I love the new Vegas commercials - so much more than the awful ones with the devilishly creepy man in the red suit in the previous Vegas series.
I don't particularly love Vegas itself - the glitz, glamour and insanity are really not something that I've ever warmed to. One too many business trips there. One too many flights in and out when I flew in to visit The Parents from the East Coast.
But, no matter ... my Vegas is going to be showing next weekend, and while it's not quite Hawaii like Heidi, it is warmer than The Frontier and comes sans snow.
I'm delighted to spend two days in warm(ish) weather, even if it means networking (ugh) at a client convention (ugh) for dental professionals (double ugh). But it will be my first night(s) away from Baby Girl since her arrival. I'm not sure how to feel about that.
Himself isn't sure how to feel about it either ... but we pay the sitter all week anyway, so if he's employed (pray he is) by then, he just has to drop her off/pick her up and attempt to dress her in something that fits and matches (the former being much more challenging at the moment than the latter).
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Merely a Flesh Wound
(Bonus points to the other nerds like me who can quote the rest of the movie I stole that line from)
I'm not dead, yet.
I'm here. Lurking in the shadows. Swimming upstream and holding my breath.
There have been moments when I've pondered and thought to blog:
...like yesterday, when I discovered I was wearing my turtleneck sweater backwards at a meeting, made a mental note to change it, forgot and wore it backwards ALL DAY (filed under more absurd things Sara has done lately);
...like the day before when I was so intent on getting Baby Girl from the sitter and getting home early to spend the snowy afternoon working from home that I misjudged where the curb should be under the pile o' snow we got that morning and landed in a crumpled heap on the side of the road with an ankle injury;
...like the other day when Himself and I stopped at the Creamery on 9th (formerly Kent's Market) to enjoy the best milkshakes in Happy Valley and I failed to realize that a "large" really meant LARGE - much larger than I could ever hope to consume (though the macadamia nut crunch ice cream was heavenly);
...like my ongoing battles mired in red tape with two state governments, the social security administration, and several different insurance companies;
But none of them has warranted much mention after the moment passed.
So, I'm still here - nursing merely a flesh wound in the grand scheme of things, with not much to say.
I'm not dead, yet.
I'm here. Lurking in the shadows. Swimming upstream and holding my breath.
There have been moments when I've pondered and thought to blog:
...like yesterday, when I discovered I was wearing my turtleneck sweater backwards at a meeting, made a mental note to change it, forgot and wore it backwards ALL DAY (filed under more absurd things Sara has done lately);
...like the day before when I was so intent on getting Baby Girl from the sitter and getting home early to spend the snowy afternoon working from home that I misjudged where the curb should be under the pile o' snow we got that morning and landed in a crumpled heap on the side of the road with an ankle injury;
...like the other day when Himself and I stopped at the Creamery on 9th (formerly Kent's Market) to enjoy the best milkshakes in Happy Valley and I failed to realize that a "large" really meant LARGE - much larger than I could ever hope to consume (though the macadamia nut crunch ice cream was heavenly);
...like my ongoing battles mired in red tape with two state governments, the social security administration, and several different insurance companies;
But none of them has warranted much mention after the moment passed.
So, I'm still here - nursing merely a flesh wound in the grand scheme of things, with not much to say.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Breakfast Club and The Candidates
Thanks to Kat in NY for posting this link on another site I frequent:
The Breakfast Club Primary matches up the '08 presidential contenders with key characters in the ultimate 80s flick.
Someone has too much time on their hands - but I appreciate the laugh break as I am neck-deep in politics and religion in regards to one of our clients.
Even if you hate politics (Oliver) you need to see it - it is really spot on.
And, for a second, I got to relive the fabulous "Fat, Ugly & Too Young" Molly Ringwald parties we used to have in lieu of going to formal dances in high school/junior high - even though as I look back, we were generally neither fat, nor ugly - just too young.
The Breakfast Club Primary matches up the '08 presidential contenders with key characters in the ultimate 80s flick.
Someone has too much time on their hands - but I appreciate the laugh break as I am neck-deep in politics and religion in regards to one of our clients.
Even if you hate politics (Oliver) you need to see it - it is really spot on.
And, for a second, I got to relive the fabulous "Fat, Ugly & Too Young" Molly Ringwald parties we used to have in lieu of going to formal dances in high school/junior high - even though as I look back, we were generally neither fat, nor ugly - just too young.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Daddy's Girl
Himself doesn't have a job anymore, for those who missed the post from a few days ago. I'm just not going there.
I have a job (that is driving me crazy, but that's not for this blog), but I also have the worst migraine I have had in years, maybe ever.
Therefore, we're all home having a pajama day today. Even Baby Girl got put into a clean nightie this morning - so we're all comfy.
I am on a conference call for work and Himself is taking care of Baby Girl. Right now he is wandering up and down the hall with her. She is babbling away, making googlie eyes at him and smiling. He is talking right back to her.
The last couple of days, Baby Girl has taken to staring at Himself while she eats, which isn't really conducive to eating. He has been doing the formula supplementation after I nurse her, which she still hates - but she loves to just stare up at him. It's easier (and more conducive to eating) for her to stare at him while he's feeding her.
Baby Girl loves her Daddy.
Minus the migraine, I love pajama days.
I have a job (that is driving me crazy, but that's not for this blog), but I also have the worst migraine I have had in years, maybe ever.
Therefore, we're all home having a pajama day today. Even Baby Girl got put into a clean nightie this morning - so we're all comfy.
I am on a conference call for work and Himself is taking care of Baby Girl. Right now he is wandering up and down the hall with her. She is babbling away, making googlie eyes at him and smiling. He is talking right back to her.
The last couple of days, Baby Girl has taken to staring at Himself while she eats, which isn't really conducive to eating. He has been doing the formula supplementation after I nurse her, which she still hates - but she loves to just stare up at him. It's easier (and more conducive to eating) for her to stare at him while he's feeding her.
Baby Girl loves her Daddy.
Minus the migraine, I love pajama days.
Signs of Imminent Cerebral Atrophy
Monday night I fell asleep on the couch (as often happens).
Himself gallantly woke me up to send me to bed (gallantly because I am not the sort of person you want to wake up once I'm asleep). I apparently didn't wake up completely.
I stumbled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth from a nearly empty tube of toothpaste and reached blindly for the green tube containing my face wash on the side of the sink.
I squeezed out a small amount - funny, it didn't lather very well. Too asleep to care that I probably wasn't doing a very good job of washing my face, I began to rinse it. I toweled it dry and thought "wow - my face feels very ... brisk."
I went into bed. Himself commented on the minty fresh smell.
Sometime later I sat up in bed. My facial cleanser is not in a green tube. Nor is it kept on the side of the sink like the toothpaste.
I rushed into the bathroom. Sure enough, there were two tubes of toothpaste on the counter - one nearly empty. One brand-new one with the slightest of dents in it.
No wonder it didn't lather well.
Himself gallantly woke me up to send me to bed (gallantly because I am not the sort of person you want to wake up once I'm asleep). I apparently didn't wake up completely.
I stumbled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth from a nearly empty tube of toothpaste and reached blindly for the green tube containing my face wash on the side of the sink.
I squeezed out a small amount - funny, it didn't lather very well. Too asleep to care that I probably wasn't doing a very good job of washing my face, I began to rinse it. I toweled it dry and thought "wow - my face feels very ... brisk."
I went into bed. Himself commented on the minty fresh smell.
Sometime later I sat up in bed. My facial cleanser is not in a green tube. Nor is it kept on the side of the sink like the toothpaste.
I rushed into the bathroom. Sure enough, there were two tubes of toothpaste on the counter - one nearly empty. One brand-new one with the slightest of dents in it.
No wonder it didn't lather well.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Mass Exodus
For the sake of brevity, let's dismiss with how I ended up in a car with Baby Girl today without a diaper bag. Call it what you want, but it happened.
Between my doctor's visit and Baby Girl's doctor's visit (in the same medical complex), I decided to feed her. Halfway through, she screwed up her face and concentrated on expelling the remnants of past feedings in to her diaper. Apparently, she cannot multi-task, as she stopped eating for the duration. She then proceeded to protest loudly about the results.
Bravely, I peeked inside - thinking maybe it was one of her usual "small poops" - as I had neither a changing pad or wipes in my car. (I only had diapers that fit her because I haven't yet lugged the humungo box o' Costco diapers out of the car yet).
It was not. Rather, it was a spectacular explosion barely contained within the confines of the diaper. I lay her down and unfastened the diaper. It was hopeless with no wipes. Coming up with a very expensive alternative, I tried to use another diaper to wipe her little bum. No luck.
About the time I'd stunk up the car and only half-wiped her little bottom, Baby Girl decided she needed to expel more waste. I gave up, stuck the once clean diaper on her and rolled up the very, very messy one. Her appointment was in 15 minutes. There was a gas station down the street. Surely they would carry something I could use to scrub her bum with.
Failing to put on her pants or socks (or even button her onesie), I put Baby Girl back in her carseat for the block-long drive to the gas station. Once there, I took her out of her seat and schlepped her half-naked self into the convenience store to look for wipes.
I kept waiting for CPS spies to launch themselves at me, condemning me with accusations like, "what kind of mother takes her half-naked, dirty bummed self out in 38-degree weather?!" I got to the counter - the clerk asked how my days was going. I replied, "It's better not to ask, as evidenced by the fact that I am taking my half-naked baby to a gas station." He laughed. I explained the situation (why do I feel compelled to do this?) and left, wipes in hand.
We returned to the doctor's complex, and I changed Baby Girl's diaper. Knowing that she was going to have to strip naked for her weighing anyway, I snapped the onesie up, but didn't replace her pants and socks before I took her into the doctor's office.
Again, the visions of the receptionist pushing the silent "summon the CPS patrol" button and again my sad diatribe of how I ended up with a baby, a horribly explosive diaper, no diaper bag and a dire need for wipes.
When Baby Girl has her own kids and confesses that she got stranded with no useful baby supplies, I'll commiserate with her.
Until then, I'm stocking my car with wipes. Maybe the humungo box o' Costco diapers will remain in there as well.
Between my doctor's visit and Baby Girl's doctor's visit (in the same medical complex), I decided to feed her. Halfway through, she screwed up her face and concentrated on expelling the remnants of past feedings in to her diaper. Apparently, she cannot multi-task, as she stopped eating for the duration. She then proceeded to protest loudly about the results.
Bravely, I peeked inside - thinking maybe it was one of her usual "small poops" - as I had neither a changing pad or wipes in my car. (I only had diapers that fit her because I haven't yet lugged the humungo box o' Costco diapers out of the car yet).
It was not. Rather, it was a spectacular explosion barely contained within the confines of the diaper. I lay her down and unfastened the diaper. It was hopeless with no wipes. Coming up with a very expensive alternative, I tried to use another diaper to wipe her little bum. No luck.
About the time I'd stunk up the car and only half-wiped her little bottom, Baby Girl decided she needed to expel more waste. I gave up, stuck the once clean diaper on her and rolled up the very, very messy one. Her appointment was in 15 minutes. There was a gas station down the street. Surely they would carry something I could use to scrub her bum with.
Failing to put on her pants or socks (or even button her onesie), I put Baby Girl back in her carseat for the block-long drive to the gas station. Once there, I took her out of her seat and schlepped her half-naked self into the convenience store to look for wipes.
I kept waiting for CPS spies to launch themselves at me, condemning me with accusations like, "what kind of mother takes her half-naked, dirty bummed self out in 38-degree weather?!" I got to the counter - the clerk asked how my days was going. I replied, "It's better not to ask, as evidenced by the fact that I am taking my half-naked baby to a gas station." He laughed. I explained the situation (why do I feel compelled to do this?) and left, wipes in hand.
We returned to the doctor's complex, and I changed Baby Girl's diaper. Knowing that she was going to have to strip naked for her weighing anyway, I snapped the onesie up, but didn't replace her pants and socks before I took her into the doctor's office.
Again, the visions of the receptionist pushing the silent "summon the CPS patrol" button and again my sad diatribe of how I ended up with a baby, a horribly explosive diaper, no diaper bag and a dire need for wipes.
When Baby Girl has her own kids and confesses that she got stranded with no useful baby supplies, I'll commiserate with her.
Until then, I'm stocking my car with wipes. Maybe the humungo box o' Costco diapers will remain in there as well.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
When The Bottom Falls Out
When Himself tells me he has bad news, it is usually some overly horrible pronouncement, followed by something that, in comparison, doesn't sound quite so bad. He does this to temper my worry and concern and dramatic antics.
So when he called me on Friday and immediately said, "I have some bad news," I was expecting him to give me some dramatic scene amd then say that the $400 we'd just dropped on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem.
Instead, a strained voice said, "I don't have a job anymore."
There was no laughing and telling me that actually the bad news wasn't really so bad after all (in a great twist of irony we found out Friday evening that the $400 we'd plunked down on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem ... so it turns out that my clairvoyancy was somewhat accurate).
In fact, there was a strangled cry and a silence full of anguish and hurt and disbelief. I don't remember the rest of Friday very well, except I wished yet again that humans hibernated like bears and that we could curl up together and sleep until spring, when brighter days were already here.
While we've been careful to moderate the strain and questions and worry around Baby Girl, I think she's picked up on it on some level - she fussed most of last night and today is clingy and cranky - wanting to not just be held, but cuddled and sung to. She wants to eat every 90 minutes. I'm still in my pajamas, Baby Girl's warm little head snuggled into the crook of my arm, finally starting to drift off. It's one of those days when the healing balm of church is desparately needed (and required, since we have a class of 10-year-old boys to teach), but I'm not sure how we're going to make it, with a baby who is demanding 110% of our attention.
My heart hurts for Himself, who is not himself in any sense of the word. My insides hurt wondering how to solve a problem we really shouldn't be in. And my arms have no feeling as Baby Girl's head has effectively cut off all circulation.
The Hobbit Hole feels a bit like a cave - dim and cool during the winter - my flannel sheets are snuggly and Baby Girl is warm - if ever there was a case for winter hibernation, it would be today.
So when he called me on Friday and immediately said, "I have some bad news," I was expecting him to give me some dramatic scene amd then say that the $400 we'd just dropped on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem.
Instead, a strained voice said, "I don't have a job anymore."
There was no laughing and telling me that actually the bad news wasn't really so bad after all (in a great twist of irony we found out Friday evening that the $400 we'd plunked down on the Hoopty had not actually fixed the problem ... so it turns out that my clairvoyancy was somewhat accurate).
In fact, there was a strangled cry and a silence full of anguish and hurt and disbelief. I don't remember the rest of Friday very well, except I wished yet again that humans hibernated like bears and that we could curl up together and sleep until spring, when brighter days were already here.
While we've been careful to moderate the strain and questions and worry around Baby Girl, I think she's picked up on it on some level - she fussed most of last night and today is clingy and cranky - wanting to not just be held, but cuddled and sung to. She wants to eat every 90 minutes. I'm still in my pajamas, Baby Girl's warm little head snuggled into the crook of my arm, finally starting to drift off. It's one of those days when the healing balm of church is desparately needed (and required, since we have a class of 10-year-old boys to teach), but I'm not sure how we're going to make it, with a baby who is demanding 110% of our attention.
My heart hurts for Himself, who is not himself in any sense of the word. My insides hurt wondering how to solve a problem we really shouldn't be in. And my arms have no feeling as Baby Girl's head has effectively cut off all circulation.
The Hobbit Hole feels a bit like a cave - dim and cool during the winter - my flannel sheets are snuggly and Baby Girl is warm - if ever there was a case for winter hibernation, it would be today.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Mind Reader
Today was horrible beyond description, but two good things happened:
* I made EXCELLENT fajitas with all the trimmings (in between rescuing Himself from work, picking up the car at the mechanic's, tending to Baby Girl's fever from her shots and getting her to bed) - refried beans, homemade guac, sour cream, cheese and beef/chicken/shrimp fajita filling with red and green peppers and onions.
* I got a package in the mail.
A wonderfully sophisticated woman, whom I secretly envy, from a site I post on, sent me a beautiful sushi set, a sushi cookbook (one that I don't already own) a gift for Baby Girl, a beautiful tray and an ornament - she was my replacement secret santa from the Christmas exchange we did on the site.
It could not have been a more perfect gift (after Baby Girl's weight check on Monday, I have plans to do part of my next week's grocery shopping at the Asian market to put the eel in my freezer to good use) or come at a more perfect time.
Baby Girl and I sat on the floor and tore into the box. Okay, she watched and laughed when I crinkled up the paper. I tore into the box like a little kid on Christmas morning.
At that moment, I had something beautiful and wonderful and exciting - just for me.
* I made EXCELLENT fajitas with all the trimmings (in between rescuing Himself from work, picking up the car at the mechanic's, tending to Baby Girl's fever from her shots and getting her to bed) - refried beans, homemade guac, sour cream, cheese and beef/chicken/shrimp fajita filling with red and green peppers and onions.
* I got a package in the mail.
A wonderfully sophisticated woman, whom I secretly envy, from a site I post on, sent me a beautiful sushi set, a sushi cookbook (one that I don't already own) a gift for Baby Girl, a beautiful tray and an ornament - she was my replacement secret santa from the Christmas exchange we did on the site.
It could not have been a more perfect gift (after Baby Girl's weight check on Monday, I have plans to do part of my next week's grocery shopping at the Asian market to put the eel in my freezer to good use) or come at a more perfect time.
Baby Girl and I sat on the floor and tore into the box. Okay, she watched and laughed when I crinkled up the paper. I tore into the box like a little kid on Christmas morning.
At that moment, I had something beautiful and wonderful and exciting - just for me.
It's Raining, It's Pouring ...
...The old man is snoring.
Wait. Wrong cliche.
When it rains, it pours.
Two days ago I blogged about the insanity that is life. Apparently, I'm not done.
* Baby Girl isn't growing and her weight is now low enough based on her weight that it is "alarming." Not only that, her height gain has slowed down, adding to the question of how my little chipmunk-cheeked baby is getting enough nutrition. She was four months old yesterday - and only weights 9 pounds, 14 oz. (and is 23" long), which is only 7 ounces more than she weighed five weeks ago. She's always been small, but has always had a consistent growth rate. Suddenly, no more. She's off the charts on the negative end weight-wise, and is creeping that way lengthwise.
* Himself's alternator and battery decided to give up the ghost. $400 that we didn't have later ...
* The state of Virginia is INSISTING that I owe them the full $500 in car taxes and has started being nasty about it.
* Work continues to be insane - with a client insisting that he doesn't have time to talk to me about what he needs me to do, so he's essentially paying to get a call from me once a day wondering when on earth he's going to have 30 minutes to speak with me.
Really, take me out. I'm done.
Wait. Wrong cliche.
When it rains, it pours.
Two days ago I blogged about the insanity that is life. Apparently, I'm not done.
* Baby Girl isn't growing and her weight is now low enough based on her weight that it is "alarming." Not only that, her height gain has slowed down, adding to the question of how my little chipmunk-cheeked baby is getting enough nutrition. She was four months old yesterday - and only weights 9 pounds, 14 oz. (and is 23" long), which is only 7 ounces more than she weighed five weeks ago. She's always been small, but has always had a consistent growth rate. Suddenly, no more. She's off the charts on the negative end weight-wise, and is creeping that way lengthwise.
* Himself's alternator and battery decided to give up the ghost. $400 that we didn't have later ...
* The state of Virginia is INSISTING that I owe them the full $500 in car taxes and has started being nasty about it.
* Work continues to be insane - with a client insisting that he doesn't have time to talk to me about what he needs me to do, so he's essentially paying to get a call from me once a day wondering when on earth he's going to have 30 minutes to speak with me.
Really, take me out. I'm done.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
ENOUGH Already!
The past five days have been a five-ring circus, spiced up with a fire drill.
Baby Girl has been fussy as she is trying to recover from the trek to the Pacific Northwest.
Work has been absolutely beyond insane - including three new clients who need everything yesterday.
My clean living room and kitchen took less than 24 hours to progress to a post-cyclone state.
I've not slept more than four hours, nor gone to bed before 1 a.m. in five nights - three due to Baby Girl, two due to work.
I have yet to actually remember to eat lunch this week, and dinner tonight consisted of funeral potatoes (it was leftovers night)
You get the point.
So what happens today?
* I get a call about a job possibility
* I realize I still have editing/writing to do for the charter school
* A client schedules early meeting in Happy Valley tomorrow, meaning I have to get me (and Baby Girl) up more than an hour early to get everyone everywhere they need to be on time - on top of staying up late tonight to finish client materials (because I refuse to work while Baby Girl is up and awake)
* All the meat I bought on Saturday - while having a lapse in sanity regarding the fact that we have no room in the freezer - needs to be wrapped and put in the freezer - meaning I have to rearrange it. TONIGHT.
* No sleep tomorrow night, as Baby Girl gets her shot boosters tomorrow.
Oh yeah, and it turns out I wasn't just cold because Himself left the bedroom window open again - it turns out our furnace went out. I'm not just imagining that it's slightly more chilly than usual, like Himself kept claiming. I didn't think it was a big issue, until I remembered Baby Girl doesn't have her own personal in-bed heater (aka Himself) like I do.
Take me out, I'm done.
Baby Girl has been fussy as she is trying to recover from the trek to the Pacific Northwest.
Work has been absolutely beyond insane - including three new clients who need everything yesterday.
My clean living room and kitchen took less than 24 hours to progress to a post-cyclone state.
I've not slept more than four hours, nor gone to bed before 1 a.m. in five nights - three due to Baby Girl, two due to work.
I have yet to actually remember to eat lunch this week, and dinner tonight consisted of funeral potatoes (it was leftovers night)
You get the point.
So what happens today?
* I get a call about a job possibility
* I realize I still have editing/writing to do for the charter school
* A client schedules early meeting in Happy Valley tomorrow, meaning I have to get me (and Baby Girl) up more than an hour early to get everyone everywhere they need to be on time - on top of staying up late tonight to finish client materials (because I refuse to work while Baby Girl is up and awake)
* All the meat I bought on Saturday - while having a lapse in sanity regarding the fact that we have no room in the freezer - needs to be wrapped and put in the freezer - meaning I have to rearrange it. TONIGHT.
* No sleep tomorrow night, as Baby Girl gets her shot boosters tomorrow.
Oh yeah, and it turns out I wasn't just cold because Himself left the bedroom window open again - it turns out our furnace went out. I'm not just imagining that it's slightly more chilly than usual, like Himself kept claiming. I didn't think it was a big issue, until I remembered Baby Girl doesn't have her own personal in-bed heater (aka Himself) like I do.
Take me out, I'm done.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Let Me Count the Ways ...
Since I moved west, I often get the question, "What do you miss the most about the East Coast?"
For months and months and months, I've answered, "Almost everything - traffic and cost of living the exceptions."
Today, I finally realized what it is I miss the most (besides my friends, the smorgasboard of food options and the "One True Grocery."): Diversity and tolerance.
And, while we're at it, I also miss decent public transit.
For months and months and months, I've answered, "Almost everything - traffic and cost of living the exceptions."
Today, I finally realized what it is I miss the most (besides my friends, the smorgasboard of food options and the "One True Grocery."): Diversity and tolerance.
And, while we're at it, I also miss decent public transit.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Party of Six ...
I learned today that I am probably certifiably insane for being excited to teach almost-10-year-old boys at church. Especially when class time is mid-afternoon - smack in the middle of when Baby Girl typically naps and eats.
Today's class resembled something you'd see documented on a Discovery Channel special on why NOT to have multiple children in the same room.
The boys were great. They didn't even bat an eye at sharing the classroom with Baby Girl. I think almost-10-year-olds still think that girls have cooties, which is fine by me. I didn't have to put up with 40 minutes of "can I hold her please?" (Side note: I did not fare so well with the adult population. People think I'm weird, but I LOVE holding Baby Girl - I don't get to do it often enough).
The boys were also - well, boys. After Himself and I found the classroom (did we even know that our church had a second story?!), we walked in to discover one boy leaning back on his chair, one squatting on the windowsill with his head out the window and one looking like he wanted to find the nearest exit and bolt (this would be the son of one of the bishopric members). We then found out that the three extremes had come - one boy is genius-level brilliant and therefore bored most of the time (aka the one perched on the window sill with his head out a second-story window), one boy has a significant learning disability, the other (the one who looked ready to bolt) is smack dab in the middle. He's the one who asked the question I answered incorrectly.
The lesson was on something I've known my entire life, but Baby Girl had, at this point, been screaming intermittently for the past 18ish hours, and when that happens all brain cells go into "self-destruct" mode and I turn into a blathering idiot. One boy asked a question that any reasonably intelligent adult who had been attending our church for any amount of time should be able to answer. I answered wrong. False doctrine on the first week.
Himself sat in the back, unsuccessfully trying to decide if the peep Baby Girl was about to make warranted him leaving the room or not. If he left the room, she quieted immediately, necessitating that he rejoin class. If he didn't, she screwed up her little face and let her cries rip, meaning he couldn't find the door fast enough to not disrupt class.
Himself finished the lesson - or was supposed to. I ended up schlepping Baby Girl to the mother's lounge to eat, where she instantly turned into her normal self, as if she was merely traumatized by the site of so many boys in one room (who could blame her?)
Tune in next week for another update on Baby Girl and The Boys.
Today's class resembled something you'd see documented on a Discovery Channel special on why NOT to have multiple children in the same room.
The boys were great. They didn't even bat an eye at sharing the classroom with Baby Girl. I think almost-10-year-olds still think that girls have cooties, which is fine by me. I didn't have to put up with 40 minutes of "can I hold her please?" (Side note: I did not fare so well with the adult population. People think I'm weird, but I LOVE holding Baby Girl - I don't get to do it often enough).
The boys were also - well, boys. After Himself and I found the classroom (did we even know that our church had a second story?!), we walked in to discover one boy leaning back on his chair, one squatting on the windowsill with his head out the window and one looking like he wanted to find the nearest exit and bolt (this would be the son of one of the bishopric members). We then found out that the three extremes had come - one boy is genius-level brilliant and therefore bored most of the time (aka the one perched on the window sill with his head out a second-story window), one boy has a significant learning disability, the other (the one who looked ready to bolt) is smack dab in the middle. He's the one who asked the question I answered incorrectly.
The lesson was on something I've known my entire life, but Baby Girl had, at this point, been screaming intermittently for the past 18ish hours, and when that happens all brain cells go into "self-destruct" mode and I turn into a blathering idiot. One boy asked a question that any reasonably intelligent adult who had been attending our church for any amount of time should be able to answer. I answered wrong. False doctrine on the first week.
Himself sat in the back, unsuccessfully trying to decide if the peep Baby Girl was about to make warranted him leaving the room or not. If he left the room, she quieted immediately, necessitating that he rejoin class. If he didn't, she screwed up her little face and let her cries rip, meaning he couldn't find the door fast enough to not disrupt class.
Himself finished the lesson - or was supposed to. I ended up schlepping Baby Girl to the mother's lounge to eat, where she instantly turned into her normal self, as if she was merely traumatized by the site of so many boys in one room (who could blame her?)
Tune in next week for another update on Baby Girl and The Boys.
Friday, January 04, 2008
A Passion
I'm revealing myself a bit here ... but we just landed an account I'm so excited to work on.
I'm very passionate about a lot of what this film is about. I'm sharing it with you.
Thoughts? Comments?
I'm very passionate about a lot of what this film is about. I'm sharing it with you.
Thoughts? Comments?
Happy Belated Anniversary Himself
Himself and I went out last night to celebrate our anniversary (which wasn't yesterday, but our sitter will watch Baby Girl on Thursday nights for free, so all "date" type activities occur then). As I sat grazing on sushi, I reflected on the past five years - Himself and I both remarked that it seemed weird that we were "old married people" now.
The past five years have been filled with a roller coaster of complete insanity. Since marrying, we've lived at four different addresses in three cities in two different states. Himself has graduated from school twice, we've had a total of nine different jobs between us and we've been through an alarming number of major life changes - including the birth of Baby Girl.
Himself and I manage to accumulate a lot of odd looks from friends, relatives and acquaintances who ponder out loud on on earth it works for us. We're both stubborn, fiercely independent, hate to be told what to do and passionate. In a lot of ways, we are complete opposites. In other ways, we are exactly alike.
Himself is my very best friend. He is my biggest champion. He is generous (almost to a fault - let's not discuss how he funded my over-the-top Christmas gift of a set of Calphalon pans and accessories) and a quiet champion of anything I set my mind to. He has never batted an eye when I've come up with crazy schemes - even one that cost us several thousand dollars and started us on a financial nightmare. He supports my road trip habit and doesn't try to cage my restless spirit. He offered to leave the entire move to The Frontier up to me to decide, knowing my aversion to moving back. He's my greatest sounding board for my career - always interested in whatever project, goal or career move I'm working on at the moment.
He loves me for who I am - he doesn't care that I hang out at home in flannel pants and a sweatshirt. It doesn't bother him that housekeeping is not a talent I possess. He loves that I don't mind going outside and getting dirty - but that I also have an obsession with high-heels (which has not been fed lately, due to the difficulty of getting Baby Girl interested in a shoe-buying trip). He encourages me to learn and achieve new things, but respects my individuality and independence. He is never critical of the person I am - together we rattle along as a couple of people who love being individuals as much as we love being together as a couple.
In our relationship, he doesn't mind that I have no concept of gender roles, except when it comes to taking out the trash. He loves to celebrate the smallest things and has the wonderful (though detrimental to my morning routine) habit of waking up just before the alarm to cuddle.
He has taught me to be a better cook, inspired me to be a better mother and soothes my ruffled feathers more times than not.
Together, we have adventured to new cities, new places, new careers, new roles.
While I hope the next five years isn't as dramatic, I celebrate the insanity that has come with spending my life, and sharing our daughter, with my best friend.
I love Himself.
The past five years have been filled with a roller coaster of complete insanity. Since marrying, we've lived at four different addresses in three cities in two different states. Himself has graduated from school twice, we've had a total of nine different jobs between us and we've been through an alarming number of major life changes - including the birth of Baby Girl.
Himself and I manage to accumulate a lot of odd looks from friends, relatives and acquaintances who ponder out loud on on earth it works for us. We're both stubborn, fiercely independent, hate to be told what to do and passionate. In a lot of ways, we are complete opposites. In other ways, we are exactly alike.
Himself is my very best friend. He is my biggest champion. He is generous (almost to a fault - let's not discuss how he funded my over-the-top Christmas gift of a set of Calphalon pans and accessories) and a quiet champion of anything I set my mind to. He has never batted an eye when I've come up with crazy schemes - even one that cost us several thousand dollars and started us on a financial nightmare. He supports my road trip habit and doesn't try to cage my restless spirit. He offered to leave the entire move to The Frontier up to me to decide, knowing my aversion to moving back. He's my greatest sounding board for my career - always interested in whatever project, goal or career move I'm working on at the moment.
He loves me for who I am - he doesn't care that I hang out at home in flannel pants and a sweatshirt. It doesn't bother him that housekeeping is not a talent I possess. He loves that I don't mind going outside and getting dirty - but that I also have an obsession with high-heels (which has not been fed lately, due to the difficulty of getting Baby Girl interested in a shoe-buying trip). He encourages me to learn and achieve new things, but respects my individuality and independence. He is never critical of the person I am - together we rattle along as a couple of people who love being individuals as much as we love being together as a couple.
In our relationship, he doesn't mind that I have no concept of gender roles, except when it comes to taking out the trash. He loves to celebrate the smallest things and has the wonderful (though detrimental to my morning routine) habit of waking up just before the alarm to cuddle.
He has taught me to be a better cook, inspired me to be a better mother and soothes my ruffled feathers more times than not.
Together, we have adventured to new cities, new places, new careers, new roles.
While I hope the next five years isn't as dramatic, I celebrate the insanity that has come with spending my life, and sharing our daughter, with my best friend.
I love Himself.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
The Race is On
I have a secret obsession with politics - or, rather, the game of politics. I loathe politicians as a general rule, but the psychology of it all fascinates me - and has since I was in the 5th grade and my teacher did a segment on the upcoming presidential election. I remember running home and telling my mom that the Republican candidate was going to win, because the Democratic candidate only got one vote in our class.
Oddly enough, the kid that voted differently from everyone else disappeared into oblivion several years later - small towns in homogenous states do that to you - you dare say something different, you become invisible. Even in the 5th grade.
My passion grew and grew and grew - leading me to briefly consider a career as a press person on the Hill. After speaking with several such people, I realized that my passion wasn't great enough to sacrifice my life to "handling" a politician 24 hours a day. I shelved my grand high school ambitions of running for some office when I married Himself. I couldn't imagine the nuclear fallout if his skeletons rattled out of their storage unit.
These days, my passion for politics is confined primarily to my own reading and internal debates. Himself thinks the whole thing is ridiculous, and rarely will engage in any topic of conversation relating to it (It was, in fact, a huge surprise to me that several years into our relationship, I discovered that my political views differ greatly from the few Himself hold). My political junky friends no longer live close enough to me to engage in off-the-cuff discussions. I thought I was sick of the '08 election season before it even started.
Lately, however, I've been sucked into the frenzy once again. One of my favorite authors, Richard North Patterson, came out with a new book, The Race. It is a well-written, engaging novel about a tightly contested primary race - with some real life characters only thinly veiled as fiction. I devoured it in only a couple of days, comparing the behind-the-scenes look at the glistening, pre-packaged soundbites we see.
Then, last night, I had a rare night - Baby Girl was asleep, the kitchen was cleaned up, the living room was clean, and I actually sat down to watch TV (usually the TV is something that fills up the silent void I can't stand, not something I actually watch).
I watched nothing intellectually stimulating - I was a rubbernecker, switching between The Late Show with David Letterman (which I typically prefer - but WHAT THE HECK is up with the man's beard?!) and The Tonight Show (who had more appeal last night, since it was done sans writers) to see the potentially interesting outcome after being off-air for 2 months. Mike Huckabee was on Leno, which was the reason I ended up watching The Tonight Show except during commercials.
I was fascinated. I love watching politicians on something other than their "stumping" grounds or official speeches. To me, the true measure of a person is who he/she is when (at least some of) the formalities are stripped away. Himself was sitting next to me, in awe that I was actually still awake late enough to watch the late shows. At one point I turned to him and said, "You know, the caucuses are tomorrow in Iowa - I'm actually excited to find out what will happen, everything is so close." Himself looked at me as if I was crazy.
The race is on ... and I'm back to being obsessed. At least for the moment.
Oddly enough, the kid that voted differently from everyone else disappeared into oblivion several years later - small towns in homogenous states do that to you - you dare say something different, you become invisible. Even in the 5th grade.
My passion grew and grew and grew - leading me to briefly consider a career as a press person on the Hill. After speaking with several such people, I realized that my passion wasn't great enough to sacrifice my life to "handling" a politician 24 hours a day. I shelved my grand high school ambitions of running for some office when I married Himself. I couldn't imagine the nuclear fallout if his skeletons rattled out of their storage unit.
These days, my passion for politics is confined primarily to my own reading and internal debates. Himself thinks the whole thing is ridiculous, and rarely will engage in any topic of conversation relating to it (It was, in fact, a huge surprise to me that several years into our relationship, I discovered that my political views differ greatly from the few Himself hold). My political junky friends no longer live close enough to me to engage in off-the-cuff discussions. I thought I was sick of the '08 election season before it even started.
Lately, however, I've been sucked into the frenzy once again. One of my favorite authors, Richard North Patterson, came out with a new book, The Race. It is a well-written, engaging novel about a tightly contested primary race - with some real life characters only thinly veiled as fiction. I devoured it in only a couple of days, comparing the behind-the-scenes look at the glistening, pre-packaged soundbites we see.
Then, last night, I had a rare night - Baby Girl was asleep, the kitchen was cleaned up, the living room was clean, and I actually sat down to watch TV (usually the TV is something that fills up the silent void I can't stand, not something I actually watch).
I watched nothing intellectually stimulating - I was a rubbernecker, switching between The Late Show with David Letterman (which I typically prefer - but WHAT THE HECK is up with the man's beard?!) and The Tonight Show (who had more appeal last night, since it was done sans writers) to see the potentially interesting outcome after being off-air for 2 months. Mike Huckabee was on Leno, which was the reason I ended up watching The Tonight Show except during commercials.
I was fascinated. I love watching politicians on something other than their "stumping" grounds or official speeches. To me, the true measure of a person is who he/she is when (at least some of) the formalities are stripped away. Himself was sitting next to me, in awe that I was actually still awake late enough to watch the late shows. At one point I turned to him and said, "You know, the caucuses are tomorrow in Iowa - I'm actually excited to find out what will happen, everything is so close." Himself looked at me as if I was crazy.
The race is on ... and I'm back to being obsessed. At least for the moment.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Insanity Defined
* 8 days
* 33 hours in a car
* 1 3.5-month-old baby
* 4 snowstorms
* 4 major mountain passes
* 5 interstates, 3 US highways, 1 two-lane roads
* 2 Adults: 1 duffel bag, 1 overnight bag, 1 "entertainment" bag (books, laptop, etc)
* 1 Child: 1 suitcase, 1 overstuffed diaper bag, 1 package diapers, 1 pumping bag (with cooler, pump, bottles), 1 stroller, 1 pack-n-play, 1 carseat with base
* 8 Christmas presents
* 1 mother, 1 step-father, 1 biological father, 1 step-mother, 2 sisters, 2 brothers-in-law, 3 under-three nephews
* 4 states, 2 different destinations
* 2,000 miles (approximately)
* 1 house with no central heat
* 7 visits to Wal-Mart
* 1 movie theater visit
* 4 visits to the local Mexican restaurant
* 1 visit to Cracker Barrel
* 5 hours in Cabela's
* 1 prime rib Christmas dinner preparation, 3 other dinner preparations, 5 breakfast preparations
* $125 in groceries
* 10 packages of peanut butter or cheese crackers consumed
* 1 coconut cream pie preparation
* 1 batch of sadly awful orange rolls
* 4 assorted dogs, 1 cat, 1 baby with allergies
* 5 tanks of gas
* 2 novels and 1 WWII coffee table book read
* 1 misadventure involving a new television set, a 200-mile drive and an itty-bitty back seat
* 3 tired, cranky, ready to get back to real life people
* 100 photos
Visiting the in-laws in Washington state for Christmas: Priceless
* 33 hours in a car
* 1 3.5-month-old baby
* 4 snowstorms
* 4 major mountain passes
* 5 interstates, 3 US highways, 1 two-lane roads
* 2 Adults: 1 duffel bag, 1 overnight bag, 1 "entertainment" bag (books, laptop, etc)
* 1 Child: 1 suitcase, 1 overstuffed diaper bag, 1 package diapers, 1 pumping bag (with cooler, pump, bottles), 1 stroller, 1 pack-n-play, 1 carseat with base
* 8 Christmas presents
* 1 mother, 1 step-father, 1 biological father, 1 step-mother, 2 sisters, 2 brothers-in-law, 3 under-three nephews
* 4 states, 2 different destinations
* 2,000 miles (approximately)
* 1 house with no central heat
* 7 visits to Wal-Mart
* 1 movie theater visit
* 4 visits to the local Mexican restaurant
* 1 visit to Cracker Barrel
* 5 hours in Cabela's
* 1 prime rib Christmas dinner preparation, 3 other dinner preparations, 5 breakfast preparations
* $125 in groceries
* 10 packages of peanut butter or cheese crackers consumed
* 1 coconut cream pie preparation
* 1 batch of sadly awful orange rolls
* 4 assorted dogs, 1 cat, 1 baby with allergies
* 5 tanks of gas
* 2 novels and 1 WWII coffee table book read
* 1 misadventure involving a new television set, a 200-mile drive and an itty-bitty back seat
* 3 tired, cranky, ready to get back to real life people
* 100 photos
Visiting the in-laws in Washington state for Christmas: Priceless
Ode to Batteries
My mom always kept huge stashes of batteries in the fridge and freezer (thus extending their life span). I'm talking several years' worth of batteries - multiples of the big Costco-sized battery packs.
I always thought she was nuts. She had every conceivable size of batter in excess. Why on earth, I wondered, would anyone need so many batteries ever?
Of course, I thought I should probably have a few more on hand - since the flashlight batteries only ever die when the power goes out and Himself goes through cordless mouse batteries like women go through toilet paper.
But today, I learned the true reason my mom hoarded batteries - CHILDREN.
Baby Girl's bouncy seat batteries gave up the ghost this morning. They died a prolonged, irritating death, causing the bouncy seat to screech out the same horrid bars of "Pop goes the weasel" over and over and over and over again. It even drove Baby Girl nuts.
Because I refuse to schlep Baby Girl into a store after work just for batteries, there will be no self-entertainment tonight while I fix dinner. Baby Girl will have to content herself with Mr. Duckie as she sits in her non-vibrating, non moving, bouncy seat on the counter while I cook.
I'm bracing myself for World War III.
The next time I go to Costco, I'm going to hang my head, mutter an apology and follow in my mother's battery hoarding footsteps - in five different sizes.
I always thought she was nuts. She had every conceivable size of batter in excess. Why on earth, I wondered, would anyone need so many batteries ever?
Of course, I thought I should probably have a few more on hand - since the flashlight batteries only ever die when the power goes out and Himself goes through cordless mouse batteries like women go through toilet paper.
But today, I learned the true reason my mom hoarded batteries - CHILDREN.
Baby Girl's bouncy seat batteries gave up the ghost this morning. They died a prolonged, irritating death, causing the bouncy seat to screech out the same horrid bars of "Pop goes the weasel" over and over and over and over again. It even drove Baby Girl nuts.
Because I refuse to schlep Baby Girl into a store after work just for batteries, there will be no self-entertainment tonight while I fix dinner. Baby Girl will have to content herself with Mr. Duckie as she sits in her non-vibrating, non moving, bouncy seat on the counter while I cook.
I'm bracing myself for World War III.
The next time I go to Costco, I'm going to hang my head, mutter an apology and follow in my mother's battery hoarding footsteps - in five different sizes.
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