She Likes Purple

Turbulent Out There, Too Calm In Here

Yesterday I was all set to talk to you lovely Internet friends about how often I have to go to the bathroom these days, and I was trying to think of a way to make my whole pee-filled situation hilarious -- isn't it funny that I can't even make it through an hour of Grey's Anatomy without pausing the DVR, hoisting myself off the couch and shuffling off to the bathroom? Then the rug got ripped out from underneath the economy, and it seemed kind of trivial to continue on with my bladder talk. Although, OK, I'll go ahead and admit something: the economic crisis doesn't make ME any less interested in my bladder, I just assume it has made YOU less interested. I sort of find the same things fascinating today as I did yesterday and, yes, those things do still include donuts. I think that panicking and freaking out and shouting from the rooftops that the end of the world is officially upon us is neither effective nor charming, and so I prefer to go about living my life as I did Sunday. And Sunday I peed like 9,000 times.

Also, helping out this casual, go-with-the-flow attitude: Mike I don't own much. We rent, and we have paid-off, falling-apart vehicles, and if I'm being really honest with you that's because we're poor. But, if anyone else asks, WE TOTALLY PLANNED IT THIS WAY. Now is the best time to rent, you say? PSHAW! WE KNEW THAT! Can't get a loan/line of credit for a while? Welcome to the last five years of our lives! It's actually quite nice here, here in the land of only buying what you can afford and all you can afford is a sandwich.

I know I don't understand a lot of what's going on -- I just didn't pay much attention in the one and only Economics class I was forced to take -- but I do know that the constant cycle of ominous news headlines isn't helping, and we'd all fare better if we quit refreshing cnn.com and instead down a handle of tequila. (Down one for me, would ya?)

Hey, even my husband who works in -- how can I be vague about this? -- the financial investment field, isn't letting things really get him down. He's bluer about his 31st birthday (this Friday) and misplacing his keg tap than he is about our current economic state.

So, let's move on from all that and talk about me instead. And not more about my bladder --although, seriously, I thought I had dodged this particular pregnancy symptom, the never-ending bathroom breaks, but here I am at almost 20-weeks, and I have officially become the woman who may as well stop zipping up her pants because she'll just have to unzip them in 45 seconds -- but about the baby instead. The baby who is apparently resting nicely on my bladder. He/She just isn't kicking the way I'd like. I feel movements and bubbles and what I guess are very gentle kicks that feel more like someone is lightly thumping me from the inside, but actual forceful kicks? At the risk of sounding like an asshole, he/she is kind of a kicking like a pansy. Now, if each and every one of you felt serious Pele-type kicks at 19 weeks and 6 days then good for you! Just ... um ... don't tell me, OK? Lie and say this is all very normal and the side-grabbing kicks come later. Appease me, would you?

A part of me doesn't want to wish the time away. This could potentially be the only time I do this, I know, so I want to capture every moment of pregnancy, but another part of me can't wait until this kid is on the outside where I can see him/her run, kick, jump, play. Where I can physically know that for now, for this moment at least, he/she is OK.

Even if there's no way in hell we'll be able to afford for him/her to go to college. Hopefully you come out with some serious talents, kiddo, but, really, we'll adore you either way.

Dry, Flat, Whining (But Grateful!) Pregnant Woman

I'm not glowing, people. My hair is not thicker and my skin is not luminescent since getting knocked up. It's a tad irritating as I kind of thought great hair and skin were some of the few perks I would enjoy this pregnancy. I didn't suffer through roughly four months of constant nausea and queasiness and vomiting—and OTHER afflictions I'm totally sparing you the details of—only to now be faced with dry, NON-GLOWING skin and, honestly, kind of flat hair. I need some product suggestions to get me through the winter and the last half of this pregnancy.

So, I'm turning to you. First, I need suggestions for a cleanser and moisturizer. (Note: I've used Philosophy's Hope in a Jar, and I like it well enough, but I don't think it's giving me the coverage I really need here; same for Kiehl's Facial Moisturizer.)

I also need suggestions for a great shampoo/conditioner combo or, really, just a great hair mask that can restore some life to my locks.

Ages ago I asked for some product suggestions and made a running list of things I should check out, but I think my face/hair have changed since then AND NOT FOR THE BETTER LIKE I WAS ASSURED THEY WOULD, so I'm doing the begging and pleading again.

Since we're at it, some great make-up suggestions to cover the non-glowing, death-warmed-over face I've got going for me these days?

Advance thanks from me and my husband.

::

Just a want-to-share aside: on this post the other day, Betsy commented that she has a connection with a cosmetologist who gives her OPI products at a can't-beat rate, and she offered to help me find the shades I was lusting after. This, RIGHT THERE, is why I love the Internet so damn much. Just when I think the world is cracking down the middle, with all the good will and kindness being sucked dry by the economy woes and political craziness, someone goes and does something so SELFLESS and so NICE that I'm floored. Just floored. Thanks, Betsy, for the gracious offer.

Content

I fell out of love with Texas this summer. I know what you're thinking: What took you so damn long? But, there you have it, it only took 15 years. I can't pinpoint the precise moment—Was it during rush hour traffic on one of Dallas' 80 craptastic highways, all of which need to be repaved? Or was it on that lovely Sunday in early August when the temperature reached 110? Or, more likely, was it the week-long trip I took to San Francisco that reminded me some cities have an actual personality?—but I do know that over the past few months I've looked longingly to other states/countries. (It doesn't help that I regularly read blogs written by women who get to live in some of the most gorgeous places this continent has to offer.)

I look out my office windows and wish I could close my eyes and reopen them somewhere else. It's all too hot, too crowded, too conservative, too spread out here. THERE ARE NO H&MS HERE.

I never thought I would still be here, to be honest. Things just work out in ways we have no ability to predict. One minute I think I'm going to travel around Spain and then possibly settle in some new, exciting, never-been-to-before city and the next minute I've gone and fallen in love with some unexpected guy, and I decide making a home with him—in a cardboard box, a shack, a suburb in Texas, anywhere—is the coolest dream come true I could ever dream up. In reality, many things have kept us here: jobs we love, family we adore, cost of living we can stomach, friends, cheap beer, etc. All very good reasons to live somewhere, yes, but this summer the lure of a sparkling, crisp coast or rolling green hills or charming, colorful homes that aren't thrown up by the hundred, all one mirror image of the other, would not leave me alone.

I think I started believing what you (meaning, the average American) likely believe to be true about Texas. That it's a flat, ugly, hot red state that goes on for days. I probably started believing this because I haven't technically stopped sweating since May. And I haven't been able to drink summer cocktails since May, as well. (I'm sorry, but it shouldn't be LEGAL to suffer through a Texas summer without alcohol to blur the pain.)

Thankfully, something happened the other night on my way home from work. Every radio station was playing crappy songs, and I was hitting a string of red lights, so I reached in the back and pulled out a CD I hadn't listened to in years. A CD I first got the summer before my senior year of high school. A CD that skips and lurches forward in a few places because of how often I used to listen to it. A CD that will mean nothing—really, nothing—to so many of you, so I won't even bother to name it. If I name it, you'll furrow your eyebrows, possibly Google and then furrow them some more, and so I'll just say it's a CD by a Texas country artist, a particular genre of country music that so completely kicks the ass of mainstream country music that it is the kind of music—hands down—that made me first fall in love with this place when I was just 17.

After listening through the CD, I was catapulted back to being 17 again, back to when I was faced with the Very Big Decision of where I should go for college. I narrowed down my choices to three schools—all very different and all very spread apart. My mom and dad took me to tour each campus (one in Santa Cruz, Calif., one in Athens, Ga and one in College Station, Texas). I loved them all. I could see myself at each place. I wanted to buy sweatshirts and bumper stickers at each campus bookstore, but I had to pick one. I chose the last one, Texas A&M, a Texas state school nestled, really, in the middle of nowhere. Looking back, it's such an odd choice for me. It's a very conservative school known for an engineering program I never considered with more than one town's share of pick-up trucks chugging around.

But, lord, I fell in love with that place. Although I grew up in San Francisco and lived in another suburb of Texas for all of middle and high school, College Station became my home. It's so hard to put into words how I feel about that place, how many memories are brought back with the listen of one simple country song. Memories of cheap, cold beer downed in cheap, dusty bars where small-time musicians would play just feet away, strumming on cheap guitars, singing about the big state we all had in common. I'm sure most of you haven't been to College Station, but if you haven't, you won't get it. It's how all loves are, impossible to understand unless you've been in the thick of them. The people—although mostly conservative, yes—are friendly and down-to-earth and they smile at you when you walk by, whether they know you or not. The campus is beautiful, full of shady trees and squirrels. The bars and restaurants welcome anyone, anytime. The school has a heartbeat, and that sounds so cheesy, I'm nauseating myself, but every student would nod if they read that. They would whole-heartedly agree.

I know Mike's reasons for going to A&M—we talked about them in the really early days when everything was unknown and new. He was (is) four years older, but we came down and started school the same semester. We lived very separate lives until things intersected and collided the last semester of my senior year (although we both went on to stay in College Station and at school for another year). Mike and I are so different. He likes classic rock and the Discovery channel, and I watch The Hills and let One Tree Hill tell me which song I'm going to listen to on repeat. He is calm, easy, simple, and I am nervous and anxious. He never worries. I always do. His laugh is beautiful, mine is awkward. But, Mike and I have something very real and very important in common. We both fell in love with College Station, we both left it hesitantly and sadly when it was, undoubtedly, time to go. We waved goodbye to it all—the back roads and greasy cheeseburgers and game days and two-steppin' and the sea of maroon everywhere you look.

We're not leaving Texas anytime soon. We have, again, many, many reasons to stay. We are happy here. But, in a few weeks, thank goodness, Mike and I will drive three hours and we'll go home. We'll go to an Aggie game and we'll eat greasy food and drink cold, cheap beer (he'll have one for me).

We'll be reminded why we love Texas, why all the stereotypes in the world don't touch what is really beautiful about this state. It's easy to be lured by the beauty of a place known only through pictures. It's easy to feel restless and want to pick up and move somewhere, anywhere but here. It's hard to remember that home doesn't necessarily mean beautiful scenery and year-round fantastic weather. Sometimes home is where you found yourself, where you found him. Sometimes, as totally cheesy as it sounds, home is wherever the love is.

Such an awful picture, but here we are at an Aggie game a few years back. All sweaty and insanely happy.

What I Would Own if Money or Large Bellies Were No Object

I haven't been shopping much lately, which may explain why Mike and I so rarely fight these days (other than over our kid's name; that fight is likely to live forever). I can't rationalize spending gobs of money on clothes I can only wear for a few weeks/months (please, sweet Jesus, let clothes that fit me now no longer fit in a year). Yet, I can't rationalize spending money on clothes that I can't fit into for, at least, another year. I can't rationalize spending money on accessories I used to pick up without much forethought because that money could be better spent on a little thing called a HOSPITAL-STAY DEPOSIT. I, also, can't rationalize spending money on make-up when I can't seem to find the energy to APPLY THE MAKEUP I ALREADY OWN.

As you can see, it's hard to part with money these days. Another symptom of pregnancy I wasn't expecting along with the ability to lose my shit at the drop of a hat.

But, what would I be buying if I were able to spend someone else's money for someone else's body? Let me tell you:

Lofty cashmere shawl-collar sweater, $218  (in royal violet)

Oh, J. Crew. You tempt me with your monthly catalogs, you e-mail me with sales (and more sales). You are like an abusive ex-boyfriend I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT. A really expensive boyfriend who comes in a variety of stunning colors and textures.

Watercolor garden Lydia blouse, $110.

I really love this. It's not a pattern for everyone, I know, but with those dark-washed jeans and that 110-pound figure, it's really quite the look. Now, on me, it would look like I wrapped a mural around myself.

Lulu leather ballet flats, $160.

These shoes literally made me drool.

"I Am Thankful For" card from Paper Source, $7 for 10 cards.

Send a note to friends and family to let them know you're thinking of them. Thanksgiving isn't just for mashed potatoes unless you're knocked up and then you started a countdown for those potatoes in mid-July.

 

Superhero "Earth' necklace, $99.

These are all the rage around the blogosphere, and I've wanted one for more than a year now. Really stunning and really out of my necklace budget.

Francesca's "Nightfall" dress in midnight, $44.

OPI nail color, $9

Colors I'd love to pick up: Madame President, Mr. Right Now,  Brainiac, On Stage, Ms. Can't Be Wrong, Beauty Junkie, Metro Chic

Nine West violet clutch, $49.99.

Banana Republic smokey teardrop earring, $39.

Dooney & Bourke "Hayden" patent leather shoulder bag, $500.

Again, just a hair out of my handbag budget, but such a nice bag for fall/winter.

Piperlime Bandolino "Pammy" heels in navy multi pattern, $69.

Fossil "Lissa" cardigan, $68.

GAP jersey skirt, $38.

I actually might buy this anyway. Stretchy, black. Heavenly words for a woman who will soon need her own zip code.

Any chance these items will still be available when I drop 100 pounds and win the lottery?

For The Internet And My Mother

Bathroom shots are impossibly uncute, can we all agree on that? Or can we all appease the pregnant lady and lie? Also, OUR bathroom has yet to really be decorated. Isn't that quirky and not at all batshit lazy?

Also, I didn't INTEND to shield my face from you lovely people, but the very expensive camera we invested a very large sum of money in wouldn't focus unless I was looking through the view finder.

Another also because I clearly feel the need to offer you belly shots with a side of defensive: those are gauchos I'm sporting. And, no, you aren't looking at a picture from 2005, you are just looking at a woman who is growing BY THE DAY and needs something that fits and is comfortable.

So, BELLY SHOTS, there you have them.

And here's my other baby, who doesn't really understand why Mama talks about the miracle of life when HELLO MOTHER, I AM A MIRACLE TOO, AM I NOT?

Yes, love, total miracle. Just a miracle who can't fetch Mama a bowl of cereal. Your dad and I need a miracle with OPPOSABLE THUMBS.

18 Weeks

We're at 18 weeks.

I'm still not at my pre-pregnancy weight, but those donuts did all they could this month to get me there. Official total weight gain: -2.

Heartbeat (baby's): 154

Next appointment: October 10, when we find out what anatomical parts this kid has. I still feel boy even though my sister conducted a very thorough string test while we were in Canada and it said girl.

The other night I read through some of my archives because it was either that or investigate the foul smell in my kitchen. I read a few pre-pregnancy posts, and I know I should logically feel like the experience of trying (and failing for a while) to get pregnant was ages ago—from another lifetime, even—I just don't. I am starting to feel real movement inside, and I have heard the heartbeat on multiple occasions. I've seen the alien baby on the ultrasound screen, but I still feel like the girl who's holding her breath, waiting for the everyday dream to come true. All this weekend, as I watched my sister with her son, I thought, "Gosh, I hope I get to be a mom." Weird that I find myself still hoping, still relating to the girl who spent a lot of time waiting and mulling over what would happen if it didn't happen.

(Difference: I'm no longer waiting with champagne.)

It's something I wasn't expecting about pregnancy, the fragility of it. I wanted to GET PREGNANT so badly that the million trillion worries that come after the second line appears never had time to sneak in and take up shop. They're nicely settled in now.

I look at mothers—at the supermarket, the park, the mall, on TV, in the blogging world—and I think, What a damn miracle.

Then I hold my breath a bit.

18 weeks. Almost half-way to the miracle.

(I've been really, horribly awful about belly photos. I KNOW. One is coming, I swear it. Even it it's a fuzzy, BlackBerry photo from my office bathroom.)

Texas, I'd Forgive You For Your Horrible Weather if You Would Start Offering Me Tim-Bits

I'm home from Toronto. (Oh, didn't I tell you? I was going to Toronto.) My mom, Mike and I flew up early Saturday morning and returned late last night, which made for a very short trip to visit my sister, her husband, and my beautiful, adorable, sweet two-year-old nephew, Noah. When you live nearly 1500 miles away from family, you take what little time you can get. You live off what you can get.

I hadn't seen my nephew since my wedding in May 2007. In a real, physical way, it's heartbreaking that I live so far from him, that I can never just pop in and take him to the park without first packing a bag, catching a plane and then arguing with a Northwest ticket agent about my ability to use a self-check-in machine. I can't just lift Noah up to kiss him whenever I want, the way I did multiple times over the last four days. But, in another way—a way I'm clinging to—it's beautiful that he exists at all. Four days of him isn't enough, no, but it's more than I could ever have hoped for.

It would be impossible to touch on everything we did during our short time there. We crammed a lot into a few days including a trip to Niagra Falls, two nights out on the town in downtown Toronto, a trip to Casa Loma and inhaling as many Tim-Bits as I could get my grubby, pregnant hands on.

(Those Tim-Bits may have been the cause of the almost-18-week pop that happened while on our trip. My belly is officially hanging out the bottom of my still-worn pre-pregnancy shirts.)

(Raspberry-filled powdered-donut Tim-Bits = BEST FOOD OF THIS PREGNANCY.)

(Oh, also, I got my first episode of heartburn while in Canada, which, I kid you not, feels exactly how I imagined a heart attack would feel. Did you know this about heartburn? Was I the only one in the dark about the sheer EVILNESS of it? I actually told Mike I thought I was dying. DYING. And I said it without a single ounce of sarcasm. Ironically, I believe the heartburn was caused by a salad and not the Tim-Bits.)

Anyway, Noah took to us, quickly and easily, and he would come to Mike or me without fighting, with arms stretched open. He is a little boy full of life and full of smiles, and he is already imaginative and creative. I've seen Mike with a dozen kids before, but it still stunned me how much Noah adored his "Uncle Mike" and how much Mike adored him right back. Mike spent most of the weekend carrying him, pushing him in the swing, building train "fracks" with him, chasing geese with him and proving me right when I decided from the first day I met him that he would be a good father.

Also while there, Rachel gave me roughly 500 adorable baby outfits (many of which are perfectly gender neutral) and a few pairs of maternity pants. Since I am ridiculously and shamefully behind on my thank-you notes, thank you, Rachel. Big, huge, heaping thanks for ensuring our kiddo is dressed well.

It was nice to get home last night, sure, where Molly and our DVR were both eagerly waiting for us, but it's also safe to say we left fragments of ourselves up north. Wherever this little boy is, he is carrying parts of me with him.

(Not the parts that gave him that beautiful, wavy hair, though. Unfortunately.)

Blogging Community

Another guest poster here. I'm Kristabella, and I blog over here. Jennie asked me to fill in for her while she's in Toronto probably doing all sorts of Canadian things like eating fancy ham and calling it Canadian Bacon, referring to everything in kilometers and finishing all her sentences with eh? Because that is the only thing I know about Canada. That and Ali lives there with her "children".

I always have a mild panic attack when I am asked to guest blog. One, because I'm not sure why someone would want me to write on their site. I mean, come over to mine - I talk about Bacon, booze and I swear a lot. And now that I'm unemployed, I can talk of NOTHING ELSE. (Although, maybe that's why Jennie asked me because clearly I have nothing going on, I can easily go on and on on her site about nothing at all.) (When in reality, doing nothing all day makes you really boring and not funny.)

The other reason I don't like to guest blog is because of everything I've already written here. Who wants to read this? Don't answer that, Slynnro.

So I figured I should come up with some sort of topic besides bad dentists, belly button lint and cat nail clippings. Because that is as exciting as my life is right now.

But something I was recently talking about with my mom was the community that I have created online through my blog. The people I have met online are some of my closest friends. (Weird, right? I should get out more or write about dryer lint.)

It's weird how normal it is these days to have friends that you've met online. And how creepy it was back less than 10 years ago to fly across the country to meet people from the internet, let alone fly that far to go to a blogging conference with 1,000 other bloggers.

All of us bloggers have our own little community, our readers, who feel like close friends and family. People who genuinely care about you and are there to pick you up when bad things happen, like when you lose your job, or there to cheer you on or congratulate you when good things happen, like when you tell the blogging world you're pregnant after months of trying.

This blogging community that we are a part of, whether you write a blog or just read them, is really a unique thing. With the technology we have, with blogs and instant messaging and Twitter and text messaging, you're able to keep in touch with so many people who feel like they are your neighbors, when in reality they are scattered all over the country and all over the world.

The best part for me, is meeting so many people that love the same things I love, drink as much booze as I drink, say snarky things about the same people we don't like. These are people that I have so much in common with, besides just that fact that we all share our personal details on the internet for all to read. There are so many smart, funny, talented women out there on the internet and I don't regret for a second deciding to start a blog (a blog that once got me fired) and share my drunken tales on the interwebs because of all the great people I've come to know.   

While she's away

Why, hello there. I'm Kristie from Momma K. I'm honored to be a guest poster for Jennie while she's off in Canada visiting her family and no doubt giving her adorable nephew tons of kisses, hugs and all the other things Aunt's do.

I'm so nervous to venture over here and write something because, Jennie? Well, you all know she writes with such passion and grace and you can literally feel her words when you read them. Or at least I can. I cannot even begin to compare our writing styles. Probably because my writing style is called No Style. It's my thing! I invented No Style writing.

Anyway.

While I was stressing over what to write for this post I was also getting ready for the day. I took my kids to a local botanical garden to walk around and enjoy the gorgeous weather we had. It's not 107 outside! I won't melt into a puddle as soon as I step foot outside! I know that hurricane Ike made people leave their homes and tons of people are without power, but I am relishing in the cooler weather over here.

As I was getting ready, my older son was playing with my younger son. Now, I know this is nothing monumental in the slightest, but it's a big deal to me. You see, my kids are 11 and a half years apart. The oldest, Derick, is 13 years old. The youngest, Jackson, is 19 months. Just a small age gap, yes?

When I was pregnant with Jackson I worried that the vast age gap would hinder their relationship. I pictured the oldest kid gallivanting with his teenage friends and ignoring the baby in the family. I cringed when I thought of the little one being hurt because his brother didn't pay any attention to him. I even talked to a lady who happens to work in the same building I work in and she told me she had two kids who were 12 years apart and that they hated each other. Great. I'm setting myself up for kids that hate each other.

This morning I realized that not only do my kids not hate each other, they adore each other. As I was getting ready Derick played hide 'n seek with Jackson. They danced and giggled and played and they were both happy. Watching my two sons laugh together and walk hand in hand makes my heart melt and I fall in love with them more and more. The immense pleasure I get from watching them interact is what makes me day a little easier.

I hope that when Derick discovers girls (Lord help me) and gets his driver's license that he remembers to laugh together with his little brother. My wish is for them is to have each other to lean on and support each other in only the way brothers can. I hope that the unconditional love flows freely between them as it does now. When I'm gone one of these days, I hope that my sons will be as close as they are now. I hope they continue to seek each other with explosive smiles plastered across their faces when they see each other. I pray the silly games never end and that they adore each other as they do now.

Neither of my children were planned babies, but it sure seems like someone had a plan. And it sure is a beautiful plan.

   

Faith

Last year I wrote this, which, wow, have YOU ever read a 9/11 post that ends with thoughts on Britney Spears? Yeah, me neither.

This year I think about how divided we are, marching into a huge election, each side spewing hatred for the other. I think about the hatred I've spewed, myself, about the men and women currently in charge, the men and women I feel have failed us.

I wonder when I became so cynical, when our country became so jaded. Was it seven years ago? Six, five, four....

I wonder if there's any way back, to hope and bright days and swelling with pride over the home so many of us share. Or if we're forever past all that, and it's a future full of making do.

I wonder what kind of home I'm really bringing my child into. Will there be doors-opened wide, eagerly waiting for him or constant, one-after-the-other, uphill battles? I wonder if he knows I wish I could offer him better, the best, everything that this world could potentially give him if only the good in people was harnessed to rule the world. I wonder if he'll listen when I tell him that even now—even with the bleakness and the poverty and the crumbling cities and the sick who can't afford to be well and the seemingly never-ending fighting and the adults who were never taught to read in one of the richest nations on earth—even with all the bad, his generation has the power to change the world. All, it really takes is faith, I'll tell him.

I wonder if he'll believe me.

I wonder if I believe me.

Timeline: Twenty-One

(First: One Through Six, Seven And Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve And Thirteen, Fourteen And Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen and Nineteen and Twenty.)

2003, aged twenty-one

I turn twenty-one at one of my favorite restaurants, surrounded by friends and family. I sip on a raspberry margarita before my friends whisk me off to local bars to down strong shots and mugs of sangria. Late in the night, I drunkenly attempt to play pool, and I knock a ball off the table and into the leg of a bar patron. This woman starts screeching at me that she's a dancer, and I could have ended her career just then, when she was standing in a BAR and someone acted DRUNK. HOW COULD THAT HAVE HAPPENED?! All I could think to stammer out to this annoying dancer was, "But it's my 21st birthday." As if maiming someone should be totally excused on such a day. (Note: I kind of think it should.)

I imagine now is as good a time as any to tell this next story (mom, avert your eyes), the story of my Valentine's date from 2003. I meet him at a bar the night of February 13. We hit it off, or at least that's what the cheap Long Island Iced teas tell me. He asks for my number and says, "Let's get together tomorrow night, forget that it's Valentine's and just have fun." I love this idea, even more so when he calls the next afternoon to make plans. I suggest watching a movie at his place, and that's what we do. I can't remember the movie, not all these years later, but I do remember—quite clearly—the moment he turns to me—as I sit on his living room couch—and asks, "So, do you want to take off your shirt now?" There is a moment I sit there in silence, and maybe he thinks I'm considering his question, but really I'm considering the possibility that he could be certifiably insane. I tell him I'm going to keep my shirt on, thanks for the suggestion and all, and then I yawn and look at the clock and, wow, is it getting late. He does walk me to my car, what a fucking gentleman, and there he continues to charm the hell out of me by saying, "I may call you, but I probably won't."

The rest of the school year marches on, and it's kind of a hard semester for me. I'm meeting really wrong-for-me men (obviously), and I'm making kind of horrible-for-me choices. There are many nights I feel lost, scattered, scared and, when I look back now, like a 21-year-old. I'm normal, I know now, but I sure as hell didn't know it then. I wish I could go back and tell that girl to calm down. It'll be fine, I want to say. Just breathe. It turns out fine anyway, thankfully.

Towards the beginning of summer, we throw an engagement party for Crystal, and we gather at El Chico for a margarita-filled afternoon of celebrating. Mike, my now-husband and my then-nothing, comes to the party, of course, because he's one of Crystal's closest friends. He comes with his then-girlfriend and my now-friend, and we sit at opposite sides of the table. I don't say more than hello to either of them, and it's not until less than a year later how odd I'll look back on that day to be. "You were just down the table," I'll say to him one day as we hold hands. "And all I could think about were my fajitas."

That summer I move into a duplex with Lauren where life calms down in a lot of ways and gets even crazier in others. She and I go grocery shopping and cook dinner together and although our friendship will go through the wringer the next semester, I have very good memories from living with her. I have great memories from that summer.

My senior year begins and with it a goal to go out as many nights as possible with Cherie. We have so much fun, at football games and on Northgate, and one night after a few too many apple martinis, we begin talking to a group of people with a cop standing nearby. One of the guys in the group says to Cherie, "You know, you're drunk enough that that cop could totally arrest you," and Cherie, without missing a beat, looks at the cop and smiles and says, "Do you want to arrest me?" It's what I love about Cherie, what everyone loves about Cherie, that she's fearless and fun and you could never hold anything against her for very long.

That December I organize an event for the seniors in my sorority. We wine taste at Messina Hof and then head back to Cherie's house for food and more wine and some of the best conversation I've ever had. Crystal happens to be in town this weekend, for her birthday, and later that night—after the wine and food and conversation—Cherie and I head to Northgate to see her, to help her celebrate turning 23. I am wearing a borrowed (and totally fantastic) black velvet blazer from Natalie—a blazer I will drunkenly lose later that night—and when Cherie and I walk into Madhatter's we see Crystal and a few of her friends already there. Yep, there's Mike, sitting on the couch with a beer in hand. He says to me as I walk up, "You look nice," and my heart skips a beat, which (holy shit) I was not expecting. Where did that reaction come from? I'm still not sure. I've told the story of this night a million times before—before on this site, even—and I don't know how to tell it any differently, except to say that I realize now a lot had to go into making that night come together, and in hindsight I know that at that point Mike and I had very few chances ahead of us (and like a million behind us) to be in the same room, on the same night. He was single, and I was in a better place than I'd been for much of the past year. I was laughing when I walked up, I remember that, and I don't know if he had ever really seen me laugh before. Something clicked that had never clicked before, that much both of us knew.

The next day we all went to lunch to say goodbye to Crystal, and Mike kept trying to make eye contact with me, but I was too nervous, too weird, and I couldn't bring myself to act like a normal human being around him. I couldn't leave fast enough, so I could actually take a breath, and I didn't hear from him for the rest of the year. I started dating someone else. When Natalie asks about Mike during the trip she and I took to California for Christmas, I tell her I just don't think we make much sense together, and I meant that. I thought, on paper, we were all wrong.

But when I drive around our small college town, I find myself looking for his car.

Now I Need A Bowl of Ice Cream

I don't think the Internet needs another political post, especially a mediocre one. In just the last week I have read much better and thoughtful pieces than I could ever offer up (here, let me link to this one in particular). Politics and political discussions are heating up, as they should. Even my husband has an opinion this election, and he's a fairly politically apathetic guy. Regardless of your vote or your voice, it's an emotionally charged time of year, but I just don't know if I'm ready to dive head first into a discussion on the many different issues facing voters this year. For two reasons, really. One, discussing politics is tricky in that so often the people discussing are each waiting their turn to speak, and, inevitably, very little listening is done. It's basically a slippery slope, and I'm not sure I'm ready to slide all the way down it just yet. Also, I have very good friends and family who fall on the opposite end of the political spectrum from me. They are good people who I care about, and I'm not ready to potentially insult them. This is my space, and although I don't ever feel censored here it's foolish to think my words stay or stop here. My words have the ability to travel to family and friends and hurt them, so I choose what I say very wisely. Not out of fear or cowardice, but because at the end of the day no blog will ever be worth the relationships I have.

Sure, I have opinions on global warming and tax cuts and welfare and education and a woman's right to choose, but, today, I'm more interested in making a record of one issue. I want to express this in the best way I can, so one day my child can read it and know that I didn't just vote for myself this election. I voted with his (I'm just using a blanket "he" in this post because it's easier) potential happiness in mind.

I don't know who my child will become. I have hopes, sure, but for the most part, I'm insanely curious to see what he will become on his own terms. I hope that no matter what happens he will know I will not just accept him, but I will support him. I hope that he always feels that his father and I love him, no matter what job he takes, what level of education he pursues, what his voter card reads or who he chooses to share his life with. I want him to know we don't love him despite his choices, though—despite the possibility that he may choose to share his life with someone of the same sex—but because of those choices. Because those choices will ultimately make him the man he will be.

(I don't think if you're legally against same-sex marriages you are a bad parent, and I desperately hope it doesn't come across that way. I can't tell you how many wonderful mothers I know who have voted for candidates who would never overturn the same-sex marriage ban, and I respect their right to support such candidates.)

Both of my parents never gave me or my sister a reason to see different lifestyle choices as anything other than that: different ways to live a grounded and happy life. They surrounded themselves (and therefore their children) with people of all walks of life and many of those people were in same-sex relationships. I have to remind myself that some people who are against same-sex marriages have never really known a gay man or woman, and it can be easier to dismiss a choice when no one you deeply care for is negatively affected by laws that ban it. I am lucky for my upbringing in that regard, and I do try to keep in context that some people might think differently if their own children or sisters and brothers were gay.

So I'm in a different position than some, I know, and I now have an unknown person to consider. I don't know what the sexual orientation of my child will be, but I don't believe he will have a choice in it. He will be attracted to who he is attracted to in the same way I was attracted to his father without much choice in the matter. In the same way I also can't help my attraction for this man.   

I hope to impart enough faith in my child that he won't hesitate to tell me when he's fallen in love with someone. I hope this person will respect him, will cherish his quirks and unique qualities, will honor him and find him hilarious even when no one else does. I hope this person is a lot of things, but their anatomy is not something I hope for one way or the other.

I know what it's like to be in an unhealthy relationship, to be in a legally and religiously sanctioned relationship that breaks you apart, a relationship that steals chunks of your spirit. There are no laws banning the partnership of two people who belittle and demean one another unless those two people happen to be of the same sex. This is hard for me to comprehend, to wrap my head around, and I desperately wish it were different. I wish we lived in a world where every healthy relationship was encouraged and supported, but there are too many people who can't get over the "sin" of a man lying with another man even if they also hold each other's hands through sickness and job losses and family deaths. I find it even harder to understand how many religions openly state that no human has the right to judge another person's sins but then humans enact laws in the name of religion that do more than judge, that legally prohibit certain choices. To personally think it's wrong is one thing. To legally ban it is quite another.

I do believe you have a right to vote for whatever you feel is right. If you believe same-sex marriages are wrong, then by all means, you should vote for the candidate who you can agree with. But if there is even a chance I will have a gay child, I want him to know I was his advocate even before he was born.

Murder And Mayhem

There was a death in the family last night (or early this morning; the autopsy hasn't been completed yet for an exact time of death). We lost one of our beautiful black clown fish. Now, that's sad enough, that one of our pretty (and not cheap, oh no) fish died, but it gets even sadder because he was brutally attacked by another fish in the tank. Also, I was the only witness that didn't have gills or paws (Molly was not even slightly disturbed by the incident, which worries me some, I can't lie), so I had to bear witness, alone, to that asshole ripping the fins off the other.

Here, let me show you the tank back when everything was sunshine and roses and before all the bloodshed:

The culprit, in case you can't tell, is ALSO a clown fish. Dabbling in cannibalism? Drugs? Fighting over a female fish? Or, better yet, Roid Rage? See, the culprit is huge for a clown fish. He is three times the size of all the other clowns in the tank. (Don't let the above picture deceive you. He's monstrous.) And, he, obviously, has some aggression issues since he randomly cornered the other fish and PLUCKED HIS FINS FROM HIS BODY. I think all the signs point to performance enhancement drugs.

I was on the phone with my sister when it all went down, and I started yelling and freaking out and then I started getting very angry. (Like a good hormonal pregnant woman.) I may have mentioned filleting the bastard or at least taking him out of the water for a solid minute to show him I wasn't someone to mess with. Rachel, understandably, had to let me go.

I e-mailed Mike and said, "AHHH, THE BIG FISH IS ATTACKING ANOTHER FISH. WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO? Also, can you bring home Chick-Fil-A?"

The little de-finned fish hung in there for a while. He tried to swim haphazardly and hide in corners, and Mike even tried to put him in his own container, but, sadly, we both woke up to a fish corpse this morning.

I think we should take that stupid big bastard fish and rip off his fins until he cries uncle, but Mike thinks we should donate him to a pet store. Someone is going to be a rational, together parent and someone else is going to need a well-stocked liquor cabinet to get through the day.

Honestly, I'd Rather Prefer to Register at Anthropologie

Well, some of my readers have very strong opinions against diaper genies and very little to say about adorable giraffe costumes. I'm frankly scared of that diaper contraption now, and I've almost convinced myself my child will come out of the womb potty trained. (COULD HAPPEN. YES HUH.)

Don't get me wrong, your advice was much appreciated and incredibly helpful. I've made some serious mental notes about avoiding this, buying that in bulk, drinking a lot of alcohol in between, etc. But, I always know it's inching into OVERWHELMING (!) territory when my sister e-mails me to make sure I'm OK after she reads a particular comment. My sister loves me, and is good to me, and she analyzes every word that's posted in order to make sure she's not needed to step in with some sisterly protection.

Your advice was the kind of stuff I wanted to know, though, so thank you. Although I'll never tell you if I actually buy a diaper genie.

I've actually been thinking about this a lot lately because something happens when you get pregnant, and I can't quite explain it. I think some kind of sign lights up on one's forehead that says something along the lines of, "IMPART YOUR WISDOM. I KNOW NOTHING." It's tough because on the one hand, it's true, at least to some degree. I know very little about being pregnant and raising a child. On the other hand, I am an educated adult with instincts and with the ability to both ask questions and Google and being bombarded by advice (even asked-for advice!) can make me feel, for lack of a better word, stupid.

I dealt with this a little (to some extent) when we were trying to get pregnant. I heard a lot of well-intentioned advice that drove me to drink. Advice like: Have more sex! or Maybe you should think about talking to your doctor (insert back pat). No one was trying to make me feel stupid, I rationally knew this, but I did have to fight the urge to scream, SEX IS NOT THE PROBLEM HERE, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO TRUST ME OR FORCE ME TO GIVE YOU DETAILS YOU DO NOT WANT. AND THAT TRAUMA WILL BE YOUR OWN FAULT.

The good in life and on this site far (FAR) outweighs the bad, so I don't limit what I talk about. I ask for advice or bring up a subject that could stir opinions because the comments are worth it. When we were trying to get pregnant, someone suggested something that actually helped me identify a problem I needed to identify. That's the kind of invaluable help that keeps me coming back here. With this woman's help we are now going to have a baby. That's cool, right?

But opinions about babies (and parenting and families and, yes, even baby products) are more intense than the average set of opinions, I've come to find. I'm adjusting, and I now will never walk into an innocent conversation about baby blankets without armoring myself a little bit.

The surprises about pregnancy/impending parenthood are non-stop. There is nothing that could have prepared me for the last 16 weeks, no words offered in the form of advice or suggestions or tips or just friendly conversation that could have captured exactly what it would be like for me on this journey. (Although the words SWEET TOOTH would have been at least slightly on par.) Regardless of anything, I'm so glad I'm not going through it alone, and that I have all of you. Even if you scare me sometimes. There, I said it.

I just hope you'll overlook the fact that I'm totally registering for cute clothes whether or not I should. Lots of them, even. I'm sorry but you try holding that registry gun in front of a tiny pair of overalls and see what happens. I TOTALLY DARE YOU. (Fine, fine. I'll register for all sizes.)

And since Molly didn't get nearly as many comments on that last post as diaper genies did, I think I should end this by saying she is (officially) going to be a Dalmatian for Halloween.

Molly, what do you think about that?:

She's thrilled. Obviously.

Important Decisions

I was browsing through a Pottery Barn Kids catalog this weekend, and I could not stop laughing and oohing and ahhing at this Halloween costume:

A giraffe! Oh lord, having children is totally worth it if you are allowed to dress them up like this. I'll wait until the post-Halloween sale to see if any of the $59 price tag is knocked off, but it comes in all sizes, so next Halloween our kid is totally giraffing it up.

Since we don't have a kid this Halloween, we'll just have to do what we usually do: torture the dog. We're going to Barktoberfest for the second year in a row, and we have to decide how to dress Molly. Last year she was a lobster:

She was also a total asshole, which is why this is the best picture I have of her in her costume. You can bet we'll bring a tighter leash and also perhaps a Taser with us this year.

I'd like to choose something adorable-slash-traditional and dress her as a pumpkin:

Mike would like to dress her as a Dalmatian (as in, put her in a white T-shirt covered in DRAWN-ON black spots). He thinks this would be hilarious. (His words: "a dog dressed as another dog! GET IT!") I think this will embarrass the poor thing even more than the pumpkin. HANDMADE? I'm just not sure our little girl has it in her to be so ... granola.

What do YOU think? Pumpkin? Dalmatian?

We also started our baby registry this weekend. When we registered for our wedding, we knocked it out all in one day, and this prompted roughly 65 separate fights. Since I am far more mature and patient these days, I decided baby registering was going to need to be a project with phases. Phase One: Register for Seven Items in Twenty Minutes Then Once the Novelty Has Worn Off Go Eat Chicken Express. Phases Two Through Four: To Come. We registered for one pack of bottles, a toy, some plain white onesies and a video monitor. We'll go back in another month or so once we find out what we're having.

But—and I'm asking for this advice so let it rip—what baby products did you love/hate/need/waste money on/etc? What do you wish someone would have told you about registering? I'll print out your comments and take them with me next time. This will give me something to do after Mike pries the registry gun from my hands and shouts OUT LOUD in the baby aisle, "I NOW HAVE ALL THE POWER!"

(Your suggestions will all be much appreciated, I promise, but we may blatantly ignore some of them and buy the changing table/bassinet/etc anyway, even if you swear we won't use it. We're sort of annoying like that.)

Finally, I, well, finally, uploaded pictures from my semi-recent trip to San Francisco. You'll notice I have four total pictures from BlogHer. I wasn't drinking, obviously, but I was apparently not documenting either. What was I doing? I'm not entirely sure. You can view all (FOUR!) of those pictures here, along with pictures from the rest of my visit. You can see much better BlogHer pictures on just about any other Flickr stream out there.

Now, off to work. It may be early Tuesday morning, but it sure feels like Monday. Three-day weekends: lovely except that just like two-day weekends, they end.