Lawyerish

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.

_____________________________________________

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. 

The Hunger

We got a height and weight update on Noelle today: she is just under 16 pounds (a smidge lighter than before) and holding steady at 27 inches.  I am sure these sorts of things are ballpark figures at best; I don't know if they're weighing her all bundled up in her famous sweatpants or stripped down to her perfect baby skin, sans diaper and all, and I doubt she lies there sedately to be stretched out and measured head to toe.  But all indications are that she's still a healthy height and weight, and in any event we're so starved for information and news that I re-read the email about eight hundred times as if it might reveal something new about my daughter just by opening it. 

The chart also had a "medical/illness" column, which indicated that she had "rhinitis and exudation."  Of course, in a heartbeat (read: TOTAL PANIC), I Googled "exudation" since, uh, I've never seen that word before in my life and my first thought was OMG WTF HALP, my baby should not be exudating anything but cuteness and joy!  But it turns out "exudation" mostly means "oozing", and I believe we can safely conclude at this point that Noelle has a cold, possibly involving some nose runniness and/or phlegm. 

The sheet also warned the caretakers to "watch for urinary tract infections", which I guess makes sense if they put her on antibiotics or perhaps she's shown some signs of them in the past. I'm just hoping it doesn't mean our poor little lady is over there with an ouchy bladder, wah. 

{pauses}

Y'all.  MAH BABEH IS SICK! 

{races to airport with 50 gallons of cranberry juice and one of those bulb things to clean out baby noses; buys ticket to Vietnam}

(What?  No cranberry juice for infants?  Oh, FINE.)

I will admit to having a wee tear in my eye to think of our baby all sniffly and snotty without us.  Truly, the pre-referral period was agony, sheer misery and woe; but this part is tough, too.  It's calmer, in a way, and happier; things are happening, there's a sense of inevitability.  On the other hand, we've seen her face, but we don't know how her cry sounds or whether her chin wobbles when she's upset or how her hair gets tousled while she sleeps or what her neck smells like.  It's a phantom pain to think of her, as though she's already been here and was whisked away from my arms in the middle of the night.  It's hard (and I hate to whine, considering how much I whined before, and this is way, way better, it really is, to be on this side of the referral -- IT IS, and I am SO GRATEFUL to be here).  And I know we'll get there. 

ButIwannagorightnow. 

For real, if it was like, allowed and feasible?  I would move to Vietnam tomorrow.  I'd live in Da Lat for however long it takes until we're allowed to bring her home.  How kickass would that be?  I mean, aside from getting to spend every day with Noelle, I could learn Vietnamese all immersion-style and eat pho on the curb and play with the other orphanage kids and, you know, blog and work on my writing.  Great plan, right?  Yes.  Ok!  I will start packing now.

Separately, the spring-like days, the fresh air, and the return from my musty indoor sequestration to a more active lifestyle have resulted in a deraged hunger; I now have the appetite of a contender in the World's Strongest Man competition.  Within an hour after my Cranberry Almond Bars and diet soda, I am ravenous again, and I end up eating half my lunch before 10:30 a.m.  Then there's the midday rampage (the rest of my lunch), followed by the afternoon munchies (vending machine) and the later-afternoon woozies (whatever is within arm's reach).  Help.

And, to close, I seem to have pulled or strained a muscle in a sort of...unfortunate region.  When I went running this morning, I felt like someone was repeatedly kicking me in my, erm, crotchal region.  It's not an internal organ-type sensation, I don't think; it's a bone/muscle kind of thing, and...OW. 

It seems like it's probably this (one site said it could be related to the body responding to a "heavy load" -- thanks a lot, Google search!).  As is my usual approach to injuries or illness, I will take it easy for maybe a day or so, suck down ibuprofen, then hope it goes away on its own.  It's a method that has worked for me in life generally, and I see no reason this should be any exception.      

I also see no reason not to post a repeat photo of Noelle.  Just because. 

Happy weekend, everyone!

Afloat or Adrift?

The funny thing to me about yoga is how it's all, "listen to your body; do only as much as you can; if it hurts, modify the pose until it feels good."  The teacher specifically tells us that there are no goals, there's just awareness and breath and making your body feel good.  This is such a foreign concept to me, I don't even know what to do with myself, and it makes me giggle every time. 

Because...well, what are you supposed to be doing if you're not striving for some ridiculous ideal, suffering mightily in mind, body and spirit to try to reach it, and then berating yourself when you don't reach it?  I mean, what's the point in being all accepting and gentle with yourself?

I kid, of course, but coming from a ballet background, it really is quite bizarre to be encouraged to adopt such a revolutionary concept.  And on some level, I do need that extra push to try harder (or at the very least, because I'm new in Yogaville, I need someone to give me direct and possibly somewhat stern technique pointers on how my hips should be arranged in the pigeon pose, or how I can do the backbend thing without falling on my head -- I'm sure that happens in some yoga classes and maybe she'll get to me eventually, but for now I just look for the hardcore people and try to figure it out from there). 

At the same time, it kind of fits in with my overall philosophy of mediocrity balance.  After years of being a hyperventilating control freak, and having to be perfect at every single thing I attempted, sometime right around my first semester of law school, I got over my desperate need to be The Best, and started to let myself chill out a little. I haven't looked back since.  Whether it's taking a chill, "everything in moderation" approach to eating or not caring about my splits when I'm running or not making myself finish a book I hate (this is a much more recent development, and it still has to be one godawful book for me not to slog through it), I'm not the striver I once was. 

(I just realized that I've written about this to some degree before -- clearly a recurring thing in my life.)

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I need to be challenged more, in some way, even though there is certainly value in just being or letting myself be (but stopping short of letting myself go).  When I think about the times that I've been really pushed to do things -- sometimes from within, like when I ran the marathon, but most of the time from without, by someone I admired who also knew I could do it and would not accept anything less than total commitment and effort -- those were the times when I really accomplished something worthwhile. 

Ballet was so extreme in so many ways, but I miss it for those moments of sheer amazement, when you realized that you could do things you never thought possible.  I had teachers who motivated with firmness, ones who motivated with undying support, and ones who motivated with sheer terror.  Of course the loving, kind ones were more pleasant, but they also let you get away with more; with the terrifying ones, you never, ever fudged it or gave less than you had.  You might spend part of the class sobbing with your head on the barre, or experience mind-bending pain trying to please them; but you would improve, you would achieve.

This, by the way, is why I love Simon Cowell.  I mean, Paula can barely string a sentence together and she's so nicey-nice that, when coherent, her commentary is meaningless; Randy is loveable but honest, but not particularly pushy; whereas you know that what makes those kids get out there and work for it is the fear of being ridiculed by Simon, coupled with an all-consuming desire to make him give up one of his rare compliments.  Because if you get one, you know you earned it, because he's not about to blow sunshine up anyone's rear.  That's how my best ballet teachers were, too.

I don't necessarily want or need some kind of scary ballet master-type person in any particular aspect of my life right now.  I mean, I have a job that is fairly demanding (there are no reign-by-terror people there, thankfully; the motivation of continued employment is scary enough in this economy, and of course there are built-in motivators like old-fashioned American dollars); I don't need a drill instructor at home ("MAKE DINNER, YOU MAGGOT!  GET ON THAT BLOG, YOU SLACKER!  TAKE THE DOG FOR A WALK, YOU FILTH!"); so the only place left for X-treme challenge, really, is exercise, and so far I'm kind of liking the laid back combo of running (slowly), going to the gym (half-heartedly doing some weights after an hour or so of cardio) and yoga (getting more flexible and sweating while being permitted to be kind to my body).

But sometimes I worry that I might lull myself into some sort of unambitious fog, and I won't end up doing anything like writing a novel or...I don't know, anything of note.  And maybe that's fine, because we can certainly define success in ways other than achievement -- but I really do want to be able to publish something, for example; I just can't seem to MAKE myself do what it takes to get there with any real haste or urgency. 

And then sometimes I think, actually, that (work aside) the thing that challenges me now is living here.  Maybe the reason I'm better able to relax about my life in general is that simply living in New York is a sufficient challenge for me -- I mean, it takes a lot of energy and commitment to live here, and sometimes the city picks you up and drops you on your butt and kicks you around a bit, but you really want to succeed...well, in just being here, in owning a piece of the chaos, in finding your corner of happiness and friends and comfort in this crazy place.  In many ways, Manhattan is a haven for the lazy (my oft-cited example of having to walk a mere block to complete 99% of my weekly errands); but really it's a constant challenge -- of logistics, energy, tolerance, toughness, compassion, ambition, intelligence, you name it. 

Or maybe that's just what I tell myself, so I don't feel like I've completely given up; it gives me something to cling to when I think about how I'm not the great achiever I once was.  Maybe that's what lots of New Yorkers cling to (after all, we're nothing if not a few million Major Achievers here), and maybe we're all deluding ourselves.  Because, of course, it's not like it makes you more successful or better than anyone else in any other place, just to exist here; no one's going to give me an award for having an address on the grid for eleven years.  But, like ballet or sweating over a perfect GPA, sometimes the amount of energy and everything else it takes for the constant assault of living here gets to be so much that you want to sag into bed forever -- and then there are the moments you have that you couldn't have anywhere else, and when those come you know with every cell that your life couldn't be anything but this, just like those moments I used to have on stage.  And you know it's worth the pain.

(I'm not sure where this went or if it makes any sense at all.  Maybe I need someone to push me to have a point sometime.) 

On the Town

Alert the media, everyone:  we went out on Saturday night.  I mean, like, AT NIGHT.  With OTHER PEOPLE. 

I know, this is totally blowing my image as the total lame-o homebody, but it turns out we can only play Scrabble and watch "The Brady Bunch" for so many Saturday nights a year.  Thankfully, our friends B & C (I never know if people are down with having their names plastered all over the Internet, so friends, I have carefully masked your identity with initials -- VERY clever, I know) saved us from ourselves and our months of social hibernation and suggested an evening out on the town.  And we accepted.  OUR DARING KNOWS NO BOUNDS.

(We met B & C on our honeymoon, by the way; they were married on the very same day as we were, almost five (!) years ago, and we became fast friends in the van en route from the airport to the boat that took us to paradise, and now we live in the same neighborhood and they have a gorgeous almost-two-year old daughter who we hope will show Noelle the ropes of being a city kid, while they teach us how to be hip, edgy parents.)

We met for dinner at Landmarc, which is a great space (lively, but not too loud; dim, but not too dark) and has very good food (I had a perfectly delicious burger, which I'd been craving for months, for no apparent reason) in what is basically Manhattan's upscale shopping mall, the Time Warner Center. 

And you know, at first I didn't really see the point of having an upscale shopping mall in Manhattan (since it's not as though we lack retail around here), but it's grown on me.  That it puts a J Crew within an easy walk/subway ride/cab ride of my apartment is pretty much all I need to know; but also, I have grown to appreciate that sometimes you really just want to be inside when browsing stores, instead of having to battle the elements as you go.  Also, the views are spectacular and the building houses my beloved Spa at the Mandarin Oriental.  So yeah, no objections from me.

After dinner, the hubs and I usually stagger home and pass out because we're full and it's past our bedtime -- we're so fun! -- but this time we got all crazy and the four of us went to Dizzy's Club Coca-Cola to check out some live jazz.  The place wasn't quite the subterranean beatnik scene of most jazz venues like the Vanguard and Smalls and even the Jazz Standard, which is newer but still dark and below-ground, but I liked it.  I mean, you can't beat looking out over the park and Central Park South, with a full moon blazing into the room as you listen to Jimmy Scott sing "Pennies from Heaven."  His voice was unlike anything I've heard before -- it almost reminded me of a muted trumpet, although maybe it was his slightly punchy phrasing that made me think of that; it was like if Billie Holiday's voice didn't have the scratchiness and earthiness to it, but still retained that sharp quality she had -- and it was captivating.  It was a great night.  We've got to get out there more often. 

(Yes, I know we should enjoy it while we can, pre-baby, although I'm sure we will also be able to wrangle a babysitter once in a while and have adult nights out once we're home and settled with Noelle.) 

Meanwhile, I had a super-productive weekend fueled by the sun fever that has resurfaced this spring, with all these daylight hours at my disposal.  Suddenly I've got boundless energy and ambition and optimism!  So I did my seasonal closet purge/organizing, and checked about 15 things off my to-do list. Which, by the way, is growing steadily. 

We purposely did not set up Noelle's room or buy much baby stuff before getting her referral, partly because it seemed kind of sad when there was no baby in sight, and partly because we knew we'd need to keep ourselves busy between referral and travel lest we start rattling our cage about needing to go to Vietnam, like, YESTERDAY, since there's not much we can do at this point to hurry things along.  That means that there is much to do, and a dwindling number of days in which to do it (yay for dwindling!). 

Also, we have lots of plans over the next few months:  a play next weekend (Clifford Odets's "The Country Girl" with Morgan Freeman, Frances McDormand and...somebody else I'm forgetting now), a trip to Michigan for a wedding over Memorial Day, a baby shower here in early June (woo hoo!), a visit from Allison, David and Maggie in mid-June (can I get another woo hoo?), and a baby shower in my hometown in mid-July. 

In between those, we have domestic-y things to do like assembling furniture (bookshelves, a crib), rearranging our bedroom (we're having a whole built-in Thing put in later this month that will give us more closet and storage space and a new desk so we can put our home office into our room instead of the baby's), buying more baby gear, hanging artwork and photos all around the apartment (which we've been avoiding for ages because it is deeply unpleasant and I end up hating everything in the world every time we attempt to use a level), and panicking over what all to bring to Vietnam when the time comes (for us, for Noelle, for the orphanage, for the nannies, for the staff). 

Also, I need to get back to my Vietnamese lessons with Rosetta Stone, work on my writing projects (because ALL WILL END AND THERE WILL BE NO TIME with a baby in the house), see friends, wash Noelle's clothes in some free-and-clear type detergent (but...but, I'm so LAZY!), make some order out of the chaos of our closets, and contemplate whether to have our old-skool radiators covered and/or replaced (or whether we should use them to teach the baby a valuable lesson about "hot! don't touch!"). 

So, yeah.  There is much to do.  Oh, yes!  And work.  And, you know, count down the days until the next season of "So You Think You Can Dance" begins. (32!) 

(If you're into wee things (mostly pink, lavender, or pink/green things), you can check out my new photo set on Flickr or just go to the photostream and peruse the rather sub-par shots I took of Noelle's clothes and stuff today.  Note that the wrinkled blue background is the comforter on our guest bed.  Clearly, ironing linens is not something we do around here.  Also, she does have toys, but I didn't think of photographing them until I was uploading these, and I was no longer in the mood.  But if you're really that curious, I will add those at a later time.  They are mostly wood or plush, because I have totally bought into the BPA/pthalate fear-mongering that's going around these days, although I'm sure every other thing we have in our home is somehow toxic so whatever.)   

Little Miss Sunshine

I wrote a little diatribe about "The Dive from Clausen's Pier", which I just read on my trip, but it sounded all cranky and possibly annoying, and I'm not really in a cranky, annoying mood at the moment (plus, I didn't hate the book; it just bothered me in some respects), so I deleted it.  I'm actually kind of in an elated mood these days, so why not go with that?  I mean, I would say that overall I'm generally a happy person -- or if not happy-happy, like bouncing-off-the-walls, grinning-ear-to-ear happy, then content.  Sanguine, even.

(I've actually had a prolonged conversation before about the distinction between happy and content, and I strongly believe there's a difference.  Happy, to me, was more like the la-la, devil-may-care, slightly irresponsible times of my early 20s, which were interspersed with lots of angst and very low lows and the constant, haunting sense that, in a moment, it could all be taken away. 

Whereas being content is deeper, more of an inner stillness than a peripatetic rushing-around-ness.  It feels dependable, like your favorite supersoft blanket for napping on the couch.  And it's not going to disappear overnight; it's a steady stream of goodness and light rather than a bunch of up-down-up-down unpredictability.  Although I would argue that you can have great moments of happy -- and beyond-happy, into gleeful and ecstatic -- while being overall content, and vice versa.) 

ANYWAY.  I forgot what in the world I was going to write about. 

Without going all Oprah-gratitude-journal on y'all, lately (since, hmm, about two weeks ago -- imagine that!), I've been feeling great, and I've been taking greater pleasure in the little stuff that makes up my day-to-day existence.  (GACK, I know.)  Like the mist in Central Park when I run in the morning, or the way I sweated my ever-loving tush off in yoga last week (that was some fast-moving yoga, good Lord; my face was dripping all over my mat, which was very disgusting, but I felt SUPERHUMAN afterward, like I could throw lightning bolts with my brain). 

Or the first few minutes when I get into my office and I sit down with my Diet Mountain Dew and my Cranberry Almond South Beach Diet Bars (the breakfast of champions!  I know, it sounds kind of sick, but it works for me -- and no, I'm not on the South Beach Diet as a general matter) and read my emails and my Google Reader and try to comment on a few blogs before diving into work. 

Or looking at the collection of Baby Stuff in our closet, the collection that has grown exponentially in the past fourteen days (I promised Allison I would take pictures of everything we've gotten and put them on Flickr, and I WILL -- who am I to argue with those who want to ooh and ahh over wee baby things?). 

Or, and this really goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway because HOLY WOW, glancing up at my bulletin board, just to the left of my monitor, and seeing our daughter's round cheeks and pink fingers and outsized sweatpants in her grainy-yet-adorable referral photos.  (I'm in sort of a state of disbelief about Noelle, still.  Like, this is REALLY HAPPENING.  We really are going to have a baby, our baby.  Awesome.)

Also, listening to my iPod on the subway (the same songs over and over again); reading before bed (I've been plowing through "Endless Love", which sounds all Kenny Rogers and stuff, but it is SO GOOD; Scott Spencer's writing is AMAZING, and he captures the most excruciating emotions so perfectly that you sometimes have to put the book down, because you're having heart palpitations and your palms are sweaty and you're blushing like mad); wearing my new trench coat (and not feeling cold); watching "America's Next Top Model" while doing the elliptical machine at the gym; the dog coming over and putting his paw on my knee to nudge me for a last back-scratch before I leave for work; the Thin Mints that Allison sent me with her referral-day presents; and the extended daylight hours, which have the effect of 50 Vivarin on my energy level.

So yeah, that was cheesy, but it feels good...to feel good.  I keep thinking that  maybe I've forgotten something, maybe I'm not wearing pants or I left my BlackBerry at the office, but then I realize that what's missing is The Suck.  The not-knowing, the anxiety, the glowering gray of winter.  Yes, we're still waiting and there are still question marks; yes, work is still demanding and it's not quite warm enough for flirty dresses and flip-flops yet.  But right now, I'm calmer and more present than I have been in ages.  I'm content. 

How about you?  Tell me what's making you happy -- or content -- lately? 

Supersonic

The travel curse appears to have lifted, at least temporarily, or perhaps has taken a new form.  I made it to and from Seattle without interruption or delay in either direction, in spite of the many foreboding cancellations leading up to my departure.  However, on each flight I was seated in close proximity to someone freakish and/or intensely annoying. 

I'll get to that in a minute; first, I will tell you that I had a great time in Seattle.  My brother and his family have an absolutely gorgeous home in a beautiful area flanked by mountains and scattered with parks, playgrounds and Little League fields.  It is almost impossibly idyllic, and I guess going to the Evergreen State, I should have anticipated this, but everything really is super-green and lush out there.  Plus, by the way, the weather was truly spectacular -- warm and sunny every day, none of the fabled Seattle rain and gloom.

On Friday, we went into Seattle to check out the famous market, where we saw the fish-throwing guys (who forever, much to their chagrin I'm sure, are associated in my mind with "The Real World"), ate super-fresh mini-donuts from a donut booth and piroshkies (pastries filled with savory or sweet ingredients) from a piroshky place.

Then we headed over to the Space Needle to check out Seattle from above, a prospect that deeply excited my nephew, who has developed an obsession with pushing buttons.  In fact, while we were standing on the sidewalk at the market, right by the original Starbucks (o, holy grail of delicious coffee drinks), he spotted a freight elevator nearby and started shouting, "Push a button!  Push a button!" with increasing insistence.  We could only appease him by promising there would be buttons to push shortly, when we got to the Needle.

What a good-looking family, right?  ("Push a button!") 

You can feel the excitement.

And here's the view from the Space Needle:

The next day, we intended to go to a Tulip Festival up north of Seattle, but apparently quite a lot of people had the same idea, and after spending an hour or so idling in traffic, we bailed at an exit with access to the Whidbey Island ferry.  We figured there must be something to do there (because it's an island, I guess?).  And indeed, other people had that same idea, too, so after another long while in the car line for the ferry, we decided to board the boat on foot. 

It seems, however, that there is a good reason that people queue up to drive onto the ferry:  you kind of need a car on Whidbey Island.  So our visit there consisted of walking up a gigantic hill, finding nothing to eat, see or do at the top of said hill, and walking back down the hill to reboard the ferry and ride back to the mainland. 

At least there was some cuteness on the ferry, though:

Aside from the sightseeing, I did a lot of playing with my nephew.  He is a freaking doll, you guys.  I think I love the age of right-around-two (he'll turn two in May).  He's communicating more (although you can't quite always make out the words) and he's full of energy and he'll give kisses and hugs on demand, and you can see him learning, working things out in his head.  It's awesome.  I love his little voice ("a-nuh-nuh one?") and his giggles. 

Yesterday, when my brother took me to the airport, the two of them were going to head on to a baseball game afterward.  We stopped at the terminal so I could get out, and he woke up with a start and said, "Batheball?!"  So we told him they'd be going to baseball soon ("Batheball soo?") and then I said I was leaving and he said, "Bye-bye Aun' Mer-diff" and went back to sleep.  And then my heart exploded. 

(Considering that this sort of thing chokes me up, is it possible that when we bring Noelle home I just won't ever be able to stop crying?  I am such a sap when it comes to these sweet kids -- recall last August, when I bawled my eyes out saying goodbye to Maggie and Allison the day they left from visiting us.  Babies and toddlers and their little displays of affection KILL me.  Le sigh.)

So I have prattled on long enough, but I will briefly tell you about the manifestation of The Curse on this trip:  an intensely annoying woman who sat next to me coming home yesterday.  I was in a window seat, and the woman next to me was maybe in her 50s, and she obviously thought herself to be quite fabulous; she had on this sequined jacket and a lot of big, clunky jewelry and she carried a purse the size of Delaware.  She made about eighty cell phone calls as people were boarding, which was sort of grating, but whatever; I guess she needed to apprise THE ENTIRE WORLD of her travel plans. 

But then she kept hiding her phone when the flight attendants were going through the cabin, preparing for takeoff.  At that point, I knew I was dealing with a Renegade Asshat Who Thinks They Are Above the Rules (another clue:  we were in the bulkhead row, so our stuff was supposed to go in the overhead bin for takeoff and landing, but NO, she kept her HUMONGO purse ON HER LAP throughout, and as soon as the flight attendants stopped going through the aisles, she dumped a bunch of crap on the floor at our feet -- THANKS LADY). 

So anyway, as we were taxiing she was STILL calling people from her cell.  So I turned to her and said, as nicely as I could, "Excuse me, you need to turn your phone off."  I did this, by the way, not because I was nervous about the flight, but because those are the RULES, and we FOLLOW RULES when we are on a plane. 

Well.  She drew herself up and glared at me like I was a pile of dog poo and then said, "DAHling.  I fly more often than the flight attendants and the pilots on this plane, and we are not going to crash because of my phone."  She snapped her phone shut just in time for us to lift off, and loudly zipped it into her handbag.  Then she proceeded to sigh loudly every time I wanted to get up (so of course I got up as often as I could), and she kept invading my space with her newspaper.  It was most unpleasant. 

I was sorely tempted to "accidentally" dump my ginger ale on her, but instead, when we were getting off the plane and she dropped a bunch of papers all over the place, I helped her gather them together -- because, you know, turn the other cheek and all.  Also, I don't want to tempt the curse to come back the next time I fly.   

(Full photo set on Flickr.)

Twelve Step Program

I'm supposed to be going to Seattle tomorrow (Thursday) to visit my brother and his family for a long weekend.  Shall we start a pool as to whether I will actually make it?  Because take a wild guess what airline I'm flying?  If you guessed American, the one that has canceled over 1,000 flights this week, you would be correct, thankyouverymuch. 

Thus far, I've been lucky -- I'm going over on a 757, not an MD-80, and as of yet, American's website tells me that my flight is departing "on time."  I was also able to check in online and print my boarding pass.  So this time, they're going to have to find a new and different way of screwing me over!  I can't wait to see what it is! 

Meanwhile, many of you have asked the big important question we're facing now that we have sweet Noelle's referral in hand.  The answer is:  we don't know.  If we're lucky, we'll travel to bring her home in four months (Dillon's record is ten weeks from referral to travel, and that was even after the new I-600 procedure).  Or it could be six months.  I'm not going to let myself think about the possibility that it could be longer. 

Our acceptance paperwork is on its way to Vietnam right now, and once it gets there, the Dillon staff in Ho Chi Minh City will send it to the Department of International Adoptions (DIA), basically to notify the government that we want to adopt this specific child.  The DIA then sends a letter to Noelle's province, notifying them that we want to adopt her.  The province then passes the message along to the orphanage, which then sends a letter back to the province saying that she is available for adoption.  The province then sends a letter to that same effect to the DIA.  Got all that? 

EACH of those steps I just described (Steps 2-6 -- Step 1 was sending our acceptance papers to Dillon) can take up to ten business days.  We won't get an update on our paperwork's progress until we're done with all of those and we hit Step 7. 

In Step 7, the Dillon staff sends all of the letters and acceptance papers to Hanoi (I guess to the DIA).  That takes up to ten business days.  Step 8 is when the baby's dossier is gathered, and that can take 30-45 business days.  In Step 9, all of the aforementioned paperwork goes to the province to be reviewed and sent to the DIA.  (Up to one week.)  The DIA then reviews everything and sends it back to the province (step 10 -- up to one week).   

Then, everything goes to the US visa unit for I-600 approval, which can take up to 60 business days (although the range has literally been from one business day to...well, a lot more than 60 business days).  At the same time, the final two steps on the Vietnam side are being completed, which consist of some further reviews and so forth. 

Once the US issues pre-approval for Noelle's visa and Vietnam issues us an invitation to travel for our Giving & Receiving ceremony, THEN we can make our arrangements to get our butts over there.  We'll have about two weeks of notice before we travel.  After Step 7, we'll get paperwork updates as we complete each of the steps, so we'll have some idea of how things are progressing.  Even so, this part of the wait is going to be HARD.  We'll get monthly height and weight updates and occasionally we may get new photos of Noelle, but obviously we'd rather get to actually see her grow, you know, IN PERSON.

We are focusing our positive energy and mental vibes and prayers on getting our baby home.  I just hope my travel curse clears before we board a plane to Vietnam.   

I'd Like to Buy You All a Coke

I'm stunned, really, and overwhelmed and speechless at the response you've given me, and the welcome you've given Noelle.  All of you are amazing, and I'm incredibly grateful to be sharing this entire experience with you.  You can't imagine how this little website has kept me sane through our prolonged wait, and how much it means to me that each and every one of you are sharing in the excitement of our daughter's referral.  I've spent a fair amount of time over the past few days dabbing at my eyes with Kleenex, thanks to your comments, emails, links, posts, Twitters (!), and videos. 

Basically, right now I want to wrap the Internet in a big fuzzy blankie and nuzzle it, and all of you, against my face...in the most non-weird, non-awkward, non-creepy way possible. 

There has been a lot of shopping going on the past few days.  I may well have cleaned out Manhattan's supply of Tea Collection and Lucky Wang clothing, and BabyGap is rather bereft of merchandise thanks to us as well.  Meanwhile, apparently there are showers in the works as well as packages en route from my mom, my aunts, Noelle's godmother, and some of her Dillon aunties.  We also got to put together our own custom mei tai thanks to my law school friend (and new mom herself), MJ.  It's really something, and sometimes I can't believe I deserve all of this kindness, for heaven's sake! 

Separately, I knew it was possible to fall in love with a photograph; after all, I remember the flames of passion that consumed me when I gazed into the two-dimensional eyes of Ricky Schroeder (THE RICKER), Michael J. Fox and Jon Bon Jovi when their torn-out Tiger Beat glamour shots wallpapered my room once upon a time.  And I knew that when I saw our baby's face, I would love her.  But I guess I didn't account for the sheer physicality of it -- the ache in my arms to reach through the computer screen and scoop her up, the tingle in my lips to kiss her EVER SO MONCHABLE cheeks.  Not to mention the utter certainty that she's ours, the odd familiarity of the little face I'd never seen before. 

As my husband said, the wait has been really, really hard; but now, looking at her, we wouldn't have it any other way. 

Noelle, on the other hand, is somewhat irritated:

 

Can't you just hear her?  "Ehhh!  Ehhh!  Ehhhhhhhh!"  Wah.  She's got sort of a "power to the people" fist pump thing going on here, too; it's good to see she's asserting herself and being socially conscious at an early age.  Or maybe it's more of a way of summoning her nannies:  "Miss!  Oh, Miiiiiss!  Could I trouble you for a spot of formula?" 

Also?  She's cuuuuuuuuuute.  The wee hat!  The mittens!  The glint off her big crocodile tear!  And THE CHEEKS.  Could you DIE?

And then there's this, where she seems a tad skittish about all the papparazzi; she's all, "Bright light!  Bright light!":

But LOOK AT THE FEEEEEEET.  And the chompable calf!  And the ubiquitous yellow and white socks!  And her little snuggly buggly body!  And the CHEEKS. 

She also looks fab in yellow, no?

(These photos, by the way, came to us this morning from Dillon; another family who traveled to Noelle's province in late February took them and, after we announced our referral, sent them to our agency to be sent to us.  As you can see, we're somewhat excited about this.)

Is it time to go to Vietnam yet?