Confection Perfection

Like myself, coworker-turned-friend Amy eagerly anticipates her midlife crisis, a time when she can cash in her lucrative (okay, not so much) career in academic publishing, run away with the gypsies, and open a bakery. I actually don't know if gypsies are know for their kneading and frosting skills, but nevertheless, our very own Gypsy Bakery is sure to be more than just a pipe dream.

So, it's appropriate that when Amy and her charming husband Denis came to visit us this week, they came bearing gifts. Gifts in the form of the best damn sugar cookies that I have EVER had. Ever. They're like butter. Quite literally, as Amy astutely observed. They're not just sugar cookies though. These are COW cookies. Just look:

So this morning, shortly after Amy and Denis left for a few days of relaxation on the McKenzie River, I noticed two remaining cow cookies sitting on the table. Well, my jeans size AND the testimony of anyone who has ever known me both suggest that these cookies will not be around when A & D return later in the week. In no time at all, well, I sort of lost my head.

I'm not sure when again in this life I will have anyone bring me cow cookies all the way from a divinely (bovinely?) inspired bakery in Ventura. So, I will simply show my appreciation in the best way I know how--polishing off these suckas. Sorry Amy. Sorry Denis.

Damn.

Today: A Good Day

Today, like most days, I spent a good hour on the phone with Amy, who might be the most empathetic, real, and funny-as-hell person that I know. Which is why I talk to her daily. She sent me the link to her new blog, and in not so many words, told me to get off my ass and update mine. Which I am now doing. Reason #1 that Today is a Good Day.

Also, I got to take a shower. A few weeks ago, when I was first home from the hospital with Roarke, I recall smugly saying to my mother, "I really don't get those women who say that they can't find time for a shower everyday once they have children. How can you NOT find ten freakin' minutes for a shower." Now, I said this at a point when Roarke was sleeping twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes everyday, and when both my mom and my husband were home to keep an eye on the little guy while I indulged in personal hygiene.

Fast forward to yesterday. I did technically take a shower. I mean, I stepped into the shower and got my hair wet. That was as far as I got. Roarke started screaming his adorable little head off, and I was forced to bolt from my liquid heaven to assure myself that Luna wasn't chewing his face off. For the record, Luna is the most placid dog on the planet (well, that's a stretch). But she is completely in love with Roarke and would never hurt a hair on his head. Anyway, back to the point. I hurriedly donned a bathrobe, pulled my sopping hair back, and picked up the babe. And didn't put him down again for the rest of the day, because if I did his head might explode from the piercing nature of his own shrieks. By the time Sean got home, I was so fried that I couldn't take a shower, I couldn't eat dinner, I couldn't do anything but slip into a protective coma, of sorts. Oh, and cry. A lot.

But TODAY, TODAY--well, if one can look past the 4am explosive pooping/peeing/puking episode, Roarke has been asleep in his swing for over an hour, I actually got to SHAVE MY LEGS and DRY MY HAIR, and I ate a PB&J. That I had time to make. Oh, and I wrote this. So, you see, today is a good day.

F-ing Purple Dinosaur

Confession: I hate to shop. There, I said it. Maia is experiencing heart palpitations right now. I don't like shopping alone because when I agonize over a minor purchase, I often need a second opinion to push me to swipe my debit card through the little machine. I don't like to shop with other people, because frankly, I don't care what dress you wear to your second cousin's wedding. Okay Myster, put down the brown paper bag and breathe normally. I like shopping with YOU, but I like to think that we're not shopping so much as we are looking for ways to become a public nuisance.

A few other exceptions to the shopping ban: I love love love to browse for books, and my idea of a perfect day is getting lost in Powell's. I also like to shop for gifts for other people. But, I almost refuse to go clothes shopping. Pants never fit because I'm short, and shirts don't fit because I have the shoulders of a linebacker. And, I'm lazy. There's no thrill of the hunt. I prefer to hunt in my own closet for my ratty track sweatshirt circa 1996 (which was the only year that I ran track because again, I'm lazy). Anyway, finally getting to my point . . . . When I was forced to begin shopping for maternity clothes, I felt as though I had been plunged into the fiery depths of hell.

Here's the problem: You finally find something comfortable, wearable, and reasonably fashionable, and you pay way too much for it because you have no choice. What they don't tell you is that YOU WILL OUTGROW IT. Soon. It's bullshit. Outgrowing maternity clothes? BIGGER maternity clothes? So now I'm spending even more money on even uglier clothing. And it's a challenge to even find huge, ugly clothing to spend money on. Now Portland isn't exactly a sprawling metropolis, but a city with several large malls, a real downtown, and many more shopping districts should have some options. It doesn't.

So online I go. Last week I bit the bullet, surfed to Target.com, Gap.com, OldNavy.com (God bless the internet) and ordered enough clothing to stock an entire store. I had to order everything in two sizes, not knowing which would fit. And how can I tell by a little teeny picture if those pants will make my butt look big? (Um, I'm almost eight months pregnant. Of course my ass will look big. But you can't blame me for trying).

Everything arrived yesterday, and I was, for the most part, pleased as I tore open the packages. Dark brown crinkly v-neck top from Old Navy--score. (I have cleavage! I've never had cleavage!!!) Blue sleeveless top with sweetheart neckline from the Gap--double score. Cool and comfortable, with room to grow. And . . . I'm bored. I pushed aside the rest, and waited for Sean to get home and provide the obligatory second opinions.

No surprise, he was a fan of the cleavage top. I tried on several items, getting mostly thumbs-ups, and an occasional thumbs-down. I pulled a bright purple top over my noggin and glanced in the mirror. Purple--my favorite color (mine and about eighty-thousand 7-year olds, I know). Room to grow. Good. Decent length, which, for those who are unaware, is the most important consideration when dealing with maternity shirts. Longer is better. No one wants a glimpse of a sad, white underbelly. Hmmm, this one, this one I think I really like! I whip the obligatory ties into a bow, wondering if I will ever again wear a shirt that doesn't need to be tied, and I waddle down the hall to once again interrupt the hockey game. "So, what do you think?" I ask expectantly as I execute an ackward twirl. I see a sparkle of amusement flicker in his eyes, and Sean starts singing, "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family." And I realize that tomorrow I will be heading to the mall with a load of returns.

After another, longer look in the mirror, I couldn't deny that he was in fact on to something. I was definitely channeling Barney. The only thing this shirt is appropriate for is as protective gear for first-graders engaged in finger-painting or mud-pie making. I'm beginning to accept that it might be pointless to try to look hip and sophisticated in a top that would under any other circumstances be described as a "smock." Smocks are not cool. Someday soon, when all of this is over, I think I will embrace my wide shoulders and stubby legs and take them downtown to revel in the experience of trying on real clothing that isn't meant to accomodate bowling balls. Um, beach balls. Until then, can a girl get a muumuu?

An American Tradition

I don't recall exactly when or why the tradition began, but I do know that for years and years now, Sean and I have observed major political events--every State of the Union, elections of all varieties (primaries, presidential, state, local), and even state funerals (with no disrespect meant to President Ford)--by having cupcakes, chips-n-guacamole, and beer. I think we started with blue-frosted cupcakes and soon came to the obvious conclusion that we needed to cut sweet with salt. And we have beer because, well, we like beer and it makes watching the likes of George W. Bush slightly more bearable. In less than an hour, the Democratic debate is set to begin. I've been frosting cupcakes to the music of the South Carolina State marching band (not unlike Kramer and Newman stringing sausages around Jerry's kitchen) and becoming more and more giddy with every "Hah! Hah!" that comes from Chris Matthew's mouth. Chris is giddy, too. We should ALL be giddy, for this marks the official beginning of the race to take back the White House. And we should certainly all have cupcakes to celebrate. Because that, THAT, is the American way.

I am thinking that I need to add another snack to our repertoire for this go-around. Something with a bit of oomph. Something that can be safely thrown at the television when the next RNC comes around.

Bliss

If you think about it, much about adulthood, well, quite simply, it blows. The novelty of staying out late, sleeping in later, and having my own checking account wore off long, long ago (especially once I was the only one putting money into the checking account). Every once in awhile, though, I remember exactly why being a grown-up is lovely. Like Monday night (um, okay, and Tuesday night, too) when I was stuck in a hotel room and the wind swirled the snow around in the glow of the streetlight in wintery Bend. What choice did I have but to order food in? So order I did--cheese sticks and apple pie for dinner. Twice. Also, it wasn't really snowing, and it was around 6pm, so the streetlights weren't on yet. But I wanted cheesesticks and apple pie and dammit, that's what I had (twice). Because no one could tell me not to.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I should also mention that I went to the doctor today and I've gained 8 lbs in four weeks.

I've Still Got It?

I popped into Borders this afternoon to pick up an Easter gift for my goddaughter Presley, aka Little Miss Prissly, aka Parsley. Also, having graduated from the What to Expect When You're Expecting stage to the Oh My God, How Do I Avoid Completely Screwing Up My Baby stage, I wanted to browse in the parenting section. Of course, I became completely overwhelmed and subsequently frozen (same reaction, by the way, as when I graduated from college, when I tried on a wedding veil for the first time, and when I first had to shop for maternity clothes). Anyway, I made my way to the front of the line, nabbed a magazine from the strategically-placed rack, and walked to the counter. "Hey," said the at-least-five-years-younger-than-me Borders employee in a tone that could only be described as flirtatious, "I don't see too many people in here reading the New Yorker. "Sure," I replied, weary from the combination of a four-month bout of sciatica, low blood sugar, and a few too many encounters with stupid, stupid men, "And how many of these do you sell?" as I slapped a copy of Consumer Reports for Baby Products," on the above-belly-height counter. And I have to admit that I giggled to myself, just a little bit, when I saw the light come on.

The Hills Have Eyes

No, not the horror movie. I don't watch crap like that. But the hills do have eyes. Mine. What I'm talking about (Terra, you guessed it) is MTV's The Hills. I love it, and I can't stop watching. Shameless, I know. As with so many things in my life, though, you'll be happy to know that I am indeed able to justify my current obsession. I'm educating myself. It's like this: Sean, for example, loves watching nature shows, history programs, and the like. The Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, the History Channel--you get the idea. By association, of course, I watch many of the same things. What for? Well, I enjoy observing other creatures in their habitats. I see peoples from other cultures, individuals with values, world views, and lifestyles completely different from my own. Now--make the connection. I know you can do it. No? I need to spell it out for you? Here it is: My life is the polar opposite of the lives of the gals and guys on The Hills. I mean, really? Do girls actually wear that much makeup? Are boys really that pretty? Do people really use the word "like" with such frequency? Heidi! Honey, that little voice inside you--it's there for a reason. If every bone in your body is telling you to not move in with that receding-hairline-pretty-boy-manipulative-prick Spencer, then don't do it. These girls go to hot nightclubs on Wednesday nights. I prefer raunchy karaoke bars, an evening with friends and random trivia, and if it's a Friday night, I frankly prefer my pj's, a fuzzy blanket, and a movie on-demand. While in college (and for years thereafter, come to think of it) I lived in dorm rooms and houses filled with hand-me-down furniture and struggled to make rent. These twenty-year-old girls live in spacious, designer-decorated condos. I'm not judging, mind you. I'm simply drawing comparisons. Comparisons in the name of education.

I think I will go read a book now. Perhaps Teen Vogue? Oh, wait.

SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME

Last week, we found out that our baby, due this summer, is a little boy (so excited)! Today, my husband passed along a gift from my mother-in-law, a book of prayers for mothers. Now I appreciate the sentiment behind the gift (after all, I'm sure many mothers rely on prayer to guide them as they raise their children). With that being said, this book is problematic on a few levels.

FIRST, the inscription: "To Alicia & Sean." Um, last time I checked, Sean, bless his heart, isn't enduring stretch marks, loss of sleep, loss of bladder control, diminished wardrobe options, and sciatic nerve issues that leave one with a constant pain in the rump (though I suppose he is enduring my bitching about all of the above). So, um, why is the book for him also? I don't really like to share.

Now, let's flip to the inside cover. Standard copyright information, including "No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without expressed permission from the publisher." But aren't they encouraging me to recite the prayers? Do I need to provide God with a bibliography? Which citation format does God prefer? Personally, I feel that APA is wimpy at best, but Chicago is a holy nightmare . . . . where does that leave us? MLA? Science and religion obviously don't mix, so CBE is out.

Okay, so now a few observations about the prayers themselves. WHO writes these things (and how much do they get paid)? How about:

"For a Homosexual Child"

I will always love my child through whatever difficulties lie ahead. Please help me to overcome my fears. Help us to keep our relationship strong. Please guide and protect this child in your safe and loving ways.

Um, shouldn't this be a prayer that a mother says for ALL for her children? Just wait, here's another:

"When My Husband Is Overworked"

My husband came in so late that he didn't even see the baby. Instead of understanding that he'd had a rough day, I questioned why he was late. The lipstick on his collar and liquor on his breath made me wonder if he fell into a prostitute AND a bottle of Jack all in the same day. My poor hubbie. Of course, I can't understand the pressures of the office, since this prayer assumes that all I do is wander around barefoot with a screaming child on my hip.

Okay, I made up part of that one. But this, this is inspiring:

"Infidelity"

Here I am, wife, mother, partner, friend. Betrayed. What do I do? What are my choices? Break up the family? Forgive and forget? Chop off his weenie?

"For Teachers and Mentors of My Child"

Lord, let the teachers and mentors in my child's life be strong in faith, and solid in purpose. And also, let them not be pedophiles.

"Child Getting Married"

Only yesterday, I held this child in my arms. Today my child is starting a whole new life. I'm not worried, though. Through my daily phone calls, too-frequent visits, and carefully-timed temper tantrums, I will make sure that I remain the center of his focus and the number-one woman in his life.

What I like BEST about this book is the broad scope of topics. There really is help for EVERYTHING. And by everything, I mean, "Mental Retardation," "Menopause," and "Sex." What a comfort.

I do pray that sarcasm translates in a blog.

I won't even start about the portrayal of "God the Father," all-knowing, all-powerful, all-male. Of course this God is one I can rely on to understand and guide me on the journey of motherhood.