Lawyerish

Sleepless

Well, I complain about our wait, and suddenly things get a lot worse in the realm of Vietnam adoption. (There's a handy Q&A here for the morbidly curious.)  We are most likely safe, as it's difficult to imagine any scenario in which we won't be home with our baby by September 1.  However, a great number of families who are further down the list or who are early in the paperwork phase are now scrambling to choose another country program.  And start over.  UGH.  Or, equally harrowing, take their chances that the bilateral agreement may or may not be renewed, and they may be left holding the bag.

Lots of people have said lots of things about this elsewhere and I have nothing new to offer, but it sucks out loud, and my thoughts are with all of the affected families.  I hope they find the path to the children who were meant to be theirs. 

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Last night I woke up around 1am, all a-sweat with the thought that I had messed something up at work, some tiny detail that nevertheless would be quite frowned upon if noticed, which it inevitably would be.  I couldn't get my mind to stop racing as I imagined having to correct the error, which would involve admitting my mistake to various people -- and facing the nausea of being scolded in some fashion -- and running about in a generally humiliating fashion replacing the besmirched document with a corrected one. 

I think I slept for maybe two minutes the rest of the night, which made for an awesome mood the rest of the day.  (And, in case you're dying of suspense, I didn't even recheck the thing when I got into the office because I doubt I messed it up in the first place, and anyway it was done and couldn't be remedied, and it was not the sort of thing that could get me fired or shunned by society or what have you.  Life goes on.)

This happens to me with some regularity -- it has since I was in first grade and experienced smothering anxiety over forgetting my homework or being labeled "bad" by the teachers -- and I wish I knew how to stop it, short of someone bashing me on the head with an iron skillet at bedtime each night so I can't possibly wake up until morning.  This vibrating panic will grip me in the wee small hours of the morning, and I'll work myself into a lather, convincing myself that all is very much wrong with the world, and that I've made some miniscule misstep that is going to result in nothing but DOOM, DOOM FOR US ALL. 

I welcome tips, which may well include getting over myself.     

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Have you seen this show "Moment of Truth" on Fox?  I can't believe I actually have, but it was on after "American Idol" (I swear, this time we are going to stop after the audition round, I SWEAR IT), and inertia set in.  It's hosted by Mark L. Wahlberg, the indomitable host of the long-lost "Temptation Island" (also known as the GREATEST SHOW EVER), so you know it has to be utter and complete trash.  And indeed, it does not disappoint.

In short, the contestants have been asked questions while hooked up to a lie detector, and on the show they are forced to answer certain of those questions, and their answers are verified, after a pause that makes the pause between The Bachelor's roses seem infinitesimal, by a robotic female voice as True or False.  For each set of true answers, they move up to greater dollar values. 

The thing is, the money is not so substantial in the grand scheme of things, and they are asked to reveal rather, ah, sensitive information even at the lower dollar levels.  Like one guy owned up to having a gambling problem (not the end of the world, but for ten grand?), and one -- get this -- admitted that he has put off having children because he does not think that his wife (WIFE) will be his lifelong partner.  Um.  BURN.  For TEN GRAND?  No.  I don't think so.  And she's SITTING RIGHT THERE; his wife is just sitting there, watching in horror as this news is revealed.  That guy also confessed to having inappropriately touched his personal training clients.  Nice.  So maybe she wouldn't want to keep him as a lifelong partner, anyway. 

I find the whole thing a big repugnant, because how far are we willing to go, as a society, to get even a relatively inconsequential amount of money?  These people could well be trashing their personal and professional lives, for no real reason at all.  It seems quite ridiculous and unnecessary.  Says the woman who watched "Temptation Island" with RAPT attention.  Hey, I don't go ON the shows; I just watch them.  You know, to report back to you people on how awful they are.  Yyyyeahhhhh...   

Mission: Interminable

Sweet Louise, I'm tired.  I worked all weekend, so I have nothing remotely interesting to report. 

In other personal failures, this morning was the Manhattan Half-Marathon; it took place just steps from our front door, yet I did not participate.  I had oh-so-high hopes back in November to get my run back on and join the 13.1 this weekend, aaaaaaaaand...didn't do a thing about it.  Well, I guess I did for a very brief while there; I have a hazy memory of running a 15K, but after that things went a bit pear-shaped and here I am, not having laced up my Adidas Supernovas for a period that can be measured in weeks, not days.  It's entirely possible that my legs will soon shrivel up and recede into my body, as if I'd been crushed by a house flown in from Kansas (although I don't have any shoes nearly as cute as the ruby slippers to leave behind).  One day, I'm sure, I will feel compelled/have the time/care enough about my flagging fitness to get out there.  Maybe. 

Have you seen this video?  I think he speaks a whole other language.  There's a whole segment in there with this rat-tat-tat serious of acronyms, and I realize that all religions have their idiosyncracies and their unique terminology, but SPs?  KSW?  PTS?  Um, WTH?  (Oh, wait -- handily, a glossary!) 

I find the whole thing fascinating, on a genuine level and not just a gossipy US Weekly sort of level.  I am deeply curious about religions in general, but this one is in a category all its own, and I can't help but wonder what's REALLY going on there.  It's hard to find anything about it that isn't massively skewed in one direction or the other (i.e., it's life-saving and could solve all the world's problems (whatevs) versus it's a cult RUN FOR YOUR LIVES), so I would love to read something that is reasonably objective and neutral -- but the group's notorious secrecy kind of prevents that, which in turn only makes it all the more intriguing to me.  Don't be alarmed -- I'm not at all interested in it as a prospective participant, obviously, being perfectly happy with my own beliefs, but I find it exceptionally interesting nonetheless.   

Of course, if you've watched that, then you HAVE to watch this as well.  HySTERical.  He gets the Evil Cackle of Crazy and the Maniacal Clapping and the Face-Melting Stare down, to a tee.  Why is he in that unbelievably horrid show "The Carpoolers"?  A waste, I tell you.  A damn waste.

Finally, have any of you ever had a dream about someone you only know via their blog?  I had the most vivid one last night about the uber-blogging family of them all (the Armstrongs, natch), which also involved Jonna, although I know her For Real, too, so that doesn't really count.  My dreams are pretty bizarre as a matter of course, and I suppose I have also been known to dream about people only known to me via TV or film so it's no SO unusual, but I find it notably strange.

I'm off to make dinner and spend a couple of hours staring into space before heading into a week that promises to be brutally busy.  Oh, and incidentally, we visited another Montessori school last week for our non-baby (also known as The Referral That Will Never Arrive).  It's so disheartening to think that last year around this time, we kept saying to ourselves, "this is the last [whatever] before the baby!"  The last Tet, Easter, Mother's Day, anniversary.  And now, in all likelihood, we're going to hit ALL of those milestones again without our daughter.  Even if we get a referral this week (which I doubt, just because it seems we're meant to have a wait that NEVER ENDS), we likely won't travel until late June at the very earliest.  That is FOREVER from now (and I realize that time will very well stand still and, in fact, maybe go backwards once we actually see her face and know who and where she is, but of course I can't even start that waiting process until this one ends and in any event I think it's better to have SOME sense of a "due date" -- not to mention adorable pictures to swoon over -- than to plunder along in this no-man's land, well past the longest wait you ever imagined).   

I'm a little sick over it, if I'm being honest, although the sickness has largely turned to numbness at this point.  I know no one can control when babies are born or surrendered or how long their paperwork will take. I know it will happen eventually.  I know it's going to be amazing when it DOES happen.  I know the right baby will find her way to us.  And I know once we have her, we'll feel grateful for all this time we've had to ourselves and the pain of the wait will disappear.  But still.  We want her so desperately; we want that next part of our life to begin.  We're beyond ready.       

Our One&Only

Although our first class experience was ripped from us at the last minute, the flights down to Mexico went smoothly, as we had a bulkhead seat en route to Dallas and a row to ourselves on the connecting flight to Cabo.  We made it out of the airport in record time, as our bags were among the first to come off the carousel (a rare event for us), and we got the green light as we passed through customs (have you seen this?  they have this randomized stoplight thingy and you press a button on it; if the light turns green, you're free to go, but if it turns red, you have to submit to a search of your luggage -- it's the great equalizer of Mexican customs). 

Although we'd lost a couple of hours of beach time thanks to the airline's cancellation of our original flights, we arrived at the Palmilla before sundown.  Our taxi was greeted at the gate by a gentleman in a gorgeous embroidered silk uniform, and as we approached, he put his hand over his heart and gave a deep nod.  This is, apparently, the resort's signature greeting, and every staff member we encountered throughout our stay gave the same little bow and said a brief word or two of greeting.  I thought it was lovely, although because I have to make everything awkward, whenever we crossed someone's path I kind of did the bow back to them and then blushed and giggled like some kind of moron while stammering out a hideous "buenas dias" or "buenos noches" in my pathetic, Anglicized non-Spanish. 

Sometimes, to be honest, I'm sort of uncomfortable with attentive service -- I'm a simple Midwestern/Southern girl, after all -- but here, everyone was so unbelievably friendly that it was impossible to refuse or in any way discourage their solicitiousness.  After being offered fresh fruit popsicles under the sweeping white archway of the main building, we were taken to our suite in a white-washed, tile-roofed building surrounded by lush palm trees and brilliant bouganvillea.  Our butler, Jesus, met us in the sun-drenched outdoor foyer.  He showed us around our suite and encouraged us to call him with anything we might possibly need or want during our stay. 

It's funny, I've stayed in great places before with excellent service, but somehow knowing that one person is meant to be devoted to you personally takes the whole thing up a notch.  We would wonder aloud if you could get something that wasn't listed on the room service menu, and rather than calling the front desk or the dining services people, we'd just ask Jesus.  Jesus would have the answer.  Jesus would advocate for us. 

It was oddly comforting, and it encouraged great laziness.  I could almost begin to glimpse the indulgence and torpor that must overcome celebrities, whose every whim is attended to by their personal assistant(s) or by virtually anyone they meet; they need do nothing for themselves, so they become utterly spoiled and incompetent at even the simplest tasks.  Considering we only had Jesus for four days, I was not worried about becoming incapacitated in that manner, and needless to say, I was certainly going to make use of a butler since I was provided with one.

The room was spectacular, with the terrace and daybed, the view of a "From Here to Eternity"-style beach, the studded doors and the truly massive bathroom and voluminous stone tub.  We were met with a fresh fruit bowl and a ceramic carafe of tequila, and Jesus gave us our very own One&Only Palmilla baseball caps as a welcome gift.  We unpacked and made our way to the beach, post haste. 

When we returned to the room around five, there were cocktail snacks awaiting us (spicy peanuts and olives), next to a little card where we could check off our preference for the next day's snack offering (we chose a locally made cheese with mini-toasts).  There was also a card next to the bed asking for our preference for an aromatherapy scent to be used at turndown (we went with ylang ylang, which was promised to offer serenity and relaxation).  I went into the closet (about the size of our bathroom at home), and discovered that the staff had left us a sewing kit that had been customized based on the predominant colors in our wardrobe.  It's these sorts of details that make me want to rob a bank so I can go live out the rest of my days at the Palmilla.

We dined at one of the resort's restaurants that night and strolled back to find the room and bathroom awash in candlelight, with votives flickering in every corner, plus fresh bottles of water and (of course) chocolates set neatly next to the bed.  Our robes and slippers were laid out for us, and the approximately one million thread count sheets were folded back on the pillow-like bed.   

The rest of the vacation pretty much followed that same pattern, with hours spent on the beach each day (with a gentleman at our beck and call to bring us extra pillows -- they provide one for your head and one for under your knees -- and/or towels, drinks, snacks, or a lightly scented body spritz, or to help us move our couch-like chaise longues), followed by a drink and snack on the terrace around sundown, and a delicious dinner at night.  (The one evening we decided to order room service for a little private candlelight dining, our toilet decided to erupt all over the bathroom, so we had maintenance and housekeeping people scuttling in and out for an hour or two; but other than that, the entire time was brimming with romance and relaxation and total bliss.) 

I finished one book (Scott Spencer's "A Ship Made of Paper" -- LOVED it; great writing, literary enough to be a National Book Award finalist but plot-driven enough to be good beach reading) and got halfway through another (Fitzgerald's "The Beautiful and Damned" -- I'm kind of in a Fitzgerald mood lately for all the Jazz Age-ness and the 1920s New York atmosphere) and got lots of new freckles while alternating between huddling under a palapa on the beach and brazenly laying out in the sun (with 55 SPF on, of course -- can I tell you how much I love Neutrogena's Ultra Sheer Dry Touch Sunblock?  It RULES).  The first couple of days, it was super windy during the day and a tad chill at night, and the ocean was a wee bit freezing, but other than that -- perfection. 

Oh, and we went whale watching!  And saw whales!  We saw two humpbacks and two gray whales.  From our yacht, I should mention.  I think I would like to have a yacht.  And a butler.  In case I didn't mention that in the last five minutes.

Flying home was deeply tragic, except that we did get our first class seats this time, and just as the Palmilla has ruined me from staying anywhere else, I have to say I may never be able to go back to coach.  We had actual meals (I'm sure many people would wrinkle their noses at them, seeing as they were still AIRPLANE meals, but we found them perfectly tasty, and when it's a hot veggie pizza and a warm cookie with wine versus a $5 package of potato chips and half a can of Diet Coke, I'll take the former, with bells on) and pleasant service and got to get on and off the plane without feeling like herded cattle.   

All in all, I'm a little morose about being back in New York, with the cold and the stress and the dog STILL getting me up in the middle of the night.  But the memories and photos will sustain me for a while.   Now, if we could do something about that referral...

The Other Side of Paradise

I'm exhausted and a little discombobulated.  Yesterday, my view was this:

and this (from our terrace):

And when we arrived back home, I was not greeted by a butler with a welcome tequila drink:

Or a giant, unbelievably comfy bed:

It's all a bit disconcerting, so I think I'm going to head to bed and prepare for a week of highly demanding work.  Much more demanding than reading on the beach, listening to the crash of waves and considering whether I want a margarita or maybe a Corona on the porch as the sun goes down.  I'm a little ruined by the Palmilla, frankly.  That place is insane.  You can see a set of photos here, and I'll try to give a more detailed report tomorrow.  Or maybe I'll ask my butler to do it.  Oh, wait...

(And, for no real reason except I find it breathtakingly awesome, check out this sunrise that bid us adios this morning:)

TTFN

As usual, you all came through for me, and my mind is much more at ease about the whole Baby Stuff thing.  No high chair!  Fewer toys!  Sleek strollers!  The jury seems to still be out on gDiapers. Perhaps it's one of those things that works for some babies and doesn't for others because of fit or, ah, digestive constitutions, so maybe we'll give it a shot (we won't be flushing them since our building's plumbing can barely handle t.p.) and see how it goes.  Or maybe I'll research cloth diapers a little more.  Or bag it all and go for Pampers.  It all depends on how sorely tested our commitment to the environment is when we've got an actual live baby human on our hands and we're operating on three hours of sleep a night and I have barf in my hair and the dog needs to go out again. 

Seriously, y'all, I cannot wait to be a mom.  BRING IT ON.   

Meanwhile, our travel mojo is not really so great at the moment, seeing as we haven't left the house yet and already our flights have been canceled.  Woo!  Yes, they called my husband early this evening to give us this news and help him rebook us on a later flight (thereby destroying a couple of hours of precious beach time).  And get this:  there were no first class seats on the new flights, so we have to fly coach, AND -- the best part -- they don't give us a refund or anything for demoting us, because they compare the fares based on TODAY'S price, and today's coach class price -- that is, the day before the flight -- is actually higher than what we paid for first class.  So no refund, AND no spacious, cushy seats with copious food and drinks. 

I have already packed my spare undies in my carry-on bag for the inevitable rerouting of our luggage to Karachi and/or the night we will spend in Dallas due to some snafu that will force us to miss our connection to Los Cabos, since the fates appear to be conspiring against us (AGAIN).  Oh, yeah.  It's going to go well.  Oh, and I have to bring some work with me, plus I have a barnburner of a cold and sore throat coming on, so it's not looking like 100% perfect vacation conditions at the moment.     

Even so, OH, how I can't wait to get there.  Warm breezes on my face; days of lounging about on beach chaises; hours soaking in a bathtub the size of our living room; fruity drinks and Champagne on our terrace at sunset.  And no dog to wake me up 57 times a night.  Ahhhhh.  Oh, and whale watching!  We're going to see the humpbacks migrate!  I am excited about the whales. 

It's going to be great once we get there...oh, please let us get there in one piece, and with all our things and on time... 

And maybe next week will be The Week...or the next week...or the next...or the next (sigh). 

See you on the flip side!  Have a wonderful MLK weekend!     

Storing Up Anxiety

Lately, two things have been keeping me up at night:  (1) fantasies about the day we get The Call with our referral -- what time of day it will be, what I'll be wearing, what questions I'll ask, how much I'll scream and dance around my office; and (2) mild panic attacks about what comes after The Call, chiefly how many lists I'll need to make about all the stuff we have to buy to prepare for our baby's arrival.  And how I'll have to {gulp} shop.  And acquire a lot of stuff.

While I'm not exactly a Buddhist monk and all my worldly possessions would not fit in a silk pouch slung over my shoulder, I'm not a Stuff person by and large.  Mostly this is out of necessity; moving even once in New York, from one  apartment with insufficient closet space to the next, will do that to you.  You learn to pare down -- first to get rid of your CD jewel cases and toss out your law school textbooks, then to toss out the college sweatshirts you don't really need, then to consolidate all your letters and old journals into neat boxes.  To add something, most of the time you have to get rid of something. 

In the two years since we bought this place, we've gotted rid of (either donated or given to friends) a TV, a leather loveseat, a sofa, several area rugs, a bed, a bike, a dresser, a TV and stereo stand, and more.  All perfectly good, functional items -- we just didn't have the space or, more often, we got something new and had to ship out the old. 

Likewise, we will have to get by without that much Baby Stuff.  I know those of you who are already parents are chuckling quietly to yourselves, thinking of how the child-related detritus takes over your home, whether you want it to or not.  And I get that.  I have no doubt that every inch of closet space in this apartment will be crammed with stuff, and we'll have to find a way to live with, for example, a stroller parked in the corner of the nursery. 

At the same time, though, even in our decently sized apartment we only have so many square feet available for invasion.  A policy of containment will be in order.  Of course the baby will have a crib, a changing table, a dresser, a bookshelf and a place to be rocked.  She will have plenty of toys, loads of books and a closet full of clothes.  We'll choose beautiful things for her and make sure she never feels deprived; it's not like we're just going to stick her on the floor with a pan and a wooden spoon (although from what I hear, that's what she will end up playing with anyway).  But she may not have an Exersaucer, five different strollers, a swing, a bouncy seat, a Little Tykes car, a Barbie Dream House AND a play kitchen.  You know? 

And really, that is cool with me.  We can take a fairly minimalist approach without depriving her of stimulation.  And this way, glory be, I don't have to shop for 85 million things.  Well, beyond the 5 million or so things that we Absolutely Must Have.  I think picking out the big items will be relatively easy; I pretty much know what sorts of things I want for her furniture and artwork and toys. 

What I'm less sure about is the smaller, more practical stuff.  Which brings me to this question:  what do you think are five things that new parents must have?  Or, conversely, what do you think we can absolutely live without? 

Keep in mind that our baby will not be a newborn.  She could be anywhere between a few months to a year old, but we can assume that she will be past the ultra-new stage.  And I'm talking non-obvious things, of course -- we know to buy bottles and diapers and so on (I'm thinking of trying g-Diapers; feel free to weigh in if you have experience, or to mock me for my wild pre-baby idealism).  These questions are for those without kids, too -- even before we started this process, I am sure I could have mustered an opinion on such things. 

Thanks in advance.  Y'all are the greatest fonts of advice and information.  I am already preparing my roll-up pants-to-capris and my layered tops for our flight on Thursday thanks to your sartorial counsel last week.

(Also, wholly unrelated, but I had to note that I just watched "Intervention" for the first time and OMG, it is GRIPPING.  What is killing me is the grandparents and the dads.  In the intervention itself, there's Grandpa CRYING HIS EYES OUT over how his grandson is hooked on meth, how he loves the guy but can't stand to see him destroy his life with the smack, and there's the dad choking on his tears as he reads the letter he wrote to the daughter feels he's lost to booze.  It's just so SAD.  And compelling.)

Entertainment Round-Up

I watched "The Nanny Diaries" yesterday, and it was so awful I was actually angered by it.  Setting aside the wild stereotyping (Upper East Side moms as bulimic, Botoxed bimbos and dads as distant, cheating power-brokers) and the caricaturing of race and class, it was poorly written, carelessly edited, and wildly unrealistic. 

I read the book a few years ago and liked it well enough; while exaggerated for narrative effect, it was within the realm of plausibility and had an overall lighthearted tone.  The screenwriters, on the other hand, approached the characters with utter contempt, which serves no purpose but to make the viewer feel contempt for them, rather than for the characters.  While I am sure such over-the-top asshats as Mr. and Mrs. X exist somewhere in the world, and probably a few reside on the UES, my view of humanity is not so bleak that I would consider it to be representative of the whole of New York's high society.  The entire movie rang false, and made me shake my fist at the entertainment-by-committee drones who green-light film projects these days.  Millions of dollars went to make that dreck.  And I, the poor fool, lost nearly two hours watching it.   

Also, Scarlett Johansson should never be allowed to do slapstick.  It is wrong, just wrong, and she's terrible at it, and, even worse, you can see right through her; you can tell she's hating every minute of it and just wants to get on to her next Big Serious Project, which does not help matters. 

As long as I'm ranting, I have to expand upon the fact that, although it was one of the most lauded movies of the year, I absolutely hated "Superbad."  I fully expected to spend a couple of hours howling and clutching my sides with laughter and replaying the wittiest moments again and again as we have with other rather lowbrow comedies (see: "Harold and Kumar").  However, that did not happen.  Instead, in the first five minutes, my husband and I looked at each other, mouths agape, eyes wide with shock and confusion.  I think my husband asked, "Is this supposed to be funny?"

I certainly don't begrudge anyone their passionate love of or general fondness for the movie, so please don't take this as some sort of personal attack if you liked it.  I am not here to judge, and I hope the feeling is mutual.  (As an aside, don't you find it odd when someone uses a particular movie or book or whatever as some sort of "test" for friendship compatibility?  I have actually seen or heard people say, "She doesn't like Snow Patrol/Salinger/Donnie Darko, so clearly we can't be friends" -- I mean, isn't there room enough in our lives for people who have entirely different taste than we do?) 

Hard as I tried, I just couldn't find it the least bit amusing.  While the guys in "Knocked Up" were somehow loveably crass, I found the "Superbad" kids to be...well, wildly inappropriate and really rather offensive.  Maybe it's the difference, for me, between a bunch of post-frat twentysomethings just out of college and a couple of teenagers still in high school.  Mostly I wanted to wash their mouths out and tell them to find a way to curb their raging hormones (at least until they're out of their parents' house and safely ensconced on a campus somewhere), and maybe find a way to channel their roiling teenage energy into something productive. 

But that's me, and I am old and humorless, so don't take my word for it.  I am also possibly hypocritical, since I do love all of the classic 80s movies that involved teenagers getting into a great deal of what I would consider to be age-inappropriate malfeasance (even at the time I found it age-inappropriate, as I was a huge prude as a teen and found it shocking when people my own age were drinking and carrying on in a teenagery manner -- OH, how I hope that karma comes back to me, as I would love nothing more than to have a prudish teenage kid with her eye on a perfect GPA and her focus on her artistic talent, just like I was, except maybe with less eye-rolling), but somehow this seemed different. 

At the same time, I can't imagine a more diverting 45 minutes than those I just spent watching this documentary, recommended last week by Jonna.  I can't say much about it beyond what's already been said, except that I found it profoundly sad as well as unsettling.  I mean, it takes all kinds, and what people do on their own time is none of my business; but this film's subjects show such social anxiety and delusion and, most of all, profound loneliness, that while I find their preference for life-like dolls over live women (one of the men refers to human women as "organic" -- hee) to be disturbing, even more so I find them to be tragic.  I feel like they need to be shown great kindness to bring them back into the world of human interaction and relationships.  And lots of therapy. 

On the lighter side, I had to crack up at some of the commentary, like the dolls being described by their devoted owners as "stoic" or "static" -- uh...yeah.  Even inanimate objects with an eerily realistic face (and a removeable tongue!) do have a tendency to be stoic.  And unmoving.  Yipes.  The image of the guy and his two dolls "reading" outside in the garden is going to be rattling around in my brain for a while. 

This is some world we live in.   

T-Minus Eight Days to Babymoon

Here's a question:  what do you wear when you're traveling from winter to summer?  I mean just on the traveling day itself.  The swimwear, gauzy dresses and solar eclipse-like hats (I am but a fair maiden with little to no melanin in my poor skin), I can handle.  It's the taxis and plane rides getting to and from the beach that I'm fretting over as our four-night babymoon approaches. 

The coat is the main problem -- who wants to drag a winter coat around in a tropical paradise?  Not that I'll be carrying it around the pool or anything, but somehow it disturbs me even to have to lug a coat, all cloying and itchy, from the airport to our room.  But it's going to be in the 30s when we leave and I'm sure about the same when we come back, and standing on a taxi line sans winter outerwear is never pleasant.  I guess I could go with some kind of fleece, which will keep me warm enough to cope with a cab wait but won't suffocate me once we reach the coast.

And then there's footwear.  I would usually go with my suede Dansko clogs (super sexayyyy) for January travel, as they're comfy but easy to slip on and off (for real, why are we keeping up the whole shoe security charade?), but again -- I am imagining my feet sweating up a storm as soon as we land, and it makes me feel all blargh to think of stomping about in non-breathing, non-flip-flop footwear in the South-of-the-border sun.  Running shoes are out for the same reason (and socks?  nay).

Meanwhile, I ordered this cute knit dress from the Gap that has 3/4 sleeves and looks comfy yet flattering (it hasn't arrived yet, so I can't vouch for the actual fit), and I was thinking it would be perfect for the flight, but it makes the coat/shoes issue even more difficult, as it's not a clogs or a flip-flops sort of garment, and I definitely could not get away with a fleece in lieu of a coat over it.  Thus, my quandary begins anew.

On a related note, is it totally pathetic that I am worried I won't be properly dressed for first class?  I've only flown first class a couple of times, thanks to the gods of overbooked flights (and then only domestically, which is sort of first class lite).  I realize that no one wears gloves and pill-box hats on planes anymore, but I feel like I should go a notch above the ratty drawstring pants and slouchy t-shirts I usually don to endure several hours of folding myself into a space the size of a mailbox.  So there's that to consider as well.

So what say you, o wise readers?  What do you wear when going on a warm-weather jaunt in the dead of winter?

I should mention, by the way, that I am already panicked at the possibility that bad weather will intervene and we'll end up spending our babymoon at JFK instead of in Los Cabos.  (Of course, NOW it's like 65 degrees out -- the hell, January?? -- but next week it's looking like 30 degrees and, gulp, precipitation the day we leave.  OF COURSE.)  That's the one drawback of a romantic little getaway -- there's so much pressure for everything to go well and to proceed in a timely fashion, as even the briefest flight delay will CUT INTO OUR BEACH TIME OMG. 

This trip, at least, I will have the sense to pack a few toiletries and some spare undies in my carry-on bag, lest we have another Spain debacle and end up luggage-less for the majority of our escape.  Although this place we're going to looks like the sort of place that would provide you with gossamer garmets, woven from wee feathers from butterflies' wings, for the duration of your visit.  (And then they'd charge you one million dollars for their use). 

Re-reading this, it's a nice reminder of how I can turn even something lovely into a morass of stress and anxiety (and yes, my plane crash dreams, which precede EVERY flight I take, have already begun).  Although my concerns are not without merit. 

The last time we went away for a long, warm-weather weekend in the wintertime, we showed up at the airport all, "We be jammin' mon!", only to find ourselves in a TEEMING MOB of people in the check-in area; we spent a good two hours waiting to get to the counter, nearly missed our flight (which was delayed), and then spent another two hours in the immigration line once we arrived in Jamaica.  Then we ran into all sorts of other problems not worth getting into here, but needless to say it was not a blissfully relaxing few days -- and at the time (just as now), we really, really, desperately needed a blissfully relaxing few days. 

On that trip, my husband and I kept taking the hits as they came, looking at each other with wry resignation, and saying to each other, "I don't know about you, but I am TOTALLY RELAXED."  Here's hoping that the travel gods have something better in store for us this time around.   

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

For the most part, since I've lived in the city I've been lucky with neighbors.  Either I've lived in pre-war buildings with solid, nearly soundproof walls or I've lived next door to people, whether they're elderly or hermit-like or possibly dead, who didn't make much noise. 

In our last building, we had people (young, jerky frat boys, fresh out of college) on our floor who liked to let their door slam shut with wall-shaking force every time they came or went, but I managed to put the kibosh on that by sticking my head out into the hall and ever-so-politely asking them to maybe cushion the blow a bit, as we were tired of having our pictures fall off the walls whenever they came home from work. 

In our place now, things are generally low-key; I've never heard a peep from the guys who live on the other side of our living room wall and the ceilings/floors are thick enough that, unless someone's doing a tap dance routine with fire crackers (reference, anyone?), we haven't heard it.  There's one guy somewhere in the building who occasionally gets in a good door slam, but it isn't frequent enough to be much of a bother. 

The one complaint we have here is that our upstairs neighbor, a young European guy -- a really nice fellow with great style and a gorgeous apartment (with a massive terrace, daaaaaamn him) -- has parties with some regularity.  Usually they're not a big deal, and after cranking up our white noise machine we can fall asleep to the low thump of bass overhead. 

Sometimes, though, like last night, it apparently turns into Dance Party USA up there, and we are jarred awake by the revelry and by the vibration of our bed from the pulsing bass.  I was roused awake at five o'clock this morning during a vivid dream in which I had befriended Kal Penn (hero of "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle," of course) while I was rushing to finish several term papers that I needed to complete to graduate (when will the academic anxiety dreams end??  I've been out of school for eight years!).  It sounded as though someone was using a pile-driver over our heads. 

I tried for a while to go back to sleep, but it was unbearably loud, and then someone started flipping through songs on whatever seizure-inducing Techno Pulse Beat Bassfest '08 CD they had on, so you'd hear "THUMP THUMP THUMP THU-- {pause}  CHK CHK CHK CH--... {pause}  DODODO-DODODO--" and it was clear that no one would be getting any rest until these people were stopped.

I briefly considered throwing on my robe over my dingy sweatpants and oversized t-shirt and heading upstairs to pound on the door and insist on QUIET like an old codger of the sort last seen on "Punky Brewster", but between my mouthguard, my sleep breath and my untamed hair, I was not in any shape to be in the presence of a bunch of stiletto-clad, Bordeaux-sipping French women, especially while playing the part of the Grouchy Neighbor.  So I stumbled out to the living room and called 411, and had them connect me to the guy's number.  I got either voicemail or the machine (because, obviously, who could hear the phone ringing over that EAR-CRUSHING DIN), and left a plaintive, groggy message asking for them to please, please, please turn the music down, and were they aware it was 5 AM? 

I don't know if the party-goers heard me leaving my message or what, but there were some scrapes of furniture and rat-tat-tatting of heels and then, blessedly, the thumping muffled to a sleep-friendly level, and I was able to nestle back in for a few more hours of shut-eye.  I am pretty sure, by the way, that the party was still going when I left the house around 9:30 to go for a run. 

So this wasn't so much of an interesting story as a way of me telling you that I am old and cranky, and that I can't remember the last time I saw five in the morning from the OTHER side, the side with flowing Champagne and clingy velvet camisoles and delirious music and flirtatious laughter.  (Oh wait!  Actually, we did stay out until four when we were in Spain, but since we were (1) in a foreign country; (2) attending a wedding and (3) jet-lagged, it hardly counts). 

I am ok with that; I really am.  I can only imagine the level of sleep-deprived mood swings that would occur if I stayed up all night at this age and life stage;  I am fairly certain that no one around me would survive the reign of terror.  Having your sleep interrupted is one thing; remaining awake for more than 36 hours on end is quite another. 

As I drifted back to sleep in the dark of our room, I smiled to myself, thinking of how things will be a few months from now, with a small, often wailing human in the house.  We'll be tired, yes, but oh how I can't wait to get our upstairs neighbor back with the help of the healthy lungs of a small child, which will undoubtedly be exercised when he's trying to sleep off a night of bon vivance.  Bwah ha ha ha!

Welcome, 2008! Glad to Know You.

I am definitely psyched to be ushering in 2008, which began with a Taittinger Rose toast and the sound of fireworks over Central Park at midnight and, later this morning, with a four-mile run in pouring, sleety rain and lashing winds).  Not that 2007 was so bad, really; there was plenty of good, but the one thing it didn't bring will be the defining event of 2008.  (How about soon?  Like maybe in the first week or two of the year?  I think yes.) 

One thing '07 did right was to move along at a brisk pace.  I'm actually having trouble wrapping my head around it being Aught-Eight and not Aught-Seven that's now beginning, because I feel like the latter has barely just begun, and already it's gone.  (Have I ever sounded older?  Next post: bunions and back pain!)  Though many of the days felt endless, characterized by phones that didn't ring and news that didn't come, the weeks and months sped by, such that I'm still a little confused by the cold weather, because isn't it just now July?

Of course, now that The Year of the Baby is upon us (we certainly hope), I wake up in the middle of the night all asweat with lists (things we must buy and do and learn before we can have a child in our home -- mostly minor things like...oh, EVERYthing, really, since all we have is a few articles of clothing, some books and a handful of toys) and worries (believe it or not, I've started worrying about the adoption process for Baby Number Two, as well as the timing of preschool admissions, the minutiae of Christmas traditions, and the frequency of family reunions). 

I've also recently dreamt that (1) we received a referral for an eighteen year old boy instead of a baby girl; (2) we received a referral for a little blue-eyed American girl from California instead of a Vietnamese baby; and (3) I became friends with Katie Holmes (nothing to do with adoption or the baby, but odd nonetheless).  Anxiety much?  The referral must be coming soon, as my subconscious seems to have sensed it and has gone into Freakout Overdrive.   

On an entirely unrelated note, have any of you tried Diet Coke Plus?  I was initially repulsed by the idea of it (vitamins and minerals in my diet soda? surely you jest!), but now I'm thinking that if I'm going to continue to pour the functional equivalent of battery acid into my body on a daily basis, perhaps I should get some small nutritional benefit out of it.  I'm just wondering if it's something you can taste or sense in the bubbles or what have you, this introduction of something healthy into your beloved, esophagus-eroding morning swill of caffeine?  Any input is appreciated.

And, separately, I wasn't going to make any New Year's resolutions this year, since they so seldom come to anything in practice, but I realized that I've got enough momentum going from recent weeks to turn some of my small life tune-ups into articulable resolutions. 

For example, I've been going to church on a regular basis for a couple of months, and I even officially became a member as a further inducement to myself to get more involved and be more accountable.  So, ah, I guess I will continue that.  Check. 

I've also gotten out and done some cultural things, mostly because my parents were here and it was the holidays, but that still counts, and it will spur us on to further outings.  So I resolve to plan something -- anything, whether drinks with friends or an evening at the ballet or a visit to a museum or just dinner somewhere other than our own home -- at least twice a month (which doesn't seem like much, but somehow...well, time gets away from you -- and I guess all bets are off once we bring the baby home, at least initially). 

I'm trying to be better about healthy eating -- not that I've ever been a junk food addict, but I need to make even better choices, even if it's just adding V8 to my daily routine in order to get another serving or two of vegetables (it counts!  it says right there on the bottle!) or chomping on carrots with my lunch instead of Cheez-Its from the vending machine.  That sort of thing.  (I also need to be bikini-ready in just over two weeks, which is frightfully close on the heels of the holidays and all those Paula Deen pumpkin butter cakes -- eep!  I am almost tempted to try one of those wacky Power Cleanse deals.  Almost.) 

And I've been working on compassion -- seeing even the most shrill and otherwise annoying people (on the subway, in the deli line) as human and therefore worthy of compassion, blah blah etc (I read one of the Dalai Lama's books recently, so sue me).  It's a challenge, but I find that (along with turning up my iPod) it keeps me from stressing out about unnecessary things -- although sometimes you just want to scream ENOUGH, like the other day when I was on the subway and I got the roving mariachi band, the aggressive kid selling candy AND the screaming evangelical loon on my train in the span of three stops.  There's only so much compassion to go around. 

I guess that's pretty much it.  Of course I want to continue to have a good work/life balance, to be a good wife/daughter/sister/friend (and crikey, at some point MOTHER OMG), to keep up my daily correspondence with the Guardians of My Sanity (you know who you are), to give thoughtful gifts, to read everything I can get my hands on, to smile and laugh instead of being surly and introverted, to travel, to embrace every day and appreciate life (ugh, veering into Deepak Chopra over here), and to run a hell of a lot more than I did in 2007.

So yeah.  I'd better go lie down.  It's going to be a busy year.