Suffering the Consequences

Silly Dancing

Mellow Swaying

Watch out! We preg, and we don't even care!




(This is my very first personal video to upload. Cheers for fancy phones.)


We went and saw Vampire Weekend last night in Dallas. It was an awesome, fun show, and I had a great time, but, people, I am an old old lady, and I'll be honest, I'm still feeling it today. Carter and I were talking while we were there, and we just don't have the motivation anymore that we used to. I used to get pumped for this kinda stuff, and though I really enjoyed it and I'd do it again, I can't say that I was pumped last night in the way I remember. I used to live and die for Austin City Limits Fest, and now the idea of standing in that insane heat and getting my sunglasses stomped and laminating my homemade schedule and wearing a trashbag raincoat just makes me feel a little tired. It does.

Whatz a happening here?

The Art of War

I worked at bed & breakfast/restaurant in Colorado for three summers during my college years. I lived with a bunch of other college kids there on the property, which, I must admit, was pretty awesome. Sometimes it reminded me of the staff of Kellerman's on Dirty Dancing... without dancing or pregnancies but with an equally awesome setting and with actual watermelon carrying sometimes. I mean we were a restaurant, too, after all. (We also mixed giant vats of bleu cheese dressing, but that, I'm sorry to say, is another story.)


One interesting and tragic relationship I observed over the course of my three summers there was that of the couple who owned and ran the fairly complicated operation. They had been married and running this business for a long time before I came along, and by the time I saw them interact, things were pretty bad between them. From the stories of the townies who had worked at the inn for years before me, the two used to fight. HEATEDLY. A LOT. But my first summer I was there, they didn't fight at all that I saw. In fact, they hardly talked at all except when they had to settle business. They designed schedules and responsibilities that allowed them to avoid each other most of the day.

Even to my naive and romantic 18 year old self, it was obvious that, in general, this kind of relationship was much more broken than one filled with fights. They had given up. They didn't care enough about the unresolved junk to fight any more. I know I didn't see all the history and didn't know all the details of their relationship, but the following summer, they were divorced, and the wife took over the business... and sort of oddly enough, the husband would come up whenever she needed a handy man and help out around the place.

All that to say, this was a pretty influential lesson for me in how relationships function. Although, I enjoy debate, I am a non-confrontational grudge holder of the highest (lowest?) order, and I will do anything I can to avoid actually addressing offenses or apologizing for my own. But observing the tail end of the disintegration of that marriage gave me a respect for the necessity of fights. I can say that even though I hate sifting through the mess of a fight, I recognize it as a kind of visit to the dentist's office. We do it for our own good and avoid it at our peril.


Image via my dentist, Dr. Ku's, website. It's hard to love him.

And so it goes. We (personally and universally) obviously need to fight sometimes. We will have conflicts, and it's only healthy to have that catharsis. My prayer this morning was to learn how to fight effectively. I'll say with a giant pat on our backs that Carter and I have learned and matured as fighters over the last five years. I sat and thought about what we've learned and what we are learning now.

And I made a list of these lessons and prayers as I see them because that's what I do. I'm a list maker.

• Help us not to paint ourselves as a victim and the other as a villain. Remind us we're a team on this particular problem just like every other problem.
• Remind us of our own flaws and imperfect nature, and help us to cut the other a little slack.
  
• Keep us on topic while we're in the middle of things--not distracted by how we're fighting (sarcasm, silence and not engaging, unnecessary tears, raised voices) but on the actual issue at hand.
• Allow us to show emotion and be sympathetic of emotions.
• Stop us from panic, and keep us from feeling that everything's messed up. Give us perspective.
• Keep us vulnerable and open, quickly admitting responsibility and as quickly as honestly possible forgiving.
• Allow us to step away from a stalled fight to sort things out but to always come back to it while it's still warm.
• Help us have reasonable and flexible expectations.
• Teach us to allow some recovery time afterward and process the fight and see good in it.

Oldies

Photo via here


I don't typically listen to oldies, but Carter programmed my pre-set buttons in my car, and when I heard more fundraising hoopla on NPR, I moved on down the line to my #3 station, KLUV, on the way to work this morning. To my surprise (and delight?) I heard "Jump" by Van Halen on the oldies station. I just googled "Jump" and found out it came out in 1984. Does this really classify as an oldie, KLUV?

Thinking back, I will also note that when we go to Old Neighborhood Grill on Saturday mornings for breakfast, I've noticed that KLUV (what a predictable station choice, Old Neighborhood Grill) has been shifting to younger oldies. I apparently have a false notion that oldies come from the 50s, 60s, and maybe 70s... but this appears to be an antiquated idea.

Girth and the Gravity of Growth

I've been wearing tight shirts to get attention lately.

Bradly and I are growing in all sorts of interesting ways, and people are starting to take notice. I don't mind people touching my stomach. Normally, I think I would. I'm kinda a side-hug, no-touching type gal. But I accept this as par for the course. It seems pretty normal that someone would want to touch a growing, if hidden, baby. I think the whole process is pretty fascinating and miraculous and mysterious. Of course, people are curious and instinctively reach out to it. That's okay by me.

However, I have to confess that I sometimes get a sort of uncomfortable, self-conscious feeling about the looking, the monitoring, the intense noticing of my body. There are all sorts of paradoxical, contradictory things happening inside this introvert. I like the attention, and I really like to talk about all things Bradly-related, but it's odd to be the subject of so many gazes. And I get told that I'm not so big for 4.5 months, which in some ways is good, I guess. But in some ways makes me feel like my belly is a little anticlimactic or unimpressive. Some days I want a roaring monster Mother Earth belly that everyone will recognize and respect and genuflect toward. And some days I just feel fat and saggy and past my youthful prime.

We went out to a bar on Saturday night for a friend's birthday, and getting dressed to be in that setting and getting dressed as a pregnant lady didn't mesh easily for me (Where's my black lace muumuu?)... Quite honestly and vainly, I don't want people to think this belly is just a chubby pot belly, which obviously is not the end of the world, and why do I even care what these strangers see? Aren't I a mother now? Mothers (can look sexy but) don't need to look sexy... They are secure in their identity.

But I didn't feel that way. I kept putting my hand on my belly while we were there to indicate that this is a baby--you better recognize. In the future, if you see me putting my hands on my belly, that's what I'm doing. I'm grappling with my self image, announcing with authority that I used to look better than this, no, really, I did.

While we were at the bar, there was a cute, cute girl there. She had on a very chic, very casual, backless orange shirt, and she seemed to be one of those people who are just comfortable in their own skin, just having fun. And though I know there's absolutely no need for or benefit in comparison, I compared my own dumpy status to hers. And I was afraid. I was afraid of never being that girl again--not that I ever was--but I was afraid of being a mom and wearing flowery capri pants and boxy white t-shirts for forever and never getting dressed up to go out for drinks again. I was afraid of, not just the change in my body, but the change in my life, too.

We don't even go out to bars anymore, so why am I envious of this girl? I don't know. I'm ready for this new life with Bradly and excited to think about all the things we'll be doing with her. I get teary thinking about the little diapers and getting a swing set and dance lessons and shopping for a prom dress and shopping for a wedding dress and every little thing in between. And I love that big picture so much. But that girl at the bar on Saturday seemed to represent something else entirely that was passing away. And I worried that I might miss it.

3 Best

1. This kitchen, but the pendants and ceiling in particular, from Pink Wallpaper




2. Dulce de leche brownies from David Lebovitz



3. Recovering from shots, numbness, and the horror of the black jaw jack that held my mouth open at the dentist's office . I hate you, black jaw jack. But I hate you, shots, more. Stopping by the bakery afterward and promptly rewarding myself with one cherry and one apple turnover drowning in shiny glaze made it all go away. Cheers to sugar!

My Hero in Bangs

Okay, enough about bangs already, right? But I just want to say that I'm stalking Rockstar Diaries' bangs.

They are, um, bangin... so to speak.



And she's pregnant.

Bangs and Other Leaps of Faith

I like to adjust my hair style according to significant life changes, but, also, let's be honest, I have a gigantic 5-finger forehead, and I've been thinking about bangs for awhile. Some of those weekly preggers pictures put me over the edge. Ay-yi-yi.

I used to talk to my students about the significance of a female character choosing to change the hairstyle on top of her head usually signaling a shift inside her head, too. The fall after I got married, I tried to get stylish and chopped off my hair to achieve the lamentable look I'm sporting on my driver's license picture. Then I very reasonably grew it out for a few years. The summer I quit teaching, I again chopped it to represent my new freedom for the shackles of crazy teenagers and kooky, Renaissance-fair-loving department heads. Then I felt naked and wanted to grow it again. I'll chalk up this particular hair change to the imminent entrance of our little one. If we can finally take the plunge to parenthood, certainly I can cut a few inches off the front, right? In other words, I'd like to dedicate these bangs to Wee Woo...

and this video to Kendrick.

3 Best (and Worst)

1. Hearing our baby's burly heartbeat yesterday at our midwife appointment. If it was a "wooshwooshwoosh" last time, it was "BoomBoomBoom" this time. Go Wee Woo. He/she should be about 5" from head to rump by now. That's big time. And we get our sonogram (AND TO FIND OUT THE SEX) at our next appointment.




2. Mudpuppy's hanging air plants in his Etsy shop (Found via Inspired to Share)




The Lovely Leaves wallpaper from Hygge & West is pretty amazing. (Found via Inspired to Share)



P.S. My 3 Worst

1. Dropping off our computer at the Apple store to see what irreparable problems lurk in its guts
2. Calling our insurance company to sort out some dental coverage junk
3. The thought of my upcoming dentist appointment after five years (!) of not having my teeth cleaned

Okay, Exhale...

After a long and valiant effort, I've finally raised the white flag. I'm sitting at my office desk with my pant button brazenly unbuttoned. Thankfully, my tank and cardi are yanked down enough to disguise the surrender. The zipper, although strained, is still holding strong, but that button just wasn't happening.

C.P.P.

I did not grow up eating chicken pot pie. The only version I remember even seeing was a frozen dinner type variety. I always thought it was sorta suspicious looking. What was even under that crust, swimming in that creamy sauce? The crust looked good, but I was sure that it was there just to hide some kind of vegetal nastiness. It seemed like a trick to me.

But I'm coming around. I've been curious about chicken pot pie, and yesterday I saw the Barefoot Contessa episode where she makes a lobster pot pie. Now, seeing that we do not live in East Hampton and are not millionaires, we will be sticking to chicken, but I liked what I saw in her method.

This is how I'm going to approach it:

1. Saute leeks, carrots, and celery in absurd amount of butter for 10 minutes or so.
2. Add flour to make a roux of sorts and cook off the raw flour taste.
3. Add chicken broth, white wine, and s&p and simmer down for 5 minutes. Add cream.
4. Mix in frozen peas, roasted chicken breast chunks, thyme, and parsley.
5. Pour into receptacle(s), top with pastry dough that's been egg washed and coarse salted, cook on 375 for an hour or so.

We'll see how it goes.

Howl

I want to see Howl really badly, but I'm nervous about some of these characters. I like James Franco, but he's too good looking to play Allen Ginsberg. We've been watching a few episodes of Freaks and Geeks lately, and Franco is great at playing slimy, caddish goof offs, but he doesn't seem quite right for Ginsberg to me. I don't know how to pinpoint it, but he's not serious enough or willing to be really ugly, where I think Ginsberg was all about delving into the dark parts. Franco is mischievous, but not really bad; rebel, but not raw or tortured. Even when he was center stage, I always thought Ginsberg had the nature of a hanger-on, an observer, rather than a charismatic hero. But I like Franco, so we'll see.

It's 10:30 in the morning

and I want potatoes au gratin, like, now.


from The Dinner Files

Killing Dinner

Sometimes I can't help but think about these things again.

Francis Lam has an interesting story on becoming closer to his food. I have to admit that the only way I can eat chicken is by having a wide emotional distance from acknowledging how it got into my refrigerator.

Fish is something of a different story.

Oh, Martha...

The woman (and her staff) know how to arrange a drawer. To me, it is beautiful.

Am I Ready?

Last night, I thought back to when we decided to make this leap, and I had to recall how quickly we changed our minds on the issue. In a matter of days, we went from no-way-we're havin'-fun-and-we-like-to-go-out-and-I-like-quiet to we're-so-ready-let's-totally-have-the-best-baby-eva. We shocked me.

Sometimes we turn to one another and ask, "What did we do?"

Sometimes I think there is no way I'm ready to be a mom. NO WAY. I'm just driving around, laying on the couch, bathing Lu, cooking the salmon, playing Mah Jong, flipping through my new Martha Stewart, and doing what I do, and then I realize with panic that NOTHING WILL BE THE SAME IN SIX MONTHS. Six months is nothing. Do you even hear me? It is no time.

I really can't visualize what life will be like, but I know that it will not be like this. And I think, "You need to wake up, dummy." I'm acting so casual and normal. Then every once in awhile I get this revelation. I feel like I need to realize to seriousness of the situation and start learning to be more mom-esque. I'VE GOT TO GET MY ACT TOGETHER! I should be cleaning or organizing or stretching or something.

I don't have natural mom impulses like everyone else. I'll tell you right now that I'm not sympathetic or gentle or patient or those other things. Sometimes babies annoy me and make me uncomfortable and nervous. Sometimes other moms or moms-to-be say things that have never once occurred to me. And I shake my head, so I look like I know what I'm doing, and on the inside I'm trying really hard to file away this mom information and commit it to memory so I don't ruin my baby. I'm panting right now. This could go very badly. So badly. For sure, I'm going to raise an emotion mutant. Watch out. He might eat your baby's face off.

Whoa.

Rage Against the Minivan had a really interesting post about Barbies and race and what Americans value and a podcast about what happened when FAO Schwartz ran out of white baby dolls and mothers had to choose between Asian, Latino, and African American baby dolls.

It reminds me a little of my gender studies class. I remember discussing and thinking about children's toys and the coded messages parents send with every purchase. Not just messages about primarily liking and befriending those who look exactly like you but also messages about what girls should be good at and what boys should good at. Debilitating messages and, okay, let's pretend like Bratz dolls don't even exist because they really just gross me out. And then depress me.


This is not to say that boys and girls are exactly the same or that parents should force them to play with toys they hate, but some choices in toys seem to limit kids more than helping them grow. I'm also not saying that every toy should be an educational toy, that they shouldn't just have fun sometimes, but it seems a little dangerous to be totally mindless of the early lessons kids learn from these kind of things. And what's so wrong with books and blocks and the backyard? But this is just an observer, commenting on something she hasn't experienced so take that for what it's worth, but it makes me sad.

It's Like a Wet T-Shirt Contest

... except it's at work and my mushy belly isn't sexy and I was just trying to water our plants up in here.

What's that? Oh, that's what I get for trying to balance my open Nalgene on my hip while opening the door. You're right. Lesson learned. At least Boss Man isn't here.

All Growns Up

I'm 32 today!


"Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."
- Mark Twain

"No wise man ever wished to be younger."
- Jonathan Swift

"It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection."
-Voltaire

The Futility of Cute

Well, first Rage Against the Minivan posted about her conflict over the amount of time and money spent on home design versus the enjoyment of indulging in creative outlets...

and then Up Mama's Wall wrote,

I was sort of enjoying myself, getting a certain satisfaction from the Martha-like perfection of the goodie bags, but underneath lurked a simmering resentment and impatience, a little throb telling me that my cutsie-pootsie project might not be the best use of my time.

As I stuck the stickers I started to suspect that such things, these bourgeois arts so trumpeted by women's magazines and Martha Stewart and a thousand design blogs, were just a giant diversion of creative energy.

And I sometimes think about the things I most enjoy doing and how they are gone in a second, chewed and eaten and how they, quite appallingly and literally, end up as a pile of poo.

But I could rationalize that these edible creations are valuable in that they are symbols of love and sustenance for the people for whom I make them. That I also quite literally give life and strength in the things I cook. Yeah, yeah, that's good. That beauty is valuable just for itself and just for the moment no matter how transitory.

But I get caught up in it. And I think I learned very early that cooking is the kind of art that will bring you the most and most immediate praise. It's pretty disgusting to acknowledge that I sometimes cook because I want the pat on the head. Not just to love others but to fish for love myself. Gross.

Walmart Wackiness

I try to avoid Walmart AT ALL COSTS.

I cannot emphasize this enough, but sometimes, you know, it's just necessary. Every time I go to the Walmart closest to our house (which is not close at all which is one of many reasons I hate going), I see the strangest things. The patrons and employees are straight up crazy...

like the time I saw the SKINNY, 50-60 year old woman in the daisy dukes so short you could see a peek of her cheek;

or the time the toddler got her head stuck in between the bars of one of the Subway chairs up front by the registers and was SCREAMING bloody murder and no one could figure out how to get her removed;

or the time I saw a man shopping in a black cape;

or when the very feminine, young man hovered around me singing to himself very loudly and obviously wanting to be applauded for his mediocre American Idol voice.

So you get the picture. This particular Walmart (all Walmarts?) seems to be a magnet for weird folk.

I went to Walmart yesterday. I needed some odds and ends. When I was checking out, the woman at the register says, "You must be havin a party," and picks up my green cocktail napkins and kinda shakes them. "This is what gave it away." I respond in the affirmative.

Then she transitions and says, "My boyfriend and I want to have a country wedding because we country people, but the only problem is we having it in February."

Now, here was my dilemma: Is this an issue because they wanted to have in outside in the midst of the beloved country? Should I suggest having it at an indoor venue but still somewhere out in the country? Should I recommend specific venues? Am I overstepping my bounds by giving a stranger advice? But she presented the problem to me, so maybe she wants advice.

Instead, I said, "Oh. Well, that will be romantic." You know since it's in February and all.

She continues, "My manager told me that my husband is just going to forget our anniversary." Presumably because it's close to Valentine's Day? I have no idea.

"But I told him that I'd be the one to forget it because grandmother's birthday is the same day we havin it. February 26th." I said, "Oh," and smiled. Should I say I'm sorry? I just don't know. I mean she chose the date, right?

Around this point, I had swiped my card, and she handed me my receipt, and I think I told her congratulations, but it's kinda a blur.

So I'm walking out, past the infamous Subway by the entrance of the store, and I look over, and there is a plainclothes Santa Clause sitting on one of the tall stools just watching people come in and out of the doors. Not eating, just watching. What is going on? Is he a pedophile? A Santa disguise is the most pernicious lure I can think of. Now, I say Santa Clause, but honestly his beard was actually a little longer than I picture Santa's. Think more ZZ Top. Oh, and he had on a bonafide top hat, too.

Thank you. Come again.