Backlog

1. If you ever happen to find yourself knocked up right before a cross-country road trip? I highly, HIGHLY recommend staying home. Unless you are one of those lucky women who somehow doesn't find themselves saddled with morning sickness. I am not one of those women. As excited as we were about the drive, we discovered quickly that 24-7 exhaustion does not mesh well with long days of driving. Also, sitting in a car for 10-14 hours a day when bloated? Less than comfortable. I won't even get into the peeing thing except to say that it's hard to make progress when you're stopping roughly every 75 miles (though it does make for a scenic tour of statewide rest stops). Then there's the food thing. Morning sickness + road food = very, very interesting. I pretty much subsisted on french fries and milk shakes until we hit South Dakota, when we came across a Perkins (like the IHOP of the Midwest), which was a godsend because then I could stuff myself with pancakes and eggs for dinner as often as possible. Let me say again how much I loved Wisconsin and its plethora of Interstate cheese shops. When we finally got home I slept for two days. It was a lot.

2. You know that weird sense of guilt you get when you switch hairdressers and you feel like a total traitor? Changing OBs feels the same way, except your hairdresser doesn't get to look at your uterus. Also, hairdressers don't usually give you a line about how popular their practices are and how important it is to create a relationship with your provider. Bite me. Anyway, last Thursday I broke up with one doctor (this time we shopped around and decided on one of three really good people) and then bumped into my old hairdresser on Boylston on my way to get food. Matilda cut me hair for like 8 years but I got sick of driving to Arlington. "Where have you been??" she asks. "I've been thinking about you!" eeeep. Double guilt.

3. The eating for two thing is no joke. Though the morning sickness is mostly gone (thank god), I seem to have lost my appetite. Everyone says that your appetite gets better in the second trimester but so far I just feel full all the time. This makes eating in general, but in particular eating the voluminous quantities I am apparently supposed to be eating, kind of hard. I am basically force feeding myself on an hourly basis. On Friday I found out that eating only when you're hungry is not only wrong, it will f* you up. As in, get incoherent, faint, and feel like your blood pressure is sky high. The doctor said go home, elevate my feet, and eat as much protein as possible. Lunchboy giggles whenever the subject of protein comes up, but at the risk of TMI, I will say that when having a toothbrush pass your lips makes you hurl in the sink, putting anything else in there is only asking for something ugly to happen. So peanut butter it is. I feel like a goose with a funnel down its throat, being primed for fois gras.

Welcome to 2003

Several big things happened in the last week. First and most importantly, I did what apparently everyone else in the free world did years ago and joined Facebook. Or to be more honest, I was arm-wrestled and guilt-tripped into joining Facebook after many years of resistance. I mean, how many social networking sites is it really necessary for a person to belong to? Do I really want to get back in touch with people I knew in high school? I am still not sure about this one because once I joined Facebook, the whole weird, scary, shocking, unsettling Facebook world opened up. My first grade boyfriend? There. My first kiss? There. The childhood neighbor whose moving van ran over my cat? There. Ratio of high school and college classmates who are now parents? Very, very high.

Which brings me to important thing number two (clearly my priorities are in ORDER). We are having a baby.

On Monday we went in for our 12-week appointment and heard the heartbeat on doppler, and today we had the 13-week testing ultrasound and saw the little bugger squirming around like mad. Heart's beating like it should be. All relevant parts appear to be there. Despite the unreasoning fear I've wrestled with over the past three months, the doctor said we're in the clear to tell anyone we want now. So I'm telling.

We're having a baby!

I think it's a boy. We won't know for another 6 weeks but I want it on the record. Right now we just call it the bean (original, yes) because after the first two ultrasounds (I have had five--I am the world's biggest ultrasound whore. I basically demanded a scan every two weeks til we hit 12 weeks and took no guff from any doctor about it), the kid looked like a kidney bean. With a heart beat.

So now we actually have to deal with the reality of a baby, which we are very excited about but also very unsure how to approach. The stuff to buy? The things to plan for? Names? Fear not, however. I guarantee Lunchboy will have a series of spreadsheets set up in record time so we can optimize all baby-related activities to the utmost. Have I mentioned lately how much I adore my husband?

Monsoon

Today was a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very bad day to wear a white shirt.

Lacuna

I forgot to mention this and I'd say I'm not sure how that happened, but I have officially lost my brain over the past few months and it seems like I remember things a lot less frequently than I forget them these days.

Anyhoo.

SMTT is gone.

(For now)

We came back from our road trip to find two "Do not park--moving" signs taped to the trees in front of the house, which was curious because we didn't know about anyone moving in or out. Two days later, we heard her making the biggest racket, dragging something (or things) around and then crashing down the stairs. Sure enough, she was dragging two suitcases, which she handed off to the driver of one of the pretentious Prius cabs that she takes. I checked my email and there it was. The best summer gift we could have asked for. An email announcing that she was off to Africa to do research and wouldn't be back until the end of August.

Hallelujah.

We danced. I'm serious--we did an actual jig.

Life at home has been so much more pleasant and relaxed since then. We're now hoping she falls head over heels in love with someone who lives in Africa and decides never to come back. Actually, Lunchboy floated an idea involving Ebola but we decided that was too inhumane (it was funny, though). If you lived underneath SMTT, Ebola might be funny to you, too. Though I can't make any guarantees.

Waiting it out

This weekend the weather alternated between oven-like heat and crazy, killer thunderstorms. Needless to say, we stayed in with our lovely air conditioners (and nice, safe walls) and were extremely lazy. We watched Dr. Horrible, which was hysterically funny, and also Recount, which was definitely NOT. I think these two have a nice correlation but that we watched them in the wrong order. Recount made me anxious, angry, and called up lots of memories. If it wasn't for the deadly lightning creating havoc around the city, I would have stormed out the door for a good long walk. Dr. Horrible, on the other hand? Who knew Doogie Howser could sing? Who knew Nathan Fillion could be a prick? Does Joss Whedon just have everyone he's ever worked with on speed dial for future projects?

See that girl

I know it is sad and bad and you can mock me if you want to, but I really want to see the new Mamma Mia! movie.

I've never been a big Abba fan. I've never seen the stage show or done more than watch "Muriel's Wedding" a few too many times. But everyone in Mamma Mia just looks so happy. Even if it's insane, fake happy, it's better than doom and gloom and destruction. Plus, I love Amanda Seyfriend. She is one of the best parts of Big Love.

The new Batman is probably a way better movie, but I'm not in the mood for dark. I want some cheesy, silly singing in the Greek sunshine. Plus, Pierce Brosnan and Colin Firth don't hurt. Not at all.

A random reminiscence on past experiences with a cappella

For a small, liberal arts college that (when I first arrived more than 10 years ago) still allowed on-campus liquor deliveries from the local package store, Colby was a pretty clean-cut place. It had its cliques, its drug use, and lots and lots of drinking, but then what school doesn't? But when you wanted beefcake at Colby, you didn't have to look further than concerts by the male a cappella group, the Colby 8.

Preppy, handsome, and charming, the Colby 8 always recruited members who must have spent years perfecting their class clown capabilities because their concerts were always funny and always packed with undergrad girls (including me) who watched raptly with eyes full of stars and tried to be surreptitious in wiping the drool off their chins. The 8 did concerts in the library during exam week, they popped up in the Spa and the chapel, and they were pretty much like the small college version of celebrities. Girls wanted to date them. Guys enjoyed the concerts even if they refused to admit it. It was oh so very brick-and-ivy.

I coxed a bunch of the a cappella guys on the crew team and saw them do things like try to wipe their ball sweat on each other and take pictures of each other's fruit baskets on crew trips, and yet they still somehow seemed cool. And then, after graduation, I dated one of them for almost three years. And the thing was, J was in an a cappella alumni group. They continued the fun after college, and they were proud of it. So when I read articles like this, which make it sound like most former a cappella singers are mortified to admit their melodious pasts, I giggle because the alumni group did no such thing. They reveled in the singing, the paid gigs, the ability to maintain their college camaraderie, and the uniform (white shirt, khakis, brown belt, tie). And they still perform at Colby, usually during reunions and homecoming weekend. I missed their concert at our reunion last summer, but that was ok because every time I hear the songs they sang on the radio (hello, "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life" and "The Way" by Fastball), I have to change the channel because I heard them way too many times to be nostalgic about it.

Note: I have no idea where this post came from, but I read that Slate article and somehow felt like writing. Weird. Call it therapeutic?

I sense...a hatred for Friskies

Work has been insane lately, which has meant no time for anything fun, really. It also means I've been so busy that I'm not doing anything fun enough to write about. OH! Except this: last night I talked to an animal psychic to see if we can figure out why Scully is such a nervous wreck.

You might remember that last year (or the year before?), Lunchboy and I consulted an animal behavior specialist to figure out why her highness was refusing the use the litter box. The specialist's advice was really helpful and seemed to be effective until we went away on our road trip. We're still not sure what happened while we were gone, but when we came back Scully was hiding in closets and refusing to use the box again. At our wit's end, we went with a friend's referral to the animal psychic. I figured hey, what do we have to lose? She was affordable and it wouldn't hurt anything.

So last night I sat on the back porch for 45 minutes, talking to the psychic and watching our newly resident family of hawks swoop around the evening sky. The psychic was not cheesy or cliched or predictable. She said a lot of useful things about what Griffin and Cringer have apparently been doing to mess with Scully's head and suggestions for how to make the situation better. I was pleasantly surprised and really enjoyed the session, though not the part where the psychic told me that, before I adopted Scully, she had been with a family that kicked her a lot. She ran away from them but is still afraid of feet and slamming doors, which totally jibes with her behavior over the past 10 years. My poor puss! Also, poor Carmen, who came over to see if the session would make a good article and ended up sitting around listening to one half of the conversation because my speaker phone wouldn't work. Sorry!

My tiger and day lilies are blooming. So are the hostas. I gardened this weekend for the first time in ages and enjoyed pottering about, still not really sure what I was doing. I have an area of the side yard for all the plants that didn't do well where they were first planted. It's like the reject pile at a discount store, but it's somehow still green and thriving. Maybe not so pretty, but also not dead. Yet.

...and the wind blew

Things I enjoy about windy days downtown:

The omnipresence of Scooter Man, a guy who looks remarkably like Dean on Weeds, who sails around Copley on his Razor using only a big sheet of plastic and a seemingly endless supply of leg power for velocity. He wears a helmet and a safety vest--he is not stupid--and he is always smiling. He seems to get great joy from windy days and he always imparts that to the people around him, even when he almost hits them.

Things I enjoy slightly less:

Feeling the building sway back and forth, sometimes violently.

When windy days coincide with days when I wear a skirt, necessitating an awkward walk to and from the T with me holding my skirt so I don't flash everyone within a half-mile.

Conspiracy

What happens when you try to order a lot of food? I'm serious--when you are ravenously hungry and you order a crapload of whatever food you're dying to eat, what happens? Is the food prepared and brought to you swiftly and without question? Or do you get looks?

I get looks. Apparently being petite and female means I am not allowed to eat a lot. If I go into any of the food establishments near my office and order two grilled cheese sandwiches, this is what happens without fail:

Me: I'd like two grilled cheese sandwiches, please.

Them: ???

Me: Two. Grilled Cheese. Sandwiches, please. (maybe I talk quietly?)

Them: TWO?

Me: Yes, two.

Them: Ok. (raised eyebrows, not sure if they heard me correctly) Two you said?

One thing I will say for Wisconsin is that this doesn't happen there. In Wisconsin, you can order two 4-cheese sandwiches and no one blinks an eye. All they want to know is do you want mustard with that. I wish more people could be like the people in Wisconsin.

Lessons learned

From this trip:

1. The GPS is not always right or reliable.

2. Wyoming is beautiful and it never ends.

3. South Dakota is boring and never ends.

4. Don't plan to stop in the Twin Cities when you don't leave Rapid City until after 10am--it's impossible. We crashed after 11 hours of driving in Rochester and it was too late to have seen anyone.

5. Bugs in the west have a death wish. Many, many of them committed suicide on our bumper, ski rack and side reflectors. So many that by Ohio, live flies started becoming attracted to our car because the dead bugs were so crusty. We were going to take a picture but it rained in upstate New York and washed it all away.

6. Road food is novel and enjoyable for roughly two days and then it becomes vile.

7. The state troopers in Wyoming and South Dakota are the nicest police officers ever. They are so nice that it feels like they're doing you a favor when they pull you over for speeding. Somehow Lunchboy got away with a warning and I got the $150 ticket for doing 91 in a 75 mph zone. YOU try not speeding in Wyoming.

8. I hate hate hate hate Howard Stern.

9. Even satellite radio repeats the same 10 artists and 15 songs over and over. We should have invested in a few books on CD. Bligh, your mix rocked--thank you!

10. There's no place like home.

Kill the headlights and put it in neutral

Day 1: San Francisco to Mammoth Lakes, CA

Day 2: Mammoth Lakes, CA to Salt Lake City, Utah

Day 3: Salt Lake City, Utah to Rapid City, South Dakota

Day 4: Rapid City, South Dakota to Rochester, Minnesota

Day 5: Rochester, Minnesota to Ashtabula, Ohio

Day 6: Ashtabula, Ohio to Somerville, Massachusetts

Eastward bound

We're in Salt Lake City at the moment, trying to wake up and get ready for today's leg of the drive, which is to Rapid City, South Dakota. But we can't stop sticking our heads out the sliding doors of our hotel room because the view of the city is just so amazing. The mountains are amazing. This is what I love about the west--all the wide open space, the great sunlight, and the mountains.

We flew into San Francisco on Wednesday night, then drove to Yosemite on Thursday. It was lovely but very crowded. It seems like a nice place to take a family for a week in the summer. Then we drove out the Tioga Pass to Mammoth Lakes and stayed there overnight. Gas in Mammoth Lakes = $4.99/gallon. Doing a trip like this when gas prices are at their highest levels ever definitely feels screwed up--we didn't see prices under $4 until South Dakota and then they hovered around $3.96. It's crazy.

Yesterday we drove from Mammoth to Salt Lake. Reno? Not so pretty. But as soon as we hit Utah, things got beautiful. The salt flats were just so cool.

More soon.

REM

It was a fun show, but the pixelated screens behind the stage made Michael Stipe look a lot like Nosferatu.

Scorcher

I actually had things I wanted to write about, but then it got skin-meltingly hot and all coherent thought got baked out of my brain. That was ok with me. The heat and humidity seemed to have almost everyone on their knees begging for mercy, but I loved every second of it.

Heat creates a striking dichotomy in our house. Being a heat-lover, I am a fan of fans, of open windows and fresh air, of going for walks and enjoying the fact that it is not -10 degrees outside. Lunchboy, on the other hand, loathes the heat. It enervates him and he uses the first day of heat as an excuse to bring out and install our window AC units, which he then cranks on high for days on end. My only problem with this is that the AC is so loud that, even with ear plugs, it keeps me awake at night. We've found a good middle ground on AC vs. fan, but the funny part is seeing how our differences extend to the felines in the house. Like me, Scully LOVES the heat. She spent all four days of the recent heat wave either sitting in the windows soaking up the sun or rolling around on the patio, absorbing sun and radiant heat from the sidewalk. Griffin and Cringer, on the other hand? Lumps. They slept and whined and moved as little as possible, usually only to stretch out on the wood floors in a valiant attempt to become as horizontal as possible. When the AC was on, they got a little less whiny and a little more mobile.

Speaking of windows and fresh air. This morning I decided to open one of our bedroom windows to get a breeze. But since it's been really humid for the past few days and our windows are ancient, the wood was stuck. When I tried to bang on the sill to get it to move, I accidentally hit one of the panes and *smash*, half the window caved in. Looking for a brilliant way to start the morning? I recommend breaking windows that are a giant pain in the ass to fix. Oh well!

Decisions and revisions

I haven't done much work on the garden lately. There isn't a lot I can do until that dratted window gets enlarged and that probably won't be until July. But things seem to be growing (mostly), so fertilizer +1, black thumb 0.



The big rhododendron, in full bloom:



Tonight I have to choose between going to my last pottery class of the session and attending a meditation initiation that one of my yoga teachers invited me to. I don't know what to do! I would love a way to build a more structured meditation practice into my life, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the dogmatic parts of Tibetan Buddhism. Or with an "initiation." But I don't want to miss out on what could be a really cool experience because of my uncertainty.

Today I am really frustrated with doctors. I have health insurance, so I really have no right to bitch, but I am fed up with going to health care providers who have no people skills whatsoever. With a very few exceptions, most doctors, technicians, etc. are so burnt out on seeing an endless parade of patients that they end up being cold, impersonal, and cruel (though probably unintentionally). When you go to the doctor, you want to feel taken care of! I don't think that's too much to ask. I am tired of seeing providers who end up making me feel small, stupid, and like a hypochondriac because I take my health seriously. Especially when I'm doing what the doctor told me to!

Duran Duran

The concert was one of the best shows I've ever been to. We had so much fun!!!!!!

Maine

The Bush family compound in Kennebunkport--booooo!:

We're not alone!

"This exchange is characteristic of my overall attitude when it comes to home improvement. I am both self-righteous and incompetent, a truly American combination. The result is a kind of flustered inaction familiar to those who have lived in tenements."

Carmen, I see why you like him so much.

One day in Maine

We're heading up to Maine for the long weekend! I am so excited to get out of the house and enjoy the good weather. First we're going to Ogunquit (I've never been there before) and then to Portland (not so new, but close to other, newer places). The weather is supposed to be spectacular and I'm looking forward to having a break from the SMTT and other house-related stress (the toilet that just broke and needs replacing, the bathroom tile that is popping off the wall, etc). When it rains, it pours. At least it is no longer raining into our basement!

The garden is green and growing. It looks like we're getting that window enlarged sometime this summer, so there's an ugly patch that will just have to stay ugly for a little while longer. I can live with that. Our next door neighbor is itching for us to re-do our walkway and we'd love to make it look less crappy, but 1. it would cost a lot and 2. it would mean cooperating with SMTT and that is not going to happen right now. The same neighbor told us that SMTT is telling everyone in the house that the plumber she sent over said he wouldn't go back into our basement without a gas mask. Which is patently false--he told us he smelled nothing and that he thought she was a nutcase. It's possible he said two different things, but we've had like 5 people go downstairs in the last few days to do a smell test and just make sure we're not sticking our heads in the sand if there really is a smell issue. So far the consensus is that SMTT is crazy, like crazy taxi crazy. The theory held by the rest of our condo is that she's realizing she overpaid for her unit and is taking it out on everyone else (she calls our next door neighbor to do her handy work ALL THE TIME, poor guy. She treats him like a serf). This is the woman who didn't lift a shovel all winter but gave us crap for putting a coat rack in the foyer so we could hang up our wet coats after we shoveled. Her reason? The rack "intruded on her line of sight." Whatever, you Dwell-obsessed bitch.

Ah, nothing more interesting than other people's condo issues, right? Right. Sorry.

In which it would be nice if McDreamy was real and less annoying

During 2000, when I was finishing up grad school in Washington, DC, I covered a Senate subcommittee hearing on Capitol Hill. It had something to do with technology. Tom Daschle was speaking. I wasn't really paying that much attention because 1. I couldn't stop fondling my Hill credentials and being amazed that I was actually there, doing something that felt REAL; and 2. I was starstruck because, in the back of the room, joshing around with his favorite reporters, was Ted Kennedy and no Senate hearing could compete with him. Red-faced (you could literally SEE the years of drinking), rotund, with that iconic smile dancing around his face, it felt like being 15 feet away from history. Which I guess in a way it was. He was effortlessly at ease in what was shortly a target-rich viper pit (the election was like a week away), and I could see immediately why he was on a pedestal, why the Kennedy legend was still alive. I was too young for all the dramatic Kennedy stuff, but it still broke my heart to hear that Ted Kennedy has brain cancer. Being a Massachusetts native, I always felt kind of safe knowing that Ted was in Washington looking out for us (unless you're Mary Jo Kopechne, but again, too young). I hope he is able to stick around for a while longer.

The short version--updated

The main impetus for our urge to look elsewhere is that our our upstairs neighbor, who used to be annoying and kind of farcical, has now gone completely off her high-and-mighty Harvard professor rocker and is edging toward unbearable. As in, should be living in a single family house, NOT a condo where you share space with other people. My impression was always that academics could be reasoned with, but I've since learned (and been told by my favorite academic), that this is not true. She's perfectly content to pull shit that is patently false, such as insist that her leaky gas line be paid for by the entire house because "it's a safety issue" (hello, do you not understand the way condo assessments work?) and make intrusive, offensive claims, such as that her unit is being polluted by tainted air from the cat boxes in our basement and it is "affecting the quality of her life." Never mind that she is happy to stomp on our heads at 6am, midnight, whenever she decides to forget that her living room is directly over our bedroom, despite the fact that we have asked her repeatedly, politely, and reasonably to be more considerate. Or that the place she says her unit smells like cat is in her bathroom, where the previous owners stored their cat's litter box. Or that our basement is three floors below her. Or that I am OCD about cleaning our cats' litter boxes because my greatest nightmare is for someone to walk into our house, wrinkle their nose, and say "Oh, you must have cats." Or that we have complied in a neighborly way with her requests to insulate pipes and block any openings that might somehow lead to her unit. Now she is threatening to fine us $5 a day for having 3 cats. True, our condo docs allow us to have one cat, but until now no one ever gave a damn. Our condo board president has a dog that is larger than what the condo docs allow, too. So really our neighbor, who I call SMTT (which stands for a nickname that is rude enough for me to keep it to myself), is just being malicious and vindictive.

SMTT is also the woman who bought a unit in a house built in 1886 and FREAKED OUT when she discovered that the house was, gasp, imperfect. That there were spots of dry rot on the exterior walls and mold in the grout of her brick walls. Lady, if you can't handle an old house, BUY NEW CONSTRUCTION. In a single family home. Where you can be a flaky control freak and mistress of your domain. Otherwise, please check your shit at the door.

Casa

This weekend was a bit of an adventure, in some ways good and in others that were challenging. I moved the wisteria so it is now along the ugly-ass chain link fence that runs along one side of our property line (but belongs to our neighbors). Now the wisteria can climb and be free and hopefully provide some more privacy along that part of the patio. I also moved both rose of sharon bushes and got rid of the rocks that were lyng along one side of that weird patch of yard. In the process, I also found a lot of slugs (ew) and two big nests of the nasty red ants that I've been battling for a year now.

A more creative person would think of ways to use those rocks in that weird back space, maybe to create a little rock garden, but my brain doesn't work this way. So the rocks are still in a pile until I figure out what to do with them.

On Sunday, we hit a bunch of open houses in a suburb north of the city. We are still a year or so away from being in a position to sell our place and move, but some new factors have come into play that may or may not speed up our process (I'll get to that in a minute, and no, I'm not pregnant). Neither of us was terribly familiar with the suburb, but it has a good reputation, good schools, a stop on the commuter rail, and nice houses for prices that won't cause collective apoplexy. It was my first foray into house hunting, as Lunchboy bought our place right before we started dating, so I've never had the chance to shop for homes. After watching what is probably way too much Flip That House, it was interesting to see what's on the market and how people are presenting their properties for sale. Of the four places we saw, there was only one that I really liked, a bungalow with lots of light and a distinctly non-Colonial layout.

But are we really ready for the 'burbs? This is the question. And the answer is that we are not sure. Pros: space and quiet and privacy. Cons: far away from friends and community, will mean relying a lot more on the car. We're spoiled because right now we have everything we need two blocks down the hill. I know that kids will change the equation in a major way, and I wish we had St. Paul, MN-like neighborhoods in Boston, close to the city but still very lowkey and affordable. So we have a lot to think about (thankfully we also have lots of time to think!)

Hangin' tough

In the end, I did not get New Kids On The Block tickets. Not because I didn't try but because we couldn't get through the Ticketmaster site and were already being scalped for upwards of $200.

Am I alone in asking WTF?? $200 for New Kids tickets? I was unaware that the loss of 5 grown men's dignity was that pricy.

To console ourselves, my best friend and I have watched this video a few times. It's somehow deeply satisfying to see the looks on the guys' faces change from "What on earth have I gotten myself into? Why am I doing this AGAIN???" to "Yeah, I've still got those moves! Bring on the ladies and their hot cougar moms!"

Instead, Lunchboy and I got tickets to see Duran Duran in two weeks. I'll have to content my teenybopper self with dancing along to "Girls on Film."

Does "makes a mean mixed drink" count for anything?

Update: the full charts for husbands and wives can be found here (thanks to Lunchboy :)

I found this on The Morning News and it made me think of my grandfather, who I know I've mentioned in the past because he often (as in, every time I saw him) used to tell me that I would never find a husband if I couldn't cook or sew. "Grandpa," I replied, "If I'm dating someone who can't cook for himself than I don't want to marry him." Then learned to sew, went out and found myself an amazing cook and married him a lightspeed before he could realize that I was deadly serious when I told him I hated to cook.

Apparently, however, if we were back in 1939 I'd be begging for scraps in a boneyard or something.

As per the Marital Rating Scale: Wife's Chart, I freely own up to #9 in the demerit column: "Puts cold feet on husband at night to warm them." But hopefully that's balanced out
by #6 in the Merits column: "Neat housekeeper: tidy and clean." As for "good sense of humor: jolly and gay," I'll leave that one alone. Because, you know, I ALWAYS dress for breakfast, slather myself in red nail polish, and treasure my closet full of beloved soiled, ragged dresses to wear around the house.

???

I would like to know where the accompanying Husband's Chart can be found, please.

In contrast

If you looked at the garden photos and thought, "Um, that's not so great," well, you'd be right. But here's what it looked like three years ago:







So while I am far from having a talented green thumb, I think I've made some progress.

If only it was like Viva Pinata

Some newly green images of my budding urban garden. I have to emphasize once again that I do not know what I'm doing, so it's a mess. But so far I haven't killed anything major and I'm having fun with it.

Beginner garden, with newly planted salvia, ice plants, hens and chicks, bleeding heart, and wild columbine:



The weird back area, with rose of sharon budding, the lilac blooming (why this one and not the one in the front? Who knows.) And the wisteria, still tied up:



The ginormous rhododendron tree, providing shade:



Sideways lilies and hosta on their way up:



The area I do not know what to do with:



Up front, peonies, hydrangea, and lilac, oh my!

Just like that river twisting through a dusty land

We booked our flights out to San Francisco! Road trip is ON! Woohoo!!!!

At Bligh's suggestion, I am now on the prowl for good road trip music so we can load up the iPod. Do you have any suggestions?

I am home today trying to kick the last of whatever this bug is. It is gorgeous outside and I am thinking about relocating my sorry ass to the porch for a little sun. I'm going to feel really bad if I infect the book club tonight, though I think only 4 people are coming, which is kind of a blessing. More Trader Joe's cookies for us later :)

Netflix is taking a leeetle too long with the next disc of The Wire. We are 70% of the way through Season 3 -- as always, we're behind the ball on what everyone else knew was awesome years ago -- and our addiction is full-blown and ridiculous. Just so you're aware in case we have a son one day and he somehow gets named Omar.

Gelegenheit

Despite the cold, rainy weather and the cold/flu I picked up from Lunchboy's BF (who is now-- very gladly -- back in his own home), the weekend was both comforting and, somehow, productive. The weather was a bummer mainly because the Somerville Open Studios were this weekend and it's a lot less fun to wander around looking at art when it's crappy outside. Because of the rain and my cold, we only ventured out to our neighbor's studio across the street. This time we were prepared for the scrotal art, but we paid more attention to her garden and peony drawings and we went home with two semi-labial partial proofs of ocean peonies that I am quite fond of but unsure where to hang.

Powered by almost 12 hours of Nyquil-induced sleep, I went to the Despot today and bought bleeding heart, salvia, three small ice plants, some lamb's ears, hens and chicks, and one other thing I can't remember the name of. It's supposed to be nice this week, so I hope to put them all in the ground soon. So far everything else seems to be growing happily. The hosta are just poking through now.

I'm almost finished with The Book Thief, which I'm reading for a book club that I joined a month ago. It's a very good book, the kind whose words stick in your head for no good reason, so that I'll be walking through the supermarket and "saukerl" will suddenly spool through my brain. Not a nice word, I think, but it stays with you. I'm still not sure how I managed to do this, but despite only having attended one meeting of this book group, I am now hosting the next meeting this Wednesday. Hence my rush to finish the book, and also my frantic trip to Trader Joe's to get munchies for the meeting. Entertaining is not my forte (surprise, since it usually involves cooking or dealing with food), so this is me stretching my horizons.

We got takeout Chinese for dinner last night and my fortune cookie read, "Practice makes perfect."

I think the Nyquil also enabled a McNulty dream. Eeeep.

Road trip

So there is a good chance that our big summer vacation will be a cross-country trip from San Francisco to Boston!

For real. We are extremely excited.

In June, our great friends J&K (otherwise knows as the Ims) are semi-reluctantly relocating to Brookline after 10 years in Noe Valley. Rather than putting their car on a truck, they are considering letting us drive it out here for them.

We had so much fun on our trip up the California coast, and this would let us see so many other places that we might not otherwise get to for a really long time, so my fingers are crossed that it happens. It would be my first major road trip traveling light (my life won't be stuffed into the back seat) and sans Scully fretting loudly in her carrier, so we'd really be free to do as we pleased.

(Scully would actually be missed--my little white girl has become a road trip pro and it wouldn't quite be the same without her company. But I think we'll manage :) Cat screaming while driving through the Donner Pass? Not so much.)

We aren't quite sure which route we'd do, but I think that's half the fun of a trip like this--the opportunity to have a mostly spontaneous adventure. Yosemite? The Badlands? A side trip to see friends in St. Paul? Who knows... Updates to come!

You don't have to dream it all, just live a day

I am in DC til tomorrow for a 2-day web meeting. Delta decided to be cruel a few months ago and changed its 7am flight to 6:40am and I'm sorry but that's inhuman. Some travel days go better than others. Today was ok. On the plus side, the line at security wasn't too bad. On the down side, they were playing Christmas music in Terminal A at 6am. Also, I bumped into a guy I rowed with at Colby while wandering toward my gate and the first thing he said (of course) was, "My wife is due in June. How about you--any kids?" Seriously? STFU.

Usually I take the opportunity to use the flight as a 75-minute nap, but today a perky blond lady decided to talk during the entire flight (who DOES that?) and there was no napping to be had. As a result, I am cranky and kind of zombie-like, so it's probably better that we have a mandatory group dinner tonight and I can't see MeanG or Gimp.

I tried to improve the morning with an egg and cheese sandwich from the deli around the corner but now my stomach is not so sure that was a good idea.

It is pouring here, so hard that flower petals are being blown off the trees and for a minute we all thought it was snowing.

My name is Rio

This weekend was a fallback to my teenage years. First, I babysat for the first time since high school. I was never a big babysitter when I was a teenager. All my friends seemed to love it but every time I was faced with a fussy toddler or a demanding 7-year-old, I'd quail. What was I supposed to say to them?
I never knew what to say or where to draw the line. On Friday, however, we spelled our friends D&D, who live down the hill and have the world's cutest 6-month-old. C is a joy to be around, even when teething, so that says a lot. As we stood on the doorstep, Lunchboy turned to me and asked a vital question: "Do you know how to change a diaper?" And for a second I had to think about it because it's been years. Luckily, today's diapers are pretty idiot-proof and they even have handy-dandy reusable velcro-type tabs. Who knew?

Then Saturday I escaped the testosterone-fest at our house by going to my best friend's place for a sleepover. Sleepover! A word I cannot say to Lunchboy without him asking if there are going to be naked pillow fights or sexy time (gotta lay off the Family Guy, babe). Rather, we drank some wine, ate really good food from Idyllwild, and watched Mansfield Park on DVD. Then we read each other's tarot cards and giggled about boys. It was divine.

Sunday I planted some campanula, phlox, and hosta that I bought at Idyllwild. There is a whole area of the walkway that I can't do anything with because we are allegedly enlarging the window and that will mean digging up a lot of square footage and also maybe relocating a gas line, so I am reluctant to spend money on plants that will have to either get moved or be destroyed. But no decision has been made about when this will happen, and right now the blank stretch of weedy mulch is so ugly. Must. make. decision.

Powder room

In addition to my garden project/obsession, we (I) just started work on our downstairs bathroom. What can I say, I like having something to do, and it helps distract me from the emotional drama-coughing-videogaming that is also taking place in the house. This is tangible evidence of what happens when one watches too much Flip That House, though I am not sure that there is such a thing as too much Flip. It's house porn, schadenfreude, and learning experience all in one. Plus, it makes major house renovations look like they can take place within a measly half hour.

The bathroom, which until last week was a dingy off-white and was full of all the stuff we don't have closet space for downstairs, is now painted Behr's Cumberland Fog (there is absolutely NOT a paint chip living in my purse in case of random trips to Marshall's) and has been emptied of 2 trips to Goodwill's worth of crap and two huge bags of toiletries that are destined for a women's shelter a few blocks away. It now feels empty in a glorious way. The Cure people at Apartment Therapy might be proud if my house were ever pretty enough to post there.

ANYWAY.

Last night I exercised my bargain muscles at Marshall's and Target and now we have a new shower curtain, bathroom mirror, etagere, and towel ring. I have not yet figured out how to hang the mirror but the rest of the stuff is in there and it actually looks semi-grown up, which is such a concept.

On a side note, we have pretty much decided to do about half of what the realtor suggested and leave the rest to chance. It is just not worth stressing over.

I aim to get the mirror up this weekend and also take some pictures of my lovely, greening-up-nicely plants. I have pots and pots of empty soil waiting outside for the arrival of pretty annuals, but right now all I've seen are pansies and to be honest I hate pansies. There you have it.

I am a Petunia What Flower Are You?

Maybe it has sprung

85 degrees today! Bliss! Spring might actually be here.

House guest

Lunchboy is traveling for work this week and, in a twist of fate, we are hosting his best friend, who just broke up with his live-in girlfriend and needed a safe harbor. Having been there, I am happy to be able to offer that harbor. It is, however, a new experience to share our home with someone I don't know that well. Because, you know, it's not awkward at all to shower when he's in the living room and have to walk by in my robe. He also has the flu. I think that he probably shares the feeling of strangeness to be here when Lunchboy isn't, because he has spent his time either watching hockey on TV or playing Warcraft in the basement. Not so much talking. Lots of coughing, though. The cats are the most confused. They like the BF but aren't quite sure why he isn't leaving. They look at me as if to ask, "Where did dad go? Have you replaced him?" I keep telling them that no, no one has been replaced, but that doesn't keep them from clinging to me like burrs, especially at night. Usually they dislike closed doors, but they are extremely uncurious about the closed basement door.

26.2

Given my real estate rant from the other day, I am going to hold off on venting about the $200 ticket we got driving up to Portsmouth the other day (allegedly for travelling in the passing lane -- WTF?) or the adventure that is getting into and around my office on Patriots Day, aka Marathon Day. Most companies in Boston give their people Patriots Day off, not because it is a real holiday but because functioning in the city while the marathon is taking place (not to mention the Red Sox game going on over at Fenway) is next to impossible. Not my company. So while I’d prefer to be cheering on the runners at the finish line, which is a stone’s throw from my office, I am at my computer attempting to figure out how to get lunch when every place is either closed or mobbed. The medical tents are right in front of Trinity Church, so my coworkers and I are in the strange position of being able to watch as runners stagger/walk/crawl/are carried into for some fluids and support.

It is, however, a spectacular spring day and to me that makes it better. I always feel really badly for the runners when it’s cold, rainy, or really really hot.

Pushing Daisey

My friend Mike Daisey’s latest monologue is reviewed in today’s NYT. They also did a feature. Yes, he really is that cool. Here is Mr. Daisey’s website: if you live near where he’ll be performing in the next few months, you should go check him out. His shows are powerful, though-provoking theatrical experiences that create a performer-audience rapport that is really magical.

I can't handle the truth

We had a realtor over to the house on Thursday. Joe sold the condo above ours last summer, for an amount that truly shocked and impressed us (TRUE shock and awe). Of course, that was before the real estate market and the economy took a spectacular nose dive into a pile of pig poop. We aren't planning on moving right now -- and after Joe's visit I'm not sure we'll be moving EVER -- but we'd asked him to come by and tell us what types of things we'd need to do in order to get the house ready for sale, perhaps next spring or summer. In a very nice, very helpful, very professional way, he told we were being smart by thinking ahead, but given the laundry list of tasks he set before us, I'm not so sure I buy that. I don't think we're smart -- I think we're fucked.

I knew we had some upgrading to do. I knew our kitchen was fine but probably not of "buy me immediately!" quality. But here is what we learned (other than the fact that unless the market turns around in the next year, we'll be eating a large chunk of change -- this is what Lunchboy gets for buying at the top of the market. Oy.):

1. Our walls are textured and this is bad. We should have someone put a smoothing layer on them, but only if this is cost-effective.

2. Our walls are painted colors other than beige and this is bad. We should promptly paint them (he suggested November Rain by Benjamin Moore). After the smoothing is done, of course.

3. Our counters are not granite and this is bad. We should rip out all our lower cabinets, install a corner sink and a new, L-shaped counter/cabinet arrangement. But only if this is cost-effective.

4. Our decision to refrain from installing an overhead light in the bedroom was bad. (there is a cap in the ceiling but no actual electrical wires and it would cost like $500 and many holes in the ceiling and walls to rectify this). We should rectify it.

5. The tile on the basement floor is bad -- it makes people think that there might be water problems. Eeeep. We should consider putting Pergo or bamboo over the entire basement floor to cover the tile and warm up the space.

6. Our decision to enlarge one basement window to make it an official "egress" window is good. We should also wall off half the basement and install a closet to make it an official 2-bedroom. If we do this, we might actually be able to sell the place for what we paid.

7. Our (my) decluttering efforts have been good but inadequate. We will have to get rid of or store at least half our stuff before putting the place on the market. My attempts at decorating were transparently bad. I got the impression that our condo's lack of resemblance to the Crate and Barrel/Pottery Barn catalogs was a mark against us.

None of these were personal comments, of course. Joe looked at the place from the point of view of how best to sell it quickly. I am grateful for the insight. But please pardon me while I drink myself into a coma of sufficient strength to blunt the cost and stress of actually implementing these changes. It's hard to see the benefit of sinking $10K-$20K into a house that we'll be lucky if we break even on. And that's AFTER all the other stuff we've done, like insulating and drying out the basement.

*weep*

Renting doesn't look so bad at the moment...

Birthday gardening

It is a gorgeous day today. We spent last night up in Portsmouth and this morning we walked around, enjoying the blue sky, the sun, and the friendliness of the people up there. I always think of Gimp when I am in Portsmouth. The Thomas Laighton was docked when we walked by and a few Pelican-looking guys were boarding. No boat tours out to the Isles of Shoals til May, though, so we poor non-Star folk were out of luck.

When we got back home to Somerville, I planted the last lilac and the grassy stuff, which is apparently called blue fescue. Then I got off my lazy butt and took the pictures I've been promising to take. It's no great shakes, but here is an early spring look at the garden as it stands right now.


Newly watered rose of sharon, lilac, wisteria, and blue fescue:



The above shot is of our frustratingly strange back space that I am still trying to figure out what to do with. Container gardens on top of that ugly cement shelf?


Peonies and hydrangea:



These were planted by the side of the porch leading out to the front of the house.


Lilac and heather leading out to the front:




View from the street (to the left you can see the rosemary and lavender I planted last week):

For times like these

We got tickets to see REM and Radiohead this summer at the Tweeter Center.

I am excited and yet I somehow also feel like I'm trying to be 25 again. The last time I was at the Tweeter Center, it was still Great Woods and it had a big lawn (or muddy slope). I went with friends about 10 years ago for some festival that involved Ben Folds Five and maybe Kula Shaker. Not being much of a concert person (maybe because I get overwhelmed by loud noise and crowds) I remember having a good time but being somewhat annoyed by all the tweaked out 19-year-olds who were peeing in corners. And that was before parking at the Tweeter Center turned into an Olympic sport.

Still, I have always wanted to see REM. I wish I'd seen them in their Superman days. Radiohead's OK Computer tour was possibly the best live music experience I've ever had, so I'm excited to see them do their new album, which I really like. "You're All I Need" was kind of the theme song to my winter. My lunchtime yoga teachers played it in almost every class from December to March.

Run, florist, run

I bought a wisteria shrub on Sunday. I love wisteria. It's so pretty. Yet the people at the nursery warned me repeatedly that wisteria will pull down anything it grows on. Clearly they could tell that I do not know what the hell I'm doing. Though the wisteria is still in its pot, curled contentedly around a piece of wood, I can't help imagining that it's related to the pitcher plant in Little Shop of Horrors, just waiting to be unleashed on my unsuspecting fence.

Gimp--HELP!

My industrious neighbor has planters of violets and pansies hanging from the porch already. IT'S APRIL! It's still cold a lot. I am so not that dedicated.

Pimp my ride

I realized today that I never resolved the “what happened to Lunchboy’s car?” question that I posed here a few weeks ago. Well, we still don’t know. The police never found anything (surprise—I’d be amazed if they actually looked in the first place). Thankfully, our insurance company declared it a loss right away, which saved a lot of paperwork and frustration. They gifted us with a rental, a lavender Chevy Malibu that reeked of cigarette smoke that gave us about three weeks worth of lines such as, “we’re rockin’ the Malibu!” Lunchboy drove the ‘Bu gratefully but with increasing aggravation—ironically, the door locks were unreliable, for example—and a few days before we had to return it we went car shopping.

At first we wanted to be responsible urban citizens and get a compact hybrid. But when we went to the Toyota dealership in Brighton, plans changed. First of all, who puts a car dealership in BRIGHTON, a place where going for a test drive means entering into an extended, elaborate exercise in road rage? Yet there it was. Then we got an incompetent salesman who could not have turned us off more. On a superficial note, he couldn’t pronounce Prius and because we are infants we couldn’t stop giggling after the 40th time he said “Preebit.” The giggling helped us from venting our road rage onto him after he persisted in trying to sell us a Camry that we had made clear we did not want. As soon as humanly possible, we got out of there and went to the dealership where Lunchboy had bought his old (stolen) car and leased the 2008 model of the car he’d had. Though it’s not an SUV or a gas guzzler by any means, we rationalized it by acknowledging that he drives his car so little that he only has to fill up the gas tank every other month or so. I do, however, understand why people say “screw Earth!” when they buy cars because I was sold on the not-Prius when I learned it had heated seats. I am a sucker for heated seats. It’s a weakness, I know.

Dakshina

There was a time when I kept asking for signs and not finding them. It wasn't even that I needed to know everything was going to be ok, I just needed to know that the request was being heard, that there was something out there listening. I've never had a crisis of faith before--probably because I've never been religious--but now I understand how jarring they can be, however long they last. Today I didn't even know I needed a sign, but then I found this--out of the blue, unexpected--and it warmed me like a big, fat hug. So thank you, thank you, thank you.

Fleur de lys

Last night after work, Lunchboy and I hit the Despot and got fertilizer, top soil, and a cartful of plants. I bought some heather, some neat-looking grass (don't ask for real names, I leave those to Gimp), several pots of rosemary and a few pots of lavender. My motto: plant what you like and see what happens. When we got home, I got to work. I planted one of the pots of heather, one of the lilacs I bought last weekend, and a big potful of peonies that our neighbor across the street gave to us in the fall and that's been sitting around since then (lots of green shoots in the pot, so I think they're ok).

Tonight I plan on planting the rosemary, the lavender, and the second lilac, as well as the other pot of heather and the neat-looking grass. We have a weird little back area in the garden that I'm trying to decide what to do with--either shrubs and grass or a mess of different things that can climb up and cover the ugly cement. I'm not sure I have the energy for container gardens to go on top of the cement, but we'll see (and yes, I'll cough up a picture later on).

Our upstairs neighbor, who is a problem worthy of several posts on her own, sent Lunchboy an email yesterday asking if we'd please start using an air filter in the basement because her allergies are acting up and she's sure it's the cat dander traveling up the pipes. It's spring, lady. Welcome to allergy season. Now please stop stomping around on our heads.

My apple tree, my brightness

It’s amazing what a difference the sun makes. Even though it’s still in the 40s outside, the sun is out and it feels like spring. I went for a run at lunch and came back feeling exhilarated and energized. Everyone on the sidewalks was smiling, either because of the sun or because today is opening day at Fenway. I’m all for baseball happiness, but my fingers are crossed that the T won’t be a madhouse for rush hour.

Months ago I talked about signing up for a pottery class…and I did. I made a few things that have been given to friends and while they are far from perfect, they were an improvement on what I made in pottery 10 years ago, so hey—progress! I’m in the second week of my second term and am trying to think about what I want to make this time. I’m really enjoying making things to give to people. Any requests?

There was this episode of Friends a million years ago in which Monica is trying to get over Richard and she decides to make a whole lot of jam. “Jam is my plan,” she says. Well, I’ve decided that gardening will be my plan for the spring and summer. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by the efforts of our extremely domestic and industrious neighbors, or weighed down with the obligation to water water water the stupid garden, I’m looking forward to buying plants I like, making the garden look nice, and having a hands-on project where I can see the progress on a daily basis. This past Sunday I bought two lilac trees that I'll put in the ground tomorrow. Peonies! Ranunculus! Whee! I’m sure there’s something larger to the pottery and the gardening—-molding from the clay, as it were, or planting new life with my hands-- but right now I am loving the mindless creative part of these activities. Beats hibernating on the couch or sitting at Bloc 11 watching all the babies go by.

Scully went back to the vet today to get her teeth cleaned, but they couldn’t do the cleaning because she apparently has a heart murmur and an elevated white blood cell count. The vet thinks it’s thyroid-related and he did some blood tests that are being sent out. But oh my god, I am freaking out. I know she’s a cat, not a person, but she can’t not be ok. I’ve had her for almost 10 years and she is like a part of me. A loud, white, furry part whose absence would be crushing.

Oh my god, they're back again

Rumors have been flying for months that my teenybopper nemesisis were reuniting in the near future, but I paid no attention. Partly this was out of fear--only Lunchboy has seen the box of NKTOB memorabilia that is carefully hidden in the cave that is my parent's basement, and I still cringe at the memory of waiting in Line at the Citi Club (remember that place?) to get into one of their early shows. Then there was the show at the Worcester Centrum. And I think there was at least one additional show, though I'd have to check my scrapbook (yes, there was a scrapbook).

But now it seems that the five horsemen of the apocalypse are indeed upon us (and boy, did I want to ride Joey's horse back in the day...aieeee). NKOTB is officially doing a reunion tour. And it's not an April Fool's joke.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how humiliating would it be to actually ATTEND one of the reunion concerts? Inquiring minds want to know.

Cat power

All three cats went to the vet on Saturday for their annual checkup/torture-fest. Lunchboy had to go buy a second cat carrier before the appointment because we gave away our old one when we dropped off Pepe at his new home. Because the new carrier didn't smell like cat fear and sweaty paws and vet office, Griffin and Cringer were unsure what to make of the gigantic plastic thing that appeared so suddenly in the middle of the living room. They investigated warily, doing that endlessly amusing cat head-bobbing-up-and-down thing, eventually going so far as to jump on top of it and rub their faces against the corners.

Once all three of them are in the cat jail, though, it gets ugly fast. They cry and then hear the other ones crying and then they cry louder out of collective fear and anxiety. "I am scared!!!" they say. "Hear how scared I am!! But the other two are scared, too, so I should probably be more scared than I am! Now I AM REALLY SCARED!"

Then they shed and whine and by the time we get to the vet they've tired themselves out with all the drama, so then they shut up and await their fate. It's a LOT of fun, let me tell you. And it gets even more fun when the vet hands us the bill times three.

They are, of course, fine. Scully lost weight. Cringer is edging up toward 20lbs because she eats all the food and runs only when chased. Griffin is the same weight, though it's hard to tell because she squirms so hard trying to get under our armpits and escape back into the carrier. It's funny how hard they protest about being put into the carrier at home, but how eager they are to get back into it once they're at the vet.

Once they're back at home, they forgive fast, usually because they're too busy hiding and sleeping off the effects of their shots. I seriously think that three cats might very well equal one small child (please call me on this later in life), except that I hear you can't leave your child under the bed until it's ready to stop sulking.

Lay it on me

My cabbie this morning had a penchant for prayer. He had his radio tuned to a religious station that played nothing but a recording of a man and a woman reciting the Hail Mary and the Lord’s Prayer over and over and over and over again. At 5:45am, I was too bleary to think about whether it was a sign of some kind or just a really big annoyance. Maybe it’s a blessing to be smothered with prayer so early in the morning? I figure I’ll take my blessings where I find them. All that praying turned out to be comforting in more ways than one because the cabbie’s driving was so frightening that, after the third time he almost drove us into a median strip, I figured that if we died we’d at least be covered in the god department.

At lunch, though, my fortune cookie went in the opposite direction. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket,” it told me. Literally or figuratively? Is this the Easter Bunny taking a turn in the cookie factory? "It's just a stupid cookie," my best friend told me. "Don't read too much into it." Yes ma'am.

Crossing the Mason-Dixon

Tomorrow I am heading down to Washington, DC for two days. I go there fairly frequently for work, but this will be my first overnight trip there in about year. Last time I went down for the night, I had lovely late coffee with MeanG and then checked into a hotel room that scared me so badly I had to call the front desk and ask to be relocated. That room was haunted, I swear. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was a very angry old man yelling at me. But the hotel had no free rooms, so I was stuck with my images of the old man for the night. I have never been so glad to leave a hotel in my life.

It is, however, already spring in DC. The forecast is saying low to mid-60s and the cherry blossoms are out. I'm having dinner with Gimp and MeanG and maybe even JD tomorrow night. We have no idea where. None of us knows what's around Dupont. It'll all work itself out. And I'm staying at a non-haunted hotel, so I'm very excited. It's Kimpton, so there may actually be leopard-print bathrobes and faux-fur throws. Fake beaver pelt!

Now all I need is for McNulty to make an appearance at the bar and MeanG and I can die happy.

Recharging

We're the kids in America

It's about that time. The Girl Scout Cookies, they have arrived en masse. It’s going to be a Thin Mint month. Everyone who ordered cookies to support their coworker’s children is leaving their bounty in the office kitchen for other people (like me) to eat, which, on a day like today, means Samoas for breakfast.

My mom sent me this article today. Usually the articles she sends are very mom-like and tend to be titled something along the lines of, “Experts Say Eat Ice Cream Daily For Those Trying To Conceive,” so I am always cautious when I open her emails, but this one I liked. The concept of energy vampires is interesting. Over the last few years I’ve put distance between myself and some vampiric friends. I think I’ve also been a bit of a vampire before, so I’m throwing no stones here. There is nothing fun about being on either side of that process, but there is guilt enough to drown in. A little vindication is comforting -- but not entirely exculpatory.

I was also glad for the article because I’ve been on something of a media diet since we got back from vacation and wouldn’t have seen it otherwise. As Lunchboy (and my mom) would tell you, I tend to take way too much of what’s going on in the world into my head and onto my shoulders (as if worrying or being angry about things I can’t change will somehow have impact). This means I’m not waking up at 3am because somewhere in the world baby seals are being clubbed, but it also meant that, at dinner with friends in town from San Francisco, someone asked what I thought about Sarah Lacy and I had no idea what they were talking about. Oops.

Grand theft auto

We woke up on Sunday morning to discover that Lunchboy's car was not where he parked it before we left. This was more than a little surprising because, while we live in Somerville, our neighborhood tends to be fairly safe and while bad things happen closer to Highland Ave., it's rare for felonies of any kind to occur near us (maybe this is because the mayor lives up the hill?)

Lunchboy looked all up and down the street and then called the towing companies to make sure it hadn't been towed for some reason, but no luck. Regretfully (and angrily), he went down to the police station and filed a stolen car report. Thankfully, our insurance company is working with us instead of throwing up lots of red tape.

Later that night, I got into my car to go to yoga and stopped in my tracks. The driver's seat was really far back and the mirrors were all out of wack. Then I checked the change drawer and, sure enough, it was empty. This is not the first time this has happened to us (and I'm guessing to lots of other people in Union Square), but it's no less infuriating and upsetting. I'm grateful that no one was hurt and that it was a car, not the house itself, or something much worse. I count myself lucky that I still have my car, but I no longer feel safe leaving it on the curb (not like I have any other choice).

We've played with the idea of moving on and off since last summer, but had shelved the idea before our trip because we really love our neighborhood (and the market sucks for house sellers). We have friends who live in walking distance in every direction, two parks that are only a block away, a library close by, and pretty much everything we need just down the hill. But having the car stolen puts everything in a new light. Not that we can do much about the real estate market, but suffice it to say that we won't be staying around for longer than is necessary.

St. Martin

We've been back for a few days, but this is the first chance I've had to post some photos. We had a wonderful time--the trip was everything we needed and more than I could have hoped for.

This was our hotel, looking up from the beach:




The beach itself was amazing:



It's hard to see from that photo, but there were pelicans that spent all day hanging out on the cliff to the left, sunning themselves and then swooping down to catch fish in the water below.

We settled ourselves in at one of these cabanas and didn't really move for a week:



The further up the beach you went, the more swimwear became optional. One afternoon I took a long stroll without my bikini top and it felt amazing--I've always envied men's ability to take off their shirts when the weather gets hot. On our last day, we laughed as an older man dashed back behind the bushes after going for a skinny dip. It was really lovely to be in a place where no one cared if you went au natural (though I think Lunchboy would say that mostly people who shouldn't be looked at took advantage of the policy).

In case the ocean got too rough, there was an infinity pool nearby:



What would vacation be without a resident cat (this one was especially friendly at lunchtime):




Around 5pm, we'd go up and settle ourselves onto the comfy chairs on the porch behind our room:



Our view from the porch:



See those boats on the water? The Heinecken Regatta was taking place during the week we were there. Neither of us had any idea what was going on (we are not boat savvy) but it was lots of fun to watch the boats go by.



Happy couple, warm and relaxed!

Guilt trip

Please don't abandon me!




You cannot leave if I sit on your pants:

Bain de soleil

I do not think I'm alone in feeling like February has been a draining month. The cold and snow, coupled with what seems like a universal inability to slow down, have left me feeling like a heel that's been ground into piles of slush just a few too many times. I always bitch about winter, but this has been my first full winter without the benefit of antidepressants, and as glad as I am to be clean and clear of medication, I might reconsider the intelligence of taking on the dark seasons without a little help (more than the strategic use of Ativan) in the future.

Back in December, when things were a lot darker, we made plans for a nice vacation and it's finally happening. On Sunday we leave for a week in St. Martin. People at work keep asking me if I'm excited and I am, but the trip still feels theoretical. It probably won't feel real til we get on the plane (5:30am--ouch!) but then...sun and sand for miles in every direction.

When we started planning this trip, our travel agent (who walks on water in our opinion: 1. she gets amazing deals, 2. she got us out of our bad hotel in Kauai and put us in a heavenly hotel for $6 more per night, and 3. actually calls us when airfares drop) raved about St. Martin and then she giggled. "There's one thing you really need to know about before you go there," she said. "There are a lot of topless and nude beaches, and that makes some people uncomfortable." Personally, I couldn't care less, particularly since I made the cardinal mistake of stepping into an H&M dressing room yesterday without preparing myself for the harsh evil that is fluorescent lighting, so I will be wearing a lovely muumuu this entire vacation. I am not kidding. But the idea of letting loose, of no longer feeling frozen and rigid inside and out because I'm either trying to stay warm or trying to hold it together, sounds like a dream. So clothing-optional kind of sounds nice. Also, it can't hurt to get sun on every inch of skin, right? Unless I get burned. Ouch.

One of the big reasons Lunchboy and I got married in the winter is so that we'd have an excuse to go somewhere warm on our anniversary every year. This was so totally premeditated. I'll post photos when we're back....

While you're drinking Diet Snapple

It’s no secret that I’m an admirer of Matt Damon (just as it’s no secret that Lunchboy is an admirer of Jessica Alba, though I’m convinced my admiration is slightly more altruistic. Six of one, half-dozen of the other). Let’s just say that Sarah Silverman’s YouTube video with Mr. Damon was wildly popular in our household, so much so that at any given time you might find one of us singing part of the “I’m F*ing Matt Damon” song only to have the other jump in at the appropriate time.

“On the bed, on the floor, on the towel by the door…”

“In the tub, in the car, up against the minibar.”

It’s naughty. Then today I found out that Jimmy Kimmel and Ben Affleck ran their revenge video last night and now I can’t wait to go home and watch (I am unable to watch YouTube at work—I wonder why?) But seriously—who runs that during the Oscars? Some of us were busy watching in hopes that the Bourne Ultimatum would win in all three sound and editing categories...

Paper

That line, that clichéd line from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, is stuck in my head:

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it.”

I feel like that’s happening right now. Every day is full and the days go by so fast that by the end of the week I’m gasping for breath and wondering where the week went. At New Years, I resolved to stay open to new things and so far it’s worked, but the other night I looked up from my glass of wine and told Lunchboy that I feel like I’m trying to do too much and as a result I’m doing it all badly.

Speaking of time flying by, yesterday was our one year anniversary. WHEREDIDTHETIMEGO??? It has been a good year, full of laughter and adventures, challenges and growth. But even when things were difficult, there was no one else I wanted to be standing next to. We always have each other's backs.

Here is a picture of our wacky, crazy wedding cake:



And here is Lunchboy with our cake top after a day of defrosting:





I was a little nervous about eating the cake because over the course of the year that it's lived in our freezer, the freezer itself has inadvertently defrosted about four or five times. The cake smelled really sweet but tasted fine. We both remembered why we wished we'd gotten to have more of it at the wedding!

Yes, those are the Oscars on in the background. And yes, I look tired. Sometimes life just feels like A LOT. But even A LOT is more manageable when you have the best teammate in the world. My heart is full and I am keenly aware that I am very blessed.

I couldn't resist

Bought from the new comic book store down the hill:

Drat

I got a flu shot in November and Lunchboy didn't. So of course it makes sense that I've had the flu for 5 days and he's had one or two passing moments where he felt like he was getting sick but then proceeded to be fine.

On the plus side, being high on Nyquil made the Pats game on Sunday a little easier to watch.