Hurry Up and Wait

I am down to the single digits. It seems like only yesterday I was shocked to learn it was 99 days until my due date - double digits. And now here I am, waiting to give birth. And yet I still don't believe that I am pregnant, despite a belly that sticks out into the next time zone. I guess I have to assume the doctor knows what she's talking about, that the belly isn't, as I suspect, just made up of all the cookies I've eaten over the past nine months.

So to humor the nice doctor I am proceeding as if I will in fact have a baby sooner rather than later. I spend a lot of my time, time that should be spent working or paying attention to where I am walking, wondering what this new, unfamiliar ache or pain might be. Last night I sat up as a sharp pain hit my side and thought, "Oh my God! This must be it! I should wake Tom!" Then I farted. Turns out it was not labor, just the broccoli I'd had for dinner.

In my defense, my organs are so randomly distributed at this point that it really is difficult to pinpoint previously obvious sensations until they manifest themselves somehow (oh, I have to pee! when I go a little in my pants or oh, I'm hungry! when I pass out at my desk, etc).

Tom and I have been spending all our free time preparing for the birth by reading endless books and pamphlets that helpful institutions send us on a regular basis under the assumption that we are two babbling idiots who should never have procreated. We get literature from every direction - the doctor, the insurance company, the hospital - daily, explaining to us using small words that we should feed our baby a lot and not poor hot water on it. Once we had those basics down, we ventured out on our own and bought a slew of books on child rearing, each with a contradictory approach, all of which make complete sense, which is enough to turn you into a babbling idiot if you didn't start out as one. I want to give birth just so I can stop reading all this theory and put it in practice before I forget everything. It's like studying for the SAT - although you feel compelled to continue cramming until the last minute, at some point your brain is full and will hold no more. You just want to take the fucking test already.

So with all this cramming and aches and pains and memorization of factoids (no pacifier until 2 weeks old. No wait, 2 months. No wait - Time's up! You get an incomplete on the "Things Baby Can Suck On That Won't Scar Them for Life" portion of the test) is it any wonder I can't sleep? And as long as I can't sleep, I might as well be taking care of a newborn. Yet I am still 9 days away from my due date, and we all know babies are rarely punctual. Plus, this is Tom's baby, and if she follows in his footsteps she will definitely not be on time. So I wait. And spend a lot of time with my head cocked to one side, reaching deep within myself to determine if this current little tug in my belly heralds the onset of the most challenging event of my life, or just lactose intolerance.

Top Ten Reasons Why Having a Baby Isn't A Christmas Present

I was devastated when I found out the due date for my first baby is Christmas Day. I hate to think that my child will have to compete with the holidays on her birthday every year - combined presents, her special day getting swept aside by the excitement of the season, the difficulty putting together a birthday party when all of her friends will be out of town. How could I have done such a terrible thing? "Great," I thought to myself when one of those online calculators revealed the date. "Literally my first act as a parent and I fucked it up." (Note: don't have unprotected sex in early April. Nobody told me that they start counting the 40 week gestation period before you actually conceive - what the hell kind of sense does that make? How could I have known this? And now my child will pay for my ignorance every single year of her life.)

When someone finds out that I am due on Christmas Day, about 7 out of 10 of them exclaim delightedly, as if I did this on purpose as a special treat for myself, "Oh, what a wonderful Christmas present for you!"

Now, I admit that I am not completely familiar with all the Christmas traditions. My family is Jewish, although not religiously - we have chosen to retain the guilt and anxiety but skip the holidays and belief system - so I didn't even celebrate Christmas until junior high or so, when my mother remarried a gentile who brought with him the lovely tradition of gluttonously opening all your presents at once on a single day. My brother and I embraced this change with all the exuberance of the spoiled American child with no sense of or interest in any deeper purpose other than self-involved consumer fulfillment.

So, while I have thoroughly enjoyed the traditions of trees and cookies and gaining 10 pounds and presents galore, I admit I have not actually read up on any background to the Christmas story or could in any way be considered an expert. Don't get me wrong - I do understand it has to do with that guy Jesus. But more importantly for me it heralds my Aunt-in-law's annual peanut butter balls.

However when it comes to gifts, I'm pretty clear on what constitutes appropriate. Gifts after all know no religion. I've been receiving them for years and years. Therefore, despite my lack of knowledge regarding the origins of the Christmas holiday, I would like to list here the Top Ten Reasons Why Having a Baby Does Not Qualify As a Christmas Present.

1. One is not usually expected to make one's own gift.

2. Christmas gifts are usually wrapped in shiny, attractive paper and festooned with ribbons and bows. They are not wrapped in blood and mucus unless you are a family of vampires.

3. Unwrapping/unveiling the gift should not cause hours or days of excruciating pain. If it does, either a) you are doing it wrong or b) whoever gave you this gift doesn't actually like you and you should probably not be their friend anymore.

4. While a really awesome gift may include packing a bag and leaving at a moment's notice for an overnight stay somewhere, the somewhere should not be the hospital.

5. One should not be expected to carry around one's own wrapped gift for nine months every single place one goes, even while one sleeps, before being allowed to open it.

6. After opening your Christmas gift, it is not acceptable that that gift then be the only recipient of all future gifts, Christmas or otherwise, instead of you (or anybody else in your household) for the rest of your life.

7. Usually a Christmas gift should not immediately demand to suck on your boob. Unless you're into that sort of thing. Whatever floats your boat. Hey, I'm liberal!

8. A Christmas gift should never EVER have anything to do with the phrase "bloody show".

9. Your Christmas gift should not cause you to gain 50 pounds. Five, even ten pounds are acceptable under certain circumstances (a 2 lb box of See's candy, for example), but by no means is 50 pounds okay.

10. A Christmas gift should never make you threaten to murder your husband. Unless he gives you a blender. Then it's okay. Or a steering wheel cover. Okay, SOMEtimes a Christmas gift might make you threaten to murder your husband. That one isn't a good qualifier. So one more.

11. Generally, you should not be required to expel your own gift from a bodily orifice which you would normally never discuss, let alone display, in public. I say generally because I understand different families have different traditions, and far be it from me to judge. Like how some families open presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas.

So while I have little knowledge of Christmas, and even less of babies, I do think the points detailed here are inarguable. Therefore nobody is off the hook from getting me a present this year just because I might birth a baby. Keep in mind I already have a blender.

The Bitching Blog

Pregnancy is a beautiful thing. There is glowing involved. Unless of course you happen to be me. I should like at this time to expound upon the ways in which my body has revolted. Or, more accurately, has become revolting. If you're a "shame on you, you should feel blessed by every discomfort" kind of person you may not want to read further because it'll just annoy you.

Starting from the top. It's a commonly known fact that a pregnant woman's hair gets thicker. This is because older hair doesn't fall out, but new hair is still generated. However, several years ago my hair decided to stop growing. So my hair is essentially only accumulating more hair that refuses to grow, rather than growing longer, creating a Jew-fro appearance about which I can do nothing because I do not have the stamina to stand at the sink for an hour in an attempt to tame it with product and appliances. Nor can I afford losing that extra hour of sleep, because then I would only get 11 hours a night.

On the bright side our drains aren't backing up anymore from the accumulation of my DNA.

I no longer have any differentiation between my neck and my chin. It all just sort of flows out of my cheeks, Jabba-the-Hut-like. (Note: I can say this about myself but if you call me Jabba you will lose a testicle, as one unfortunate and not very bright friend has already learned.)

Need I expound on the size of my chest? It has become udderly (misspelling intended) ridiculous. I don't even know if anybody makes a bra big enough for these things. When forced to wear one, a requirement which I am relaxing further and further as I make it my primary goal in life to wear no clothing that involves bands, hooks or restrictive elastic, the best I can do is find an approximate size. And I am constantly losing things in my cleavage. Not just crumbs, but the entire muffin. Some people may view this as a handy place to store keys and loose change, particularly since most maternity pants do not have pockets (perhaps they assume you don't need them given your abundant cleavage?) but that is uncomfortable.

The flab on my underarms stops waving hello about five minutes after the rest of my arm does.

My belly is actually quite attractive, I have to say, and I take full credit for this. I attribute the lack of any new stretch marks to the fact that my body is already used to expanding with weight gain and then contracting through dieting on a fairly regular basis, so a giant belly is one thing for which I have been preparing and training for decades. Rather than new stretch marks I am just digging deeper grooves into the pre-existing ones.

I won't go into my ass. I may never find my way back out again.

I think I've covered my painfully unhinging hips, which by now I could probably fully detach from the rest of my body without too much effort if I so chose. Despite the pain, I choose not. I'm fairly certain they are necessary evils.

My thighs are two barrels atop my knees. I give new meaning to the term "cottage cheese thighs." They hang over my chair, halfway to the floor. If I were allowed to fly, Southwest airlines would make me buy not two but three seats - one for me, one for each of my thighs. I would request for them the special kosher meal, just because one has to get one's jollies where one can when one's thighs are fucking monstrous.

My ankles are reminiscent of the Pillsbury Dough Boy's. It is fun to see if I can sink my finger in all the way up to the first knuckle.

My feet... I don't know. Maybe someone else can fill you in on those. The other day I discovered I can officially no longer tie my own shoes and I had to ask my husband for help. As an aside, I also can no longer vacuum, which is another task my husband has had to take over, but you won't hear me bitching about that one.

My immune system is shot. I've had a sinus infection for 3 weeks or seventeen years, I'm not sure which. People already part like the Red Sea when they see a big pregnant belly coming at them, as if pregnancy were contagious. Although I think with men (particularly those without children) it's more that they become struck with a confused Madonna worship. As if they are simultaneously overwhelmed by the creation of life and at the same time horribly embarrassed because they now know for a fact you've had sex at least once. They avert their eyes and give you a wider-than-necessary birth. (Haha, birth) But add to that the coughing, hacking, sneezing, nose-blowing delight of a year-long cold that WILL NOT DIE and you pretty much find yourself alone most of the time.

I require twelve hours of sleep per day and still can't focus properly on my work. I have perfected the dumb stare. I grunt when I get up, sit down, bend, walk, climb stairs, think hard or breathe. My throat makes funny bubbly noises that are beyond my control and when I am hungry I make this loud, also uncontrollable, hiccup sound, almost always in a very small, very crowded space such as the elevator at work. Think loud, alarmed parrot when trying to imagine this sound in your head. I sweat from just sitting. I cry at everything, including this blog. I forget to put on socks and can't understand why my feet are so cold.

All that being said... I wouldn't trade any of it. I could be sobbing my eyes out (no, no reason) but one kick from this baby girl and I'm grinning like a fool. She got hiccups yesterday for ten minutes and I was so delighted by this clear demonstration of talent and genius that I was high for hours.

Did I mention the mood swings?

Responsibilities with a Capital R

I have always been an obnoxiously responsible person, to the point where I've managed to take most of the joy out of life. But now I realize I was a mere amateur.

"You are the most organized person I know," my best friend has told me on more than one occasion. I feel sort of smug about that, despite the fact that "organized" can very often, especially in my case, be easily replaced with "anal-retentive," which isn't so much of a compliment. I wow the world with my spreadsheets and budget analyses, my three-month forecasts and multiple-variation contingency plans. My husband long ago happily relinquished control of most of the household since I am a better planner and also it isn't a fun job, something he's always known but nobody ever told me.

Tom and I (and by "Tom and I" I mean "I") had everything calendared out: big move, home purchase, baby. And with the exception of a few months here and there, everything pretty much went according to plan. I had the crib picked out the moment we confirmed a heartbeat. I had it put together before I reached my third trimester. I put it together myself because Tom was assigned the less romantic task of cleaning out the garage so that everything previously stored in the baby's room could be moved out of my way. We still had four months to go, but I could not wait a day for Tom to finish the garage before I got started on the crib. This was the way the schedule had to go, because I said so, and I am the Most Organized Woman Ever.

Or at least so I thought. Because a few weeks ago, still with over three months to go before my due date, I started looking into daycare.

"Wow," those of you who don't have kids yet are probably thinking, "you won't need daycare for another seven months and you're already thinking about that?"

Or at least that's what I thought when I started doing it. "Look at me!" I thought. "I am so far ahead of the game! When this kid is born I will have EVERYthing in place and a statue will be erected in my honor - World's Most Organized Mom!" Yeah, right. Every single place I called has a waiting list of at least - at LEAST - a year. The place most highly recommended, which literally costs per month the same as the mortgage on a summer home would, does not anticipate openings until the end of 2009.

"So," I said quasi-casually to the very nice woman on the phone, "if I were better prepared, I would have gotten on your waiting list before I got pregnant."

There was, if you don't mind the blatant metaphore, a pregnant silence. A silence I took to mean, "Oh, honey, you are SO naive."

But wait, there's more! In order to get on the waiting list you have to take a tour. And the TOURS were booked for a month out. So I got on the list to get a tour in order to get on the waiting list. But wait, there's even more! Once you have the tour, in order to get on the waiting list you have to pay $100. Not for any reason. The $100 will never be refunded or applied to your first month's tuition should you be so fortunate as to be called at some point in the distant future before your kid goes to college. It's just because they can do that if they want to. I guess I should be glad they don't charge $1,000 because, really, what's to stop them? $100 is quite humanitarian of them. They are givers.

Several of my coworkers raved about this place or I wouldn't have bothered. There was also the fact that ALL of the places operate this way, so I might as well reach for the stars. Prior to my tour, about which I was as nervous as if I were taking the SATs again, my friend and coworker advised, "The Director is deaf in one ear. No, wait, both ears. Oh, I don't know. But speak up."

So when I arrived at the front door, eager to make a good impression, I yelled, "HELLO! I AM HERE FOR THE TOUR!" to which he responded, wincing, "I'm sorry the Director had to leave early today, but I'll be happy to conduct your tour."

Lovely. Off to a perfect start, we headed towards the "infant room." This is where, you may have guessed, the infants hang out. It looked pretty nice. There were even a couple of infants in there, who all looked wise far beyond their years, like lifers who were about ten years into their sentence and pretty much resigned at this point. I think they were trying to tell me something with their eyes as I passed - but what? "Lady, are you really going to pay $100 to put your name on a list that, as far as you know, is totally bogus as soon as a friend of a friend of the deaf Director wants to get his kid in? Really. You have GOT to be smarter than this. I can barely sit up and I get it."

At the end of the tour I thanked the guy and left, thinking, "Well, that seemed like a nice place." But what do I know? As far as I remember, that was the first time I'd set foot in a daycare center in 32 years, at which time I had a very different perspective. All daycares are terrifying anyway.

So while I continued doggedly to make absolutely no headway on the daycare business I went about the next Really Responsible Task on my list - creating a will. "Why do we need a will?" Tom whined. "We don't OWN anything." Which isn't exactly true - we own a lot of debt. That is to say, we own a house. Plus, I had to explain patiently to him, as he is the kind of person who would rather enjoy life than be Really Responsible all the time, we were now going to be parents, and we had to make sure our daughter would be taken care of in the unlikely event of our untimely demise. Tom looked completely shocked when I said this. I guess it hadn't occurred to him. No wonder he's such a happy guy. I wish these things didn't occur to me, either.

A few phone calls revealed that the business of writing down, "I want my spouse to get it all and my kid to not be raised by creepy strangers," can cost you anywhere between $1000-2500. It seems to me that when a court is involved, a lawyer is justified in charging a shitload of money for his services. Because courts are really, really scary. Attorneys are like the Indiana Joneses of the legal system, swinging out there on a rope in front of all the danger to bring you back whatever it is you needed to get or defend. But to write stuff on a piece of paper - stuff we TELL them to write, not stuff they come up with on their own - which doesn't even have to be filed with a government entity? $2500 for that? Come ON.

But they do, because they can. I guess I should just be grateful they don't charge me $100 to get on a waiting list to see a lawyer to pay him $2500 to write a will.

Next week's task: write a plan to eliminate the National Debt. I just need to focus on something simple for a little while.

It's All Coming Apart

I couldn't help but notice the excruciating hip pain I've been experiencing during the night. I noticed it mainly because my body makes sure I'm awake for it. God forbid I should sleep through any really interesting pain.

I explained the hip pain to my doctor who responded, typically, "That happens often in pregnancy." My doctor responds this way to most issues I raise with her (and you may not believe this, but I am not a problem patient; I do my reading, and only bring up a concern on the rare occasions I haven't found the answer myself). I could say, for example, "Yesterday while I was typing, three of my fingers fell off." And she would respond, "That happens often in pregnancy," and would most likely prescribe Tylenol. They (the "They" assigned to all Very Important Decisions) have determined Tylenol to be the one medication unlikely to cause instant death to a pregnant woman, so doctors like to dispense it liberally. "Take Tylenol," sounds better than "Just deal with it," particularly when addressing concerns like missing limbs.

She had an actual explanation for the hip thing though: my joints are loosening to allow my pelvis to widen so I can accomodate my growing baby. Now, that's pretty cool, I admit. What the human body just automatically knows to do without my having to read it on babycenter.com first is pretty amazing. However, a reason is not a solution to the problem. Agreeing that this is, indeed, a very wise course of action for my body to take does not make it any less painful in the middle of the night.

In addition, the shifting and growing that is going on has managed to land everything on my bladder. Now, I am the kind of person who already had to stop at every rest stop on a road trip "just in case." I have a terror of being too far from a bathroom, something that has always been inate in my makeup but was made worse by a situation in Costa Rica on my honeymoon involving no outdoor toilets, a lot of mud, and poor balance. Anyway. Suffice it to say that my life has now become absolutely consumed by bathroom locations. I have to know where the closest toilet is at all times, because I never know when this darling little girl will decide to start using my bladder as a trampoline. I realize there is very little to do in there, what with no TV or ipods (we run a tight, boarding-school-like ship in this here womb), but her new-found hobby has become increasingly stressful for me. I spend most of my time either going to the bathroom or thinking I very urgently need to go to the bathroom.

The thing is though, it doesn't matter if you have babies or don't have babies, it will all fall apart eventually anyway. "Use it or lose it" and "Use it and lose it" are nature's mottos when it comes to women. If you have a baby, chances are good that later in life, due to all this stretching and pulling and realigning of parts, you will sneeze one day and your uterus will fall out, causing you much embarrassment at the public pool. However if you don't have a baby, They say you have a higher liklihood of getting breast cancer. I managed to beat all the odds: I am having a baby, but not until the age of 35, which means my uterus will fall out AND I am more likely to get breast cancer.

The rules extend further than baby-making parts. For example if you don't exercise, you'll have a heart attack and die. If you do exercise, your hips, back, knees, feet, legs and torso will have to be replaced later in life. My mom has to have reconstructive knee surgery. She was stupid enough to be really healthy when she was younger, and ran marathons and irresponsible things like that. So now she must pay the price by slowly (and painfully) replacing each of her body parts with prosthetics. She is extremely creeped out by this, but I think it'll be cool to have the Bionic Woman for a mother. When she leaps onto rooftops I will stand on the ground with my own busted and useless knees, thinking of the day I, too, will become part Terminator, and encouraging her by making the requisite "DA-na-na-na-na," Bionic Woman sound. That's only if they let her through security at the airport though because apparently prosthetic knees can sometimes be mistaken for weapons of mass destruction. But then, so can a tube of toothpaste so you might as well have bionic knees.

What is my point? I don't really have one. Except to say that one way or another, everything will fall out or off eventually so you might as well just do whatever you want, whether it's birthing babies, running marathons or peeing your pants at work because your baby decided to solute Obama's acceptance speech with a firm fist to the bladder.

I have to go to the bathroom.

Did I Ask You?

"When I went into labor with my first I almost bled to death. I bled on the table for seven hours. I'm lucky to be alive."

"You need to get wait-listed for pre-school NOW. In fact, if you had a brain in your head you would have registered your child before you conceived him. That's not very responsible parenting."

"They couldn't figure out why I wouldn't stop bleeding but I was starting to see spots when the doctor finally showed up and reached up into my raw, oozing VAGINA and..."

"My friend waited too long to get waitlisted and ended up finding some random woman in the phone book who turned out to be a Jehovah's Witness and her baby's first words were, 'For this I have been born, and for this I have come into the world, that I should bear witness to the truth.' No,really..."

"And you can't buy just ANY crib, because up until 2005 the safety regulations weren't carefully monitored and 9 out of 10 children get their heads caught between the bars and die every year..."

"...and YANKED the rest of the placenta out with her FIST while I screamed, 'Holy Mother of God please take me NOW!'..."

"...then one day the kid comes home and says Santa Claus is the work of the devil..."

"... HUGE gush of blood all over the bed and the doctor and a bright white light..."

"...CRIB DEATH..."

"...and I am just so relieved I got him into daycare finally, because what's $2,500 a month for peace of mind and a caretaker who wasn't charged with manslaughter? Charged, not sentenced but still..."

"...and then they CUT OFF MY CLITORIS..."

"...forecasting college will cost thirty million dollars a year by the year 2020..."

"...fed it to some CHICKENS..."

"...college degree to teach finger-painting plus there's Early Mozart and Intro to Physics and you've signed up for astronomy already, right? No? Who let you procreate? What kind of a parent are you?!"

"BUT ABOVE ALL ELSE BE SURE TO KEEP YOUR STRESS LEVEL DOWN!!! IT ISN'T GOOD FOR THE BABY!"

Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Grouch?

One of the truly fantastic things about being pregnant is that while I've always been a pretty grouchy person, I can now totally get away with being an overbearing bitch with virtually no repercussions. Well, except with Tom. He sees through me like a cheap Frederick's of Hollywood teddy. But everyone else, when witnessing one of my red-faced temper tantrums, goes, "Aw."

One of the things that has always gotten my goat (what an odd expression; yet fun) is when people don't do their jobs properly and nothing can get me going faster these days than lazy ineptitude. Nevermind that I've discovered "pregnancy brain" is not a myth, and I can't do my own job properly anymore. But maybe because of that it's even more imperative that other folks do.

Take, for example, the mailman. The mailman has exactly two jobs (whereas I, I feel the need to point out, have about 70,000): Take the outgoing mail away; leave the incoming mail in the box. But it seems that our mailman can only do one or the other on any given day. Therefore, if I leave an outgoing Netflix movie in the mailbox, with the little red indicator flag up, the mailman will likely only be capable of leaving mail that day. Yet oddly he will have the presence of mind to put the red flag down, obviously forgetting what he was supposed to do BEFORE that part, which always fools me into thinking maybe he's caught on to the other 50% of his job duties. But at the bottom of the pile will be the tell-tale red envelope his under-stimulated cranium neglected to register and it NEVER FAILS that when I first see it, despite there being NO WAY the new movie could have shown up simultaneously, I will get a little excited. And then inevitably disappointed and really pissed off when I realize it was the movie I was trying to return.

I have very little energy these days. My entertainment, particularly during the week when I use what little energy I do have to complete 9 -10 hour work days, depends solely on Netflix. When the mailman can't do ONE of his TWO jobs correctly he has completely ruined a pregnant woman's entire social life. So every afternoon I make the treacherous stomp up our steep driveway ranting like a lunatic because the mailman failed me once again. "Aw," go the neighbors.

Another thing that really chaps my hide (not as fun as getting my goat) is that people just can't let go of the fact that the Fourth of July is over. It's OVER, people. In fact, it was over WEEKS ago. What this means, and I'm very sorry to break this to you, is that fireworks are NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE until December 31st. Normally I wouldn't give a rat's ass if you wanted to blow out your eardrums all night long, every night, two doors down from my house, but my dog minds A LOT. And when my dog minds, I mind. Because this means she barks and carries on at whatever ungodly hour (because apparently people who worship the Fourth do not have to get up early for work the next day) you choose to titillate your unimaginative senses FOR THE FIFTEENTH NIGHT RUNNING with a few illegal explosions in our very quiet, very dog-friendly neighborhood.

And it's not like she's only bothered during the actual fireworks. My dog who normally has the memory of a gnat is now terrified of going outdoors anywhere close to dark. Despite the fact that the sun doesn't set until 10pm at this time of year, Theo, to be on the safe side, boycotts the outdoors as of 4pm and retreats to her perception of safety: under the bed. Which means getting her to go to the bathroom between the hours of 4pm and 8am is a colossal struggle that usually ends in someone getting bitten.

The other night, when we hadn't seen the dog in about two days, I, like a complete moron, stuck my arm under the bed in an attempt to coax Theo out and of course got my hand chomped. I completely lost my shit (haven't I provided this dog with absolutely every possible luxury, including unending amounts of love and devotion? and this is how I am treated?!) and started screaming at the top of my lungs while simultaeneously slapping a yard stick hard against the tile floor about a foot away from her face, "GET OUT HERE GODDAMNIT! YOU'D BETTER COME OUT HERE! I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASS YOU LITTLE SHIT!" I don't remember the exact words, but you get the gist.

Tom came flying down the stairs at the commotion, gently wrestled the yardstick away from the crazy pregnant woman, and, amidst a lot of growling and snarling (Theo's, not Tom's) finally got the dog out and took her outside for a pee.

When he got back he said casually, "Next time you threaten to beat the dog while making highly suspicious slapping noises with a yardstick, you may want to make sure the windows are closed."

Apparently several suspicious neighbors had heard my innocent little tirade and come out to investigate. I was mortified. I volunteered at the ASPCA! I donate money to animal shelters every year! I WORSHIP this dog! I'M the one who got bitten! And now all our rude neighbors who can't give up their firecrackers think I beat my dog when I'm the one who should be getting the sympathy here. ME! Me, the poor pregnant lady who can't get any sleep because her dog is busy barking and biting her!

"Aw," anyone? Anyone?

私の胸対世界

I think my body's newfound discovery that it can create life has gone to its head. Er, my head. Whatever. In any case, it has decided, completely independently of my brain, that if it can create a whole human being without any outside assistance, it makes sense to go ahead and try to take over the world.

My body, of which I no longer have any control (if indeed I ever did; I'm beginning to think it has LET me think I was in control this whole time as a part of its ingenius plan) is approaching this lofty goal via several strategic maneuvers simultaneously. The first is to cultivate my breasts into two giant, independent living organisms that will conquer, Godzilla-like, the planet Earth, one city at a time.

My body launched its plan almost immediately after conception. "Hey," it said to itself (but not through my ears, lest the traitors relay the message to the conscious part of my brain), "if we can create a whole person in the uterus, why not in other parts? There's TONS of unused space in the boobies! And - hey - there's TWO of them! We can conquer the world twice as fast!"

Ever since then my breasts have been steadily swelling on a daily basis to the point where when I walk down the street, Asian tourists point at me, shriek, and run terrified in the opposite direction. Tom and I have nicknamed my twin Benedict Arnolds Pinky and the Brain ("What do you want to do today Brain?" I hear one whisper to the other in the middle of the night. "The same thing we do every day, Pinky - try to take over the world!")

I think they've already succeeded with the male population. From what I can tell, I need only be within a ten-foot radius to render the male of the species completely helpless. That part's pretty cool, actually.

Meanwhile, not the type of body to put all its eggs in one basket, it has launched the simultaneous Take Over the World By Emitting Deadly Gasses Until Everybody Is Dead campaign. Seriously, I'm surprised Bush's minions haven't arrived at our house seeking out Weapons of Mass Destruction. There is a green cloud that hovers over our home, and I think the dog's dead. Tom says no amount of gas can make him love me less, which is very sweet, but I know a sense of self-preservation is going to kick in for him at any time, and he will understandably try to smother me in my sleep. My body has already thought of this and has it covered - it'll just send the breasts in to hypnotize him, something that has become sort of a new-found hobby for my body which, I have noted, doesn't seem to bother Tom a whole lot.

But while other people can always run away, I can't. I'm stuck with myself. I try scurrying quickly to another room when I've dropped a bomb but there are only so many rooms in the house. I think perhaps this approach might backfire on my oh-so-clever body, because I'm feeling awfully light-headed, not to mention lonely.

So don't panic yet; it's very likely I'll be the cause of my own destruction without anyone having to call in Mosura. However, if you see a giant tit coming at you, you may want to run away just in case.

P.S. for funnsies, plug the title of this blog into an online Japanese-English translator

Rock and Old

Last night Tom and I went to a Duran Duran concert. I found myself feeling sort of sorry for a 16 year old me who would have KILLED to see Duran Duran but could not afford it, whereas now I paid three times what tickets cost then, and I spent the entire time wishing I were in bed.

I could make a few excuses as to why I am so tired these days. This week at work has been particularly grueling, for example. But really, I'm just lame. Old and lame.

The second we entered the hall - about half the size of the stadiums Duran Duran used to fill which made me want to run backstage and apologize to the band - my ears started ringing. How is it that there are high-pitched frequencies only teenagers can hear, yet teenagers aren't at all bothered by the squealing of bad speakers turned up in volume to make up for quality? I don't remember ever thinking it was too loud when I was younger. But old people are notorious for the old "your music is too loud" complaint and now I'm a freaking cliche.

Luckily Tom, who is even older than me - FORTY if you must know, which is mind-blowingly old - foresaw this problem and brought... can I admit this? Oh all right. He brought earplugs. Yes, he brought earplugs to a rock concert and god bless 'im for it or my head would have exploded.

But we weren't the only ones suffering. Simon, the lead singer, was apparently feeling his age, too, or at least that's what I'm assuming based on the fact that he asked the audience to sing half his songs for him. I guess he was out of breath. It does seem the older the band, the more often they hold that microphone toward the audience with a limp arm, letting the audience do the work for them while they take a bit of a rest on stage. I sang more Duran Duran at the Duran Duran concert than Duran Duran did.

That all being said, it was still a great concert - the parts I was awake for, anyway. Despite the noise I was still able to sneak in a few cat naps here and there, which provided me with the temporary energy to stand for the particularly good songs. And of course standing helped with the whole singing from your diaphram thing too.

I think I'm going to write Duran Duran my first fan letter.

Dear Duran Duran,

You guys rock. You are so awesome. But next time could you keep it down a bit, and maybe start at 5pm so I can get home by my bedtime at 9? Also, please don't come on a school night. It throws off my whole week.

Thank you,

Karen

P.S. I enjoyed singing your songs for you. Please send my share of last night's ticket sales to the address below.

I Have Some News

“OH MY GOD YOU’RE PREGNANT!”

For the past two and a half years, this is what always followed any announcement that I had news. And then I had to disappoint whoever it was by clarifying no, I am not pregnant, I got a new job. Or was moving to another state. Or had finally dislodged that uncomfortable piece of lettuce from between my teeth. Or something equally dissatisfying.

Every time I went to my in-laws for dinner and accepted the offer of a glass of wine, everybody sighed dejectedly.

So, AHEM

I have some news. Yes, THAT.

While I busy myself with growing a person, someone I can’t see or feel yet but who nevertheless exhausts me beyond the ability to speak, very little else has changed. I guess I expected people to be flying across the country to bang on our door and deliver gifts and hugs. But except for the exciting moment of delivering the news, pretty much everybody went straight back to minding their own business. I guess they’ll be more interested when the child is outside my body.

There are a few exceptions. My mom, of course, is thrilled, and calls me her “sleepy knocked up girl.” Mom has a propensity for creating creepy nicknames when she is profoundly moved by a life event. When I was planning my wedding she called me her “baby bride,” completely missing the irony that I was getting married in Alabama, where such a thing could be taken literally.

So mainly I’m just left to myself, with whom I spend very little time because I am often sleeping if I am not at work. When I am awake I am generally trying to find something to eat that will satisfy some elusive, indefinable craving - which luckily, so far, hasn’t ever turned out to be coal or dirt, which I hear are some of the less enticing cravings pregnant women can get – while still following all the minute rules of the pregnancy diet. I have to say, for something the size of a grape with no digestive system, this kid is one picky eater.

Who knew you couldn’t have any soft cheese, like blue cheese, goat cheese – essentially, all the ones that smell the worst and taste the best? Before I knew I was pregnant I threw Tom a birthday party for which I made a platter of pear and goat cheese bruschetta, most of which I ate myself before the guests arrived, served alongside an enormous wedge of brie which I also consumed liberally. So already, before I knew the kid existed, I had completely screwed up as a mother by essentially hurling a murderous hunk of brie down my gullet at his poor undeveloped head.

So then I started to get paranoid. One night while cooking fake jambalaya from a box (“just add meat!”) I discovered that I can’t eat deli meats either. They have the same evil bacteria as my beloved cheese. So I stood beholding my already-cooked jambalaya, listening to my stomach growl (which it does a lot these days) pondering whether They really mean it or not. After reading online for about 45 minutes, and accidentally stumbling upon all sorts of unrelated-to-deli-meat horrors, I determined that so long as I cooked the meat until it was unrecognizable, it was okay to eat.

But now it seems that whenever a food is mentioned, suddenly I HAVE to have it. For example, I overheard somebody mention Cheetos the other day. I have never really cared for Cheetos but I immediately dug through my wallet for change and hurled myself desperately at the vending machine, PRAYING that it had Cheetos (it did). I stuffed them down my word hole like a ragged street urchin. And if you had told me a couple months ago, “When you’re pregnant, you can’t eat deli meat,” I would have scoffed. But now that I can’t, suddenly ALL I WANT is deli meat. What about Subway sandwiches? No more turkey sandwiches from the sandwich shop in my office building? How can a high-protein, low-fat food like turkey be bad for me? I find myself questioning everything I put in my mouth. How can I not, when a well-respected baby website posts prominently on the front of its “pregnancy health” page a question from a reader headed “Is it okay for me to eat vegetables?” Vegetables? I would have filed that under the “duh” category but apparently this is a question worthy of discussion! If I can’t trust vegetables, what can I trust? No wonder pregnant women are all nuts.

Oh! Nuts. That sounds good.

What's Really Important (aka The Pooping Blog)

Long before I ever got pregnant I developed an intense fear of childbirth not just because of the pain (my fear for that is, of course, to be assumed) but because of the fact that I might make a poop on the delivery table.

This has been a fairly constant concern that has weighed on me for many years, despite not having been pregnant. I don’t see how Tom could ever see me the same way again once he sees me poop on a table. Well, poop ANYwhere, but especially on a table.

Long before I became pregnant, when Tom and I were just throwing the idea of kids around, I would take care to mention as casually and as often as possible, “You know, I may make a poop on the table.” My goal was to intersperse this thought into so many non-related topics that eventually my husband would become immune to the idea.Tom responded at first with all the proper, supportive things: It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Nothing you do could make me not love you. I will always find you attractive. Until, around the fiftieth or so mention of it, I finally broke him and he blurted, “Will you PLEASE stop reminding me!?”

I’ve often wondered why this isn’t a larger concern for every expectant mother. Why aren’t there bulletin boards devoted to this on babycenter.com or ivillage? Except for Anne Lamott’s “Operating Instructions,” (which is how I found out about this possibility- certainly none of my friends told me) I have yet to find one mention of it in any of the books that are otherwise not at all shy about discussing things like “cheesy substances” or a thing called a “mucus plug” - the definition of which I haven’t had the courage to learn. How is it that a woman will open up about the most indelicate details of the state of her vagina during delivery but will NEVER mention making a poop on the table, which I personally find the most horrifying detail of all?

Now I know the answer. And I’m not going to be a tight-wad about it. I’ll share it with you. Nobody made me take a vow of silence about pooping when I became pregnant, so I’m going to assume a mob of large, irate pregnant women aren’t going to come after me with torches for divulging this heretofor unshared secret.

The reason they don’t obsess about making a poop on the table is this: A pregnant woman is delighted to make a poop ANYwhere, at ANYtime, no matter WHAT else is going on. I would gladly squat in the middle of the dining room table if it would guarantee me a nice bowel movement.

My life has become, and will remain, revolved around pooping. Mine now (or rather the lack of it) and later the baby’s. I think pregnancy constipation is nature’s way of making you truly appreciate the passing of a healthy dump so that you won’t be quite so aggravated by having to change a diaper full of it several times a day. No, instead of being irritated, you will be delighted that your offspring has been saved the discomfort of a backed-up bowel.

Too much information? Well, I think I’m just saying what everybody has always thought. As my wise friend says, a good bowel movement can make anybody’s day, not just a pregnant person's. And lately my moods are determined, for days at a time, by when I made a poop.

Heed my words, oh yee lucky people who can poop whenever you want to! Do not take it for granted! Lock yourself in that lavatory with a good book for awhile! Proudly flip on that overhead fan! And poop! By all means, go forth and poop with pride!

Madam, I May Have Silly Fears but*

There are many reasons people choose not to have children. They may not like kids, or they may recognize that they are not mature enough to take care of them. They may be concerned about the future of our society or too scared by the current political administration to subject an innocent person to it. Perhaps there are significant health risks that run in their family, or they remember too clearly their own fucked up childhood (because, really, who didn’t have a fucked up childhood?). Or perhaps, like me, they are just petrified of vomiting.

It’s not that I’m afraid of baby spit-up or even full fledged toddler rainbow yawns at public functions. No, I’m afraid of ME barfing. Specifically, I am afraid of what people have cutely termed “morning sickness.”

Doesn’t this bring to mind, if one pushes aside the automatic thoughts we’ve grown accustomed to thinking when hearing this term, a woman circa 1880 wearing a frilly yellow gown, half collapsed and fanning herself on a velvet fainting couch? Something likely to be the result of a too-tight corset? It does not sound like a modern day full time working mom hurling into a garbage can on the corner of a busy street, while a bum looks on clearly thinking, “Hey! I EAT from that!” (Yes, firsthand. And to the mother-to-be’s significant credit, she just tidied herself up, grinned wryly to a concerned passerby “morning sickness,” and kept on moving. I would have burst into tears and collapsed on the nasty curb while the bum looked on thinking, “Hey! I SLEEP there!”)

I can name every time I’ve puked as an adult. I’ve only done so maybe a dozen times, and I’ve definitely beat Seinfeld’s no-barfing streak, thanks to staying away from those god-awful black and white cookies and sheer determined willpower. I loathe throwing up. It is hugely traumatic for me. This is the reason I will never be a drunk or a bulimic. Or get pregnant.

Tom and I have been asked, pretty much since the day we said “I do,” when we are going to start a family. Some have been more persistent than others (Katy, I’m looking at you) and some have kept completely quiet, but don’t think I haven’t seen that gleem in your eye whenever a baby is mentioned in casual conversation. Last year during the holidays my father-in-law kept intoning not so subtly, and - I’m sure I’m not imagining it - accusatorily, that Christmas is really “all about the kids.”

I know it sounds lame and ridiculous but honestly I can’t stand the idea of puking. It goes against nature! That pipe is meant for things to go down, not to come up. I hate the feeling of being completely out of control of what my body is doing. I hate the smell, I hate getting it in my hair, I hate that burning sensation in your throat afterwards. I hate the unattractive contortions my face makes and I certainly hate the possibility of doing it in front of other people. Yeah, sure, childbirth sounds pretty awful too, but at least you can get an epidural. And the puking lasts for MONTHS. Months! How does anybody put up with this?!

So until the medical community agrees that it is okay to put a pregnant woman in a coma for the first trimester or until the nausea passes, whichever comes last, I ain’t gettin knocked up.

I don’t care how cute that baby over there is. With his itty bitty fingers and his chubby cheeks and…

* From Dave Barry’s version of the Winston Churchill (a well known drinker) quote: “Madam, I may be drunk but BLAARRRRRGH”

And on the seventh day... they fixed the toilet

Today's blog is more of a status report than my usual griping. You know that saying "everything that can go wrong, will"? Well, that didn't apply to THIS move, which means I have relatively little to kvetch about. I mean, it wasn't FUN, and of course it ended up costing almost twice what I was quoted, but it's not like that's anything surprising.

One of my favorite authors, Suzanne Finnamore, wrote, "When planning a wedding you should know that everything costs a thousand dollars, except for the things that cost more than a thousand dollars." This can be applied to anything associated with purchasing a home, except of course for the home itself, which costs, well, let's just say WAY more than a thousand dollars.

After lucking out on the weather - a gorgeous, sunny day with a hint of warmth to it - and watching in terror as the moving guys schlepped our posessions up that steep driveway without dropping anything, we were due for some poorer luck. The moving bill was one thing, but (and don't tell them this) I would have paid one million dollars to not have to lug all that stuff up that driveway myself. So the fact that we went $500 over budget still seemed like a win to me. The treadmill alone was worth that. Those poor guys. I hope they are okay. I hope they are taking ibuprofen.

Anyway, yes, as I mentioned before: there is surprisingly little to report. The rest of the weekend went kind of like this:

• Unpack 10 boxes
• Spend $200 at Target
• Unpack 10 boxes
• Spend $500 at Lowe's
• Unpack 10 boxes
• Spend $250 at Costco
• Unpack 10 boxes...

So far our new home feels somewhat like a vacation resort. We have this ginormous master bath with a double vanity, waterfall shower and japanese soaking tub. It feels like our honeymoon. I managed to dry myself off after my shower without bumping my elbow on anything for the first time in over a year. I ran on my very own treadmill, which faces the window overlooking these two huge trees in our yard in which squirrels and birds frolick and chirp, providing me with my very own personal Animal Planet broadcast.

Speaking of which, Theo is still getting used to the whole yard thing. She'll wander and explore so long as she thinks one of us is out there with her, but as soon as she sees we've snuck back inside she stands at the door and looks perplexed. Also frustrating her are the stairs. She is no longer able to sit in one spot and keep an eye on both of us. There are four more rooms and two levels. All day long "click click click click" as she trudges up and down the stairs and hallways, trying to maintain a constant log of where we both are. Not easy when we are running all over the place unpacking. She was so tired from all the stair climbing at the end of the first day that we had to help her up onto the bed.

There were a few discoveries that led each time to my envisioning Tom Hanks laughing uncontrollably when his bathtub fell through the floor. Comparatively things like the rack in the dishwasher needing a part, and the hot water being yellow, are fairly minor, but as a new homeowner it doesn't take much.

Tom meets each of these challenges by driving to Lowe's and spending two hundred dollars. So far nothing has actually been fixed, but we could start a little hardware business of our own out of the garage. In theory we will put all these purchases to use soon. The first weekend we spend weeding the yard and putting in a french drain (I do not know why it is French - perhaps it is a very rude drain?) will probably return me to my normal, crabby nature, and provide much more fodder for your amusement. But for now... I'm going to soak in the tub and crack a bottle of champagne!

Buying a House is a Very Stupid Thing for a Young, Healthy Person to Do

I used to be full of life. My eyes were bag-free, I fit into my jeans, I laughed, I went out with friends. That was only last month, but I can kiss that kind of carefree life goodbye because I bought a house.

Seriously, WHY do we think buying a house is such a great idea? Who started this rumor? I bet it was the Republicans. They are always trying to beat us down with the old "it's un-American" guilt trip. "Tell them that spending three times their annual salary on an item that will take them 30 years to pay off and will suck up all their free time and certainly any energy they might have is the American Dream! They'll never go on vacation again and all their money will land in our pockets! We'll own their souls!" "I don't know," Cheney chimed in, "that doesn't really sound awful enough. I know! Why don't we also discourage insurance companies from covering therapy sessions? Mwahahahaha."

Another person who I'm no longer too fond of said recently, "Just be glad you bought a house that is move-in ready."

Move-in ready?? I don't think so! I am dealing with floor people, paint people, cleaning people, moving people, delivery people and, soon I hope, psychiatrist people. My people have people. I have so many people. And of course this doesn't include all the work people who have already made it their life goal to see that I never sleep soundly again.

Just when I think I have one thing taken care of, can make that satisfying CHECK on my long list of to-do's, it gets undone and creates several more. To-do's spawn like devil rabbits when you buy a house. The whole of last weekend was spent buying a guest bed and returning it. We wound up after 8 laborious hours - 8 hours which we absolutely cannot spare right now - in the very same place we started. It's a long and not very interesting story, but basically we bought a bed which could not be delivered so we strapped it to the roof of the car with about 3,000 bungie cords that my husband always has on him just in case (no I'm not kidding) and then drove it to the house where we braved the driveway and actually managed to get the car up it, unloaded the bed, deposited it in the house, went back to the apartment to resume packing where we received a call from the store that we'd been given the wrong hardware for the bed and that no, they didn't have the right hardware to give us. So... reverse above, ending the day with no bed and nothing else done, either.

Well, at least the painter was well underway and the upstairs looked fabulous. But... Tom called me from the house yesterday morning to let me know the floor guy hadn't shown up (which didn't do much to help the gastro-intestinal issues I've developed in the last couple of weeks) oh and incidentally did I mean for the master bedroom to be baby blue? Not that he couldn't live with it but... NO the master was not supposed to be baby blue! It was supposed to be a subtle gray. SO... back to the house for an emergency meeting with the painter while my cell phone rang itself hoarse as, apparently, the entire working world ground to a hault because I'd had the audacity to leave my desk for an hour.

This whole situation has me in knots. I have so many balls in the air I can't see even a piece of sky. I am completely scatter-brained. I don't know how people who have kids manage to buy houses without losing their jobs. Thank God I don't have any kids - at least, I don't think I do, since I'm not remembering much these days - because I would accidentally pack them or forget to feed them or something. As it is I feel like my head is going to explode. I am answering messages people never left and not answering messages people did leave. My friend asked me today why I hadn't responded to her email and I seriously had no idea what she was talking about. Meanwhile earlier this week I told another good friend how sorry I was to hear she was sick and she replied, "I'm sick?" I could have sworn she sent me a text saying she was sick, but no such text existed.

It's a little alarming, to say the least. I used to be really on top of things, back when I didn't have bags under my eyes and could fit into my jeans. My jeans... shit. I seem to have left them at home again. No wonder I'm getting such weird looks at the office.

I am never moving again until the next time

Shy violets cover your ears: Moving fucking sucks.

We have just a few short weeks before we are moving to our new home. I don't think I'll have the opportunity to enjoy the new home because I will likely be bedding down in a mental institution.

I am trying to space out the packing over these few weeks by first packing the stuff we haven't touched since the last time we unpacked it. But here's a funny thing. Even though you never use most of the crap you own, the second you decide that something is superfluous enough to pack it you will need it. Another funny thing is that as soon as something is packed you will have no idea what box it is in even if you take meticulous notes, which I do. If it is packed you just have to assume you will not see it again until after you've moved, if ever, because we all know things go mysteriously missing as well.

Another funny thing is that everybody who works for the cable company is crooked and on drugs.

My conversation today:

"I would like to transfer our cable to a new home."

"Okay, the new monthly bill will be $170."

"Why? It's only $150 now."

"No it's not."

"Um, yes it IS. I'm looking at the bill."

"I'm sorry MA'AM," in that snotty "what have I done in this world to deserve having to deal with idiots like you all day" voice that they get. "But that is incorrect."

"Okay, let's move on. What did you say the new bill would be?"

"$132."

"I thought you said $150."

"No, MA'AM. That's what it WILL be."

"You said it WILL be $170."

Heavy sigh. "What date would you like to move your service over MA'AM?"

"The 22nd."

"Okay, we will send someone the 24th and you do not need to be home for the disconnect."

"The 22nd, please, and if I don't need to be home, does that mean you do this remotely?"

"No."

"No, you don't do it remotely, but nobody needs to be at home when you disconnect the service?"

"That is correct, MA'AM."

"So they won't need access to the home to disconnect?"

Heavy sigh. "Yes, MA'AM they will need to get in the home to disconnect your service."

"But I don't need to be there?"

"That is correct MA'AM."

"But then how will they get in the house if I don't need to be there?"

"I don't know, MA'AM. It's not my job to know the answer to that. I'm in customer service."

I am speechless.

"So we are all set for the 24th MA'AM."

"The 22nd."

"EXCUSE me?"

"I asked for the 22nd."

Silence for about 10 minutes except for the tapping of fingers on a keyboard.

"Okay, MA'AM you are all set for the 18th. Is there anything else you need?"

"Not the 18th. The 22nd!"

"I put the 18th but they'll be there the 22nd. But you don't need to be."

"I don't need to be there the 18th, or the 22nd?"

"You will not need to be there when they disconnect your cable as I said before, MA'AM."

"And what date will they be disconnecting my cable?"

"The 20th."

"Right. Okay! And how much will the new bill be?"

"$163, as I said before, MA'AM."

"Okay! Now we're making progress! So I'll see you on March 18th."

"No, MA'AM, the 22nd."

"You're right as always! And our bill will be $163."

"No, MA'AM, the bill will be $132 as I mentioned earlier, MA'AM."

"Okay! Well thank you! You've been so helpful I'm just going to put a thank you card in the mail to you right now!"

"You'rewelcomethankyouforcallingcomcastclick."

Next on the list - utilities.

"I need to move my service over to a new address."

"We don't have your current address listed MA'AM. So would you like new service?"

"What do you mean? I have service right now. Can't you hear the TV? Could I have the TV on if I didn't have electricity?"

"I'm sorry, MA'AM but our records indicate..."

But I can't tell you what happened next because this is when I threw the phone out the window and started binge drinking.

Careful What You Wish For

You know how as soon as you light up a cigarette your bus comes along? (Not that I would know first hand, of course, because I don't smoke and never have. Hi Grandma!) Or how as soon as you get up to go to the bathroom in a restaurant your food arrives? Or when you've finally had it and send a scathing email to someone demanding to know why they haven't done so-and-so at the exact same time an email arrives from them explaining their dog just died?

My last blog about house-hunting was very down-in-the-mouth, I-don't-want-to-play-anymore, because it was written just a couple of days after we fell in love with a house only to find out that mere HOURS before we saw it, someone else had made an offer and was already under contract. The house had been on the market for TEN MONTHS and the day we saw it, someone else made an offer. That is just wrong. So I threw myself a full-blown pity party complete with pointy hats.

Then, the day I posted that last blog, our realtor called to let us know the other buyers pulled out, and were we still interested?

Wood eye, wood eye!*

A flury of action ensued during which all emotional thought processes were shut down in an effort to Get That House before anyone else could. We offered. We shook with anticipation and fear. They counter-offered. We debated. It was about $15,000 more than we said we'd spend. Well, more than we said we'd spend the last time we raised our limit. Technically it was, oh, $42,000 more than we wanted to spend. But why split hairs? The house was so close, so close... so we said yes.

HOLY SHIT.

We just went over-budget to buy the ugliest house on the block. While I understand this is a good position to be in when it comes to real estate value, well, it is the UGLIEST house on the block. But I love it. I love it like we all love E.T. and pugs. In a roomful of Miss USAs it is the woman with a hare lip. But like the hare lip our house was just victim to genetics. The houses around it had the good fortune to be born during the Victorian era with gingerbread touches and wide porches. Our house was born during the architectural short-bus decade: the 1960's.

There are a few other concerns as well. After all, you can't expect to have everything when you go only $42,000 over budget. For example, the driveway is so steep that climbing it could be a new Olympic sport. We can't get the car up it, and getting ourselves up it requires considerable effort. If we are in this house more than ten years we will have to rig some sort of pulley system to deliver our groceries to the front door. We ain't spring chickens anymore, after all.

But that was nothing compared to the issues that came up during inspection. Well, one issue in particular. Well, no, I correct myself again - dozens (hundreds?) of issues: RATS.

When I think of rats, I think of the boat-sized monsters with whom I shared New York City begrudgingly, and only because they were bigger than me and had sharp, nasty teeth. I've seen rats the size of footballs. I can't stand rats and I don't even want to think about them burrowing in my new, really expensive house.

When I was living in New York I had a mouse infestation. At first I thought it was only one mouse and I thought that was sort of cute, and I would hear him rustling around under the sink and enjoyed having what I thought of as a second pet. Knowing me I probably named it, but I don't remember. But then somebody with a sharper intellect than mine explained, "Karen, there is NEVER just one mouse."

This encouraged me to brave foraging under the sink to see just how badly my hospitality had been abused. It had been REALLY abused. Like, beaten to within an inch of its life abused. There were droppings everywhere. They had gotten into the oven and burrowed condominiums into the insulation (typical of a New Yorker, I never used my oven, so they were able to enjoy their home completely unmolested). I called an exterminator in a panic, and he brought even worse news - they were all over the apartment. They had chewed up the mattress in the pull-out couch. The entire place had to be completely taken apart, cleaned, fumigated, plugged up... it was beyond nasty. But the worst part was perching precariously in the middle of the living room (I was too grossed out to sit on the couch) watching TV in the evenings and hear a sudden SNAP. And I knew one of the little mice had just lost its head and, worse, I was going to have to dispense with the bloody mess.

Now, imagine that whole scenario but with a rodent ten times bigger and with red eyes. Yeah, I don't want to, either.

The inspector went on to list for what seemed about two weeks the myriad of other issues with the house that, as Proud Homeowners, were now our problem. I started to break out in a cold sweat; it seemed awfully daunting to me. He assured us this was "perfectly normal" for a house this age but I didn't see how that was any comfort. Let's see, I just offered to pay a crapload of money for the honor of spending every spare moment doing things I hate, like yard work. And things I anticipate I will learn to hate, like unclogging a 45-year-old toilet.

Remind me again why I wanted to be a homeowner? Why is this part of the American Dream? Why wouldn't I just keep renting so that whenever anything goes wrong it's never my problem? Why not - wait, what's that? You say it has a japanese soaking tub in the master bath?

Wood eye, wood eye!

** A man with a wooden eye is unable to get a date. A friend of his encourages him to come along to a dance.

"Nobody will want to dance with me," the man lamented.

"Just find a girl who also has some sort of affliction and ask her to dance. She'll probably be grateful to be asked," the friend suggested.

The man agreed to go to the dance. He looked around the room and saw a woman with a hare lip and got up the courage to approach her.

"Uh, ahem," the man said shyly, "I was wondering if maybe you'd like to dance."

"Would I? WOULD I?" the woman cried happily.

"HARE LIP HARE LIP!" the man yelled.

Thank God It's Monday

Our weekend started off as most of them do; arriving gratefully home on Friday night, leaping into comfy clothes, and meeting on the couch for a relaxing evening of wine and a movie.

Tom had been chastising me lately for my selection of movies. The last two that happened to come up in the queue were Letters from Iwo Jima and Reign on Me, about a man who lost his whole family on September 11th. "The next one better be something with cute computer-generated talking animals," Tom grumbled unhappily after we'd spent another evening weeping. This evening's selection (again, my choice) was Oscar and Lucinda.

About forty-five minutes into it, I couldn't hold back. "Wow," I slurred through a couple glasses of wine, "this is a BAD movie."

But we kept watching, largely because neither of us had the energy to get up and turn it off.

"GOD, this is a bad movie," I mentioned about thirty minutes later.

"It's pretty awful," Tom agreed.

We kept watching.

"This is, like, the worst movie EVER," I commented, about ten minutes before the movie would put us out of our misery.

Saturday we had plans to see Jeff Dunham, creator of the famed and funny Achmed the Dead Terrorist. The show began at the awkward hour of 7pm - too early to get dinner first, but too late to get dinner afterwards. I came up with the grand plan: we would take the bus into town, thus doing our part to save the environment (and, incidentally, avoid the $20 downtown parking fee). We'd get there about one hour before show time, enough time to get a light dinner using the funds we would save by wisely taking public transportation.

So we bundled up and headed out and after fifteen minutes of standing in the freezing cold, realized we had missed the bus. Our luck, it must have come early. So we trundled back to the parking garage and got the car out. No worries - we'd have to pay the astronomical parking fee, but the theater was just five minutes away, still plenty of time to grab some food.

We managed to go about three blocks before making a wrong turn which, in Seattle, pretty much means you can kiss the next three days goodbye. You make one wrong turn downtown and you are plunged into a nightmare of one-way streets that have no pattern or reason to them. We spent the next forty minutes re-routing, then circling for a place to park. We had completely given up on getting a full meal and had resigned ourselves to whatever snacks were sold at the theater, but at this point we were running the risk of missing the show entirely. Finally, Tom said, with not a little venom, "Enough of this, we're parking HERE."

"But we'll be at least three hours and that's-"

"I don't CARE," Tom said. "I'm HUNGRY."

So we parked the car and found our way to the theater where we got in the line for the bar. We go to the theater often enough that it should have come as no surprise that it was cash only. However, neither this nor any of the other things for which the old-fashioned method of payment are required have managed to put us in the habit of keeping any cash on hand. We scrabbled through our wallets and, together, came up with $5. We decided on a water and some M&M's with peanuts. "Protein," I explained to Tom who was starting to look a bit woozy. Neither of us are pretty when we are hungry, and Tom looked like, if he'd had the energy, he'd have leapt over the bar and started gnawing on the bartender.

I thrust the peanut M&M's at Tom and begged him to eat. No matter how many times he tried to offer me some of them, I grandly refused. This was not a selfless act on my part, despite my own hunger. I was strictly saving myself - or so I thought.

After climbing about five flights of stairs we found ourselves in the nosebleed section and squeezed ourselves into the tiny, uncomfortable metal folding chairs that folks of our class were lucky to get. It was like the balcony section of an Elizabethan play, musty with the dust of unwashed bodies. I think some people had even brought their chickens. As it turned out, we were so far up that we couldn't see the stage at all; instead, we had to watch the giant screen where the action was simultaneously projected. In other words, we were watching the guy on TV, which is something I had already done quite a few times but in the privacy and comfort of my own home, with plenty of food right nearby that didn't require cash.

Tom scarfed the peanut M&M's and whispered, "I saved four of them for emergency reserves for you." Because that's the kind of romantic guy he is.

About halfway through, I think my stomach started eating the surrounding organs in my body. I was doubled over in pain. I couldn't think of anything but food and the morbid possibility of fainting and tumbling down all those steep cement steps. Tom howled beside me at Achmed, blissfully unaware, full of peanut M&M's, while I writhed in pain and tried to get comfortable on that punishing metal chair. Finally I clutched at his sleeve. "Need those reserve M&M's." Tom dug them out and I shoved the melted mess down my throat. Nope, that didn't work.

"Don't feel well," I muttered.

"Do we need to leave?" he asked.

I hate even considering such a thing. We paid good money for these tickets. I was bound and determined to watch the whole show. What kind of a wuss was I that I let a few hunger pains keep me from enjoying myself? By God, I was going to -

"Yes," I whined.

In my defense I had been to the gym that afternoon, and hadn't eaten in about eight hours. But even in those circumstances my pain was severe, unprecedented, and certainly unpleasant.

"AAHHYYEEE," I moaned as we climbed back down to sea level and Tom led us the few blocks to the parking deck. I clutched my stomach in agony, doubled over. "AAAAUHHGGG," I wailed pitifully as Tom paid the parking fee ("Huh, it was only $5," I managed to muse even in my misery.)

Tom got us home quickly (we only had to consult the map about five times in the two miles). He was all concern, as well he should have been. I was in agony, white as a sheet, and so light headed I had to concentrate to walk. It was horrible. It was the worst I could remember ever feeling. I was terrified there was something horribly wrong with me. Maybe my appendix burst! Maybe we should have gone straight to the hospital instead of home. But then I had a few cheez-its.

"Hey," I said. "I feel better now."

On Sunday we had reservations for a guided snow-shoe hike up in the Cascades. I was quite excited about this. I'd been wanting to get up and see all the snowfall and I thought snow-shoeing sounded like a sport I might just, on account of the lack of speed, be able to manage. Tom and I got up early, looked up the weather conditions to make sure the roads were passable, got our showers, got dressed, went to the coat closet, and I realized: I had no coat to wear.

How this is possible when our coat closet is so crammed full of coats we can't close the door properly is beyond me. But it was true. I had a cute suede coat and a long, warm wool coat, and a short rain coat, but nothing appropriate for hiking in snow and rain in 30-degree weather. Huh.

"You didn't think about this when we made the reservations?" Tom asked incredulously as we stood staring into the closet, hoping perhaps some suitable women's winter gear would miraculously appear.

"Uh... no," I said.

So we cancelled our reservations and made new ones for a month out, because, naturally, every other weekend was booked, and spent the day at REI trying on extraordinarily unflattering "breathable" clothing. Is there worse torture for a woman than to spend $150 on clothes that do NOT look good on her?

We got home this afternoon, tired and grouchy at the horrible turns our weekend had taken, to be greeted by Theo who, after kissing us each hello, proceeded to drag her ass across the length of the hallway, leaving a blackish greenish streak in her wake.

"Tom, dog needs to go out," I said, as Theo turned and dragged her ass in the other direction, leaving a duplicate streak on the return. "Uh, NOW."

Tom grabbed the dog while I scrubbed at the carpet. Upon their return, Tom announced that Theo's rear-end was completely and thoroughly covered in shit. We spent the next thirty minutes on the bathroom floor painstakingly cleaning our dog's asshole. As much fun as we had, I do believe Theo had the worse time.

"Wow, this is JUST what I was hoping to do this weekend," Tom said, and suddenly we were collapsing in fits of giggles, surrounded by shit-covered paper towels and tufts of stained dog hair.

"Let me tell you," I said, "this is gonna be one CLEAN asshole."

"Our dog's asshole is going to be the cleanest on the whole block!"

"When we're finished here, by God, you could EAT off of -"

"Okay, that's enough," Tom interrupted hastily.

It's going to be hard to top such a nonstop, exhilarating weekend at this. Perhaps next weekend we will rent Where the Fern Grows, flush $100 down the toilet and see if any of the animals at the local zoo need a thorough asshole-cleaning. On the bright side, this is one of the few times in my life when I'm actually looking forward to going to work tomorrow.

Shacking Up

You may have heard about this alarming housing slump the country is in. Apparently interest rates are super low because the fed is panicking that nobody is buying, and home values are falling through the roof! Can you imagine? Yeah, well, we can't. Because apparently Seattle was the only city in the union who didn't get the frickin memo.

We didn't really think things through when we moved here. Naturally we knew it would be more expensive, as most of the more interesting places are, but we didn't really think about the whole water thing. Seattle is surrounded by water, and therefore expansion is extremely limited. Nearly halted, in fact. The city is so short on space that they are dividing lots, and then dividing THOSE lots, until they have disproved the theory that you can split something in half only down to the atom. In Seattle, even half an atom is prime real estate.

Since space is at such a premium, the fate of the real estate market is pretty much unrelated to that of the rest of the country. As Tom and I enter our second month of bone-weary house-hunting, our spirits have been broken down considerably. Things that formerly were on the must-have list have become far less important, such as indoor plumbing. Because when you live in a city that ran out of space about 75 years ago, you find that pretty much all of the houses are at least that old.

Here's what I've learned about Seattle history. In olden times, people didn't feel the need to be able to stand upright in all the levels of their homes. They seemed to be big on that point only on the main floor. On the top floor or in the basement you can just stoop.

Bathrooms were nearly superfluous and certainly a luxury. Two bathrooms in one house was simply foolishness. You were lucky you didn't have to go in the yard. Two bathrooms. Please!

Dining rooms were the center of the universe (on this point, at least, my forefathers and I can agree: dining is the most important expenditure of one's time). Therefore, the dining rooms are the size of football stadiums while living rooms are just slightly larger than the luxurious indoor toilet room. This is because there was no television, so the only thing they used the living room for was, well, whatever they did before television - knitting maybe? Must be. Knitting doesn't take up much room.

What I've learned about the present is this: if it sounds to good to be true, it costs a million dollars. If it sounds good enough, it causes cancer. For once I am not exaggerating. I fell madly in love with a renovated Victorian that was oozing so much charm I'm surprised it let me in its front door. I nearly wept with joy when I saw it, because it was in our price range. I should have known. Turns out it was near a major industrial wasteland, the kind that makes up Erin Brokovich's wet dreams, and the ground water was so contaminated that it was causing cancer in the local wildlife. This is why we could afford that particular house.

I was a wreck when we discovered this. I actually thought for a minute, would cancer be THAT bad, really? That's how difficult this search has been. I am so tired of falling in love and getting my heart broken every single weekend. It's like dating but so much worse. When you're dating, you meet a guy that seems like a viable candidate, what, once every few months MAYBE? And then you get all excited and your heart pounds and you tell all your friends and you gush a bit and then he turns out to be a cokehead or a mamma's boy or he spells "a lot" as one word and then your world is shattered for a few days and you drink too many appletinis and then you start the process over again. Now try speeding it up so that you go through this cycle on a WEEKLY basis. Is it any wonder that my face is broken out like a sixteen year old's and that I daily eat my body weight in chocolate?

There's also the added stress of apartment living to deal with - another comparison with the youth I am no longer. I am too old for apartment living with these kids playing their loud music day and night. And as grown ups we have furniture that needs to go somewhere. We were already fairly tightly wedged in to begin with but since we've been here I've added a purple velvet chaise (it was free, and what rational, normal human being would pass up a free purple velvet chaise?) and a treadmill that I am not allowed to use because the people who live below us threatened the poor apartment manager within an inch of her life because they thought their ceiling was going to fall on their heads when I used it. So I can't work off all the chocolate. All of this just adds to the aggravation and puts even more pressure on us to achieve the impossible.

After a few weeks it dawned on us, clever college graduates that we are, that perhaps we need to manage our expectations a bit better. So what if we don't get a house in the top school district, or that is within walking distance to shops? Pre-wired surround sound, two full baths, a roof... we don't really need those things. But even as we incrementally lower our standards and raise our budget ("the house will be so nice we won't want to go to the movies ever again anyway" is our reasoning) we STILL can't find anything I'd call liveable. Like with all its walls and maybe a hook-up for a washer and dryer. Is that so much to ask?

I'm starting to envy the homeless couple I pass sometimes on my way to work, who have souped up an old warehouse's entryway. They've got some nice digs there, and I bet they paid under 300 grand for it too. I think tomorrow I'll ask them about the school district.