Thursday, March 31, 2011

Do you think this is funny?

I saw this video last week on finslippy and I laughed so hard.

So naturally, I sent the link to a number of friends. People who read fashion magazines and know who Chloe Sevigny is. People I think are funny. People I thought would also find it hilarious.

Not so much.

Responses ranged from: "Huh. Weird." to "I giggled, but no, not really my humor." to "I don't really get the references."

Then I sent it to Nick. I know he has no idea who anyone in Hollywood is, although I think he can recognize Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but we watch Big Love (go Selmer!) - except somehow we completely missed the entire last season, so now we have a whole bunch of Netflixing ahead of us!

So I sent the link and said, "Chloe Sevigny is Nicki Grant on Big Love."

And he replied, "I have no idea what she's talking about. But she looks terrible. She's really gone downhill since we saw her last."

And all I could say was, "That's not her. That's a MAN."

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Mallets for bad behavior and the vigilante justice of an exploding app

As I was walking to work today, I noticed an inordinate number of cars honking impatiently.

There was this man in a Porsche HONKING and HOOONKING because the person two cars ahead was not turning left fast enough. People were laying on their horns at the car ahead, trying to make it through yellow lights.

There was just generally a lot of assholey horn honking. Early in the morning.

Now, I might've had a little less tolerance because I was just coming from having had my blood drawn by a perpetually surly nurse who tends to leave bruises.

I have considered asking her if she hates her job and does it on purpose. But then I thought, crap, she might just take it out on me more in the future.

Also, I cannot find my earphones, and so I have no music as I gad about town. Just the cacophony of sirens and horns.


I was on the sidewalk passing Mr. Porsche as he was applying hand to horn.

And I wished, I very desperately wished, that I had a large, heavy mallet in my bag. And that it weren't illegal to just beat the shit out of someone's hood.

Because boy, I bet that would feel good.

Actually, I don't think you'd have to hit it more than once or twice to get your message across.

Bang! "Be polite!" Slam! "Asshole!" And then maybe another whack for good measure.

Which reminds me.

I've been really wishing that you could put a little exploding device into your laptop, iPod, iPad, iPhone, or any other electronics that people like to steal.

So, say someone stole your phone. You could remotely detonate it so it would self-destruct, inducing, oh, maybe second-degree burns. Because Nick said third-degree would be too severe.

He also said that much like poisoning the pumpkins, this is the kind of thing that is just not OK. Lisa.

I still totally think it should be an app.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

So I'm not a zombie and I don't fall down as much as I used to but you don't necessarily want to ride the elevator with me and anyway, maybe I am

Let me just start by saying that as soon as Nick reads this he's going to be all, "You so clearly ate too much sugar for breakfast and how come you never do that when I'm home?"

Either that or he'll just say, "The hell?"

Yah. OK. So you know that fun blue nail polish I put on last week?

So I took it off this morning and now I look like I have frostbite, except that my fingers haven't fallen off. You know what I can't bear think about? Those people who climb Everest and then their fingers and toes turn black from the cold and they have to have them amputated.

I suppose they're glad to be alive, and in that context what's a finger or toe here or there? But I am not that adventurous.

So anyway, maybe it's more like I'm a zombie, but only in my fingertips.

Nick is out of town so I couldn't ask him if I looked all zombified, and if he was scared. Because yes, he's a lot bigger than me, but if I were in fact a zombie, I could totally take him down.

It really just takes a small bite, and the bacteria starts working. Bam! You're a zombie!

Which means they have a lot in common with Komodo dragons, which I find fascinating. Not that they can bite you and turn you into another Komodo dragon, which would actually be pretty cool. But because of their serrated teeth, there's soooo much bacteria living in their mouths, and if they bite you and you don't bleed to death, you'll most likely die of infection.

So they get to eat you either way.

But back to the zombies.

Now, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be mistaken for one, but it is true that another sign of zombiness is the staggering around, and I am kind of clumsy. As I'm walking down the hall, I often wind up glancing off the side of cubicles. Subtly. Like unless you're walking with me, you wouldn't notice. It's usually more like just a little shoulder bump.

The other day at home I leaned over to pick something up and banged my head on the side of the wall.

Nick wouldn't have noticed except that I said, "OW!"

Which caused him to ask if I'd just hit my head. On the wall.

I blame this kind of thing on my astigmatism and poor depth perception. I don't think it's general lack of coordination, because I don't trip and fall all that often any more.

The thing is, my coloring is good and I'm not in any kind of obvious state of decay, and maybe most importantly I'm not trying to eat anyone's brain.

But listen to this: three of my colleagues got trapped in one of our elevators for 45 minutes. Which is only related because elevators are a bad place to be in case of zombie attack.

The idea of being stuck in the elevator freaks me the fuck out. It doesn't scare me as much as thinking about zombies, though. Seriously. That damn Dawn of the Dead movie, which I saw yeeeaaars ago, still makes me twitch. So combining the two would be just unimaginable.

Also, on the elevator thing: sometimes I stand just a little too close to another person in the elevator, just to see what they do. I don't do this if there are only two of us in there, because that would be creepy.

I do it like I'm totally oblivious, not like I'm trying to edge up to them. I'm pretty sure it works, because people always shift away, but nobody has ever given me a weird look.

Plus, nobody ever suspects me of anything. Which is why I should've been a spy. I suppose there's still time.

Anyway, I know zombies are all popular now, and this New York Times article posits that it's because "modern life is a lot like slaughtering zombies" - just one repetitive task after another, one repetitive day to the next. The zombies stagger around and attack, the humans kill them, over and over and over. It's all the same and the same and the same.

Which makes me all, oh, fucko. Maybe I am a zombie after all.

In any case, you probably don't want to get stuck in the elevator with me.

And, no, I don't know what's up with me today. I really don't.

Monday, March 28, 2011

In which I am totally cutting edge in 2007. Also, what are you reading?

So tonight when Nick gets home I am going to be the owner of a brand shiny new Kindle.

Yay! Naked backflips down the hall! OK, I exaggerate on that one. But I am pretty excited.

Now, I am one of these people who loves books, and loves turning pages and I definitely judge, and occasionally buy, books by their covers. I( do this with wine as well and it's not the best approach, shockingly enough.)

Anyway I just did not feel the need to invest the money in a Kindle.

But then I got to the point where I was like, you know, I have been spending a lot of time waiting around in doctor's offices, and there's only so much People Magazine I can read, and when I'm on public transport, I'm now super-paranoid about my iPhone...and how awesome would it be to always have a book or 500 in your purse?

Also, I realize that with the Kindle and other e-readers (that's the term, right?), there are a lot of free books that are classics. This is an idea I kind of love. Free! And edifying!

Have you done this? What have you downloaded?

Also, I've been making my way through suggestions from old posts of mine soliciting suggestions. Thanks to your suggestions I've read the Hunger Games, the Twilights, The Book Thief, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, The Graveyard Book (and subsequently Coraline, and I have another one lined up to borrow), and I can't think of what-all else.

But seriously, when I am looking for books, I refer back to these posts.

Sometimes suggestions do not strike me in the moment - like The Book Thief, which I wasn't in the mood for when it was first suggested, but read recently and absolutely loved. (Nina - I don't know if you still read LG, but it was such a wonderful suggestion.)

But I always LOVE hearing about what you're reading, because you all have clever, entertaining, interesting taste in books.

So, what are you reading?

Friday, March 25, 2011

I keep thinking in a moment that time will take them away

Sometimes something completely unrelated to your life will just punch you in the stomach, knocking all the wind out of you, and bringing old bruises to the surface.

(Um, and if you couldn't tell by that first line, lemme tell you now: if you're looking for sparkly kittens and sunshine, click yourself elsewhere. Or look at yesterday's post - shoes!)

So here's what the disappearance of Emily Hershenson - who I do not even know - did to me.

It dredged up all those feelings of my dad disappearing on us.

And I know she was found, and I presume she's OK. And her story is completely different from mine.

But triggers are triggers, and here's how this one went.

If you've ever been in the position of having someone you love walk out the door, without indicating that they will never come back, and then had them not return, or anyway, not of their own volition, and ultimately, not ever, you know what I mean.

I don't expect you to know what I mean. I don't even expect you to know what to say. Most people don't. And it's OK.

I'm pretty sure that even with immense amounts of therapy, that flame of panic lives somewhere deep inside you forever. And it only takes a small, familiar spark to set it alight.

I suppose these are the splinters and shards. I forget about them until I'm reminded with a sharp jab to an internal organ.

When Emily's friend emailed and asked for help spreading the word about her disappearance, I just couldn't stop thinking about her. And every time I thought about her and her husband, and her baby - the same age as my Jordan! - I would start to cry.

I can still feel the desperation of supplication, of begging God, of the ridiculousness of bartering with a higher power. I will do anything. Just please, please let this person I love be OK.

I know the feeling of calling the police - more than once, and apologizing for calling repeatedly, and yes, of course, you know they'll call you as soon as they hear anything, but you were just hoping...

I know the drill of calling the credit card companies, the cell phone company, looking desperately for clues on location.

Of calling the hospitals, one after another after another...

Of driving around because you can't bear to just sit around not feeling like you're being proactive...

Of calling and calling and wondering where else you could call, and finally, with a tremendous pit in your stomach, wondering if it's time to look up the number for the morgue.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The reason you totally want my name on your mailing list

So, Nine West sent me an email with these platform espadrilles.

Immediately I was all, ooh, pretty, shiny, sparkly! Click!

Which then sucked me into the rabbit hole of the Nine West site, making me more and more sure that I NEEEEEEEED platform espadrilles for spring! My life would be totally amazing and carefree if I could just have platform espadrilles!

Although if you watch this video, it's kind of disconcerting, because you get the sense that an army of naked but-for-their-espadrilles giant women are marching towards you and could totally stomp the shit out of you if necessary.

Maybe it's just me.

But this then led me to hmm, what other platform espadrilles are out there?

Let me tell you. THESE:

These $425 red babies, which you can order from Zappos and have, oh, tomorrow. (Nevermind that tomorrow will still be cold.) These little jam tarts of deliciousness would not only make my life significantly more glamorous, but would make me 5' 8 1/4" tall!

They could change my whole existence. I immediately imagined myself strolling confidently and tall-ly down the street in, oh, Paris, with a breeze ruffling my dress (and also swooping away the crumbs from the luscious pastry I'd most likely have in hand). I'd probably even be so bold as to wink at cute men who walked by. And then if it were awkward, I could just pretend that the breeze blew something into my eye.

(I mean, in an alternate universe. In my married universe, I wouldn't eat pastry in Paris without my husband. Not before September, anyway. At which point, these shoes will be past their season.)

Minor setback: I don't actually have a $425 shoe life. Also, I won't be in Paris with a pastry in the breeze anytime soon. But can't you picture it?

All this to say, I am one of those people who will open an email with pretty pictures and be all, yes! Want! Need! Must have! Clickety click click!

Seriously, Nine West. I'll see you this weekend.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Now back to our regularly scheduled frivolity

OK, here's the new hair. I quite like it.

I still need the front to grow a bit, but it's heading in the right direction. It still wings out over my glasses, but as long as I don't look in the mirror, it doesn't bug.

Also, I painted my nails blue. I warned you about the frivolity in the title.
(And I don't know why my hand looks that tanned. It's just as pale as my accurately-colored grim winter pink face above.)

Yah, so Nick had some deal where he needed to order two magazines and so he got the Economist and Us Magazine. It's kind of a perfect combination.

Except that we don't know who most of the people are in Us. We are old and don't watch enough reality TV. Also, these both arrive like every other day.

It's an inundation of information, both useful and useless.

Anyway, Us Magazine said that blue nails were in, and this made me happy because I love blue nail polish and so when I stopped at CVS on my way into the office on a Cadbury Creme egg hunt - oh, wait, can I tell you, and there were NONE!?!

What is it with CVS and the not stocking Cadbury eggs? I had the same issue last year. It's almost goddamn Easter, motherfuckers!

Anyway, there were no Cadbury eggs, but they did have this bright blue nail polish and I decided it might just be a perfect color to liven up and dark outfit. A dark, WARM WOOL outfit, I might add, because spring is a bitch-faced tease.

And I'm actually in a pretty decent mood. I promise.

But I'm not sure on the blue for the office. I mean, I know it's not totally professional, but it's doesn't scream tween Justin Bieber fan either...or does it?

Oh, thank goodness

The police found Emily Hershenson this morning.

The way people spread the word was social media at its finest.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Help find Emily Hershenson

Can you imagine if a loved one left for work one morning and then just disappeared?

A friend of a dear friend emailed me to ask for help spreading the word about a friend of hers who has now been missing for over 24 hours.

In turn, I'm asking you to distribute the message far and wide.

Emily Hershenson left for work on Monday morning and has not been seen since. She lives in Adams Morgan with her husband and daughter.

Emily is a 33 year old Caucasian female, 5' 8" and 150 lbs. She was last seen at 9 AM on March 21st at 18th St. NW & Columbia Rd. She was wearing jeans, a purple top and a cardigan/fleece.

There is a Facebook page dedicated to finding her. Here's a WTOP story with more detail. And here is a flyer you can download and distribute.

Please spread the word, and if you've seen her, please call the police or call her husband Tom at (202) 680-4181.

Aaaaand we're back to the hair. Oh! Plus the new glasses!

So, this is the hair I currently have.

At the moment, it consists of four principle chunks: the front blob of bangs, which like to wing out over my glasses, two flaps on the side, and the back, which is too long.

In other words, it has no style and I hate it.

Also, I have to go to a new stylist because the one I had, who I liked, said she was moving to New Orleans the end of March, and so I should schedule for her last day in the salon. And then she up and quit two weeks early.

It's really inconvenient when people's life plans do not accord with my hair needs.

So this afternoon, I am trying someone new. This makes me twitchy. But I need the back of this hair offoffoff nownownow!

I knew, I knew when I asked for the pixie cut that I would loooaaaaathe the growing out process. I'd done it before, and it was an ugly year.

But in the moment, I neeeeeded that cut. I needed the cleanse of a drastic change.

Immediately, I missed having hair. I hated using product. I missed being able to wash my hair at night and wake up in the morning with it looking the same and just head out the door without even brushing it, much less applying all kinds of crap to it.

I'm not saying my hair always looked great, more that it always looked the same. And I usually liked it just fine.

So, fingers crossed in the heading back in that direction business.

Also, these are my new glasses. Don't they make me look like I should be taken seriously? I mean, minus the oh-grody-to-the-max look on my face?

I pretty much love them like crazy.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Oh, the carefree days of youth

On Saturday morning, despite grim weather predictions, we awoke to a beautiful, sunny day.

We met friends for coffee at Tryst, which, lucky for us, is kid central and chaotic in the early morning hours, and then headed over to a playground.

By the time we got there, the sun was yellow and sparkly overhead, and a number of parents and children were just arriving. It was a perfect playground kind of day.

On the way in, Nick held the door open for two girls who later told us they were in second grade.

As they walked by, one turned to the other and said, "Wow, this really brings back memories."

Her little friend replied, "Yeah, totally."

Saturday, March 19, 2011

19 on the 19th

Dear Jordan,

Today you are 19 months old! When people ask, I say a year and a half, and I think next month I'll start saying you're almost two.

But at home and for our purposes here, I'm still counting the months.

This past month you started putting more words together. I don't know when you started with the nouns and verbs, nouns and prepositions, verbs and prepositions - maybe last month? But now you occasionally use noun + verb + preposition. For example, "Nana go upstairs."

Of course, "upstairs" is more "upstrrth" but I know what you're talking about.

We can also hold conversations, which is just so much fun. I mean, they're pretty basic, but there's information exchange.

You: "More cookie!"

Me: "No more. How about some pasta?"

You: "No. More cookie?"

Never having any experience with first language acquisition, I find this fascinating.

You also mimic everything. Which is how you started saying, "I'll find it!" and also, "Oh, yucko."

Betty gets credit for both of those. Also, for your love of the moon. Whenever it's out before you go to bed, she carries you outside to see it.

You're a great moonspotter.

You like all things mechanical, with cars, trucks, and trains topping the list of toys. We already know about your fascination with helicopters, and I think if you saw one up close you would just fall over, you'd be so excited.

I'm hoping you don't want to be a helicopter pilot when you grow up, because I've gotten it into my head that they fall out of the sky pretty easily. Your dad says this is ridiculous and would like to know where I get my facts.

I heard it from someone. But since I don't understand how they stay up there in the first place, they just seem like they would.

For now, however, we're working on keeping you out of the street as you careen down the sidewalk. You want to do everything yourself, and don't want to hold hands, and get all kinds of mad when we hold your hood as you toodle along.

Too bad, friend. We're seriously considering a leash. And no, I'm not kidding.

When you are in a good mood, which is most of the time, you're the sunniest, funniest, most charming thing I've ever seen. And when you're not, you're belligerent and crab-faced and exhausting.

Dad says this pretty well describes me, too, so I guess we're in good company.

We love you like crazy, my little big boy.



Friday, March 18, 2011

Nothing good ever comes of looking at your butt in the dressing room mirror

I don't know why this is a lesson I have had to learn over and over for years on end.

No pun. Ha.

I went to Target, lured by the back for a limited time! designer collaboration! dresses. I thought a nice spring dress would be a perfect little perk-me-up.

Spring! Hope!

Not surprisingly, there were a lot of wee sizes and a lot of large sizes, and not so much in the in-between.

I tried on four dresses in something resembling my size, give or take a squeeze or two, just so I could have some idea of sizing in case I wanted to order them online. Because I do not know what to do with sizes 5, 7 and so on.

The odd numbers, they confuse me.

Except for multiplication - the odds were easier, and particularly the nines. But not sevens. What's that terrible drinking game where you count and have to say "beep" instead of seven or any number divisible by seven? I always sucked at it in high school.

Um, not that we played drinking games in high school, Betty.

But for clothing.

I tried on this leopard print dress - too short! And I am short! This was too bad, because it was actually my size. And cute.

I then wiggled into this lacey tiered color dress, not expecting to like it, and I really did. I mean, not in the size I tried, which fit, but more snugly that I personally would wear, but one larger I think would fit nicely.

I have a wedding to go to end of May, and I dunno, could this be a possibility? Or is it too young/lacey/something else for me?

Next I tried this very fun but alas too big multicolored strappy dress. It could be lovely for summer, but I think even in my size, it doesn't necessarily flatter me.

The one I was really interested in was this green and blue colorblock shift, and I did manage to squeeze into the itty bitty size...but it was not pretty. What I can't tell is if the size that fits my hips and butt will be huge on top, which happens to me a lot.

The oochy-scooching the dress over my hips and butt, however, is what led to the ass-toward-mirror scrutinization. And I don't care if it's not a word. It's close enough.

I don't shop as much as I used to, and so I forgot what a bad idea it is to turn one's scantily-clad posterior towards those goddamn dressing room mirrors.

And I can never resist. It's just like the clips. If I'm in a dressing room, even if I'm just trying on tops, I always take off my pants. Because when else can you get that accurate a look at your butt?

And it's always traumatic.

I never look in them and think, wow, my butt looks awesome!

No. It's always, holy crap, does my ass really look like that? And I bet if I jump up and down a little...fuck, it totally jiggles. What if I stand on one leg and shake the other one...ugh, even worse.

And I walk out with lowered self-esteem. And my too-tight dresses to hand back to the clerk.

The totally need magic mirrors that make your butt look higher and firmer and maybe even a little tan. Maybe ones that give you a compliment or two.

You'd look in the mirror and a voice would say, "Nice ass!"

Or would that be creepy? I think I could like it.

Happy weekend, all!

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Hutta! Hutta!

I don't know how many of you remember the TV show M*A*S*H?

We didn't have a TV when we lived overseas, but we'd watch it religiously when we were in the U.S. I was madly in love with Hawkeye. And I sobbed at the last episode.

My dad loved the show as well, although having worked in hospitals in Vietnam in the early 60s, I think sometimes it was just too close to home.

And not to pull this post down, but I have to say, knowing how irreparably damaged my dad was from his time in Vietnam, I worry daily about our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. (Andie, I don't know you, but I worry about you.)

This could get very heavy very fast, and really, deserves its own post. So back to the subject at hand.

Because really, I'm here to talk about Radar. Well, helicopters. But Radar as well.

Remember Radar? He'd suddenly look up in the air and say, "Incoming wounded..." And then they'd hear the choppers.


This is exactly how Jordan is with helicopters. They fascinate him. All of a sudden, he'll stand stock still and say, "Hutta! Hutta!" and run for the windows. And then I'll hear them.

We got him a shirt with helicopters on it and it is his favorite. He loves the huttas.

So last Saturday, for Nick's birthday, we got him these helicopter cufflinks from The Crossings' Etsy shop. So Jordan and the huttas are never far away.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Upping my vigilance

I got mugged a long, long time ago. And for years afterwards, I was scared to walk in the dark. Or I'd hear a quick footstep behind me and my heart would start racing.

It took me a number of years to get past it. And even after I stopped having the visceral reactions, I walked around with an increased awareness of my surroundings. And an increased suspicion of men.

I also started listening to my gut instinct, no matter what other people might say about a situation.

But as I said, it was a long time ago, and while I'm careful when I'm walking alone in the dark, for the most part I feel comfortable in my areas of DC and don't spend a lot of time thinking about safety.

Well, I didn't. Until Monday.

So. Since Monday was sunny, I decided to go for a run at lunch.

I don't usually go out running with my iPhone, but I was waiting for a call and so I carried it with me, using it as an iPod.

And there I was, all running along, enjoying the sunshine and the pop music in my ears when all of a sudden a hand grabbed my left hand - the one carrying the iPhone.

He was quick and deliberate, and if I'd had a looser grip, I'd have dropped it. As it was, I was so startled to be grabbed that I pulled my hand in towards my body. And screamed.

If you have never heard me scream, it is a very high pitched, girly screamy scream.

The guy ran about 10 steps ahead of me, crossed the street, and looked back.

I looked to my left, which is where he was looking, and there was another guy about the same age, right next to me.

As I was already running, I kept going. I sprinted around the corner, stuck my phone in my bra, and headed back towards my office.

Both guys were bigger than me, and if they'd wanted to wrestle the phone from me, they could've without great difficulty. I assume that the first guy wanted me to drop it, and the other guy would pick it up.

So technically, nothing really happened.

But what it did was underline how vulnerable I am, even at 12:30 pm on a Monday, in a decent neighborhood. I was on T, just about to hit 17th. There was nobody else on the street in those moments, but it's not a deserted area.

Maybe this kind of thing, where you get scared but you don't get hurt, is a good lesson.

I hate thinking that I need to walk around vigilant.

But maybe as a small woman, I do.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Machine washable = magic words

The brown dog on the left is Doggie.

Not to be confused with Blue Doggie, who is next to him.This isn't the greatest picture, but you know who I'm talking about. You may have seen Doggie riding in the redneck truck in his blog debut.

And yes, this is now how we read. It's always at least the two dogs and a truck. And maybe a car and a ball, but those seem to be optional.

Doggie is Jordan's favorite stuffed animal, which makes me happy because I love him, too. He's from IKEA, so he was totally affordable, and we have a backup Doggie in case something terrible befalls him.

On a side bar: I love IKEA's toys. There's a stuffed elephant I keep looking for, because Jordan loves elephants. (Effent! Effent!) But it's perpetually out of stock and you cannot order online. What's with the Swedes and their unavailable elephants?

Anyway, back to Doggie.

Most importantly: he is machine washable.

Now, I am a woman who regularly goes to work with oatmeal in her hair and peanut butter on her pants. We wipe Jordan's hands off as best we can after meals. But there is always schmutz.

Jordan gets a bath most days, but not every day. This is a kid who chews wood chips at the playground. We think of it as building his immune system.

In other words, we're pretty tolerant of crud. So Doggie, like the rest of us, sometimes gets a little crusty here and there. This is fine.


On Saturday morning Jordan kept running from the kitchen to the back room with Doggie and Blue Doggie in tow. And at some point I realized there was a puddle forming on the floor.

I followed the trail out of the kitchen, into the bathroom, straight up to the toilet. To the scene of the pool party, where Doggie had been learning to tread water.

We all have our limits.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Why, yes, I am tired and crabby and this time change totally cracks me out. Why?

You might think, from reading LG, that I am completely oblivious to what's going on in the world.

Like, really, if I knew about the tragedy still unfolding in Japan, or the multiple Middle East crises, that I'd write about those rather than the biggest dog poo ever.

But you focus on what you're good at, you know?

So on Sunday morning a friend of mine was out walking their dog and came across the biggest dog poo she had ever seen. This prompted her to send me a message. With the following first paragraph: **Warning: the attachment is a picture of the largest dog poo I've ever seen. Open at own risk**

So I say this to you: open at your own risk. Even if you don't - and I cannot blame you - you know the content.

As she has a dog, she's used to picking up dog poo. But said she thinks she draws the line at anything bigger than her hand. Which, if you look at this, it most certainly is.

And she said, "What if a dog this size gets the runs?"

This is something I cannot even contemplate.

However. This is not the reason we didn't get a dog this weekend. The main reason is that the Mastiff was not our dog, and the two pit bulls we saw at WARL that were sweet as pie and Nick wanted but I did not, even if they don't deserve their bad reputation, were not our dogs.

Also, Jordan was a bit of anasshole this weekend, belligerent and full of NONONONONOs! and even though I understand that he is teething and uncomfortable and frustrated that we are in charge and he can't do everything he wants to do, it made me all what the fuck are we doing trying to take on more responsibility of any variety?

Maybe it is less about the poo and more about the sleep. And the realization that you have almost zero free time to do things you actually want to do.

And maybe, just maybe, at this point in time one might be better off not piling anything more on?

Friday, March 11, 2011

In which I over-use the words stuff and things and I don't care

OK, so we have this totally rich world kind of problem: we have too much STUFF.

We are like Double Stuf Oreos if you took two of them apart and stuck them together with the extra stuff in between. Which is actually the part I avoid. I think the white stuff is gross. I like to scrape off the stuff and eat the chocolate cookie part.

So we are over over over-stuffed with stuff.

Not in a hoarders way. We don't have piles of newspapers or heaps of anything, except for my clothes on the chest at the foot of our bed. We just have many things in our storage room, things to hang on walls, things to put somewhere puttable.

Things things things. Things that are nice quality. Things that have history. Things that appeal to one of us or the other.

We have a large house. We do. It is Victorian, and as such has almost no closets. But we have a big kitchen, and ample cupboard space.

We actually have room for everything. I understand that this is an enviable position.

And yet, none of us can find anything, ever.

Because the cupboards are crammed full. And you have three adults putting things away where they think they should go. We have ridiculous redundancy, which is what happens when you are almost 40 when you get married.

We each had a full kitchen. And Nick liked his plates. And his cutlery. And I liked mine - they were my grandmother's - and while my cutlery was nothing special, I like it better than his.

And glasses! We have an insaaaaane number of drinking glasses. And all three of us like different shapes. So the ones I hate, Betty likes, and the ones I like, Nick dislikes.

This is without even touching his beer stein collection, or his plethora of etchings of buildings. Or my assortment of statues of Hindu gods and goddesses, Buddha heads, and other, if you're not into that kind of thing, "oh, how ethnic!" art.

None of the pieces either of us consider art are negotiable, however. I'm quite sure he'd get rid of the bulk of mine and I'd certainly do the same to his.

But you know, you love the person, wagon wheel, Roy Rogers, garage sale coffee table and all.

Nobody has ever accused me of being remotely tidy. But when I lived alone, my cupboards were organized, as were my closets. I could find things. I had a system.

But our crammed-full cupboards, our overwhelming amount of stuff, all of these things make all of us crazy.

And we don't know how to tackle it.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

In case you didn't know, it's all about the poop

Did I tell you we've been looking to adopt a rescue dog?

I don't think I've mentioned it.

Yes. So last Saturday we hauled our butts down past Richmond to meet a Mastiff/Bulldog mix. The one pictured here. He's 70 lbs at approximately 9 months old. We adored him.

Sadly, it doesn't look like he's going to be our dog, because there are a couple people who put in applications ahead of us and seem like good fits. I've asked them to consider us if somehow those people don't work out.

We need a dog who wants to be walked around the block and then wants to lay around and be petted and prodded and loved on by an 18-month old.

Mastiffs fit the bill perfectly. Now, Mastiffs are Nick-sized dogs - which is why he wants one. They're more like small ponies. But sweet, gentle, and lazy. So we figure a Mastiff mixed with a smaller dog could be perfect.

I told my beautiful, elegant friend Michele about Mastiff Quest 2011, and she got the kind of look on her face that you get when you smell something terrible. She waved her arms in front of her, all nonononono!

She said, essentially, "What is wrong with you? Why are you adding more poop to your life?"

"More poop?"

If you didn't know her, you wouldn't think Michele would talk about poop. She's too pretty and too well put together. But she can talk poop with the best of us, and has a mouth like a sailor.

So. She went on:

"Why would you do this? Do you know how big his poops are going to be? You already have a baby whose poop you clean. You maybe even occasionally wipe your husband's poop off the toilet seat. And now! Now you want to add an enormous dog with enormous poop! Poop that will be your responsibility!"

She gesticulated wildly. She got a little shrill.

"I didn't think about it that way."

(When you add it all up, it is a LOT of poop...)

"Lisa. Think about the poop! It's all about the poop."

We're scheduled to meet another enormous pooper this coming Saturday.

Wednesday, March 09, 2011

The best case scenario in the worst case

My numbers went down. Way down.

Seriously, this is a relief, because I've been making myself crazy worrying about a tubal pregnancy and all of the difficulty and trauma that entails.

I've researched ectopic pregnancy up and down on the Internet and made myself kind of hysterical. I've been certain I felt these little stabbing pains on one side. I could just picture that egg lodged in my tube, requiring lots more monitoring and further reducing my chances.

I kept picturing losing a tube. Which would be painful and terrifying.

But this way, we just wait for it to resolve itself.

Fuck. But seriously, best case scenario on the Oh, Fuck spectrum.

And speaking of. The nurse, the beautiful Nordic that one I love, said, "Dr. X and I conferred, and we think your fertility prognosis is great. And that once you get your period, you should get right back up on the horse."

Which made me want to crack a joke about it being more of a stud situation, really, and that getting up on the horse had had nothing to do with it.

And then in my mind I considered comparing Nick to a stallion...and made myself giggle. In my mind. It was one of those flutter in your chest kind of almost giggles.

I was so glad we were on the phone and not in person.

But I said nothing out loud, because I just don't know her well enough. I don't want her to think I'm creepy.

You all, on the other hand...I mean, not that I want you to think I'm creepy.

OK, I'm done flogging that horse.


Aaaand now I'm off to have a huge glass of wine. Or five.

I'm not horsing around.


Tuesday, March 08, 2011

So if I give this an apt title, after yesterday's post you're just going to think I'm sick

One of my colleagues brought in two King Cakes today. He is a very southern guy with a very southern accent.

There was a little pink plastic baby sitting on top of each. I'm not so familiar with the King Cake, but I did think that the baby was baked into the cake.

Also, did you know that it's called King Cake in honor of the three kings? You know, like, the we, of Orient are (which I always thought was Orientare - an exotic locale)? And that it took them 12 days to get there? Who knew?

Anyway, I asked the colleague about the little Baby Jesus in icing perched amid beads.

He said in fact, the baby typically is inside, and that the reason he'd brought in these cakes was that he'd gotten the baby in his slice in the cake we had last week, which meant he had to buy the cake.

I said, "Why is the baby on top? I thought they stuck it in the cake."

And he replied, "I told the woman at the bakery that in my experience the baby was always buried in the cake. Do you know what she said?"


"Honey, you're going to have to bury your own baby."

Monday, March 07, 2011

So it's not no, but it's not yes. I guess it's yes on the way to no. In other words: Goddammit.

So on Friday I went in for blood work and then got a call and the first thing she said was, "Congratulations!"

Yippee! Everything looked good!

And then this morning I went in for more blood work - just to make sure things are progressing fine - and then waited and waited for a call with results. The results I know nobody wants to give and nobody wants to hear.

My numbers aren't doubling as they should. I need to come in on Wednesday for more blood. If it's not a viable pregnancy, they want my numbers to start going down.

Because if they don't, it could mean an ectopic pregnancy.

I asked her if the expectation is that it's not a viable pregnancy.

And she said yes.

Friday, March 04, 2011

And no, there will be no drawing with this one

There's been a lot of vagina-related stuff in my life lately.

I mean, as a topic.

You see, I got this very comfy pair of workout pants at the Gap outlet last weekend, and then I wore them to the gym. And they just looked a little, I don't know, a little poochy-outy right between my legs.

Not in an erection skirt kind of way. No. Not poking forward.

Poking down. Just a little. Kind of camel toe-y, if I may be candid. And vulgar.

At first I was kind of horrified, but then I thought, well, there aren't very many people here. And anyway, if someone notices, they're certainly not going to say anything. Because really, how often do I peer at some random person's crotch? Never.

Which is not to imply that if I know you I peer at your crotch because I don't.


As far as I know, nobody noticed my prosthetic camel toe.

And then a day or so later I wore a short - but I didn't think too-short - dress with tights and knee-high boots, and then I got to work and got a little twitchy, so I had to ask a couple of my Quad-mates if they thought it was too short.

They didn't. And they would tell me.

Because one of them said that she has gotten very aware of too-short dresses, as she pretty much sees women with their vaginas waving in the breeze on her morning commute.

She said that very morning, on the metro escalator, she'd tapped a woman on the shoulder to tell her that her dress was so short that her vajayjay was practically showing. (Swear to god - she said this.) And then she told her that men in the metro take pictures while pretending to be on their phones.


And then yesterday, in staff meeting - the very meeting where for a period of time we regularly discussed the dread caulk issue - one of our colleagues had brought in cupcakes for Michele's birthday. We were discussing cake, decoration, avoidance of birthdays after a certain age, etc, and one of my other colleagues said...

Well, wait. What I thought he said was, "No camel toe!"

What he actually said was, "No candles!"

But when I heard him say, "No camel toe!" I whipped my head towards him and kind of choked and asked what he'd said.

And then when he repeated, and then asked what I thought he'd said, I blushed and said, "Tell you later." And then the meeting began, so the topic was dropped for the moment.

I don't know about where you work, but while we can talk the caulk to death, there's just no way to say camel toe in a staff meeting.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

The ways in which I am making myself crazy this week

Afternoon update: Me as a Martian rock star, courtesy of my friend Jess. (Embiggened by me to look more extra-terrestrial.)

1. Boob assessment: Are they bigger? Are they tender? Do my nipples look any different?

I keep poking at them and looking sideways in the mirror. I think they're pretty much the same as always, which is to say no, no, and I think they're always that color now.

2. Nausea: Is my stomach a little swirly? Is that nausea?

I'm a little nauseous. Wait, should I say nauseated? Apparently it used to matter but it doesn't anymore. So nauseous is fine.

Nausea! Nausea is good! But maybe it's allergies. Maybe I am sniffling from allergies and I'm having post-nasal drip and that's making me nauseous. Or nauseated. I don't think I have post-nasal drip, though. I'd notice, I'm pretty sure.

Or maybe I didn't eat enough before I took my vitamins. Or I'm hungry. I'm definitely hungry.

Who the fuck knows on the nausea.

3. Tiredness: Is this normal kid-was-up-chirping-in-the-middle-of-the-night-a-couple-times-this week-tired? Or am I extra-tired?

Hard to tell. I'm tired. But I'm often tired. Is this more tired-y tiredness?

4. Mood: Any mood swings or indication of hormonal shifts?

Definitely. Everyone irritates me. But I was pumped full of hormones this month and have been on an everyone-is-in-my-goddamn-way kick for the last several weeks.

Maybe it's pregnancy insanity?

Or maybe I'm tired of pretending I'm not a total, bitchin' rock star from Mars.

Fuck, maybe I'm Charlie Sheen.

(Also, speaking of, please click on this piece of awesomeness.)

Tuesday, March 01, 2011

Hi-ho the derry-o, the cheese stands alone

I was going to say that Jordan has really turned into a little human lately.

(Also, what is the derry-o?)

But the fact is that he's always been a little human. He's just getting more and more interesting, more able to express himself, and well, just MORE.

Although honestly, I have long thought that we don't really change as we age. We just become more so. (The exception to this being the things you decide to change. But those you have to actively work on, as far as I can tell.)

Anyway, now when we read, we need Doggie! Oh, wait, and Blue Doggie! And Bear!

I have wound up with a lap containing - or trying, anyway - two stuffed dogs, one bear, a large plastic fire truck, and my son. He really wasn't comfortable settling in until everyone was present.

The interesting thing is that if you try to put any of his pals in bed with him, they get flung over the side of the crib.

He'll bring Doggie (or truck, or train, or whatever) up to hold while he's being changed, but you put them in the crib together, and he marches to the side with the visitor in hand and dumps it on the floor.

We do this every so often and then tiptoe in and check once he's fallen asleep.

Nick always emerges, rejected animal in hand, saying, "The boy sleeps alone."