Lawyerish

Yet Another Crotchety Rant

I've been aware for years now that I am well outside of the target demographic for MTV.  I stopped watching "The Real World" sometime around the Chicago season, and even then it was a show of last resort, the sort of thing you could only endure when even the Lifetime Original Movie fails to engage you and your brain is too tired for the intellectual rigors of Us Weekly.  I've never seen "The Hills" or "Laguna Beach", and it never fails to appall me that they are still doing Real World/Road Rules Challenges, and that the intensely annoying Beth from the L.A. season -- which was, what, in 1994 or something? -- is still on it. 

Last night, after we watched "There Will Be Blood" (excellent, I thought), I was flipping through channels and found that they were rerunning "So You Think You Can Dance" on MTV (the new season, by the way, begins this Thursday -- could I BE more EXCITED??).  So of course I had to check it out.  After a few minues, the show cut to commercial, and the next thing I know, I am watching a series of images of...um...adult, ah, bedroom....implements (toys, if you must)...flash across my screen.  It turned out to be, of all things, a Choose or Lose commercial, encouraging the young people of today to, you know, rock the vote this fall. 

Uh.  Wha? 

Non-sequitur aside, are people of the MTV viewing audience -- which almost certainly are still in their teens, for the most part -- really aware of what those, uh, things are?  Let alone (PERISH THE THOUGHT) using them?  I know for generations we've been complaining that the young 'uns have gotten progressively more depraved and promiscuous, but this is ridiculous.  It's just so...unnecessary; surely there is a more eloquent way of encouraging young people to be civic-minded, one that does not involve...things that vibrate. 

And then, as if that weren't enough for my fragile sensibilities, the next commercial was for an energy drink, and the pitch was that the product will perk you right up after you spend the night with a random stranger and wake up less than enthused about him/her.  It showed all these hip youngsters wandering home in the morning, disheveled and doughy-faced, while singing about the walk of shame.  On television!  At nine on a Saturday night!  In full view of young, impressionable people!   

Look, I went to college, too, and okay, ha ha, the walk of shame; I'm sure many of us have joked about that sort of thing before, even if we haven't participated in such tomfoolery ourselves.  But a mass-market commercial?  Targeted at teens?  Dios mio.  It's all gone a bit far for me.  If anyone needs me, I'm going to be living among the Amish.  And I'll be taking Noelle with me. 

As long as we're on commercials, have you seen the one for the new Special K cereal with chocolate nuggets in it?  (Itself a hideous concept -- Special K was just fine when it was crispy rice flakes, all by themselves, and chocolate has no business being anywhere near my breakfast cereal.)  This is great:  a mom is in the kitchen making brownies, and she's about to swipe her finger around the bowl and have a good lick (like we all do, right? salmonella be darned!).  But she hesitates.  And then she goes and has herself a bowl of Special K instead! 

No.  No no no.  When in life has freaking breakfast cereal ever been an acceptable substitute for brownie batter?  Never, that's when.  I don't care if it's made of chocolate with chocolate chips served in a chocolate bowl with chocolate milk over it.  IT IS CEREAL.  And the day I decide to sit down to a bowl of cereal instead of having a lick of brownie batter, I hope someone will have the good sense to punch me in the face. 

On an entirely different note, this weekend we picked up a super-cute piece of artwork for Noelle's room.  It's the Red Bird Trio from Petit Collage, a San Francisco-based artist; we had seen it at a store near us that has beautiful jewelry, home stuff and kids' clothes and gear, and we just had to have it for the baby.  We also have a beautiful photo of an angel statue that we took in Italy and blew up to poster size that I want to hang in there, and my mom is going to do a collage of a sort of ethereal, Midsummer Night's Dream sort of woodland scene for her as well.   

In general, we're finally getting around to paying some attention to our walls and what to hang on them; for ages, we've had some photos up in our hallway, ones we took in Vietnam and Italy for the most part, but not much else.  So we're getting some framed and some of the old stuff re-framed (we'd been using cheapo frames for ages and they keep falling off the walls and breaking), and in a few weeks, we should finally have a grown up-looking apartment.  One in which no one will ever be allowed to watch MTV.    

Tidbits

A smattering of things that have amused and/or annoyed me this week:

There is this hilarious collection of on-camera meltdowns by news anchors, which was inspired by one of our local nightly news people shouting, on live television, "What the f%^$ are you doing?" in the middle of a promo for a story that was to be coming up at eleven.  (Incidentally, what is Leslie Stahl wearing in her clip?  It looks like a bridesmaid's dress circa 1981.  Is that what the hard-core Washington reporters wore back then?  Puffy sleeves and frosted peach chiffon?)

Until last night, I was quite ashamed to still be following "American Idol" (WHY do I keep getting sucked in?  WHY?), but after Fantasia's guest performance, I can say I was thrilled to be an audience member.  Her totally incomprehensible number (as in, I could not understand a single word of the song and didn't have any idea what she was doing with her body at any given time) was somehow the greatest thing I've seen on television in ages. 

Even better, toward the end of the song, they cut to Simon Cowell and caught him in one of the best reaction shots on live TV ever -- his mouth was agape, jaw totally slack, and he had the look of a man who had just watched aliens land in his backyard and scurry out of the mother ship to begin colonizing the planet.  Check it out:

It was completely and utterly insane, and I loved it.  (Although I would embrace anything that gets David A., mumbly muppet that he is, off my TV for a minute or two, with his pandering song choices and wide-eyed naivete.  "Gosh!"  Ugh.)

On another note, in case you hadn't heard, there was a mind-blowingly stupid contest run by the Today show (sponsored by Teleflora) that deemed adoptive mothers to be "Non-Moms."  That's right!  NON.  MOMS.  I mean, morning "news"/talk shows are about the lowest common denominator there is, but you'd think they would have a modicum of...not even sensitivity, but COMMON SENSE to recognize that, um, mothers are mothers no matter how their children arrived in their homes.  (And why the categories, anyway?  WHY ANY CONTEST AT ALL??) 

I'm usually pretty laid back about this sort of thing and try not to get too screechy/defensive about people's (unfortunately common) ignorance of/failure to recognize adoption and non-biological families or whatever, but this really sent me over the edge.  Fortunately, I never watch the Today show anyway, and I don't need Teleflora and their crappy-ass flowers, so they can SUCK IT.

To round out the jackassery portion of this week, there is this man, who stands as a perfect example of why I am, at times, embarrassed to say I'm from Georgia.  This has to be the best line in the article:  "He sees nothing wrong with depicting a prominent African-American as a monkey."  Riiiight.  Yeah.  Nothing wrong with that at all.  Hey, maybe he can print up some shirts that say "Adoptive Moms = Non Moms", too, and call it a day! 

I'm just so happy to be living in such an enlightened society here in 2008. 

Step It Up

We received an update today that our post-referral, pre-travel paperwork is on Step 6 of the steps I outlined here.  This is great news; sometimes people linger in Steps 2-6 for months, and we're just six weeks out from Noelle's referral.  So:  woo!  Go, paperwork, go! 

A couple of the steps yet to come are longer; Step 8 can take 30-45 business days and Step 12 (getting visa pre-approval from the US) can last (gulp) 60 business days.  But!  Progress has been made, and progress is always good.  It's still within the realm of possibility that we could meet Noelle before her first birthday, which would be just incredible -- pretty much all day, every day and often much of the night, I am praying that we can be with her for her birthday.  So far, so good.

We also just completed one of our pre-adoption education requirements, an infant/child CPR and safety class.  It was exactly the sort of thing to tap into every anxiety you might have about becoming a parent:  drowning!  severe burns!  choking!  carbon monoxide poisoning!  and a little something called "taxi face", which is apparently what can happen (to adults, too, mind you) if you're in an accident in a cab and you're not wearing your seatbelt.  You know those plexiglass dividers between you and the driver?  Yeah, apparently it's not so enjoyable to slam into that with your face.   

Anyway, we're now masters at the Heimlich maneuver and age-appropriate variations on CPR.  The most awkward part of the class was having to tap the doll's feet and shout, "Baby!  Wake up!  Wake up baby!" at the lifeless plastic form in front of us before starting the breaths and chest compressions.  I'm all for learning life-saving skills and all, but it was just the two of us and the instructor, so I felt a hair self-conscious getting all urgent and everything. 

I'm only slightly more terrified about parenthood now than before (REALLY A LOT MORE TERRIFIED), because of all the DANGER lurking in our home and out in the world, all those things that could potentially threaten our preshus babeh.  As far as I'm concerned, we're going to ban grapes, carrots, hot dogs, nuts, balloons, knives, medications, cleaning products, corners, and hot liquids of any kind from our household until Noelle is, oh, 25.  Even the thought of baby-proofing makes me sweat, because what if we miss something or do something wrong?  WHAT IF?  Panic in the nursery!  But then I think of how we've all managed to stay alive all this time, so surely it can't be that hard.  Right?  (DANGER!)

Speaking of being in a sweat, last night on the way home from work, I was on the subway and all of a sudden I felt The Faint coming on.  I felt all hot and dizzy and started seeing static before my eyes.  I put my head between my knees and tried to tense all my muscles (after I fainted at work last year, my doctor told me that tensing up could stave off one of my famed vaso-vagal episodes), and then stumbled off the train at the next stop so I could get up to street level and breathe some fresh air (I did not want to be the "sick passenger" who delays the train and pisses off passengers all up and down the line).  As I walked uptown, I had to stop a couple of times to crouch down and get my head low again (I looked super cool, let me tell you).  And then I was pretty much ok and made it home without incident.

In addition, I'm not sure if it's allergies or what, but I have this sort of malaise right now, with all-over body/muscle/joint aches and occasional sweats and vague headaches and fatigue, which may or may not have been related to the near-fainting incident (as I've mentioned, those can come on at any time, for any reason or no reason at all -- it's a great party trick).  I remember feeling this way at the beginning of last spring and in the early fall, so maybe it's a weird seasonal disturbance of my bodily rhythms.  I am ready for it to be over, regardless.

Although, really, I can't complain about that or anything else, because:  Step 6!  Holla! 

In Which I Eat a Lot and Get Presents

I just celebrated my second Mother's Day, although still there was something missing (I can't quite put my finger on it...).  But at least this year we know that we have an actual, live baby out there, hanging out in her crib with her dog blanket and her yellow and white socks and no idea how her life is going to change in a few months. 

This morning to kick off the celebration I made ebelskiver, a Danish recipe passed down from my Grammie C. (dad's side) that's somewhere between a pancake and a jelly donut.  It requires a special pan and a certain amount of finesse to flip these little pastries while keeping them intact and not disturbing the applesauce that you dollop in the middle of the dough as it cooks.  I used Grammie's recipe and my mom's handed-down pan, and if you're feeling adventurous you can play along at home:  there's a very similar recipe here, and they have ebelskiver pans everywhere from Sur La Table to Bed Bath and Beyond (who knew Danish culture had become so ubiquitous?).  And you can vary the recipe with what you put in the ebelskiver (applesauce, jam, berries) and on it (powdered sugar, maple syrup, jam, or all of the above).  It's a little more effort than I would usually put into breakfast, but well worthwhile and between the two of us we managed to put away enough to feed most of Copenhagen.

Then I got to open my presents (growing up, we had to wait til after dinner to open presents on birthdays and non-Christmas holidays; but now I consider myself virtuous if I can hold off until the day of the event, so making it to dinner is out of the question), and I don't want to brag, but I have to tell you that my husband is a total pro at giving gifts.  I tore into the wrapping paper and found a certain robin's egg blue box tied up in a white ribbon and nearly passed out with glee (yes, I am a complete sucker and have utterly fallen for a marketing ploy as simple as a box color).  Therein lay a perfect strand of pearls.  They're just the right size, and the necklace is just the right length, and I feel like a proper lady now that I have a proper set of pearls. 

I think it was after watching "Rear Window" a few months ago, I mentioned that what I really wanted was a set of pearls so that I could feel slightly more Grace Kelly-esque (hey, I wonder what Grace Kelly's Thing was!  Something tells me she probably didn't have a Thing).  Well, my husband takes notes, clearly, for here we are! 

I also received from my parents a beautiful lavaliere (just like the Wakefield twins!) with Noelle's birthstone (which is also mine) in it -- a single, sparkling peridot.  Which brings up an important question:  is it "pare-ee-DOTT" or "pare-ee-DOE" or "PARE-uh-dott" or "PARE-uh-doe" or...what??  I have never known, so I have avoided saying the word altogether (my entire life til now, I swear), but now I'm going to wear the necklace and people might ask -- help!

(Ignore the blur at the bottom left.  Not sure what's going on there, and I didn't feel like taking another shot.  Am lazy.)

If this was a Mother's Day pre-baby, I can't wait to see what's in store once I'm truly a mom, live and in person!  Maybe I'll get, like, a whole house or a car or perhaps an island. 

On a PANICKED NOTE:  WHAT do I do for Father's Day, considering there is no male equivalent of a classic, perfect piece of jewelry??  (My husband already has a nice watch, doesn't wear French cuff shirts unless under duress, doesn't golf, and has every tech/gadget thing he needs.  He always tells me to get him some books off his Amazon wish list, but...no.  Too lame.  WHAT TO DO??)

AND!  We now have...a crib!  Woo!  Baby has a place to sleep!  So she can come home anytime now.  Really, anytime would be good.  Like now!  Now would be good. 

(Or now?  Hmm.  Well...how about now?)

(Photo of crib expressly for Leah.  You ask, I deliver!)

About Those Things...

Well, your comments on the last post are pretty much the greatest thing ever. 

Don't you all feel so unburdened from sharing your Things?  I certainly do.  And as I noted, every time I read a new comment, I realized yet another Thing that I have, like the brittle toenails and the fair, ultra-sensitive skin and the invisible eyebrows and eyelashes.  It's a wonder, we're all walking around with our Things, all self-conscious about them, yet I am 100% certain that if I met any of you, I would not notice your Thing.  So we should all make peace with our weird-ass bodies and get over it.

In other comment-related news, after much perusal and consideration, I ordered the Ogio Road Trip in Sand Floral, as recommended by Carolyn.  I found it at Zappo's and ordered it yesterday and it arrived today.  (Along with a new pair of work shoes that I threw in for good measure.)  It looks like it's going to fit the bill very nicely for work/gym functionality.  It's compact but roomy and has all sorts of neato pockets and sleeves and flaps.  And I think it is suuuuper cute, with the flirty embroidered flowers and the satin lining and padding. 

I mean, it pushes the bounds of business attire a bit -- when I go to court or to an Important Meeting, I'll probably swap it out for something a little sleeker, maybe not my staid Coach leather briefcase (which I have mostly abandoned because it weighs about 40 pounds, empty, and my right shoulder gets crunched down to hip-level when I carry it), but rather the bag I've been carrying for a while now, which is from this awesome store on Mott Street and is nylon with zippy outer pockets and also has embroidered flowers on it so it has that feminine touch, but it's gray and subtle and therefore passable for worky things.

Well. This is awfully girlie of me, chattering away about bags and shoes!  I am so UN-girlie, as you've gathered by now; but for some reason, I do enjoy bags and shoes.  Not like designer handbags and Jimmy Choos or anything (not that there's anything wrong with those, but they're not me); I have carried the same weekend tote for six years now, and I bought it on the street for twenty bucks and it is NOTHING special or even cute, and I don't believe I have ever spent more than $120 for a pair of shoes (in fact, usually the most expensive shoes I buy are running shoes, not exactly paragons of cuteness and glamour).  But I love Mary Janes of virtually any kind, and t-straps or spectators or anything retro-looking in the shoe category, and I love slightly funky, yet functional, shoulder bag sorts of things, as discussed herein, above.  I don't go out and comb the stores for bags and shoes, but if I'm out wandering through the halls of retail, those are the things toward which I gravitate, and I certainly enjoy clicking around on Zappo's and its ilk. 

As far as other girlie things go, makeup for me is a non-issue -- I kind of like looking at makeup at Sephora or the drugstore, but I quickly become overwhelmed by it and usually rush out of the store in a mild panic from the exposure to so many choices and shades and tools.  I only use three makeup items 95% of the time (Benefit Dr. Feelgood as a de-shiner, Cover Girl mascara in the purple tube on my wussy lashes, and Cover Girl Lipslicks in Daring on my kisser (thanks, Holly, for bringing Daring to the attention of the Internets!)).  So I don't really need anything else and therefore have trouble bringing myself to spend money for more.

Lotions and body washes, on the other hand, are fun.  Lately, I have liked Dove's Go Fresh wash in the lemongrass/citrus scent (slightly exfoliating!) and Dove's Cream Oil stuff in rosewood/cocoa butter (makes your skin CRAZY soft!).  And, given the chance, I will buy out a Fresh store, because everything just smells sooooo goooood, plus all the pretty, pretty packaging, oooooooh, shiny! 

I am definitely NOT girlie when it comes to my hair; a good deal of the time, I can't be bothered to blow it dry, and even when I do, it ends up being pulled back in a pony tail or twisted up in some kind of clip (not like a banana clip or anything; I'm not that bad).  And I go wayyyyy too long without getting it cut.  Generally, I am a Hair Failure. 

I don't read women's fashion/beauty magazines because they make me anxious; I always feel like I am falling short of some great standard of womanhood with my unimaginative clothes and my limp/frizzy hair and my three makeup products.  Who needs that?  Even the home-oriented magazines put me a little on edge; I feel like I should be out hunting for the perfect floor lamp or arranging flowers on our coffee table or hanging a spotlight to enhance our collection of twee midcentury modern pottery.  Eh.

Maybe I've veered a little too far into the realism territory and made myself out to be a Thing-ridden, unkempt, unfeminine schlub, which isn't quite true.  I guess the point is, I know what works for me; I am practical and slightly lazy; and while sometimes (like when I'm sitting next to some freaking knockout woman on the subway with perfect clothes and perfect hair and makeup) I think I could stand to put just a bit more effort into my appearance (because while I'm no Naomi Watts or anything, I am sure I could look something more like fabulous if I put in the time and energy), all in all I'm fine with the system I've got, the one that takes minimal effort and makes me decently presentable. 

And, you know, draws at least some attention away from all my Things.

Lumps and All

Last week, the hilarious and generally awesome Emily posted about this...Thing that she has, a Thing that she has not identified to the general public (or her husband) but that involves some kind of "routine maintenance", as she calls it.  Generally speaking, a Thing is basically a physical anomaly, shall we say -- an imperfection, a quirk, an indiscretion of the body, if you will. 

(And by the way, you must click on the link in her post to the story about her honeymoon, because I almost horked up a lung laughing when I read it.  That is some funny stuff right there.) 

Anyway, like many of Emily's commenters, I read the entry about the Thing, and I began to wonder, do I have a Thing?  Should I have a Thing?  What if I have a Thing and everyone has been talking about it behind my back my whole life, wondering why in the world I don't take care of that horrible, painfully obvious Thing??

And then I realized that I *do* have Things -- not just one, either, but several.  Many, even.  In fact, they are Things I can't hide very well or attend to on a regular basis.  There is no real maintenance to be done to mask or minimize or tame them.  They're just there. 

For example, I have these, um, lumps in my lower legs.  There are maybe four of them on one leg and three on the other and they're mostly on the front and side of my lower shins.  They seem to become more visible when I'm exercising, or even just walking around a lot in warm weather, which also happens to coincide with the time that my legs are most exposed (thanks, body!). 

They look like small tumors or cysts, some about the size of a kumquat, some more like a blueberry.  I asked my doctor about them once and she said they were harmless fatty deposits.  I could have them surgically removed, but then instead of lumpy lower legs, I would have lower legs covered in scars.  Oh, and they could come back.  So I'm going to be a lumpy-legged woman for the rest of my life.

As long as we're in the vicinity, let's talk about my feet.  They stink.  Seriously, I have some pathologically stanky feet.  It's terrible in the summer, because I wear shoes without socks, and when I take them off at the end of the day, holy WOW, is that some odiferous nastiness.  I've tried lotions and powders and insoles and so forth, but they don't eradicate the stench.  I will say that I recently started putting a little baking soda in my shoes in the morning, and it seems to help more than anything else I've tried.  There may be hope, yet.  But on the whole, I try very hard not to take off my shoes in polite company.

My ankles and feet also swell to elephantine proportions by the end of every day.  When I'm wearing a skirt and heels, there they are for all the world to see, giant hamhock ankles and red, raw-looking feet at the end of my blindingly white legs. 

Then there are my eyes, which are a nice color (green), but (1) they are (or one of them is, I guess) slightly crossed sometimes.  I had to wear a patch when I was little to try to strengthen the lazy one, and it's not horrible now but I am very, very self-conscious about it and I always wonder if whomever I'm talking to is going, "Where's her eye going?  It's drifting!  She's got the wandering eye!  It's hideous!" 

People who know me well swear up and down that they've never noticed it or would never have noticed it until I pointed it out, but I do not believe them.  A few years ago I almost got it surgically corrected, until the date of the procedure grew nigh and the realization sunk in that they were going to CUT INTO MY FACE and FIDDLE AROUND WITH MY EYEBALL MUSCLES, and I chickened out and decided I could live with it.  (Oh, and like the leg lumps, even with an operation the problem could return and more surgery would be required -- fantastic!)

And (2) they become red and bloodshot at the slightest provocation or with even a hint of fatigue, so by the end of the work day, after hours of looking at a computer screen, I look like I've just finished crying my eyes out over my lost pony.

What else?  Oh, I am lactose intolerant, and as I realized the other day, the recent addition to my diet of a nightly bowl of ice cream (Edy's Loaded Cookies and Cream -- GO BUY SOME, it is delicious, although the Butterfinger one is even better, to the point that we can't have it in the house because we could blow through a carton in ten minutes) had resulted in my belly swelling to the size of that woman whose picture made the rounds on the Internet a while back, the one who was pregnant with like fifteen babies. 

I also bite my fingernails, which isn't a bodily quirk, exactly; but I cannot stop, and it is horrible and makes my hands look quite unladylike.  And as I've mentioned a bunch of times, I have a very weird, sort of boxy body shape; on a size chart, my chestal area is one size, my waist is one size up from that, and my hips are one size below the chest and therefore two sizes below the waist size.  My butt looks square and mannish in low-rider jeans, and in almost any pants, even those that are perfectly cut, I have a slight muffin top.

There you have it.  My Things.  Let no one ever complain that I try to paint myself or my life in a hazy glow of glamour!  (Although I think I neatly dispelled any chance of that with my Ugly Chronicles, depicting the longest and most severe Awkward Stage in history.  See also, this.) 

ALSO, by the way, I'm totally not trying to garner sympathy here, so there's no need to be all life-affirming about it -- these are my Things and I'm embracing them and accepting them.  Nobody's perfect, and in the end none of it affects my life all that much, at least not anymore.  I wouldn't say I'm letting myself go or anything, but I feel secure in who I am, and I have a husband who (1) isn't perfect, either (and I love him to distraction), and (2) loves me without the slightest reservation or hesitation, flaws and all, and tells me all the time how beautiful I am (even when I am totally not). 

Please (please??) feel free to share your Things in the comments.  Don't leave me out here alone with my garish imperfections!  Confess all.  This is your safe space.  (Including you, Emily!  Your husband will never think to look here!)

Home Slice

Our home is starting to look like one in which a small human being could reside. Last week, we had a massive built-in thing, uh, built in, thereby adding about 8000% more closet and drawer space than we had before, even with three armoires and a dresser.  We are thinking of renting out space in it like one of those pod hotels; we'll throw some sleeping bags and pillows in there, add a tap light or two, and toss some Andes Candies in for turndown service. I figure we could get about $400 a night for it, given our proximity to Central Park and several major subway lines.

The built-in also has a desk, so that our guest room/office can be transitioned into more of a nursery/guest room (it still has to multi-task; such is the fate of every room in a New York City apartment).  After disposing of the no-longer-needed furniture, on Saturday we rolled up the rather forelorn carpet from the guest room (and, in doing so, discovered some long-hidden hairballs that the cat had hocked up under the bed sometime in the past two years -- always a pleasure, cat), then laid out new Flor tiles, which have completely changed the space.  It looks so bright and cheery in there, I can't help but smile every time I walk past.  And then we spent a couple of hours assembling the kid's bookshelves, which involved much less cursing than I would have anticipated (although at one point someone threw a screwdriver across the room).   

Nevertheless, no one was injured in the fray, and now we have a nursery in progress (notably missing:  a crib, which will be delivered -- and, oh boy, assembled by us -- next weekend, plus a dresser/changer, which should be here by the end of the month):

(In the background there, you can catch a glimpse of our toilet!)

Here's the built-in thing/pod hotel, which looks very stripe-y here, but in person it's much more subtle.  Also, the blue tabs sticking out are temporary; the door and drawer pulls are being ordered.  And one drawer is missing because there was some problem with it.  And, dude, window air conditioners are hideous.  Sadly, pre-war buildings are not equipped with central HVAC systems, so we have to suffer with clanging, hissing (also hideous) radiators and clunky, light-stealing window A/C units.  We all have our crosses to bear, I suppose.

Do any of you have beds that look pristine and unrumpled at all times?  No matter how much I fluff our comforter or pull at it to try to make it smooth, it always looks like someone recently finished an energetic tap-dance routine on it.  Oh, and the room is not as small as it looks; it's just that our bed is a freaking RIVER BARGE that happened to run aground right here in our apartment. 

Seriously, I forget sometimes how MASSIVE king sized beds are.  And yet, during the construction last week, we had to sleep in the guest bed, which is a queen, and it was like trying to cram into a pup tent together; there was much accidental elbowing and kicking and dissatisfaction with temperature and fear of possible unwanted contact (my husband is strictly a no-contact sleeper, so the dog and I were teetering over on the edge of the bed, trying to give him his required clearance of at least two body widths without plunging out onto the floor).

In case you're a before/after type person, here's a post I did a loooong time ago with a little tour of our place.  The living room looks completely different now (thanks in part to Flor tiles in lieu of the carpet seen there, plus the leather loveseat finally being jettisoned -- it was the one piece of furniture remaining from my husband's bachelor days, and now it is gone, GONE!, just like his freedom, bwah ha ha! -- and some other stuff has changed; I guess I should just take a damn photo because it's hard to explain).  And the kitchen, of course, THANK GOD, is entirely different. 

So there you have it.  Our latest home improvement.  Woo! 

Now, here's a random question:  can anyone recommend a good gym bag that's not...too gym-baggy? 

I ask because lately I have been going to the gym after work a few days a week, and my only option at the moment is to carry my regular work bag AND a very blah Adidas gym bag.  It's both cumbersome and unattractive.  I'd love to find something that would perform both work and gym functions (although then again, I don't want to have to put my sneakers up against my day planner, you know?), but I would settle for a gym bag that will hold my sneakers and clothes but doesn't add too much bulk. 

Any and all suggestions appreciated.

Crazy/Beautiful

I think it was back in college that I noticed for the first time that when spring arrives, the crazies come out in full force.  Also the pervs, the ones who feel it necessary to comment on your appearance (like calling your rear view "luscious") as you saunter past or, worst of all, the ones who tell you to smile when you're just minding your own damn business.  (OH, how I hate being told to smile.  I GOT YOUR SMILE RIGHT HERE, JERKO.)  It's understandable, I suppose; when you get to feel the sun on your face and all the ladies in town are suddenly wearing less clothing, you start feeling your oats.  You want to share your delight with the world or...release your energy in some way.  We've all had that skippy feeling when the green returns and the the flowers are blooming.  But we each have our unique way of expressing it.

On Saturday, we took the subway uptown after the play.  It turned out to be a mistake because it took about eight years for a train to come, and when it arrived it was so packed I thought we would have to scale someone's body and surf over people's heads to get in, AND the train was skipping stops (including ours, natch).  And yet, we smushed in and endured. 

At the door of our car was a disheveled man with his shopping cart, which was filled with boulder-sized trash bags.  He had designated himself as some kind of subway official, it seemed, and he used his newfound post to welcome all the passengers aboard and encourage everyone on the platform to go ahead and shove their way onto the train.  When the doors groaned shut, virtually vaccuum-packing us into the humid car, the man began holding forth about some subject or another -- at the top of his lungs, of course, and without the benefit of coherence or forethought. 

As you do in these situations, everyone stared off into the middle distance or carried on quiet conversation with their companions or silently wished for it all to be over as quickly as possible.  Everyone except an older man, that is, who was pressed against the doors with his wife and teenage son, right next to the self-appointed mayor of the uptown local. 

"SHUT THE %^&* UP, YOU SONOFA#$%^*!" the man shouted at the shopping cart guy. 

Silence was kept.

And then.

The car erupted in chaos, as the shopping cart guy started screaming, "I'LL MURDER YOU, I WILL, I WILL $^&%ing MURDER YOU, who the ^%#$ do you think you are" (and so on).  And then the other guy yelled back, and by then they were officially engaged in a screaming match.  The family guy's wife was trying to calm him down ("STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT") while he lunged at the shopping cart man, and everyone was getting pushed around -- there was not a molecule of extra space in that car, so with the slightest motion the entire crowd would pitch and sway.  A few passengers tried to diffuse the situation, but it only set the men off all the more; their epithets and fists hurtled through the stuffy car as it creaked slowly into the next station.

We shoehorned ourselves out through the crowd, and both the shopping cart guy and the man with his family stormed onto the platform.  As I passed by, I saw the wife gripping her husband by the shoulders, screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING??  STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" in his face, even as he put his dukes up for a fight, jabbing into the air toward the shopping cart man, who was still shouting that he would murder him and seemed equally prepared to throw down, right there next to the tracks.  Other passengers stepped in and fought to pull them apart, and we were carried up the stairs and out of the station by the sea of bodies.  I didn't get to see how it ended.

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On an entirely different note, when I got home from The Ordeal of the Day, I found a package waiting for me from my sister-in-law:  a surprise "welcome to the Mommy club!" present. I ripped it open and immediately got all teary-eyed.  It's a necklace with Noelle's referral photo on one side (the close-up of her face) and a pretty floral design on the other.  It's modern and cool but also precious and sweet, and I love it.  If you're still looking for a Mother's Day gift for anyone in your life, this is a fantastic idea.  Go here and get one. 

And now, as I go through my routine, I can pretend Noelle is there with me (Noelle and I went to church on Sunday, then got pedicures with a friend!  Then we went to work yesterday and had leftover poppy seed chicken for dinner!  You, ah, get the idea).  And when things get out of hand on the subway, I can turn her face against me and put my hand over her and protect her from all the craziness in the world. 

On the Lighter Side

Let's cheer things up in here a little.  I have just the thing:  I learned some very squee-worthy news this weekend. 

We went to a play on Saturday, the new production of "The Country Girl" by Clifford Odets, starring Morgan Freeman, Frances McDormand and one Peter Gallagher.  Of course I was thrilled to see such an amazing cast up close and personal (although the play was just ok; it never really took off for me), but to me there is a special kind of excitement reserved for Peter Gallagher, due of course to his classic send-up of the smarmy, eyebrow-heavy artistic director, Jonathan Reeves, in one of the best/worst movies of my lifetime:  Center Stage. 

(Also, I can't help but hear him shouting, "What's it like getting nailed by the King??", and as far as cinematic moments go, that's somewhere up near the stratosphere as well.)   

Before the play, I ran through the actors' bios in the program (noting the heavy representation of "Law & Order" franchises on the non-marquee players' resumes).  And what should my wondering eyes behold in Mr. Gallagher's bio but this:  Center Stage 2 (upcoming). 

THERE IS GOING TO BE ANOTHER CENTER STAGE MOVIE. 

I'm sure it's going to be truly horrid, but I CANNOT WAIT.  CANNOT WAIT.  Few of the original cast members are returning for the sequel, but thankfully, Jonathan Reeves will be featured, and the even-more-smarmy Cooper Nielsen will be back as well.  Beyond that, God only knows the kind of travesties of script and plot that will be thrown our way, but no matter.  It holds tremendous attraction simply for sharing a title with the movie that originated the best line ever (why don't I have a t-shirt with this line on it?  I NEED ONE RIGHT NOW):  "I'm the best goddamn dancer in the American Ballet Academy.  Who the hell are you?  NOBODY."

Can you feel the excitement?  CAN YOU FEEL IT?

Boo

Suck:

As of September 1 of this year, Vietnam will be closed to adoptions.

This means that referrals will be given to families through September 1.  Families with referrals up to that date will be permitted to complete their adoption.  Any dossiers of families who have not received referrals by that date will be returned.  Although both the US and Vietnam have stated that they want to reach a new agreement governing intercountry adoptions, they have not been able to reach mutually agreeable terms, and the US has issued a report describing unacceptable practices in the current system.  Accordingly, adoptions must cease while both sides work to develop a more transparent and fully ethical program. 

In the meantime, a lot of families will lose the children that they have only yet dreamed of, and children who otherwise would find homes in the US will instead linger in orphanages indefinitely.  Many families on the waiting list now will continue to wait until the bitter end, hoping against hope that they might receive the miracle of a referral before September 1.  Families who have been paperchasing for many months now will have to make an agonizing decision of whether to start over in a new program.  (And the options these days are few; the state of international adoption is extremely tenuous, with more countries closing their doors to American families -- or having them closed by the US -- each year). 

These concerns have been roiling beneath the surface for some time now, and last fall many people bailed out of the Vietnam program following a State Department warning about the possibility that the bilateral agreement would not be renewed with Vietnam, prompting a shutdown.  However, the majority of us felt there was a great deal of room for optimism, that talks between the two nations appeared to be moving in a positive direction.  When the news about the new DNA testing requirement broke, it seemed to be yet another setback, but also a way of putting a safeguard in place to ensure transparency while allowing adoptions to continue. 

I am one of the lucky ones.  Although our wait was long, I have no fear that we will complete our adoption and, however long it takes us to get her home, we will have our beautiful daughter for the rest of our lives.  I am sickened that other families, who want just as badly as we do to provide a home for a child in Vietnam, will not have the same chance.  I am angered that the bad guys have ruined what could and should be a wonderful, legitimate program -- that a few evil agencies have treated Vietnam and its people and its orphanages as a means for their own selfish gain. 

Our agency is one of unassailable ethics.  Its chief purpose is to provide shelter, food and medical care to children.  It continued its humanitarian aid in Vietnam through the last shutdown, supporting hundreds of orphaned or impoverished children, and even now the majority of the children in its homes are not eligible for international adoption.  Other agencies will disappear like so much dust in the wind when the shutdown goes into effect, because their sole purpose was to line their pockets with dollars from adoption fees.  Ours will stay, and the children will continue to be fed and cared for and educated -- but many of them who would otherwise be able to find homes with American families will not have that opportunity unless and until the program reopens.   

On a personal note, we had hoped to adopt at least one more child from Vietnam.  We still hope to do so, but we may not have that chance.  In the meantime, we will concentrate on bringing Noelle home, and giving her all the love we have to give, while praying that every other family who wants that chance will get it, too.