Special Delivery

In a shocking turn of events, I received a letter from Sarah Palin yesterday. I know! I can’t believe she took the time to sit down and write me a letter. Of course, she wasn’t just writing to say “hello,” she wanted something: money. And she asked me to send her a **personal** reply.

I think it’s hilarious that the RNC (or more likely, whatever direct marketing firm they hired) deemed me an appropriate recipient of this particular mailing. Wildly liberal, bleeding-heart me. Ridiculous.

I was about to throw the whole thing in the trash when I happened to glance at the return envelope and notice that no postage was required. Of course, there was also a message informing me that using my own stamp would help save the RNC’s precious campaign funds.

Oh REALLY?

I decided to teach the RNC a $.42 lesson about targeting the wrong people on their mailing list. And for good measure, I went ahead and filled out the form. I figured at the very least it would provide entertainment for the poor person sifting through the mail.

I would absolutely love it if every “dangerous,” “Un-American” (or whatever else they’re calling us these days) liberal like myself who receives a mailing like this would respond in a similar way. Even if people just send back empty sealed envelopes—which takes no time at all—the RNC will get stuck with the postage costs. And if enough left-wingers pitched in, it could really add up! Maybe the mailing would lose more money than it made! OK, that’s big dream. But I’m going to go ahead and dare to dream that dream. And I’m going to keep my red pen at the ready for the next couple of weeks.

Themes

Jim and I have decided that Banjo’s theme song is “Woo Hoo” by The 5.6.7.8’s, and Rooster’s theme song is “Mahna Mahna”, We’ve never discussed what Beast’s song is, but music from the Jaws soundtrack seems about right.

My theme song changes on a daily basis. Today it’s a mournful dirge. Too much too do and too little time. And I’m still weirded out by the D.F.W. news.

Scattered

My thoughts are incredibly disjointed lately. I start making a mental “to do” list, and 5 seconds later I’m wondering how much cheaper fresh whole chickens are than the roasted ones you can buy at the deli. I was always this way to some degree, but it has gotten worse since I had Max. Now my mind is on overdrive all the time. So in honor of my scattered brain, here’s a scattered post.

When Banjo and Rooster were at the “spa” during our trip to New Mexico, one of the other guests decided to “taste” Banjo’s nose, leaving a series of tiny scabs. If this happened to Rooster I would understand, because he is all attitude. But Banjo? He’s as sweet as blueberry pie. The rage I felt upon hearing that another dog had the GAUL to bite him, and that somehow the staff somehow let this happen? It was deep and furious. Luckily Banjo has healed quickly and I realized that accidents DO happen. I also know I had better get used to the concept because someday another kid will inevitably get teethy with Max at daycare, or worse, he’ll go all Jaws on someone else.

Speaking of sharks, Max has taken to oatmeal like a great white to a lazy seal. To top it off, he’s discovered how to “raspberry,” which has made mealtime infinitely more interesting. I’m pretty sure our entire kitchen is now covered in a fine coating of oatmeal bits. Maybe I could take advantage of Max’s new habit for monetary gains. A little food coloring in the oatmeal and a large white piece of paper might be all we need to achieve Jackson-Pollock-level greatness.

Which reminds me, I told a friend the other day that I am convinced my creativity has taken a leave of absence and is off somewhere sulking in a dark corner, drinking a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. Maybe it’s because I have little time for arty pursuits, and maybe it’s because I often feel in a fog. Regardless, I need to do something to remedy this situation.

You know who never lacking for creative content? Stephen Colbert. And Comedy Central is now posting full episodes of the Colbert Report on the web. It’s a real boon for those of us that typically keel over on the couch round about 9:15 pm.

And the best thing to eat while you’re watching the show? Why, Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream, of course! Jim brought some home a couple of weeks ago and it was delightfully snackicious. Though I am making it a point to eschew the ice cream except for special occasions since it appears my scale is stuck. I still have 10 lbs more to lose and I think it’s time to declare war and start counting calories. If I can reel in my attention span a bit, that is.

And again

It appears my respite from the medical establishment was short-lived. I had been having some wrist pain for about a month, and decided to bring it up at a routine doctor’s appointment. My doctor referred me to an occupational therapist and I was diagnosed with De Quervain’s tenosynovitis. It’s such an exotic name, donchathink? Anywho, the diagnosis basically means that I have inflamed tendons in my wrist, that I have to attend occupational therapy appointments twice a week, and that I have to wear a silly brace. Whenever someone asks what happened I tell them “Baby Lifting 101″. Because interestingly enough, De Quervian’s is also known as “mother’s wrist”. And apparently I am the classic case; the repetitive motion of picking Max up and carrying him triggered the inflammation.

It’s starting to get kind of comical, all this medical stuff. My body has proved to be VERY stubborn about the business of baby-making. First I couldn’t get pregnant, then once I did I had to have a c-section, and then I had the c-section complications, and now this. In the grand scheme of things that COULD go wrong, not a big deal. But now that I’ve been going to constant appointments for THREE AND 1/2 YEARS in an effort to have ONE BABY, I’m starting to wonder why my body feels the need to be such a temperamental brat.

Every time I the doctor I get a letter from my insurance company that is an “explanation of benefits”. Thanks to the pregnancy, birth, subsequent complications, and now this little diversion, I am the proud owner of a stack of letters oh . . . about 4 inches high. And that’s just from the last 6 months! Not only am I falling apart, I’m slowly killing the forest!

But whatever, I’m just glad it’s me and not Max, who is doing swimmingly. He’s developed into such a happy, calm baby. A far cry from his colicky days, to be sure. He’s slowly losing his rockin’ anchorman hairdo, but he’s still an awfully handsome little man.

Truth in Advertising

As we were perusing the produce section at the grocery store yesterday, I had to wonder: who came up with the name “Red Delicious”? They HAD to be aware that one of those words is a lie. An apple that’s mealy with a bitter skin? They should have called them “Red Unsavory” or “Red Repulsive”. Those names wouldn’t exactly sell product, but at least they’d be accurate.

Disaster Narrowly Averted

Three bits of advice:

1. Back up your files

2. Back up your files

3. Back up your files

You would think a graphic designer would know better than to have only one set electronic files. And in fact, I DO know better. That’s why I bought an external hard drive over the holidays, so I could save all of my freelance files. And my emails. And my photos. And my web bookmarks. And my tax information. Of course, things got hectic right after Christmas when I was distracted by Max’s impending arrival, and I never got around to backing up my hard drive. But I was planning to tackle the project this past weekend, before taking my computer in for its long-awaited upgrade. Really. I was.

It’s probably somewhat obvious where this story is going.

I came downstairs last Wednesday morning and was greeted by the loud whirring of my computer‘s fan. It struck me as odd, but when I reached down to turn off the power, I noticed something far more disconcerting. A puddle of dog pee. That’s right. Banjo pee’d right on my computer. And thanks to the hip perforated metal cover, the golden shower sailed right into the case. Right onto the motherboard. I didn’t know whether to scream or cry, so I ran around like a chicken, wringing my hands and cursing the clock, since I knew no one would be at the Mac store until at least 10 am (it was 7:30 am at the time) to either reassure me or inform me that all hope was lost.

Of all the things in this house Banjo could have pee’d on, he picked the most expensive, vulnerable thing. It occurred to me that it was actually kind of funny in an awful way. But I was in no mood to appreciate the humor.

I finally had the sense to fire up Jim’s laptop and find a manual for my computer model. I was beyond relieved to discover that the hard drive in a G5 is located in the top rear of the machine, far away from where Banjo relieved himself. So I calmed down, a bit. Of course it would be horrible to lose the computer’s processing ability, but to lose the hard drive would be devastating.

I took the computer to the wise geeks at Mac Shack later that day and while they couldn’t promise anything, they assured me that my data was most likely OK. But they wouldn’t know for sure until they could examine everything. Unfortunately their repair timeline was 3-5 days, so I spent the rest of last week and the weekend in a state of agitated limbo.

Low and behold, I received a call yesterday informing me that my computer is up and running. Relief doesn’t begin to describe my feelings about the situation. I feel like I’ve been given a second life. And believe me, the first thing I’m going to do when I get the computer plugged in is back everything up. And then I’ll assemble some kind of pee shield because I’m not going through this again.

I’ve missed my poor computer; it’s funny how attached I can become to inanimate objects. But I guess it should be no surprise when this particular inanimate object contain so many pieces of my life.

Pathetic

When I reread my last post earlier today it struck me as whiny. So I want to make myself clear: though I don’t feel particularly lucky that I still have a hole in my abdomen, I DO feel extremely lucky to have Max. I also feel lucky that my complications weren’t worse, that Jim has been so supportive, that I was able to take a 12 week maternity leave, that I have a roof over my head and food on my table and all sorts of other things, material and ethereal. I am grateful.

Back when I was in the midst of infertility hell, I used to play the “it could always be worse” game constantly. Sometimes it was the only way I could get motivated to haul myself out of bed in the morning. I would go through a mental checklist of things that WEREN’T wrong in my life (I didn’t have a terminal disease, I wasn’t unemployed, I wasn’t estranged from my family, etc. etc.) and it would give me enough oomph to keep moving forward.

I assume being tired and hormonal has contributed to my inability to put everything in perspective instead of getting all pathetic and snively. So I am formally announcing my intention to man up (woman up?) and do a better job of focusing on what IS going right at the moment. For instance, Max is super cute. And also? It’s Girl Scout cookie time.

Guilty Pleasure

Whenever there is nothing on TV, Jim and I like to watch America’s Funniest Home Videos, which plays in steady rotation on cable. I would normally not confess to such low-brow consumption, but I’ve decided to come clean. It’s liberating!

As anyone who has watched the show knows, the videos are usually variations on a **somewhat tired** theme, such as: man gets hit in groin, someone falls in a pool of water, someone takes a terrible tumble, etc.  But occasionally they’ll throw in a real gem,  like this dachshund-themed video, which about sent me over the edge. Comic GOLD, people.

The best part of the show is anticipating what kind of mayhem is about to take place. Jim and I will sit on the couch and mutter “Uh oh . . .” or “This doesn’t look good . . . ” as we wait for the inevitable payoff. We also marvel at what appear to be incredibly painful moments. Sometimes they’re not even funny—they’re just scary and sad. Do they somehow ensure that no one was harmed in the making of the videos?

My goal is to capture Rooster and Banjo on film while in the midst of one of their tongue-bath sessions. Banjo likes to lick Rooster like a cat. It’s ridiculous. And I figure on a good week it might be worth a few thousand dollars. One can dream.

Early

It’s 5:45 am and I can’t sleep. I’ve been up since 4:30 or so, surfing the web. But now I’m getting bored and am just counting the minutes until Jim wakes up and I can start banging around in the kitchen without fear of disturbing the household. We have some frozen cookies that I want to throw in the oven so I can clear out a little more space in the ‘fridge. I have a feeling my mom will be making/freezing food while she’s here and our freezer space is smallish at best. I wonder if I’m the only person in the world who starts thinks about baking cookies before the sun rises. Hmmmm.

I’m not sure why I couldn’t fall back to sleep, but I strongly suspect anxiety about what lies ahead. I’m not actively freaking out, but obviously it’s weighing on my mind. I remember how I felt after my surgery 2 years ago, and I know the c-section will be more involved and the recovery longer and more painful. Not to mention there will be a BABY this time. I know I sound like a broken record, but I still can’t wrap my head around that aspect of things.

I think I’m also a little keyed up about this weekend because Jim and I are actually going to be able to spend some time together, which hasn’t happened in a while. I’m looking forward to it. He’s been working like a fiend, trying to wrap up a big project before Max arrives. I keep wondering what would have happened if the little guy came early, but luckily that was not the case. I managed to get MOST of my work tied up before I left, but I still had to leave some things unfinished, which was annoying. I hate feeling like things are up in the air, and I know my coworker will have enough to deal with while I’m gone.

My parents arrive tomorrow and I’m looking forward to showing them the nursery and wrapping up a few last minute errands before the big day. I’m so glad they are going to be here to celebrate the arrival.

I hear rustling upstairs so I guess I’ll go deal with the dogs. They can never sleep past 6 am, even on the weekends. Silly mutts. Though I guess if I had a metabolism like that I’d want to get up and eat too.

No grace under pressure

After a series of minor mishaps over the Thanksgiving weekend, it has become clear to me that I perform very poorly under pressure. I used to think I had a decent head of my shoulders, but apparently that is no longer the case. Now the best I can manage in a crisis is jumping up and down and yelling for help. And now for the trail of evidence:

STRIKE ONE
When we pulled into my parents’ garage after a relatively uneventful trip from Denver (aside from the cage-match-quality dog wrestling that Banjo & Rooster engaged in for no less than 2 hours of the drive) I breathed a big sigh of relief. I’m not big on road trips to begin with, and sitting for 7 hours in my present “condition” is less than comfortable. We said our hellos and dragged some of us stuff into the house and then returned to the garage to get the rest of our gear. That’s when I noticed that the garage was full of smoke. It occurred to me that the car might actually be on fire.

At that point I started yelling for help. I didn’t open the garage door or anything that might actually make sense. I just started yelling. Help quickly appeared and my dad (who is always cool in times of trouble) raised the garage door while Jim started to investigate. I was still standing several yards away, jumping up and down and yelling “I think it’s on fire! I think it’s on fire!”

As it turns out, it wasn’t. We didn’t discover the root of the problem until the following day (a leaky oil pump) but it clearly wasn’t a fire, and I clearly overreacted.

STRIKE TWO
I was just starting to calm down after the false fire alarm when we had another brush with disaster. After eating dinner and some delicious pie, I let Banjo out into my parents’ backyard. It didn’t occur to me that he was unfamiliar with their sliding glass door. So unfamiliar, that when he came sprinting back to the house, he didn’t bother to stop. He plowed smack into the door, nose first. I saw the whole thing and I was convinced he’d done irreparable harm, like maybe smashed his nose or neck or who knows what else.

So I started yelling. And jumping up and down. And insisting that Jim pick Banjo up and check for missing/broken parts. Meanwhile Banjo had stopped yelping and seemed to be just fine. But I still spent the next few hours watching him closely for signs of concussion and lamenting the fact that I had failed to pull the screen door shut in front of the glass so he could have avoided such a cruel fate.

STRIKE THREE
I’ve always been a little afraid of pressure cookers. Despite their wonderful quick-cooking abilities, they seem menacing with their tight seals and their loud steam and their cautionary warnings about cooling them down properly before opening. In fact, I had been bugging my mom to replace her pressure cooker for a couple of years because it was a bit leaky and that doesn’t work well with the whole “pressure” concept.

She ignored me, of course. She seems to have a sentimental attachment to pots and pans. Anyway, when she threw some potatoes into the aged cooker while we were making Thanksgiving dinner, for once I only had a mild sense of dread. I figured it’s worked before, it will work again. That is, until 15 minutes later when the pot started spewing hot water uncontrollably and making a horrible noise. That’s when I pulled out my favorite trick. I started jumping up and down and yelling for help. Do you see a common thread here? I could have reached over and turned off the stove but instead I stood there screaming “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!” as my mom calming grabbed a pot holder and moved the bubbling mess over to a burner that wasn’t in use.

Needless to say the pot was hastily retired and I had the final proof that I’m completely worthless in a crisis situation. Three strikes, I’m OUT!

How can this be? I was a lifeguard in high school. I saved kids from drowning on a few of different occasions. And when I was in college I stopped at the scene of a messy car accident and helped out with some basic first aid. What has become of me? What’s going to happen if a few years from now our kid falls and breaks his arm? Am I just going to stand there and yell? I really need to get a grip. Maybe I should have Jim create some mock emergencies so I can practice my reactions. Because I’m starting to feel seriously pathetic.