Lawyerish

Movin' On Up

Well, every time I get all pouty and low and have wretched tear-filled breakdowns when I'm in the kitchen slicing pancetta, the universe resets itself or something and we get some good news.  As I noted a few days ago, we hadn't heard anything in a while and I was starting to feel like we'd stalled out somewhere in the twelve steps. 

Today, though, we got the happy news that we've moved on to Step 9!  Which means that our paperwork will soon be submitted to the visa unit for pre-approval (basically where they determine that our child is, indeed, an orphan in the legal sense and say that yes, we can bring her into the US).  Which means we're still weeks and weeks away from traveling and we have no idea how much time that approval will take, BUT! we're moving forward, and that's the important thing.  Movement - yes!  Having one less step ahead of us - yes!

As if that weren't enough, we also got our Travel Packet from our agency.  I guess Step 9 is the Travel Packet step, which I didn't realize, but hoo boy, did that give me a serious case of the OMGWOOHOOs!  It's got packing lists and a sample itinerary and details about the 5,000 more bits of paperwork we need to complete before, during and after our trip.  That is, our trip to bring our daughter home -- OMGWOOHOO! 

The Travel Packet also includes a list of Vietnamese phrases that may come in handy. 

They include (deep breath):  "I am your Mommy."

(Hanky!  I need a hanky over here!)

Also:  "We will never leave you."

(Hold me!)

I've started to imagine the moment we get the email (yes, it comes by email - such modern times, these) of our pre-approval (which will basically set off a chain of events that will result in our getting on a plane within a week or two, eeeep!), and it makes me so giddy I can hardly sit still.  (Of course I also imagine the moment when we see Noelle for the first time in person and hold her in our arms, but I'm a little cautious about thinking too much about that, because it's so monumental and dizzifying and HUGE and OMGICAN'TWAIT, and since we don't know WHEN it's going to happen it ends up making me feel all achy and eeeerrmmpphhhhh and a little wahhhh.)

At this point, without a miracle we won't meet Noelle before her first birthday; but I'm coming to be (sort of/not really/sort of) at peace with that, in part because I just have to, and in part because it's starting to feel more real that we actually WILL go and get her one day relatively soon, and it won't be SO long after her birthday (she turns eleven months this Sunday, le sigh).  I mean, I won't be jumping up and down to miss it, but in the foreseeable future, we'll have a date certain when we'll be going to get her, and we'll have lots and lots of birthdays to celebrate as a family every year thereafter.    

Queues and Random French Things

I need movie recommendations.  I checked my Netflix queue today, and I'm down to like five movies, most of them selections I'd been pushing down the list for years, knowing if they ever made it into our living room, they'd sit on the TV console for a few weeks only to be returned to the shipping facility, unwatched.  I perused the Movies You'll Heart section and the New Releases and added a couple of things, but for the most part was utterly uninspired.  So if you wouldn't mind letting me know some of the good stuff you've seen lately, I'd be much obliged. 

Incidentally, we watched "La Vie en Rose" last weekend, and it was pretty amazing.  It's beautifully shot and Marion Cotillard was phenomenal.  I usually find these musician biopics to be intolerably formulaic and heavy-handed, and maybe this  didn't seem to be either because it was French, which gives it an automatic artsy/sophisticated quality, but I think it truly went beyond the standard Hollywood fare in this genre.  She sure had one messed-up life, that Edith Piaf.  You think she's finally going to catch a break and some other terrible thing comes her way.  Man. 

Speaking of French films, if you're ever in the mood to have a good cry en francais, check out "Au Revoir Les Enfants" and "Le Grand Chemin."  We watched those in my French class in college, and I sat there with a bunch of disaffected frat boys -- who undoubtedly would have been texting each other if texting had been invented back then, but instead they stared glassy-eyed into the middle distance and occasionally jostled one another -- and bawled my eyes out.  After that semester, I stopped taking French because I'd finished my language requirement and didn't want to have class on Fridays anymore.  (Super lame.) 

We also read "Bonjour Tristesse" in that class.  I don't remember much about it except maybe something about a convertible driving around a mountain, perhaps resulting in a plummet to someone's death?  Or something?  (Or maybe I'm just thinking of "To Catch a Thief" and Grace Kelly's ultimate demise, which has nothing to do with anything, although those events took place in Monaco, which is sort of French-ish, anyhow.)  Anyway, it's some kind of trashola novel in the vein of Danielle Steele; I don't know why we didn't read Hugo or de Beauvoir or something a little more relevant or classic.  Of course, I read it in French, all diligent-like, and then I found out that everyone else in my class had found a bootlegged Xerox of an English version and read that instead.  (Super-duper lame.) 

This brings me to one of my greatest regrets in life:  not studying abroad in college.  My school was awash in study abroad programs, and I had every intention of spending at least a summer in Europe (I was deciding between an English lit course at Oxford or an art history program in Florence), but then I decided not to for easily the dumbest reason ever -- my boyfriend didn't want me to go.  AUGH.  Hello, nineteen-year-old self?  YOU ARE AN IDIOT.  (He wasn't some weirdo controlling dude or anything, I feel compelled to point out; he was just kind of boring, and I apparently let him drag me down into his boringness.)  I also blew it in law school, when I considered spending a summer in Paris studying international law, or a semester in Japan or Amsterdam, and again chose to stay put in favor of my relationship at the time.  Gergh. 

Now that I've gone on that frolic and detour, I will close by noting that, as I've been watching all the Olympic trials lately, I've been thinking about how unbearably stressful it must be to watch your kid compete in an elite-level sport.  Can you imagine having to sit up in the stands, all helpless and hand-wringy, and watch as your daughter launches herself onto the balance beam or as your son positions himself in the starting blocks to try to qualify for the freaking Olympic games, and you know how they want to win more than anything in their lives, and you know if they mess up even a tiny bit they could lose their shot at living out their dream, and you know you'll have to pick up the pieces if they don't make it?  Grah!  I get all bound up just watching the athletes as an objective observer; I think I'd end up gnawing my hand off and passing out if that were my kid out there.

As a bonus for getting through today's meandering entry:  Go here and be prepared to bust a gut.  (Via here -- also funny -- which I found thanks to Jamie.)

The Only Living Girl in New York

We went to see the play August: Osage County this weekend, and I'm still reeling from the awesomeness.  It's a family drama that takes place in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, and it was smart and piercing and hilarious and devastating.  It was the best thing I've seen in ages.  Or possibly ever.  I'm not alone in raving over it, since it won Best Play at the Tonys a few weeks ago and also garnered a Pulitzer, but still:  DANG.  It was amazing.  It featured by far the best dysfunctional family dinner scene ever performed, and had some fantastic zingers that we've been quoting since we left the theater.  Brilliant, I tell you.  It was BRILLIANT. 

Apparently there's going to be a national tour in 2009, so if it ever comes to your town, you have to promise me you'll go.  Promise me right now.  Do it now!  Or, shoot, get on a plane and come on to New York and see it here!  It's summer, you'll find plenty of tickets available and you can get reservations at any restaurant you want while everyone (except us) is in the Hamptons (more on that below).  Don't be daunted by its length, by the way -- it's over three hours, but it absolutely flies by. 

I got us the tickets for J for our anniversary, and guess what J got me for our anniversary (among other things)?  Yep.  Tickets to August: Osage County.  Cathyhad told me we should see it months ago, so as our anniversary approached I thought it would be a perfect thing that he'd never think of himself, as I'd only mentioned it once before.  Nay.  Great minds, etc.  But his tickets are for a different day, so if he can't get a friend to go or something, we'll just go again.  (IT WAS THAT GOOD.)

We also went to the Cooper-Hewitt this weekend, on something of a whim (we're nuts!  we go to museums AT RANDOM!), and it was nice, if a bit small, and afterward we walked through Central Park in what has become a daily afternoon thunderstorm.  It seems Manhattan has migrated to the Caribbean; we've got hot, humid, sun-soaked mornings and afternoon downpours.  Which isn't bad, all things considered, since the alternative is for the sun to bake all the city's bad smells into one massive stench-fest; this way, everything's lush and hydrated, and the sidewalks stay clean(er) such that you can breathe without fear of a beastly odor wafting past your nostrils every few seconds.

Meanwhile, this is at least the fourth summer running that we've walked around wondering how, exactly, the vast majority of our peers and colleagues manage to get out of the city for the weekends while we wander about the urban jungle, not a beach, pool or lake in sight.  Every Friday evening as I trudge home from the subway, I see our neighbors packing their kids and dogs and groceries into their Subarus and Volvos, heading off to someplace with cool breezes and a grill on the patio, as we slog it out with the tourists (not that there's anything wrong with tourists, of course).  It's a little demoralizing.  

I mean, this year we figured we'd be traveling to Vietnam or would have just gotten home with Noelle (ha...HA...ha...WAHHHH), so we didn't even think about trying to get a place, but next year...NEXT YEAR, man.  We are all over that summer rental scene. 

Until then, we'll keep going on these little cultural outings (next weekend: the J.M.W. Turner exhibit at the Met -- also dinner with friends; we're not completely alone, at least) and taking the dog for long walks in the suddenly-not-so-crowded park and making summery dinners (gazpacho!  corn on the cob!  rose wine!) and praying feverishly that we'll be on a plane to Ho Chi Minh City very, very soon.  (It's been, ah, five weeks without an update of any kind.  I am not taking it well.) 

Preserving History

Thank you all so much for the anniversary well-wishes and the kind words on my previous, wedding-y post.  Love. 

So Holly asked whether I wear my wedding dress around the house on random occasions, and I am afraid the answer is no, even though I would love to, as I know it would make me feel awfully pretty (let's be honest, it's impossible not to feel pretty in your wedding gown).  However, sadly, the dress is Preserved.  (That's "pre-sehhhhved", all fancy-like). 

My dress sits in an acid-free box at the top of the guest room closet, wrapped in acid-free tissue paper, and a pair of (presumably acid-free) white cotton gloves is tucked into the acid-free tissue paper, in case I ever want to "handle" the dress, because apparently my bare human fingers would BURN RIGHT THROUGH the organza and silk should I DARE to gaze upon it without adequate safeguards.

This is what happens when you're a great big sucker like I am.  When I bought the dress, the boutique recommended that I have it Professionally Preserved after the wedding.  The place they referred me to for the Preservation does fabric restoration and cleaning for the, ah, Metropolitan Museum of Art.  So my little ol' wedding dress was right up their alley.  No corner dry cleaner for my preshus princess-wear -- nay.  Only the best for me!  (Again:  sucker).  

When I called the Preservation people to make the necessary arrangements, I thought the woman was going to come through the phone and smack me across the face with a white glove when I told her our wedding was already six months prior -- I guess you're supposed to take care of this sort of thing, like, right after the event.  Instead, I let that dingy-hemmed, slightly ripped gown ROT in my closet for all that time, as if I cared for it no more than a dishrag.  I had known it was going to be expensive, so I had put off the Preservation as long as I could without The Guilt overtaking me, and I thought six months seemed reasonable-ish.  They disagreed. 

With great haste, the Preservation people sent a Town Car (I am not kidding) the next day to pick up the dress, and promised to return it to me in its acid-free box several months later, fresh and clean as a daisy and carefully preserved such that I could NEVER TOUCH IT AGAIN.  (Well, I can touch it all I want -- but then I have to get it RE-PRESERVED.)

A couple of weeks after my dress was spirited away in its limousine, the Preservation woman called to give me an estimate on the Preservation.  Before she got to the bottom line, she told me that a couple of the seams on the front of the dress had separated (I believe someone MAY have, ever so daintily, stepped on the hem of the organza overlay as we were ever-so-gently slam-dancing to "Livin' On a Prayer", or maybe it was to House of Pain -- it was extremely elegant, whatever it was -- and a couple of the French seams on the bodice came apart).  She said that they could "stabilize" the dress, but those seams would not be able to be permanently repaired to their original condition.  I imagined a team of people standing over the dress with a defibrillator -- CLEAR! -- trying to STABILIZE it.  The world of fabric Preservation is HIGH OCTANE, people!

It was, as you might imagine, not inexpensive; but now, five years later, the amount is forgotten (or blocked out by trauma) and my dress is forever Preserved, which I'm sure helps us all sleep a little more soundly at night.  Obviously, if Noelle wants to wear it (ha ha, I know; every mother dreamily thinks "well, maybe she'll love it as much as I did" and then every daughter snorts and scoffs at the mere SUGGESTION of such a thing), she's welcome to it.  Although I'll have to warn her that it will be UNSTABLE -- CHAOS could ensue! 

Or maybe one day I'll get crazy and just start wearing it around the house whenever the mood strikes, Preservation be damned.   

Five Years

You've probably gathered by now that I'm a bit of a sentimental fool, and also that I'm something of a crier, that things like lost luggageand shelter dog commercialsand Olympic human interest storiescan set off one of my puffy-eyed snuffle-fests.  And yet, I've been surprised by the times that I haven't cried, times I was sure I'd end up looking like a wet dishrag but instead turned out to be a dry-eyed bundle of sunshine. 

One of those times was our referral day; when I'd imagined getting The Call, I always figured I'd bust out into joyful, hiccuping sobs when it came, but in actuality I was shaky and head-explodingly excited, but I didn't do much in the way of full-on crying.  Somehow, the adrenaline of the moment and the sheer joy of it overrode my usual sentimentality -- although, in the interest of full disclosure, when I go back and read my entries about those life-changing moments, and especially when I read all of your amazing comments from my initial announcementof the news, I can't help but get that starry feeling in the back of my throat and a glimmer of moisture in my eye.  (Don't mind me!  Just my contacts!  Allergies, you know.  Ahem.) 

Our wedding day was another one -- for years, even before I knew who my groom would be, I had a hazy vision of myself in a white dress, floating down a long aisle, and the thought of such a momentous occasion, and all the emotions it would bring and all that it would represent, moved me to tears.  And when I was actually engaged and the date loomed in the future -- June 14, 2003, to be exact -- I fretted over the thought of ruining all my wedding pictures by having red, swollen eyes, how I would mess up my professional makeup and ultimately seem a little foolish for all the waterworks. 

When the day arrived, though, with its buzz of activity and clamor of family and friends, I was calm and collected.  I laughed with my mom and my girlfriends as we got our hair and makeup done; I made sure to eat and drink enough so as not to have a fainting incident at the altar; and even when my dad saw me for the first time, all brided up, I held it together. 

Once we were at the church, I got annoyed that the boutennieres weren't what I wanted and I stressed over whether to pee before the ceremony (I did, with at least three girls to help hold my loooong train and veil up and out of the way of the toilet) and I ducked nervously behind a table to keep the groom from catching a glimpse of me in my bridal ante room and I worried momentarily that my bridesmaids (and man of honor) would be caught in the rain as we sprinted from the rectory to the back of the sanctuary, just in time for the sky to open up with a boom of thunder as we heard the opening strains of the processional beginning.

There just wasn't a lot of time for crying.  And then, after the bridal party had headed down the aisle and I stood under the arches of the nave, waiting for the verger to open the double doors for my grand entrance, when it was just my dad and me sharing a moment we'd both imagined countless times before, I felt nothing but pride and love and astonishment that it was all really happening.  I didn't cry then, and I didn't cry when the doors opened or when my music (Tchaikovsky's Serenade in C) began or when I saw the faces of so many people I loved, from every part of my life, collected under one roof.  I didn't cry when I got up to the front of the aisle and my dad did the hand-off, or when I held J's hands for the first time and we stared at each other in awe, or when we exchanged the vows we'd written and were declared man and wife.

Ok, fine, I DID tear up when my friend did a reading, but that was because SHE started crying, and I couldn't very well just sit there and let her cry alone, could I?  And then I DID cry when my new husband and I made it to the nave together, as man and wife, and we hugged each other as the rain poured down outside and a crowd gathered in front of the Swedish Fish truck -- which was parked, inexplicably, in front of the church, something I hadn't seen before and haven't seen since -- and all the passersby applauded us and the church bells rang out into the downpour. 
 

The rest of the day was sheer exuberance, from the ride in the antique Packard with glasses of Champagne and a horn that honked "Here Comes the Bride" (it was not a low-profile way to travel) to the brilliant toasts given by my dad, my brother and my man of honor to the hours and hours of dancing (our DJ ruled).  It was the kind of day that leaves you breathless at how fast it went, and as it goes you have to keep telling yourself to remember all the little moments but not to hold on to them too tightly, because over the years they'll fade but the imprints of emotion that they leave behind will still be precious to you forever.

Of course every day can't be as thrilling as all of that, but what followed it -- and what lies ahead -- is every bit as wonderful.  I'm not exaggerating when I say that, as of the moment that we were pronounced husband and wife, everything changed.  The two of us knew well before June 14, 2003, that we would be together forever, that we would do anything for each other; but all the love and intention in the world was no equal to being joined together by vows, blessings and law. 

We felt different immediately; it was as if a huge unknown had been made known, or a previously unsettled, uncertain question had been answered.  That part of our lives in which we were two single, separate people -- however much we adored each other and planned to make it all work as a couple -- was over.  Our fate was decided, sealed and endorsed by all of our loved ones and by God. 

Of course marriage takes work, and there can be trying times and so on and so forth; I'm no Pollyanna about these things.  But for us, the level of security that came from being married was unparalleled in our lives.  It felt different to be together, and it felt different to be out in the world, knowing that we had an avowed partner, teammate and best friend for life.  It is something that gives me tremendous comfort to this day, and I imagine it will forever -- he's in my corner, and I'm in his, and we're taking this walk together through the world, side by side.  And that brings tears of joy to my eyes. 

(Photo set on Flickr.)

Diversions

I wrote a comment about this on -R-'s site the other day, but does anyone else get teary-eyed at the Visa commercials with the footage from past Olympics and the voiceovers by Morgan Freeman?  The one with the guy who finishes the race last and his father comes down onto the track and (sniff!) helps him across the finish line, and the ever-so-dignified Mr. Freeman intones, "He finished"?  It gets me every time! 

Also, am I the only one who remembers that African swimmer at one of the last few summer Olympics, who was really not so much a world-class swimmer but he was the best in his country, and there was some backstory about how there were no pools where he lived so he had to practice in the ocean, and in the race, of course, he finished dead last by probably five minutes, and it was slightly painful to watch him flailing about the pool, his spindly limbs splashing wildly as he zig-zagged up and down the lane, but it was so INSPIRING, because he was THERE and he was LIVING HIS DREAM and you could just explode from the poignancy of it all.

So, yeah.  I'm looking forward to the Olympics; clearly, I am a sucker for those human interest features they do before the events, plus the fanfare of the opening and closing ceremonies and pretty much everything in between. 

Of course, I'm hoping we're either in Vietnam when the Games begin, or (even better) we're already home (hey, I can DREAM can't I?) and can cuddle up with Noelle while watching the little gymnasts throw themselves around the mats and the divers spinning off the platforms and everything.  We haven't gotten an update in three weeks (gack!), but I'm assuming things are continuing to move forward at their relatively brisk pace.  Which means I still have no idea when we're going, but for weeks I've been saying "a couple of months."  Oh, how I can't wait to say, "a couple of weeks."  One day. 

In the meantime, we're getting our shots for the trip (eep!  I never thought I'd be enthusiastic about getting shots, but in this case it's  a reminder that one of these days we actually WILL get on a plane and go to Vietnam) and having our homestudy updated so we can extend our immigration approval (just in case we don't travel until our current one expires, which I hope never happens since that's in September, when I plan to be comfortably home with Noelle).  So things are happening on our end, anyway.  And there's another baby shower to look forward to in July, the one hosted by Allison and her mom in my hometown; it's going to be an Old Skool Southern shower, with cheese straws and orange blossoms and sweet tea and more!  Woo! 

Then we can go to Vietnam.  Anytime after that.  Our schedule is WIDE open after July 12.  I may have mentioned this.   

(Really, anytime!)

Hold on.  I have utterly failed to comment on this year's "So You Think You Can Dance" thus far!  How have you been able to GO ON with your lives?  The overall quality of the dancers are nowhere near that of last season (DANNY!), but the good ones are really, really good.  I'm looking at Joshua and Katee (what's with all the SPELLINGS of the girls' names, though?), Will, Matt (in his solos, anyway; he's kind of dragged down by Ms. Uma Thurman-face, with her big, awkward body, but his technique is excellent), and Twitch.  How could you not love Twitch? 

I am not so much a fan of the woman with the pink hair, who looks kind of craggy and far too old to be on this show.  Or, sadly, Gev, whose charm outweighs his talent.  Or the other ones, whose names I can't remember because they're a bit eh.  I think the season hasn't quite taken off for me yet, but I'm just as excited as ever because Eeeeee!  Dancing on mah tee-vee! 

The Visit

We covered a lot of ground over the weekend during Allison and Maggie's visit, from the playgrounds and zoo of Central Park to the dim sum palaces of Chinatown to the wilds of tourist-laden Midtown.  There was much walking, eating, sweating, shopping, talking and laughing.  Also a lot of searching for public restrooms, as Maggie is potty trained and has to go tee-tee on a very regular (i.e., hourly, at least) basis.  It turns out that New York is terribly unfriendly to the small of bladder, which I knew since I am no stranger to frequent urges of that sort, but bringing a toddler into the mix heightens the sense of urgency and desperation. 

For the most part, we were able to make do with restaurants and stores, but panic ensued when Maggie announced mid-playground-fun with my friend B. and her daughter O. (their collective gorgeousness is showcased below) that she needed to go, and there were no potties even remotely in the vicinity.  (Note to Central Park: get some freakin' potties!)  We were ultimately able to get her to hold it while we played on for a good while longer, so the crisis was averted.  Then, yesterday, in Gymboree of all places (the clothing store, not the place with the classes), there was also no restroom available to customers (they said they couldn't allow kids to use it "because of the chemicals" -- uh...do what now?), so poor Allison had to go into a sketchy McDonald's and use their highly sketchy bathroom.  Eek.  The things we do for kids.

Anyhow.  You probably didn't come here for a prolonged discourse on the bathrooms of Manhattan. 

Spending time with Allison was, of course, tremendous and, although I managed not to cry this time when she got in a cab this morning (unlike last year, when I sobbed rather dramatically as we said good-bye), about 1,000 times throughout the day I wanted to tell her something else funny that we didn't discuss over the weekend or dish about something or other, and I was crestfallen to realize that she was gone and we wouldn't get to talk and talk and talk while I fixed dinner this evening.  (Yes, there are phones, but obvs not the same thing than total face-to-face access.)  I realized that there were stories I'd started but had gotten sidetracked and never finished during their visit (we do a lot of interrupting of ourselves and each other, and Maggie would distract us or what have you, so our conversations are not always linear), and things we'd said we would do that we completely forgot about (including getting a decent picture of us together -- we didn't even get a NON-decent picture of us together, gah!).  There is just NEVER ENOUGH TIME. 

There was, however, sufficient time for Maggie to fall MADLY IN LOVE with my husband. 

He came home on Thursday evening after work and Maggie warmed up to him in about 0.5 seconds (she warmed up to me mostly because I bribed her with a bag of cheapo, yet diverting, toys upon her arrival).  The next morning, she got up and the first thing out of her mouth was, "Where my Joe?", a question that was repeated many, many times over the ensuing days.  When he got home from work Friday evening, as soon as the door opened she RAN -- totally unbidden -- to greet him with a big hug and lots of giggles.  (Now THAT made me cry, I am not ashamed to admit.  I am not made of stone!)  And on Saturday at dim sum she pointed at him and said, "I nike dis one."  And then I died.

I wish you could hear her little voice.  It's so...little and sweet, and it amplifies the cuteness of the little things she says by a power of about a billion.  Like she'll put some toys in a bag and say, "I put dis in here.  For later."  I mean, FOR LATER?  It kills me!  She points at Allison periodically and says, "Dis my mommy."  She likes to designate things as "mine" and one night when I kept grabbing one of her board books, she said, "Dat mines.  Look in my eyes.  It mine."  I about fell off the couch laughing.  "Look in my eyes."  COME ON.  Where did she get that? 

Also, when I was holding her in the line for the potty at Starbucks (seriously, what do people DO in the bathroom at Starbucks?  They camp out in there for HOURS), she was looking for Allison, who had been waiting about 100 years for our drinks, and when we watched Allison finally go sit down, Maggie said, "Mommy sit in MY chair."  Hee!  Oh, and when we were getting ready to go to the park, I got out a towel for her and she pointed at it and said, "I wanna cuddle with dis one." 

I don't know if it's borderline annoying to hear people GO ON about other people's children, but I'm going to gush for a moment and say that, while we had a couple of very brief tear-laden, big-lipped moments (and one time out for sassing her mama) during their visit, Maggie is exceedingly good-natured and truly a joy (are you rolling your eyes yet?) to be around.  We messed her schedule all up, had her out in the heat and rain, gave her all sorts of new foods, denied her naps, and subjected her to endless crowds and stroller rides, and she was cool with all of it.  She did get pretty loopy toward bedtime ("Are you punchy, Maggie?" "Hee.  I punchy!") but that was pretty much it.  There were times I thought *I* might have a tantrum, and she was all smiles.  She did get a little cagey at Build-a-Bear when the bear-stuffing lady wanted her to do the bear-stuffing ritual they have there, but that was pretty much it.  She's one cool customer.  And one CUTE girl.

I will close with a photo of Maggie's best expression of the weekend, which was this hilarious Face of Consternation she did at the park on the first afternoon they were here.  I'm going to look at this picture whenever I need a boost in mood, because it's maybe the funniest little face I've ever seen.  After I took it, we kept coming back to it and cracking up, so whenever I look at it now, I hear Allison's laugh in my head, and I can't help but smile.

Lots more pictures on Flickr!

Look Who's Here!

It's time for big fun!  Today we're going to hit the zoo and lunch at the previously discussed mac and cheese place and shopping and then some more park time with B. and her little big-girl O., followed by cupcakes.  Tomorrow it'll be dim sum and the Village and maybe the Children's Museum.  Sunday we'll meet up with Maggie's daddy for a Father's Day brunch and then Maggie will build a bear for Noelle and perhaps we'll let her run wild in FAO Schwartz.  Whee! 

This all seems strangely familiar...

Look how she's grown since last August (clearly the playground fountains in Central Park are a favorite activity around here).  I love this sweet girl -- and her mommy. 

Storm Front

Tell me, as we all swelter through this year's first heat wave, what's the hottest you've ever been? 

For me, what springs to mind first is the summer between tenth and eleventh grade, when I went to Princeton for an intensive ballet program.  We stayed in Pyne Hall, one of the dorms on campus that was built in like 1703 and, as such, lacked air-conditioning (and had a bit of a roach problem to boot).  We had to walk almost a mile to the ballet studios, which, incredibly enough, also were not air-conditioned. 

Naturally, it was one of the hottest summers on record, well over 90 most days and cresting past 100 for over a week, and before we did our first plie of the morning, we were sweating our bony butts off.  For six to eight hours a day, we took class, our tights and leotards becoming a second skin, saturated and translucent and oh-so-fragrant, our slicked-back hair dripping rivers of sweat into our eyes.  At lunch we'd dump liters of cold water over our heads, trying to get the slightest relief from the steaming air of the studios.  When the day ended and we shouldered our dance bags, we'd slog to the cafeteria, which was -- hallelujah -- air-conditioned.  We stayed there as long as the cleaning staff would let us after the meal hours had long since ended, then wander back to Pyne Hall, to the roaches and the choking heat and a sleepless night on smothering sheets.

Then there was Vietnam.  Oh, man, is it ever hot in Vietnam.  I mean, I grew up in Georgia and obviously am no stranger to heat, but I swear it was even hotter in Vietnam than in the dead August of a Southern summer.  You just kind of accept that you're going to be drenched in sweat wherever you go, and plenty of places have A/C, so it's not the end of the world.  Riding on a bus for ten hours without air, on the other hand, is not the best feeling in the world.

On my trip to VN after the bar exam, my friends and I took a bus from one city to another -- I can't even remember which two cities, because the memory of the discomfort has blocked out everything else about that span of time.  It was one of those tourist buses you sign up for at a little backpacker cafe, where they've got Internet access and Western-style meals and day trips to popular destinations around the country as well as cheap connections between cities.  We were promised air-conditioning.  We didn't get it. 

We boarded the bus with about 95 Europeans, each carrying a backpack the size of a Volkswagon.  There was so much luggage that we had to put our duffels under our feet and hug our knees to our chests, and the people sitting in the very back of the bus had to spend the duration of the trip facing backward, holding the wall of backpacks up so as not to be crushed under all that dirty laundry and Lonely Planet guides and cheap souvenirs.  The driver started the bus and we all waited for that welcome rush of cool air, but it never came.  As we pulled out of wherever it was, the driver's assistant came around to collect tickets and explained that the air was broken.  I would have leapt out of the window if I could have opened it more than two inches.

For what seemed like years, we drove through the countryside, which was stunningly beautiful but we could hardly see it through the haze of body odor.  My shins were pressed against the vinyl seat back ahead of us, and my calves were glued to my thighs; my butt was numb from being unable to change positions for hours on end.  I thought I would lose my mind from the heat and discomfort.  I tried to get through each minute, barely able to comprehend that I wouldn't be released from the bus for many, many hours. 

Uh.  There is a freaking crazy-ass storm happening right now, with lightning that keeps changing the sky from pink to green to blue, and the wind is screeching by in a highly threatening manner.  Has there ever been a tornado in Manhattan?  Because I think there might be one coming now.  I'm going to get off the computer now, before the Wicked Witch goes riding by and something comes through the screen to electrocute me. 

The point of my story, anyhow, was that it was hot.  Really hot.  I think you probably gathered that.

Do tell me about the hottest you've ever been, though.  And also how to survive a tornado when you're on the ninth floor. 

Shower Me

You know how I was feeling rather trepidatious about all the things that could possibly go wrong for Jonna'svisit and our baby shower?  Yeah.  There was one thing I didn't think of:  a plumbing emergency.  A SEVERE plumbing emergency.

Fortunately, it happened on Friday, not Saturday, or we would have had to hold the baby shower in the sweltering expanse of Central Park.  Even so, it was not quite ideal for a day that was meant for party preparations.  Nor was it a great impression for a first-time visitor to our apartment (welcome to New York!  There's a toilet in our hallway!).

What happened was, on Friday morning, I got up and my husband told me that the tub was full of standing water.  As he hurried out the door to go to work, I called the super, who came immediately and tried to snake the drain, which resulted in the already dingy water becoming putrid and black, with large, unidentifiable clumps of detritus floating in it. 

When Jonna and my mom got up (shoehorning themselves out of the confines of our guest bedroom/nursery, where the air mattress took up every inch of available floor space, leaving the person in the real bed to climb over it in the dark, risking bodily harm to themself and the air bed's occupant during nighttime ventures to the loo -- again, welcome to our happy home!), they were greeted by my super, who stood tsking over the foul water.  We couldn't shower, of course, so we all took up posts in the living room while the super called a plumber, who said he would be there between 10 and 11 that morning.

Two and a half hours later, we were still in our PJs, still unshowered, with no plumber in sight.  Our to-do list for the party had not diminished, and, meanwhile, the dog was not himself and took care to vomit all over the floor, threaten explosive diarrhea, and/or dry heave at regular intervals.  Eventually, Jonna and I ventured out, unshowered, to the grocery store to get the food buying out of the way while Mom stayed behind to monitor the dog and hopefully let the plumber in.  We returned around one to find out that the plumber had arrived, dropped his tools in the hall, and headed out "to get a sandwich." 

He finally reappeared some 45 minutes later.  After over an hour of doing whatever it is plumbers do to try to dislodge tub clogs, he started emitting sounds of frustration and disgust.  We overheard him calling someone and telling them to bring "the big snake", pronto. He disappeared again, apparently to meet his big-snake-bearing colleague at the curb.  We peeked around the corner to find that the toilets from both bathrooms were sitting in the hall.  Not a good sign.

He returned after another hour, this time with backup and with a machine that looked like it could drill to the core of the earth.  Even with the heavy artillery, it took forever for them to dislodge the obstruction that had built up in our circa-1927 pipes.  You know what it was?  Paper towels.  Paper towels that had been FLUSHED DOWN THE TOILET.  Clearly, we don't throw paper towels in our toilets, but it seems that our cleaning service does.  Thanks, cleaning service!  We'll send you the bill!  Also, it seems that a yeti had been showering in our bathroom without our knowledge, because the clump of black hair that they pulled out of the drain was approximately the size of an American bison.  (Note: neither of us has black hair.  IT WAS NOT OURS.) 

In any event, after seemingly ages more, the toilets were back in place and the tub had drained, so I donned a HazMat suit and scoured every surface of both bathrooms.  Finally released from the apartment, the three of us headed out to get some more errands done and to sit for pedicures and generally breathe a sigh of relief that all was back to normal and we could shower when we got back home. 

The day of the shower went remarkably smoothly; we went out first thing in the morning to buy the cupcakes, then scurried back inside to escape the crescendoing heat.  We fixed the food (a crudite platter with roasted red pepper and spinach dip; a cheese board with brie, comte and port salut; a selection of olives; cucumber and Boursin finger sandwiches; mixed berries) and got things set up for drinks (Bellinis and white cranberry/ginger ale punch) and generally prettied the place up.  And blasted the air. 

Then people started to arrive (including Cathy and Kathy and Adam and lots of other terrific friends who don't have blogs, for reasons that remain unclear (come on, you guys!  SHARE YOUR LIVES WITH THE INTERNET!  You know you want to.)) and it was big, big fun.  There were no shower games or anything, just conversation and company and Adam being an adorable flirt, and the dog showing himself to be pretty good at calming down and chilling out with a small person around (thankfully, the dog's gastrointestinal issues of Friday had abated).

Adam and my husband became fast friends; at one point, my hubs had to go walk the dog, and Adam stood, stricken, in the foyer, going "Doe?  Doe?  Back?"  We reassured him that he'd be back, but Adam kept vigil in the foyer until, finally, the key turned in the lock and "Doe" had returned.

Here we are with Adam (look!  we can be parents, too!):

And then we opened presents.  Lots of very, very awesome presents (and lots of super-unflattering pictures of us were taken while opening the very, very awesome presents, so unfortunately you will only get to see a select few, which were pre-approved by my other half):

(My mom and Jonna have lots more shots, including one of me and Jonna, and hopefully some where my decision not to blow-dry my hair does not appear as misguided as it does here.)

I guess it's hard to have a bad time when people are giving you presents (and orphanage donations, woo!) and you're eating cupcakes and chattering with some of your best friends, but this was a particularly wonderful weekend and a great party, even WITH the overflowing bathtub and being trapped here for the better part of a day and it being eighty thousand degrees out.  It was a perfect reminder that, when you have the right people around you, the conditions don't much matter.  And I couldn't feel luckier to have the friends and family I do, and to be able -- one day soon -- to introduce Noelle to all of them.