She Likes Purple

Reaching Out

I remember reading this post all those months ago and I remember thinking, She deserves an easy pregnancy. All women do. I also remember thinking that, wow, you sure have to be careful how honest you choose to be on your blog. Because someone, somewhere, is going to take it the wrong way and think you're whining or being ungrateful or looking a gift horse in the mouth when all you're really doing is reaching out for a hand to hold. So many women feel the need to disclaim that they're not whining or being ungrateful or looking a gift horse in the mouth in order to be open and honest and, really, that's tragic because as women we should be easiest on other women. We should be propping one another up and patting each other on the back and sending care packages and warm, fuzzy thoughts. We should not be eagerly judging from our safe corners of the world, where we're no doubt doing something wrong ourselves. It's our gender's fatal flaw, I think, that so many of us are prone to snap judgments and fake smiles. Myself included.

I threw up in my car and—fine, I'll be straight with you—on myself on the way to work yesterday. I couldn't get over in time. I couldn't reach for one of the many empty bags littering my backseat in time. There was nothing I could do. I pulled into a Wendy's parking lot just before 9am and cried because, well, throwing up on myself was not what I had in mind when I was dreaming about babies all those months ago. I called work to let them know I wouldn't be in, and then I rode home in a fog of guilt (among other things). I have a job I enjoy, and I'm not doing it to the best of my usual ability because I feel physically awful most days. I am on a steady and insanely, angrily expensive dose of Zofran. Some days it's a magic pill, and I'm able to eat an entire hot fudge sundae without problem and other days it works less magically, and I still get sick. On both the good and bad days I'm always, always tired.

Amy said in that mid-March post:

"But pregnancy...well, it's not the baby. I get that this time around. I get that my attitude towards the whole messy gestating process does not mean I have the same attitude towards the baby."

Amy is right.

I think about my baby every day, at least hundreds of times. I think about his—wait, can I just get a resounding "sure!" to using "his" because the whole its, their, his/her thing is getting rather cumbersome?—laugh and his soul and his little feet which I will absolutely put into shoes that are outrageously expensive and unnecessary. I think about Mike playing in the yard with him and Molly eventually snuggling up to him and even dropping him off at grandma's from time to time. (Or as often as we're allowed.) I also think I would really love for February to be here, like, tomorrow.

Pregnancy is hard, and here's my personal, feels-necessary-to-add disclaimer: I know it's hard for so many. I know women go through pregnancy with unsupportive partners and with other children to attend to and little to no insurance coverage and medical conditions I can't even fathom and, yet, they do it, they march on and have their beautiful baby and they don't bother spewing complaints on their blog, especially when they wanted this SO DAMN MUCH. But, well, it's still hard. The deep, burning desire for this doesn't change it being difficult. And you know what the absolute kicker of it all is? When I feel good, when I'm having a twenty-minute period of everything feeling like it used to and a stomach that actually CRAVES food, I panic. Is the baby okay? Why do I feel fine? WHAT IS GOING ON?

(Don't you want to send my husband flowers? Or beer? Or a sound-proof box with which to crawl in and ignore me from for the next 6ish months?)

I talk to the baby a lot, especially on my drive to and from work when I have a good hour or two to myself with nothing more than traffic and bad drivers to pay attention to. I tell him about his mom and dad and how we already leave him messages on our chalkboard and how we're not the tidiest of parents but all those dust bunnies will do wonders for his immune system. How we can't wait to meet him and how I'm just dying to find out what color eyes and hair he has. (Is your hair red, baby?) I tell him about the trips we'll take him on and that sometimes mama says "shit" but that doesn't make it right, it just makes mama HUMAN. I remind him that he'll say shit too, probably way before he should, but we're going to love him EVEN THEN. I am so happy and lucky and over the moon to be having a baby, and I am all of these things even when I am crying in bed because is KEEPING A SLICE OF PIZZA DOWN REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK? There's not anything I wouldn't go through to get to the end of this, I want you to know, to the moment I get to hold my kid in my arms. I would go through—and will, undoubtedly—worse to get there. No matter how much I bitch and cry and throw up, that fact will never waiver.

But that doesn't mean I don't need a hand to hold every now and again. Not advice, not head pats, not judgmental whispers from afar, just support.

And I know I'm not the only one, pregnant or otherwise.

I Think Judy Blume Got Hosed

I blatantly stole this book lover's quiz from Kristin at Camels & Chocolate. Below is a list of books printed by The Big Read, an organization that—according to their Web site—hopes to "restore reading to the center of American culture." They say, though, that the average American has only read six of the following hundred.

(I majored in English! This is going to be humiliating, I just know it!)

Key
1) Bold the books you have already read
2) Italicize the books you intend to read
3) Personally added: Notes in parentheses next to note-worthy titles.
4) THE FIVE PEOPLE YOU MEET IN HEAVEN SHOULD NOT BE ON THIS LIST.

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1) Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
2) The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien
3) Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (Also, does it count—even a little—that I have read this?)
4) Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling (I've technically only read one of seven, but I NEED ALL THE HELP I CAN GET HERE.)
5) To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (This book changed my eighth-grade life.)
6) The Bible
7) Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
8) Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell
9) His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman
10) Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (Hated.)
11) Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
12) Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
13) Catch 22 by Joseph Heller (I own it!)
14) Complete Works of Shakespeare (Not his complete works, but enough to make bolding this only a partial lie; Much Ado about Nothing is my favorite.)
15) Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier
16) The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien
17) Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
18) Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger
19) The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
20) Middlemarch by George Eliot
21) Gone With The Wind by Margaret Mitchell (I went through a phase when I was eleven or so when I couldn't go a day without thinking about this book/movie. I even read the "sequel" I was that wide-eyed and obsessed with Scarlett O'Hara.)
22) The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (I read this in high school sophomore English, and it was my least favorite book we read that year.)
23) Bleak House by Charles Dickens (After Great Expectations, reading Dickens is not a priority.)
24) War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
25) The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (I'm guessing the movie doesn't count?)
26) Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
27) Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28) Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (I've read East of Eden! Add East of Eden to the list!)
29) Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
30) The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame
31) Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (Again, I already own it.)
32) David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
33) Chronicles of Narnia by CS Lewis
34) Emma by Jane Austen
35) Persuasion by Jane Austen
36) The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe by CS Lewis
37) The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
38) Captain Corelli's Mandolin by Louis De Bernieres
39) Memories of a Geisha by Arthur Golden (Own.)
40) Winnie the Pooh by AA Milne
41) Animal Farm by George Orwell
42) The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown (I read the first twenty pages or so and was so utterly bored, I couldn't believe anyone—let alone MILLIONS of people—enjoyed it.)
43) One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Beautiful. Perfect.)
44) A Prayer for Owen Meaney by John Irving
45) The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
46) Anne of Green Gables by LM Montgomery
47) Far From The Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy
48) The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
49) Lord of the Flies by William Golding
50) Atonement by Ian McEwan (Funny story: I loved this book when I read it in my British Lit course in college. I lent it to Natalie, raving about it, and she returned it and said, "This sucked." And Natalie will read anything.)
51) Life of Pi by Yann Martel (Own it; I hear it's just brilliant.)
52) Dune by Frank Herbert
53) Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons
54) Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
55) A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth
56) The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57) A Tale Of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
58) Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
59) The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon
60) Love In The Time Of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61) Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
62) Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
63) The Secret History by Donna Tartt
64) The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold (I had the privilege of meeting Alice Sebold at a book show a year ago, and she was incredibly gracious and soft-spoken.)
65) Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
66) On The Road by Jack Kerouac
67) Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
68) Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding (Does it count if you're fairly sure you read it, but you can't honestly remember?)
69) Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie
70) Moby Dick by Herman Melville (I was in the English class opposite the class that was assigned this book. We read Good Earth instead. I think we were the lucky ones.)
71) Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens (DOES CHARLES DICKENS REALLY DESERVE LIKE HALF THIS LIST?)
72) Dracula by Bram Stoker
73) The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
74) Notes From A Small Island by Bill Bryson
75) Ulysses by James Joyce (And was I ever a confused teenager.)
76) The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
77) Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome
78) Germinal by Emile Zola
79) Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
80) Possession by AS Byatt
81) A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
82) Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell
83) The Color Purple by Alice Walker
84) The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
85) Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
86) A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
87) Charlotte's Web by EB White
88) The Five People You Meet In Heaven by Mitch Albom
89) Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90) The Faraway Tree Collection by Enid Blyton
91) Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
92) The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93) The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks
94) Watership Down by Richard Adams
95) A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
96) A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute
97) The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98) Hamlet by William Shakespeare
99) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
100) Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

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Total: 20(ish)

Your turn.

Already Taking After His/Her Father

We had a doctor's appointment today, one that was supposed to be relatively quick and easy and in-and-out like, but the baby was either holding his/her breath during the Doppler portion of the appointment or acting JUST LIKE HIS/HER FATHER with the 1% adorableness and the 99% NERVE-GRATING STUBBORNNESS.

Since we couldn't hear the heartbeat on the Doppler—and, yes, I was told it was still a bit early and the placenta could be throwing a curve ball and that whatever you do, Jennifer, DO NOT FREAK OUT, I proceeded to FREAK THE HELL OUT—my doctor opted for a quickie sonogram. Mike wasn't in the room for the decision because it all happened rather quickly, so I asked for them to fetch him for me.* We walked to the sonogram room, with nervous eyes glancing at Mike and with a zillion thoughts rushing through my already-in-need-of-a-nap head. Within two seconds of putting the sonogram ... um ... device (?) on my stomach, the baby was there, heart fluttering away. I think he/she even waved and perhaps said something about sending more Snickers down when I got a chance. WHATEVER YOU WANT, BABY.

The heartbeat was strong, the baby looked much more like a(n) (albeit alien) baby than a grain of rice this time around and I couldn't hold the tears back even if I had wanted to. It was ridiculously cool. (Lord, when my child reads this for the first time, he/she is totally going to roll his/her eyes and ask, "Cool? THAT'S the adjective you're using to describe hearing my heartbeat for the first time?") MAMA IS TIRED YOU STUBBORN, CUTE THING, YOU.

As we were leaving, Mike said, "I think our kid knew we'd want another picture, so he/she acted all stubborn so we could get a sonogram." Well, kiddo, if that's so, this one's for you:

Blurry, yes. BUT SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL. Also doesn't he/she look adorably snuggly in there?

(Note: I was also told today that I have a great uterus. That's one compliment I have never prepared a response to, so I just smiled like I hear that sort of thing all the time. I was told that by my doctor, of course. Not like by the gas station attendant or a waitress or something.)

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*Mike told me, at our lunch after the appointment, that when they came into the waiting room, calling for a Mike, he began scanning the room thinking, I've never met a woman named Mike before. I MUST SEE WHAT SHE LOOKS LIKE. They kept repeating the name and finally he sort of awkwardly pointed to himself and said, "Um, I'm a Mike."

Where I Go From Here

One thing that's been on my mind since returning from San Francisco and the "blogging thing at that cool hotel," as my dad called it, is the nagging question of where I take this site from here? I started this blog on a whim of sorts. I had been blogging at MySpace for years (and in reviewing those old posts, SWEET LORD, did I need an English refresher), but after I spent an entire day last April devouring Amalah's archives, I decided I also wanted a space with prettier sidebars and fewer naked 14-year-olds. I set-up a Typepad account and off I went. I was a month away from getting married at the time, and even though it still makes me cringe to look back on those first poorly put-together posts, I am glad I have some sort of record of that time. I wrote my vows to Mike in one of those early posts and since I've since lost the cocktail napkin I first wrote them on, and I can't honestly remember where our wedding video is, there's something very cool about having a record of those words.

The first day my blog was officially viewable to the Internet, I had exactly one page view. (Which was probably by me. Or Mike.) A few weeks ago I had my highest daily page view count at 1220. It usually averages somewhere in the middle of those two numbers. Do I care about my page views? Sure, in the same way I think most people do. I like to know that what I'm putting out there is being read and enjoyed, and it's also kind of fascinating in a way. But am I writing these posts and am I maintaining this site so people will boost my ego or so I can have a place to hone my writing skills and meet people who understand where I'm coming from? It's a really good question, and I'd like to say that it's unequivocally the latter, hands down, but we're all pretty gray-area people, aren't we? (Wait, aren't we?) When my traffic dips—and if I'm paying attention to it—my nerves sort of fray along with it. It's an embarrassing slippery slope. Because of my frayed nerves my writing gets botched, and there are times I can get out little more than pictures of Molly or the many ways in which our rent check would be better spent at our local Target. (You know, the really good, quality stuff.)

A little while ago I decided to stop obsessively watching my stats on a daily basis, and I only checked in to be entertained by the Google searches that brought people to my site. (Favorite still: "Where's the party at bitches?") Not monitoring my traffic was an incredibly smart decision for me, and I do think it helped my writing. For me, things seem to go better when I encourage myself to be motivated by passion and not feedback. And let's be really honest here: the number of people who view your site is not always directly related to how good of a writer you are.

At BlogHer this past weekend, as I was sitting in the Maggie Mason-led panel, "Pursuing Your Passion," I realized that I do want a lot more from this site, though, and I don't mean more traffic. I want this to be a place where I can be truly proud of the content. I want this to be a place where my skills are improved and where I can make true connections with other people who understand being passionate about writing in an open forum. I want my own thoughts to dictate what I post and not what I think will receive the most comments. (And I do look to Maggie as one inspiration in that regard. You can tell she runs her site differently than some and in the brief time I spent in her presence it's obvious that's because she's an incredibly grounded and together person.)

Over the weekend I met Elizabeth for lunch and afterwards we—along with two of my BlogHer roommates—stopped in H&M before hanging out in our hotel room for a while. When she left, I was sad, which is a feeling I wasn't expecting. I'm the kind of person who usually needs some time to digest things. I need a little space before I can process overwhelming experiences. But there was such an affinity between her and I, and it felt really unfair that she had to go her way—to another city in California—and I had to go mine—to THE HOTTEST PLACE ON EARTH, OH MY GOD WILL THERE EVER BE A BREEZE IN TEXAS AGAIN? She sent me a link today to a slew of purple shoes at Piperlime (as did Cherie), and it reminded me, again, that I met this woman through this site. Without it I wouldn't know her.

But, to me, there is more involved than just meeting really cool people. It's about the love of the written word, and the well-written word at that. If I'm going to pad my Google Reader with a bunch of blogs that will take my attention away from pregnancy napping (which, if it were an Olympic sport, I could totally place in, let me tell you) I want them to offer me something. I want to take something from the posts I read—inspiration, perspective, an unmatched sense of humor, originality, a damn good story. I want to read things that force me to use up my printer ink by printing them out and re-reading them while I eat my morning cereal. I don't comment on sites so the blog authors will comment back. I comment because I was moved to say something. I read because the sites are, for lack of a better word, good. And, let me be really—kind of crazily—honest: I only want you to comment or read or visit my site because you feel the same way. (Unless you're my mother. You have to keep reading. DON'T THINK I WON'T QUIZ YOU.) Our time is so precious and as stunningly cool as this community is, we do have lives and jobs and husbands who sort of like to look at our faces without the glow of a laptop illuminating them. We have off-line friends who are still pretty spectacular even though they don't know what Twitter is. We have new cupcake bakeries to seek out (Tart Bakery in Dallas on Lovers Lane) and fall shows to obsess over and did I mention the naps? If we're going to carve out (our really valuable) time to be on the Internet, we want the company we keep and the topics we discuss to make us better people and better writers, don't we?

The one thing that has shocked me most since returning from BlogHer is the vitriol that has popped up all over the Internet from certain (usually anonymous) bloggers about other bloggers. They are talking about what particular bloggers were wearing and what their noses looked like (I'm self-aware, so, hi, mine is big) and how this blogger snubbed this other one and how THIS BIG BLOGGER was totally unapproachable and curt and she's not even a good writer and SERIOUSLY? That's what you want to spend your (could-be-napping) time doing? You want to fixate and whine and create this ridiculous bubble of WOE IS ME? So you didn't like so-and-so. You thought she was better online. You thought she'd be nicer to you than she was. That's fine; that's even normal. Go ahead and delete them from your bookmark list or your feed reader and remember that there are a million other talented, funny women out there you can fill up your time reading. If you choose to focus on the ones who weren't nice or the ones you didn't like, that sort of makes you look bad, not them. (And I'd be shocked if your family isn't highly annoyed that metaphorically glaring at people from afar is how you choose to spend your time online and away from them.)

Anyway, this is all getting incredibly introspective and deep and it's also jumping all over the place, and I really didn't mean for that to happen. The point I have been messily trying to make from the beginning is this: I want to get better at what I do and I want to focus on why I do it. If you care to hang around with me while I go about all that, well, wow, I'll appreciate it like you wouldn't believe. Really.

Heather Armstrong talked—in her BlogHer Saturday night keynote—about writing the perfect post. She talked about having an idea, seeing the words clearly, writing out those words and then realizing the end result was exactly what she had hoped it would be. She said that feeling is one of the best feelings in the world and when she can't find that feeling any longer, it will be time to walk away. (This is paraphrasing a bit from my fuzzy, chocolate-coated memory. BlogHer powers-that-be: HAVE MORE SNICKERS NEXT YEAR. TWO IN ONE SITTING IS NOT ENOUGH.) Even though we can't all bring in enough ad money to support our families (although Mike is constantly wondering WHY THE HELL NOT) we can understand what that feeling—or even just striving for that feeling—is like.

It's beautiful, and it's worth it.

A Story Of Accomplishment

The following is Inspired by Elizabeth and her idea to offer writing prompts every Wednesday for interested bloggers. Here's my response to her call to "Tell Me A Story."

The semester before I meet him—the semester before my life flips upside down—I spend most of my time with Cherie. She is deeply funny and when she tells stories, you listen; you can't help it, she's just that engaging. Her eyes also crinkle when she laughs. She lets me stay with her for most of that semester, after late nights in dusty bars with far too many flaming Dr. Peppers and on regular nights after devouring an entire Potato Shack buffalo-wing potato. She opens up her house to me, and we watch One Tree Hill episodes and talk about our lives and love interests and what we're going to wear to our next sorority date party. She becomes my first call that semester. We share a film class and we ride together in her big, maroon truck to campus once a week for our movie viewings and at one point, during the saddest scenes in Gladiator, I begin sobbing, and she won't stop laughing at me for it.

But then I meet him, and my life shifts imperceptibly at first and then quite obviously soon thereafter. We become interested in one another, and there are phone calls and dates set and awkward first kisses and electrifying later kisses. I'm falling in love with him, everyone can see it, and everyone is holding their breath because it's all moving so fast and so fiercely and she's worried for me. Of course she is. What will happen if this doesn't work out, she thinks. What will you do then, she wonders. I ignore her unvoiced concerns and spend less and less time with her, but every day I miss her. She doesn't buy it. I'm the one making this change, this choice. As warm as his house is every time I walk into it, as warm as his eyes get when he looks at me, I still miss her. Almost five years later, I'm still not sure if she knew how much.

Months into my relationship with him, he tells me about a family wedding and free airline tickets that were offered to us if we want to go. He wants me to meet the throngs of family members that live on the Florida coasts, and we've never been on an actual trip together, so I say yes. Of course I want to go. Of course I will go. But then I realize this wedding falls on the same day as Cherie's graduation party—a party she's been planning all semester, a party she had me reserve the date for months earlier. I drive over to her house one afternoon to tell her I won't be there. I'll be out of town with him instead. She is understandably hurt. Things aren't okay when I leave.

Later that day, in the parking lot of a Sprint store with Mike behind the wheel of his old, champagne-colored Nissan Altima, I cry for the first time in front of him over this fight with my friend.

Things stay strained for a while. She and I are not the same for a few very long, hard weeks and after that things are slow to return to normal. There are more arguments, more silent periods, more tears on my new boyfriend's shoulder. I am happier than I have ever been when Mike first tells me he loves me atop the Empire State Building nearly a month after this fight with Cherie. I am in love with him—and I have been for a while—and to hear that he loves me in return is blissful, it's everything, but I don't call her to tell her the news and there's a throbbing hole where that conversation should be.

We begin to pick up the pieces, though, and bricks upon bricks are lifted off my shoulders when we do. We share margaritas on the patio of On the Border that summer, and when she gets a job in Dallas, I'm thrilled for her. Her life is beginning. She's going to be fine. But I miss her even before she leaves, and when the time comes, when she's just days from leaving, we go out together to the strip of bars we used to frequent so often as two single college girls. We sit in one of those old dusty bar booths with our Long Island Iced Teas in hand and we talk about everything and nothing, as we always have. She says to me, after a few shots and a lot of nostalgia, "Our friendship is one of my greatest accomplishments." It's brought on by the drinks and the sadness of moving and all we've been through together, I know, but it was the best thing anyone has ever said to me.

Almost five years later, her eyes still crinkle when she laughs, and she is still—thank God—my friend.

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If you're interested in participating next week—and I'll remind you when the time comes—here's the next prompt: "Start any story with, 'I wouldn't say it was my best idea,' and go from there."

My Week Back Away

When I walked into the Community Keynote this past Friday night—with an embarrassing number of candy bars in hand—I was still in a bit of shock with the environment I had willingly thrown myself into. There were so many people! So many I read and admired! So few places to take a nap! Even though I roomed with three very cool women, and I got to meet and hug so many others, I was still taking it all in on Friday night, not entirely sure the trip had been worth it. Then Casey took the stage and read her chosen post on parenting—a post I had actually read months before. There was such vulnerability, raw bravery, sheer grace and unharnessed honesty to her few minutes in front of a thousand fellow bloggers, and I instantly remembered why I had come, why I even keep a blog in the first place. There is such power in community, such a force in the act of capturing and sharing and putting our truths out there for the world to know and judge. The act of it is just so unbelievably courageous, and I'm honored to be among all the strong and talented women who bare their souls on a daily basis.

(FYI: The rest of the keynote speakers—on both Friday and Saturday nights—were all just as brave and impressive.)

Most of the other women I met just oozed class and originality and charm. (There are so many more I could link to, but, MY GOSH, linking is time-consuming.) Sure, not everyone was as fabulous as I had hoped, but they were mere blips on a much larger and cooler radar.

I didn't party all weekend long as I kind of wished I could have. On Friday night I was convinced it was nearing midnight and I needed to leave the cocktail party and collapse in bed, but when I headed outside it was STILL LIGHT OUT, and I may have been in my PJs at 9:30 that night. Or 9. I would begin to feel beat down and exhausted and a bit crampy first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening, and although I wanted to make the rounds and take pictures with all of my blog crushes and socialize like a butterfly, I knew I needed to take it down a notch. (Mike is happy about that.) It doesn't make for many fun, drunken stories, but it does make the list of things I plan to hold over this child's head one day THAT MUCH LONGER.

When Mike asked if I would go again, I said, "Of course! AND I PLAN TO DRINK MY WAY THROUGH IT NEXT TIME." And, friends, I mean that.

I was actually in the Bay Area for a full week—before and after BlogHer—which both flew by and seemed like just a day or two too long to be away from my dog and my DVR. Before the conference I spent time with family, and I didn't fight my dad's insistence that I just "relax more!" and "rest!" and FINE DAD if you want to fluff those pillows and buy me another donut, I'll let you. THIS ONE TIME. The day after the conference I took my roommates around the city—the Victorian houses on Hayes Street were the biggest hit, it's safe to say—and forced them to listen to hours of "and that's where I went to elementary school and over there is where my sister made me beg for money on the street." As we were driving around one of the coolest cities I've ever been to and right after I announced that a particular McDonalds we passed near the park was one I used to frequent on Sundays, one of my carmates asked where I preferred to live, Texas or San Francisco. I didn't even pause—it didn't even occur to me to think about it—before saying, "Wherever Mike is."

I'm home now, in a house in a suburb in boring, suffocatingly hot, flat North Texas. The H&Ms and In & Out Burgers and blogging celebrity spottings are all a long plane ride—and a lifetime—away from me, but his face sure was worth returning to. Home is where he is.

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For those who may be curious, the baby seems to be doing okay—although we'll know more at our next appointment this Friday. He/She only made mama physically sick a handful of times (and most of those were reserved for the plane-ride home because my Zofran prescription had run out). But I did pick up this onesie for his/her dad at a shop in Ghirardelli Square which amused me enough to forgive all the end-of-the-trip nausea. BUT LORD CHILD YOU BETTER BE CUTE.

When I handed Mike the onesie and yelled, "Surprise!" he pulled A NEW BLACKBERRY out of his pocket for me and also said "Surprise!" Not as soft as a onesie, no, but SO MUCH MORE BADASS OH MY GOODNESS I CAN'T EVEN STAND IT. Pictures from the blackberry and the trip to come ... soonish. I have a week's worth of General Hospital to get caught up on first.

BlogHer Roommates

Stolen from Kristie. The rest of the pictures are coming. When you pack nineteen pairs of shoes you apparently don't have room for a card reader. But you do have room for a giant red handbag from H&M. OR YOU'LL FIND ROOM, WON'T YOU. (Baby, it was cheap. I promise.)

Things are going smashingly. I'm sleeping more than other bloggers I'M SURE (kid: you better love me more than your father) but I'm having fun, meeting fantastic people, accepting such sweet baby gifts (thank you Leah! Elizabeth! Raven!) and sipping on as much water as possible.

I'll be sad to go even though I miss my husband and my dog more than I ever have, I think.

Day One: Still Standing

So, it's nearing 11pm on the close of my first day at BlogHer and—oh my shit—I'm awake and I haven't been sick in days. Queasy, sure. A bit nauseous when those spring rolls passed by me earlier tonight, yes. But sick? NOT SINCE I BITCHED AND MOANED ON MONDAY. I don't know what that actually means—vacation gods smiling down on me, karma patting me on the back, someone playing a sick joke on Mike and forcing me to be a raging pregnant bitch only in his presence, but I'll take it.

For those of you here at BlogHer, I hope you have a great time and if you need a drink ticket, come see me.

It's all a bit overwhelming here, but it's also pretty spectacular to walk into a room and meet so many old friends.

On My Way, Ready Or Not

I'm leaving for the airport in about a half hour—although my flight is already delayed 15 minutes and before I even board, I'll owe the airline something like $50, making this travel day already chock full of fun—and Mike is still asleep in the other room, snoring and curled up with nine pillows and our dog.

I've been looking forward to this trip for almost a year now and, yet, now that it's upon me, a part of me doesn't want to go. To be honest, I really don't feel well, and I know I didn't invent pregnancy and am not the first one to struggle through her days and nights with a nauseous stomach and a neverending desire to just go to bed—wait, I just woke up a half hour ago? Well, it's certainly been a grueling thirty minutes.

I don't know if I can put into words how excited I am to be pregnant. There are some instances in life where words fail—the right ones just don't yet exist—but feeling like this can depress a person fairly quickly because there's just so much one cannot do when they are continually throwing up their lunch (sorry for that visual). I would really hate if next weekend is sort of awfully tainted by how sick I could very well be. I hope I'm being overly dramatic. I hope my adrenaline pushes me forward and causes me to forget the nausea and exhaustion. I hope this doesn't turn out to be a very (very) expensive trip filled with the exact same things I could be doing at home—napping and complaining.

There has been one consistent force pushing me on through the last few weeks and that's Mike. He is supportive, funny, caring, comforting and he is each one when I need it most. And, unfortunately, he doesn't fit in my carry-on bag. A conference full of my favorite bloggers just didn't entice him to jump on a plane as easily as it did me, but he was always encouraging of this trip, of me having a week to myself to enjoy some family, the city I grew up in, the people I've come to really care for but haven't yet had the pleasure to meet. My husband is so many frustrating and fist-clenching things, but there is no one in my life who accepts me just as I am without a word of criticism.

When I mentioned to Mike—months and months ago—that there were some husbands out in the blogosphere who weren't as supportive of this typing habit as he was and that many of them even thought it was crazy, he said to me, "Well, baby, it is kind of crazy, but I knew crazy was what I was getting into with you."

And that's just how it goes with us—we are who we are and the other one never asks why. But I sort of forget, sometimes, how much I enjoy being with Mike until I'm faced with eight days away from him. I will have fun—vomiting or not—and so will he—a house and a DVR to himself—but it doesn't dull the fact that I'll miss him. That I already do.

So, I'm off. A little nervous, slightly hesitant and, yes, excited too. Sometimes it's just best to admit all of that beforehand.

What You Should Know About Me...

...if you're going to BlogHer (or, even if you're not and just happen to run into me next week in Target).

(Oh, and this was totally inspired by Rhi.)

1) I go by Jennie. My name is Jennifer and I sign off as Jennifer—mostly professionally—but it's Jennie. It's always been. Only my father and credit card companies actually call me Jennifer. (I also like Jen.)

2) I trip a lot. If you see me tripping, I'm not drunk. I, sadly, won't be drunk at all next weekend. But I will most likely fall or trip or knock something important over. Hopefully it won't be you.

3) I'll be around 9 weeks pregnant. So, please, no variations of: "But you look at least five months along!" or "Oh, I can already see the bump!" Let's be real here, the bump is fat I can suck in no longer. Reminding me of that (sad) fact will not make me want to give you my drink tickets.

4) Oh, yes! I'll have extra drink tickets! A few of which have already been promised to Heather B. but there should be more, so who wants them?

5) I talk really fast when I get nervous. Stop me if you don't understand a word coming out of my mouth.

6) One of my BlogHer roommates is Mike's ex-girlfriend. It's an odd friendship, WE KNOW, but there you have it. Ask me anything you want about the situation or just read this.

7) I used to stay up until all hours of the night JUST BECAUSE. I had things to write, people to Google, old One Tree Hill episodes to get wrapped up in, but now? Well, sadly, everything I do revolves around the next time I can sleep. I hope to get a burst of energy next weekend and be able to hang with all you non-knocked-up wild children. Please don't judge me or mock me or whisper frantically about me if I stumble out of a cocktail party at 9pm hollering for "MY BED! GET ME MY BED!" I hope this doesn't happen but am I sure it won't? HA! HAAAAA!

8) I have horrible vision. HORRIBLE. I will be wearing my glasses most of the weekend (so hot) but if I don't have them on, and I look like I'm glaring or ignoring or avoiding you, I assure you I'm not. I JUST CAN'T SEE YOU. Unless I am glaring or avoiding or ignoring, and then, well, I'm sure you deserved it. Did you mention the bump? You must have.

9) I DO NOT SMALL TALK WELL. My sorority would be so proud.

10) I sometimes—every now and again when talking fast and failing at small talk—mispronounce simple-to-pronounce words. Such as premise. If this happens, can you maybe not blog about it?

11) When my feet hurt, I just take off my shoes. I don't care how dirty the floors (or streets) are, and you're allowed to judge me for this, but it will not stop me from kicking off my strappy heels and throwing them into my purse and GOING ALONG WITH MY LIFE. I took off my shoes at a concert ages ago and some random concert-goer yelled over, "That's disgusting. Do you know what you're walking on right now?" And I said, "Dirt and cigarette ash and stale beer probably. All of which is easier to wash off then blood." I still believe that.

12) In case you forget to ask, this is what "my blog is about": VERY EFFING LITTLE.

I hope to see you there, really. I hope I'm awake, also.

Last One Before I Go Back To Talking About Shoes Or Clothes Or Veronica Mars

First, before I get to the point, I'd like to thank you. Again. And repeatedly. And possibly forever. When Mike came home the other day and said, "You got a lot of comments on the baby post. Did you actually read them all?" my first reaction was to tell Mike never to start a blog and then I emphatically nodded and said, "Of course! More than once! Those comments are going in a baby book of some sort!"

Many of you are technically strangers. We've never met. We've never shared cocktails or gone to a movie together or bonded over a piece of creamy cheesecake (but next week that will change for so many of you!), but all of your warm wishes were genuine and sincere and so damn appreciated, I can't even stand it.

Thank you, also, for any personal e-mails that some of you sent and for the actual cards others sent. They were read and re-read and displayed and, possibly, cried over because I CANNOT STOP CRYING. (Last night I cried because my glasses fell on the floor. I CRIED BECAUSE I HAD TO LEAN OVER.)

Even though no-one wants to talk about babies and motherhood and the Target baby aisle more than me, I'm actually a bit worn down by the topic. It's just so ... broad. And exhaustive. And did you know there are like nine MILLION things a baby needs and we have money for about 16 of them? But, there is one topic I never tire of. One I think of more than any other, at all times of the day, EVERY DAY.

Baby names.

I'm fairly positive we're having a boy. I had a dream we were. Mike is pretty positive we're having a girl. He had a dream we were. But my dreams have a better track record, I'm just saying. We also have girls names (plural!) we like so that's not the gender I'm particularly concerned about naming. What I am concerned about is that WE CANNOT AGREE ON A SINGLE BOY'S NAME. AT ALL. THE END. PERIOD.

That's where you come in, Internet!

Give me the best boy's name you've got (or more than one if you're rolling around in them). I don't want to steal the name you've carefully selected for your own child, but the chances of our kids sharing a preschool class are slim, right? And I'll give you loads of credit! I'll even send you a thank-you card!

(I would like to add, sort of cryptically, that our last name is a beating [a really cool beating!]. It's just that it's impossible to pronounce EVEN THOUGH IT SOUNDS EXACTLY AS IT'S SPELLED. It's going to be difficult for our child right out of the gate, so I'd love to give him a first name that is original yet also easy to spell. I'm not entirely convinced a name like that even exists, but there's a helpful guideline.)

(Also, let me tell you, if I had known how overly opinionated my husband is when it comes to naming his children, I would have bargained and negotiated with him long ago. As in, "sure I'll sleep with you IF YOU LET ME NAME OUR FIRST SON IN FOUR YEARS." It wouldn't have been the most romantic moment, no, but smart, hell yes.)

Now, go!

Let's Talk About It, Shall We?

Can I just say I keep one helluva secret? This shocks no-one more than me, I swear. See, I've known about this little bit of news -- this life-changing, tear- (and if we're being honest, vomit-) inducing news -- for almost a month now. A MONTH. And I've kept my hands clicking away on safe subjects such as BlogHer clothes and TV shows and not on the one subject I most wanted to talk about. All I've wanted to do is tell you that all your good wishes and prayers and sweet e-mails weren't in vain. They helped! They worked! We're having a baby!

But family had to be told first as I just know if my mom or sister had found out about their grandchild/niece/nephew on the Internet, there would be a few feisty and resentful people at any future baby showers. And they give good gifts! Why would I knowingly piss them off? (And can I just say telling my mother and having her TURN TO THE TABLE BEHIND US to tell them the good news was one of life's finer moments.)

Most of the family/circle of friends have been told now, so I can go ahead and give you some details. (Not those details and you're welcome for that.)

We sort of chalked May up to "the month that got away"* because it was a rather insane month, and I wanted to face the reality that the chances just weren't good. I was out of town on business for a few days, I was staying away from Mike for Natalie's wedding, I had a (beautiful and lovely!) house guest for a little while, and so I gave us a break. We were still on medicine, we were still well aware of when I was ovulating, but the window of opportunity to "capitalize" on things was small and I told myself it probably wouldn't happen and that would just have to be alright. (Which is why I wrote this. And, yep, I was [unknowingly] pregnant when I hit publish. THE. IRONY.)

So when I became officially "late," I got a little pissed at myself. BECAUSE THAT'S JUST RUDE, SELF. Don't taunt the infertile. (That should be the name of a book! Or a band!) But I had grand plans to go watch Mike practice hockey one night and if that -- the act of watching my husband skate around a rink of ice -- isn't scintillating enough there was a bar. With alcohol. Before I downed a pitcher or two of beer, I thought, Well, I may as well take a test. That's the responsible thing to do. So I can drink without guilt. I mean does anyone order their pitcher of frosty Bud Light with a side of guilt? (No comments on how disgusting Bud Light is. This pregnant woman has been known to cry over less. LIKE AT GENERAL HOSPITAL, I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING.)

Anyway, Mike was home when I got home -- tests and a BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE in tow; when you go a year without seeing the extra line, there is nothing in your mental capacity that is prepared for the moment after you see that extra line, and so you pick up champagne because that's just what you do when you're in Wal-Mart and you have to pass the champagne aisle anyway to get to the dairy aisle -- and I snuck into the bathroom and peed on what I was supposed to pee on and before I even had the chance to lay that sucker on a flat surface, there were two lines forming. And I kid you not the first thing I thought was, "Even the fucking tests are mocking me." So I grabbed the box and made sure I was reading it right and then I sort of stumbled out into the kitchen where Mike was and walked over to him and said, "Um? This says I'm pregnant?" And that, Internet, is how I told my husband he was going to be a father. In the form of a half-question. And we stood there, sort of confusedly looking at one another, not understanding what was going on and then he said, "Wait? What?" And I said, "Yeah, I don't get it either." And there were no tears. And no jumping up and down. And, let's be honest, NO SIGNS OF INTELLIGENT LIFE ANYWHERE. We were just so ... sure ... it wasn't going to be that easy. That it would require a lot more work and medicine and procedures and, fuck, MONEY. It was the best moment of my life so far and I swear to you, if you could have witnessed it, it would have annoyed the hell out of you because we could not even believe it enough to REACT.

We now believe it a little more -- although there's still a part of me that doesn't think it'll be real until I'm holding that kiddo -- and every day that passes we get a little more used to the idea that we get to be parents! We get our shot at sending an innocent little thing straight into the arms of a psychiatrist! We're thrilled! We're excited! Well we're all of those things when I'm awake which, just ask my husband, IS NOT VERY OFTEN. One huge, kick-me-in-the-ass symptom of pregnancy: chronic napping.

I wish I could find the perfect words to sum this post up, something along the lines of how lucky I feel and how wonderful Mike has been (you have no idea) and how we're really, really ready for this next chapter and how I'm so glad fashion these days is maternity-friendly and how I've been craving Crunchwrap Supremes from Taco Bell like you wouldn't BELIEVE and how just when I thought life couldn't get any sweeter, it went and got as sweet as it could ever get and how I'm totally convinced we're having a boy and how, holy cow, this is all so cool, right? But all the right words just fail me and I end up crying (see: DURING GENERAL HOSPITAL) and stuttering and I realize there are no words. They don't exist. This is bigger than words. It's as big as life gets (and, I hear, that'll be a literal statement in a few months when I can't stand up without grunting or knocking over the couch).

So I'll say this -- even though it's a fraction of how I really feel and it falls terribly short -- thank you. Thank you to each of you, checking in or otherwise. Thank you to my husband -- who SAJ, I'm hanging onto, don't you worry -- and thank you to whoever out there thought I was worthy to be a mother. I'm going to take this job really, ridiculously seriously. (I swear, I only forgot to feed Molly that one time when Mike was out of town. FINE. TWICE. She's still alive! She's fine!)

The day after Mike and I found out, I bought ninety-five other tests because, um, I STILL DIDN'T GET IT, and I took this picture to send to him at work. He wrote back and said, "I can't stop smiling."

Baby, wow, do I know exactly what you mean.

Oh and the kid's birthstone will be purple. How's that for perfect?

::

*Note: if anyone leaves a comment that says "I told you it would happen when you least expected it!" I'm going to send you the baby when it's teething.

There We Were, Here We Are

In early January of 2005 Mike and I -- along with his sister and her husband -- took a trip to Colorado. The plan, or so I thought, was to ski and snowboard half the time and relax in front of a crackling fire the other half. But Mike (and by no strange coincidence, his family) is a goer. He doesn't stop to enjoy a movie or relax, curled up with a magazine while on vacation. OH NO. He goes. He doesn't feel as if a vacation is really successful unless he's crying out of sheer exhaustion on the plane ride home.

When we first got to Colorado, I assumed we'd grab lunch, unpack, maybe take a quick lap around the hotel, but it wasn't fifteen minutes after we dropped our bags in our room that my feet were jammed into ski boots and I was on a lift. I had never snowboarded before so I was understandably nervous. First, I was nervous about getting off the ski lift as there are signs just everywhere that state, "KEEP MOVING! DON'T STOP! DON'T FALL! YOU'LL PISS OFF EVERY SKIER/SNOWBOARDER ON THIS HERE MOUNTAIN IF YOU FALL!" And, well, I fell. Of course I fell. You should not be shocked that I fell. But you should ooze sympathy that falling off the ski lift was actually one of the better parts of that whole miserable day.

On the top of the run, I couldn't figure out how to move -- how to even inch along -- without falling, usually very quick and very hard. It was painful and frustrating and for the next four (possibly five) hours I formed a horrible pattern of standing up, brushing off some freezing ice, attempting to plunge myself down the mountain and then falling -- ass or knees first -- so hard I sometimes couldn't speak for minutes afterwards due to the ringing and the throbbing and the WANTING TO DIE.

Mike picked up snowboarding far too quickly, if you ask me. He was doing jumps and slicing down 90-degree inclines and he even flipped once or twice just to, you know, SEE IF HE COULD. (And he could, of course he could.) He took to it so naturally and effortlessly, it worked me up even more. Couldn't you fall with me? Why am I the only one in hell right now?

But, and you possibly saw this coming, there was only one way down the mountain. The steep, terrifying mountain. And that was, well, down it. I had to figure out how to make this contraption strapped to my feet work with me. And I just couldn't figure it out. I was in tears because I was just so exhausted. There is little in this world that has ever made me more tired than trying to get down a snowy mountain on a big skateboard without wheels. I sat down and told Mike to go ahead without me. I COULD NOT GO ON. And as I sat there, mulling over my choices of setting up camp right where I was or setting up camp a foot to my right, another woman fell and slid the front of her board straight into my thigh AND IT FUCKING HURT. And with that, I sort of lost my mind. I kind of (ashamedly) began screeching and sobbing and possibly hysterically yelling. I was freezing and in so much pain, and I knew I couldn't do it. I couldn't get down that mountain by myself.

And you know what the giant salt shaker pouring salt into my deep wounds was? Children and the elderly were flying right by me. It's possible they were even whooing.

Mike looked at me, pulled me up and said, "We'll do this together." And he got me down the mountain, even if we slid the last few hundred yards sitting on our snowboards. (We were rightly reprimanded if you're sort of in shock we did that. But, trust me, AT THE TIME IT SEEMED LIKE THE VERY BEST PLAN I HAD EVER HEARD.)

Through it all, Mike was calm and unaffected by the crazy I unleashed on him. I, on the other hand, was incredibly embarrassed by the whole mess.

It was not one of my finer moments (days) and it just so happened that particular day was our first anniversary. We celebrated one solid year of being together by me clenching my teeth, turning to him and saying, "This is the worst day of my life. And I have seen George Bush get elected TWICE."

Although there was not a single moment from that day when I acted like a reasonable human being, Mike did nothing but keep his shit together. I was already in love with him at this point, but that day, OH MY GOODNESS, did I ever love that man as much as a human being could possibly love another. I loved him for not abandoning me, even though I begged him to just leave me there. "GO ON," I yelled. "JUST GO." I loved him for ruining his first day on the slopes by putting up with me and dealing with me and doing it all with a ridiculously good attitude. He knew I was in trouble. And he knew the only way to get me out of trouble was to stay calm. Lord, did I love him for that.

When I think about loving him, I always think of that day first. The day I broke apart and he pieced me back together, lovingly and without complaint.

It was on that day -- of this I'm certain -- when I first realized I wanted to have his child.

And if all keeps going well that child will be here on February 19.

We're pregnant.

(January 2005; Winter Park, Colorado)

Look Over There!

I know you're enjoying watermelon and hamburgers and yelling at your family, but if you have some downtime in between all of that, head over to Jodifur to read my guest post contribution about honeymooning with Mike and how it was on that trip when I realized, yep, I made a good choice here. With both him and the raspberry coladas.

Goodbye

Not goodbye forever—don't get all dramatic on me now—but for a few days while we gallivant out of town to visit family. Also, don't be jealous because even though the time there will be wonderful (it always is) the drive to get there can only be described as: GAHGRRRSHOOTMENOWAHHHHH. And we're making the drive in my uncomfortable Saturn with a dog in the backseat who every now and then likes to crawl up and lay on her mom's lap while forgetting she is FORTY POUNDS.

But, again, the time there will be great. There will be eating and fireworks and naps and time with our nephew and all of those really good things holiday weekends are best known for. I hope your weekend is also filled with good things. Even if you're Canadian (hi to you!) because a weekend is a weekend, am I right?

::

Just a quick shopping aside: I need a laptop tote [that has a strap so not a laptop sleeve] before next Monday. Any great suggestions? Links? Old ones you aren't using? Kidding! Kind of! If I can't track one down, I may just have to carry mine around with me in my over-sized purse and glare at anyone who bumps into me too hard. I'm going to be such a HIT at BlogHer, can't you just tell?

And speaking of, I leave in ONE WEEK FROM MONDAY, OH MY LORD, WHERE DID THE TIME GO? I'm so excited (only a tiny bit nervous), but I do need to ask, quickly, if anyone can recommend a good lunch place for one afternoon I'll be near Union Square with a friend. I'm from the area, but my favorite restaurant when I left was Baker's Square. (Note: I was ten when I left. Baker's Square—what with all that pie—was pretty damn cool to a ten-year-old.)

::

Enjoy your weekend. Enjoy your hot dogs. Enjoy your family.

I'll be back before you can miss me.

The Only Talented One Of The Bunch

A few things before you grab your popcorn:

1) As soon as I started recording, Mike's phone rang. So for the entire minute-long video, you get to hear his conversation with his sister which I'm sorry about, but it's a nice conversation! They're not yelling or bickering! They actually get along quite well!

2) Excuse the dirty house. I still haven't cleaned up from the baby shower I threw for Crystal this past weekend. Ignore all the balloons and trash bags, see, I've been busy sleeping and debating with myself if I really need this sweater for BlogHer. I THINK I DO.

3) Molly usually goes in and out on her own, but when her parents are forcing her to perform, she responds to the "go outside" command. Honestly, if there's anyone you should feel sorry for in our home, it's her. Not me for putting up with all of Mike's horrible DVR decisions and not Mike for having to turn off the lights after me EVERY DAMN DAY but the dog.

Now, with all that said, here you are:

Untitled from shelikespurple on Vimeo.

Bad Smells And Gas

About a year ago Mike traveled to a family funeral where he inherited a slew of things: a beautiful chest that now sits fittingly in our living room, hundreds of family mementos, some small odds and ends and a heaping, over-sized deep freeze. A deep freeze that rested in the dining room of our old house until the day we moved. A deep freeze—if you go back and read that first post, you'll see—that I was always slightly against. Sure, all that extra space is great if you are Jon and Kate Gosselin* and you are trying to feed eight growing children but all that space for a family of three (when one of those family members has FUR and only eats people food when her dad isn't home) only leads to a deep freeze filled with a lot of frozen meals and far too much frozen ground turkey.

And what do you think all that food smells like when the outlet goes kaput and the deep freeze hasn't been, you know, FREEZING for three days?

Well let's just say I (THANKFULLY) don't know because my (really wonderful) husband was the one who stumbled upon the smell yesterday, and he cleaned out the deep freeze and deposited of all the rancid, rotting food before I got home. And, really, of all the things Mike has ever done for me—from that one time atop the Empire State Building to all the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches he makes for me to sending me flowers from Molly on Mother's Day to going out to the store at midnight because we're out of bottled water and the filtered water in our fridge just WON'T DO—cleaning that deep freeze when I wasn't home was the sweetest, most thoughtful thing he has ever done.

And even though the deep freeze (that we will no longer own or ever put food in come Thursday) was in the garage, I still had to light a whole mess of vanilla candles in my kitchen last night. 

::

So, the year is half over. Look at that. Really, how did that happen? Tell me, what's been your favorite part of 2008 so far? Other than the obvious: all those fun, rising gas prices! Which, let me just say, I drive a Saturn. Even though when I first got it, it only took TWELVE DOLLARS to fill the tank and it now—eight years later—takes more than $40 it's still a relatively reasonable car to drive around town. I fill up about once a week and that totals $160 a month—which is still less than my electricity bill was in May—but it could be worse, I know. Of all the car owners who want to throw themselves into traffic on a daily basis, I'm probably not near the top of the list. But still—STILL—gas prices are all I can think of when I'm in the car. I find myself looking at EVERY PASSING STATION to see which gas is the cheapest. "$3.86!? Holy cow! I have to remember this place even though it's completely out of the way for me to drive six days of the week, but I'll save nearly EIGHT CENTS A GALLON from the station I filled up at last week." That's just insane reasoning on my part, I know, but I can't help it.

We are going to be buying a new car soon, though, since my car officially gave notice last week that it's NEAR DEATH and the thought of pouring money into a SATURN just doesn't seem wise. I mean the total value of the car is less than the total value of my shoes.

So if you own a car you just love—one you couldn't imagine living life without, insane gas prices and all!—please let me know. We have a short list but my only rigid requirement is that the car be black, so I could easily be swayed on various other things such as the make and model.

Oh, and I won't be buying another Saturn. If that helps you like me more.

::

*So, yes, I watch "Jon & Kate Plus Eight" (Alexis is my favorite), but you know what other helluva-lot-of-children show I stumbled upon yesterday? "Kids By The Dozen." This particular couple has fourteen kids and—are you ready for this?—THIRTEEN OF THEM ARE BOYS. The only girl came along as the eleventh child. That is TEN STRAIGHT BOYS. I just ... I couldn't believe that. If the family was just a tad more interesting (lovely family but dull as dirt), I'd tune in to watch more often because OH MY HOLY HELL that is a lot of boys.