up and focus on the mobile - patting myself on the back when it takes me mere seconds, without the aid of the useless instructions. Then I wander over to give my helpful advice on the changing table. I confidently take the pieces and put them together. We consult the box. I've put it together backwards. Ooops. Himself rolls his eyes and spends another ten minutes trying to just as confidently put it together the right way.

Fifteen minutes later - feeling completely stupid and now realizing that dinner is probably well overdone, we celebrate the completion of Baby Girl's bed assembly by trying out the musical dohicky on the side of the Pack-n-Play. I go in to investiate dinner. The beans seem done. The chicken looks edible. Himself has a burrito. I ask how it is (it doesn't matter if I've made the meal 1,000 times, I always ask. Himself always answers with brutal honesty). Himself replies, "the flavor rocks, but the beans aren't done and the chicken is dead."

We shove the chewy beans and dead chicken into the fridge and, feeling like the invincible soon-to-be-new-parents we are, we head out for Target to utilize our gift cards on Baby Girl "necessities" so that I can sleep tonight.

Little did we know, in that, another adventure awaited us.

Nesting

I think I have hit the "Get this child out of me NOW" stage of pregnancy. I am uncomfortable and in pain all the time. While we're not exactly ready (in more ways than one) for Baby Girl's arrival, the next five weeks are looming ominously. August is my least favorite month anyway, now it just seems like it is going to be the LONGEST month.

Himself asked last night when I thought I might be feeling well again, because it was getting old (this when we were wandering around Circuit City trying to find regular telephone cord that was longer than 25 feet - the joys of living in the post-War Hobbit Hole). Once we found the telephone cord, I was tempted to string him up by his ears with it and say, "YOU are tired of it? You don't have a head, two feet and an arm crammed into one side of your ribcage. Give me a few months - it might be best to not repeat this conversation until Valentine's Day."

I restrained myself, however, and kept silent.

I've also hit the nesting point. Unfortunately, the nesting combined with the pain = very little productivity in real life. I stare at the disaster in our bedroom, the boxes in Baby Girl's Room and the "Himself has obviously taken over the den" disaster every day and sigh. I am itching to set up Baby Girl's bed (yes we have one, no it isn't set up yet). I am drying, two months after signing the lease at the Hobbit Hole, to feel like I live there - to have things on the walls, to have a place for things, to be able to FIND things (like my blender and the bathroom trash can).

Himself, however, is quite content to live in the two rooms of the house (living room/kitchen) that have been settled into and just avoid any other area until it's dark. I told him last night he was the anti-nester. I think the meaning was lost on him. He is flying back to the East Coast with Son this weekend to take him home (a topic that is not to be discussed ever again), so I made him a deal: He helps me "nest" this week by getting the heavy stuff re-arranged (we have to move our bed, now that we have AC, I freeze all night being under the vents) and set up (ie our shelves we bought weeks ago), and I will "nest" on my own time without driving him beserk.

We start tonight. We'll see what happens.