She Just Walks Around With It

How Stuff Is And Things

2012-01-23T17:09:00.000-08:00

It's always hard for me to write something "real" (not that illustrations of gnomes isn't hardcore blogging) after a long break because I feel like you have no idea what's going on in my life and why would you want to hear about our experience observing a PRESCHOOL when the last time I wrote my kid was barely walking?

So here are some completely random udpates. It makes me feel like I'm clearing the decks to write more stuff later.

I will also number these updates for no reason.

Townsend is a delightful baby. He is happy ALL OF THE TIME.

Unless he's cutting teeth AND sick at the same time, which of course is happening right now. The amount of snot that can crust over a baby's nose in the middle of the night is astounding. And if you're not a parent, NOW YOU KNOW THAT. Still, I'm pleased that he will soon have 3 visible teeth. Eve spent 4 months of her life with only one tooth poking out from below.
Oh, hey! Boys and girls are different! Based on my extensive knowledge of having had exactly one (1) girl and one (1) boy, I am now an expert. Eve was hesitant to crawl, hesitant to climb, thoughtful about her physicality. Towns wants to run despite that he can't yet stand on his own. He tries to climb and mount everything in his path. He crawled up a flight of stairs yesterday. Also, banging. He bangs. LET'S BANG THINGS INTO OTHER THINGS. So, boys.
I am still 100% hellbent on losing weight and will resume posting videos AS SOON AS I get back to the weight I was pre-holidays. I took November and December "off" because I felt like it. I gained a little weight back.

Now I'm trying to settle into the mentality that the best approach is one that isn't 100% all-or-nothing. Medifast works REALLY REALLY well when you're on-plan completely. But here's the reality: it still works well even if you're not on-plan at all times every day forever and ever.

BTW, watch this "Shit Dieters Say" video immediately:

I say this because one of the worst things I do, and have always done, is think if I go "off" the diet/plan at one point during the day, then the whole day -- or, let's be honest, weekend -- is shot. I'm trying really hard to stop that dangerous thinking and be more trade-off oriented. I know WW is well suited for this, but I think Medifast can be, too. I just need to be smart and realistic about myself.
I read The Hunger Games because everyone told me I had to. I don't really know what to make of them.

By way of comparison, I haaaaaaaaated Twilight mostly because I didn't especially enjoy being a conflicted, forlorn, overly ridiculous teenaged girl when I WAS one, and adding sparkly vampires to the mix doesn't make it more bearable. (I prefer my conflicted, ridiculous girls to be adults on reality television shows.) So Hunger Games is way better in that regard.

But while THG is thoroughly engrossing and page-turny, it's also horrifyingly bloody and gory and gray and awful. And humorless. And post-apocalyptic. So really not my thing. And plus there's like no sex at all, not even with vampires. So somehow murderous teenagers are compelling, but sexually active teenagers is totally over the line.
The holidays have come and gone and this year was a doozy, in the good way. Both of my sisters came to visit, which has never happened before in the whole ten+ years I've lived in California, and we had a wonderful time being silly, drinking wine, and carrying on.

We* took lots of pictures. (*My sister, Sam.)

Eve @ Ravenswood Winery

Us @ Ravenswood Winery

My kids, niece & nephew, and Grandma & Grandpa

Healy @ William Hill Winery

Mike (my Brother-in-law) @ William Hill

Charlie, Evie & Towns @ our backyard

Samantha @ our backyard

Also, yesterday was a bit unfortunate, sports-wise.

But what she doesn't know won't hurt her.

For Football Fans Everywhere - YOU MADE ME WEAR SPARKLES!

2012-01-17T13:18:00.000-08:00

I was going to get into a long preamble. One about how my father was a nationally recognized athlete and sports fanatic who married a woman who couldn't stand televised competitions of any sort (sports, Olympics, even The Price Is Right) and who raised three daughters who were largely more concerned with halftime shows than anything else happening on the field.

My preamble was also going to mention something about how my sister, Healy was living in Boston when the Sox finally won the World Series and how it changed her baseball ambivalence forever. And about how my sister, Samantha, has slowly become a rabid Pats fan who knows enough about football that she and Ish talked for HOURS about the game over the holidays.

And then, yes. Something also about how my husband has an encyclopedic knowledge of everything sports-related and a true, thorough loving for sports that reminds me of my father's in very sentimental ways. Ways that want me to encourage BOTH my children to watch games with their dad and make local fandom a family thing. Go Giants! And holy hell! GO NINERS!!!

But um. I'll skip all that. Instead, I give you this. When true fandom goes horribly, horribly wrong.

It's not hard to imagine me being this girl. Not hard at all.

Where Have All The Burp Cloths Gone Gnome?

2012-01-13T17:29:00.000-08:00

When Eve was a baby big enough to "crawl" (and "crawl" meant, for several months, dragging her tiny body along the floors by her right arm like a wounded soldier), she went through a charming period where she spit up ALL THE TIME. For about three months, Eve would start army-crawling herself across the floor, puke up half her bottle, then slide herself through it. (All of her baby clothes from this period in her life have gray stains down the center.)

Now, those of you without children who ever did this sort of thing might be wondering: Um, once she spit up, why didn't you just clean it up BEFORE she could crawl through it?

Ha.

There are two answers.

Sometimes? It just happened too quickly. One second she'd be happy and clean and dry, the next second she'd be two feet to the left and have milkpuke on her chin and a trail of milkpuke behind her.

But mostly? Because the burp cloths were gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be found. We owned eleventeenmillion burp cloths and we had them stacked and ready to go in handy places and then they were carried away by puke gnomes.

This post is about puke gnomes. Spit-up goblins. Burp cloth monsters. Whatever you want to call them. They exist.

And now that I have ANOTHER crawler...

Well. I hoped he'd be different.

What a happy baby boy!

He eats differently than Eve and boy, does he ever move differently than Eve!

Wow! Look at him go!

He is fast and on all fours (and climbing walls and trying to mount the cat).

Yet despite their differences, he has reached the age where he, too, has become a Master Of Spit-Up.

Of course THIS time? THIS time we have MORE burp cloths. We have all the ones left over from Eve's days spent mopping the floor with her goo PLUS tons more we added to the collection to ensure we'd never be without burp cloths.

So that now whenever we're like, "Hey, where's the baby?"

And he's all:

BLEEERGH!

And we're all:

HE IS SPITTING UP AGAIN! QUICK! GET A BURP CLOTH!

We just have to turn to our burp-cloth supply! On our burp-cloth table!

EXCEPT NO!!!!!!!

WHAT IS THIS???

BLEERRGGGGGGGGHPUUUUUKKKKEEEEE!

It's the Puke Gnome! The Spit-Up Goblin! THE BURP CLOTH MONSTER! He has come to our home when our backs were turned and has made off with the entire stack of burp cloths!!! AGAIN!!!!!

Bleeeerrggggg! I'm absconding with the burp cloths and returning to my home land! We need the burp cloths more than this family!

There are no burp cloths. Anywhere. So in like, 3 seconds we have to go from seeing the baby spitting up to our empty table to weighing our options.

Do we rape the environment just a little harder by using a paper towel?

Pretty sure Dr. Sears doesn't recommend dry paper towels for wiping goo off the baby. Or anyone who cares about being green. This is not a good idea. Works, though.

Do we use our disgusting, germ-infested, crusty (but cute!) decorative dish towel?

No.

You know darn well what we use.

A sleeve.

At least, we use the sleeve of our shirts to wipe the mess off the kid. Then something else to get the mess off the floor.

And then go searching for that damned gnome.

In case you're wondering how I've been? I've been fine. But probably
you can guess from this post that the baby isn't yet sleeping through the night.

The "Let's Ask A Two-Year-Old A Question" Game!

2012-01-11T13:42:00.000-08:00

My two-year-old daughter, Eve, is delightful.

Most of the time.

But some of the time she likes to play the game we call, "I'M TWO & YOU SUCK AT PARENTING!"

It begins by one of us, let's say me, asking the happy, bubbly girl a question.

"Eve? Would you like to wear your pink shoes?"

You do this, this question-asking, because you THINK it is a good thing for her development. You THINK it requires her to process and weigh information and then communicate a thought in response.

You are so stupid.

What you are ACTUALLY doing when you ask a two-year-old a question is, on occasion, offending EVERY MOLECULE IN HER BODY YOU HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE MOTHER. For the amount of pain and suffering you will experience for asking your question, you may as well have just set the kid's hair on fire* -- honestly, there would have been less screaming and putting out a fire is comparatively easy to do.

*Pro Tip: do not set your child's hair on fire.

But you don't know if this moment, this second of this day is going to be the moment when asking your child a question will result in fiery tantrums. Like a rat in a trap who sometimes gets a pellet and sometimes doesn't, the unpredictability keeps you coming back for more. (Yes, you are a rat in this analogy.)

But something changes in your child's eyes. Perhaps she senses weakness. Perhaps she is hungry or tired or annoyed by that invisible thing she hates, but you have messed with the wrong question-askee. The fangs come out, along with the word, "No."

You messed up.

You immediately try to switch tactics. Instead of asking if she wants to put her pink shoes on, you ask if she would rather put on her PINK or her BLUE shoes. You think "no" is no longer on the table.

You are wrong.

And now you're in bargaining mode. You can't leave the house until she puts on her shoes, and you have somewhere to be and she doesn't care. And why would she? SHE IS TWO!

"Evie, let's put on your shoes. Let's try the new sparkly shoes! We can go for a ride! In the car! But with your shoes! Can you please put your shoes on? Look, Mama's wearing shoes! Everyone outside is wearing shoes! You have to wear shoes!" Note: Smile in this image is completely faked. Toddler is well aware of that fact.

Which is when suddenly you start saying really crazy things in the hopes that something, anything, will stop the NO train.

"What about rocket shoes! Pony rides! Music! Ice Cream! Cookies! Disco! Sprinkles! Unicorns!" Note: Now looking manic.

Ah. There it is. The terrifying question glint has gone from her eyes. Something you said worked!

AHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You are now giddy with power! You have tamed the beast and it is possible you will actually get out of the house! With your child! Who will be wearing shoes! For the mere cost of a cookie!!!! (Well, and most of your dignity. But that is neither here nor there.)

The game is over! You are both winners! Hooray!

The Pinterest Dilemma

2012-01-10T13:59:00.000-08:00

Pinterest is like the best and worst of all worlds. Because one second you're reading inspirational quotes...

Sidebar!
I hate inspirational quotes. I'm horrible and jaded, sure, but also I tend towards practicality. I absolutely believe you can do almost anything if you put your mind to it, but I prefer prescriptive motivation instead of things that are like, "Dream magical dreams and magically they will come true because of all your magical wish dust!"

Whereas I saw this posted yesterday and I want to print it out and tape it to my wall. It just says:

DO THE WORK

Though I dislike contrived motivational things, I still find that Pinterest gets my "it takes a lot of work to succeed" motor running.

Which is key. Because as I was saying: One second you're reading inspirational quotes about how awesome everything can be...

...and the next second you're staring straight into a photo of some amazing foodie concoction that involves everything delicious in the whole world.

I totally made up "Individual quad-cheese lasagnas" but I want one right now. That's why I'm drooling in the picture, obviously.

And always the comments are like, "this is sooooo good!" and "this is so easy to make!" and you're like, "I could totally be a domestic goddess and make this and have my entire family worship me! I LOVE PINTEREST!"

(Mama has made something delicious (albeit invisible in this particular rendition) and the family lauds her! Dada is applauding, in case you were wondering what was going on with his arms. The baby is in a high chair, not walking on stilts. The toddler isn't sitting in her chair because she is never sitting. I don't know why the table doesn't have legs. The important thing is, Mama is wearing a crown.)

But then, just as you're wondering if you're going to make the 17-layer choco-cream-sugar-dip or the guaca-roni pizza bread sufflé casserole, you are bombarded with all the cute girl clothes and images and styles and fashion ideas.

The cutest outfit ever! Except not when you try to wear it on your current body.

(Horizontal strips aren't even slimming on slim people. Cute little jackets don't fit over giant melon boobs and even if I do find a jacket in my size, it ends up being wider than it is long. Which is defying laws of physics AND fashion. Also, boot socks are less attractive when you're short. The pair I recently ordered can be pulled up to my crotch and I'm not even kidding.)

The idea is good. The execution...not so much.

So. Yeah.

I took a couple months off from my recent dieting gung-ho-ness because for lots of reasons (time and motivational management during the holidays, mostly). I'm not proud of it, but I only consider it a hiatus. I'm back on plan as of yesterday.

Which means I need strength. I love me some Pinterest, but I will really need help to focus more on the health and fashion posts and less on the CHEESE! ones. Totally doable, as long as I remember my own new mantra.

DO THE WORK.

Although Ghandi probably thinks I'm super great just as I am.

Job Interviews In The Age Of Social Media, When You Tweet About The Bachelor And Swear On Your Blog

2012-01-04T12:39:00.001-08:00

I was selected to participate in something called "Present The Best You" Online contest, hosted by Monster.com about job interviewing. (Scroll down to win stuff.)

Yes. "Present The Best You." FROM A WOMAN WITH A BLOG ENTRY CALLED "MASHED POTATO BOOBS." I give Monster a whole lot of credit.

But hey: if you want to find me on BeKnown, a new Facebook app that lets you professionally connect with others on FB, just click here! BECAUSE YOU TOTALLY DO.

*************************************************

Now, yes. Mashed potato incidents aside, I AM gainfully employed and have actually held very real, very professional jobs.

And also I did write a post once a job interview I went on, several years ago, where I casually and obviously without forethought mentioned that I had a blog which was kind of a disaster almost.

You can read the whole post here but the point was, well. I was an idiot. I had no business bringing up my personal blog during a professional interview because I did NOT want the interviewer (a VP no less) to read my blog because of all the writing about bruises and dates and plus swear words. And back then, waaaaaaay in the blog dark ages of 2005, I was blogging anonymously, so it's not like Googling my name would have landed the VP on a post where, say, I have brilliantly sketched myself drinking directly from a red wine bottle.

But you know? Times have changed. We're not blogging anonymously and many of us aren't Facebooking or Tweeting or checking-in anonymously, either. Now every job interview begins with a thorough Googling and perusal of your social media life.

And you know that. And maybe (hopefully) if you're in the land of job-seeking, you have thought about your online reputation. You know what happens when you Google yourself, you know what images appear on Flickr, you know you haven't hidden all your FB albums. Which is great. Frankly, I'm not here to tell you otherwise. As someone who shares pretty much everything with the online world, I'm not about to tell you that you need to password-protect your life in order to be hired. But guess what I do have?

Three tips on how to approach interviewing when so much of your life is online and findable (from one social media junkie to another):

1. "Be Prepared" takes on new meaning. Research them, of course. But research you, too.
With so many fun tools at our fingertips, being prepared for your interview doesn't just mean looking at the hiring company's website. It means finding what others are saying about the company. It means looking up who's currently working at the company AND who used to work there. I also always go searching for information about the people who will be meeting with me -- it's not always fair when they have your resume and you don't have theirs, so BeKnown and LinkedIn can really help even the playing field.

Ah, but it's also a smart idea to take a deep breath and Google yourself. Maybe you've done it a million times already, but do it again. What story are you telling? If there's anything you stumble upon that you'd be embarrassed for an employer to see, take it down. If it's in the public domain, it's perfectly acceptable for an interviewer to bring up.

2. Don't Be Yourself. Be Better.
As I well know (OMG HOW WELL I KNOW), we are all flawed. We all spill and trip and bruise and say embarrassing things. We all have unkempt days (WEEKS) and untidy lives, inside and out. Maybe your social media outlets do nothing but illustrate this. Hi.

But your potential employer's primary objective is NOT to know what "the real you at home" is like. Your potential employer needs to know what you at your best is. What is your professional you? What are you capable of doing every day in your best version of you? What will you show clients and coworkers? What are you like when you're "on"?

Your interview is your one opportunity to supplement the online version of yourself with your other dazzling assets. Dress up. Speak well. Shine your shiniest self. And whatever you do, don't let the informality of social media lead you to believe that you are friends with your interviewer; just because she left a comment on your blog post or is now following you on Twitter doesn't mean you're now BFFs.

3. Practice, Practice, Practice.
Um, so, it's established that you're online a lot. Your interviewer knows it, you know it. By virtue of you reading this post, I know it. That means that every conceivable tool for "acing" the interview is at your disposal -- assuming you're a good fit for the job you're seeking. Your interviewer shouldn't be able to ask a single question that catches you off-guard. Nope. Not one. So tell me, do you know where you'll be in five years? Do you know your greatest weaknesses? Do you know how to not only answer questions, but give examples and quantifications with your answers? Do you know why manhole covers are round?
Here's a fantastic list of questions you should arm yourself with answers to before heading into any interview, including (my favorite): Who do you follow on Twitter, and why?

Thank you so much to Monster.com for this opportunity, and specifically to BeKnown, a fantastic new Facebook app that "allows you to set up a professional profile directly on Facebook...separate from your personal Facebook page." Handy, no? I mean, networking right on Facebook makes a lot of sense. Keeping your photo albums separate does, too. :)

Click here to get the Facebook app.
Click here to download the iPhone app.

Oh, hey. Monster.com furnished me with a makeup kit and business card holder for participating in this contest and you can win a kit and holder, too! Please leave a comment (ideally you will also join BeKnown) and you're as good as entered! Contest ends January 9 (EOD) so GET GOING!

About BeKnown:

Monster.com recently launched BeKnown, a professional networking app for Facebook. BeKnown allows you to set up a professional profile directly on Facebook that is completely separate from your personal Facebook page. One of the apps newest features, College Pages, even provides a way for alumni to network professionally on Facebook and view job postings from their fellow graduates!

With BeKnown College Pages:

Any jobs posted by alumni on BeKnown are added to the College/University profile page and Alumni with job opportunities can post jobs to students and recent alums for free
Students can follow their school and build relationships/connections with alumni working at top companies & discover alumni jobs

In addition to College Pages, BeKnown also lets you conduct a job search of Monster's database of jobs without ever leaving BeKnown or Facebook. By tapping into the networks of their Facebook friends, young professionals can easily connect, send messages, and see who among their existing contacts is connected to a company or job opportunity they are interested in.

“As soon-to-be college graduates start to think about their entry into the workforce, their first step should be building out their professional networks using the invaluable connections they have right in front of them,” said Tom Chevalier, Global Product Manager for Monster Worldwide. “Alumni networks are a key source for career opportunities for college graduates, so we wanted to make it as easy as possible for them to connect and engage right from BeKnown.”

Remember That Time When I Used To Blog?

2011-12-09T17:12:00.001-08:00

It was awesome.I love you and miss you so much. I'm coming back, I swear it.

The Best Cranberry Sauce Ever Because Wine

2011-11-24T09:42:00.001-08:00

It's rare for me to post any recipe, ever. So when I do, you know it's got to be good. This cranberry sauce is easy and festive. Enjoy!

2/3 c sugar
3/4 c dry red wine
1 cinnamon stick
1-3 strips of orange zest, to taste
1 12-oz bag of cranberries

Put the sugar, wine and cinnamon stick in a saucepan and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Stir just enough to keep the sugar from sticking to the pan.

Once boiling, reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until sugar is dissolved and the wine is reduced a little (3-5 minutes).

Add cranberries and orange zest and let the sauce simmer, stirring here and there, until it thickens (10-12 min).

Remove from heat, and remove the cinnamon stick and orange zest. Let it cool in pan or in serving bowl, but do not refrigerate.

I like to garnish with fresh strips of orange zest for color.

Kim Kardashian, Salman Rushdie, Twitter, And Everything Winning On The Internet

2011-11-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

Maybe you were like, "I wonder how Kristy's diet is going?" and decided to stop by to find out. And then instead of learning anything about my weightloss efforts, you discovered that I'm actually BFFs with one of the world's greatest authors ever to live, ever. And then maybe you were all, "Um, if Kristy was actually friends with Salman Rushdie, she probably would have mentioned this earlier," to which I replied, "That is absolutely not relevant."

Here is what actually happened.

Perhaps you may have heard that Kim Kardashian is getting divorced. I know, I know. But it's true. And just when I thought I'd seen every kind of Tweet and trending topic possible on the subject, this magic happened:

Yes. THE Salman Rushdie. Making fun of Kim Kardashian. In Limerick. ON TWITTER.

My mind was happily blown, as I was reminded that not all intelligentsia live in a technophobic cave ignoring everything pop culture. Some artists just have funnier things to say about it.

I was moved to tweet this:

Well.

You can imagine my surprise when my phone pinged, just moments later, because he replied.

I literally started sweating and had to hide in a closet while I composed myself.

I nervously tapped out my lame (yet actually? totally accurate) reply:

Quite obviously my brilliance stunned him into silence, although that's not really surprising. What IS surprising is that he allowed our friendship to become public knowledge. But I guess this means I can finally admit we're, like, totally besties.

It feels good to get that off my chest.

UPDATE: HAHA. The Gothamist noticed the tweet. Thanks for letting me know, Sophie-Anne!

Happy Birthday, Na-Na

2011-10-20T22:52:00.000-07:00

I haven't ever mentioned it here, not really. But obviously if I'm working full-time -- even from my house -- I'm not watching my children full-time. We have a childcare provider here Mon-Friday.

Well, actually, we have three. Because we found a wonderful, amazing nanny who isn't interested in being with one family all week. (Who can blame her?) So she comes 2.5 days/week. Her name is Juanita and she is kind of the love of my life. (Through various twists and turns and for what it's worth, we also have Juanita's mom here 2 days a week, who is basically Mom Of Amazing, and yet a third nanny for one-half of one day each week who is awesome. Because this is what happens if you don't do the daycare thing. Every day we're shuff-a-lin'.)

What happens when Mama is in charge of her child:
Eve finds Mama's "wips." Click for larger.

But this is about Juanita.

Juanita has been watching Eve since Eve was 8 months old. Eve loves Juanita with all her heart, probably more than she loves me because Juanita actually knows what she is doing with children, whereas I do not, as evidenced by the story I am trying to tell.*

Plus, Juanita is younger, prettier, wears better makeup AND is more tattooed, bejeweled, and manicured than I am. These are the sorts of things that two-year-olds notice and find interesting. Two-year-olds are not so interested in Mama's "yoga pants" and "not makeup." (Although points to me for having a gall-bladder scar, which Eve adores. "MORE BOO BOO!")

Towns thinks "Na-Na ROCKS!"

Juanita -- aka "Na-Na" -- just had a birthday. For two days prior to (what I wanted to be) the momentous occasion, I worked on Eve.

We got Na-Na a present, we made Na-Na a card.

We talked about "Happy Birthday" a LOT, facilitated by the Birthday episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, which (as it happens) Eve also loves more than me.*

So on the actual morning of Juanita's birthday, with only 20 minutes left before her arrival, we practiced. Like a million times.

Me: What are we going to say when we see Na-Na?

Eve: HAH BIR-DAY, NA-NA!!!

Me, as though my child has recited the Gettysburg Address: THAT'S RIGHT! VERY GOOD! YOU'RE SO SMART! HIGH FIVE!

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

When Juanita arrived, rather than squeal with delight and rush to give her a hug, which Eve does every other morning upon Na-Na's arrival, Eve ran to the sofa and climbed on it. And sat there, as though What? No big deal? I'm sitting on the sofa.

Me: Eve? Who is it? Is Na-Na here?

Nothing.

I asked Eve if we had a present for Na-Na. I asked her if we had a card for Na-Na. I asked her if we had a special thing we were going to say to Na-Na.

Nothing.

Me: What do we say to Na-Na!? What do we say? We say Haaaa....? HAAA....?

Nothing.

Eve responded by behaving as though I were completely crazy and she had never seen or heard of any of the things I was alluding to, and as though Juanita was a complete stranger not worthy of eye contact.

Um.

It took several minutes of coaxing, then ignoring, then coaxing again before Juanita and I persuaded Eve to get off the sofa and participate in their normal "good morning" routine of hellos and hugs and kisses.

And so, after Eve was back to her everyday self, I decided to try again.

Me: Eve? Remember? We talked about this? We have something to say to Na-Na today! What do we say? WHAT DO WE SAY TO NA-NA!?!?!

This time Eve acknowledged me. She looked at me as though she were wracking her brain to try to figure out what in God's name I wanted from her. And then it happened.

In a split second her eyes widened and she smiled her adorable toothy grin. She knew she had figured it out. She'd finally putting together what she was supposed to say to get Mama to shut up.

Eve turned to Na-Na.

And in a loud, clear voice, she exclaimed: GOOOOOOO NINERS!!!!

*In no way do I ACTUALLY think my daughter loves her nanny or the television more than her Mama. Though maybe fish sticks. Hmm. No, really, I kid. If I were truly concerned about those things, I wouldn't write them so nonchalantly. I didn't even want to make this footnote, but I am trying to head off anonymous lectures at the pass. You know.

I Made A Craft I Saw On Pinterest And It Worked And I Took Pictures And Now I'm Fucking Martha Stewart

2011-10-16T21:34:00.000-07:00

FIRST and foremost, if you haven't discovered Pinterest yet, you are missing out on my current favorite website and diversion. (Question: What is the difference between diversion and obsession? Answer: Shutup.)

In case you don't know, Pinterest is basically a shared inspiration board -- all visual and full of amazing, fantastic ideas and crafts and recipes and fashions and finds and DIY ideas you'd never come up with on your own but will be amazed by. Seriously. I haven't been so enthralled with a website since maybe Twitter -- and Twitter took longer to win me over.

I even went to the local Pinterest meet-up a few weeks ago, just because I wanted to be around the people who made the site possible.

The Pinterest t-shirt is a little big on Eve.

Anyway.

While most of the things I see on the site fall into the "aspirational" category -- home decor I could never make work, fashions for women three feet taller and 100 pounds lighter than I am, hairdos I would end up in the hospital trying to do myself -- there are MANY great ideas I swear I will employ.

One such amazing, clever, and easy(ish) craft ideas I found was a tutorial for a Colored Rice Table. A table! To occupy toddlers! That's not sand or water-filled! (Very important because Eve has entered a stage where she would spend all day playing in the sink if we'd let her.)

Not only does a rice table make sense, but the photo from the Shared & Remembered blog was so gorgeous, I had to try it:

So this Saturday morning, we saddled up the family wagon, headed to WALMART (YES, YOU HEARD ME) and bought a ginormous bag of rice, a plastic bin with a lid, and what I thought was food coloring.

And then we took it all home and got to work.

HOW TO MAKE A COLORED RICE TABLE APPROPRIATE FOR TODDLERS

Direct from the Share & Remembered blog, which you should go visit for more amazing ideas like these:

I measured out the rice (4 cups) and put it in a Ziploc bag with about 2T of food coloring or liquid water colors (works great!) and 3 T of rubbing alcohol. The kids helped me mix the rice in the bags to spread the color. We put them on pans to dry in the sun.

Don't you love when craft instructions are one sentence long? Well, actually, if you're anything like me, the answer is no. Because you don't really have any idea what you're doing and more instruction and explanation is always welcome.

Thus, here are my notes:

If you buy a 20-lb bag of rice, you don't also need two smaller-but-still-giant bags of rice as well. The 20-lb bag will be plenty.
The thing that WalMart sells that's in the food decorating aisle with all the crafty stuff? That looks like it's food coloring but is called "Icing Color" and is in cute little jars? It's not food coloring exactly. It's a really, REALLY, REALLY concentrated colored substance that is like a jelly. If you're not careful, it will stain your hand. (But not your counters or child.)
I don't have any idea why you use alcohol instead of water, but probably because water will seep into rice immediately and alcohol...doesn't? And maybe dries faster? I don't know, Craft Physics.
Given that I had this weird jelly substance, I wasn't sure if you were supposed to mix it with the alcohol before adding it to the Ziploc bag full of rice, or if you just throw everything into the bag and hope for the best. But I decided it made sense to add the alcohol to the jelly in a small bowl and mix it around -- making the jelly a little more liquid-y and easier to mix with the rice.
If you end up using these color-jellies instead of normal food coloring (they worked fine and had lots of color options and were cheap, at $1.68/jar), you do NOT need 2T. In fact, you need like, barely half a TBS, depending on how deep a color you're trying to get. Play around with it. The good thing is that if the color is too concentrated, you can just add more rice to the bag while you're still mixing it/before it dries. If the color is too faint, just add more.
I had about 1/4 of the bag of rice left even after using 5 colors with more than 4C in each, so I decided to line the bottom of the bin with it. I figured once all the colors were mixed up, having white in there would look nice, and what's the harm in having more fun stuff to play with?

Here were the results! So pretty! (Click for larger! They don't suck!)

Mixing is totally fun!

Note: ground is NOT wet because it was raining. Ground is wet because Eve turned on the hose because she will do anything to play in water. We need a new diversion!

The vibrancy of the color is due entirely to my having no idea how much "Icing Color" to use.
It kind of worked in my favor!

So pretty! Just needs to dry a little before toddler hands get into it!

You can't tell, but I have this long bin on top of another plastic bin turned upside-down.

After drying:

Better than a sandbox in every way! Eve loved the table and cried when she had to come inside to eat dinner. "MORE RICE PLAY!" she said.

As far as I'm concerned, that's a rave review.

Ten Years Ago Today

2011-10-13T22:32:00.000-07:00

On the morning of October 13, 2001, I left my sister's apartment in Boston. I gassed up my black Cabrio convertible and headed west.

Ten years ago today, I started my cross-country road trip -- the one that followed the end of my marriage and kickstarted the rest of my life.

I couldn't, didn't, foresee where I'd be a decade later. Here, on October 13, sitting in a darkened home office in my house in Napa, barely able to keep my eyes open long enough to cobble two sentences together. My husband is downstairs watching ESPN and doing dishes. Both of my kids are asleep. I have just closed my work email for the night.

I am utterly exhausted, but that's okay. Because I'm bone tired from living -- really living -- a life I couldn't even picture ten years ago.

I'm really happy to be here.

I HATE THIS PART

2011-10-12T17:35:00.000-07:00

So here's the thing.

I'm going to lose the weight I want to this time. I have no doubt in my mind. None.

Ugh, but there are lots of parts I hate. HATE. HATE.

Some people say getting started is the hardest part and I think that's a big, fat lie. Getting started is easy. Getting started is saying WOOHOO! and being all eager and bright-eyed and delusional about how long and hard this whole journey* is going to be. You don't think of it as a journey in the beginning. You just think, "Tomorrow I won't eat so many damn carbs and then I will be a size 6!"

It's after the first day,
the first three days,
the first three weeks
that it gets really hard.

Oh, before I forget! Here's the video from Week 4 which I forgot to post here.
I get stuck in my dress and I'm not even kidding. Also there's something about plus-size shopping.

Because that's when you're saddled with reality. And reality is: it's a millionteen times more difficult and time-consuming to lose weight than it is to put it on.

Suddenly you realize you really ARE on a fucking journey, not just a "let's try this out for a little while" escapade.

I will tell you right now: I have been on this journey for five weeks. I am doing fine. Food-wise I have been on-plan every day except ONE. And that was for a dinner party where I actually made Argentinian tamales with corn pudding and you'd better believe I ate them because that is the single most ambitious thing I've done in the kitchen in recent memory, save for when I tried to clean up "flour" while my toddler was playing with water in the sink.

Do not do that. Paste. Everywhere.

Anyway. Drink-wise I have had some cocktails here and there. (As such, I have learned that I can have a drink or two and not gain weight, but I won't lose any, either. MEH.) (But no surprise.)

I have not quite lost 20 pounds. Close, but no.

And that is wonderful, yes, except. UGH. I still weigh more than I did when I GOT pregnant with Towns.

I don't mean to set unrealistic goals. I haven't. The real issue is that I gained weight so quickly with pregnancy (and after it) that my milestones are all messed up.

I need to lose 30 pounds before I am the weight I was when I got pregnant.
Sigh. That wasn't so long ago.
I need to lose 40 pounds before I am just about the weight I got to when Medifast was working for me and I was about to head to BlogHer '10.
This means being able to wear all the clothes I bought around then.
I need to lose 45 pounds before I FINALLY ACTUALLY FINALLY ACTUALLY weigh less than I did when I arrived in San Francisco. Ten years ago.
This was my first target when I started Medifast the last time.
I need to lose 50 (fucking) pounds before I weigh under 200.
My actual first, big, scary, necessary target goal.

Fifty is a lot of pounds.

Oh, I'll do it. It just means I'll be cranky in the meantime. By which I mean NOW, when I'm almost 20 pounds down and still not fitting into anything.

/cranky

In lieu of a video this week, here is what my progress looks like so far. (Thanks to my iPhone App called "Track Your Weight" and I can't link to it because I can't figure out how.)

For now, we're going to ignore that bright red "Obese" line along the bottom, light years away from my actual weight, that sort of makes it look like I've flatlined.

Next up? Telling you about my trip to the gym and meeting with a trainer where they hook you up to a machine that reads your body cells and then gives you a printout that looks like a receipt that tells you more about your actual body fat and water and muscle than you ever wanted to know. Kind of like the Wii except without the sad trombone music.

The Oxford Comma

2011-09-29T21:54:00.000-07:00

Or, as I like to call it, The Series Comma:

I have shared this gem on Facebook, where it originated from a man named Paul Jeannotte whom I do not know. But wish I did.

The Great De-Plumping Project! Week 3!

2011-09-27T21:17:00.000-07:00

This week was a tremendous success and not really a success. It depends on how half-full your glass is. Mine is definitely half-full. Of protein shakes that come out of little packets.

Hello, and welcome to my third week weigh-in on Medifast. Wherein I share a valuable life-lesson with you and I'm not even kidding.

You know. The more I make/watch these videos, the more I'm shocked I'm doing them. And also how bug-eyed I seem. I'm not saying that to be mean about myself, I'm just saying that I never SEEM bug-eyed in the mirror and then the camera comes on and...I don't know. Chins I get. My face looking rounder I get. But bigger eyes? Is this something having to do with lenses and physics?

Anyway, to prep you for this week's adventure-on-camera, please note the following:

I dispense advice? Sort of? I don't know, I'm not what you would consider a "helpy" kind of person so feel free to ignore me. I just happened to learn a valuable lesson this week. So I shared.
Some weird dubbing things happened. At least, I think it's called dubbing. I don't really understand how to make iMovie work -- I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT. For some reason, my sound and picture get "off" somewhere halfway through and it seems like I've dubbed my video incorrectly. Which is just stupid. If I knew how to dub my movies I'd give myself a wicked cool accent and/or a Japanese voice track that I'd just publish captions over. DUH.
I'm getting my roots done on Thursday.

GREAT GOOGILY MOOGILY! WTF KIND OF THUMBNAIL IS THIS???

OOH! MORE BLOGGING ABOUT MY BOOBS!

Thank you all for chiming in last week about scary bra-shopping and giant boob sizes. You are very helpful. (More "helpy" than I, anyway.) The reality is that I have NO idea if my boobs will get smaller as I lose weight, but that's what's happened every OTHER time in my life I've lost weight, so I'm hopeful.

I agree that it is worth getting fitted for a bra if you haven't been. I have, repeatedly.

I also agree that shopping at weird European stores is the only way to get some bras that fit. My sports bra cost more than my running shoes and it came from London. Which sounds kind of sexy but I assure you IT IS NOT. It's like a Medieval torture device updated to be soft and white and to "breathe." But even less sexy than wearing it is getting IN to it. NO I WILL NOT POST THAT VIDEO.

DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION FOR ME?

Sorry, that's a total douchey question. ("Like reading about ME? Let's ask more about ME!") But honestly I have NO idea what I'm doing making these crazy videos, so if there's something you'd like me to say or do or answer, I'd love to have something to go on.

As promised, you can order Medifast at a discount ($50 off an order of $275 or more) by using Coupon Code: SHEWALKS

Yes, Medifast is sponsoring me, but I'm certain they didn't expect a frizzy-haired lunatic with bad roots to start posting videos on YouTube talking about her issues, so kind of the disclaimer goes both ways.

A Little "Back East" Humor

2011-09-26T21:59:00.000-07:00

The Great De-Plumping Project! Week Two! Boobs!

2011-09-21T17:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I woke up, weighed myself, and decided to run to the computer to make a Week Two video. Before coffee.

This means I'm crazy. It also means:

I am not wearing makeup OF ANY KIND and my hair is hilariously morningesque.
The angle of the camera is about as unflattering as it can get, short of maybe sitting on the camera. Which I promise I will never, ever do. It's just that...somewhere under my jowels is actually a pretty face. Or, you know, pretty enough. PrettiER, certainly.
I am mostly coherent, except I decide to chat about my boobs and then make references that are completely terrifying, such as "bowling balls in grocery bags" and then something about buying drugs from Canada and ordering brides from the Ukraine.

I don't know what else to tell you. I've lost weight, but you'll need to watch my pre-7a.m. video to find out how much.

Reminder: You can order Medifast at a discount -- $50 off an order of $275 or more -- by using Coupon Code: SHEWALKS

Yes, Medifast is sponsoring me, but I'm certain they didn't expect a pre-caffeinated lunatic to start posting videos on YouTube talking about her boobs, so kind of the disclaimer goes both ways.

The Great De-Plumping Project!

2011-09-18T10:09:00.000-07:00

I started Medifast on Tuesday, September 6, 2011.

Who starts a weight-loss program on a Tuesday? Shutup, whatever.

As some of you know, I went on Medifast about eight months after Eve was born (March '10), and was largely (HA, PUN!) successful except for a few wagon fall-offs, followed by getting knocked up again. So, right.

Now it is fall, 2011, which you know already. But also, I am four months post-partum, and weigh EXACTLY WHAT I WEIGHED WHEN I STARTED MEDIFAST THE FIRST TIME.

Nothing like going back to the drawing board.

But this time, there's no chance of a pregnancy to derail me. Really, there's nothing in my way anymore at all except me. Hello, clean slate.

And what's the big deal anyway, right? If I can restrict my diet (read: wine) for 9 months of pregnancy -- TWICE -- why can't I do the same one more time? I mean, no, there's no kid on the other end of this, but there IS health. And energy. And WAY better shopping.

So here it is. My video series. VIDEO SERIES. AHAHAHAHAHAHA. I'm calling this my Great De-Plumping Project.

Thank you all for your encouragement and sharing your #s below. It made all the difference in the world.

P.S. I'm sure I need to give this series a better and more SEO-friendly name that's also funny and clever, but "De-Plumping" was all I could come up with. I suppose "From MLOB to MILF" could work, even though "MLOB" doesn't mean anything, it just sounds like BLOB or GLOB. Which totally works. So, I'm looking for suggestions. Although if you tell me I have to call this something like "Fat Mom Gets Fit" I will throw a Medifast shaker jar at you.

P.P.S. You can order Medifast at a discount -- $50 off an order of $275 or more -- by using Coupon Code: SHEWALKS

Yes, Medifast is sponsoring me, but I'm certain they didn't expect a lunatic in stripes to start posting to YouTube, so kind of the disclaimer goes both ways.

Tell Me To Do My Scary Thing

2011-09-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

If you've been reading me at all for even just a little while, you probably know two things about me:

1. I need to lose weight.

2. I don't really do "inspiration." Not in the traditional ways. If you find my being totally, brutally honest here in any way inspiring, that is wonderful and I love it and yay! for Invisible Internet Friends. But I have no religion of any kind, I'm not spiritual, and I'm not really self-helpy. Oh, I explore my inner-workings as much as the next blogging navel-gazer, but mostly I make fun of myself and the world around me.

If you were to read me and think mostly I'm kind of ridiculous, you would be correct.

But I have been a fan of MissBritt's for a really long time, and she wrote something a couple days ago about Doing [Her] Scary Thing. And she caught me off-guard. I must have been in the right frame of mind or openness of heart or I'm not even sure what -- this "inspiration" thing is out of my comfort zone -- but I think that's what happened. She inspired me. (THAT BITCH.)

Wanna know my scary thing? I'll tell you. Actually, no, I'll SHOW you. Probably. Maybe. Maybe. Probably. But hold on, wait a sec.

Here is half of it:

I started doing Medifast in the spring of 2010 because it is an easy-but-serious weight-loss plan and I was serious about losing weight, finally. And it was working (when I followed the program, which I mostly did) and then a bunch of dumb things happened at once that threw me off-course and then I got pregnant.

It's now a year-and-a-half AND A BABY later, and I'm ready, again. This is the last time. This is the final frontier. This is my "now or never" moment. I am done having kids. And after spending the last three years pregnant or recovering from being pregnant, I am primed to get down to a normal size.

We can discuss my actual goals and stuff later.

This is about my scary thing.

Inspired by Britt, I made a video.

I made a video. Of me. Talking. And showing you my body. And saying THIS IS HOW MUCH I WEIGH.

I just sort of...did it. One take, mistakes and all, just to do it before I talked myself out of it.

But I haven't posted it anywhere because that is the scariest thing I could think of to do. To really show you me. After all these years. Chubby cheeks, jutting butt and all, telling you how much I weigh.

My thought is that I will vlog -- YES I SAID VLOG -- this whole weight-loss thing. If I can be brave enough to tell you the whole truth. To show you the whole truth.

I want to, but I'm scared. I don't even know of what, exactly. Will you think less of me because of how I look? Will someone comment that I'm fat? (Duh. And how could that POSSIBLY be surprising?) Will sharing my "number" take away something? (How could it?) Can I, someone who has been hiding from cameras (and untagging photos on Facebook) for YEARS really put it all out there? For really real?

I...I'm close. But I need someone to push me off the ledge.

*By the way, this isn't meant to be a baiting post. I really just want to hear that I'm not totally crazy from someone who isn't my husband (who thinks I might be a little crazy).

The Top 10 Weirdest Things On "Yo Gabba Gabba"

2011-09-06T08:46:00.000-07:00

UPDATED: CORRECTION TO #3 BELOW

Yo Gabba Gabba is our favorite kids' show.

We didn't start out loving it, of course. We started out with the reaction everyone has when they first see it: What...the...hell?

Um?

But we kept watching because our child was mesmerized by its splendor, and it took only about two episodes before we experienced The Transformation.

The Transformation. Where you go from thinking it's the weirdest show that's ever existed to embracing it. From being all "these characters look suspiciously like sex toys" and "that whiney green thing seems to have some very special needs" to loving that, in Gabba Land, God is basically a gay black DJ who wears an orange jumpsuit and matching fuzzy hat.

Instead of complaining about the pitiful rhyming scheme of the characters' songs (it's like they make up the words as they go along), you start singing them yourself all day, all night.

And if you're anything like us, you go from being the parent who's never heard of The Ting Tings or Mates of State to being grateful for the one thing in your life that connects you -- however tenuously -- to music and bands relevant to people under the age of 35.

Thanks to Yo Gabba Gabba, I was excited to hear that MGMT was at Outside Lands. Even if the only song I know is "Art Is Everywhere."

Yes. I could easily make a list of the best things YGG's ever done because there are lots of them -- probably my favorite bit is Weezer singing "All My Friends Are Insects" while dressed like bugs, but Biz Markie, Mix Master Mike, everything Mark Mothersbaugh has ever drawn, and Marshall's cool spoon trick rank right up there, too. The entire "Dress Up" episode is epic.

But. There are still a few things in the YGG canon that give me pause. A few things that still make me squint at the television and wonder if my daughter's gonna make it out of toddlerhood okay. And, having seen every episode a bazillion times, I feel I am as qualified as anyone to make a list of the strangest things that have ever happened in Gabba Land. So here it is.

The Top Ten Weirdest Things That Have Ever Been On Yo Gabba Gabba

10. Leslie

I can see why anyone involved in the making of YGG would see Leslie and think SHE HAS TO BE ON THE SHOW. That's not the weird part.

This makes as much sense as anything.

The weird part is kind of everything else about her. I want to think it's awesome that she champions gold lamé jumpsuits with excessive fringe, but I can't quite bring myself to be 100% behind her artistry. Almost. Just not quite.

Maybe it's because I saw this video of her (entirely unrelated to Yo Gabba Gabba) and is one of the strangest things I have ever seen in my whole life. Watch even just five seconds of this and you'll never be the same.

9. Super Martian Robot Girl: The Pink Monster Edition

Super Martian Robot Girl is great, if for no other reason than she's a female comic book/cartoon superhero who's neither half-naked with boobs the size of her head NOR a Japanese school girl.

She's just a feisty thing who runs around and solves problems. I look forward to the day when my little girl wants to be Super Martian Robot Girl for Halloween.

But the episode where there is a small monster made of pink globs is just a little uncomfortable. I don't know if it's because we don't know what the wavy pink globs are made of (bubble gum? vomit?), or if it's that the poor thing can't tell the difference between a picture of ice cream and its own mother.

But between the lost baby glob-monster and the cowboy and the man in a suit and bowler hat...I don't know. It deserves mention.

8. Shrinking The Cast To The Size Of Oski Bugs

There's a lot that's odd about the "Bugs" episode of YGG, but okay. I can get behind teaching kids that bugs are interesting and worthy of respect.

But we move from "Bugs, okay" to "EWWW BUGS EWW" when, at Muno's behest, Plex shrinks the whole cast down to the size of "Oski" bugs so that they can visit with the Oski bug world. Which I guess sort of makes sense in a fantastical "Honey I Shrunk The Kids" kind of way...

...except that somewhere between them crawling into a bug-infested log and the bug-birthing scene, you lose me.

This is the Oski bug queen who sings faux-operatically
and deserves reverence despite her Play-Dough eyeglasses.

Maybe I just don't like bugs.

7. The Fairy Tale Song About A Princess And Her Magical Tooth

Above all, Yo Gabba Gabba is a show about music. Between the background music, songs the characters sing, guest songs on The Super Music Friends Show, various Dancey-Dances, background music and the final episode remix, there is a LOT of music packed into each episode. My husband and I know all the words to many of the songs, but some of them sort of blend into the background.

I paid no attention to this particular princess-dragon-story song until I found myself asking, "Wait. Did she just say the princess had a magic tooth?"

Well, yes. She did. And so this story -- sung by I don't even know who -- makes this list. The lyrics:

Listen to a fairy tale about a princess who was up in a tower
A sneaky dragon flew along with a plan to take her back to his castle
But he didn't know she had a magical tooth [ed. note: CAN YOU BLAME HIM?]
And after she smiled he turned into a golden goose
The village bandit heard the news about this golden goose and decided to steal him
Buckled up his flying shoes and he floated up to the top of the tower
But to his surprise, the magic princess so wise
Took her golden goose and disappeared before his eyes
And drifted away
To a new forest
And a new castle
Now the princess and her goose live in a land of love and peace and flowers
In a new village with their friends
And they lived happily ever after
The end

It's just that ASIDE from the crazy magical tooth, this princess has to escape both a sneaky dragon AND a village bandit, which basically lands her in Witness Protection.

6. Sukho

Like everything on this list, Sukho is so progressively cool that he, and his theremin, cross over into totally bizarre.

Oh, it's totally cool that he is playing air! I just...he is playing air!

5. The Creepy Circus Ringleader Looking For Performers

In a "weirdest" of Yo Gabba Gabba list, I'd be remiss not to mention the episode featuring Weird Al Yankovich. He does not disappoint.

Essentially, Weird Al plays a circus ringleader who comes to town in search of...um...a circus? I don't know, it's not exactly clear. He has a circus, but there's no one who actually performs in it, so kind of he appears in Gabba Land asking if there are any freaks for his show.

HE'S IN LUCK.

A few weird scenes later (including Sarah Silverman teaching Muno how to be a MIME and the most terrifying clown song ever), Weird Al has collected quite a few performers for his "circus."

The lesson, kids, is that when a weird man wanders through town and asks you to join his non-existent "show," you should say yes without question. If there's a calliope in his white van, all the better.

4. Gooble

The rumor is that "Gooble" was actually a Muno costume design gone awry, but they decided to bring him into regular character rotation. He's always sad and always crying, and there's never any explanation given. Whenever he appears he's largely ignored.

Making Gooble an emotionally challenged albino cousin for no known reason.

3. Worm Babies

The fact that they're called "worm babies" should be qualifier enough.

In the episode where we're teaching the YGG cast "Don't be afraid, don't be scared; all of us are different," one might think no outside help would be needed. The cast is plenty diversified as-is.

And yet.

Muno has this weird relationship with a giant worm named <s>Armand</s> Archibald. (Note to self: Yes, I just typed that.)

Then Archibald asks Muno to babysit his "worm babies" while Archibald tends to adult worm business.

Image SHOULD say "Armand & Annie: Worm. Babies."

And if you stop for even two seconds to think about any of these things (Why is there a giant worm? At all? Do worms HAVE babies? Where could a giant worm NAMED ARCHIBALD be going? Especially since Gabba Land is the size of one three-foot-long table?) you are clearly not a sleep-deprived parent of a baby and have no business watching this show.

Anyway, Muno agrees to watch the worm babies and Toodee and Brobee are afraid of them and the worm babies are afraid of Toodee and Brobee. And then they say "hi" to each other and everyone gets over their fears and there is more singing.

Worm. Babies.

*UPDATE: I was wrong in my original post. I called the adult worm Armand, but Archibald is the dad. Armand and Annie are the worm babies.

2. Every Interstitial

Yo Gabba Gabba is a many-layered show. Once you get over the initial shock and awe and start appreciating it for the wacky, lovable freak show it is, you don't even pay attention to the scene changes.

But you should. Because they are quick and colorful and where YGG secretly sneaks in the weirdest shit of all. These four-second clips are happy bits of transition you totally ignore until you realize there's a child sitting atop a half-trophy, half-frog-bulb, and no amount of sleep-deprivation can reconcile these images for you.

1. Brobee Cake

::SPOILER ALERT::

In the episode about Brobee's birthday, the cast DIDN'T actually forget about Brobee, they surprise him with a big party with a Brobee Cake at the end.

::END SPOILER ALERT::

I'm not sure what the proper etiquette is for making a cake that's supposed to look like the person the cake is for. Probably Martha Stewart is against this. We can all agree it's highly questionable.

But then not only does Brobee Cake LOOK like Brobee, it walks and talks. It's fully animated.

And in the most uncomfortable scene of all Yo Gabba Gabba episodes, Brobee Cake asks Brobee, "YOU WANNA PIECE OF ME?"

Which would kind of be cute if it weren't for the cannibalism.

Here, we witness Brobee eating a piece of his
cake-doppelganger who is still alive and talking to him.

What birthday party isn't complete without a little happy cannibalism?

______________________________________________________________________________

And there you have my round-up of the 10 Weirdest Things on Yo Gabba Gabba. What do you think? Did I get it right? Did I miss any glaring weirdness?

Don't be afraid, don't be scared. All of us are different.

Mama And Towns

2011-09-05T08:48:00.000-07:00

In Honor Of National Toilet Paper Day...

2011-08-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

Yes, folks. Today is National Toilet Paper Day. I don't know what to do with this fact other than share it because why? How? What?

Here, I'll make a totally lame connection. Ready?

Anytime I see an image of The Thinker sculpture, I can't help but imagine that he is on the toilet. I don't mean to think this. I never meant to think that. But I did, when I was a kid, and it never ever leaves my brain because LOOK.

It's not hard to imagine, right?

My point is. Sometimes people do some thinking when they're on the toilet, ostensibly using Toilet Paper.

Note: there is no toilet paper in my drawing because it hadn't been invented yet. And if you feel like telling me that toilets ALSO hadn't been invented yet, shhhhh.

And one time when I was "thinking" (SEE HOW THIS IS ALL RELATED?) I decided it would be nice to have all of my favoritest posts from over the many, many years I've been writing here in one place.

So I did it. I went through all my archives and picked out what I thought were the best posts (because apparently I don't give a crap (HA! MORE POTTY HUMOR!) what YOU think) and now they're on a page called -- oh-so-humbly -- "The BEST posts."

Like remember that time I had the picture of my fridge? And when I got lost on my own street? They're all there. For you to read the next time YOU are, you know, "thinking."

Dinner Chez Bartlett

2011-08-23T07:53:00.000-07:00

My Interview With The Food Network*

2011-08-15T16:15:00.000-07:00

Following the Kerry-Vincent-hair-spinning-cake-kerfuffle (aka "That Time I Was Blogger Almost-Famous, Again. For Like, Two Almost-Seconds.")(HERE IS A LINK IN CASE YOU MISSED IT. HINT: READ THE COMMENTS), I was contacted** by a member of The Food Network's PR team. Apparently, immediately following this blog incident, ratings plummeted for all Food Network Challenge shows. When the PR folks looked into the matter, they ascertained that their sudden, dramatic drop in viewership was due to my unfairly critical blog post about Ms. Vincent's headband.

Before I knew it, I was having a phone interview with someone who was supposed to be asking me about my blog, something-something publicity, but who was clearly out for blood and was also quite possibly President of the Kerry Vincent fan club.

This is what transpired.*** I have only JUST gotten around to publishing it, because every word is really critical and thus, this is possibly one of the most important interviews you'll read this year.

Food Network PR Rep: Thanks for taking the time to talk to me today, Kristy. So let me just jump in here and ask: Kristy, why do you blog anonymously?

ME: Uh...I don't...I'm...Didn't you just call me by my--

FNPR: Oh, it happens all the time. You know, we read a lot of blogs where people have to take their opinion online, under the cloak of invisibility, because they feel they have no voice in their real life. Would it be fair to say that's what's happened here?

ME: Invisibility? Not really. I mean, I don't think--

FNPR: Funny you should say that. I have a quote here from one of the commenters on your post who calls you out for that very thing. How you don't "think." She writes, "You, My Dear, are a prime example of what's wrong with many of our youth today, all talk and no brain, with which to create those thoughts. You express them on your blog, code for: "I can't talk publicly, so I'm going to hide online and vent to cover my embarrassment for a lack of the basic social skills."

Kristy, have you always lacked basic social skills?

ME: I wouldn't say that at all.

FNPR: Uh huh. So the "anti-social blogger"...that's just a myth?

ME: I think there are anti-social bloggers, I'm just not one of them, exactly.

FNPR: What about pajamas?

ME: What?

FNPR: Basement-dweller?

ME: I'm not in a basement...

FNPR: Well, then, let me ask you this: Are you a Harry Potter fan?

ME: Sure, I'm a fan of Harry Potter.

FNPR: Uh huh. And are you wearing pajamas right now?

ME: It's 11 o'clock at night.

FNPR: That's not what I asked.

ME: Yes, I am in pajamas right now.

FNPR: Exactly. Exactly the point. Moving on: Would you say you hate Kerry Vincent more or less than Hitler?

ME: What? Kerry Vincent? I thought you were asking me about Harry Potter. I don't hate Kerry Vincent! I don't even know her!

FNPR: And yet you pretend to know her for the sake of lying to your readers.

ME: I never pretended to know her. I just wrote about how I don't understand why she plays a mean judge, or why the cakes have to spin--

FNPR: So you admit you don't know the first thing about her?

ME: You mean aside from the headband?

FNPR: ...and YET you feel completely justified in castigating her character and writing an entire post about her lack of humanity.

ME: I didn't write about her lack of humanity, I wrote about her hairspray!

FNPR: WELL WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE HER DO? LEAVE THE SICK CHILDREN ALONE TO DIE?

ME: What are you-- WHAT sick children?

FNPR: [loud sigh] Honestly, what you don't know could fill a THOUSAND blogs. [pause] I direct you to a comment by another Kerry Vincent fan who writes: "Did you know the reason she keeps her hair short is because she and her husband fly their plane for Angel Flights? They go at the drop of a hat to transport critically ill people to hospitals for emergency treatment."

Certainly, Kristy, you must feel SOME shame now, knowing what kind of person she is?

ME: I...I'm at a loss here.

FNPR: I'm not surprised. [pause; shuffling of papers] Why do you think your readers hate cake so much? Do you think you had something to do with it? Are they that easily led down your idiot path?

ME: No one hates cake. I don't think my readers hate cake. I don't hate cake! I love cake!

FNPR: [laughing] Oh, right, of course. You love cake, you just harbor deep-seated contempt for spectacular cakes.

ME: I'm certain I don't have contempt for cakes of any kind. I'm not clear on the reason cakes need to be 6 feet tall and resemble cartoon characters and spit fire, but I don't hate cake. That's like saying I hate kids.

FNPR: Well, now that you mention it, when WAS the last time you and your husband -- assuming, that is, that he exists and isn't a figment of your basement-dwelling, pajama-addled imagination -- flew your jet on an angel mission?

ME: We-- I don't...um. We don't have a plane?

FNPR: So your answer is never?

ME: It's...no...I mean, yes...I don't...

FNPR: You're aware, are you not, that being a cake judge is an incredibly difficult job?

ME: I'm sure that it is.

FNPR: Do you buy sheet cakes at Costco?

ME: What has that got to do with anything?

FNPR: I'm just trying to establish your credibility in terms of judging cakes, or shows about cakes, or cake judges.

ME: I dunno. I wouldn't underestimate the Costco cake. I don't care much for their giant muffins, but their cakes are fine as far as I know. Ooh! And their ravioli. They have great ravioli.

FNPR: [makes a tut-tut sound.] Can we stick to the point please? And what about your hair?

ME: I'm sorry? We were making a point about my hair?

FNPR: That is YOU in that picture on your blog's sidebar, yes?

ME: Yes.

FNPR: Do you have any idea how unsanitary your cake would be?

ME: Uns--

FNPR: I bring your attention to the commenter who pointed out, quite rightly, that "If cake decorators wore their hair like you we would all have 'Hairy Cakes'."

ME: That sounds like a good name for a band. Hairy Cakes. Actually, you know what? No it doesn't. It sounds gross.

FNPR: AH-HA! SO YOU ADMIT YOU WOULD WEAR YOUR HAIR LIKE KERRY VINCENT'S IN ORDER TO MAKE A CAKE?

ME: No one wants a hairy cake.

FNPR: Do you have ANY IDEA what kind of artistry goes into Ms. Vincent's headbands?

ME: I think we've established that my version of artistry is not on par with your version of artistry.

FNPR: [shuffling papers] That's certainly true. I mean, allow me to quote from yet another real cake fan. She writes, "Your series of type-written words expressing YOUR opinion, are neither art nor consequential to the well-being of society."

ME: Not consequential to the well-being of society? Did you see how I had that picture of the Sham-Wow guy? Come ON.

FNPR: [silence] I think we're done here.

*Absolutely none of this actually happened.
**No, I wasn't.
***No, it didn't.

Here, Watch This

2011-08-01T21:12:00.000-07:00

I'm coming back soon. And in the meantime, you may have noticed that things look different around here. Again. Yay!

The BlogHer Conference is this week. I'm not attending the conference, but I am headed to San Diego where my company, Clever Girls Collective, is hosting a huge party the night before the conference begins. It will be fun and awesome and full of rock star goodness. I will wear something too low-cut and too short and drink champagne and meet all kinds of people. This will be "work."

(Yes. I am feeling pre-guilt for leaving my kids for two nights.)

In the meantime, I leave you with this video. We asked members of our network to send in videos of them lip-syncing to Pink's "Raise Your Glass" and while we only had a few folks brave enough to send something in...it's really hilarious and awesome and so, so fun to watch.

So, please do.

Will I see you in SD?

My California (Street) Home

2011-07-18T10:44:00.000-07:00

I started looking for my own apartment in June of 2004.

This time around, the apartment hunt was totally different than it had been when I started looking for my own place in 2001, post-divorce, post-Connecticut, pre-knowing-anything-about-SF.

Over the course of three years, I had established something of my own (new) life and self and identity, and needed a place to go with it. Which was exciting in a new way, although not so easy to do given my modest budget. (Miniature donkey marketing wasn't exactly lucrative.)

So I started looking. Again, I relied on Craigslist. Again, I discovered that apartments on modest budgets are mostly terrifying and awful. However, I had zero -- actually, less than zero, if that's possible -- interest in living with roommates. Thus, my hunt took weeks and weeks and weeks.

Weeks and weeks and weeks, that is, while I was still living in the loft. With one bed. With my now-ex-boyfriend. It wasn't entirely awkward, it was just a little strange. (But then, so is everything in San Francisco, so whatever.) Mostly it just made it feel like we weren't really broken up.

I FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT TRIVIA!

I'm not sure exactly when it started, but at some point when we were living in the loft, our small group of friends started playing trivia at the Tuesday night Pub Quiz at the Edinburgh Castle. It became our thing. Every Tuesday there would be a core group of us -- sometimes as few as four -- and others would drop by, or just drop in, on an ad hoc basis. We once had 19* people playing! But it was awesome to have a weekly activity that we could count on. Trivia was our social touchstone.

One night, early in our trivia-playing careers, my friend's boyfriend invited his friend to come. And she, not wanting to show up alone, brought a guy friend from work. She didn't quite take to the game, and gave up after a couple weeks. But her friend from work continued to join us. We liked him -- he was funny and smart and good company.

A YEAR later, after EG and I were broken up but still living together, he -- the friend's boyfriend's friend's coworker -- suddenly took an interest in me. (Until that point, he'd been somewhat cordial, but was clearly NOT interested in me; I'd assumed it was because, you know, he wasn't interested in me. Apparently it was because he wasn't interested in flirting with someone who had a boyfriend. Duh.)

And THAT is how I met, and started dating, The Boy. Tony.

EG and I living together while we were broken up and I was looking for an apartment wasn't awkward UNTIL I started dating someone else. HA!

So, yeah. I stepped up my apartment search.

Still, it wasn't until AUGUST that I happened upon a cryptic Craigslist ad that sounded...good, but...vague? It had the wrong address (two perpendicular streets) and was categorized in the wrong neighborhood. And when I called the number to talk to "Bob," no one picked up the first three times. But I persevered, figuring if the apartment really was as described, maybe I'd be one of the few people who had the tenacity to actually get to see it.

I eventually booked a time to see the place, which is how I learned that the small, six-unit apartment building was owned by a Japanese woman who spoke almost no English. She therefore depended on her wacky, 70s-throwback handyman -- Bob -- to place apartment ads and field inquiring calls. I took one look at the apartment and knew I wanted it, but Bob, who was showing the apartment, told me I'd have to wait to meet Fumi first. Two days later, I went back, met Fumi, and offered to write her a check on the spot. She agreed. She told me I seemed nice ("you nice girl"), and besides, the apartment was "pink...for girl."

The place was on the third of three floors, up two small flights of green, carpeted steps. It was off-street so there was minimal noise. But the building was located on California Street, at Polk, which meant it was on the cable car line, and I could faintly hear the tracks running all the time. I could also (far less faintly) hear the actual cable car go by and ding when it stopped practically in front of my building. I loved it.

Even better, though, if you listened carefully on a foggy night, you could hear the fog horn from Alcatraz.

The interior was simple and perfect for a single gal. Fine-sized bedroom, smallish living room. Two large closets, giant built-in shelves. Eat-in kitchen. Full bath with claw-foot tub. Good light.

Fun location. I had a totally ghetto grocery store in one direction, and a Whole Foods three blocks in the other direction. I was right ON Polk Street, too. So if I turned left, I'd be in the seedier part of the city, smack-dab in the middle of what was once called "Polk Gulch." For those of you unfamiliar (which is probably ALL of you), that was the focal point for SF's tranny scene, and remained a favorite hangout for tranny hookers. In the same direction, I was within walking distance of the Castle (the place with the Tuesday Pub Quiz) AND my favorite bars in all the city -- Lush Lounge** and Vertigo.

If you turn and go the other way up Polk Street, you end up in the Russian Hill area, which is far nicer and a lovely place to stroll on a weekend morning for coffee (there are about 90000 coffee places aside from the requisite Starbucks and Peet's) or brunch or stopping in at a sports bar to catch an East Coast baseball team in a game that starts at 10 a.m. in California.

I loved that place. Which was good, because there were moments when I wondered if I might just end up staying there alone, with my cats, knitting, for the rest of my life. As you might know, since a few months after I moved in, I started this blog.

Here's a quick little video I made of my California St. Apt.

Note: 1. I always hate how my voice sounds in video. 2. I don't know why it sounds like I'm heavy breathing. 3. I almost switch the camera sideways in the bathroom and then quickly remember that doesn't work with video. 4. Yes, unmade laundry on the bed.

*Don't think that playing trivia with 19 people and one answer pad is easy. 19 people have 19 opinions about what is "correct." We always did poorly when we had too many people on the team. Luckily, no one but me ever really cared.

**Lush Lounge was the only bar I ever attended regularly. EG and I would go there when we had no other plans on a Friday night, which was often when I first moved to the city. We loved the great bartender there, who eventually left to start his own place a few doors up: Vertigo. Sadly, Lush Lounge has since moved. I'm told it's the same old place, but I've yet to see it.

My Favoritest Birthday Present Ever

2011-07-02T07:42:00.000-07:00

I was frantically searching for my W-2s the other day, and did not find them. (Have you seen them? What about my passport? No?)

What I did find, however, was the gift Ish gave me for my 35th birthday. Last year. When I turned 35. Which I say three times because I can't believe I'm in my 30s let alone nearly my "late" 30s.

ANYWAY.

My husband re-wrote the words to Cole Porter's "You're The Top" for me. And then he sang his version to me, in front of his family. It captures him, and me, and us, and makes me as happy as anything ever could.

And so, in the middle of March, for no reason whatsoever, I give you his "You're The Top." Which I will wait until JULY to publish, in honor of my 36th birthday.

You're the top!
You're a cappuccino
You're the top
You're a glass of pinot
You're a YouTube clip of a prison's "Thriller" dance
You're the Twilight Saga
You're Lady Gaga
You're DJ Lance!

You're the top!
You're the oh-ten Lakers
You're a loaf
From the Model Bakers
I'm a broken nail, a fail whale, a sop,
But if baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

You're the top!
You're Iron Chef Batali
You're the top
You're the Napa Valley
You're a video
Of a classic 80s song
You're a club called Wee-Burn
You're Justin Bieber-n
You're Donkey Kong!

You're a slice
You're a Lotto winner
You're the price
Of French Laundry dinner
I'm a Nick Cage flick that the critics pick to flop
But if baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

You're the top!
You're a neat Manhattan
You're the lamp
Where they kept Aladdin
You're a grand-slam homer
That splashes in the Bay
You're the Dalai Lama
Barack Obama
You're Tina Fey!

You're divine
You're the Roman Senate
You're the heart
Left by Tony Bennett
I'm a sucker who awaits the other shoe to drop
But if baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

You're the top!
You're a spicy chile
You're the top
You're Groundskeeper Willie
You're the bubbles fizzing
Inside my champagne
You're a pork burrito
A tiny Speedo
You're Michael Caine!

You're theplot
In a Coben novel
You're a nut
On my Belgian wavvle
I'm an also-ran, a tomato can, a blop
But if baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

The Loft on Haight

2011-06-22T14:48:00.000-07:00

EG and I started looking for new places to live weeks before our lease was up, so we wouldn't have to stay one day longer than necessary.

Once I wrote about the time I literally threw myself through the wall in the hallway outside our apartment. On my birthday. I didn't mean to. I meant to give EG a hug but I tripped, gained falling-down momentum, and next thing you know I was crumpled in a heap with half of me IN the wall and the other half of me on top of my foot. Quite a feat. The story is here, along with a picture of a very, very, very bruised buttocks.

Following my fall, I spent six weeks unable to do much of anything because uncoordinated people can't use crutches very well ESPECIALLY not in a city with sidewalks like San Francisco's. I spent most of my days wheeling myself around on my office chair.

My right foot is still much larger than my left.

The point is, our Sutter St. apartment didn't have good juju. No. It had mosquitoes and bad juju.

When I first started looking for new places, we were searching for two-bedroom apartments. I was working more hours and we could afford a slightly more rent. Except "slightly more rent" did not equate to NICE two-bedroom apartments. They were mostly either scary places or places that had two "bedrooms" but no living rooms.

Thus, I finally got the bright idea of looking for more expensive one-bedroom apartments. Maybe, I thought, expensive one-bedroom apartments would be nicer than low-to-mid-priced two-bedrooms.

And somehow the stars aligned and up popped a listing too good to be true. A fresh, modern, cat-friendly LOFT apartment was available in EG's old Hayes Valley 'hood for our price. And we snapped that baby up in two seconds.

Oh, how I loved that apartment.

The house I grew up in had a giant kitchen with a wall of windows and a brick floor and a brick fireplace (Connecticut farmhouse, remember). My family spent 90% of our time in that kitchen, including when guests were over. And while a modern loft in San Francisco is mostly nothing like a Connecticut farmhouse, living in one giant room was familiar.

I remember the smell of fresh paint and warm air. Instead of a decades-old hissing radiator, we had a gas fireplace. The ceilings were maybe 20' high. The far wall was completely windwed. The stairs were completely open, and we had 1.5 baths. The kitchen had dark cherry cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and granite counter tops.

But the best thing about living in a newly constructed place was how everything worked. The farmhouse, my homes in Connecticut, my apartments in San Francisco -- they were all (to one degree or another) "old." I'd never realized you could have more than one outlet in the same wall! I didn't understand the magnificence of having every light switch in the home turn something on! Every time! Not only could you keep a granite countertop clean, you could keep modern wood floors clean, too! OH GLORY DAY.

We had a tiny balcony that overlooked the swankier lofts' backyards, but also Market Street, and even with the double-paned "soundproof" glass, you could hear the F-Market go by. You could sort of see Martuni's from our place.

If the Sutter St. place was the home of bad juju, this loft was the opposite. Something happened there. I guess I finally started to feel my SF groove, maybe. We moved in in October 2003, two years after I'd arrived in the city. I'd heard that it takes about two years of living somewhere new to totally feel settled, and that could not have been truer for me.

I'd finally found a real group of friends, and we had some amazingly fun parties in that place. In fact, I've maybe never had a better time at one of my own shindigs than our November housewarming party. We pulled out all the stops, buying glassware instead of plastic cups, for example, and hand-making fancy hors d'oeuvres like spanikopita (AMAZING considering my culinary background), and it was fabulous. It was my own. It was of my own making, and of my own choosing. The apartment, the people, the music, the food -- all of it was constructed. I'd felt like it was something I built. I'd never felt further from the clutches of a marriage that didn't suit me, or from all the things I'd never liked about where I grew up. It was like I'd taken all the parts about my upbringing that I liked most and expanded them into this crazy new life.

That apartment became party central. We were always ready to entertain -- glassware and booze at the ready, and if not munchies at least a pizza place on speed dial. If our friends were going out for the night, we'd start there for pre-partying (or "pre-drinking" if you want to get technical). The girls would go upstairs to primp and everyone would eat pizza and watch silly television.

While living there, at Haight & Market, I finally got a "normal*" 9-to-5 office job. I started my own, totally independent work life and public-transit commute in a city that was no longer a strange place to me. I can't even begin to express how oddly validating of my new life it was to take a city bus to get to work.

While living there, I started my a cappella group. I'd been looking around for a way to get back into singing, but all my efforts had, until then, been half-assed. Something happened at Haight & Market, though. I felt more in control of my life than ever, and started to really believe that I was the only person standing in the way of living life the way I wanted to. So I put an ad on Craigslist, and The Loose Interpretations were born.

While living there, I finally had the strength and clarity to really examine my relationship with EG. We had been having fun, for sure...but. Of course, he'd been a pillar of strength for me. He was the only person I knew in San Francisco for a long time. We had almost nothing in common except our values and love for The City, which somehow made us excellent friends. Plus there was the soul-bonding fact that six weeks after my mother passed away of her longtime illness, so did his.

It made sense for us to be together in some ways, for some time. But as I was working hard to define my SF life, EG was a tough one. "Living with a guy" was vague. "Boyfriend" was vague. I'd come to a point where I needed to commit to the direction my life was headed, one way or another. And that's how we came to be engaged.

But that didn't fit. Every personality conflict we'd ever had suddenly went from "I can live with this" to "I HAVE TO LIVE WITH THIS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE?" EG's brooding fits of introversion didn't mesh with my constant need for chatter and company, and we lived in a constant state of compromise. Which was fine. But not okay for forever.

We broke up three months after we got engaged.

Which meant that by the summer of 2004, I was looking for my fourth apartment in three years.

Photos from Christmas 2003

*This was the one involving miniature donkeys. So "normal" is relative.

Sutter? I Barely Know 'er!

2011-06-21T17:09:00.000-07:00

I loved my Bush St. apartment, but the rent was high -- especially for someone who was only working part-time.

When I left Connecticut for California, it was with a check from my divorce settlement. It wasn't a huge amount of money, but I could live for a year in my new place with only part-time work, if that's what it came down to. And it did.

San Francisco in the fall of 2001 was not exactly vibrant. I mean, it was to ME because I'd never experienced anything like it. But I don't think any city in the world experienced more of the boom or bust from the dotcom days than San Francisco. And post-9/11 was awfully bust-y. My rent was hefty by other cities' standards, perhaps, but my apartment would have gone for twice as much two years prior. There were U-Hauls up and down every street, For Sale signs everywhere, and not enough cabs.

There are never enough cabs in San Francisco. When things were really good and everyone had money to burn, getting a cab was an all-out competitive sport. (Because there were never enough parking spaces, either.) I've read tales of men who just parked on sidewalks because -- in the dotcom heyday -- SF couldn't keep up with towing illegally parked cars, and the ticket would actually end up costing less than parking garages!

But things changed. People stopped throwing money at cabs, and cab drivers had to find other lines of work or other cities to drive in.

I wonder if there were a few glorious months of more cabs than people who wanted them. Somehow I doubt it.

More to the point, there were no jobs. There were especially no jobs for those of us with "soft skills" such as "communications." There were even less than no jobs for those of us with "soft skills" who'd never worked in technology, or even just for a company that ended with a .com.

So I continued to work part-time for the company I'd been with in Connecticut and spend the other part of my days and weeks roaming around online, looking for work, and roaming around the city, looking for coffee and crepes.

After a year, though, it was clear I wasn't going to find a job that paid enough to justify living where I was. At the same time, my boyfriend (El_G, or EG) was getting pretty tired of his place, especially after it rained in his bathroom. He was also tired of us trekking across the city to spend time with each other. So we decided to find a place together.

We found one in short order, just a few blocks from my first place, on Sutter St. (This would also be the same street I'd eventually work on, where Ben & Emily would live, and where Ish would live, all coincidentally.)

One of the things EG and I had in common was our planful and decisive nature. Unfortunately, this led to our selecting the first apartment we saw that fit our requirements (including our having four cats between us). We didn't waste time looking for a place that had MORE charm or BETTER lighting or anything silly like that. We just walked into a place, thought it was totally fine, wrote a check, and got the keys, all in one afternoon. Just like that.

What started out as a perfectly "quaint" place to live eventually became a place we hated coming home to and couldn't wait to move out of.

For one thing, the back of the apartment overlooked a restaurant's outdoor area.

That was fine for a while, when we didn't mind hearing the distant, charming restaurant din. But as we realized it was also the place for smokers to hang out, it became less appealing.

That same restaurant also decided, about halfway through the year, that it could use its upstairs area as a nightclub. So every Friday and Saturday we would be treated to the faint UHNK-A UHNK-A UHNK-A of a ridiculously loud bass until about 1:30 a.m.

Worse, though? Far, far, far worse? The restaurant's roof deck had lots of trees and pots and plants and things that collected lots of stale, still water. Which meant mosquitoes.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. THE MOSQUITOES.

There are no mosquitoes in this picture because they are waiting until it is 3 a.m. Then they will come out and buzz around your head all night until one of you decides to chase them around the room with a shoe.

Please understand that this photo was taken on moving day. We didn't usually have our kitchen table wrapped in cellophane. Nor did we live with our coffee table wedged into our bathroom door. Usually.

The bottom-most built-in cabinet on the right (barely pictured here) ended up serving as a litter-box cave. It worked quite well, actually, thanks to the crafty machinations of EG. And trust me, when you're living in a small space with four cats, you need all the machinations one can muster.

Typical SF apartment living room, as seen from nearly identical bedroom.

Aforementioned bedroom.

It served us just fine, but we were MORE than ready to go when our lease was up.

My cat and EG's cat. This lasted 14 seconds and never happened again.

Forwarding Address

2011-06-21T17:08:00.000-07:00

I was 26 when I arrived in San Francisco, ready to find a new place to live and, you know, start my life over. I began by crashing at my boyfriend's place, until I rented an apartment of my own.

Until then, I'd lived:
1. At home
2. In a college dorm at the University of Delaware for one horrible, torturous semester
3. At home: the reprise
4. In an apartment with my fiancé cum husband
5. In a house with my husband

Aside from my first couple years on this planet when we lived in New York City, I'd lived exclusively in Connecticut. (Because four months in Delaware doesn't count ON ANY LEVEL.) I couldn't wait to be somewhere new and different and full of surprises.

My First Apartment
I had no real idea of what I was looking for when I started printing out Craigslist apartment ads and wandering all over the city looking its many and varied offerings. I didn't have a feel for different neighborhoods. I didn't really get how one place might be short on closet space but big on view, whereas another might look all-around spectacular until you realize the on-site landlord is quite possibly the neighborhood crack dealer. I didn't inherently know that one end of the city enjoys an entirely different climate (sunny, pleasant 75 degrees) than the other (foggy, gray 52 degrees).

I chose an apartment on Bush St. Not neighborhood-y, but very city-y. I overlooked the busy street and the sign to the Nob Hill Theatre.

Now, you might think with its fancy "theatRE" spelling there would be fewer naked men dancing there, but that would just suggest you don't know the first thing about San Francisco.

When I visited my family back east* for the first time and showed everyone pictures of my apartment and views, one of my mother's nurses asked, "Oh, you're across the street from a movie theater!?" and I politely showed her a second, closer-up photo of the NOB HILL THEATRE sign -- the one that said "All Male Nude Review" in smaller letters.

And then the nurse said, "Ohhhhh." I thought she got it. But then she added, "I bet there are fun ladies' nights THERE!" Um. And what do you say to a sweet old woman in New Hampshire who thinks that the nude male review in San Francisco is for women?

Imagine now that I am showing you pictures of my first apartment. (While you're at it, imagine where my external hard drive with all those photos is and email me when you figure it out.)

Just know that it was cute and Edwardian. It was on the fourth floor and had an old-school elevator that was quaint and charming and terrifying and only worked 11% of the time. It had a large garbage chute on each floor, which I found amazingly convenient. It had a small, adorable kitchen and two giant closets. The kitchen window overlooked a three-story parking lot, such that I would often forget I was four floors up, not one.

My building manager was a stressed-out, aging gay man who'd left Minnesota the moment he could and hadn't maybe ever stepped foot out of SF again. He was brusque and always looked harried (if not downright angry), but I liked him anyway because his apartment was on the first floor off the lobby, and I could hear him playing his piano when I entered the building. I think he thought the elevator was trying to kill him. He would post increasingly angry signs about how you can't shove pizza boxes down the garbage chutes because they don't fit.

If I think really hard, I can still smell the hardwood floors and fresh paint and city sunlight of that place. I could hear the cable car go by. Most memorably, I could hear the nearby hotel valets using their whistles to call cabs for guests. Those whistles would have driven someone less enamored of city-living BONKERS. I loved them.

*"Back East" is what everyone calls states east of California, which is hilarious to me because that includes states like Colorado.

Photofuckit

2011-06-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

One of the things I wanted to tackle while on maternity leave is my "collection" of photos taking up space on my hard drive.

Now. If you've been following my blog for any length of time, you know that I am not what anyone would consider a "good" photographer. I take approximately 300 pictures for every 1 I dare to post, and that should tell you a lot. (See amazing artistic photo below.)

Also, I have no idea how people who ARE actually good – and prolific – photographers, like my partner Cat and my IRL-bff Emily, organize their digital lives. Are they really good at deleting the bad pictures? Are they really good at managing external hard drives? WHERE DO THEY PUT ALL THEIR PICTURES? Because not all of them go online, so...? What is the magic process that I don't know about?

I mean, I go a few weeks without exporting my pictures from my iPhone to my computer, and next thing I know I have to manage 426 pictures and after sorting, deleting, exporting, saving, etc. I've lost hours of my life and saved approximately 7 photos.

I can't be the only one who is a digital mess, right?

Anyway.

I have, actually, gone through allllllllllll the pictures I have on my hard drive since the beginning of time and put them into folders and then put them onto Photobucket* and we're about 75% of the way done with that process and I have to say that even I am shocked at the quality of some of the pictures that have been taking up space in my life.

Like this one:

This photo was both in a random photo on my hard drive AND in my iPhoto library. So glad I've been saving such a gem! In THREE places!

So really. Please tell me how you manage your bazillion photos. Other than deleting more pictures in real-time, what do you do? How do you do it? Because I don't ever want to go through this process again.

*I know Flickr is prettier, but I find its usability to be fancy and cumbersome in ways I don't need.

The Penis Picture Game

2011-06-09T10:54:00.000-07:00

Note: This is NOT an open letter to Representative Weiner, but it may as well be.

About six or seven years ago, my wacky group of Bay Area friends played a game. But first, let me tell you a few things you might not know, because a) some of you never dated online and b) things may have changed in the last five years.

Thing you need to know Part One:
In the early part of the last decade, online dating was still relatively new. Among other novelties, men and women were just figuring out how to take pictures of themselves and post them online. Remember, in 2002 no one was using Facebook or Twitter. Waaaaaaaaay back then, you had to jump through a few hoops to get the picture you took (with your digital camera, not your phone) on to the computer and actually "viewable."

Thing you need to know Part Two:
For most people living in San Francisco circa 2005, Craigslist served as the Origin of Everything. Everything. Every apartment, job, community activity, pet, furnishing, event, laugh, or friend you could hope to get, have, give or make came from Craigslist.

All of my first SF friends, my first SF jobs (which led to my later jobs, including the friendship I have with one of my current business partners), my SF apartments, my a cappella group, and, yes, MY HUSBAND, came from Craigslist. In fact, some of you are reading this blog because of CL.

{I have thanked @craignewmark on Twitter many times for all that he's indirectly given to me.}

Thing you need to know Part Three:
Some people treat (or at least treatED) Craigslist like the Wild West. And for my friends and I who would sometimes use CL to meet people FOR TO ACTUALLY DATE, we always found it disconcerting when men would reply to earnest, well-crafted, thoughtful, funny personal ads with pictures of their genitalia. Which happened every time.

Yes. Every. Time.

Actually, I once wrote a post about some of the most disconcerting personal ad replies I received, all of which are true and verbatim.

No matter what the personal ad was about, I would receive at least one picture of a penis. Occasionally the man's headless body would be attached to the penis, but the penis was always center stage.

Why? I never understood this. Even if I were looking for meaningless sex, which I very clearly was not, a body-less penis is not enticing. Beyond "rapport" and "chemistry," I can't imagine ever, ever wanting to have sex with a man based solely on what his junk looks like.

I mentioned this phenomenon to my friends, and it turns out that I am not special. Men LOVE sending pictures of their penises to online women! It happens all the time! (Rep. Weiner is totally late to the game.)

So we decided to have some fun. Enter The Penis Picture Game.

We -- my friends and I -- decided to host a contest, to see who could receive the greatest number of UNSOLICITED penis pictures in a certain amount of time (it was something like 48 hours).

The rules went something like this:
1. You post an ad ANYWHERE in the terrifying forest of Craigslist personals. I think we all selected to post in "Casual Encounters." Because duh.

2. Your ad would obviously be made up. You could tell any story you wanted. The key was to try to think like a man (OR HOUSE REPRESENTATIVE, WHATEVER) who would want to send you a picture of his penis as enticement. What would be the most compelling? What personal ad says "please send me a picture of your ding dong"?

3. Your ad could not explicitly ask for photos of any kind.

4. All photos of naked penises would be counted, whether disembodied, on headless naked men, or on full pictures (v. rare!). Photoshopped pictures were certainly allowed, and the most amusing by far.

It was totally, totally fun. The ads went up and the photos poured in.

Now, I can't remember all the details, but tallying up the photos was hilarious. Our winner received over 20 pictures. Many of us received the same pictures, and some of us received the same pictures from different men, meaning either the men were posting under different names, or using the same database of fake penis pictures, which is the SADDEST THING EVER.

:::PAUSE:::

Stop. Think. What personal ad would YOU post to garner the most unsolicited penis pictures? What topic do you think won our contest?

I had high hopes for my post -- something about a bored housewife looking for action while her husband was out of town -- but alas. My idea was either too trite, or maybe married men were a little more nervous to send penis photos? Who's to say. I was not a winner.

The winner was my friend Justin, who smartly made up a post about a collegiate girl who was embarrassed to still be a virgin, and was looking for a meaningless tryst to get her first time out of the way.

Right? Virgins. Gets 'em every time.

HILARIOUSLY MISGUIDED CONCLUSION: Men who are inclined to send penis pictures -- real or imaginary -- over the internet think virgins are the most eager recipients.

I don't know what to do with this sensitive and highly scientific data, but there it is. And if for some reason you are a man who wants to send penis pictures over the internet and you are reading this, please know:
1. No virgin is posting a casual encounter ad on Craigslist, unless she is a he, which you will discover eventually.
2. Of ALL the things a virgin wants to see in her inbox, a picture of a naked penis is not among them. No, it is not. No. Just, no.

Bonus
While discussing our results, we decided we needed to add categories. "MOST" was clearly the winner overall, but we added special distinctions -- honorable mentions, if you will -- for Most Photoshopped, Most Frequently Sent, Saddest, Best Looking, and, well, Blurriest.

The end.

I'm Changing Everything! Maybe.

2011-06-01T16:04:00.000-07:00

FIRST, AN UPDATE ABOUT HOW I'M NOT BREASTFEEDING ANYMORE. BECAUSE I HAVEN'T GOTTEN ANGRY COMMENTS SINCE POSTING ABOUT CAKE LADY HAIR.

The first two weeks were glorious and magical and sweet and loving and full of newborn naps and smells interspersed with a sparkly toddler's new words and new tricks and everyone smiling a lot. Oh, no one was getting anything done -- except I was catching up on some very bad TV and awesome Golden Girl reruns at 3 a.m. -- but that's what maternity leave is for, right?

Sure. And then week three came around.

"Cluster feeding" doesn't even come close to what I experienced early last week, as I clocked in around NINE hours of breastfeeding from 7 a.m. to about 9 p.m. on Monday. Not all in a row, obviously, but does that really matter? And after that, understandably, my hormones went into overdrive (or underdrive, or whatever fucked-up thing happens to your body after that kind of a day coupled with nowhere near enough sleep), and suddenly I was a wreck*.

OH, RIGHT. The flip side of the newborn situation had reared itself, and I suddenly -- emotionally and physically -- remembered the weeks and months of feeling anchored by a relentless breastfeeding schedule. And so I decided, after a couple days of sobbing at everything (which did not happen to me with Eve), that I would not spend the remainder of my precious leave feeling like a sad, leaky cow on a leash. I made my decision then to wean Townsend off the boob and so there it is.

Now, ha. I wasn't going to mention this to the internet because I know how internet moms feel about the importance of breastfeeding, and I didn't want the Anonymous Comment/Shame Parade to start. But then a funny thing happened! A few days after I made this decision, I started to feel sort of...secure about it. Like, that it really IS the right thing (for me) to do.

And even then I STILLwasn't going to mention it, because why?

But last night I read Bossypants and, well, it shouldn't surprise any of you that I worship at the altar of Tina Fey. But SHE! SHE managed to write about breastfeeding! In a biography that could have been filled with nothing but anecdotes from her years at SNL or 30 Rock, she found reason to put in an entire segment about her sad attempt at breastfeeding and her giving it up and all the guilt that came with it. And while I wasn't really looking for validation, I got some anyway. (Not just about breastfeeding, either.) (God, I love her.)

If learned anything between reading Bossypants and watching the Oprah send-off, it's this: put it out there. So I am. Maybe someone who is struggling with breastfeeding is reading this and just wants to know that there's someone else (uh, besides Tina Fey) who chose not to breastfeed. Not because I physically couldn't, but because it was making me miserable. Further, I also chose not to feel guilty about my decision, and that seems to be making all the difference.

NOW I TELL YOU ABOUT ALL THESE CHANGES I'M MAKING! MAYBE.

While I've been busy staring into space during 3 a.m. feeding torpor, I've had a lot of important epiphanies. (You know, as opposed to unimportant epiphanies.) I can't tell you what most of them have been, because I find that having a newborn is a little like being drunk all the time. (Note: "Sleep when the baby sleeps!" is something people without mouthy toddlers do.) But the ones that are sticking with me seem worth paying attention to.

The one that has the most to do with this blog goes like this, I think:

Accidentally, this blog is about starting over.

I mean, right? Even though I don't have one single post on the matter of starting over, that's what this whole entire thing has been about. When I started posting in January of 2005 I was single, having come from a wretched divorce followed by a sweet-but-misguided engagement. I was figuring out my adult self while wading in the ridiculous dating waters of San Francisco. I was still healing from my mother's death (which happened two-and-a-half years before I'd started blogging), and managing through my father's illness and death (which happened in 2006) without writing much about those things at all. I've had three very different corporate jobs since I started writing here that have impacted my life in huge ways. And then there's that matter of having met that funny guy from Craigslist who's now not only my husband but also the father of both of my children. YES, THAT HAPPENED. (I honestly wonder if sometimes I'm dreaming this whole thing, because I am just so far from where I started.)

But therein lies the thing that's been niggling** me: I think this blog IS about how I got from "there" to "here"...and there are a lot of holes. Because I didn't know I was writing the story of how I went from that life to this life. (I mean, how could I? I wasn't even there yet.)

Thus, there's lots of stuff I've left out. Stuff like the drama -- holy God, the DAH-RAH-MAH -- around my dating Ish in the beginning, when he was still married to someone who wasn't me. (CAN WE LAUGH ABOUT THIS YET?) Or about when I was first living in San Francisco and didn't know anything or anyone and couldn't identify "garlic" at the grocery store. Or how I, champion of the flip-flop and yoga pant, spent a few months working in an elite sector of the financial services industry and wore something akin to "suits" to work every. Damn. Day.

And then? There's maybe important backstory. I've never really told you about the special brand of crazy I grew up with -- kind of like Running With Scissors except not as sad or homosexual -- and how that all led directly to my marrying a man who didn't "like people."

And also I should probably elaborate on things like how I had a job in marketing with people who barter miniature donkeys.

So of course this all may pass once I've caught up on my sleep (sometime in 2012), but right now I'm inspired to sort of redesign my blog again. Not so much the outside -- although who knows -- but the whole feel of it. I'd like to put my archives into some semblance of order, sorted by topic (CAN YOU IMAGINE?). And while I'll keep writing about my life these days, I won't worry when I veer of the path of "my still-lactating boobs are sore" and into territory of long ago. Because it's all part of the same package.

I think I have a story to tell.

GRATUITOUS PHOTOS OF MY CHILDREN.

Eve at Trefethen Winery on Memorial Day.

Towns making face. Newborns are kind of awesome.

*Also, there was the Oprah finale, which didn't help the sob-factory that was my face.

**Niggling at me? Which is correct? I honestly don't know.

Announcing Towns!

2011-05-17T20:01:00.000-07:00

I am officially a mother of two!

(And for those of you who've been following along since the beginning of this blog, when it was just me and my cats and yarn and wine, this is kind of unbelievable.)

Townsend Hall Bartlett was born on May 4, 2011 at 12:12 p.m. He weighed 7 lbs 1 oz and was 20.5" long.

Yes, we decided on Townsend. It was my grandmother's maiden name and my father's middle name, and I think the nickname of Town/Towns is super cute and yet mostly unheard of. Hall is Ish's great-GREAT grandfather's middle name, but he went by Hall. And even though this gives our kid the sort-of name of Town Hall, we're okay with that. Maybe he'll become President someday. (Thanks to West Wing, we already know how good the term "President Bartlett" sounds.)

The birth itself was as smooth as a c-section could possibly be, at least, certainly it was compared to the first time we did this.

And not that I ever, ever, ever doubted scheduling a c-section, but I'm so glad I did. I planned to use the side-hatch originally because Eve was a c-section, and because there was no reason to believe that my body would have a successful "traditional" birth this time. Then when I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes, I was a little concerned that this baby would be big. (If you Google GD, you don't have to look far before you find mothers telling horror stories about their big babies and terrifying delivery experiences.)

THEN we found out that this little dude was breech, and that just solidified our decision. By the time we went in for the delivery, they did the final ultrasound and discovered Townsend was no longer breech but entirely transverse -- which is to say, wedged in sideways.

Sidenote: no WONDER I've been so uncomfortable.

Thus, the c-section was a good decision and made everything much less stressful than it would have been. Especially when we learned that the umbilical cord was wrapped around Towns' neck twice. Phew.

So I don't have a lot more to report about the experience. We were in the hospital from Wednesday to Saturday, while our BELOVED nanny and in-laws stayed with Eve.

Frankly, the hardest part of the whole thing was being away from Eve for three days. Ugh.

Not that there weren't smaller challenges/moments of uncomfortability/sleep deprivation/etc. For example, waiting on the operating table for the procedure to begin is much harder when you're starting off well rested and totally unmedicated -- in fact, hyper-alert -- and you find yourself staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes until you can't feel your legs. (The first time I went through that I was distracted by having been in labor for over 24 hours, and was still having contractions, totally exhausted, starving, and on painkillers.)

Breastfeeding has gone a lot more smoothly this time around, too, since T latched immediately and never seemed to mind chomping away at my pre-milk-producing boobs (unlike Eve who SCREAMED for hours and hours and days and days when I was only producing colostrum for a full WEEK). In fact, he was so persistent that my milk came in on Friday.

Being home with the baby has, thus far, been great. I understand NOW why people (who have more than one child) would say things like "newborns are easy!" when I would talk about being totally scared of Eve. Because newborns are easy...you know, when A) you're not afraid of them and B) you are comparing them to, say, teething toddlers.

I call this photo "Portrait of Paternity Leave."
Note the unshaven face, the worn-in pajamas, the pacifier backwards-in-the-mouth,
the near-shut eyes, and the SportsCenter.

Townsend seems to be a typical newborn, based on all my experience of uh, the one other kid. He hasn't figured out any kind of sleeping/nursing schedule yet: everything is totally unpredictable still. But after the first three days and nights of waking up every hour to eat, he's started sleeping in four-hour jags and everyone is happier for it.

He does prefer to be held. In fact, unless tightly swaddled and clearly SUPER tired, he finds not being held unacceptable. He has a screechy cry that sounds like a pterodactyl and is ridiculously loud, so we choose to hold him as he wishes. Because we are tired and weak and I am in no way exaggerating about the pterodactyl thing.

He does not like his bassinet, either. Which is how we, as the aforementioned tired and weak sort, discovered that he is perfectly calm and happy sleeping in our bed with us, even if unswaddled.

Who is this happy, nursing, baby-wearing, newborns-are-delightful, bed-sharing hippie mother? I DON'T KNOW.

In the meantime, Eve seems to like the baby. HI, BABY! she says in the morning. She brings him diapers and "bo" (pacifier, don't know where "bo" came from), and blankets. She asks where he is when she can't see him. She is gentle with him and likes to point to his ear, eyes, and nose. We are working very, very hard to make it seem like our attention is not divided, and Eve always has the full attention of at least one adult (for the first few weeks, that is).

However. Eve does NOT like that her routine has changed. She does NOT like that Mama and Dada were gone for three days -- she wouldn't let me hug her when I came home from the hospital, but also tried to send our replacement sitter home. (GO! NO! BUH-BYE!) Mostly, though, she REALLY does NOT like the six teeth that are currently jutting their way through her gums. (Timing? Awesome!) They have given my darling daughter an occasional monster of a personality, that rears its cranky, chewing head when you least expect it. This is especially awesome when it coincides with a pterodactyl sighting.

So, well. While the baby himself doesn't seem to be the root of the problem, we don't have what I would consider a perfectly happy almost-two-year-old at home, either.

Do I look like I was just chewing on the corner of Mama's laptop? BECAUSE I TOTALLY WAS.

Still.

Overall, this birth experience -- my second and last, mind you -- has been fantastic from start to finish.

The planned nature of it was surreal, but I felt safe and well taken care of and never had any scare. The actual procedure is a lot easier to withstand when you're well rested and well nourished and your body hasn't been in labor for hours and hours. And while it's still major surgery, I was up and moving and disconnected from all the tubes and wires by Thursday afternoon. (I was even able to shower on Thursday, all by myself!)

And while this may seem like a small point, I'm on a totally different painkiller this time around, and that has made a WORLD of difference. Instead of feeling simultaneously drunk and underwater (the way Vicodin did), I just feel like I'm managing my pain but operating at nearly full capacity mentally.

Add that to the fact that I feel about a thousand times more confident and assured about what to DO with a newborn, and I would say that I have been having a totally enjoyable, happy, loving, awesome time with my new family of four.

Sleep deprivation and all, this? This adding a fourth member to our wacky little clan? This is the best thing I've ever done.

Almost Home

2011-05-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

I can't believe we're here already. I'm scheduled to go to the hospital on Wednesday morning, May 4.

Very recently, my business partner and friend, CityMama, had a son. One of her earliest Facebook updates about the baby included a statement about how cute he is. And I froze.

Newborns are...cute?

In my experience, newborns are terrifying. They are cause for months of anxiety and fear before they even get here, and then they arrive and your fear only intensifies as every moment of every day is filled with the probability that you are doing everything wrong. You know because you went online and asked and the moms confirmed it: your way is stupid and dangerous. And then the books warned you. And the reviews on Amazon. And the horror stories on Babycenter.com.

When I was a new mom, everything was cause for near-crippling anxiety, even though I did my best to stave it off.

You MUST wear your baby because of BONDING except also if you do, your baby will suffocate. You must swaddle but NOT LIKE THAT. You'd better be using organic cotton! Are you sure it's colic and not a deathly allergy? Babies can be allergic to AIR, YOU KNOW. Why aren't you letting her cry it out at three months? You should never let her cry it out before three years! What? Moms who use the cry-it-out method should be arrested! You can't measure how much breastmilk you're providing but it's probably fine but maybe it's not enough and you have to just know because it's instinctive and you are doing great!/ Unless your baby is failing to thrive which totally your fault because you don't know anything.

Like that.

I tried once to write about how my bond with Eve wasn't immediate. I never meant to suggest that I didn't love her, simply that I didn't instantly and without hesitation feel overwhelming, obsessive I-am-in-love-with-her-every-breath love. I felt more like: I had a baby, and now I...have a baby. And she is fascinating and beautiful and I wonder who she is? While I'm figuring it out, I will do everything I can to make her existence wonderful and also not break her.

Over time, I slowly became more confident in my ability as a parent. My fear dissipated as she started growing into being Eve, and I started growing into being Eve's Mom. Now, I am consciously aware that I once feared I didn't feel enough for her, but I can't remember those days emotionally. I feel all the overwhelming, soul-encompassing, shake-me-to-my-core love for my daughter there is to feel.

The stuff I couldn't quite get to when she was new and I was so scared.

The stuff that, without realizing it, I assumed I'd deprive myself of again.

I assumed I'd be so scared, so worried, so wrought with WHAT DO YOU DO WITH A BABY? anxiety that I'd take months to adjust. I assumed I'd start back at square one: terrified that at any moment, I could do something wrong and the baby would go away.

So when I saw Stefania's update, it was like a slap in the face. A good, great, incredibly needed slap from a mother who didn't fear her child.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that babies are cause for celebration, but that's only seemed true in the greater sense. Yes, bringing life into the world is a miraculous thing, but living with a newborn? That's nothing but fear and judgment, depression and anxiety, feedings and sleep-deprivation, hormones and physical uncomfortability...nothing but struggle for the first three-to-six-to-nine months.

Except what if it's not? What if you shut down the computer and close the books and turn off that voice in your head and remember that it will most likely be just fine?

What if you let go of your fear and you do, actually, trust yourself?

What if, instead of thinking HE IS YAWNING BECAUSE HE'S NOT NOT GETTING ENOUGH SLEEP, you think, "Aww, he's yawning!"

What if you accept that the hard stuff (because it is hard) is completely outshone by the good stuff?

What if you relish all that is distinct and special about a baby's first few months of life before it's over with?

What if you actually look forward to bringing a new baby home?

And with that, I'm going to go pack my hospital bag.

Amazing Cupcake Making Class WITH WINE

2011-04-28T08:56:00.000-07:00

For those of you in the SF Bay Area who know that I ADORE cake (despite my unfortunate run-in with The Kerry Vincent Fan Club who misinterpreted my dislike of mechanical cakes for a dislike of cake on the whole), please consider signing up for this cupcake-making class.

Because A. It's a cupcake-making class! B. A friend of mine is hosting it (WHICH PROBABLY EXPLAINS THE WINE THING), and C. I would go if I weren't going to be in the hospital with a newborn. (I might have cake anyway, though.)

Find more details (and register) here!

And Then I Actually DID Talk About Paint Drying

2011-04-24T12:32:00.000-07:00

Not that you'd ever suspect I would, but I certainly did NOT get scared off by the Kerry Vincent brouhaha below. I was working hard on an "appropriate" follow-up post (um, because how DO you follow that up?) and then got sidelined and now it's long gone and no one cares about my Cake Defense anymore. I'll post it anyway, though.

Stripes are slimming, right?

In the meantime, I haven't been eaten or anything. It just...well, it occurred to me fairly recently that this pregnancy thing is, actually, going to result in HAVING A BABY.

So um. You knew this. And yeah, I had my suspicions. But pregnancy itself is such an overwhelming, encompassing thing that sometimes it feels like it's just nine months of increasing uncomfortability and no cocktails and you forget about why. "I JUST WANT THIS TO BE OVER!" those of us who prefer things like martinis and also not having the odd foot digging into our bladders all night tend to think. And THEN we remember, somewhere around eight-and-a-half months, that the end result of not being pregnant? Isn't about getting to have a martini.

I mean, you DO get to have a martini. Yay! But also! You get a child! A baby!

And then you're like, WHAT DO YOU MEAN, A BABY? WHERE IS IT GOING TO GO?

Perspective. That's what I'm saying.

The reality, my reality, is that I worry. A lot. So I spend my pregnancy thinking about pregnancy, not the awesome what-comes-after part (because I don't want to count my chicken before it hatches). Which means that one day I woke up and was all eight months pregnant and wondering, "No but really. Where IS the baby going to go?" And also, "Oh, and it will probably need diapers and stuff."

Thus, the last few weeks have been a whirlwind of organizing things we haven't touched since before Eve arrived, making 30 million lists, buying supplies, and trying to prep our home to be "ready." Which, I've discovered through my wackjob "nesting" instincts that never much presented themselves with Eve, will be "never."

Yesterday I spent hours contorting my full and not-to-be-contorted body across all our floors and staircase steam-cleaning our baseboards. I'm not kidding. Generally speaking, I'd move before voluntarily doing this, let alone doing this while pregnant. And yet.

I also got it into my head that we must finish painting the diningroom/entranceway.

(Probably you don't care at all about this, but some of you asked if I was okay and given what I'm about to explain, I'm not sure I can rightfully answer "yes.")

The thing is, a year ago we decided to pull up the carpet from the dining room because it was lame and also reeked of cat pee. And honestly, there's nothing you can do to rid carpet of cat pee smell other than rid yourself of the carpet entirely. It took us weeks to decide what flooring to replace the carpet with, because the floors that run through the rest of the downstairs have been discontinued because of course they have. And then there was the requisite "it's back-ordered" drama, mixed with flaky contractors and voila! Five months and all our savings later, we had a new floor!

Shortly thereafter, we decided to take the curtains down and paint the whole space, since we don't really like "flesh colored" walls. (And once you've already spent a fortune, why not just finish the job?) We thought it would be nice to have it done for Thanksgiving.

Instead, on Thanksgiving, we had giant, naked windows and five squares of paint samples smeared on three walls. FESTIVE!

And then somehow it was April.

Now I'm in this pressure-prompted, last-ditch effort to finish all unfinished everything, and have been to the paint store enough times that the grown men who work there giggle when I enter. (I am not making that up.)

And instead of a painted dining room, I have a wall that now has FIFTEEN different colors on it. YES, FIFTEEN. As though it's a modern art piece unto itself.

Please note that this is just one wall of samples.
These same colors appear in larger and smaller swatches all over the room.

I will not walk you through the mental progression that these have taken. I will not explain to you how very, very different 5 and 6 are from 11 and 12. Just know that they are. And that we have decided on #12, which is Collonade Gray by Sherwin Williams (featured left; isn't it pretty?).

Aside from drying-paint adventures (will the painters come and get the room done before the baby arrives? HAHAHAHAHA), and other housekeeping projects, we went through the process of moving Eve into a big-girl bed in a big-girl room. Which could have been a horribly traumatizing event for all of us, and yet Eve -- again -- made the transition so well and so smoothly I'm convinced the child I'm currently carrying must be some kind of hellspawn.

I say that with love, of course.

So that is what I have been up to. I'm fine, I'm just cramming nine months worth of "let's get ready for baby!" stuff into like, three weeks. While working 50+ hour weeks at my work-job-start-up and not neglecting the toddler who, when I point to my belly and say baby, looks at me like I'm a doofus who has no idea what a baby is.

(Taken with the Hipstamatic App.
Any idea why it says APR 81 or how to change that?)

Dear Ms. Kerry Vincent: It's Not You. (It's Not Me, Either.)

2011-03-27T11:28:00.000-07:00

I find it impossible to believe that my post below has in any way hurt your feelings.

I find it even more impossible to believe that you've read it.

Regardless: I'm a bit taken aback by the fury the post has wrought, especially because the character you play on television IS that of a stern judge who many contestants DO seem to fear. Your role IS to be mean. And, your hairstyle is befitting your character: it IS tight and tidy and old-fashioned. It is NOT flattering, nor is it meant to be.

I have not said these things to be cruel. I have issued no attacks on you personally. I am not petitioning Food Network to stop you and your evil ways. I just don't, um, get it?

I don't happen to enjoy the "mean judge" character (or her hairstyle), nor do I understand its necessity. But there are obviously many aspects of the entire competition I don't understand. This is also not cruel to state, ESPECIALLY since my judgment is that of someone who wears pink Crocs and watches Mr. T infomercials.

So, to all the angry fans who are like, "WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS?" I restate: I'm someone who wears pink Crocs and watches Mr. T infomercials.

Now, it is quite obvious from the folks who have commented below that YOU are nothing like your "mean judge" character in real life. You are kind and giving and thoughtful and you do great charity work and you smile all the time. All of this is wonderful to hear.

But my post has nothing to do with who you are in real life. (I don't know who Mr. T is in real life, either. I sincerely doubt he actually likes the FlavorWave THAT much.) And anyway, the WONDERFUL person you are off-air doesn't change who you portray on on-air. Nor does it change how I feel about who you portray on television.

Right? I mean, please tell me that you know the difference between my poking fun at the show and your character on the show and my making any personal attacks on you. Which I absolutely did not do.

(You must know that my suggestion about showing up for work drunk and topless was intended as a compliment. Hello? DREAM JOB.)

Meanwhile, I feel I should point out that your fans do NOT seem to understand the difference between you on tv, you in real life, or what on earth this blog is about. Not only have your fans taken personal offense to my characterization of your television persona -- even though it's accurate -- they have also personally attacked me. They've accused me of being unaware of "the real you" without having taken a moment to read about who I am or what I blog about. I've not made a single personal statement about your character, but I have been called an asshole, stupid, ignorant...there was even the one guy who wrote, "I hope her husband reads this and comes looking for you!"

So, here's the thing.

If your friends and fans want the world to see you as the kind, generous, charitable, fun-loving, sweet, and beautiful woman you are, then I would recommend you cease portraying the opposite on television.

Barring that, I would recommend that they learn to understand the difference between your on-air persona (mean, hairband) and off-air persona (not mean, nice hair) AND recognize those of us who are capable of making that distinction.

Further, if you wanted to petition The Food Network to do a show about "Kerry At Home" I would be happy to lead the charge. I'd TOTALLY watch a show about what Kerry Vincent does when she lets her hair down.

As it were.

The Ugliest Hair On Television

2011-03-26T10:54:00.000-07:00

Updated at 10 p.m. on 3/26/11:

WAIT! If you have just arrived here for the sole purpose of yelling at me and telling me how horrible I am and how wretched my post is, please read this first:

This is a HUMOROUS blog. I spend about 99% of the time making fun of people who are ME. That is because I confidently embrace self-deprecating humor, which I occasionally spread to other folks who are probably also totally capable of handling it, a la Ms. Vincent and her hairband.
ANY post that uses Jerseylicious and Mr. T Infomercials as a source of reference does not deserve your anger. It is misplaced.
That would be like prefacing a post about a celebrity's fashion failings by showing you pictures of my bright pink Crocs. I have absolutely NO BUSINESS writing about fashion. OR reality television. That is the whole point.
Still, cakes shouldn't be plugged in.
I am not a cake hater. I WORSHIP cake. And not only do I not hate cake, I don't hate people who make cakes, or people who judge people who make cakes. I KNOW I do not have amazing cake-making skills and I do find them impressive and creative and artful. I don't get why you would make a cake into Marge Simpson, and I don't get why you have to have an artificially stern judge be all mean about frosting, but that's not the same as hating.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Let's move away, now, from the controversial parenting topic of pancakes to the topic of fugly, fugly hair.

I don't like to be outright snarky on my blog, but sometimes? Sometimes I have no other choice. This particular matter has bothered me for some time, and bad hair is only about half of it.

Naturally, I'm talking about The Food Network Challenge and its terrifying judge with her terrifying hair.

She has never smiled like this on television.

I do not understand.

Now, let me put this in the right context. Not only do I generally LOVE reality cooking competition shows, I fully embrace a lot of pop culture stuff I can neither explain nor justify. Case in point: My outright obsession with Jerseylicious.

On Chocolate-Chip Pancakes And Eve's Eating Disorders

2011-03-20T17:19:00.000-07:00

As with every other parenting path, when it comes to "food," there's no one way that's right. Of THAT? I'm sure. But that's about the only thing.

So the question is: After spending a lifetime trying to figure out my own Relationship With Food (and even that phrase makes me roll my eyes), how do I best prepare Eve to not even have to think about hers?

Eve is holding the pancake to her ear, answering it like a phone.
Answering your food is not a classifiable eating disorder.

Someone commented on one of my recent posts thusly:

I don't want to make you feel bad and I'm sorry if this is an unwanted comment...But at some point this year I saw a picture of Eve eating chocolate chip pancakes at home. Are you okay with passing that same sweet tooth along to her? I am an overweight mama, too, and I'm trying to avoid sugar with my 14-month old, because I don't want him to want something I know isn't good for him. In a few years, I'll have to deal with McDonalds and birthday cakes (which he'll have, I know) but while he's a baby, I'm keeping him on whole foods. My 2 cents. Sorry to be a pain.

While I know that this remark was kindly meant, it upsets me for precisely the same reason the trip to the nutritionist upset me.

As a totally different commenter wrote:

I think that your (understandable) reaction to this nutritionist and her "song and dance" could also come from a lifetime of dealing with all of the stress, worry and unfounded guilt that comes with struggling with maintaining a healthy weight. After all, isn't that struggle what actually started this blog? And, aren't you still mightily fighting the good fight with regard to your weight? I would have totally been hurting having to hear this ridiculous oversimplified approach as though you did not grasp the concept of healthy diet/eating--when in fact, you've spent a lifetime learning all there is to learn about this topic. I am sorry this happened, and wish you the best of health!

The second commenter is right, of course. I think about everything I ever put into my mouth. Always have, always will. To be clear: When I went hog-wild with the sugar this pregnancy, it wasn't with ignorance or thoughtlessness. It was with deeply considered abandon. I CAN DO THIS IF I WANT TO, I'd tell myself before tearing off the head of another unsuspecting Sour Patch Kid or 193.

It's no different with Eve. I think deeply about anything and everything she eats.

Eve also appears to be in deep thought about her breakfast.
That it's smeared across her face is clearly of no consequence.

I was raised with very mixed messages about food. My mom did her ever-loving best to try to make sugary foods seem unimpressive and uninteresting, to complete failure. All that did was make me feel like eating "bad" stuff was "bad."

And while yes, she tried to get us to eat vegetables -- oh, how she tired -- I wanted nothing to do with them. (In my defense? There is nothing good about green beans from a can.)

ALL of this preamble is to say: there are two things I'm working on with Eve.

1. I don't want my daughter to fear food.
I don't want her mixing up fear or guilt or a sense of "wrong" with eating, whatever the food may be. Food Shame surfaces in all kinds of eating disorders, from the most mild to most severe. Usually along the lines of It's bad but I want it anyway, which means *I* must be bad.... Or some variation thereof.

My personal version of Food Shame is almost comical. I don't like being told what to do or how to feel, so it's almost as if I approach eating a good, big, rich meal like a cowgirl with a chip on my shoulder: Go ahead, TRY to make me feel bad about eating you! And then when I don't feel bad, it's like I've overcome something. I don't hate myself, I don't hate the way I feel. I win!

(And while no, I don't relish being overweight in any way, getting motivated to lose weight is hard when eating whatever I want is actually emotionally rewarding.)

I want to do my best to avoid assigning "bad" and "guilt" feelings to food.

To be clear, though, I do NOT want to try to neutralize food having any emotional value. I know some parents who try very hard to make food a non-issue altogether. I get that, I just don't live it and don't want to pretend to. I love eating, I think food is a wonderful, enjoyable part of life.

It's not the enemy.

Who said this was bad???

2. I want Eve to be exposed to as much healthy food as possible.
Like most of the kids I knew, I was raised on very basic, very bland, very processed foods. I loved McDonald's and I loved Skippy Peanut Butter & Welch's Grape Jelly sandwiches on white Wonder Bread. We ate casseroles. We ate meat and potatoes. We believed that Fruit Roll-Ups and Kudos granola bars were healthy snacks. We gagged at being fed vegetables. We ate all kinds of meals borne of the freezer aisle.

I was a teenager before I tried salsa.

I didn't know how limited my palate was. I didn't know how limited my exposure was. And I mostly didn't care. Food was a pit of emotional confusion and losing weight meant eating even less of it. I didn't want to learn how to cook it. Why would I?

But then a few things happened. America started growing more sophisticated. At the same time I was becoming an adult, the Food Network came into being, grocery stores changed, "foodies" were appearing everywhere...and I moved to San Francisco and started dating a vegetarian.

My entire food world changed.

True story: When I arrived in California, I couldn't identify fresh garlic in a grocery store. I didn't know what it looked like.

Nearly 10 years later, I'm still learning. I've greatly expanded my palate and preferences, but I'm still missing some basics and sometimes even basic recipes will trip me up. My knife skills are laughable. But I make good food, when I get the urge to try.

This means, though, that I find it critically important to get Eve to try everything. She doesn't have to like it, but she should know what fresh, whole, delicious foods taste like. She gets tons of fresh fruit and veggies and meats and cheeses and beans. She loves Indian food and Thai curries. She happily eats pesto and hominy and salmon and grapefruit. (She does not like eggs.)

She also loves french fries -- although given a choice, she prefers sweet potato fries dusted in chili powder to the regular kind.

And yes, I get it. I know there is basically no reason for me to give a toddler french fries, especially if she's happy eating non-fried foods in the same setting. Except in my head, there is: I consider it a total win if she gets that the fried foods exist and are tasty, but they're really just a component of a meal that has many other delicious (and healthy) things to offer.

That's a skill I still haven't mastered.

* * * * * * * * * *

A few weeks ago, on a whim, Ish and I decided to grab brunch after running some errands with Eve. We stopped in at a local place. Their special children's menu item that day was chocolate-chip pancakes, and I ordered them hastily.

At that brunch, Eve ate bits of raisins, melon, oranges, ham, cottage cheese, potatoes, toast, water, juice, and milk in addition to the pancake. I don't know what food she liked the best, but I know what food was the messiest and most fun to eat.

So to answer the original commenter: I didn't order the pancakes because I want to pass on my eating habits to my daughter. I ordered them because I don't.

Will you stop blogging now so I can eat in peace?

Devastated. Emotional.

2011-03-06T13:14:00.001-08:00

UPDATED:
Disqus did not *delete* all of my comments, it simply did not import them. The comments still live on Blogger. I am reinstalling now. And yes, in the meantime I have backed everything up

GIANT thank-you to Lindsay, whose name is now in the running for our son because I owe him at least that much, right?.

Much appreciation to Disqus as well, both for not actually deleting my comments and for replying to my crazy-lady Tweets on a Sunday.

After six years of writing this blog, I decided not to move to WordPress. I figured that I know and love Blogger and all its simplicity.

One thing I wanted to improve, however, is the commenting function. I just want to be able to thread comments!

So I decided to install the Discus comment system. All it takes is a quick widget install.

I thought I was so smart.

I followed the prompts. There was a checkbox. It asked if I want to import existing comments into Discus. I did NOT select it. I WANTED TO LEAVE ALL EXISTING COMMENTS INTACT. I wanted to use these new comments going forward ONLY.

Six years of comments is too many to mess with.

I clicked "next." I saved the update to Blogger. I clicked on my blog.

All of my comments are gone.

All of YOUR comments are gone.

I went back to Discus and clicked "IMPORT." (I would have clicked IMPORTFORTHELOVEOFGODIMPORTIMPORTIMPORT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! if that had been an option.)

And then I burst into tears.

I cannot believe I can hit two buttons and WIPE OUT six whole years worth of comments. Is it really possible? Did I really do that? Is it that easy? Are they really gone?

They can't be, right? They...can't?

I joke all the time about you being my Invisible Internet Friends but it's only the "invisible internet" part that's funny. And just because it sounds funny. The reality, of course, is that you are my friends. You have been my friends for a long time, and I love you and care about you and have relied on you to help me through some of my biggest life moments.

It's like you've been through everything with me. You can't suddenly be gone.

I am absolutely heartbroken.

Boy Names?

2011-03-02T22:31:00.000-08:00

Here's something hilarious and terrifying:

I am due in 8 weeks. HAHAHAHAHAHA!

We have not stocked up on new baby things yet at all. We have not dusted off Eve's bassinet. We have not transferred Eve to a new sleeping arrangement so that the Butterlump can have her crib. All of the baby gear we do have is pink. Because we didn't think that one through.

In short, if this baby came early for some reason, we would not be...ah...how do you say..."prepared."

But "stuff" aside? We also do not have a name. We have definite contenders (family names, mostly, including Sammis*). But we do not have a name for sure and the last time we talked about baby names on this blog you all had fantastic ideas for girls.

In fact, it was because of you that we came THISCLOSE to naming Eve "Finnouala."

So I'm putting it out there to you again: What are your suggestions for baby boy names?

We like super traditional and old-fashioned but not super popular (see: Eve). Ish also LOVES the idea of naming him something that comes with a nickname he'd have been given in the 1950s. I guess like "Scout" or "Lumpy." (Except we are not naming our son "Lumpy." Not just because the name is LUMPY -- which should be enough -- but because Lumpy was the nickname of The Beaver's lame sidekick buddy on Leave it to Beaver, which is ridiculous when you think about it because Beaver was totally lame himself. So Lumpy is the name you give to a lame person's even lamer friend. Not cool.)

(Apologies if "Lumpy" is a friend of yours.)

Authors, Brits, and Celtic/Gaelic names always have appeal.

We love the name Dashiell (Dash!), for example.

Whereas we do not love the name "Lemuel." DID YOU HEAR ME, ISH? FOR THE LAST TIME, LEMUEL IS NOT ON THE TABLE.

*If you do not happen to like the name Sammis, please do not feel the need to chime in and tell us so. That is the reason people don't share possible baby names with other people in the first place.

An Idiot Without Cake: Gestational Diabetes And My "Treatment"

2011-02-26T17:33:00.000-08:00

Please read my post below to get up to speed on my "gestational diabetes" diagnosis.

So yeah. Mad. I got mad at three things.

1. Mad at myself.
I know that every body and every pregnancy is different. I know plenty of fit, healthy women who were diagnosed with GD because that's just what happened. But I also knew it was HIGHLY likely that my I CAN EAT EVERYTHING I WANT BECAUSE I'M PREGNANT attitude and menu planning was my problem. Cake really isn't a food group.

When I started to think about it, all of the "it's worse the second time" hormonal things I was talking about earlier? ALL of them can be attributed to too much sugar. Weird mood and body fluctuations? Crazy energy surges and crashes? Wacked-out sleep and dream patterns, beyond "normal" pregnancy wacked-out-ed-ness? Sugar, sugar, sugar.

Duh.

2. Mad at the diagnosis.
As I have repeatedly stated, I am not a medical professional AND every body is different. But precisely because every body is different, I think that calling it "gestational diabetes" is alarmist and terrifying and not quite true across the board.

Some people can't attribute GD to diet alone or at all. Some women -- say, those with a genetic predisposition to diabetes -- can change their diet and exercise routine completely and still need medication.

However. If I have no history of this, no predisposition to it in any way, AND my blood sugar levels go back to "normal" two days after I stop shoveling high-fructose corn syrup into my mouth, then I feel like my "case" of this "condition" is maybe not as dire as one would think given what it's called. You know?

3. Mad at the treatment.
OMFG. The moment the nurse told me I would be contacted by a "center" who "does counseling" for "diabetics" I knew I was in for it. There is a state-run program (UGH!) and I would be enrolled and, the nurse said, they will help me understand how to monitor my blood sugar (great!) and -- the words I never, ever, ever want to hear ever --

adjust my diet

to keep my blood sugar in check.

Can you hear me rolling my eyes?

Yes, of course I'd GO to the session. I'm not totally negligent and irresponsible.

I am, however, a nutritionist's worst nightmare. I am smart and well educated and extremely knowledgeable about food, diet, and nutrition. KNOWING what I should do has never been my problem. DOING it? Well, right.

I tried to put on my best face, my best sense of humor, my best attitude and attend my one-on-one session as bravely as possible. I decided before I arrived that I would just be honest with my counselor. I would tell her that I understand my diagnosis, I am certain I know how it happened AND I am certain I can get it and keep it under control. I would not be rude or snarky or sarcastic, I would be open and tell her that I'm feeling stupid and silly. I hoped for the best.

The best did not happen.

The counseling program is, as I mentioned, state-run. Which means, if you think about it, the educational materials they provide have to be accessible to everyone. NOT UNLIKE THE DMV HANDBOOK. No big words. Friendly, cartoon drawings. Easy-to-fill-in charts. Ridiculous, condescending program title intended to make you feel happy about what you're doing.

This is an actual illustration on the materials I was given. I think the woman is smiling because she doesn't actually have gestational diabetes, unlike me, THE CARB WHORE.
Don't you love that they tell you what "gestational" means?

The program is called "Sweet Success." Yes, really.

Sure, I understand why the program is designed this way. You understand why the program is designed this way. But still, I wanted to believe that I would not feel scolded or condescended to. I wanted to believe that my counselor would treat me like a knowledgeable human and perhaps customize my session.

No.

I tried. I tried to break the ice by being exceedingly pleasant and chipper. I was honest from the get-go, telling her that weight management, nutrition, and all that goes with it is something I am very familiar with. I told her this session would be hard for me because I know better.

Deaf. Ears. No acknowledgment whatsoever.

She went through her spiel. She walked me through how to use the blood sugar monitoring kit.

I made the mistake of suggesting that there might be an app that keeps track of my results, and she replied as though I had asked to taste her shoe. No, I can't use an app, I need to use a pen and The Book because that's the only way I can show her and my doctor my readings at all future appointments. Oh, good.

We took a sample right there. My level was perfectly within the range she gave me (81 for those of you keeping score), a mere day-and-a-half after I was told of my diagnosis and started regulating my diet all by myself.

She asked me all the background questions, and I was happy to answer -- as though I was proving my own point. No, there is zero history of diabetes in my family. No, I did not have GD with my first pregnancy. No, my levels were not abnormal earlier in this pregnancy. No, I have not gained an excessive amount of weight this pregnancy. Etcetera.

SIDEBAR!

A few years ago, my online bank account got broken into. I had about $6,000 stolen from me and transferred to an unlinked account in the Middle East. I didn't know it had happened right away, and I learned about it when the bank notified me. I spoke to a private investigator for the bank, and he assured me they'd have it taken care of. However! The only way to get my money back was to call their fraud department separately and go through their standard process.

Unfortunately -- and somewhat hysterically, actually -- their standard process involved asking me 900 questions about why I "suspected" I'd had my account broken into.

Have you recently given your PIN to anyone? No.

Have you recently used your ATM card in a public place where someone may have seen you? No.

Have you lost your debit or ATM card recently? No.

Why do you suspect that your account has been broken into? BECAUSE YOU CALLED ME TO TELL ME MY ACCOUNT WAS BROKEN INTO.

That's exactly what my counseling session felt like. We were trying to figure out why my numbers were high, except I knew why and stated why. We were trying to figure out how to get my numbers back under control, except they already were.

STILL. I was as fine and as chipper about the opening spiel and blood-sugar monitoring part and the background questions as humanly possible. But when she got out The Book, I balked. It was gonna get ugly.

Here is where you will keep track of everything you eat, she said.

For some reason, I was unprepared for this. "Guidelines," yes. "Writing down everything I eat," no. The book had a cartoon drawing of happy babies on the front and everything. Like maybe I should color them in with magic markers.

But suddenly and dramatically and I was on a diet. A full-scale, share-every-move-you-make, medically required DIET. I went from feeling foolish to feeling punished. I almost burst into tears, but fought to keep them back. I just let her recite her lines and point at things in the book.

I didn't want to do it. I wasn't going to do it if I didn't have to. Did I have to?

She said: We need you to write everything down, including portion size and brand, and you have to be as specific as possible. We do this so that if your numbers go up, we can figure out why.

And THAT, my friends, is where I lost it. Civilly, mind you. But I was emotionally drained and annoyed and feeling chastised.

I blurted out, "You don't think I could figure that out myself?"

She was taken aback. "I'm sorry?" she asked.

I repeated myself. "I just...I feel like I should be able to figure it out myself...?"

I could have phrased it better (or not at all) but that's exactly what was at the heart of my issue. This blood sugar thing is NOT a mystery to me. I get it.

Said another way: Let's forget about the whole world of possibilities right now and focus on the reality that is my personal situation. I am not a statistic, I am a human being sitting right in front of you, telling you the truth about myself. ALL signs point to my condition being a direct result of my carb-heavy diet. If I cut back on my sugar and my numbers immediately go down -- which is exactly what's happened -- isn't it safe to say that we have a very good idea of how to proceed?

Based on everything I've told you today, don't you think I might have a slight handle on what's happening with my body? Maybe possibly?

No? No. That isn't how it works. They have to be careful. They have to be sure they're not missing something. I know. But right then, I didn't care. I am not a cog and I didn't want to feel like one.

The counselor was clearly affronted by my ~~insubordination~~ question. I had asked a snotty question in a snotty way, and she was horrified. It took her a few seconds to compose herself. When she got it together, she stammered out that she is trained and that it's possible she can see stuff I could miss.

And while that makes complete sense? Meh.

THEN? She got out the food pyramid and it was like we were downward spiraling.

Sour Patch Kids are not on this pyramid ANYWHERE!
(click for larger; this is the actual doc I was given)

Snippet of continued conversation

Her: ...snacks, like any of the light yogurts.

Me: Oh, but aren't most of the light yogurts full of high-fructose corn syrup?

Her: Not the light ones.

Me: Actually, I'm pretty sure they are...

And then she changed the subject immediately and tactlessly. P.S. I'm right.

Same with the conversation I tried to initiate around the "nutritional" value of:

The crap they put in diet soda
How artificial sweeteners trick your body into craving more, just like sugar
How some artificial sweeteners have been shown have a similar reaction to sugar on the glycemic index

She was interested in discussing none of it. Defensive? Annoyed? Frustrated? Put out that I would have opinions about things? That I would take her off-script? Whatever, lady. If you're going to recommend BY BRAND NAME a "light" yogurt whose primary ingredient is HFCS, I have a right to ask about it, and you damn well better be able to explain to me why/how that is a wise dietary choice.

Telling me about crazy, processed sugar-free foods I should feel fine eating suggests to me we are not taking a holistic approach to my overall well-being.

But when I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse, she actually pulled out a piece of paper with a sample food label.

"Do you know how to read a nutrition label?" She asked me.

"Yes." I replied.

She walked me through it anyway (why did she ask?), taking pains to go over the highlighted parts. See, total Carbohydrates is PER serving size...

Then she ended the session 30 minutes early. Spiel or no spiel, she could not get me out of her office fast enough.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I first got my diagnosis I felt ashamed. Then angry. Then enraged, immediately following my counseling session.

Then I figured out how to make this whole thing work for me.

I have been taking my measurements religiously. In the 1.5 weeks since my diagnosis, my numbers have been totally normal. I had a couple blips that I adjusted for and corrected immediately (ex: half a grapefruit sent my numbers high; steamed sweet potatoes didn't). I have not been tracking every single thing I eat, unless there's something funky.

I have cut my carbs significantly. My new "indulgence" is fake ice cream bars (yay, chemicals!). I never exceed the amount of carbs per meal that my counselor advised (which, to be fair, compared to doing Atkins is like a PARTY). I snack more frequently (I'm really bad about eating regularly, which I learned.)

I've lost 7 stupid pounds.

Meaning I've gained a whopping total of 15 pounds this pregnancy. With only 9 weeks to go.

Resolved, I called my doctor's office and asked if the Sweet Success program was mandatory. The nurse I spoke with said it wasn't, but asked why I wasn't interested in continuing it. I explained -- again, as politely as I could muster -- that I feel very confident that I know why my numbers were high, how to correct them, and that I HAVE corrected them.

She replied by telling me why my numbers might be high. Um, but...?

She told me that if I don't get my numbers under control (BUT THEY ARE), I might need to be medicated...?

I repeated that my numbers are fine, and have been since I got my diagnosis.

Is it that no one believes me? Are they just trained to be skeptical? While I get that they need to emphasize the seriousness of the condition, I also wish someone would actually just listen to me.

If I'd thought about it for 3 seconds, I could have curbed my carb intake two days before my test and not been subjected to ANY of this. I'm actually glad I'm checking my blood sugar (it's fascinating!), but otherwise, this is all so frustrating.

I'm supposed to bring my test kit with me to my next doctor's appointment to show him all my numbers and to discuss how to proceed. My guess is that he will be like, "Oh, yeah. You're fine."

I'll keep you posted.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Serving Size: 16 pieces
Servings Per Container: about 3*
Calories: 140

Total Fat: 0g
Sodium: 25g
Total Carbohydrate: 36g
Sugars: 25g
Protein: 0g

*Hahahahahahaha!

And The Pregnancy Made Of Cake Comes To An Abrupt Close

2011-02-26T08:06:00.000-08:00

So this Gestational Diabetes thing. Where to begin?

The beginning? Probably.

I am prone to exaggerate sometimes. But when I wrote that I'd been spending this entire pregnancy eating sugary foods and starchy foods and starchy foods covered with sugar, I was not exaggerating. This isn't to say I haven't been eating any proteins or veggies, but carbs have been FRONT AND CENTER of just about every meal and snack I've eaten, especially since the holidays. And because I hardly ever allow myself "sweet" foods when I'm not pregnant, I'd forgotten: the more sugar I consume, the more I want.

Somehow, for no reason that is actually justifiable in any way, I decided to ignore EVERYTHING I know about nutrition --

CAN WE JUST REMIND OURSELVES THAT I KNOW A LIFETIME'S WORTH OF NUTRITION?

on the idea that "it's okay because I'm pregnant."

Two giant desserts a day? Not a good idea.

But if we're going to start from the beginning, let's talk for a moment about my pregnancy with Eve.

I spent the entirety of my first pregnancy, as so many women do, absolutely freaked out about everything. I went into the pregnancy terrified it wouldn't take. I also went into it terrified because I was significantly overweight and, despite being completely healthy otherwise, the books/guides/ internet seemed to suggest that I was doomed. DOOMED. I was going to have Gestational Diabetes and high blood pressure and preeclampsia and be miserable and everything was going to suck and be horrible.

It wasn't until after I gave birth that I got mad about that. Because my first pregnancy was the kind of pregnancy every woman wants. It was smooth, and healthy, and happy. And by all accounts? Easy. It turns out that sometimes, being overweight does not HAVE to mean that your body doesn't work right. It doesn't mean that you're a monster.

So! HAHA! I thought. I will NOT spend this second pregnancy terrified of everything! I thought. I will be CHILL. Especially because -- as I wrote about like 2 entries ago -- I started this pregnancy 30 pounds LIGHTER than I was the last time!

Um. But I really, really, really pushed it.

And so by my second GD test, my numbers were "elevated." Not terrifyingly high, but elevated. Enough to be in the Gestational Diabetes range.

Oh, crap.

The first thing I felt upon hearing the diagnosis: shame. Deep, aching shame. There is NO question as to how this came about. My body has gotten less efficient at processing sugar because I have absolutely overloaded it with pasta and waffles and Sour Patch Kids. I took being cavalier about sugar to an extreme.

So after the shock and shame and the perhaps somewhat irrational I HAVE RUINED OUR BABY I *AM* A MONSTER! crying jags, I had to face the reality of what GD actually is, and what I need to do to fix it.

I got a grasp on my diagnosis.

Hi, I am not a medical professional. Do not listen to me. But what I understand of GD is that it means your body has become less efficient about processing sugars. This can usually be rectified by adjusting your diet. GD ends when you give birth and the placenta (which is calling the shots while your pregnant) leaves your body. Aside from the fact that your pancreas has gotten a little "sluggish," it also means that the inefficiently processed sugars -- the ones that aren't leaving your body? -- are going to your baby. So, you're essentially overfeeding your baby. This can lead to oversized babies, which can lead to stressful birth situations. There is also a link between women having GD developing Type 2 Diabetes later in life, but that's correlative.

And THEN I got the message that I had to begin counseling sessions with a nutritionist.

And THEN? Then I got really mad.

Still Constructing

2011-02-22T15:11:00.000-08:00

Please note: this is the basic new template, but I will be updating/tweaking/making all kinds of changes to this template as we move forward. So if links don't work and pictures seem outdated and weird stuff is going on, just ignore it. LA LA LA.

cough Pardon My Dust cough (Also? Can You "Like" This?)

2011-02-21T09:26:00.000-08:00

Remember how I mentioned that I'm going through a site redesign? Yeah, well, that's underway. As of right now (Monday, February 21) we have reverted to a basic template while collecting sparkles for the new one. Thank you for your patience and not pointing and laughing at my blog standing here in its underwear.

(If blogs had nightmares, it would be this.)

IN THE MEANTIME, I have two very important updates:

1. I never, ever, ever, ever ask for votes for stuff. I think if a blogger/person is going to be recognized in a real way, it should be by a panel of judges, not by people who are all VOTE FOR ME EVERY DAY LOVE ME VALIDATE ME!!!!!!! You know? Vote-baiting is the same as link-baiting and I think it's crass.

In fact, the last time I think I asked for your votes was when I was "competing" with the awesome Bethany in a ridiculous 2007 Blog Interview contest and the whole reason I wanted to win was because the prize was a laser pen that came with "The Power To Burn!". I'm not even kidding.

I came in 2nd place. I won a remote-controlled car with a secret camera.

But! Now I'm up for consideration (along with my partners) as a Top 50 Mompreneur of 2011 on Babble. This list actually means something in the blogging world, and would help boost the profile of The Clever Girls Collective and, by association, all the bloggers we work hard to represent.

To vote, just go here and click "like."

2. I failed my two-hour glucose test. Which means I've been diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes.

Now. When I stop shoving handfuls of high fructose corn syrup into my mouth for 3 seconds and think about this, it makes sense. But I went through the initial shock and horror and humiliation that one goes through, ugh. Then I did a lot of research. Then I went to a counseling session and upset my counselor so much I thought she was going to kick me out (she practically did).

But until I can give you more details, just know that I AM FINE. I also think calling it "gestational diabetes" is stupid. Also also, since I found out I've made some minor modifications and my blood sugar has been totally normal.

But that counseling session? I can't wait to tell you about it. HOO BOY.

In Case You Were Worried About My Dating Prospects

2011-02-14T08:57:00.000-08:00

Because, I gotta say, I have been.

I mean, YES. I'm happily married and all. But I've heard that some people use all these new-fangled tools like Twitter to facilitate dating. And I have to screw up my forehead and think, "UM? REALLY?" Because the bulk of people I follow and who follow me fit into these categories:

People I know (and am therefore not dating in real life; also, my actual husband)
Women bloggers, mostly moms (not dating prospects)
Funny people who are totally anti-social in real life (not dating prospects)
Social media "experts" who seem incapable of having human conversations online, but who I follow in case they are actually "competition" (they aren't)
Celebrities, mostly chefs (not really dating prospects but that's not really my fault)

But! Then I discovered Kevin. And all became clear to me.

Ish had better watch out.

Gratuitous Photo Of My Adorable Child

2011-02-11T09:08:00.000-08:00

Ish and I finally, Finally, FINALLY purchased a real camera. We all knew my photos could only get better, even if I a) still have no idea what I'm doing and b) have to take 900,000 photos to get ONE that's a keeper.

The Cake Saga Continues: Week 27

2011-02-11T08:59:00.000-08:00

So, I'm still knocked up.

Not to rub it in your face, entire rest of the country, but Northern California has been quietly enjoying spectacularly gorgeous "winter" weather. And I will not complain about that. BUT. It messes with my head. Because I'm due in May and since I found out about this pregnancy last August I've been all "I will have a baby in the spring!" Which means that every day where it feels like spring makes me think I'm due. You know? Except it's the beginning of February. I have three more full months -- an entire third of my pregnancy -- to go.

That doesn't equate to "soon" at all.

Meanwhile, I look a good 8+ months pregnant.

Let me tell you: a lot of things happened to my body in my first pregnancy that are pretty common but not so awesome. One of them was that my stomach walls got stretched so thin that it kind of...herniated? I guess? And you can't really fix that? But it means that if I push out my stomach, it pops out like there's a baby's head there, even when I'm not pregnant.

Let me tell you how incredibly sexy THAT is. At least it's a good party trick.

(Note: according to doctors, I'm no supposed to worry about this unless it starts to really hurt suddenly, in which case that probably means that an organ has started to pop out from behind my stomach wall. OH OKAY. I WON'T WORRY, THEN.)

Anyway. Once I had an actual baby starting to take up space in my belly region again, my stomach walls just popped. So, yeah. 8 months pregnant. Except 6. I don't know how I can possibly get any bigger, but I am sure I'll get to find out and won't that be a fun game?

"Are you sure it's not twins?"

Sigh. Yes. I'm sure.

Oh, ALSO? The first pregnancy? My boobs didn't get any bigger. Everyone was like, "OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WHEN YOUR BOOBS GET BIGGER?" because they were already the size of my house and honestly, I was frightened for my family.

But instead, they just didn't get bigger. I guess they were already at maximum capacity.

Well, it turns out that EVERYTHING was at maximum capacity. During my first plus-sized pregnancy -- aside from my weight shifting and clothes fitting differently -- I never had to change the size of my clothes. My feet spread out a bit, but everything else I owned still fit me.

Then this time around, I started off my pregnancy 30 pounds lighter than last time. Yay! Right? Except you know where I'm going with this. That 30 pounds has made a huge difference in how pregnancy has been affecting me. I guess my body thinks I have 30 pounds of room to expand into. My boobs are slowly, steadily, unabashedly inflating. I do NOT fit into most of my "normal" clothes anymore, and certainly none of my "lost 30+ pounds" clothes.

Now my bras are barely fitting. My maternity clothes from last time around don't look right. Then last night, I had trouble zipping up my boots.

WTF, NATURE?

I mean, yes. I know I've been eating like a crazy pregnant woman. I know that cake isn't technically a food group. But I am offended (at whom? I don't know) that my BOOTS don't fit. It is a cruel, cruel joke that I had an easier pregnancy when I was more overweight.

I have heard from lots of people that the second pregnancy is usually more "more" because your body already kind of knows what to do. And it's been totally true for me. I started having cravings for sour/sugar (pineapple, lemonade, Sour Patch Kids) immediately. I had terribly vivid, wacky dreams right away. My pregnancy brain (ABSOLUTELY NOT SOMETHING I'M MAKING UP) kicked in by the first trimester. I could feel this little guy kicking me by 18 weeks, where it took me until week 24 to feel Eve.

I cry readily at everything, including -- most notably and most frequently -- made-up scenarios in which something bad has happened to Eve. MADE UP. I also keep myself up at night worried about the same things. Two nights ago I couldn't sleep because I kept scaring myself about Eve possibly drowning in our pool. THAT WE DON'T HAVE.

All of this is to say, well, I don't know what my point is. Other than I am very, very pregnant and I still have a million weeks to go and you don't happen to have a donut on you, do you?

Oh, And "Walk Like An Egyptian" Needs Its Own Entry

2011-02-02T16:44:00.000-08:00

My BFF, Emily and I listened to Walk Like An Egyptian approximately 30 million times in the span of maybe two months (oh, sixth grade! How I miss you and your crimping iron!), and knew every single syllable to that song.

CRIMPED BANGS FTW!!!

Well, except we didn't.

This morning, Ish and I were playing our "for the baby" playlist I received as a baby shower gift for Eve, and Emily had added Walk Like An Egyptian (because you must start the children YOUNG if they are to have a proper musical education).

Also I would like to point out that I am now blogging about EGYPT which makes me a relevant and socially conscious blogger.

Anyway. As I was singing along I realized that I STILL sing about 50% of the song totally, completely, unmistakeably WRONG.

But before we get to my 11-year-old-self's lyrics to Walk Like An Egyptian, I need to be sure that a) you've read the comments in my last post, because they are pee-in-your-pants funny; b) you will read the additional lyrics people sent me on Twitter (below); and c) marvel in the fact that someone who commented on the last post actually WORKS WITH MY SISTER (the one who sings about boogers) but didn't know it.

WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN*(Words in red are incorrect)

All the old paintings on the tomb

They do the san dance, on you know

[No, never occurred to me that it would be a "sand dance."]

If you move too quick (OH WAY OH)

They're falling down like a domino

[Also, hooray for the "OH WAY OH" parts because EVERYONE got those right.]

Oh the fizo man, by the Nile

[your guess is as good as mine]

They got your money, on your back

The crocodiles (OH WAY OH)

They snap their teeth on a cigarette

All the guys with the hookah pies say

[Yes, I sang hookah "pies" - it rhymed with "guys"]

WAY OH WAY OH

OH WAY OH

WAY OH

Walk like an Egyptian

The Bond waitresses take their trays

[First I thought it was "born" waitresses.
Then I moved on and decided it was Bond, as in James Bond girls. As waitresses.]

They spin around and they cross the floor

They got the moves (OH WAY OH)

You drop your drink then they bring you more

All the school kids so sick of books

They like the funk and the middle ben

[I didn't know what a middle ben was, either.]

When the buzzer rings (OH WAY OH)

They're walking like an Egyptian

All the kids in the marketplace say...

Slight feet hit the street, bend your back

Shift your rum, then you bullet pack

[Um? No.]

Like sardine oil (OH WAY OH)

[Sardine oil??? My favorite line of the song, I think]

So strike a pose on a Cadillac

[what's funny here is that I thought I was making THOSE words up!]

If you wanna find all the cops

They're hanging out in the donut shops

They sing and dance (OH WAY OH)

They spin the cocoons down the block

[Because that's what cops do, right? With their cocoons?]

All the Japanese with their Yen

The party boys called The Gremlin

[Oh, those partying Gremlins!]

And the Chinese know (OH WAY OH)

They walk along like Egyptians

All the cops in the donut shops say...

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wow. I loved that song a LOT.

Here are some additional hilarious lyrics, brought to you from my friends on Twitter. Which is your favorite? I think "Go, go, Jason, Santa Claus!" might be mine.

lisaflo

Forgot to tell you the fave of my misunderstood lyrics: "Michelle, my belle. Sunday morning play piano song. Play piano song."

melrut01

My friend Joanna thought "Smack yo bitch up" was "Snap your picture." Told her the real lyric and she said she liked hers better.

melrut01

My friend thought the line in Biggie's "Hypnotize" was "I just love your Fascist ways." And she kept belting it out in the car.

Falvar

I thought Rocket Man was "burning up a suit of herring bone"

cowgrrlup

"don't go chasin waterfalls" to my baby brother was "go go Jason, Santa Claus" for YEARS.

HazlEyes

another friend thought "like a drifter I was born to walk alone" from Whitesnake's Here I Go Again (obvs) was "like a twister..."

HazlEyes

a college roomie thought "There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do" from Toto's Africa was "a hundred men on Mars"

Plookster

I thought "Round yon virgin" in Silent Night was "Round John Virgin."

mcpolish1

I thought fine young cannibals sang "she drives me crazy & I cant pay half my bills."

NapaValleyChick

my son thought "what about love" in the Swiffer commercials was "watermelon." I'm sure that's what Heart really meant.

hellohahanarf

I fucked up John Cougar's "Diane don't sound like all that much fun" into "Dying don't sound" (& thought well no shit!)

theloudcorral

a friend of mine thought the line "drink up baby doll" in a song was "ching chong baby doll" and was confused by the racism

molchase
The one that always gets me is "I don't want to come back down from this clown" in the Bush song "Comedown." I figured there was some kind of carnival ride involved, like a ferris wheel.

laurenmcneil

I thought it was "Honest I See You," too!! Hand to god. I still sing it that way sometimes for nostalgic reasons.

clairnation

"There's a bad moon on the rise" can easily be mistaken for "there's a bathroom on the right."

DMBastian

My boss used to sing "All we are is just in the wind" and "crazy for a shotglass man". :)

MissCDas

my friend in hs sang Def Leppard "Pour Some Sugar on Me" as "1 + 2 is 3" he had no idea why I laughed so hard I fell of the couch.

AmySphere

does it count if this one time, an ex of mine wrote me a break-up note using lines from a phil collins song?

seattlestevie

As a kid, I thought Neil Diamond's "Forever in Blue Jeans" was actually "Reverend Blue Jeans".

laurenmcneil

My cousin and I used to sing "Trashy wants my wiiiiife" instead of "Try to see it once my wayyyy" in bush's "Everything Zen." To our credit, we were 14 and they were British.

CathyIsReal

Had a friend in high school who BELTED the lyrics "You're the Wizard of Oz, oooh, oooh, ooh" (You're the One That I Want)

thecupcaketent

In Billie Jean, thought it was "Be careful who you do bc a life becomes of you" I legit thought it was a profound msg for safe sex

"Kiss This Guy" Is WAY Less Funny Than Singing About Boogers

2011-01-28T15:25:00.000-08:00

Generally speaking, I'm good with words. Generally speaking, this means I can figure out lyrics when I don't know what they are, or at least make some incredibly good substitutions. (Obviously this was a handier skill before you could look up actual lyrics on the internet.)

But even though I'm now older and wiser and good at the Google, it turns out that old habits die hard. I still mis-sing many lyrics out of habit when I'm not paying attention.

Now, I know a million blog posts and websites and silly books ALREADY exist to capitalize on this humorous phenomenon. Like, do you remember when Crazy Aunt Purl wrote her post about how she thought the song "Caribbean Queen" by Billy Ocean was actually a song about a man named "Harry Dupree"?

That's a lot funnier than thinking the lyrics "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky" are actually "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy" (which was the basis for an entire book).

Anyway, I was just reminiscing about my sister and the hilarious language "challenges" she faced as a kid*, and decided it was time for another version of "let's share our hilariously wrong lyrics." Besides, it's Friday.

The most egregious error I've ever made (and continue to make) is thinking that the song "Our Lips Are Sealed" by the Go-Gos was "Honest I See You." In fact, JUST NOW? As I went to Google to confirm that yes, that was indeed a Go-Gos song? I started typing in "Honest I see--" before I realized I was still doing it wrong.

I will point out that my version is incredibly poetic, regardless.

But back to my sister, Healy.

Healy's language "issues" went well beyond songs. For example, perhaps you know this Nursery Rhyme?

There was a little girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle

of her forehead

And when she was good

She was very, very good

And when she was bad

She was horrid

Well, Healhy didn't quite get it. And so when she'd recite it, it went:

There was a girl

Who had a curl

In her whore-hen

And when she was good

She was berry, berry good

And when she was bad

She ate soup

I couldn't make that up, right?

So you can imagine Healy's creative lyrics to songs mostly only she knew in the first place.

Like, well, we were Cabbage Patch Kid enthusiasts in my household, despite their being ugly and horrible and inexplicable.

[sidebar]

If for some reason you don't remember or didn't know, the rush on Cabbage Patch Kids was ridiculous. They were un-gettable for the longest time, except that you HAD TO HAVE ONE. And these were in the dark ages before eBay, so every family in America had to just call every store and family member they could think of trying to locate these plastic-headed, nylon-bodied dolls that came with birth certificates.

My grandparents in MINNESOTA finally got hold of three of them and sent them to us. Their arrival was epic.

Behold:
We are so excited about their showing up at our house that Healy and I look positively POSSESSED.
[end sidebar]

One Christmas, we got a cassette tape that accompanied a book? A movie? about this Cabbage Patch Kid saga. I can't really remember the story, except there was a bad guy named Cabbage Jack, who kidnapped Cabbage Patch kids (I think?) and a hero Cabbage Patch kid named Otis Lee.

I remember Otis Lee because there was a song on the cassette about him that Healy particularly liked. And that recorded her own version of.

The original song went:

[sung by Otis Lee, a tough young boy]

I got myself a bulldog

I got a load of friends

Every day is so much fun,

I'm sorry when it ends

[everyone joins]

When you've got a problem

He's the one you gotta see

There ain't no match

In the cabbage patch

for good ole' Otis Lee

Note: THIS IS STILL IN MY HEAD. I left the house without my wallet TWICE last week. But I can still sing about fucking Otis Lee.

Anyway. Healy's recorded version went:

[Healy, singing as a tough young boy]

I got myself a booger!

I got a lotus friend!

Every day is so much fun

I'm sorry now and then!

[she'd sing the rest correctly and WITH GUSTO]

Our house was fun.

Um, so what are your favorite mis-heard, mis-sung, misunderstood lyrics or nursery rhymes? I'll bet they don't involve boogers OR whore-hens.

*And adult. She still gets some words mixed up if she's not careful. Like the time a few years ago when she shouted to all the rowdy fans around her at the ballpark that they'd be "ejaculated" from the premises for using foul language. (OH, THE IRONY.)

I Know Why You Read Me

2011-01-21T17:27:00.000-08:00

October 27: "She Walks" Keyword Analysis

That about sums it up, right?

IIIIIIIIIII Love A Parade!

2011-01-19T13:23:00.000-08:00

Actually, I mostly hate parades.

Fair warning: I have about 300 million posts in my head, that have been piling up for months and (actually) years, and which I will now be spewing at you in no order whatsoever.

For instance.

A couple days ago I was thinking about how my "About Me" page is a little outdated and how I might go about updating it and maybe I should wait for my magical sparkly redesign and then I got distracted when I came across this lovely photo of myself. Which I love for many reasons:

I use "love" loosely.

As I've mentioned before, I was in the marching band in high school. I took my involvement in marching band excruciatingly seriously, such that I wanted to be Drum Major very, very badly. I suppose I thought if I was going to DO THIS THING, I was going to DO THIS THING RIGHT. So I practiced and auditioned three years in a row, and finally, FINALLY, I was selected for my senior year.

Meaning that yes. My senior year of high school -- while other, cooler kids might be playing "sports" or launching their "rock" bands or going to "parties" -- I was busy being Head Band Geek.

No hiding in the shadows under a plastic-brimmed hat with giant red plumes (yes; plumes. As in feathers.) for me, where maybe possibly no one would notice or see me and thus years later I could ostensibly deny having had any dealings with band at all. Noooooooo.

I wanted the role where I was out in front. No hat. No plume. Instead of a blue uniform, mine was WHITE. (Because nothing says HOT CHICK like a giant, stiff, white poly-wool-blend BAND UNIFORM that instead of contouring to my actually-not-too-shabby body, jutted out from my boobs and just, uh, stayed there.)

During band competitions we even had our own Drum Major judges with Drum Major scores, and--

Wait. Yes.

Yes, also. Marching band competitions. Did you know that they exist? And that they are mostly the WHOLE REASON people are in marching band? Did you know that playing at football games is just ancillary and totally NOT a marching band priority? Even though that's the only time or place anyone who isn't IN marching band ever sees a marching band?

Except, of course, for parades. Which I will get to.

But marching band competitions are a big deal (to people in band, I mean. Well, and to the band instructors, who, as grown-ups STILL involved with marching band, are a whole special kind of Band Geek species). The competitions have levels and divisions and allllll kinds of important rules and regulations and there are multiple tiers of judges and each competition has a big awards ceremony and drama and crying and long bus trips.

While the regular marching season comes with its own on-school-property band camp -- which would be reason enough for a normal high school student to never be in band -- the summer before my season as drum major? I got to go to a three-day Drum Major Camp in the middle of a field in the middle of the summer in the middle of Pennsylvania. I had the three worst days of my life there, ever, EVER.

I WENT TO THIS CAMP WILLINGLY (which is still around today, apparently, even though the beloved George N. Parks died of a heart attack last year):

Ohmygod LOOK how seriously these kids are taking themselves.
I was just. Like. This. As though training for the Olympics. Of Lame.

Imagine three days of standing around, alternately at attention and waving your arms frantically for non-existent marching bands, trying to out-perform the Top Band Geeks from all over the entire Northeast. TORTURE.

Anyway. ANYWAY.

Probably you didn't know or care that it was a big deal to be a drum major, or that there was something in the world called "drum major academy" or that there were band competitions where we were judged or any of that. Probably you just knew that sometimes marching bands play at football games and sometimes they perform in parades.

But here's the thing: I don't really "get" parades, not even when I was in them. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is fun to watch because it's hilariously ridiculous, and has lots of pretty people and fun songs and Broadway numbers and floats that are feats of engineering and it makes a lot of happy noise while you're trying to get the turkey in the oven. If you can tune out Al Roker.

But local parades aren't quite as fabulous as the multi-million dollar spectacle that is the Macy's parade. My experience has been that local parades feature the people you see in the grocery store, except instead of picking out boxes of fish sticks from the freezer aisle, they are walking by you in some semblance of a "formation" next to people wearing matching hats.

And yet, every year, we got ("got") to perform in TWO different town's Memorial Day parades, as though this were the exciting culmination of our year's worth of marching band practices. We were to march proudly, perfectly, as though representing our country? maybe? and playing something and being very patriotic. It mostly meant that we had to get up at the crack of dawn to wear heavy, lined polyester/wool-blend uniforms to stand in the sun and march around for blocks and blocks in gross humidity.

I'm not even kidding when I say that Band Parents would follow us and spray us with water, and then have to cart off the kids who passed out. And then applaud for us when we'd actually play something.

It's just that in hindsight, absolutely none of this makes any sense to me at all.

So I guess all of this is to say: I love this picture. Because I look like I am taking my role VERY SERIOUSLY (because, as I said above, I was) and looking not unlike a band-striped marshmallow. But not only that, LOOK AT EVERYONE ON THE SIDELINES. Do they look suitably impressed? Astounded at our musicality? Do they look like we are inspiring patriotism?

I'd just like to point out --

A. There's like a GOOD 3-to-5 inches of space between my waist and where the front of my jacket is hanging.

B. This man has a doofy mustache and is wearing shorts with white socks pulled up to his knees. HE looks like he's enjoying the marching band. You know why? It is 90% likely that it's because he was IN marching band. And still misses it.

C. Aside from my first "wow, strollers have come a long way" thought, boy does this father seem pissed off. Look, dude. It's not your baby's fault you're standing in 91-degree heat with 92% humidity.

D. I just circled her because of her amazing outfit.

What Did I Learn In 2010? Mostly That Motherhood Melts Your BRAINZ

2011-01-17T08:02:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

blue dots = CHILD! thoughts interrupting the normal course of human brain activity; just a sampling; VERY SCIENTIFIC

There used to be space in my brain taken up by things like...uh...thoughts. Thinky thoughts. Like, sometimes I would think a thing. And then I would think something related to that thing. And then the things would string together, and before I realized it, I'd have an entire narrative in my head. The narrative would begin at point A, travel through points B, C, D, and end somewhere around point E. Sometimes I would further weigh those points, juggle them, move 'em around a bit and create a blog post out of them. Other times I would just initiate this other thing called a "conversation."

Then a tiny human being was conceived and born and suddenly a significant portion of my brain melted into her. I do not mean this romantically. (Especially because when I say "melt" I think "cheese.")

What I mean is that I no longer have complete thoughts and I no longer speak in complete sentences and every blog post I try to write takes me 300 years because all focus is gone because anywhere from 25% - 55% of my brain has melted into a gooey, incoherent mash of CHILD! WHAT ABOUT THE CHILD?!?!

And it's not like this part of my brain is one lump over on the left side, contained, reserved for child-centric moments of my life. No. It doesn't work like that. My brain is now bespeckled with CHILD! like a golf ball. The CHILD! parts interrupt every brain path, every thought, every sentence so that even the most mundane of brain functions has melted CHILD! all over it.

For example?

Normal morning thought, as I walk down the stairs: I would like some coffee.

Current morning thought, as I walk down the stairs to where Ish is entertaining Eve: I would like -- WAS THAT A SHRIEK OF DELIGHT OR IS SHE CRYING? DID EVE SLEEP WELL ENOUGH LAST NIGHT? I HOPE SHE ISN'T STILL SICK -- what was I just thinking? Huh? Have I had coffee yet?

I am not complaining. This isn't complaining. This is me trying to explain why simply existing as a mother is hard to do even if your child is perfectly wonderful: because being a mom takes up space in your brains.

And no one told me that. Oh, people said things about how "pregnancy brain" lasts for 18 years (har, har) and that your worry over your child never goes away, but no one talks about melted, mushy brains being part of your new everyday existence. They talk about being tired and having Elmo's voice ringing in your ears 24-7, but they don't say it like this, so I will:

There is a part of your brain that exists only to think about, worry about, wonder about, consider and love your child. But HA! You do not grow this extra part of your brain when you're busy gaining 800 million pounds during pregnancy. Nope. Mother Nature isn't that kind. Instead, this new CHILD! thing comes from the brains you already had.

Thus, you no longer have the luxury of "dwelling" on "thoughts." There is no narrative from point A to E; you are lucky if you get from A to A-and-a-half. You can't remember lyrics to songs AND what day of the week it is AND what time that meeting is AND keep your child from hurling herself off a staircase or eating the cat. Sure, you can start writing every. Single. Thing. down -- and you'd better -- but good luck remembering where you wrote it! BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

If I don't put my next doctor's appointment in my phone at the doctor's (which I never do) so that my calendar can email AND beep AND text me when it's coming up AND have the doctor's office call me to remind me AND have my husband keep track as well, there is 0 chance I will make it to the appointment. And THAT, my friend, is Melted CHILD! Brains.

And why my blog posts have gone a little sideways. But I'm here. And posting. And redesigning my site and all that. It's just taking a little longer than I would IS SHE NAPPING YET? like.

Why? What was the question?

No! I Am Not Gone! I'm Under Construction!

2011-01-13T20:59:00.000-08:00

Um, hi.

This is the longest I've gone without posting and it kills me. But no. I am not gone forever. I have not actually gone anywhere. I've just hibernated by mistake.

Then once the accidental hibernation was well underway, I though I wasn't going to come back until my site was relaunched.

YES I SAID IT. RELAUNCHED. New design, new host, new everything.

But ah...did you notice how it's like, January 13 already? Oops. I had hoped I could get my act together before the start of this year, but I was only half right. I DID manage to devise a plan and now I post to Promtacular every weekday. Which is great!

It's just that I'm also working full time for a start-up. And have an 18-month-old. And am 23+ weeks pregnant. And all I actually want to do is eat Sour Patch Kids and chocolate cake. And remember something, anything, for longer than 12 seconds.

Wait, what was I saying?

*scrolling up*

OH! Ha! Right. So this redesign is coming soon! Someday! Regardless, my posts will start again next week (even if the design isn't new and sparkly yet).

Because I have a lot to say and I barely managed to eke anything out in 2010 and I'm really tired of blogging being my life and career and livelihood...and never getting to do it. Writing is and always will be my first love.

I WILL NEVER QUIT YOU, INVISIBLE INTERNET FRIENDS WHO STILL READ THIS. I LOVE THE THREE OF YOU VERY MUCH.

Embracing My Unpopular Parenting Choices: Thank You, Erica Jong

2010-11-19T13:00:00.000-08:00

The pressure to be A Good Mom by today's standards: I feel it, I reject some of it, and that is why I'm writing this, finally.

If you aren't immersed in the momblog culture, you may have missed this article by Erica Jong, published -- uh, quite surprisngly, actually -- in the Wall Street Journal. It's called Mother Madness, and she basically rails against extremist attachment parenting and all that comes with it. She cites the push toward all things "natural" and how there is a powerful movement afoot where "good" mothering* means breastfeeding, co-sleeping, anti-sleep-training, cloth diapering, making one's own baby food, and -- of course -- staying at home.

*The article focuses on the role of woman/mother and the notion of feminism, so there isn't really discussion about a man's role. As far as I'm concerned, it seems to me that even if the dad stays home, the same pressures apply.

Here's an excerpt:

"As long as women remain the gender most responsible for children, we are the ones who have the most to lose by accepting the "noble savage" view of parenting, with its ideals of attachment and naturalness. We need to be released from guilt about our children, not further bound by it. We need someone to say: Do the best you can. There are no rules."

Well.

As you can imagine, especially because she uses inflammatory language --

"Attachment parenting, especially when combined with environmental correctness, has encouraged female victimization. Women feel not only that they must be ever-present for their children but also that they must breast-feed, make their own baby food and eschew disposable diapers. It's a prison for mothers, and it represents as much of a backlash against women's freedom as the right-to-life movement. "

and rejects the Sears' book/method entirely --

"Some of these stressed-out parents have come to loathe Dr. Sears and his wife and consider them condescending colonialists in love with noble savagery."

-- there are a lot of really really pissed-off women out there in the bloggy world, firing back.

Which I get. But I agree with Ms. Jong, I hear her LOUD AND CLEAR, and I am grateful to have her words to cling to. I can't seem to find many others out there willing to say the same things.

Now, I don't think there's anything wrong with the ideas behind attachment parenting. I like most of them. Breastfeeding is cool. I make food for my kid because it's neat, and I like knowing what's in it. I slept with my infant next to my bed for the first few months, mostly so I could hear her breathe.

But that's not the issue. That's not Ms. Jong's issue, either. I see it like this:

FIRST of all, ALL of us -- all parents I know, all parents I read -- we just want to do the right thing. We want to be the best parents we can be. We are all terrified of baby-rearing, because it's big and important and scary and like nothing else we've ever experienced. And it's complex and challenging.

So...you have a HUGE industry of parenting experts who profit from telling you what to do. Lots of people make money from taking advantage of the fear and insecurities of new parents. And even if you go beyond those and into the territory of non-profit, friendly, trying-to-be-helpful websites and experts -- few of them exist to help you feel better. Most (at least most I've seen) exist to tell you how to do things the "right" way.

Except none of them -- not doctors, not experts, not cultures, not any of them -- agree.

There is absolutely no universal method for raising children. There is not one tiny thing about child-rearing that anyone, anywhere can agree on. THERE IS NO SINGLE RIGHT ANSWER.

And THAT, I believe, is the scariest, least intuitive, hardest thing in the world to embrace. We don't want to hear that, we don't want to believe that. We want the answers. We want someone, somewhere saying, "You do it like this. You are good at that. You are doing it right!"

Some of the smartest, most competent, most amazing women I know have fallen to pieces because they don't trust themselves to make the "right" parenting decisions on their own. They turn to every book, blog, expert they can get their hands on in desperate search for the right answer, and then crumble, exhausted, because the information is conflicting and nothing they do seems to "work" and they are left feeling like parenting failures.

Especially if the solution they do find, eventually, is not particularly favored right now, like, for example: formula-feeding, sleep-training, or giving an infant a pacifier.

[sidebar]
Remember that time when Eve was just a few weeks old and she got an eyelash in her eye? And I had to call the doctor's office because I was too afraid to just stick my finger in there and get it out? Because I looked online and found about 97 hundred different articles saying you should never put anything in your child's eye ever, not even for a second, because germs! Oils! Bad things! You can make your child blind for life!

Then when I eventually got so freaked out that I DID call the doctor, they were basically like, "Seriously?"

I think about that a lot and I get mad. How did I lose so much trust in my own instincts as a parent and human being? Where did this gripping fear come from? Where did my common sense go?
[end sidebar]

So we have a culture of new parents who are -- for whatever cultural reasons (and I believe there are many, but that's a different discussion) -- scared to death of raising kids and have no faith in their own innate abilities to know what's best. Instead, we do what we always do: we turn to the infinite amount of data available to us online and in libraries, as well as to our friends and pop icons, we sift through the information, and we make decisions.

But, right. Trying to soothe a colicky baby is not the same as Googling how to sync your Blackberry with your work calendar. For all of the obvious reasons, but also because there's many, many methodologies out there AND tons of data -- whether scientific or anecdotal -- to support them.

Imagine if you DID try to look up syncing your Blackberry and the the first result was to ALWAYS do x and NEVER do y, and the next result said exactly the opposite. And then the next 569 results all quoted the exact same method, which cited neither x nor y but which quoted a very important study, z. So you clicked and clicked to find the original z study, and then finally found it and downloaded (because you are a data nerd) and in reading it you discovered that the results were totally misrepresented by the AP article about it, and EVERYONE is using quotes from the article anyway.

That is what looking up anything about how to raise a kid is like.

So after you've sifted through misrepresented data and yelly blog posts and every other expert trying to convince you to buy THEIR book and you're feeling more frustrated and more confused than ever, you can't help but feel lost. So you piece together what you can, and come away with a general sense of "I guess I should do what most people seem to be doing."

Because there is some consensus. There is a general attitude out there, buried in both good and bad** data, and it's that attitude that Ms. Jong is responding to.

Somehow, some way, for some possibly insidious anti-feminist reason but probably more because of a general cultural pendulum swing, there is a broad understanding that "natural" is right, and all things "modern" or "manufactured" are not as good.

Also, and very, very importantly: Parents -- especially moms -- who put their own needs and preferences before their kids' are selfish and not as GOOD at being parents (or people) as those who put their kids' needs first all the time.

And I reject those notions. Not wholly, but rationally, thoughtfully, carefully, and lovingly.

For example:

I breastfed until I didn't.

I started supplementing with formula after a few months because I wanted to. Not because I was in physical pain, not because my child was fussy and not gaining weight, just because I wanted some of my life back. I hated having drippy, goopy boobs all day, every day. And while I loved being able to provide something so pure and natural to my kid, I hated feeling like a human 7-11. I didn't like feeling physically tethered to my baby at all times, day and night.

I know that breastfeeding is a great thing. But I refuse to believe that bottle- and formula-feeding is inherently bad or evil.

We DEFINITELY have a long way to go in terms of embracing public breastfeeding, adding pumping stations to all workplaces, and accepting breastfeeding as a natural, normal, perfectly great thing to see a woman doing, wherever she feels like it, whenever she needs to. I will join in those battles and fight those fights.

Because you know? I will always fight the battles where women are being forced to make one choice over another. When there's only one "right" option, it's not actually a choice. When we stop letting women choose -- if they want to breast or bottle feed, if they want to work or stay at home, if, well, you see where I'm going with this.

Fighting for choice is why I can switch to formula-feeding while still fighting for the rights of nursing mothers.

It's also why I can say that a big part of my choice to switch was for my comfort, my sanity, my lifestyle preferences. My taking care of my needs doesn't mean I love my child any less, or that I'm less concerned with her needs. Baby got fed, baby was healthy, baby was taken care of, mom was happy.

Another choice some may frown upon? I'd love to make my own baby food 100% of the time, but ha! I'd love to make my own food 100% of the time, too.

The reality is that I cook dinner from scratch about twice a week. THIS IS VERY IMPRESSIVE when you consider that before I was married, my fridge contained nothing but a box of wine, butter, and goat cheese. (Here is a post with photos of my fridge having literally 3 items in it. Scroll down for the explanation. It's funny because it's true. Also a miracle I got married.)

Not surprisingly, I have not yet mastered the art of cooking dinner for my family every night.

Instead, do you know what I do do? Work. Write. Other stuff. Stuff that contributes to my family -- and my -- overall well-being and peace of mind.

I think people who DO cook every night are amazing. I think they are also doing stuff that contributes to the overall well-being of their families and their peace of mind. I think it's fantastic that people prioritize cooking higher than I do.

But that's all it is. We have different priorities. Mine aren't in any way better, but they aren't in any way worse.

Other examples of ways in which I've failed the generally accepted "natural" movement and made less favorable choices:

We used and still use Pampers.

I buy plastic items for my child.

Eve uses a pacifier to fall asleep.

Eve sleeps in a crib in her own room, and has since she was five months old.

I swaddled. (I thought I was being all good and accepted-behavior-y about this, at least, but apparently there is a new swaddling backlash and it's now very controversial)(Try to keep up!)

Eve went from bottles to sippy cups.

We read books together all the time, but the TV is on for much of the day as well. She loves -- nay, WORSHIPS -- Yo Gabba Gabba.

I had the occasional glass of wine when I was pregnant, and when I was nursing.

Lastly, I am not a germaphobe. I obviously want my child to be clean and healthy, but I do not take pains to sanitize everything she might ever come in contact with, because I can't. I'll use wipes of all kinds to wipe down a grocery cart, only to have her grab something off the shelf and shove it in her mouth. When she was tiny and her pacifier would fall to the floor, I'd boil it in hot water for five minutes before returning it to her. Then I switched to just running it under hot water. Then just water. Then just wipes. Then just me, sucking off dirt and handing it back to her.

I can't control it. I can't control everything. And that is okay.

Another excerpt from the article:

"Aspiring to be perfect parents seems like a pathetic attempt to control what we can while ignoring problems that seem beyond our reach.

...What is so troubling about these theories of parenting...is that they seem like attempts to exert control in a world that is increasingly out of control. We can't get rid of the carcinogens in the environment, but we can make sure that our kids arrive at school each day with a reusable lunch bag full of produce from the farmers' market.

...Our obsession with parenting is an avoidance strategy. It allows us to substitute our own small world for the world as a whole. But the entire planet is a child's home, and other adults are also mothers and fathers. We cannot separate our children from the ills that affect everyone, however hard we try."

Said another way: You really, really, really cannot control all aspects of your child's life.

The more I realize and accept this, the happier I am.

In the end, the whole reason I wrote this post is to say that I don't understand and refuse to participate in the "how to be a perfect parent" game. I try not judge others' choices until or unless:

1. I see a hurt, miserable, neglected child (and please note: just because you spend all of your time/ energy/resources on your child doesn't guarantee that your child will be happy)

OR

2. I am the victim of judgment myself; then I judge the judgers. Because why do you care how I choose to raise my child? Is it because you are so desperate for approval, so desperate to be right that you must dismiss all other approaches? If that's the case, um, how did THAT happen? Shouldn't THAT be the question we're examining?

Many of the folks who were angry with Ms. Jong's article said she's clearly just trying to defend herself because she feels guilty for how she raised her kid. I can't help but think, "Really, angry mob? You sure it's not the other way around?"

In any case, why would one woman's choices invalidate another's? That's the part I just don't get. Weren't we supposed to have come a long way from that?

[edited to add]

I think a large part of the reason I haven't posted much about my parenting trials and tribulations (such as they are) is because I feel like I'm so far outside the "norm" and have been SO AFRAID of being judged. But the more I thought about that in general -- and in particular, as it relates to this article -- the more I realized I have nothing to be ashamed of. My kid is great, and I think I'm doing a swell job as a mom. And if I have nothing to be ashamed about, then I have nothing to fear from writing about my experiences honestly.

**Example of "bad data": One of the "definitive" articles about the deleterious effects of alcohol while nursing is based on a study that was done in the 80s. It suggested that babies who were exposed to trace amounts of alcohol while being breastfed had poorer motor skill development than other kids by the time they were five years old. KellyMom cites this study, and therefore so do many, many, many blogs and other reputable websites.

However, if you actually read the report and its history -- which I did, because hi. wine. -- you find out that the results were not decidedly conclusive, especially since the subjects were all self-reporting. The original researches decided, therefore, to try to repeat the results TWICE and couldn't, either time. The researchers said their original study was invalid. But everyone cites the study anyway.

~~Hilariously~~ Notably, in one of the subsequent studies, they actually found that children whose moms drank small amounts of alcohol while breastfeeding seemed to have slightly higher IQ scores than those who didn't! Obviously, this finding was also never reported anywhere. (Which is fine, I get it, but it's no less conclusive than the original finding, which comparatively was reported everywhere.)

I am not arguing against breastfeeding, but I will state that MOST of the studies suggesting reasons why "breast is best" are at best correlative and at worst completely inconclusive.

Share Your Recipes! Thanksgiving Sides & Desserts! Twitter Parties! Sparkling Wine!

2010-11-18T10:51:00.000-08:00

Hey, hey.

I have no fewer than 80 blog posts bouncing around in my head, but they're all stopped up right now because for a million reasons. I know. I sound like a broken record. Also, I owe you a post with all your Jerseylicious pictures, because they are the best things I've ever seen.

But!!!

Today the Clever Girls are (is?) hosting a Twitter Party at noon PST/3 p.m. EST and we're chatting about Thanksgiving side dishes and desserts and we WANT YOUR INPUT. Plus, we have a few prizes to give away, AND a great deal on sparkling wine which you can BET I will be taking advantage of. (Because yes. I WILL have a glass of sparkling wine on Thanksgiving. You know, after the tequila shots and crack pipes are gone.)

No but really. I do need help. Because I'm hosting Thanksgiving again, because I love hosting even though I have little confidence in my ability to cook everything well. Last year I asked you for ideas and help and I ended up exchanging no fewer than 900 emails with one of my best IIFs who tried to explain to me how to add brandied cherries and almonds to the stuffing and I was all, "but WHEN? HOW MUCH EXACTLY?" and she was all, "um, you just eyeball it?"

So, let's see.

1. If you want to join the Twitter party, just hang out and follow the hashtag #cleverholiday.

2. If you want to be registered to potentially win one of our giveaways, please RSVP for the party before 12 p.m. (PST) today here, then answer the questions as they come up.

3. AWESOME DEAL ON SPARKLING WINE! Direct from the Clever Girls Wine Club. La la laaaaa! Free shipping, too!

Vallebelbo Moscato d'Asti

This Double Gold winner in the 2010 San Francisco International Wine Competition usually retails for $17.99, but we bring you this a clever deal: you can order yours for 25% off PLUS FREE SHIPPING!

Each bottle is only $13.49, and we guarantee it'll be a fantastic addition to any of your holiday celebrations.

Click here to order!

4. In case you're wondering, I'm only sharing the one side dish that I feel confident about at today's Twitter party: it's zesty cranberry sauce with red wine, and it's not SO different from the traditional sauce, but it has a little zing that I think makes it special. Recipe is below.

5. What about you? What are you making? What sides do you love? Or, wait, no. Let me ask this: what side dish do I HAVE to make that I won't totally screw up that will be awesome? Please share! I'll be happy to include it in our recipe-round-up!

Zesty Cranberry Sauce Recipe
(I don't know where I got this from, and I apologize for not attributing it. It's just scrawled on a piece of notebook paper in my recipe collection. Just call me Judith Griggs.)

2/3 cup sugar

3/4 cup dry red wine

1/2 cinnamon stick

12 oz pckg cranberries

strip of orange zest

Over medium heat, combine wine, sugar and cinnamon and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer, stirring occasionally until sugar dissolves and wine is reduced a little, about 4 minutes.

Add cranberries and orange zest. Simmer until sauce thickens, about 10-12 minutes.

Remove from heat, remove cinnamon and zest.

Set aside to cool. Do not refrigerate.

The Music's Gonna Get You Through

2010-11-15T16:32:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine has asked me to spread the word about this amazing documentary; it (and its participants) deserve to have their story told far and wide.

Please contribute if you can, and pass it on!

About this project (which I grabbed from here)

The Music’s Gonna Get You Through is a testament to the power that community producing can have. We started this film in 2003 with $1500 and some borrowed equipment. Seven years and lots of great volunteer work later we’ve managed to keep tabs on New Orleans piano virtuoso Henry Butler, as well as the kids who participated in his 2003 music camp, and put together a film that was selected by American Public Television for national broadcast…all because of donors like you!

Though the film will air in many cities, it's not running everywhere and many people will miss it. We are launching a grassroots effort to get The Music’s Gonna Get You Through out into the world beyond public television, so that it can be used effectively in deepening understanding of issues facing the visually challenged (and so that more viewers can enjoy Henry, his students, their music, and their victories!).

Please enjoy The Music’s Gonna Get You Through and help spread the word to others. Thank you!
For more info, including where and when the film will be airing and reviews, go to:
http://www.musicsgonna.com/
http://www.facebook.com/TheMusicsGonnaGetYouThrough
http://itvs.org/films/musics-gonna-get-you-through

Sugar, Sugar

2010-11-05T10:35:00.000-07:00

I'm pregnant. Or rather, I AM PREGNANT! AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

(Does it seem like everyone is pregnant right now? I swear, I may have actually just caught it.)

I waited to tell you -- I waited to tell just about everyone, actually -- not just until I was out of the first trimester, but until I had also gotten the results of our genetic tests back. Because beyond just the regular WHAT IF THIS HAPPENS terror of the first trimester that pregnant ladies go through, I am also a carrier of a genetic disorder that casts a shadow on the very idea of getting pregnant.

We were very lucky with Eve and I was convinced I couldn't be so lucky twice. But I was wrong, and we are lucky, and I can now breathe a sigh of relief and just worry about the stuff that normal pregnant ladies worry about.

WE ARE GOING TO HAVE ANOTHER BABY!

Actually, since I've been in this suspended state of knowing-but-not-believing it, it's kind of like I just found out about this little thing inside me. But it's there, and it's fine and well and growing and I heard the heartbeat yesterday and I guess it's really real.

Come May, Eve is going to have a little brother.

So...Crazy! And now that the cat's finally out of the bag, prepare to be regaled with stories of the first trimester, which involved some general nausea and very strong, very specific food cravings centering around all things sugar: cake, pie, chocolate, cookies, popsicles, and pineapple. That extra tonnage of Halloween candy? Gone.

You will also get to hear about the longest week ever, which featured a doctor I wanted to kick in the head. Also the story of another doctor who, after explaining to us how I have a very reclusive cervix, did not think that Ish's "YOU HAVE THE J.D. SALINGER OF CERVIXES" was funny. (Wrong.)

I seem to be a lot more relaxed in general this time around, too. I am about a thousand times less concerned over all the little things that made me crazy the first time, and am making a concerted effort to try to actually enjoy this pregnancy (since it will VERY likely be the last one) rather than spend the entire time terrified that I'm doing something wrong.

Overall, we're very happy, we're very excited, and I might also sort of be wondering how much chocolate cake I can eat between now and May.

It's November. That Means I Can Use The Word HOLIDAY Now.

2010-11-01T11:43:00.000-07:00

First of all, I am pretty sure the entire reason I had a baby was to be able to put her in this costume so I could take a picture of it so I could post it on the internet.

Eve's destiny? FULFILLED.

Anyway. Since it's November and I can use the word "holiday" AND I have an adorable photo of my child, it occurs to me that I should maybe consider sending out a holiday card this year. (Last year? Eve's first Christmas? Yeah, no. Didn't happen. MOMFAIL.)

Luckily, it JUST SO HAPPENS that Shutterfly is working with Clever Girls Collective on an awesome promotion. It goes like this:

I'm going to tell you about their fantabulous holiday photo card collection.
Then you look at the collection.
Then YOU blog about their collection, and YOU get 50 free holiday photo cards. Rawk, right?

So let me just start by saying that I love Shutterfly. Even though there are a gazillion other options out there, including artsy-fartsier competitors, I ended up using Shutterfly for Eve's birth announcement. In the end, I found their user interface (LOOKOUT! I'M USING TECHNICAL TERMS) more straightforward and user-friendly than the others, including a site that is absolutely lovely and exceedingly popular (I won't call them out by name, but let's just say that it rhymes with Viney Hints).

Here was the birth announcement:

But, right. It's been a year-and-a-half. I should probably send another card out.

So here are my top three favorite designs from Shutterfly's holiday card collection, though it's actually a little overwhelming and hard to narrow down:

"Initially Chic Green Christmas Card"

I like the modern green color against the designer-y black and white. The only problem for our family with cards that emphasize initials -- while minimalist, which I love -- is that I didn't change my last name, so we can't pick just one initial. Oh, well.

"Cheery Year Powder 2010 Christmas 5x7 folded Card"

I like cards that are more like New Year's cards than any other holiday, because I think no matter who you are or what culture/holidays/traditions you celebrate, everyone likes ushering in a New Year together. (And champagne.)

But I think this one is probably my most favorite:
"Holiday Confetti Christmas Card"

It's just happy and festive and celebratory and colorful and cheery and sums up how I try to live my life. Happy Everything!

So, yep. That's my round-up. Remember, you can get 50 free cards yourself just for blogging about this great collection of Shuttefly cards -- click here for details. And WHO KNOWS. Maybe if we all get started like, this week, we'll not only pick the cards and order them, but actually send them, too.

It IS the season of miracles...

This post is part of a series sponsored by Shutterfly. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.

What A Neighborhood Drugstore Receipt SHOULD Look Like

2010-10-29T08:46:00.000-07:00

So, lucky(?) for you, I have found an iPad that lets me quickly and easily draw over images. This means that I now have lots and lots and lots and LOTS of photos to show you. Not that any of the photos are good, but most of them are funny. I mean, I think.

Like this one:

I love this found receipt for many reasons.

For one thing, buying liquor at the drugstore is so...novel! In Connecticut (where I grew up), this was absolutely unheard of and impossible. You could buy hard booze at the liquor store ONLY. Beer and wine could be purchased at the grocery store, but ONLY at the grocery store. And you couldn't buy booze after 8 p.m. anywhere (not including individual drinks at a bar), or on Sundays or holidays at all. So picking up some (good!) gin at CVS is kind of amazeballs.

Another thing I find fascinating: Why did the purchaser select two entirely different sized bottles of the same thing? Were those the only two bottles left? Were the gin bottles going to two different places? If so, which place got the bigger bottle?

Also, if you are buying two bottles of gin, do you actually need Nyquil?

(Although, and I mean this affectionately, this does suggest that the Nyquil is for a sick man, and the gin is for the woman having to deal with the sick man. Just my experience.)

Which reminds me: this is one of the best videos ever. It's called "Man Cold."

That Time I Wrote About Sports And Penises

2010-10-24T20:06:00.000-07:00

What Brett Favre is really wondering...

If I were to do a thoroughly thorough detailed thoughtful exhaustive blog post about sports, this would be it. Ready?

The SAN FRANCISCO Giants are going to the World Series!!!!!

First of all, I need to emphasize SAN FRANCISCO because I am from the East Coast and whenever anyone talked about The Giants they meant the New York football team and I spent a LOT of my first year in the Bay Area utterly confused about why San Francisco cared about a NY football team.

Anyway. The Giants in the ~~Superbowl~~ World Series is really very exciting because my husband spent the first part of baseball season moping and mumbling about the fucking Giants, much in the way he mopes and mumbles about the fucking 49ers and the fucking asshole Denver Broncos. Because he loves those teams very much.

Then all of a sudden the Giants started not completely sucking, and the next thing I know I'm learning about how there's this pitcher named Brian Wilson who is not THAT Brian Wilson, duh*, but who has this wacky dyed-black beard. Then Ish started teaching Eve how to say OOOOOOOOOO as in "Uuuuuuuuuuribe" and then Buster Posey and Cody Ross became household names. Like, in OUR household. And now Ish has not only grown his "playoff beard" but he's threatening to dye it black.

*"Brian Wilson? Like, well, not THE Brian Wilson, right?"
"Are you actually asking me if the Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys is playing Major League baseball?"
"Um, no."

So yay for the Giants! They seem like really nice guys and underdogs and they've distracted my husband from the misery that is loving those fucking asshole Broncos.

The OTHER thing I know about sports is this: No. I would never ask Brett Favre to text me pictures of his penis. But in the hierarchy of pictures of penises I've been sent -- and I've placed ads on Craigslist, so I have seen my fair share of penis pics -- his would have to rank top. You know?