Deepish Thoughts

Let me put it this way

2010-11-23T06:00:00.000-08:00

If anyone finds part of the newspaper in Scout's diaper in the next few days, I'm not going to be all that surprised.

Make that three

2010-11-22T06:00:00.000-08:00

Out for a drive with Rob and Scout:

Me (to Scout): I love you so much. I feel so full--I am in the car with two people I am completely in love with.

Rob: Scout and yourself?

A new obsession

2010-11-17T08:56:00.001-08:00

Last night Liz, Rob, Rob and I went to see Margot & the Nuclear So and So's at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco. Liz and her Rob got me the tickets for my birthday, and we had an excellent dinner at Baker & Banker beforehand.

As you may have guessed, we don't go to shows very often these days. Or dinner. Or movies. Or the shower...well, to be fair, that's just me. Rob manages to stay pretty clean on a daily basis. Anyway. It was a fabulous night and the band was incredible. Their music has been described as chamber pop, but last night they were pretty stripped down and more folk rock. The lead singer, Richard Edwards, came out alone for the encore and did three songs with just his guitar. I now want to listen to their music all day long, Google them and read interviews, obsess over their ages--I still think all musicians, athletes and actors should be older than me, but I've found it doesn't work that way--and just generally stalk them.

It's a good thing I have so much extra time in my day for activities like this. Between work, taking care of the baby, grocery shopping, showering and making dinner, let's take a guess at what will be the first thing to go. I'll give you a hint. It's showering.

Let them eat acne cream

2010-10-27T08:04:00.000-07:00

From an article in the New York Times:

[[...nursing mothers will not be allowed to use their tax-sheltered health care accounts to pay for breast pumps and other supplies.

That is because the Internal Revenue Service has ruled that breast-feeding does not have enough health benefits to quality as a form of medical care. ]]

and...

[[A study released this year by Harvard Medical School concluded that if 90 percent of mothers followed the standard medical advice of feeding infants only breast milk for their first six months, the United States could save $13 billion a year in health care costs and prevent the premature deaths of 900 infants each year from respiratory illness and other infections. ]]

It's so funny, because just the other day I was thinking, really what is the difference between the IRS and the medical research community? I mean...can you think of anything?

What the hell is a yoga hug?

2010-10-26T22:12:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went to yoga, while Rob stayed home and watched Scout via the video monitor. When I got home, he was in the kitchen.

"Give me a hug," I said, and he did.

After a few moments he broke away and narrowed his eyes.

"What was that for?" he asked suspiciously. "Was that a yoga hug?"

Did they not have the budget to hire a copy editor?

2010-10-16T21:33:00.000-07:00

I just watched the trailer for Clint Eastwood's new movie Hereafter, and whoa. Major typo in the text of the trailer--they spelled beginning "begining". I would link to it, but I can't find it anywhere online--the typo isn't in the official trailer. How do you make a mistake like that when you only have about 15 words to read?

Not wrong, just different

2010-10-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

So, this is embarrassing, but I have recently discovered (by way of others pointing and laughing at me) that I don't pronounce the word "ancient" like a normal person does. Apparently, the rest of you say aint-shunt. Me, I say aink-shunt. I'm not sure why. I called my parents and made them pronounce the word. Turns out I didn't learn it from them.

I felt slightly mollified when I read in Merriam Webster's that there are two ways to pronounce ancient; both my way and everyone else's way are legit. But no one else really seems to use my way. Where did I first hear this word?

Rob suggests that it was taught to me by my ank-cestors.

Motherhood

2010-10-04T09:37:00.001-07:00

I don't have much of a right to expect that anyone is actually still reading this blog, unless you are one of those people who has no short term memory and likes seeing the same thing over and over again, day after day. Is that you? If it is, you probably don't even know...I feel sorry for you. But I'm glad you're still reading Deepish Thoughts.

For the rest of you, I wanted to direct you today to a contest over at Robotic Uprising. Moms, send in a 500-word essay on what motherhood means to you, and Cameron will post it. If you enter, you get a cupcake! Although Cameron will probably eat it for you. But wouldn't it be nice to give Cameron a reason to have a cupcake?

You can read about the contest here, read Cameron's essay here, and read mine here.

The Meat Eater Makes a Joke

2010-09-03T19:42:00.000-07:00

Rob and I are ordering food from Burma Superstar. Rob is perusing the menu online.

Rob: Ok, I'm ready. I guess I'll have the tofu with noodles and vegetables.

[I wait.]

Rob: Just kidding!

[He ordered the Burmese Style Curry with Lamb.]

Just Like Her Mother

2010-08-04T22:33:00.001-07:00

Rob [hugging me]: You're short.

[Brief Pause]

Rob: Poor Scout.

Me: Why?

Rob: She's going to be a munchkin with an attitude problem.

Drink Me

2010-07-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

The oldest drinkable bottles of champagne in the world were found recently on the floor of the Baltic Sea, and are going to auction for about $69,000 per bottle. If anyone wants to get in on that, let me know. i've got about $60 in my wallet.

Partners

2010-07-15T16:31:00.000-07:00

Watching The Best of Youth the other night after Scout went to bed:

Me (moved by a plot line about a father raising his daughter alone): Can you imagine raising Scout without me?

Rob (without looking away from the television): Yep.

Sleep

2010-07-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

If people were meant to pop out of bed, we'd all sleep in toasters. ~Author unknown, attributed to Jim Davis

Sometimes in the middle of the night, Scout's crying seamlessly finds a place in my dreams, so that Rob has to nudge me gently to say the baby's up, and I say, I know I know, I was just working on waking. Other times, I am up throughout the night, checking the clock, checking the baby monitor, ready for her noises to start. These, of course, are the nights that she chooses to sleep through, and I am too wired to take advantage. I'm being trained, apparently, to be a piece of toast. I don't think I could sleep 8 hours if I tried.

Instead of watching another episode of Glee...

2010-07-08T13:11:00.001-07:00

It seems time to post to Deepish Thoughts once again. Actually, it seemed time to do that about...oh, every day for the past 4 months, but I've been a little bit busy with, you know, things.

Rob and I have now lived in San Francisco for almost 9 months--a gestation period--so our final verdict on this round of West Coast living should be delivered pretty soon. I am truly happy being here, especially now that we have welcomed a fat baby into our lives and can explore the city and surroundings with her. On her schedule. At her disposal. The other day we were walking down the street, Scout in the Ergo Baby Carrier, me skipping around trying to get her comfortable, holding her hands so they didn't get chilly, and singing some ridiculous song to distract her from the fact that she was basically trapped, once again. If I'd had some grapes I would have fed them to her while I gave her a back massage. She is so clearly in charge of this family.

Rob has been biking regularly, working up to getting in shape for the Marin Century, which is a 100-mile bike ride taking place in August. Encouraged by this, I have decided to train to be able to run 3 miles without collapsing or peeing in my pants. We'll see how it goes.

Scout is in training to continue resembling Robert Duvall, as she has lost most of her hair in what looks exactly like male pattern baldness. So we're all pretty busy.

The three of us had a speaking engagement last night, wherein we addressed a group of pregnant women and their partners at a childbirth class. We told them Scout's birth story and I think avoided terrifying them too much, mostly because I had asked Rob in advance to please not use the word "excruciating."

I don't want to overdo it on my first post in a while, and I hear Scout singing in her room, where she is supposed to be napping but apparently did not get that memo.

Lakers Win Finals, Ridiculous Interview Ensues

2010-06-18T22:00:00.000-07:00

Dude, did you seriously just thank your psychiatrist?

Practice

2010-05-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was on the phone with a friend who has a toddler. For good reason, she often spells words she doesn't want her daughter repeating. Example from our conversation:

Friend: There was lots of drama.

Friend's baby in background: Drama! Drama!

Friend: It was total C-R-A-P.

Friend's baby: Want more water.

So, it works, you see. I've decided to practice this method of parenting, but since Scout is too young to repeat anything, I'm going to do it in a slightly different way. Example from a potential future conversation:

Friend: The guy was a total P-R-I-C-K.

Me: Yeah, that fucking sucks, R-I-G-H-T?

I think it will be good to get a head start on this.

Lost in Translation

2010-05-05T19:43:00.000-07:00

I'm typically up with Scout at 4am these days, so I often read the New York Times on my phone while she eats. In between stories of car bombs in Manhattan and deadly protests in Greece, I came across an amusing slideshow entitled "A Sampling of Chinglish."

Papa

2010-04-21T14:34:00.000-07:00

My grandparents came to see Scout last week and Papa did what he does best: Brandy Manhattans.

And THEN...

Deepish Scout

2010-04-18T17:59:00.000-07:00

Motivated by Ellie and The Emerson Show, I'm starting a blog for Scout: The Scarlett Letters. As the name suggests, it will eventually be a blog written to Scout from her mama, but for now will just be photos since her mama's brain is operating at a reduced capacity.

I hope this isn't the end of Deepish Thoughts, but until I start having some thoughts, we'll probably be on hiatus.

The Daily Show

2010-04-13T20:18:00.000-07:00

My friend John sent me this link--a hilarious, yet totally infuriating, segment on the US/Russia nuclear agreement.

Since my days consist of feeding the baby, staring at the baby, changing the baby, and thinking about how I used to shower more often, I haven't watched The Daily Show lately. But I really should.

Check it out if you haven't seen it yet. Or watch it again.

Our little man

2010-04-08T18:57:00.000-07:00

Everyone thinks Scout is a boy. Normally it's not people who know her, but people we see on the street and in stores. "He's so cute!" they say, and I just say thank you because I'm not really in the business of gender education. But it's become clear to me that you have to cover your daughter in pink if people are to recognize her for the dainty, feminine being that she is.

I had Scout dressed in an orange Moby wrap and a green hat one day, and a cream onesie another day. Apparently, this screams BOY. Even to Rob. The other night when she was crying, he said, "What's this about? We don't cry here, Mister." So, you see, the clothes can really fool you, even if you're her DAD.

Scout's first bath

2010-04-07T10:54:00.000-07:00

Scout takes a bath

And is eaten by a frog

She has taken several baths since this first one, and now cries only when we take her out of the water.

As if she will never eat again

2010-04-02T19:49:00.001-07:00

Scout is occasionally convinced that she is a wild animal and must fight for her food. At these times, she uses a variety of kung fu moves that she perfected in the womb to chop and scratch at her food source: me. We call her the Ferocious Beast. In fact, she usually ends up dominating only her own wrist, which has thus far not produced milk. We then have to take several breaks before she calms down enough to realize she's really more like a farm animal than a wild animal.

She still spends most of her time asleep, probably dreaming of the hunt.

Scarlett Joan Goulding has arrived!

2010-03-31T09:10:00.001-07:00

Scarlett actually arrived last Tuesday, March 23rd at 4:33am, but I've been a little busy since then. It feels funny to type her full name, since we're calling her Scout and it seems to fit her perfectly. She is a little replica of Rob, so another nickname is Roblett. She is thus far a champion among babies--a good eater, a sound sleeper, and a very sweet observer of everything that goes on around her.

The labor was intense, and I won't get into details here, lest I frighten anyone. Suffice it to say it was all well worth it, and we stuck to our birth plan, with much help from our incredible doula, Angelika (below, holding Scout in her lady bug blanket.) The plan was to have the baby with no interventions (induction, pain medication, serious talk about rehab, etc), and oh my god it hurt worse than anything I have ever experienced in my life. I think Rob is probably still traumatized from watching me go through it, but he did an amazing job of helping to keep me calm and focused. And now we have our beautiful baby girl, and we are completely content just staring at her all day long.

It's my last day of work and this is what I want to blog about

2010-03-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

Ok, in the interest of pushing my Devito picture further down the page, I am sharing with you today the preview for the upcoming film Eat, Pray, Love. I have a few friends who couldn't stand the book (sorry, guys), but I really liked it.

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I also enjoyed this talk that Elizabeth Gilbert gave on creativity.

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Whatever Devito

2010-03-17T14:22:00.000-07:00

Clearly my vanity abandoned me somewhere in my ninth month of pregnancy.

Why?

2010-03-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

A conversation with my three-year-old neighbor, D:

Me: D, the baby is moving. Do you want to feel?

D (with a cursory hand swipe at my stomach): Why is the baby in there?

Me: Because she's still cooking. And when she's ready she'll come out.

D: What is she cooking?

Me: Oh, hmmm...maybe cooking was not the right word...

D: Why is she cooking?

Me: Well, I mean, she's still growing. She has to get bigger before she comes out.

Silence.

D: Why is she cooking?

Me: Because she's hungry. She's making a snack.

Things You Need to Know

2010-03-11T10:38:00.001-08:00

I drove Rob to work today, and I'm so glad I did, because otherwise I would never have known about these new chickens that are split down the middle, half male and half female. And then what would I have to show for my day?

A Perfect Match

2010-03-09T09:35:00.000-08:00

Here's something that happens a lot: Rob gets compared to celebrities. He's been told he looks like Brett Favre, Richard Gere, Ben Affleck, John Corbett...recently his sister even told him he reminds her of Jim Carrey. Do any of those people even look alike? It doesn't matter--apparently Rob resembles them all.

Feeling left out, I scoured the web to find my celebrity lookalike, and the results are in.

I'm Danny Devito.

The Oscars

2010-03-08T10:21:00.000-08:00

Well, Hurt Locker. I guess you pretty much stole the show. I have to say, I think you deserve the awards and accolades, though there probably was something to that whole "the academy wants to punish the insufferable James Cameron" rumor. Note that I don't personally know James Cameron and that the word insufferable was in quotes.

Liz and Rob came over for the show, which was on at the blissful west coast time of 5:30pm. Perfect for a person who can barely keep her eyes open past 10pm. Among other things, we ate tomato tartlets (super easy to make) and dirty potatoes (also easy, which is a new requirement for any food I cook). Liz and Rob brought a fancy salad in a fancy salad bowl, and cupcakes, which they LEFT HERE and I am going to throw them out. Soon. Maybe. After I lick the icing off.

They also brought adorable gifts for the baby that they picked up at the Alameda Flea Market yesterday. If I told you the baby's room was all ready to go, it would be a big, big lie. But we're getting there.

37 Weeks

2010-03-04T14:34:00.000-08:00

Our baby education continues. 6 weeks of childbirth class culminated in me eating bunches of cookies while we listened to a couple talk about the birth of their adorable, massive-cheeked 5-week old AND in a horrific video of a woman with hemorrhoids the size of large grapes giving birth to twins in her bathroom, during which I did not eat cookies. We are heading to Breastfeeding class tonight and Parenting class on Saturday. Yes, Rob is attending the breastfeeding class. Yes, I suppose this might be one example of the ways in which I am slowly but steadily emasculating him. But these people are the experts and they recommend that partners attend class. What's a chubby girl to do?

We're also still reading, although I admit I have been way more into reading the stack of books my friend Mark sent me from his company than the stack of parenting books that continue to pile up around me. I just finished Men and Dogs, a novel by Katie Crouch that comes out next month. And I am currently reading a thriller by Michael Koryta called So Cold the River. That comes out in June. Both are recommended, even though I'm only halfway through the Koryta. I am driven to distraction by the book and would much rather curl up on the couch with its creepiness than read about ways to get my baby to sleep better. I realize I am likely making a mistake with this decision. Later, when I'm up all night with a crying baby, maybe I'll reread these books. Or maybe I'll just cry, too.

I'm still going to prenatal yoga, and feeling an almost desperate need for it at least twice a week. There's something so reassuring about sitting around with other front-heavy gals, talking about our situations. And some of these women are going through much tougher times than I: jobs lost, big moves ahead, abnormal sonograms, swollen ankles. It puts things in perspective and gives me a sense of community.

My latest addition to the pregnancy curriculum is Acupuncture. As I type this, I have four needles in my ear that are working on making my back feel better (I see you rolling your eyes, Mom.) I spent 90 minutes with the acupuncturist yesterday. She lectured me on staying warm--I told her I can't help it if my hands and feet are icicles, but she disagrees and says that, in fact, I can help it. When I asked her how, she said "STAY WARM." She then covered me with blankets, turned a bunch of heat lamps on me, stuck me with needles and let me take a nap. I now love her and am going back next week. Her plan is to use the needles to help make my contractions stronger, while reducing the pain I feel. (I see you rolling your eyes again, Mom.) Except instead of "help", she pronounced it "harp" so it took me a while to figure out what she was saying.

Ok, I guess this is enough boring information about the last few weeks of someone's pregnancy. See why I don't blog more often? I'm only thinking of you, people.

Speaking for God

2010-02-25T11:20:00.001-08:00

The Huffington Post has been covering the story of the California Pageant Contestant who announced that the Bible is very clear about how God will punish homosexuality with death.

What I want to know is how you can effectively argue with people who just cite God and the Bible as their main sources of information. There seems to be no way to combat "faith" with "logic." Or even compassion, in this case.

I do respect people's rights to their opinions, so that's not my issue with this. As a college professor once drilled into my head "If you don't agree with freedom of speech for speech you don't agree with, then you don't agree with freedom of speech." I just wonder what kind of education or argument would sway this woman and many like her.

Getting Closer

2010-02-24T14:15:00.000-08:00

We bought a crib! This means the baby doesn't have to sleep in a drawer or in the bathtub. And it means that I've already ruined the punchline to this whole story. This is how you can tell I studied Journalism in college. I just can't bury the lead.

It was a momentous occasion...after several trips to actual furniture stores which housed actually new cribs, we decided to take a spin on Craigslist and see what we could find. At first I was overwhelmed--did I really want to take time out of my napping and Ben&Jerry's-eating schedule to go to people's homes and touch their used furniture? Though the answer was no, I forced myself to make one appointment in Alameda, which is across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco. Rob and I went there on Monday night and were met at the door by an adorable woman named Sue who started to hug me before realizing it would be a little weird. We shook hands.

The crib was in five pieces on the floor, and the house was very clean and nicely decorated, which mattered to me since we were potentially leaving with a mattress. In New York City, this would never happen: rampant bed bugs. The crib had previously been the property of a three-year-old who was only referred to as Naked Man. Naked Man made one appearance at the top of the stairs while we were examining the crib, and he really did live up to his nickname. But it was more comforting than if they'd referred to him as Bed Bug Man.

We made a quick and easy decision to take the crib, and talked with Naked Man's parents for a little bit longer. When we left, the woman did hug me.

Here are some photos of the crib, which Rob put together that evening, along with a photo of our glider, which I put together that evening, because I will not be outdone.

Sweet

2010-02-22T08:23:00.000-08:00

You know how they say girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice? I'm relatively certain that our baby is just made of sugar, since that's all I eat. When she arrives, I'm probably going to take a bite out of her if she smells like ice cream. Let's just hope the cravings have passed by then.

Rob and I spent the weekend in Tahoe: he skiied for a while each day, and I wandered around, reading by the fireplace, drinking hot chocolate, and debating whether to spend a fortune getting a manicure and pedicure at our hotel (what could one possibly do to make a pedicure worth $60 when I can get one for $15 in San Francisco? I opted to live with my unkempt hands and toes for at least a few more days.)

It was a beautiful and relaxing weekend, and we tried to wrap our heads around the fact that it was truly our last pre-baby vacation. There was lots of talk about when our daughter will start skiing (apparently, when she's three) and we watched all of the families with small children to see how it worked. I must say, there were many very polite kids on the mountain. A two-year-old boy saw me sitting in a chair as he got off the elevator and wanted to know if I needed him to hold the door for me. Another toddler was walking past me up the stairs and excused himself as we went by each other. Who were these tiny gentlemen, I wondered? And how do you get a kid who is so well-behaved? I want one.

34 weeks

2010-02-16T11:17:00.000-08:00

On Sunday we went on a hike with Liz, Rob and Rigby. I picked the hike--it was designated as an easy/moderate 3.5 miles and, despite being nearly 8 months pregnant, I thought I could handle it. And I could--if by "handle it" you mean stopping every 3-5 minutes to do some Lamaze breathing before continuing.

This is me and Rob at the top of the hike, which took us up about 800 feet and through the woods past some amazing waterfalls. Rigby was allowed to go off leash at one point and immediately dug up an old chicken bone.

WAAAAAARRRRRRRRR

2010-02-11T09:06:00.000-08:00

Not really. I just wanted to share this article from The New Yorker, in case you haven't read it. The part that really interested me:

“The Hurt Locker” has taken in a little more than sixteen million dollars. “Avatar” took in eleven million. The difference is, the figure for “The Hurt Locker” represents the totality of its receipts in the seven months since it was released. The “Avatar” number represents only the most recent weekend’s take. In Italy.

The crux of the article is the new voting process for the Oscars--the author makes the case that it favors a win for The Hurt Locker. I guess I'll watch the Academy Awards again this year.

Deepish Wednesday

2010-02-10T07:55:00.000-08:00

In one of those expected turn of events, I can no longer squeeze into spaces that once used to easily fit me. In restaurants, I get stuck between chairs. Entering my house, I never seem to open the door wide enough. I walk into walls. And, in related news, food seems to land on me, where once it might have fallen on a napkin in my lap. If I could eat more elegantly, this last one would not be an issue.

When not eating or trying to navigate the increasingly tighter world, I am often asleep. It's hard to stay awake for more than 8 hours at a time, which made my most recent sleepless night (last night) even more unpleasant. Rob is out of town, so Smokey wandered the house looking for him FOR HOURS. His rotation included stomping into the bedroom and hopping over me, meowing and walking around until he had established that Rob was, in fact, not there. This did not stop him from checking every 15 minutes, usually just as I was about to fall asleep. Smokey, despite being 7 pounds, manages to walk like a baby elephant through the house. Emma punctuated his antics by howling into the night at random intervals for totally unknown reasons. She doesn't share Smokey's deep connection to Rob, so I'm pretty sure she was just being an asshole.

Last night I also finished Kurt Vonnegut's Armageddon in Retrospect. I loved it--it opens with a letter from Vonnegut's son Mark, who calls his dad "Kurt" and who also calls him out on some of his more nonsensical thoughts:

"I'm as celibate as fifty percent of the heterosexual Roman Catholic clergy."

What? Mark Vonnegut called this "a sentence with no meaning." But then there are so many sentences full of meaning, that you just kind of go with it. There's a letter home after Vonnegut was released from a POW camp in Germany, and the short fiction that follows is all connected to his experience of World War II. The book is almost exclusively about war, which is a theme that ran through our house this weekend. No, we're not fighting, but we went to see Avatar, rented The Hurt Locker, and had friends over to watch that annual battle known as The Super Bowl (was it just me or did the commercials totally suck? I have reached my yearly quota of Budweiser ads, for sure.)

I'm thinking the theme for this week should be a little different, maybe fluffier and not so bomb-oriented. It could help the cats sleep easier, if nothing else.

These are the people in your neighborhood

2010-02-01T12:34:00.000-08:00

Liz and Rob-Stan have officially moved to San Francisco! Liz left my apartment on Friday morning, taking with her all of her weird bags and baskets full of clothes (whatever happened to suitcases?) and I was immediately devastated. She moved HALF A MILE away, but I was still all sad that she's not going to be around to drink tea and read on the couch with me, or download about our days while I eat chocolate ice cream for dinner.

So, because I missed her so much, I made her come over yesterday to help with Ellie's baby shower. Liz did all the decorations, making little phallic blue balloon bouquets, since Ellie and Eric are having a boy. It was a lovely shower with lots of fun gifts, some that Ellie might actually steal from the baby.

On Saturday, I went to Liz and Rob-Stan's new apartment with Rob and my Aunt Carolyn, who came to town to make cupcakes for the baby shower (and also to take a week-long painting class in the city.) It was completely empty and we sat on the floor, chatting, until my stomach started eating itself and I announced that we had to leave for lunch right then or the baby was going to stick a little fist through my belly button and try to grab Rigby's dog treats.

When we came back, several hours later, the movers had arrived and left, and seriously, the place looked amazing. I'll post some pictures soon. This means that my sister and I are living in the same city for the first time in 14 years. Some people take it for granted that their family members will always be close by. But since I've made the decision to hopscotch all around the country, it's not something I've ever been able to count on. And with the baby coming, I am feeling extra grateful to have my sister around, someone who I can call when I need a babysitter or just have some balloons that need blowing up.

But I haven't managed to shower

2010-01-28T13:32:00.000-08:00

Rob left on a business trip at 4:30 this morning. This happens sometimes, and normally does not phase me. But today, as soon as his alarm went off, my brain went into a bad, bad place. A planning place. A place that does not allow sleep to continue. So I got up and made cereal and read a childbirth book, while thoughts of everything I need to do in the coming days and weeks marched a panicked little parade through my mind.

This might be ok except I have childbirth class tonight for 3 hours, and I would really, really rather not pass out in the middle of it. I can just see the teacher dimming the lights to show us one of the highly educational films where some poor woman gives birth to a 4-lb placenta that looks like Jabba the Hut and when the lights go on, there I am in my comfy chair, eyes closed, sucking my thumb.*

I have been so tired lately, so it does not make me happy to bounce out of bed at ridiculous hours due to bouts of nervous energy. But I'm sure it is serving a purpose. A blog post! Evidently, it just requires NOT SLEEPING to get it all done. I'll keep this in mind when the baby comes.

*I don't actually suck my thumb. But the thing about the Jabba placenta is true--from last week's class.

Everyone Naps

2010-01-25T07:51:00.001-08:00

Pot luck, anyone?

2010-01-22T06:00:00.000-08:00

Rob and I have our own wireless network in the house, aptly--if not super creatively--named RG's Network. But if that wasn't working, here are the other networks in the neighborhood that we seem to have available to us: Goldhammer wireless, bitches and niggas, fattire, and GayRepublicofDrugafornia. I can't wait to meet more of the neighbors.

Deepish Wednesday

2010-01-20T22:24:00.000-08:00

Hi guys,
Sorry I'm bad at this blogging thing lately. It's not you, it's me. My mind and my days (not to mention my belly) are very full, and I keep hoping that somehow the blog will just populate itself with words--not just any words, but the words that really describe what's going on with me here in San Francisco, in my life of working at home and being 31 weeks pregnant. And waking up at least 4 times a night to pee, or because it's raining really loud. Or because, like last night, I really needed a bowl (ok, two bowls) of cereal. But it turns out that if I don't write this blog, no one does. So that's good to know.

I haven't really had any weird cravings during my pregnancy, with the exception of being completely obsessed with sugar. But that's not really weird, not anything fun like craving things that totally do not go together: chocolate and avocados, sausages and cottage cheese, black beans and strawberries. What lunatic would eat those things together? They sound gross.

Tonight as I was walking home from yoga, the air smelled exactly like cannoli. So for three blocks I obsessed over how much I wanted to eat cannoli. But we didn't have any cannoli at home. So I ate couscous. I never said it was an interesting story.

My sister has moved in with us, which is pretty amazing. She got a job in San Francisco at an ad agency, and swiftly left her life, dog and boyfriend in Los Angeles. Boyfriend Rob (you may know him as Stan) and dog Rigby are coming up in February and then we will all be one big happy family, although they will have their own house, because otherwise I think Rigby would eat our cats. Sometimes I think I would like to feed them to a dog, when they're screaming and running around at night because they spent their whole day sleeping, just waiting for their chance to torment us. But Liz and Rob appear to want their own place, and I have to respect that. Smokey and Emma will get a reprieve. For now. Rob's tactic when they're acting like animals is to throw balled up socks at them. When I get up in the morning, I am greeted by our long hallway filled with sock balls.

Among the things I wonder: how will the cats react to having a baby in the house? Will Rob throw sock balls at the baby when she wakes us up at night? Does my brain stop working correctly after a certain time of day...like, around now?

Well hello there

2010-01-13T11:07:00.000-08:00

Rather than start this post with my list of excuses for why I haven't blogged (family in town, baby books to read, thank you cards to write, walls to stare at), I will just tell you that I still have this odd experience at least a few times a day where I realize I'm pregnant. It's as though I can go through many hours (or even 15-minute increments) where I just...forget. And then I'll see myself in the mirror, or I'll try unsuccessfully to put on socks without sitting down, and it floods through me again, this feeling that "oh my god, there's really a baby in there." And what I'm trying to keep from happening is the next thought, which goes "oh my god, there's a baby in there and some day she's going to be 4 years old, and 9 years old, and 17 years old..." You get the point. There's really no need to rush this, but I just can't believe that this person is coming soon--in roughly 10 weeks--to change my life forever.

So that's been fun and interesting, and is helping me grasp the fact that I do really need to read those baby books (because that part earlier about how I've been reading them is kind of a lie. But I do have them here, so that seems to be a good start.) In fact, I'm mostly focused on the birth itself at this point, and on how I hope it will go, and who will be there with me: Rob, a doula who is yet to be selected, a doctor/midwife (or both), and the random people who will be gawking at me from the door, as I have chosen to give birth in a teaching hospital.

I suspect I won't even notice the people at the door, but the other members of the birth team are pretty important to me. This weekend I was explaining to our visiting family members what a doula is, because--despite the widespread use of doulas as birth attendants--I think for some people it's a pretty foreign concept. To their credit, these people did not act as though I was saying anything silly, and the conversation turned yet again when my brother-in-law said, in all seriousness, "I've also been hearing a lot about tofu. How exactly do you buy that?" Please note, I am not making fun of him. He was just curious.

There's a lot to learn and do, and I would have to be crazy to say that I know everything I will need to know in 10 weeks, or a year, or 17 years. But I plan to take it one step at a time, continue to face my daily surprises, and not be afraid to ask questions. "I've also been hearing a lot about the birth orgasm. How exactly do I get one of those?"

Lucy and Papa

2010-01-07T16:44:00.000-08:00

My grandpa sits behind the 607th dog he's ever owned. Her name is Lucy, but we call her Lucifer. She wants to eat you.

But my breath smells delicious

2010-01-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

Deepish Thoughts and I are in a bit of an argument. The blog thinks it's not getting enough attention, which is true, but my feeling is that since there are so many areas of my life requiring me right now, the blog has naturally fallen by the wayside. Especially given how busy the holidays were; I was particularly occupied by eating half a pan of peppermint ice cream cake over the course of 4 nights. It's hard work, but I really applied myself and came out the clear victor. And then promptly got a terrible case of hives that I can safely say probably came from the sugar overload. Gross, I know. In fact, I ate so many sweets over the holiday that I might as well have poured a box of granulated sugar directly into my mouth. Still, I wasn't actually sure what the cause of my breakout had been, until I took my spotted arms and legs to yoga, and a midwife who comes to class had a look.

"Have you been eating a lot of new foods, or maybe a lot of sugar?" she asked.

"Ummmmm," I said, like I was trying really hard to remember.

There is something liberating about being pregnant--people tell you to eat what you want (except for my grandmother, who tells me to watch it). And I have stayed fairly healthy, if you just ignore the entire week of Christmas break. Still, when we got back to San Francisco, I ran into my 4-year-old neighbor who looked at me and said "Wow, you are getting really fat!"

No one will tell you the truth like a 4-year-old will.

For the Love of Technology

2009-12-22T19:25:00.000-08:00

Tonight I would like to devote the blog to my friend Technology. It's kind of fitting, being that it is technology that brings you the blog, and after all, if you didn't have this blog to read, what would you be doing with your time? Don't answer that.

But I know what you're thinking..."You said you were a hobbit! You don't even know how to turn on your TV." Well, things change sometimes. Through methodical trial and error, I did learn how to turn on the TV. And I can even get the DVD player to work, as long as I have a little time, and no one is looking at me.

This afternoon, Rob and I got in the car to drop some gifts off at the post office. But we didn't know where the post office was. So I Googled it on my phone and came up with several options--Google immediately returned them in the order of their proximity to my house. On the way, I realized I needed to drop my keys off with our catsitter, but I didn't know her address. So I searched for her business (again on Google, but this blog is not about Google, so I'm done mentioning them now), found her phone number and called her for the address. We put the coordinates into our car GPS and went there from UPS (we ended up at UPS because the post office lines were long and, according to Rob, the post office smelled like "ass.")

The catsitter lives in a neighborhood we don't know very well, and we remembered that we needed to get cat food. So I searched for pet supplies in the neighborhood and found a store a few blocks away. After that, we were hungry, so I logged into Zagat.com to find the best pizza places in the city. The winner was Little Star Pizza, which ended up being close to our house. I called to place the order, we drove there, and left with our dinner.

This is notably different from the last time I lived in San Francisco, when one late night in a cab, my friend Krista called 411 and asked the operator to "find a pizza place near my house." The operator hung up and Krista ate Spaghettios.

Thank you, Technology. I'm sorry for all the things I said about you.

Brittany Murphy Dies

2009-12-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

I just read that Brittany Murphy died yesterday. I don't enjoy hearing about 32-year-old people going into full cardiac arrest. I promise to post something positive tomorrow, but for now let me just admit that when the movie Clueless came out, I saw it three times in the theater. It changed the way I dressed and spoke, at least for a little while (yep, that's embarrassing), and as recently as Thanksgiving, I did quote the line about "Marky Mark's busy pants dropping schedule."

Anyway, I was sorry to read this news.

Therapy

2009-12-17T20:08:00.000-08:00

So far throughout my pregnancy, I've been feeling really good. Not one day of morning sickness, for which I feel so insanely lucky that part of me is sure this baby is going to be a devil of a toddler just to make up for it. It's a foregone conclusion that she'll be a terrible teenager--karma I no doubt deserve.

I've stayed pretty active, walking and doing yoga, and I'm eating well, if you don't count the occasional Trader Joe's corn dog that somehow finds its way into the microwave. Food on a stick--hard to resist.

But I do have one complaint and that is a chronic pain in my back. Every day by the afternoon there is a sharp, uncomfortable ache that becomes unbearable by the evening and only feels better when I finally lie down with my new best friend--a 5 foot bed pillow.

I should really get a massage and I know this is obvious, but I somehow have not yet scheduled that. Instead, I just fling myself to the ground and moan in pain while performing normal functions like preparing dinner or checking email.

Tonight, when Rob came home from work, he rubbed my back while I took a break from cooking.

"How does it feel?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said.

"Like, does it feel tight and bumpy?" I was sure there were knots like rocks up and down my shoulder blades.

"It feels whiny," he said.

Visitors

2009-12-15T16:05:00.000-08:00

My mom and my uncle Frank were in town this weekend, which was wonderful for many reasons, including getting to hear the story of how I was born with hair on my shoulders. "We're going to have a gorilla baby," Rob said. "She was more like a bear," my uncle said.

We went to a holiday party at a neighbor's house on Saturday night. My mother--the semi-retired kindergarten teacher--immediately found the playroom where all the kids were hanging out, and fell upon them and their toys. "This is Gideon," she told me when I peeked in. "And this is Max. We don't know this little girl's name, but I think she speaks French. Bonjour!" She handed me her wine, so that she could help Max figure out how to work the little electronic guitar he had presented her with. He lost interest in it soon after that and tried on the other kids' shoes instead.

Later, as we all sat on the couch in front of trays of shrimp and cocktail sausages, a three-year-old wandered up and started to bite little pieces of sausage and put them back in the tray. He then buried a shrimp in the cocktail sauce and proceeded to smear ketchup all over the crackers he was licking and placing back in their dish. He walked up to me with a little sausage in his hand and put it in my mouth. I was too surprised to protest, so I delicately removed it, thanked him, and wadded it up in a napkin. "I can't believe you let him do that," said my mother, who earlier that day had put a stevia leaf from Golden Gate Park into her own mouth. "Please don't eat the plants," I said at the time.

It seems that although there were plenty of adults present, and it was quite a nice party, I am preoccupied with thoughts of children these days, and it's their antics that stayed with me. "Our daughter will never be allowed to behave that way at a party," Rob said later of the sausage prince.

It was fun to have company in the house, and people to cook with. Frank and my mom made tilapia with peppers, onions and lime one evening, and we made squash soup and pizza for another meal. We went out for an Italian dinner in North Beach and a Vietnamese dinner at one of our favorite restaurants on the water, overlooking the Bay Bridge, so bright and accessible it looked like a Christmas decoration.

They brought gifts for the baby: a pair of overalls from Mom, a tie-dyed onesie from my Aunt Cathy, a set of 5--yes 5--colorful socks from Frank. And in thanks, the baby kicked for them. My mom sat next to me on the couch, her hand on my stomach before her cab arrived. "She's in there right now," she said. "Working on growing her shoulder hair."

What a Dick

2009-12-09T20:49:00.001-08:00

I will be pretty disturbed if our daughter ever does anything like this. But since it's not my kid and not my mansion, I am instead pretty amused.

24 Weeks

2009-12-07T06:00:00.000-08:00

Brooke took this picture on Saturday night. I can't decide which is bigger, my stomach or Rob's head.

Deepish Thursday

2009-12-03T09:04:00.000-08:00

We are still adjusting to life in San Francisco: the neighborhood, the time zone, Rob's new job, my work from home, having a car and therefore being able to go to Trader Joe's whenever we want...standard things. I spend a lot of time inside during the day, which I guess is what anyone who works in an office does, whether that office is a train ride away or just down the hall from the bedroom. I often report to colleagues over the phone that the weather "looks" nice, but I wouldn't really know that from a first-hand perspective.

The baby kicks all the time now. Or maybe she's punching me, I'm not sure. It basically feels like a Taekwando class in there, and I imagine her taking aim and delivering a swift scissor kick as she rolls right to avoid contact with today's chosen nemesis, the umbilical cord. But look out--it's attached to her! So she just has to keep rolling around and kicking. We call her "Little Baby" because we are not feeling more creative than that. I spend my time working out what her actual name will be when she arrives, but that, too, might just be "Little Baby" based on my progress. I recall the skier Picabo Street whose name for something like the first 3 years of her life was "Little Girl." I might be making that up, though, because I see no reference to it on Wikipedia.

I'm taking prenatal yoga classes at a nearby studio, where we start each session by going around the room and sharing things about our pregnancy, so that I know I'm not the only one with insane leg cramps in the middle of the night, occasional crankiness, and a suddenly constant desire to curl into a ball and go to sleep (which I did two days ago on the exam table in my doctor's office, but that's only because they kept me waiting so long.)

I feel very lucky that we're here, that the baby is so far healthy, that all of the unpacked boxes are currently hidden in a room I don't go into very often, that Rob and I have found good Italian, Thai and Indian restaurants in the neighborhood. And that when the baby is born, she'll likely be able to protect me from any adversaries with some well-timed jabs.

Ways in which being nearly 6 months pregnant is oddly similar to being a hobbit

2009-11-30T17:04:00.000-08:00

1. I now indulge unapologetically in second breakfast (and sometimes third.)

2. I am becoming remarkably stout for my height.

3. I seldom wear shoes.

4. My understanding of technology is limited (as evidenced by my attempts to set up the printer last week, and the fact that I am not completely sure how to turn on our television.)

5. My ring is starting to get uncomfortable.

In good news, I have so far not seen any hair growing on my feet.

Parenthood

2009-11-25T05:47:00.001-08:00

Me: The baby is kicking! Here, put your hand on my stomach so you can feel it.

Rob: Stop bossing me around.

Crazy Pregnant Woman Wears Pants Inside Out

2009-11-24T10:23:00.000-08:00

I made it to the vet and the grocery store before going home and looking down.

Dear Community

2009-11-19T19:06:00.001-08:00

I don't ever ask for comments on this blog because it makes me kind of nervous to put that kind of post out there and then--the horror--not get any responses. But I am stepping out on a limb today because the time has come for me to register for baby stuff and I have no freaking clue what I'm doing.

I know there are a few people reading this and I know some of you have babies, have had babies, or know people who know babies. Maybe some of you are babies. If so, I especially need your help.

What are some of the things you registered for (or didn't register for) that you feel you could not do without? Anything that can be skipped? Are there specific brands that are on the top of your list when it comes to strollers, car seats, those comfy spa-like pens that I have seen babies lounging in?

My thanks in advance, as I feel that without your help, it's possible I will be pushing my child around town in a cardboard box on a skateboard and letting her play with cat toys.

Deepish Tuesday

2009-11-17T10:52:00.000-08:00

Two things:

1. I made an appointment to get the H1N1 shot this Friday. I thank you all for your concern for my well-being. My plan is not to breathe or touch anything until Friday.

2. I got a manicure yesterday at a salon in the Castro called Hand Job. So perfect for the Castro. When I walked in, the owner was getting a pedicure. He introduced himself to me and shared that he came from a family of 6 brothers. "All boys?" I asked. "Are there any girls?" "Just me," he chuckled.

Nine Lives

2009-11-16T10:02:00.001-08:00

I want you to know how I now start and end my day: by chasing both cats around the house and forcing them to drink terrible, vile medication from a little squeeze tube. They gag, grit their teeth, and scream and I have to sit on them and fight to get the antibiotics down their throats. It is so, so not awesome.

Why are we doing this, you may wonder. It's not enough to say that the cats are just old or that we wanted them to see a vet as soon as we got to the west coast to make sure all was well. Those things are true, and eventually we would have taken them to get checked out. Smokey, however, forced our hand by taking it upon himself to jump out of an open window last week on moving day. Rob found him screeching on a ledge outside the 1st floor neighbor's kitchen window. At first, we were more confused than worried. Why would he jump? Does he hate life so much? Should we stop feeding him the same boring food every day so he has more to look forward to? Should we have short therapy sessions before bed each night to reinforce his worth as a cat and family member?

Then we realized that he had a huge fat, infected lip. So not only did he jump, but it was clearly not so graceful. Oh, the shame.

Anyway. I took both cats to the vet last week and it turned out that while Smokey just needed some meds, Emma had to go back in the next day for THE MOST EXPENSIVE DENTAL SURGERY THAT HAS EVER BEEN PERFORMED ON A CAT. She had 5 teeth removed and was with the doctor all day. Hence, the drugs for Smokey's lip and Emma's teeth.

Between his fluids for kidney disease, pills for thyroid disease, and antibiotics for the fat lip, I'm not so sure what will keep Smokey from making another attempt to jump. For now, the windows are all closed.

Keeping it Clean

2009-11-11T16:52:00.000-08:00

I still have not gotten the H1N1 vaccine, despite the encouragement from my smarter, more prepared friends. It seems to have gone missing from San Francisco; every site I search says that is is not currently available. I don't feel overwhelmingly worried about it, since I spend much of my day working at home, but I would like to get it taken care of soon. Ellie gave me some good advice recently, which included the line "leave your house as little as possible and try not to touch anything."

I found these to be wise words, and decided to follow them. But I really had to get out of the house, and thought a walk would be harmless. On my walk, I passed the DMV and realized I needed to get my license renewed. So I entered the DMV. This was like spitting on the swine flu gods. The DMV must be the perfect place for the flu to breed. Everyone touches pens and papers, counters and chairs. They sit around just breathing on each other. I waited in a little chair for about an hour, studying the Rules of the Road booklet, because I have basically not driven a car in about 4 years, and I couldn't remember which one was the gas pedal, let alone how far back one's car has to be when stopping at train tracks (15 feet.)

Oh, and I had to take the test because my California license expired on my birthday last week. If you charted my life solely using my driver's license, it would actually appear that I never left California to go to New York.

When my number was finally called, the guy behind the counter looked at my paperwork, which included a voter registration sheet. "Democrat," he said. "Aw yeah, Barack Obama."

"Ok." I said, because the only other appropriate option seemed to be a high five, and that didn't strike me as the greatest idea, flu-wise. I am not above high-fiving DMV employees, though, especially this one, because after talking at length about why Kim Jong Il wanted Bill Clinton to come to North Korea recently "Because of the WEED!", he let me get my license without having to take the test.

I walked to the line to get my picture taken, secure in my newfound knowledge on the best light for driving in fog (low beams), the appropriate speed limit when near a school (25 mph), and the DMV guy's thoughts on Obama's cigarette smoking habits, "He's not quitting now!"

Monday Dispatch from the Home Front

2009-11-09T07:47:00.000-08:00

We officially live in San Francisco, although I think both Rob and I still feel like we're on some sort of extended vacation. He went on a long bike ride yesterday, through the park and across Golden Gate Bridge to the Marin Headlands, where the view from the cliffs is city and ocean. It's hard to believe you're allowed to live somewhere so beautiful.

I stayed home and got my own exercise unpacking boxes, and we are very slowly making progress. We have now met the two other families who live in the building. We've been entertained by the observant 4-year-old Jackson, who called out from the back seat of his car yesterday to Rob, "You have two shirts on!"

"Three!" Rob said proudly, unzipping his fleece vest to display a t-shirt. Jackson was blown away. It's so easy to thrill kids; I myself was probably not suitably impressed when Rob dressed himself that morning.

Back to the East Coast

2009-11-04T17:28:00.000-08:00

Let's see...what was I supposed to do today?

Get into a cab at 4:30am with Tom Waits's long-lost drunk and crazy cab driver brother? Check.

Fly back to New York at the crack of dawn? Check. (It was a first class ticket--thank you, Rob! All other flights will now pale in comparison.)

Eat a bagel that was quite possibly made of rubber? Check.

Get in a fight with another cab driver over the ridiculous fare to Jersey City, and then end the fight by trying unsuccessfully to bribe him? Check.

Take myself shoe shopping in Soho because I packed every pair of black shoes I own and they are now all traveling together across the country with a big, red-nosed man named Dave? Check. As an aside, before I realized that Dave was going to be driving the truck with all of our belongings in it (I thought he was just the Leader of the Moving Guys), I gave him a full and unopened bottle of rum, which Rob and I were never planning on drinking. "I'm no rummy dummy," said Dave, pocketing the bottle in his giant pants. Later, I reconsidered the intelligence of this particular gift, and I really hope Dave and our stuff make it to San Francisco unscathed.

Dine solo at the bar in an Italian restaurant in Tribeca? Check. Do NOT feel sorry for me. I don't mind eating alone and the risotto was really good.

Sit through the hotel fire alarm for 15 minutes, while a voice intermittently told us to "stand by" for further instruction? And finally become so frustrated, that I called the front desk to demand that they decide whether or not there was a fire, and, if not, to stop tormenting the guests? Check.

Get tons of calls, emails and texts from all of my wonderful friends and family wishing me a happy birthday? Check. Thanks guys. I love you. I am letting the cab rides, alarms, and moving stress go. I'm too old for that.

A Room with a View

2009-11-02T15:23:00.000-08:00

We are in our hotel room in Burlingame. Smokey and Emma have spent much of their time out on the balcony, watching birds fly over the bay. I think they like it here, now that the sedatives have worn off and Emma has sort of stopped freaking out over the fact that Smokey smells weird. She tried to attack him repeatedly for about 2 days, but now it's just random hissing here and there.

The drugs we gave them didn't work exactly the way I had expected. We slipped them into tiny, ingenious snacks called Pill Pockets. Smokey, being Smokey, ate his right away. We could have put it on a chip, a piece of salami, or a garbanzo bean and he would have eaten it. Emma was not fooled, though. Rob had to hold her down and force her to swallow the pill. Not pretty.

Anyway, I thought the cats would pass out. But instead they just started yelling, and yelled all the way to the airport.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" yelled Emma.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" yelled Smokey.

Over and over. Then Smokey started bashing himself into the sides of his soft carrier. I was reminded of the warning from the vet. "Definitely test out the sedatives before you leave on your trip," she said wisely. "Sometimes they have the effect of making the cats more hyper."

So I confess that we did not test out the drugs. Obviously. But the bumpy cab ride seemed to be the worst of it. Once we got into the plane and put blankets over their carriers, they seemed to calm down. Or maybe it was just that we couldn't hear them.

It's a Baby!

2009-10-29T19:20:00.000-07:00

More specifically, it's a baby girl! We went to the hospital for our anatomy scan today, and because the baby is basically see-through, we got a look at her vertebrae, the inside of her brain, and her heart. The technician aimed the camera between the baby's legs and said "Can you tell what you're looking at?" I wanted to tell her that everything we had seen so far suggested I was carrying not a baby, but a plate of calamari. But I just shook my head and she told us it was a girl.

"Are you 100% sure?" Rob asked. It's not that he didn't want a girl, but neither of us wanted to leave until we knew that the hospital was sure of what they were telling us.

"I'm sure," she said. Another technician and a doctor backed her up, so yes, we're pretty sure. Girl baby! And she's really cute, except if you look directly at her face, in which case she looks like something out of a ghost story. Perfect for Halloween. My feeling is that once she has fattened up a bit and is no longer translucent, she'll be totally adorable.

It's like Christmas Eve

2009-10-28T15:13:00.000-07:00

I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow. It is basically freakish how excited I now get by doctor's appointments. I love them like nothing else, and wish that I was going more often than once a month. I always feel like I'm visiting the baby. Today someone emailed to ask when my next appointment was and I wrote back:

Tomorrow! I can't wait!

I might as well have dotted the I's with hearts and drawn little unicorns all over the page. But you can't do that in email.

The best thing is that I actually have two appointments tomorrow: one with my doctor and one at the hospital to find out if the baby is a boy or a girl. Dear Middlesex, I hope it is not both.

Tomorrow is also my last day in the office, plus the movers are coming to get us packed. We like to keep it lively, people. And I would just like to announce that if the baby is a boy, you are all being recruited to help name him, because after several conversations about this (including the one where Rob very seriously suggested the name Achilles), I do not think we are qualified to name a boy.

Final Days

2009-10-26T07:55:00.000-07:00

Things that are getting me through our last week in New York, as we are forced to say goodbye to friends and family, and I contemplate the reality of working from home starting next week:

• Rob’s best friend Spero and his wife Johanna came to town this weekend. We had delicious dinners at Peasant and Babbo. This morning, I feel like I’ve gained 10 pounds from the Babbo meal alone, but I’m blaming it all on the baby being abnormally fat.

• We saw In the Heights on Broadway. Incredible and highly recommended.

• Rob walked into the bathroom to get ready and started singing “What a Man” as he gazed into the mirror. “What a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty fine man,” are words that actually came out of his mouth.

• And the main thing that has gotten me through so far is that we are so busy there is no time to think. Perhaps this (plus the singing) is the secret to a seamless move?

A New York Meal

2009-10-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

Rob and I just got home from cooking class. Our new friend Daniel invited us. He also brought his mom. Prior to class, we were emailed the following menu and told to bring a bottle of wine.

Fresh fig, Arugula, Chevre, Pine Nuts, and Fennel with Balsamic Shallot Vinaigrette

Chez Allard's Roast Chicken with Lentils and Bacon

Chocolate Rum Praline Fané

Class was at a fabulous apartment with a huge chef's kitchen, complete with enormous square slate cooking counter that easily sat the 12 people in the class. We piled the wine on the counter and ingredients started flying around. The teacher was hilarious: slightly absentminded and extremely casual, she dropped things, forgot what she was saying, ran around the kitchen multi-tasking, and repeatedly licked food off of her fingers while preparing it. She was perfect.

At one point, we had all become so distracted talking to each other that she had to ring her little kitchen bell and call out "Is ANYBODY interested in the lentils?!"

We were. The evening was basically run as a demonstration, though we were all given odd jobs to help the meal come together. Rob sliced figs for the salad, and it's a small miracle that any of them actually ended up on our plates, considering how many I saw him eating. "She said we had too many!" he claimed. I chopped onions for the lentil sauce. That was literally my entire contribution to the meal. It was almost more of a dinner party than an actual class. But we did learn. "Oh!" the teacher would say. "I didn't put this in the recipe, but you really should use a metal bowl for the fané. What? I did put it in the recipe? Oh. Then it's there." or "To make pralines, you should use about 1/2 cup of sugar to 2 tablespoons of water...or...it doesn't really matter. You can use any amount."

She chatted, she taught, and she very calmly ran a pretty complicated meal, telling us "You have to accept mess."

And it got messy. But when the food was done, it was amazing. We all ate too much, while the teacher continued to bustle around the kitchen finishing up the decadent dessert. When it, too, was done, she sat down with us and everyone told stories as we mutually overdosed on sugar. This class happens every Wednesday, and is suddenly another thing I will miss about New York.

Big Baby

2009-10-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

I don't want to be overly dramatic or anything, but getting dressed has now made me break down into tears twice. The first time was the night before Tash and Steve's wedding. I had tried on my dress 5 nights earlier (not even a whole week!) and it fit. Not only did it fit, but it somehow managed to kind of squeeze my belly into an if-not-flattish-than-maybe-only-a-little-hilly state wherein I probably still looked pregnant, but kind of svelte at the same time. I was Kentucky! I should have known it was too good to last.

When I tried it on again as I was packing, I couldn't even zip it up. Not at all. Dismayed, I walked into the living room and asked Rob to try, as though it was some hard to open can of pickles that he could wrestle into submission. He tried to be tactful. "I can't get it to go any further without ruining the dress."

So I started pulling dresses out of my closet one after the other, including a few that I haven't worn in 6 years for good reason. Nothing fit. Even the dresses that were at one point too big for me now strained around handfuls of my chubby back. On the plus side, my cleavage was distracting. Still, nothing was quite right and I suddenly remembered the dress I had bought in LA when I was with Liz. It was $5 at a store called Veronica M, and had apparently been waiting in the back of my closet for its chance to rescue me. You may not see it and immediately think "wedding dress" (I didn't), but once again, my sister is my hero.

It's not that I'm concerned about getting larger. I realize I'm pregnant and that this is what happens, which is what Rob told me as he hugged me and I cried, surrounded by a pile of useless fabric. I just wasn't prepared. My stomach popped out in a matter of days, and I suddenly find myself standing at the closet in the morning, totally panicking about what to put on my expanding body.

The day of the wedding, we went maternity clothes shopping, which was a whole new exercise in frustration. It should have been a 30-minute trip, but every store we headed for had somehow closed--not for the day, but forever. Were there not pregnant women in Denver? Where did they shop? We finally found a Gap maternity store that was so small and sad that I sat down in a chair and cried again. "This looks cute!" Rob said, looking at a row of sweatpants and cotton dresses. "What's the matter?"

But I couldn't speak the words to tell him that this all looked like schlubby maternity loungewear, and if I wasn't going to be able to go outside in my new purchases, then what was the point of buying them? He took my hand and dragged me to the nearest restaurant, where I was distracted by chicken salad and a bunch of people fawning over John Elway as he left the building. Fueled by the food, we tried one more stop (our quick trip having now turned into a 3-hour tour.) At Pea in the Pod, I found out that I am still not big enough for maternity pants and that all the maternity tops just had the effect of making me look even bigger than I am. I bought some clothes I will probably be able to wear in the next month or so. Until then, I am just going to get used to adding an extra 30 minutes every morning to tear apart my closet in hopes that I can find something suitable to be seen in.

Shades of Gray

2009-10-15T16:24:00.000-07:00

It's cold and rainy in New York, one of those nights where I can very easily get excited about the upcoming move to San Francisco, where it will be hmmm...maybe cold and rainy for a few months, too. But not AS cold. This is important.

I rode the elevator with 2 guys and one of them shook water from his hair and jacket and said, "Man, I'm soaked!"

"No umbrella?" I asked.

"I don't like em," he answered.

I heard myself say, "Well, it's a personal choice."

Seriously? It's a personal choice? Only if you want to personally defy all logic and find yourself shivering in an elevator, but whatever. See how politically correct I am? So ready for San Francisco.

An Evening at Home

2009-10-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

Rob and I cleaned our apartment tonight because we had a potential renter coming over and we wanted her to think that we are clean people. Actually, I just wanted her not to kill us, because I have this strong reaction to people who respond to my Craigslist postings, which is that I assume they all want to come over and kill me.* So far, this has not happened.

We also moved a bunch of extraneous containers of clothing and dishes (and cat litter) into our neighbor Eric's apartment, and that really made the place look (and smell) extra clean. Almost like no one really lived in it and it was just a show home. I've never seen Rob happier. "I'm so bummed that it doesn't always look like this!" he exclaimed after she left. I don't think he enjoys that whole "lived in" feel.

After we brought all our stuff back in from Eric's, we sat down to have dinner and were interrupted by a knock at the door. No one ever knocks on our door, so we were confused. I got a little freaked out that the renter was coming back and would see that our cats actually do have a litter box. But it was Michael from down the hall. "You have a cat, right?" he asked. We confirmed. He then gestured to the hallway, where Smokey was having a little field trip, inviting himself into other people's homes. When we caught him, he was in 5A clawing up JD, the guy who lives there, in an attempt to escape. We brought him home, his little heart hammering away, and he is now passed out in bed. I hope this isn't an indication of how he's going to handle leaving the state and flying to California in a cat carrier. I mean, it was brave of him to attempt the adventure, but I think he lost his confidence somewhere near the elevators. We're going to have to get him some good drugs for the ride.

*This is not a new development brought on by that guy who actually was killing people he met on Craigslist. This particular affliction has been going on for years.

Wedding Weekend in Pictures

2009-10-12T19:17:00.000-07:00

My feeling is that when true love, pig roasts, and chair surfing are involved, there's really no need for words.

Deepish Friday

2009-10-09T17:32:00.000-07:00

Rob and I are off to a wedding in Denver this weekend. Tash, of bachelorette party fame, is marrying Steve, of great calves fame.

I was telling a guy at work about my weekend plans, and he expressed disbelief (I guess we've been to a lot of weddings this year), asking, "Do people have to be married to be friends with you?"

At the time, I just laughed, but later I thought about it more. And the conclusion I came to is thus: Friends, I don't care if you're married. I'm really more interested in what you can do for me.

Happily Ever After

2009-10-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

This weekend Rob and I were in Berkeley for the wedding of our dear friends Brooke and Krista. The ceremony was in their backyard and was lovely and very memorable--they were married by the community of 40 friends and family. Krista's mom read a poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, which you can see here. I think one of my favorite things about it was that her mom was really not very into Oriah's name, and told Krista that if she had to say who the poem was written by, she was going to say it was a poem by "Oriah M. Dreamer", presumably to make it sound less, um, insanely hippie-ish. But the poem and her reading were quite perfect. She did not say the author's name at all.

Krista and Brooke looked like tall, elegant princesses. [I'm sorry, but really, what kind of blog post would it be if I didn't insert my height insecurities?] I will post more pics as soon as possible, but for now, I just wanted to post a big congratulations to my beautiful friends. And I wanted you to see the cake, which was a lemon affair with fresh raspberries and blackberries.

A Whole Nother State

2009-10-05T06:01:00.000-07:00

There are lots of things the jury duty official could have asked. He could have asked "Who here has served on a Grand Jury before?" or "Who here has been convicted of a crime?" or "Who here is having digestion issues and simply can't sit on these wooden benches for one minute longer?" I am guessing there are countless ways he could have shrunk the pool of potential jurors, and none of the aforementioned ones would have helped me out much. I've never been on a jury, or convicted of a crime (unless you count that one party in college when I was 20 years old and got hauled off to jail in a paddy wagon with 35 of my closest friends and acquaintances. But you don't count that.) Plus, I'd eaten bran cereal that morning and was feeling fine.

What the important guy in the suit did ask was this, "Is there anyone here who does not live in Manhattan? Please line up in the center of the room." I thought about this for approximately 3 seconds and then stood up. Rob, you see, has been transferred to work in the San Francisco office of [censored!]. And, because he is bringing me along with him, it would be very hard for me to serve on a 6-month case in New York. In fact, when I told the official my news, he even said "Wow. That's a whole nother state." Yes, it is.

Then I said to him, "Plus, I'm pregnant and would probably be having a baby before the case was over."

"Congratulations," he said, waving me away because I had obviously become an extremely unattractive prospective juror.

So there you have it. I'm pregnant (due in March) and moving to San Francisco in November (we're in the city today looking for places to live. This activity toggles between being exciting/fun and exhausting/a remarkably quick way to get in an argument.) In other good news, my company has been kind enough to allow me to transfer as well, and I will do my job out of whatever spectacular apartment we do eventually find. Which is good, because otherwise I would probably just lie down in the middle of the city, thinking about how much I love it, while my weight balloons out of control.

The other nice thing about having a baby is that it affords Rob the opportunity to fake punch me while we're getting ready for work in the morning, all because "the baby told me to do it." Rob and the baby already have a very special bond.

We'll miss New York a lot, but I am truly ready to move back to my favorite city in the world, made that much better by its proximity to wine country...which I will be enjoying again at some point in 2010.

Slow Day

2009-09-30T15:41:00.001-07:00

I had grand jury duty this morning. I was on the subway headed to the courthouse when I realized I had forgotten my Kindle. "Oh no!" I said out loud on the train, because I have no inner voice. Seriously, it was a devastating moment. I had heard that jury duty was just a bunch of sitting and reading. And I was actually looking forward to that. I'm reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson's first in a series. I've already read the second book, which kind of ruined some things about the first, so my advice to you is Go In Order.

But the first book is still really good and very gripping and when I got to the courthouse without it, I tried to be calm and wait patiently with the million other prospective jurors in the hallway. We were all called into a large, official looking room with wooden benches and raised letters reading In God We Trust on the front wall. So much for separation of church and state.

A man in a suit informed us lucky folks that this grand jury summons was for a 6-month case. "But it's only Mondays and Wednesdays from 10am to 1pm," he reassured us. The groans from the crowd probably signified to him that no one felt reassured. Luckily, I was quickly dismissed because I am a very smooth talker. And because I had a compelling reason for being unable to serve, which will become clear to you in future blogs.

So I went back to the office and wandered around in the hallway, looking for our publicity director. She wasn't in her office and I found myself inexplicably doing The Robot as I turned around and headed back to my desk. This did not go unnoticed by the COO, who was walking down the hall. "Are you doing The Robot?" he asked. "Uh...yes," I replied, feeling not unlike Beavis or Butthead. The COO then did The Robot, too. So I did it again. Because not only do I have no inner voice. I also have no inner dancer.

Heyyyyyyyy Boy Cats

2009-09-28T06:00:00.000-07:00

What do you know?

2009-09-24T19:15:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of Joe, here's a fun quiz that will show you just how bad you are at identifying countries in the Middle East and Africa. Or maybe you're good at it. Whatever. I only want to hear from you if you sucked at it like I did.

I was way better the second time.

Drama on a Plane

2009-09-22T16:42:00.000-07:00

I take my seat on the aisle of the exit row and stretch out my legs. Tall men walking to the back of the plane glare at me. It can't be fun to see a 5'4" person taking up the seat with all the leg room. I smile and swing my legs back and forth like the childish brat that I am. I stop smiling when the man in the middle seat arrives. He has terrible body odor.

The flight attendant shows up to make sure that we all understand we're sitting in an exit row. "I'll need a verbal from each of you," she says. "Are you willing and able to help in case of an emergency?"

"Yes," 5 people say. Body Odor Man grins happily, but says nothing.

"Sir?" she asks him. "Can you assist in an emergency? I need you to say yes."

"I don't speak English," he says with a heavy accent that I can't place because I'm not good at that.

"Uh oh," she says. "I'm going to have to reseat you."

Of course, he doesn't understand what she's saying. He's still smiling like she's teasing him, and meanwhile, she's really looking around for someone who wants to move to an exit row. One of the tall guys raises his hand. Body Odor Man starts to look confused. "Why?" he keeps asking, as she gestures for him to get up. The man in the window seat and I try to explain. "You must speak English to sit in this seat," we say several times. He still doesn't understand. Finally, he gets up and walks sadly away. He looks at me one more time and says, "Why?"

"Because of English!" I say too loudly. I really want him to understand, but I basically end up sounding like a terrible, short xenophobe in a desirable plane seat.

Which is when karma decides to bite me in the ass.

Several hours into the plane ride, I have to go to the bathroom and I need Pringles. I head to the back of the plane. After I flush the toilet, I notice the toilet seat cover has not made it all the way down. I decide I don't care and walk out the door. A spectacled bald man is waiting to go next, and I have the slight feeling of embarrassment that I did not double flush the toilet.

I get my Pringles from the flight attendant and when I turn around to head back to my seat, I come face to face with what can only be described as the German Bathroom Police (this accent I did recognize.) The spectacled man is standing in the aisle, a line forming behind him, waiting to get my attention.

"I sink you forgot somesing!" he yells. I look into the bathroom and sure enough, the toilet seat liner is peeking over the edge of the toilet. This man thinks I did not flush the toilet at all, and he wants the entire plane to know.

"No," I say firmly. "I didn't forget to flush. That's just some tissue that didn't get flushed down." I mean seriously, this is the worst conversation I have ever had on a plane. I would rather go sit on Body Odor Man's lap for the rest of the flight than have this crazy German guy yelling at me anymore. He makes a huge show of walking into the bathroom with the door still open and flushing the toilet himself with a sigh of utter disgust. I walk back and take my seat, and for the rest of the flight I fight with that guy in my head, thinking of all the things I should have said. And really also thinking that I probably should have just flushed the toilet. I swing my legs, but it's just not the same. Then I eat my Pringles and feel better.

One Year Later

2009-09-18T15:34:00.000-07:00

In San Francisco to celebrate our first anniversary:

Me: Do you ever just stop and think about how much you love me?

Rob: No.

----------------------------------------------------
Driving:

Me: Oh! Let's go down the curvy part of Lombard Street!

Rob: No.

Me: Why?

Rob: That's for tourists. And anuses.

The couch is my new personal trainer

2009-09-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I quit the gym. I went back and forth on the decision, but ultimately, I knew it was the right thing to do when I realized that I would have to go out of my way to deliver my membership cancel form. I never go to the gym. It was very inconvenient, this quitting. But I walked over and delivered the news, complete with a total lie about why I was quitting, because I was afraid they would pressure me if I told them that the real reason I'm leaving is because I am a lazy, unmotivated couch potato. On my way to the gym, I bought a pint of chocolate ice cream so that I could eat it when I got home.

In case you are in my family and suddenly feeling a bit worried about me, please don't. I will continue to do yoga and walk at least 3 miles a day (to and from work). I will probably not eat ice cream every night. Plus, if I told you what my gym membership cost (not to mention what it cost me per infrequent visit), you'd probably want to be here celebrating with me. This does not mean failure, people. It means new shoes.

Carson's Thunder

2009-09-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

In 2002, my dear friend Michele gave birth to her first boy. She named him Carson Thunder (Thunder is also his dad's middle name.) Carson was a darling boy right away. Sweet, smart, and happy, he also managed to learn the chorus to songs like Snoop Dogg's Drop It Like It's Hot almost as soon as he learned to talk. All G-rated, I assure you.

Carson was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at the age of 2. Though it was a tough and scary adjustment, he always handled it like a pro, even at such a young age. A couple of years ago, Carson came to my parents' house for breakfast. He saw that my mom had made her famous "sticky buns" and told Michele he thought he might need an extra bit of insulin that morning, since he intended to enjoy these treats with the rest of us. I couldn't believe his maturity and intelligence, even though I see examples of them over and over again.

Carson, Age 2, with his brother, Seamus

He is also a sharp dresser.

I saw Carson in August, again at my parents' house (they love to host brunch when I'm in town.) He walked up the steps to the porch carrying a little bag.

"What's in your bag?" my Aunt Cathy asked, no doubt assuming that the answer would be toys or allowance money or something equally innocent.

"My pokes," Carson said conversationally.

"Oh" Cathy said. "What are your pokes?"

"I have diabetes," Carson explained, telling her that he has to take three shots of insulin every day. He has since he was two years old.

Carson is so matter-of-fact about having diabetes. He understands exactly what it is and what needs to be done about it. He can tell you his story without ever getting sad or feeling sorry for himself. Still, the reality is that there are bad days as well as good days.

Every year his family and friends participate in a fundraising walk as a team called "Carson's Thunder" to find a cure for our boy's disease. This year's walk along the Chicago Lakefront is October 4. We here at Deepish Thoughts don't ask for much, except your eyes and maybe your forgiveness for some of our more questionable posts. Oh yeah, and also your understanding when we stop posting for lengthy periods. OK! So we ask you for things. But today, we (that's the royal "we", I guess) are asking you to help out our wonderful friend Carson and all the kids who would benefit so much from your donation. There will be a cure for diabetes. Let's find it soon and make Carson's life easier. DONATE HERE.

Carson, his family, and Deepish Thoughts thank you.

Happy Birthday, Liz!

Justin, I need to meet your Dad

2009-09-10T18:24:00.000-07:00

Liz posted a hilarious link on Facebook today. It's a link to Twitter. I'm not sure why, but I have a pretty major dislike for both Facebook and Twitter. So I was prepared not to like this link she posted. Too bad for me, it was so funny that I cried.

Good thing Rob is in Colorado

2009-09-09T18:15:00.000-07:00

It turns out Bert and Ernie had it right.

Deepish Thoughts on Cultural Experience

2009-09-08T19:05:00.000-07:00

Rob and I recently decided that sitting on the couch watching episode after episode of The Wire may not be the best way to get our weekly dose of culture. Of course, it is a great way to get your weekly dose of West-Baltimore-on-TV culture, so I'm pretty covered on any information I was lacking when it comes to drug corners and the cops who split time between hunting the dealers and becoming extraordinarily inebriated at the local bars. I have increased my vocabulary and can now confidently use words like "mope", "hopper", and "stash" in a sentence. I have yet to work this knowledge into a prospective client presentation.

Now that everyone keeps saying summer is ending (it's not, by the way), we have decided to get up off the couch and spend some time getting really cultured in our willing city. And in other cities. We went to Pittsburgh for a wedding last weekend. Having never been there, I wasn't sure what to expect from the Steel City. Here are some things I learned:

1. Everyone in Pittsburgh owns a Steelers jersey.

2. Everyone in Pittsburgh is wearing their Steelers jersey right now.

3. Pittsburgh has a 7-story Andy Warhol museum with The Factory re-imagined on the top floor. Velvet Underground music, flashing lights, close-up video of Lou Reed sucking on a cigarette, couches.

4. The cab situation in Pittsburgh is different than that of New York. On Saturday after the wedding reception, we called several cab companies, only to learn that the wait was 2 hours long. (Steelers game. Obviously.) We took a bus and learned about Pittsburgh bus culture.

I really enjoyed the city. The wedding was on the Carnegie Mellon campus and the reception was at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. It was the end of August and absolutely gorgeous out. I told Rob I thought we should spend more weekends simply traveling to an American city and exploring it. He looked at me like I was wearing a Steeler's jersey and said "Right. With all our free time?"

It's true, we do tend to spend our time traveling for work, weddings, holidays to see family, etc. We don't have a ton of free weekends. So for Labor Day, we decided to stay in New York. We both had Friday off and we spent it having lunch at Otto, going to the Whitney Museum, and walking through Central Park. We met John for dinner at a tapas bar ("I thought you said topless," he complained when we arrived.)

We took our cultural expedition to Brooklyn on Saturday, to see Jay, Cameron, and Roan. We grilled out, watched Roan splash in his baby pool, and went to a block party. Okkkk, we walked past a block party. Cultural.

Sunday we cultured our way onto a train and went to Long Island to see my sister-in-law and her three kids. We had a small bonfire in the backyard and ate homemade apple pie.

Now we are exhausted by all of our activity, so we're going to curl up on the couch and watch The Wire. I missed the little hoppers.

Good Dog

2009-09-07T05:38:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, a variety of smallish pets came in and out of our lives with some regularity. We had goldfish, a gerbil, parakeets, and eventually a cat, Emily. My youngest brother Paul always wanted a dog and, swayed heavily by ubiquitous Taco Bell commercials, his obsession was chihuahuas. He really, really wanted one of those small, ratty dogs; I imagine he thought it would speak to him in a Spanish accent.

My mom had always had a dog growing up, something my grandpa made sure of. He is the kind of man who can still rattle off the names of every dog he's ever owned and tell you details about them, who will feed a dog ice cubes directly from his mouth, and who is just generally happier when accompanied by a canine companion (I'm assuming this, because I've never really known my grandpa without a dog. He's been between dogs, but that's not the same thing.)

When I left for college, my family was still dogless, though Paul's campaign continued. It was shortly after I graduated that my parents got Casey. Originally they named her K.C., an abbreviation of my mom's maiden name and our last name. But after my brother hooked a Grateful Dead collar around her neck, it was an easy evolution down the path to Casey Jones. Or Casey Lou, as she was later known. Casey was not a chihuahua. She was nothing close to a chihuahua. At first, she was a very cute ball of reddish brown fur, and she grew to be a lean, athletic medium-sized dog with a ridge. She could run like a greyhound, but she never spoke Spanish.

Casey was a quirky and, it must be said, neurotic dog. She did not like loud noises, and might slam her entire body into doors when she heard thunder. When I came home for holidays, she would be there to greet me, tongue first. I would sit at the kitchen table and she would lick my legs, my hands, my arms, until I complained loudly that someone should remove her tongue, The World According to Garp-style. One morning I woke up in the guest bedroom that had been my sister's. Someone was licking me directly on the mouth. I leaped out of bed, disgusted, but definitely wide awake.

There was also some confusion (Casey's) as to whether she was a dog or a person. The best evidence of this was when we all sat on the couch to watch TV. Casey would insert herself between two people, sitting upright on her butt, watching along with us. When asked to go to her box (the bed on the floor near the TV), she often acted like we must be speaking to someone else. She would stare straight ahead, as if to say, "What? I can't hear you. I'm trying to watch a program here."

Casey was a fierce champion of smaller, younger dogs, which was abundantly clear during our recent trip to Wisconsin when Liz's dog, Rigby, tried to eat my grandparent's dog, Lucy. Rigby was just a tad confused about whose house it was, since she had been the first to arrive. Also Lucy is small and might be delicious. Whenever Rigby advanced on Lucy, Casey was close behind, with distraction tactics or general threats. Still, Casey and Rigby remained friends, and Lucy left the trip in one piece, if just a bit nibbled on. Casey couldn't be everywhere at once, after all. Unless it came to my mom. The two of them seemed to have an unspoken bond and Casey always wanted to be near her.

They were together when Casey passed away on Sept 5, at home. She was nine years old and she died quickly and gracefully. She was buried in the backyard in her bed. I can't believe she's gone. We'll miss her very much, not in spite of her quirks, but because of them.

Here are some photos of Casey and her friends.

He sees me more like 4 times a year

2009-08-26T13:35:00.000-07:00

This weekend, my nephew Grant pitched for Arizona in the Junior League World Series Championship. His team played Aruba, who, in an odd turn of events, was the “home” team at the final game taking place in Michigan. Grant was a total rockstar. How do I know this? Because the entire game was broadcast on ESPN and it was seriously one of the coolest things ever. I saw several members of Rob’s family in the stands and watched Grant pitch an awesome game while the announcers talked about him. ON ESPN. I was so proud, and I have absolutely nothing to do with the success of this kid. I certainly have nothing to do with how tall he is.

Rob called Grant after the game and talked to him briefly while I yelled from the couch how awesome he was. When Rob hung up, he said, “Grant said to tell you he loves you.”

I nodded. “I’m very lovable.”

“Well yeah,” Rob said. “Because he only sees you twice a year.”

Happy Cats

2009-08-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

I went to yoga twice last week, which is notable since I haven't attended a class in something like 8 months. What have I been doing? Mostly walking, I guess, but that feels somewhat pathetic as a form of exercise considering my primary path is between the office and my apartment. It's not a short distance, but I'm wearing my work clothes, so there's not really a lot of perspiring and elevated heart rate action going on.

So I made myself go to yoga on Wednesday and I was really happy I did. The teacher, P., gave me a big hug and there was a live 3-piece band in the corner of the room: two guitars and a bass playing festive Spanish rhythms. As light and fun as the music was, it didn't quite take my attention away from the pain of moving my now inflexible body into previously simple yoga poses. I was so sore the next day that I forced myself to attend class once again on Friday.

As usual, P. een-a-haled and giggled his way through class. During triangle pose, he wandered over to my mat, sat down, and touched my engagement ring. "There's my friend!" he announced, laughing. "Yes, I like it, too," I said from my sideways position. He sat there, looking at me and giggling for a few more seconds and then trotted away to observe things about other people.

It's so hard to go to yoga, and the gym in general, sometimes. It feels like such a commitment to set aside 90 minutes after work for a class. Who am I kidding, it feels like a commitment to do anything other than collapse on the couch and figure out what episode of True Blood I have recorded. With this in mind, I also ordered two yoga videos online to do at home. I set myself up on Saturday, mat on the floor in front of the TV. Smokey immediately placed himself on the mat, too, either because he is a zen master or because he simply cannot let me perform any function without his assistance. Each time I tried to place my hand on the mat, I had to remove Smokey from underneath it. My sitting poses were accompanied by his constant circling of my entire body, punctuated by head butts into each knee as he passed it. As he sidled up to me while I was in triangle pose, I pictured him exclaiming, "There's my friend!"

I think I need a vacation

2009-08-18T13:29:00.001-07:00

I was walking to lunch with a coworker who was also out on vacation last week. He told me that his boss asked him yesterday if he was feeling “refreshed” from the time off. He just laughed in response, because NO. No matter how nice or fun or far away your vacation was, the feeling you get upon returning to the office does not remotely resemble refreshment. It’s more like panic, resentment, and/or a general sense of being at the bottom of a hole trying to dig your way out.

“If anyone had asked me that question yesterday,” I told him, “I would have punched them in the face.”

I am not nice in the early days after vacation.

Of course, the vacation itself was refreshing. Unbelievably so. I spent days alternating between the lake, the bonfire, and my bed. I took long walks in the woods with my mom, my sister, and the various dogs that accompanied us on the trip. On these walks, I was in charge of my grandparents’ dog, Lucy (also known as Lucifer), who had a charming habit of zigzagging into the woods until her leash was hopelessly wound around several small trees and I had to stumble in after her. Lucy, by the way, is the beagle dachshund mix who was about to make out with Rob in yesterday's post. They had a connection.

Every night in Wisconsin around 4 or 5pm, we headed out on a cocktail cruise on the pontoon boat. We circled the lake with our drinks and snacks like havarti with jalapenos on crackers, spicy olives and smoked trout, black bean dip and tortilla chips. On each trip, someone spilled the olives. This sounds like some kind of euphemism, but really, the olives just ended up on the floor of the boat. It's not meaningful, I don't think.

Among our wildlife sightings were a bald eagle eating a dead muskie (a two-fer!), loons, geese, more fish, and turtles. Also one weird bird that everyone took turns looking at through the binoculars, but no one could figure out. It certainly wasn’t going to be me…I was proud I could recognize a turtle considering what my average animal encounters in New York consist of (dogs, pigeons, the occasional rat in a subway.)

Spending the week with my grandparents was one of the very best parts of the trip, because I love them a lot and because everything out of my grandpa’s mouth is hilarious.

One evening, Liz’s boyfriend Rob mixed up a batch of margaritas and offered one to Papa.

“No thanks,” said Papa. “I don’t drink sissy drinks.” He then went back to his brandy manhattan garnished with totally manly cherries.

And Nana celebrated her 83rd birthday while we were there, so Liz and I made her a carrot cake to celebrate.

Liz decorated it.

A requirement on any family trip, of course, is silly games. And we played them. Joe actually created a Jeopardy game (I'm talking construction paper, markers, tape, and wholly original questions like "What is the significance of The New Collossus?" which is really hard to answer in the form of a question. This didn't turn out to be a problem though, since none of us actually knew what he was talking about.)

On our last evening, we played a particularly comical game of Guesstures. Highlights included Rob frisking himself and Liz's Rob trying to get us to guess "hydrant" though we were all screaming "machine gun."

Tomorrow at work, if anyone asks me if I feel refreshed, I'm going to close my eyes for a moment, think about the lake, my family, utter ridiculousness, good food and dogs. And maybe nobody will get punched.

Vacation

2009-08-17T16:13:00.000-07:00

Thursday Thought

2009-08-06T11:58:00.000-07:00

I’m not ever going to be one of those people who leaves the petsitter a note “from the cats.” If you’re that type of person, that’s ok. I’m cool with that. It's a personal decision.

Adventures in the Heartland

2009-08-05T17:34:00.000-07:00

Rob and I are leaving town on Friday for 10 days. I'm told we travel a lot, and though I guess this is true, I always think of "travelers" as people who go to far-flung, exotic places. Like Vietnam, South Africa, Schenectady. Rob and I have been on more of a domestic tour: Denver for me, San Francisco for him, Los Angeles for me, Pittsburgh for him. Which brings me to another point: in addition to traveling a lot, we travel solo a lot.

But here we are, 2 days and counting until our next trip together to the enchanting land that is known to its inhabitants and fans as...The Midwest. I think I'd like to call it The Wild Midwest, just to give it that sense of allure and romance that one normally associates with times past. And by times past, I'm not referring to the night my friends and I had a party at my house, took Ecstasy, and then drove all my little sister's friends home before heading to the beach. Just kidding. We did not go to the beach.

I love where I grew up. That doesn't mean I'm clamoring to move back there anytime soon, but there's just something so refreshing and NORMAL about that place. I guess I have to say that since I was formed there and everything. But I think it's no mistake that many of my best friends to this day are people I met growing up. Anyway, whether or not I'm biased, if you haven't been to Oak Park, Illinois, I recommend a visit. Famous for Frank Lloyd Wright, Ernest Hemingway, Kathy Griffin, and several top Deepish Thought commenters. Stop by my grandpa's house--he'll make you a brandy Manhattan.

Our upcoming trip actually starts in Indiana, at the home of Rob's brother John, where we will barbecue, hot tub, and heckle John's pet swans Frederick and Jewell. We then head to Oak Park for about a day and a half, and then up to Wisconsin to a house my grandparents bought many years ago with one of my uncles. The house is on Lake Archibald...Archibald would be a good name for a kid. Or an eagle...I digress. The lake is the center of all activity. We will either be lying on the pier, me looking at all of my brown relatives and trying to figure out how I ended up with the legs of Casper the Friendly Ghost, or on the pontoon boat with cocktails and cheese crackers--because we are elegant. Or maybe we'll be making s'mores at the bonfire, or making loon calls from a canoe.

All I know is that I could not be more excited about this trip. I will always love exploring new places, but sometimes it's really fun to just go home.

Slow Day

2009-08-03T14:32:00.000-07:00

Some smart blogger friends of mine have told me that if you just sit down to write, you can usually find something to write about. Though I think this is theoretically true, I'm just not sure how entertained you would be by my current stream of consciousness. So instead, look at this crazy elephant.

Poetic Justice

2009-07-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday night I went out for drinks with a friend. Over chips and guacamole, he told me that he thinks it is unbelievably stupid that people wear flip flops when they know it's supposed to rain. Though I am sometimes one of those people, I just nodded and the conversation moved on to other important topics, such as how spicy we like our guacamole and how old our cats are. Wow. It is sentences like that one that make it clear I will never be a rock star.

I thought about his footwear comment this morning, as I got ready to go to work. The forecast was 86 degrees with thunderstorms, so I threw on a skirt and my flip flops (also I put a shirt on), grabbed my umbrella, and headed out. My logic was thus: it was hot; I didn't want to wear rain boots. Also, I don't have any rain boots.

No rain on the way to work. No rain most of the way home from work. I made a quick stop at Whole Foods and left with a paper bag full of food, since I had forgotten the handy reusable plastic bags I am so fond of. No rain.

I was three blocks from home when it started, just a drizzle at first. By the time I was two blocks away, I swear what I was walking through could have been classified as a small tornado. The wind was whipping the rain so hard down 23rd street that I had to hold my umbrella directly in front of me like a shield. I was struggling with my three dripping wet bags, one of them full of groceries and starting to tear, another insufficiently protecting my lap top, when my shoe broke. The flip pretty much flopped right out of it. I tried to make my way to the side of the street to look at it, but there was nothing I could do. I had no free hands and the sidewalk was quickly becoming a river. People walked by without umbrellas, and though I know they were worse off than I was, all I could think was: I have to walk down 23rd Street wearing only one shoe. There are so, so many things wrong with that. 23rd Street is just ok when you're wearing shoes. If you're barefoot, it's a toilet.

The paper bag ripped more. I clutched it to my chest and kicked my shoe into a gutter. I hobbled home, every inch of me soaking wet and finally made it to my door, where I was greeted by Manny, the doorman. "I lost my shoe," I told him. "Did it break?" he asked. "You shouldn't wear flip flops when it's raining."

I'm Still Here. Mostly.

2009-07-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

So…when we last left off I was slacking on my blog duties and therefore, I don’t even know if anyone is there anymore, save my four lovely followers who probably get some kind of alert when I decide to put words on this page. Hi guys.

First up on the list of things to report on: my trip to LA. Awesome, as always. Liz took me back to the fabulous clothing stores that I love so much, and I stocked up. My mom bought us each a piece of clothing and declared how proud she was of us for shopping in a store where the average price of a sweater is $24. “I’m finally rubbing off on you,” she said, handing over her credit card. Debatable.

It was the kind of long, relaxing weekend that doesn’t necessarily lend itself to blog stories, so suffice it to say we had fun at the beach, by the pool, eating tapas, eating Italian, and making art (my sister taught me how to decoupage.) When I brought my artwork home, Rob looked at it and said, “Huh. Is that for your office?” I rolled my eyes and placed both pieces in our second bedroom, where he routinely ignores them.

More later. I don’t want to exhaust all my illuminating updates on one post. Next up: this past weekend spent with my 15- and 16-year old nephews from Long Island.

Deepish Thoughts on Traveling

2009-07-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

The alarm goes off at 6:30am. I hit snooze. I must be up by 7:00 in order to make it to the airport. At 7:30 I open my eyes and then sit straight up in panic. Shit. I didn't hit snooze; I turned the alarm off. I frantically run around shoving things into my suitcase. I manage to put on a bra but no makeup. I quickly shower but there is no time to do anything with my hair other than put it in a low librarian bun, the kind I favor when I am in need of a haircut but not desperate enough to actually make an appointment. I refuse to look at the clock as the cab inches through city traffic. By some miracle I make it to the airport in time.

I wait for 25 minutes in line for coffee, feeling vaguely threatened by the constant announcements that it is my last chance to get on the plane. I contemplate the possibility that I have rushed to the airport only to prioritize coffee ahead of an actual plane ride.

I drink all the coffee and curse the seatbelt sign. When it is ok to get up and move about the cabin, I hightail it to the bathroom. A quick look in the mirror confirms that without makeup and with my hair back I look exactly like my brother. Who is, as you may have guessed, a boy, and therefore not someone I strive to be mistaken for. I vow not to look in the mirror for the rest of the flight.

I read one entire book on my Kindle and then watch Sunshine Cleaning. It's a long flight to LA. But I never said it was an interesting one.

Look at it this way

2009-07-14T09:50:00.001-07:00

My friend John L (not to be confused with Johnny Vac) sent me this very interesting piece by Eugene Robinson on the Sotomayor confirmation hearings.

Two exciting things

2009-07-13T16:32:00.000-07:00

Thing 1: Joe makes an appearance in the new Johnny Depp movie Public Enemies! Some of you may know that Joe, in his retirement, has turned to the silver screen as an extra in a variety of films filmed in Chicago. He has now been on-set for Flags of our Fathers, Fred Claus, and The Dark Knight. Though he claims to do it for the free lunch, the haircuts, and the groupies, we all know he has just been waiting for his big moment. And now, 1 hour and several minutes into Public Enemies, he can be seen multiple times in a scene where Johnny Depp and some other guy go into a cigar shop that is a front for a bookie operation. See Joe be a bookie! I haven't yet, but I can't wait.

Thing 2: My phenomenal husband, who does take much abuse on this here blog, has bought me a Kindle. Ellie blogged recently about her experience with Kindle and I must say I am excited to try mine out. As soon as I finish the stack of books on the floor next to my bed. Or sooner, because I think if I don't download a book by tomorrow, I may discover that my new Kindle has been sent to Ellie for better use. If nothing else, I am flying to Los Angeles on Thursday to spend the week with Liz and my mom, and I think this will be the perfect solution to my "I can't decide what book to take on the plane so I'll just bring these five" problem.

It's nice to have exciting things happen.

Saying hello to the seventh month

2009-07-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

So far, I have spent the majority of July pretending it is not, in fact, July. I have nothing against the month itself, I just cannot believe it’s already here. It feels like summer is half over and I haven’t even wrapped my head around the fact that it arrived at all. This is likely due to the rainy month of June, both uncommon and unwelcome. My denial of this month has made blogging rather difficult. I wake up each day, pretending it is still June, much the way my friend John wakes up each day pretending he is still 29.

But the month has actually been a fun one, now that I’ve decided to acknowledge it. Rob and I flew to Fort Myers, FL last Thursday, to see his parents. They picked us up at the airport and we drove down to Miami, where our niece Jade was in a national volleyball tournament, representing the state of Arizona. I already feel like a shrimp kabob when I’m around Rob’s family, because even the 14-year-olds are over 6 feet. But now I was at a high school volleyball tournament: it was a whole new dimension of inadequacy. I craned my neck to talk to everyone, and then I ran around, looking for all of the players who were 5’4” like me so that I could stand next to them. The problem with that is that none of them were on Jade’s team, so they were probably wondering who I was and why I was standing so close to them with a huge smile of victory on my face.

Jade’s team won both games we saw, and after spending a couple of days in Miami with the family, we drove back to Rob’s parents place for 2 very relaxing days of going to bed early, lounging in their pool, reading, and watching the Federer/Roddick tennis match that I seriously thought might go on all night. However, I must add that if Rob’s mom told me ONE more time how tired I looked, I was going to throw her in the pool.

So now that I’m back in the swing of things at work, and I’ve admitted that the year is more than half over, I guess I might do some more blogging at some point. Maybe.

General Gaiety

2009-06-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

George and Donna came down from Boston this weekend with their two girls, Lael and Avery. I always feel like a very important person when Lael and Avery are around because they like to sit as close to me as possible--which sometimes means directly on me, they want to hold my hand everywhere we go, and they want to change their clothes based on what I'm wearing. Which backfired for me slightly when George told Lael that she couldn't wear flip flops on Saturday afternoon because we were doing a lot of walking and it would be bad for her feet. As an aside, when I was little, I don't remember anyone worrying about my arches. If I had wanted to walk to school in my Bert and Ernie slippers, I probably would have been allowed, as long as I didn't punch anyone at the breakfast table.

So she wanted to wear flip flops because I was wearing them. After George's decree, Rob gave me a very meaningful look, glanced at my flip flops, and I grudgingly changed into flats.

We spent the weekend walking around Chelsea, which included a trip to the new High Line park, on the elevated train tracks overlooking the west side of Chelsea, the Meatpacking District, and the Hudson River. It is a beautiful and very cool new addition to the neighborhood, and is also apparently a new tourist haunt, because we had to wait in line and get our hands stamped just to get into the park. Luckily, this seems to only be an issue on Saturdays.

Sunday was the Gay Pride parade and we took the girls to 8th Avenue--the heart of Chelsea--for lunch. Their eyes were wide as they observed all the action, rainbows, and creative store fronts. "Would any boy really want to wear pink underwear?" they wondered.

They asked several questions about what everyone was doing, and Donna explained to them that people were celebrating because they were proud of who they were. The girls nodded. We walked past a group of guys in teeny tiny shorts standing on their balcony, toasting the street and dancing around in boas.

"Happy Pride!" one shouted, raising his glass to us.

We raised our water bottles to salute him.

"Those guys are weird," Lael said, looking back at them curiously. I thought about what to say to her and "sometimes weird just means drunk" didn't seem appropriate.

"I think they're just happy," I said instead.

Then we got frozen yogurt.

Michael Jackson

2009-06-25T19:35:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson died today, and I am writing this down because I think it's important to keep track of where we are when big cultural events happen. And this, to me and clearly many other people--like that guy in LA who was interviewed on CNN tonight wearing one glove--is a big cultural event.

So, to make it official, I was at work today when the New York Times Breaking News Alert came in to say that Michael Jackson had been rushed unconscious to the hospital. And then TMZ announced that he was dead and everyone in my office forgot that we are not actually there to talk about and Google Michael Jackson. At 6pm, 4 people were in my office, one of them screaming "REFRESH!" every 7 seconds because (despite the early call from TMZ) CNN, the NYT, and the AP were not yet showing an official death. "Get out of my office!" I finally yelled.

Michael Jackson has become a tragic, controversial, frightening, and even comical figure. And I never, ever knew him, which is fine with me. But just like I'll always remember that I was about to pack up and leave the office when the LA Times finally refreshed, I also remember where I was when I first became a fan at age 7. My friend Beth and I used to put her Thriller record on and dance like crazy people in the living room. And that may have been one of the first experiences I had branching out from my parent's music and finding some of my own. Not a unique experience, I'm sure. Just something I'm thinking about today.

Ranger Danger

2009-06-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

As I sit down to deliver a Deepish update, I am having a little trouble figuring out how to describe the Colorado Mountains Bachelorette Camping Trip that I experienced this weekend. My friend Tash lives near Denver and is getting married in October. She and Steve have been together for something like 10 years—we all met in college. Because I bartended at the bar where Steve worked, Tash spent the first 5-6 years of their relationship thanking me every time we talked for introducing the two of them. She also spent the first year+ of their relationship commenting on his calves and saying things like “Oh my god, he’s so hot,” when he was sitting right there with us. On slow Sunday nights, we would sometimes go into the bar and study at one of the high top tables. I’d look up and Tash would be staring at Steve, sighing deeply and saying “Have you seen his calves?” Yes. Yes, I have.

I love this girl.

So I flew out on Friday and after the requisite trips to the liquor store, the grocery store, Tash’s house to load the car, someone else’s house to reload the car, and back to the grocery store, we were on our way. There were about 14 girls with us, and it is necessary to report that a fairly substantial number of them were lesbians and the rest were not. I mention this because Tash felt the need to make sure everyone knew exactly who was who. “This group of people,” she said on Friday, gesturing to 5 of us, “likes boys.” Which is funny, because Jess and Linda, her good friends who “like girls” were the ones who brought the penis straws and the penis water bottle that Tash had to drink out of all weekend. They also brought a rockin piñata that was filled with candy and tiny bottles of liquor. Sweet.

I have debated whether or not to introduce the subject of illicit materials onto Deepish Thoughts, but ultimately feel I must do it, because otherwise the following story makes no sense.

Friday night we were sitting around the campfire, some of us drinking, some of us smoking…things, and some of us doing both. I am not lying when I say I only drink. I told the girls when I got there that I would be happy to smoke “things” with them if they wanted me to spend the rest of the weekend in the tent not talking to anyone. Because that’s exactly what would happen.

It got dark. We were bundled in sweatshirts because it was getting chilly, but the fire was warm and comfortable and all of the stars that you can never see in New York City were up in the sky where they belong. Suddenly a white car with flashing yellow lights pulled up near the campsite. I recalled something Linda had said earlier that day: “If you see a white car with flashing yellow lights, let us know. That’s the park rangers.”

“The park rangers seem to be here,” I offered.

Profanity, giggling, and proclamations of disbelief arose. “It’s true!” someone else said. “There’s two of them and they’re getting out of the car.”

Our friend Jamie stood up and walked towards the rangers, who had official looking vests, walkie talkies, and a clipboard. They talked quietly for a minute, but she couldn’t keep them from approaching the campfire.

“Good evening, ladies,” said a woman with close cropped hair and a t-shirt that showed off muscular arms. “We’ve had some noise complaints. Do we have any underage drinking going on here?”

Pretty much everyone started talking at the same time, explaining that we were not even remotely underage, and that we would try to curtail any noise.

She seemed unimpressed. She pointed to one of the girls across the campfire. “You look pretty young, can I see some ID?”

The chosen one got up and walked over and the ranger led her a few steps away from the fire. She then came back to the rest of us and said, “Look, it really smells like [“things”] over here. I think I can see what’s going on.” She got on her walkie talkie, “We’ve got a 420. I’m going to need backup.”

I am now only slightly exaggerating when I say at least two people had heart attacks. 5 burst out laughing, and the ranger said “Are you ladies sufficiently freaked out? You’re on candid camera!”

Yes, this was Jess and Linda’s gag on the group (they had purchased the vests and walkie talkies solely for this purpose), and I must say it was hilarious after everyone’s heart rates returned to normal. The “ranger” then hung out for a drink and went back to her campsite next door.