Reasons I'd be an Unfit Parent, part 231

Conversations with the lil' ones (ON A WALK FROM MIDDLE STATE STREET TO THE WHARF)

Maya: "Let's ruuuuuuun!" (grabbing hands of Chad and Bella, doing one of the Ministry of Silly Walks in fast motion)
Bella: "Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" (runs down the block, head flying, screaming)
Maya: "Ooooohhhh! Look! the train tracks! Let's get some pennies from your papa, and we'll put them down and see what happens!" - Here, an excellent example of What Not to Do: Encourage Small Children To Experiment With Trains.

Chad: "Let's see what happens if I throw the airplane at the glass wall!!" (partition between us and the ocean, out on the pier)
Maya: "YEAH! You should totally try that! What will happen?....duh-duh-dunNNnnn!" (theatrical voice)
Bella: "I wanna....c-c-c-cover up with napkins." (lip starting to pucker as if to cry)
Maya: "Ok, little child of woe...here we go! (tucking cloth napkins in, on and around her little body, making her laugh hysterically, feeding her grilled cheese sandwiches.)
Bella: "Let's get some MORE nakkins!"
Chad: "I'm gonna throw you're ball over the wall, Bella!"
Maya: "WaaaAAAAiiiT! Let's play a GAME! I'll pass this ball to you without using my hands, and you pass it on to the next person, ok?
Bella/Chad: "YEEAAAAAH!"
Maya: "Ok. Let's go now!" (rising from table, clutching small inflatible ball betwixt neck and chin)
Bella: "I caaaAAAAnnn't!"
Maya: "YES. YOU. CAN. Suck it up, soldier!" (passing ball to four year old with cunning use of chin)
Bella: "Oook....I cad't do it, Bmaya, idt's to hard...."
Maya: "Yes, you can, see..." (ball travels from person to person around a small table) "Ok Chad, now you pass it to me! Good job! Wooo!"

(ON THE WALK FROM THE WHARF BACK TO DOWNTOWN)

Bella: "Let's check for pennies on the TRAIN TRAAAACKS!"
Maya: "Ok."

Resting case now

No, really

Today, I did the 'wave/smile/nod/wink' routine with an old friend who is a new father. He grinned back at me and said, "We're traitors - we defected - we're on the other team. We're parents now!" by way of rejoinder when I briefly greeted him. I'd meant to congratulate him and tell him to keep up the good work, since he was enthusiastically helping his wife deal with their baby.

Somewhere between a nice moment of admiring his chubby-cheeked young and what could have been an awkward silence, I smiled and replied, "It isn't people switching teams that bothers me - it's the whole losing all sense of self thing- but you guys aren't going to do that." We quickly went back to admiring his baby and I thought back to last year with more than a little sadness. What I was thinking in l'esprit de l'escalier was, "It isn't other people switching teams that bothers me, it's the relentless recruiting for the other side."

Of course, any parent will tell you (rightly so) that the second Junior shows up, the "old them"goes right out the window. That isn't what I'm talking about - there are so many cool moms and dads out there who have retained plenty of "self". The bit where one gives birth/becomes a father and disappears (for the next five years or so) into a cloud of organic talcum powder substitute is what I take exception to. Seriously! Today Scott said to me, "Duuuude....did _______ come straight from the 80's or what?". Now to be fair, ____ looked more like 'straight from 1992.'

The other thing I take exception to is the whole notion that we are either for or against one of the 'teams' (the Haves or the Have-Nots). What to do? The second I do anything to support the 'other team', I am peppered with questions and knowing winks and nods. When I cut a wide berth around the other team (See: Yesterday), I get shunted into the categories of "selfish", "cold" and other unfavorable, judgemental misnomers. What to do? Will the farmer and the cowman ever be friends?

In other, totally unrelated news: We have a situation here at Casa de Meepers: I've already detailed how Edie has a history of (attempting to) eat things that she shouldn't. The latest development, however, has gone too far. The other day, I took my laundry out of the dryer and thought, hmmm, I really should be line-drying my lingerie...But didn't do much about it. The other night, I noticed that she had stole my clean new bra from my clean laundry pile and was exuberantly biting, chewing and kicking it to death.

Fynn strolled over to investigate, and was rewarded with a menacing growl and the the threat of a paw to the face. Sadly, this is typical behavior for the two of them...he's just so mellow that he'll all but let her walk on him. She's just a little tigress! Heaven help us the day she gets into my gel-support department.

No Do*

Disadvantages to Working from Home, In Ascending Order:

-Cats not known for their ability to bounce ideas around with you. Unless by 'ideas', you mean treats or corks.

-The Ability to wear ones' morning clothes all day long is not the Right to do so.
-Limited human contact may result in over-excitement on mail carriers' arrival, lack of 'blink breaks', watching E! True Hollywood Story.
-Potential for distractions are almost endless. See: Laundry 101, Project Closet Makeover, Bathroom Remodel, cats, and looong lunches.
-Construction workers hauling huge chunks of new sewer lining directly outside your 'home office' and running what sounds like a lawn mower on steroids twelve hours per diem may make you a rather crabby.

Advantages to Working at Home, In Ascending Order:

-Thirty second commute.
-Flexible hours, no harsh lighting.
-Complete disregard for cat hair on clothing totally acceptable.
-Limited human contact means almost no chance of three to five people per diem will ask The Question.
-Absolutely no chance that your frustration at this behavior will cause you to have the following conversation between myself and a Clueless Individual (who should really know better than to ask about these things):

Me: "Hi, Clueless! Good to see you!
CI: "Hiii! So are you back working at the office?"
Me: "No, I'm just subbing in for a little bit - it's easier for (Old Boss) than hiring a temp."
CI: "Oh, really? You should just come back full time."
Me: "Oh no, I left to start my own business - I really don't have the time. How's ____?" (identifying trivia removed here)
CI: "You mean you didn't leave work to have a couple of kids?"
Me: (Appalled by the notion here that women leave work for two basic reasons: Maternity or Sexual Harassment) "Nope. Left to do weddings, I love it. I've been really busy - the work is wonderful."
CI: "But you are going to, right?"
Me: (Aware this may be a tender subject, trying to be tactful) "It really isn't likely, no."
CI: "Noooo...you haaave to - I always thought you'd be such a good mom." This based on our annual office parties? My consumption of potent fresh margaritas and bean dip? My work attendance? Or possibly my large, square hips? I'm not sure.
Me: (brisk tone, warning smile) "Nope. Really, I don't have the room, time, money, patience to do it the way I'd want to. Plus I'm really enjoying my job."
CI: (Pushing luck) "Reeeallly? Are you sure?" (Said in a tone that indicates I may not have the mental capability to make a reasonable decision for myself.)
Me: (Smile now etched on, tone of voice sugar laced with vitriol): "Yep. Pretty sure. But I'm taking up a collection in case I change my mind....you're welcome to donate."

Exit, Stage Left.

Too rude, you think? Come on, be honest with me. What should I say/have said?

*No Do: This phrase is sometimes used in our house in lieu of "don't"; refers to a phrase made famous by a little girl my sister used to babysit. The kid was a holy terror, wrapped in a pixies-like appearance. She used to dig her tiny, razor-sharp nails into my sisters' forearm, furrow her tiny brow, and say in a miniature-threatening voice, "DOING?" - as in, "What the hell are you DOING, you insolent fool?

Beach Day

Ok, I've got...exactly one hour before I default on my NaBloPoMo commitment. Here, a quick retrospective of my afternoon the other day:

Thursday afternoon, Christy and I decide to run down to the beach because it's been so. incredibly beautiful lately - hot, some warm winds, and those incredibly deep blue skies, even in California. We had her kids, so we figured it'd be easiest to go to East Beach and have a good long walk along the water's edge.

As we got down along the sand, I caught a snoot-full of the tang of rotting flesh - just the thing to set off the salty breeze of the ocean, right? I was unfortunately cursed with an extremely heightened sense of smell, and so ended up thisclose to vomiting by the time Christie could even smell it. Gaaaag. Again may I note what a very bad pregnoid I'd make.

Since their family had spent the two days prior at Disneyland, little Bella was a bit tired. Being in a state of 'without nap', she suddenly turned into a pre-menstrual sixteen year old on the night before prom. In a word, completely unmanageable, unbribeable, intractable, and enough to drive most anyone up the bloody wall. She refused to follow along with us, had to pee more than an incompetent basset hound after a pitcher of iced tea, and cried at the drop of a hat. Not the most fun, really.

I tried carrying her, but the child is huge, has been since birth, and it just isn't practical. I tried schlepping her across my hip and letting her dangle off, Africa-style, but that wasn't doing it either. We tried suggesting projects, cajoling her, making her laugh, telling her to stop crying now...and nothing worked. Around a mile and a half later, we happened on a young dad, his toddling daughter, and their cute dog.

The dog, a cute Sheltie mix, wanted to play Fetch with log-sized sticks. Trying to explain the cause and effect of throwing a four-foot stick for a dog to a crabby four year old was not my most successful undertaking. Of course we ended up with a scraped arm, more tears and very hurt feelings. I called in the big guns (mini Butterfinger and fake crying) and it seemed to cheer her up for a minute or two. May I stress the phrase "a minute or two" here...minutes later, she was about to turn on the waterworks. I heaved a huge sigh, gave up and told her very sternly that she had now 'broken her promise to me" by crying, and that I would not "play with her again" if she acted like that. In the end, I had the kids take turns jumping on me, piggyback style, and then we'd run down the beach, chasing each other and screaming with laughter.

I was so glad to go home to the silence of our house, exhausted and ready for a martini.

Open Letters

Dear Fall,

Words cannot sufficiently express my deep appreciation for your recent cooperation. The cloud cover, sans rain or excess breezes, has proved to be the perfect light diffuser for photography. Your gracious use of rain in the wee hours of the morning has served to keep everything looking and smelling clean and tidy outside, and yet has not dampened or soiled anything I've had set up outside.

If you could just keep this up for two more weeks, I will be eternally grateful. Rain, hail, wind, etc will be just fine in November, so long as they don't prevent us from going up to Berkeley and hanging out with our friends somewhere after I turn all of twenty-seven. (Twenty-seven...when did that happen? And how stoked am I that I was clever enough to go ahead and have my 'quarter-life crisis' two years ago, right at the two and a half decade mark.) In closing, I'd also like to thank you for being significantly less depressing than I've traditionally found you to be.

Thanks much and can't wait for the candy corn.

Maya

Dear Edie,

Please stop trying to "Houdini" your way out of every small crack of the door or potential open screen. You are almost pure white and every speck of dirt, spider web, or other gross item shows clearly on your coat. Also, you are not....intensely well-acquainted with The Great Outdoors, and are likely to get eaten, stolen or or run over the second you go outside. This would be A Bad Thing and your father, brother and I would be very, very tramatized by it. Also, stop chewing on the foam padding that lines your papa's DJ coffin. I've been picking up tiny bits of gray foam off the floor for days and your litterbox has been less than its' normal bundle of joy.

PS. We think you're the cutest little girl-squirrel in the world.

Dear Impending Holiday Season/"Winter",

Again may I say how very much Christmas sweaters, egg-nog, Norman Rockwell reproductions, the jolly Coca-Cola Santa Claus ads and those saccarine Christmas movies make me want to hurl. Since we don't have 'real seasons' here, I can't really get behind the cute chunky layered sweater/scarf/nice boots look, and end up just wearing jeans and a sweater and a scowl with sandals like always. Admittedly my heart is made of tar and little peices of ground-up glass, but my vote is to move right from candy and turkey on sale to a more handy month, like April.

PS. You better not rain on the 1st. Death March Day is sacred.

Love, your mom.

Dear Mooshi-Mooshi and other Family Members,

I know you visit me here. Why no comments? Just because you're in the other room doesn't mean you can't show me some love. STOP LURKING, for the love of Pete. It skeeves me out I seee youuuu and don't know what you think about this stuff.

xoxoxo

Maya

Dear Everyone Who Meets Me For More than 2.5 seconds, including the intoxicated new father from Saturday who kept asking me if he or his friend was better looking,

Please try and look past the fact that I have a uterus that is not currently in use and see me as just a person. I also have a brain, many ideas and other interests, and feelings. Despite my somewhat witty responses to your repeated, rather intrusive questioning, said feelings are a bit bruised when you ask me why I'm not/I don't/when am I going to/how can I NOT/how can I say that I know I don't want to have a kid if I don't already haaave one. I was working that particular evening, not trolling around for your unsolicited opinions on my life choices.

PS. I bet your kid is ugly. Yes, I am mean. Maybe that is the best arguement in favor of my non-procreation. I am a mean and evil person who secretly thinks that 96 of out 100 newborn babies are frightenly ugly. Also, I've witnessed the 'miracle of birth' at close hand, twice, and it was miraculous that I didn't scoop out my eyes with a melon baller.

What the Hair Tortoise (Taught Us)

First: A quick note to all - Please, please, please go over to The Naked Ovary and wish Karen, and her husband and their new daughter a wonderful day: Today they got to meet their daughter, Maya, in China. This day has been five years in the making. Think about that. What have you waited for, sought desperately after, dreamt about, worked to make happen....without getting it for five years? That deserves a comment, methinks. Even if it is just, "Hi, Maya said to stop by here, congratulations on your new daughter..."

On a completely superficial, trivial and non-important level: I've gotten mixed reviews on my new hair (See: Previous Entry or my new profile picture) - By "mixed reviews" I mean: Scott says he likes the colors (red, blond, brighter blond) but thinks it should be either shorter --- I wondered aloud, "As in, what, bald?" or longer, which he'd prefer - but I personally like it as it is right now. On the other hand, Everyone else has liked/loved/not seen it yet/mistaken me for someone else altogether. I got to thinking about a few things in light of these facts: a) I feel good about the change, it is, after all, is just MY hair - MY hair that will grow back like a Chia Pet, unless I keep chopping it off. Why so much ambivalance now, now that the deed has been done, I wonder - Why am I so concerned with what one person thinks about this small, impermanant detail?

The logical answer is: Because he and he alone, has to to see my pillowcase-creased face and tousled hair in the morning. Before I've brushed my teeth, toned, moisturized, put on a tinted concealer and lipbalm. Basically, he sees me at my worst. The real answer, however, is this : Six years later, I love him much more than I did; enough, not to change myself for him, per se*, but so that I want to improve myself in every way (personally, professionally, artistically) so that I feel good about myself, which in turn translates into a better relationship with him. This, naturally, is my aim. Note: Yes, that is my hand on my arrow in this picture. *(See: Exes I have had, Volume One.)
However: The irrational, embarassing answer is this: Between my father and his eternal love for long, 'natural' hair, and all the beach-bum, surfer types I grew up with, I've never really seen short hair as, well, sexy. Cute, gamine, precocious, dainty, fetching, practical (ugh!), modern, minimalist and the dreaded "wash n' wear" and "mom hair" ....but not sensual, not sexy in the sense that I'm accustomed to. In my world, a silky curtain of long hair has infinite possiblities. It can be pulled back, trail softly down your (or someone else's) spine in a perfumed haze, shaped into elaborate creations by a talented stylist or your own imagination, knotted into a thick braid for sport or bunches of tiny coils (for a night) or miniscule braids for a week of swingy fun. If you've got a meeting or need to look Extremely Serious, you can pull it into a chignon or an updated twist/bun for what we call the "Sexy Librarian" look. You can curl it, coil it, tie it in knots, tousle it, pull it into a sophisticated, flat-ironted ponytail, or hide it under a hat if all else fails. It spells youth, options, the ability to wear a ponytail that doesn't look like it's been electrocuted and set on fire.

I've actually been toying with the notion of whacking it all off for the last six or eight months, but have been summoning up the courage to do so. Of course, I've also been toying with the following notions for years on end: Trying to write something and attempting to submit it to a publisher, and that of projecting, tracing, and (attempting to paint) some work of art on my bedroom wall, or creating something (don't click here if you aren't prepared to spend the next half-hour going, 'aaaaaaaahhh!') much more permanant . However: Don't get your pants/panties in a bundle about this; the fact that the decision to become a Short-Hair Girl has taken this long (twenty-five years...the last time my hair was this short I was in diapers) should give you some idea of how long it would take for option c to actually transpire: By my calculations, at the bare minimum it would take thirty more years....by which time it will be far to late, thankyouverymuch. Molly describes this intense ambivalance in her latest post: I wrote her a thank-you comment that really doesn't do justice to how I feel about the whole issue:

Surgically detached enough from the "Logic" and "Reason" and "Common Sense" portions of my brain to be able to torture myself with the tiny tots that run up and randomly hug and coo at me during weddings; yet not crazy enough to delude myself into thinking that a man who has just installed yet another guitar rack in my living room would be pleased to find spittle on a Stratocaster. Frighteningly aware of the fact that female fertility is, at best, a crapshoot (or, in other cases, a burden, if you're like my great-grandmother who bore fourteen live children and was rumoured to be pretty good with a knitting needle...ugh!) and at worst, a staggering dissapointment. Uncomfortable with the bare facts as follows: a) The only family who would be available/appropriate to watch kids live a staggering sixteen hours away b) they wouldn't be available, because...backpacking! c) all of our friends who have kids are between twenty and five or six years ahead of us, and would not be up for kid-swapping duties d) I hear that the the Missonary position is the only acceptable behavior after you pop one out. (Parents of kids: I'm kidding here).

What I'm saying is this: Like the tortoise who won the race, slow and steady is the best with regard to any drastic changes. Blond(ish) red-streaked hair is enough of a change for me.

Since we're going down Memory Lane this week...

I was reading Emily's recent entry and it made me think about a few things; the principles of inertia for one, and how (much more) stressful and pressurized parenting has become in the last ten or fifteen years. Mrs. Kennedy (now parenting the darling Jackson in my hometown) readily admits it, Heather's most recent post at AlphaMom talks about how "the bar has been raised in imperceptible increments, for such a long time, that much of the time we don't even realize that we are holding ourselves to standards our mothers never had to meet" - which, in turn, can cause some people (Heather included) to be depressed. Wait, wait... I have a point to make here, I promise.

So I got to thinking about what things were like for my sisters and I growing up...and I came to a few conclusions, the primary of which was this: Despite the "mistakes*" our young parents made, we had a lot of fun, a lot more fun than loads of kids do anymore. I'm really happy they forged ahead and made a family of five where they might have just left off after me. Given the facts that I woke up every hour until I was two, walked and spoke in complete sentences far too early (imagine a year and a half old child stomping her tiny foot on the ground and saying, "Oh S##T! in irritation, in front of your conservative new friends...) and also had an irrational fear of strange things like snails...I'm amazed that my mom had the bravery to give procreation another round, on purpose. She maintains that they had my first sister to keep me from being, in her words, a complete and total raving brat. My second sister followed a mere twenty months later and, like me, was a big surprise.
*I'm not saying they made mistakes, but they might be judged harshly for things they routinely did with us if it were now. You know, like how I was allowed to run around stark naked everywhere without SPF 200 covering every inch of my tender baby flesh (which tanned quite nicely, thankyouverymuch) things like that.

Take the fact that my father used to routinely allow a whole pack of kids to ride in the back of his pick-up truck. I'm talking, ten, twelve kids in the bed, and two or three in the front with him. We'd all pile in and rattle off down the road to the beach or a softball game or on a hike, not a care in the world between us. One day we were en route to go on a hike and had our usual gang of kids, plus a loveable (if a bit thick in the head) boxer named Max with us. Being a dog, he was placed in the bed of the truck with about ten of us kids. Being a dog, he happily hung his head over the side and slurped up the warm summer air. Being a rather dumb dog, he decided to push his thickly muscled chest up to and over the edge of the truck.

"Nat, grab his leash tighter, he's going to jump out of the.." SWOOP. In a flash of tawny fur, he was out, rolling across the pavement with a smattering of yelping cries.
"AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE! DaaaaAAAaaaaaaaaD!" (chorus of ten kids screaming in terror) By some miracle, Max managed to escape with only a few cuts and scratches that we bandaged at a friends' house and was perfectly able to go on our hike. Other times, I remember him letting us ride laying down on top of his toolbox, lying down.

I don't know one parent that would allow any of that kind of nonsense to go on with their sprogs... for that matter, I don't know that I'd allow some of that. But what do we have to show for it? The fattest, least interested in learning, most neurotic, over-stressed, unhealthy generation of children yet. As a Have-Not, I can only watch and report from the sidelines, not smug, but cushioned, by my blissful ignorance. That and sit back in my rocker on the porch, reminiscing about the good old days.

Reese's Pieces of Me

A Quick Thanks to Craig: Yesssss! Got a tenant - she's perfect (read: will pay rent, can move now, doesn't smoke,) and even picked up on the subtleties of one of my emails. Also: She brought us Costa Rican coffee when she came back over. Even though I don't drink coffee, the gesture alone confirmed my earlier notion that she's a perfect match for us. Yessssss!

First of all, you should go right now and see Nacho Libre. By "right now" I mean "as soon as you get to the end of this entry," because ....well, I'd like someone, anyone who blogs/does diary entries/online journals to please stand up and say, "No, really, I don't care who reads this, or if anyone reads it at all, seriously... I'm just doing this because __________." By the way, if anyone does sack up and actually say this, they are a) blogging for work - and please, if you are blogging for work, can I get that job? b) completely delusional. Back to the movie, though: Our man Jack Black and his "steeetchy paants" works his best angles (grandiose gesturing, mad air guitar, improvised songs, arching eyebrows, perfectly round Buddha-belly). Add 70's style filming, an over-saturated palette, great soundtrack and dead-eyed Mexican child actors and I think its a real recipe for those huge snaaaaaarks! of laughter.

We were seated about a third of the way up, in the middle of the theater, so pretty much in the middle of a bunch of people who were approximately one-third my husbands' age. Not a subtle bunch, let me tell you. About mid-way through the previews, (something with cow-like, udder-y creatures that had distinctly male voices, something else with ..... jellybeans? I seem to recall jellybeans) Scott leaned over and asked, "Babe, is this a kids' movie?"

Ding-ding-ding! We have a winnnnaaaah!

I freely admit that we did both want to see the picture - and that having a nine-year-old girl for the weekend made it even more fun. So I give you, in bullet points, keys to having a fantastic weekend:

• Start your weekend on a Friday. This is key. Proceed directly to the beach, take your friends and one of their little girls kayaking.
  
• Move the "beach party" to a nearby house that is handily equipped with a pool and hot tub, order pizza and make a few drinks.
• Give a pack of ten kids instructions on how to swim from one of the pool to the other, float on their backs, play "Shark", Marco Polo, and the new & improved Silent Marco Polo. Watch them go crazy, recieve mad props from happy moms and neighbors.
  
• Buy ice cream, pop corn, and return home with one a nine year old girl. Allow her to stay up until one-forty-five am eating said treats and watching Eight Below. Ask if she'd like to meet the star of the movie, dissolve into hysterical laughter when she says she'd rather meet the dogs.
  
• Day Two: Get up late, make strawberry pancakes.
  
• Go to a new and different beach, take the kid boogie-boarding until you are both blue-lipped and raisin-fingered.
• Inform her that you'll be keeping for another evening and that you'll be going to the movies as soon as she showers. Purchase dinner and absurd amounts of candy for her, smuggle them into the theater with twinkly-eyed aplomb.
• Allow her to select her own box of "breakfast cereal", new sketchbook and wear your (smallest) clothes. Stay up late, again and spend time learning about the fascinating world of Neopets.
• Day Three: Awake at ten, eat "cereal"and fruit salad out of fancy china, wrapped in fancy sheets, discuss Neopets and The Proud Family.
• Walk to a local museum and spend the afternoon sketching various peices.
• Buy her a couple of books, write her a Summer Reading list, send her home with a "book deal" - Every time she does a book report (turn in a five-sentence book review via phone, email or other medium) she gets five dollars.



Get a huge, huge hug and million big smiles, and the sense that you have Made an Impression. Yeah!

South of Perk

Sudden strange and disturbing realization last night:

1. I was hearing the music to "Begin the Beguine" (Lyrics below)

2. The TV was showing South Park.

3. The music was coming from the TV.

Also strange and disturbing: I found this article on MSN. Really, I should never, ever read MSN. (S. almost forty. Forty! That's twice as old as I was when we got married! Four...decades. Ten years from ....fifty. Forty is certifiably middle-aged.) You'd never know it to look at him, thank goodness.

A man's fertility appears to decline after the age of 40, in much the same way that a woman's ability to conceive fades after 35, according to French researchers. Our results provide, for the first time, strong evidence for a paternal age effect on failure to conceive that is linked only to biological male aging," the study authors report.

According to the researchers, the lower IVF success rate among relatively older men may be due to poorer-quality sperm. It has long been known that women are less likely to conceive after the age of 35 than before, de La Rochebrochard and her colleagues note. But the current findings, they write, suggest that for men, the age of 40 is similarly important.

"In reproduction," the researchers conclude, "age must no longer be considered as the concern of the woman, but as that of the couple."

This, folks, is exactly the kind of statistic I'd like tattooed handily on my... well, my forehead isn't very big, so maybe my arm? That and another one that says, "Nunya" - and when people pester me, I can point to it and say, look, there's your answer. They'll look at it and intone "nunya?" and I'll say, "Nunya business, fool!" and flounce off to go listen to a full album of The Smiths or Echo & The Bunnymen or The Strokes, or possibly Ella Fitzgerald.


Begin The Beguine by Ella Fitzgerald

When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendor,
It brings back a memory ever green.
I'm with you once more under the stars,
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavor,
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are, swearing to love forever,
And promising never, never to part.
What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,
I know but too well what they mean;
So don't let them begin the beguine
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember;
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember
When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more,
Darling, I love you!
And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine

Now With fluoride

Back ... and with a better, pain-free smile! First off, let me say this: If any of you (especially Californians) are in need of major dental work (like root canals, crowns, etc), I've got the Hombre for you to see. We're both pretty dental-phobic, (a Bad Thing if you take good care of your teeth but are cursed by genetics to a lifetime of crumbling, breaking, cavity-prone choppers - ugh!) but we had very little pain. Even though we spent the better part of two days sitting with our mouths wide open and the unpleasant sound of 'brrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZ' reverberation through our skulls, we agree that it was still The Best Anniversary Ever. It came as a real surprise to us that we enjoyed our experience...and I swear, not all of our pleasure was due to the innovative combo of pain pills and "Wine Wednesday" over at The Brigantine.... not that I would know anything about that. A-hem. Here's a quick run-down of the week:

Tuesday: Got up at the crack (yes, Chiada, I mean four am...not seven) and drove to San Ysidro (just this side of the Tiajuana border) - The International Motor Inn is not somewhere we'd normally set foot in, but they offer a shuttle service, right to the front door of a number of cancer clinics, dentists and so forth. Karen lost 4 1/2 inches. Our dentist actually drove us to get an X-ray ($20, took thirty seconds, no annoying gag-type thing in my mouth), showed us around some of the better parts of TJ (movie theatres that serve sushi and drinks? Yes please!) took us to the pharmacy (yeah! Cheap drugs!) and dropped us off at the border. Talk about service with a smile - he grinned and said, "Ok, you come back tomorrow morning, I spend all day working on you, ok? Ok!" We had a lovely (soft, for easy chewing) Indian dinner in downtown San Diego's Gaslamp District and I discovered a new reason to live - Ben & Jerry's Cinnamon Oatmeal Cookie Dough. Mmmmmmmmm - Chocolate chunks, oatmeal, and the heaven that is cinnamon ice cream.

Wednesday: Woke up, had breakfast, went back to Mexico, took a Demerol (or it may have been some kind of goat tranquilizer...) and spent a fascinating morning embroidering tiny orchids on a black linen sundress while stooooooned. Now there's a sentence you don't see every day, huh? It's weird, I think, to wake up in one country and spend the afternoon in another, in a drug-fueled haze - well, outside of Europe*, any rate. Doppleganger became master (mistress?) of her domain.

*Really: Ask Scott about the time he went to sleep on a night train in Spain, woke up somewhere else, partied with a bunch of Basque seperatists who gave his buddy what they thought was a pill of cold medicine....well, you get the picture. The afternoon was rather less pleasant, but the fact that we probably spent less than ten percent of what we would have in the States eased the pain of the "hamberguesa" that my gums were temporarily turned into.

Real Quick: A HUGE shout-out and thank-you at this point to scott's' sister (and the power that is The Internet) for getting us a sweeeeet room at the Hilton for Thursday night. We were so over the grime, traffic and general fish-type odors of our room in San Ysidro, even after just one night. You see, we had a kitchen, which meant that the previous tenants got the brilliant notion of cooking up some rank seafood and apparently leaving it out for a couple of days. Ugh! In an effort to combat the intense miasma of stench, I burned incense for hours and sprayed about a gallon of Febreeze - which left us mouth-breathing through a sort of Eau de Unwashed Hippy funk. Wednesday night... Well, like I said, it was the innovative combo of pain pills and "Wine Wednesday" and the excellent clam chowder over at The Brigantine that made me into a scintillating conversationalist.

Thursday: Our one day set aside for pure fun started in the hot tub and pool of the Hilton - our room had an amazing view of the San Diego skyline and a private patio - it was hard to leave! I discovered that if I drag the amazing sinking man around the pool in my arms, I get a great workout and he gets... The feeling of rushing through the water as though he were swimming. We stumbled across the perfect combination of Northern/Southern California (rocky dramatic beaches, clear warm water) in La Jolla. The museum of contemporary art had a thought-provoking (read: not my thing) collection of modern art inspired by the border - in his ongoing mission to embarrass me at regular intervals, someone let loose with a thunderous poot in an empty room. Lovely. Speaking of things that were, indeed lovely- the La Jolla caves are well worth either the 100+ wooden steps or the kayak tour that you'll need to take to check them out. Shopping and dinner at Azul (spinach, date, goat cheese, walnut and chicken salad? Check. Two desserts, one of which was complimentary? Check. Brilliant views? Check.) and an evening with our friends at a beach house in Carlsbad finished the night.

Friday: Emily found out what she's having and Saturday Lynn hung out with Hello Kitty - Hi Lynn - We on the other hand, were with our friends*, discussing the whys and wherefores of The Question with them several...Million times by my count - Happily they are some of the very rare individuals who actually listen when I give them my answer. I remarked that if I could custom order the high levels of cute that run in their family and have a little clone delivered (UPS or Fed Ex would be fine) by mid-fall, I'd give The Answer ("No" or "I simply cannot procreate, because I have other things to do, my house is the size of a postage stamp and I just cannot stand to give my mother the satisfaction of rubbing my own imperfections in my face for the next twenty years") just a wee bit more consideration.

*Our friends: Jim-Bob, his niece Lindsey, son Desi and daughter-in-law, MaryAnne and their incredibly edible boys, Cole (20 months old, blond hair, gold skin, hazel eyes, huge grin, a budding athlete) and Hayden (3 months old, dark hair, enjoys sleeping, pooping and The Boobie, blue eyes, dark skin, Kewpie-doll nose) Paradoxically, Scott seems to actually enjoy entertaining the notion of The Question when surrounded by their pleasant company. He talks a great game of, "Oh yeah, we think about kids, sure, someday...". However, I know the facts: A) He is not now, and likely will never be up for anything like a pooey nappy or a two am feeding. B) Like everyone, he's only getting older, and that means: More back pain, less tolerance for sleep disturbance. C) I would have very little tolerance for people asking my kids, "Ohhh, are you out with your Grandpa?" D) He has even less of a clue of what we'd be getting into than I do.

Despite all that, we had a great time- The beach house we stayed at was actually ON the beach, we'd stocked up on adult-type drinks and the basics (cereal, veggies, chips n' salsa, PBJ for everyone) and we found a killer place to eat just down the street. The house itself sat down from the street and just over the rocks that edge the beaches in Carlsbad. Although decorated in an interesting melange of 60's and 70's items (glass balls, weird wallpaper, overly baroque faucets, funky linoleum and popcorn ceilings) it was large (four generous bedrooms, three bathrooms, huge dining/living area, deck, back patio and front yard of sand) and comfortable. We slept with the sound of the waves crashing in our ears and the windows open. Saturday it was actually sunny, so Desi went surfing and I had a nice workout against the big waves. The water was so warm I was in for the better part of an hour, which was great. I also had the following exchange with a boy who couldn't have been more than 16 or 17 as I got out of the water:

Boy: "Hi....ummm will you go out with me?" (Nothing beats the direct approach, huh?)
Me: (as Scott is handing me a wrap) "No, I'm sorry, I'm waaay too old for you...plu-"
Scott: "...-plus she's married. To me." (Lifts my left hand and waves it in Boys' general direction)
Boy: (hoping that persistence will somehow pay off?) "But you're perfect for me!" (more or less staring at areas that... it is rude to stare at)
Me: "No, I really am too old for you - I'm like a decade older than you are" (applying wrap muu-muu style)
Boy: "How old are you?" (more staring)
Me: "Old. Old and married. To him" (gesturing toward Scott, who gave a stiff, one-armed wave and a very glare-y smile)
Boy: "But...you're...perfect for me...Ok, bye."

While this was somewhat amusing, as I haven't been hit on by a teenager in at least ten years, I instantly remembered a) how ham-fisted the lads can be at that age b) that I didn't miss it one tiny bit c) why I was not ever a big fan of males aged 18-29.5 in the first place - the subtleties generally escape them. We finished up Saturday night with some excellent pizza, pasta, packed up, and hit the road. Aside from the bits where I screamed at Scott for not signaling/talking on a cell phone/almost killing us and wrecking the car, everything went well. We also went under an overpass with a broken water main that was gushing water out of the bottom of it - a sight to behold (and then drive as fast as possible away from), like an urban waterfall. All I could think of were the thousands of gallons of water pumping into the concrete, weakening it by the second. Fortunately, I have a much more wild imagination then is needed for everyday life, and we lived.

A few hours later, we pulled into the driveway and were greeted by frantic, "Wwooowrr? wwwooawWWWrrrr? MerrrrrrooowWWWWWWWW!!", lots of kneading and pitiful 'You Abandoned us!' looks, a nice cat-hork on my couch, thirty thousand emails, and our nineteen tadpoles and one fingernail-sized frog. Casa de Meepers is right back on track.

An Open Letter, to the Haves

Dear Parents of Children*,

First, a sincere thank you for doing your part (even you, Duggar family) to keep the human species around, share the light, laughter and love that is family life with all of us, and for the many great mommy and daddy blogs you've inspired. Really, there can't be enough of people like Jen from jenex (step-mom, adoptive and now pregnant and blogging the whole thing...crazy-cool!). Plus, someone has to tell the funny poop stories.
*As opposed to those who parent animals, plants or possibly lumps of clay.

Next: The fact that you have kids does not mean you get to "settle" any and all "discussions" we may have by the cunning and over-simplistic phrase, "You don't understand because you don't have children!" This is the kind of arguing tactic I refer to, poetically, as caca de toro.
Frankly, it is along the exact same lines as if I were to say, "Well, you don't understand my feelings because you don't have a third arm. As a tactic, it falls right along the lines of sticking your fingers in your ears and screaming, "la-la-la-la-laaa!". Please Shut Up and develop another line of actual reasoning, asap.

That is all.
_________________________________________________________________
A-hem. Anyone? Anyone? As you may have noticed, I was a wee bit irritated yesterday, because I've recently had a rather heated hour-long conversation with someone who used the "U.R.Barren/of all valid opinions" bit on me. Unfortunately, this was someone who I completely allow(ed) to get way deep in under my skin, and there is no way I can avoid having similar talks with in future. Grrr!!

Satisfaction

Hi ho! - I'm posting from my old office, which is a bit of a time warp, since I haven't worked here for about three years. By sheer, unadulterated coincidence, I happen to be here on one of the few days a year that I used to make certain not to miss... The Tax Day Party - its like "Accountants Gone Wild!" - which means: Blend up a few fresh strawberry margaritas (heavy on the Cuervo) , slap a few lunch meats together (ohh... that sounds just a bit dirty, doesn't it?) and stand around and make small talk. So far today I've assembled office furniture (pre and post margarita) answered the phone about fifty times, made a bunch of calls, and heard a few snippets of office gossip.

The one thing that stands out in stark relief in my mind is this: I love(d) working with these people, but I surely do not miss sitting under florescent lights all day, tapping data into a keyboard, clamped to a multi-line phone system. As hard as I worked for five-plus years, the work either went largely unnoticed, came undone, or was all to the end of saving someone money. None of these things made my old clients very happy, since the end result was still the same: Pay money for an intangible item that will only work for you if something bad happens.

These days, things are so much more positive and "up" in general - I can't help but feel that at the end of the day (night, most times) I've made a difference to someone. That in and of itself is a really wonderful feeling. Even without a health plan or a margarita, I wouldn't trade it for the world. So what makes you feel really good about your job?
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Satisfaction, Part Two: My weekend went as follows:
1. Attend/DJ friends' fifteen-year anniversary party (sangria started about four-thirty) with S. By the way, if any of you will be having a party/wedding/get-together any time soon and would like a great DJ, I hereby declare my husband to be On the Market. People seem to really enjoy what he plays for them.

2. Despite directing conversation away from any family/child related topics, be either repeatedly Wombushed!* or asked The Question about, oh, fifty times. Grit teeth, smile, refill drink, repeat. Queries are followed up with extensive rhapsodies about the Joys of Family and How We Wouldn't Change a THING!" (Make concerted effort not to snort, roll eyes, or smash glass on countertop and challenge the next person to a duel if they continue on in this line of interogation.)

3. Retreat to hallway toilet, grit teeth, swallow tears, reapply makeup, compliment self on perky, child-free bits and lifestyle. See step 2, repeat several more times. Curse universe for making you a magnet for this kind of interogation/conversation, even when you are discussing landscaping, anniversary gifts, the price of gas, or global warming. Call friend on cell phone and murmur gently but firmly, "getmeoutofhereNOW!"

4. Visit local watering hole with friends, find someone's cell phone. Call this person, discover that the phone is a work phone, offer to deliver phone up the street as you are headed that way and it really is No Trouble.

5. Meet happy (nay, estatic) boss of person who misplaced phone. Recieve effusive compliments on Good Citizenship, also complimentary margarita for you and all your friends. Discover that Bossman is the owner of a company who you've already referred clients to. Exchange business cards, chat, and go home feeling much, much better. Get a phone call begging for your information a day or so later, do Dance of Joy and Potential Referrals to husbands' great amusement.

6. Have first chemical peel Sunday night. Enjoy strange heated feeling, resulting skin tightness, troll-like fear/avoidance of sunlight. Now that's what I call satisfaction!

File Under: lists, thinking

Just Waiting for a Darwin Award -With Updates!

For my One Hundredth Post and next trick: I shall give you a list. Some of the Least Intelligent Things I've Done, in bullet points and no particular order, for your viewing pleasure.

• Ran wildly around the blacktop while wearing jelly sandals (circa 1984) I've still got the scar on my knee to prove what a bad, bad idea this is.
  
• Skinny-dipped in broad daylight within both 500 feet of a construction site and my father. (Didn't get caught!)
• Skinny-dipped at a public beach, with friends, during a red tide Click the link, please! (Please note: Again, didn't get caught)
  
• Got in a mud wrestling match in full view of my sisters and their two friends. They were completely enraptured. Their mothers, who arrived early to pick them up - not so much.
• Ran barefoot in the snow on more than one occasion, for more than fifty feet, with no destination in sight.
• Started eating expensive cheeses and Nutella.
  
• Started watching 24.
  
• Discovered the "24 Drinking Game" ("In which you are required to drink whenever the words "profile", "protocol", or "satellite" are uttered. We have drinking games for most shows that we watch, but the 24 drinking game is somehow the most satisfying. Other good 24 drinking words include "perimeter", "hostile", and "tactical." Or, if you would like to die of alcohol poisoning, you can just go with "Jack." Your liver may never forgive you.") This game and the previous quotes are thanks to: Miss Doxie. You should be reading her stuff, because she is pretty and has eight dogs and a bunch of pallets on her front yard that are not hers.
  
• Watched both of my sisters be born. I think the real "Miracle of life," was that I didn't gouge out my eyes with a spoon.
  
• Left my cool new leather wallet and all the money I'd saved over probably a year in the balls at Chuck E. Cheese. (Age six or so, funds probably about $30.00, wallet was a cool leather one from Costa Rica that I still wish I had!)
  
• Left my wallet, id. and all money on my desk at home, taken the train to San Clemente to visit friends for the weekend. (Sensing a theme, are we?) Circa 1995 or so - The upside? A nice lady I'd been chatting with on the train before I realized I was flat broke and far from home gave me $40.00. I mailed it back to her with a thank-you when I got home. Yes, the $40.00 covered my entire weekend.
  
• Expected people to mind thier own business/stop asking The Question* when I say, "We're not."
• Wore a sweatshirt with a ribbon-belt thing over three-quarter length knickers. Allowed myself to be photographed wearing this outfit and a dorky smile.
  
• Not taking the medicine, waiting until I was breaking out in hives to see the doctor for something I knew was a bad thing long before that time.
• Expected to remain 'just friends'.
  
• Insisted on sharing clothes/shoes with my sisters, based on a (misguided) conviction that they would some day share their clothes with me.
  
• Wished/expected to be taken seriously, have people* "Respect my authoritah!"
while still smiling and being nice. *Male clients especially, in my past job.
• Cleaned up an event in the pouring rain, wearing only a tank top and a skirt, because I felt very warm at the time. Not recognizing the 'very warm' feeling as a 'fever' and ignoring the extremely sore throat I already had. Been surprised that I got sick as a result.
  

*The Question: "When are you gonna have a baaaby? When? When!?" - This is usually followed by, "Ohh, you'll change your mind someday!" and is pretty much the reason I stay in my house some days.

Now, its your turn! Go! I can't possibly be the only one who thought holding an impromptu conference on a rooftop with my best friend at night, in the rain was a great idea. Right?

Right? Right!

A Very Merry...

UN-Baby Shower, to you, and me!

First of all, this. Good thing she's not going for a bakers' dozen, huh?

Now I know, personal choice, freedom, etc - a wonderful thing. Please don't jump up and down on me because I'm a wee bit taken aback at someone who obliges her three-year old child (who could be her grandchild, or even great-granchild) with a sibling. Isn't that the *parents'* decision? Not to mention the fact that her child will be fortunate if he turns fifteen with the benefit of a mother. Any rate...Not my poopy diapers to change. Speaking of which, (poop! always a great topic, right?) one of my little buddies had FOUR of them within ten minutes today. In light of the stunning magnitude of one of these blow-outs, Short Round's (not his real name, what I call him) mum called me over so we could laugh together. What else can you do when your friend is swabbing frantically at her baby's soft, round, doughy thighs for the FOURTH time in ten minutes? I suppose I could say, "Run screaming to the doctors office to have all baby-related bits tied up tightly" - but it would be far from the truth of my response.

Short Round beamed up at me from the changing mat with his two-and-a-half teeth, as if to say, "Poo happens, I'm still happy, and ... is that chocolate for meeee?" and I replied, "Yes! You DO indeed have the cutest little biscuity butt in all the land? How many chocolates can I get for you?" Now, don't get all crazy on me - He's one of the FEW people in Real Life who cannot make me a martini, but whom I still enjoy the company of. Even on a "bad" day, this little person is far more entertaining and chipper than, umm, lets' say, one of my friends' kids, or me. I don't coo and burble over diaper-clad set in general; I prefer to take them on a case-by-case basis.

That being said, I do give a mean baby shower - and have been known as a great child Spoiler. I just like to have the option to give them back after a while. Bodily fluids and even extended crying don't bother me anymore (lots of practice with aforementioned friends' kids, our neice, etc). What bothers me greatly (and really, this blog is 80% about What is Bothering Me Today, innit?) is the following:

*Why don't we have non-baby showers? (Would that be an un-baby shower?) My friend Lisa (as opposed to my sister-in-law, also a Lisa) has often mentioned that she'd like to have showers for women who've been married for 5/10/15/20 years. You know, an excuse to a) dress up b) decorate/rent a cute venue c) drink martinis/Bellinis/shots d) register for silky new underthings, camping gear or power tools*, whatever floats your boat. *Whatever you'd like to think here will do.

So I've been thinking: What would my Un-Baby Shower be like? Being in the party business, I've got lots and lots of ideas:
-Swanky martini party with extensive wine/cheese/chocolate bar? Better call that one "Heart Attack, Straight-Up, with a side of stillettos" Cute invites in chocolate brown/lavendar, held in the back patio of this resturant:

Epiphany!

Main Registry Items: Lingerie (frivolous only), perfume, bath salts and other foofy stuff.

-Ladies' tea party: Lovely selection of teas, champagnes and rose wines, possibly sangria (Notice that I catergorize my parties by the alcohol served there? Hmmm) Crumpets, scones, petit fours, chocolates and cheeses. All guests required to wear mad hats or other lady-like accoutrements that we don't do anymore...with jeans. Toille tablecloths in black and white or red/cream, to match the invites, natch.
Held in the garden here:

Cheshire Cat Inn - A few blocks from our house

Main registry items: Absurd kitchenwares* such as those teeny-weeny individual French Ovens from Le Creuset. In Lime green or lipstick red, please. Especially absurd in light of the fact I can't tell a cassoulet from a castrati.
*from here:

Sur la Table

-Home improvement party: Yummy evening barbeque, homemade strawberry, mango and melon margaritas, grilled veggies, tofu, chicken, tri-tip and sausage bites for the carnivorous. Invites sent on planks of balsa wood, guests come as their favorite TV wife (Desperate or otherwise) or husband - this one is co-ed. Assorted patio furniture, tables covered in bamboo matting (to be used in yard later) Location: My back patio so I've got an excuse to use my bar. Look! My bar! Its so cute!
Main registry items: Anything from Home Depot or such-like store.

Of course, you can't throw yourself a shower, that would be in extremely poor taste. I'm just sayin' we Have-Nots have to celebrate each other, right?

Boxing Day - it's for the Have-Nots!

I think it's really called that because all those poor Brits want to punch the hell out of the extended family they've been forced to hang out and exude holiday cheer with.Turns out, not so much. In reality, it is all about the leftovers: "The holiday's roots can be traced to Britain, where Boxing Day is also known as St. Stephen's Day. Reduced to the simplest essence, its origins are found in a long-ago practice of giving cash or durable goods to those of the lower classes. Gifts among equals were exchanged on or before Christmas Day, but beneficences to those less fortunate were bestowed the day after." (snipped from Snopes)

As someone who knows a thing or two about getting the short end of the stick, I dedicate this day to all my fellow Have-Nots out there. I'm not referring to monetary matters, I'm referring to the currently childless, for any of the following reasons:
Sometimes (Hashai, Naked Ovary, Dead Bug, Incarcerated Uterus, etc), and I think most hurtfully, it is infertility. This is a tragedy in any circumstance, and I salute all the millions of brave ones out there who submit to procedures with acryonyms like ART, GIFT, and IVF. They go on regular "dates" with their local RE's and their ultrasound wands and take more self-inflicted jabs than a heroin junkie with diabetes. They are tough - they have to be, because most days they are subject to all kinds of absurdities, from within (sudden mysterious ailments of the female type) and without (random strangers in Target/on the street asking them "When are YOU gonna have a bayyyybeee already?" This ubiquitous query is often coupled with what I call the "Wombush: friends/colleages/family members do this number, generally at a most innapropriate time: "Oh! you'll NEVER guess..." or, more hurtfully, "we didn't want to hurt your feelings, so (everyone else in the immediate circle) has known for X amount of time already."

Being the Tough Cookies that they (must be) are, these ladies deal with their issues in a number of ways, including but not limited to: Repeated, sometimes sucessful trying/ARTing/IVFing/GIFTing until they get the desired result, 2) adopting one or more lovelies from... anywhere 3) Gritting their teeth and continuing (notice I didn't say moving on) with their life. Any of these is done whilst dealing with what is often called "ass-vice" - its like advice, only with an asinine twist and a jab of idiocy/venom/inane stupidity.

Other times, it is choice and/or circumstance - I'm not referring to people who are 18.5 and just got married (or not!) or anyone who falls outside the "normal" (what IS that?) demographic. I speak of those who for whatever reason, do not have children because they have chosen or decided not to do so for real, valid, good reasons. Now some of them (us) really just aren't in the mood for all the drama/bodily fluids/life changes, and I totally and completely respect them. After all, you'll never have child protection services called for leaving your pet alone for 8 hours with food and water while you go to work. Many of us have thought long and hard about what Life Would Be like if we went with our biological/societal/personal desires or pressures and, if we were fortunate, popped out or adopted a sprog or two. I personally have seen the vista, and don't think it entirely fair to bring someone into my family if they aren't all going to be 100% supportive, upbeat and encouraging/excited about it.

This is not to say that I would expect to be able to ring my mum and have her trot over and sit for me - Colorado is a bit far away for that, plus she has her own life and has already done a great job raising 3 kids. Nor do I want to malign my dear S., who really and truly thinks that we can wait 15 years and then suddenly have a tribe of six foot tall boys just spring up overnight, mushroom-style. (He thinks we, at 5'4'' and 5'9'', would spawn the next Laker team. I suck at basketball, y'all.) He also thinks that I would be on hand 24/7/365 and he would not be expected to change one.single.diaper.ever, and that he could just, "take over when they are five or so" with no objections from me. I just know that we are, and always will be, better as a "we" than a big bunch, and that is The Way Things Are. I'm not delusional/stupid/selfish enough to think that things would change if there was a miraculous, unexpected "surprise".

Despite all this Logic, Reason and Good Old "Common" Sense, I still struggle every day to put my best face forward when I get ambushed by well-intentioned (I like to think that instead of just calling them ****wits) people who pester/pepper me with queries, theries and ass-vice. Generally they do not a) listen to a word I say in answer/explanation b) care c) think I have one clue what I'm saying, because...wait for it... "I'm not a mom, so I have no idea what I'm missing." or d) tell me how "lucky" I am, I can do Anything I Want! and what a "burden/pain in the a$$ they are, and how kids "ruined their figure/goals/plans" (mom, looking at you here- you 110 pounds/still stacked little stinker, you!)

In a moment of (?) inspiration, I came up with the term "Have-Nots" last night, at a drinks party. Naturally, because it was a day ending in "day", I got Wombushed, and was the only married female sans-kid/s. Despite how often it happens, it hasn't stopped smarting...actually, the feeling is more like a deep, painful burning, similar to applying chile paste to one's eyeballs or nether regions or being punched in the solar plexus while having a heartburn episode. S and another friend of ours, we'll call him Bob, were chatting about how we don't get together often enough, because bla-bla-blah. I had stopped into the kitchen to freshen my faux-Blondie (would that be called a Pamela Anderson?) and was agreeing, yes, really we should just Get Together, and invited Bob and his lovely wife to my annual January 1 walk. I commented that I don't get a lot of calls (and then it just Popped out of my mouth) "being one of the Have-Nots, I don't get many calls for play-dates at the park." Really, why Would they ring me? As far as they know, we can't compare stretch marks, tales of nausea or sudden cravings for strange foods... and I certainly have no reason to want to visit the park, right? Wrong... and thus, A Have-Not was born.

Traditionally, a have-not (small letters) were/are those in difficult financial straights. I am a Have-Not (capitals) - but still manage to get the leftovers, just like the have-nots, in terms of time, quality of said time, and thought, in the minds of the Haves. We Have-Nots, "those of the lower classes. Gifts among equals (The Haves, calling each other for hanging out/taking the kids to XYZ) were exchanged on or before Christmas Day (Top priority) but beneficences (phone calls, emails, letters delivered via carrier pigeon) to those less fortunate (the Have-Nots) were bestowed the day after." (Almost never, or whenever they get round to it). I've hosted and attended, approximately three thousand baby showers - but I'm waiting for the day when someone says, "I've been with/married to for X years, and d****it, I deserve a ROCKING party - so please come over and bring your martini-shaker, and lets' celebrate the fact that I/we've decided that it would be better for everyone that we DO NOT have a baby. Presents are required, and should all be flammable, breakable, or hazardous children. Please, no mom jeans, haircuts or sensible shoes."

I'll R.S.V.P., be on time, bring an appetizer, dance to/with whatever music you play, and promise not to say I have to go home early - for any reason. Because I Have-Not a care in the world, natch, and 'tis Boxing Day, so beware of my deadly 1-2 combo, Wombushers!

Grrrrr!

Shoe-Phoria

So... also... this one other thing. You guys know how I am one of the Cheapest People on the Planet with regards to myself, nothing but The BEST for all of you, dahhhhlings!

Well, it also just so happens that yesterday I had what can only be described as a shopping orgy. Or, at least, a shopping frenzy. It wasn't one of those pre-planned, wear a cute outfit/nice updo/full-makeup Shopping Expeditions- it just happened. You know, the way that sometimes you start putting on makeup for the day and think, "hey, how about a little eyeshadow and liner for a more pulled-together look for once" and all the sudden you've got the magnifying glass, tweezers, eyelash curlers, eyebrow pencil, 33 shades of eyeshadow (none of which go with your original idea/outfit/look, fresh Q-tips, 3 kinds of concealer, liquid/whipped/powder foundations all over the kitchen table .... and someone's revving the engine while you mutter "just a SECOND! I'm ALMOST ready! I just don't wanna go anywhere looking like CRAP ... for ONCE!!"? You know?

Maybe its just me, than. I had thrown on some jeans and flips, touseled my wet hair and rubbed some products on my face in no particular order. I'd planned to walk down to Borders to get S. the new Echo & the Bunnymen CD (Siberia, in case anyone cares or would like to get it... I've only heard two songs so far) Because I am a Nice and Caring Wife, and my butt needs the Excercise very, very much. And it was a nice September day, anyway.

So I drifted down State street, deposited a check, but I was waylaid right at the corner of State and Carrillo. Bang! My old friends at Shooz, once my lunchtime indulgence, beckoned to me with a sirens' call. Well, really, what would you do if you had a) not shopped for shoes in about seventeen months b) were a recovering shoe addict? c) saw that if you bought one pair of shoes, it would be $25, but if you bought TWO, it would be $40? Really, it was like my civic duty to go and rescue those shoes from....anyone else.

There are now two new pairs of shoes in the Pantheon: a pair of black espadrilles with sparkly black flowers on the toes and a so cute stacked fiber-y heel. A lace that goes through a little loop behind the closed (round) toe and laces to another loop behind my heel and criss-crosses around the ankle and ties in the back. The other pair look a wee bit like a black cowboy boot with a square toe, but they are kind of cloggy-style and (dare I say the Bad Word?) comfortable.

But I made it to Borders and escaped with only getting an adorable teeny-tiny striped 2006 calendar for me. Yeah! I heart teeny calendars!

I wasn't safe yet, though...I still had to venture into Paseo Nuevo territory for a new sleeping shirt for Scott. I cannot tell why this was needed, but suffice it to say that it was imperative that I get a black stretch cotton V-neck T shirt, size L, from Bananna Republic. The thing about Bananna for men here in SB is that it is dangerously close to Victoria's Secret AND Nordy's.

The good news is: I had two gift certificates for VS/Nordy's - yeah! But the rather sucky thing is that all of the cute brassieres and bustiers and totally frivolous items in the fun lacey/flirty/non-industrial shapes... do NOT come in my current (actually, stable ever since I took the Pill/shot/crazy-making drugs which I will never, EVER take again) size. Mmmmrrph! Rasssafrrrashhaummgrabblehooks! I did manage to snag two very cute, comfy, low-rider and on sale pairs of undies, which whilst I'm sure they would never be mother-approved for looks, were, did I mention on SALE.

And than came Nordstrom. Yeah! Here I went past the (massively overpriced) shoes, since I figured that two pairs were quite enough. And straight to my demise. You guessed it. The M.A.C. counter. Where I was swabbed clean, exfoliated, concealed, brushed with the gentle virgin tips of a flat foundation brush, shadowed within an inch of my life in (by my count) no fewer than 9 colors. By a nice girl who somehow managed to convince me that I really owed it to myself to buy not only the concealer, new moisturizing/SPF 15/"dewy-looking" foundation, a killer bronzey eye pencil AND the aforementioned brush. The gift card was...gasping. No, actually, it was dead. It died a quick and honorable death.

The best part about the entire expedtion, aside from the complete and utter luxury of not spending (to much) of my own money while still getting a bunch o' clothes....

Not ONE person asked me "When are you gonna have a baaaby? When? for ... lets see ... like six whole hours.

And that, folks, is a record. An official record, as in hasn't happened in yeeeeearrrrs.