Lawyerish

Lucky Seven

May has been good to us on the adoption front; each week we got something -- first, the height and weight update; then the update that we were on Step 6; then the new photos; and this afternoon, we found out that we're on Step 7.  Woo!

This doesn't tell us much in terms of how much time we have left until we travel, but it does tell us that we're moving steadily forward, which is a relief.  Coming up next is Step 8, which is a longer one; it can take 30-45 business days, during which time Noelle's dossier will be compiled by the justice department in her province. 

I'm trying to stay focused on the positive, reminding myself that we've had a smooth post-referral process thus far and Noelle is very well taken care of in the orphanage.  I know that the time we're missing with her now will pale in comparison to the richness of the life we'll enjoy with her once she's finally home.  But I'm starting to get to the point that the sadness is creeping in; I look at her pictures above my desk and smile or even laugh at the sight of that sweet little face (CHEEKS!), but then I get a dull ache in my chest as I think of the unknown expanse of time that separates us. 

At the wedding this weekend, someone had a baby girl who looked to be about Noelle's age and size, and it took a lot of strength not to go over and scoop her up, just to see what Noelle might feel like in my arms.  Her parents swung her around on the dance floor and tickled her belly to make her giggle, and it made me hurt to watch them.  

We've been waiting over a year and a half to meet our daughter, and she's been in the world for almost ten months now without us.  We're missing out on milestones and lots of smaller moments of her life that would otherwise be a part of our family's collective memory.  She'll have hundreds fewer baby pictures than her peers (although that makes the ones we do have all the more precious, and they involve way more awesome outfits than they would have otherwise -- and I'm sure the pictures of her as a toddler will more than make up for it, because I expect to be taking about two hundred a day), and we won't have cute stories to tell about her learning to crawl, her first laugh or her love of belly zerbets as a wee infant.

Of course, we knew all this from the outset, just like we knew we could wait a long time for a referral and we knew the process could be changed without warning and so on and so forth, and this is all a part of the standard waiting-adoptive-parent-lament; I'm not breaking any new ground here.  And there are plenty of families who are going through painful waits of their own, at whatever stage of the process they're in.  But the wholly unoriginal nature of my distress doesn't dilute it in any way. 

The time is going quickly -- FAR more quickly than before we got the referral, by an impossibly large margin -- but not knowing where the finish line is can get me down a bit.  I know every minute of this will be worth it, and when I think of that moment when we finally meet her in person, it almost makes my heart stop.  I can get through this, just like we've gotten through every other part of this experience.  But I'm going to continue hoping and praying with feverish ardor that we will meet her before her first birthday, because that's one big milestone and moment that I can't stand to miss.  We all have our limits.   

Trippin'

Our long weekend in the wilds of Michigan was very enjoyable:  the wedding was beautiful, it was great to catch up with my college girlfriends, and my travel curse  caused only minor delays on both legs of the trip (things did not look good when we were waiting to board our flight to Detroit and they announced that our plane had a maintenance problem that couldn't be fixed, so they would have to find us a new aircraft -- even so, we were on our way within an hour of our scheduled departure). 

I also got to drive, which is always fun since we don't have a car of our own and I only get behind the wheel a few times a year, although I could have done without all the detours thanks to I-75 being closed in and around Detroit.  Oh, and I definitely would have preferred not to have witnessed a dog wandering out into four lanes of traffic on I-696, nearly giving my husband and me a nervous breakdown.  The poor thing had a collar and seemed to be in good health, but there it was, trotting along the dotted line IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HIGHWAY, seemingly unaware of all the cars zooming by at 70 miles an hour.  I almost threw up on the steering wheel with fright for the poor fellow, and I didn't think I would make it if I had to see him get hit or harmed in any way.  Fortunately, every car on the road braked when they saw him, until every bit of traffic was at a standstill and finally a kind motorist pulled over and appeared to lure the pup into his car.  I am choosing to believe that everything turned out okay. 

A highlight of the trip was eating lunch at Big Boy, one of my favorite family dining establishments in the Middle West (see also: Cracker Barrel, Perkins).  I ate a "Beyond the Bun Chicken Sandwich", which consisted of a country-fried slab of meat the size of a manhole cover, a slathering of tartar sauce, a wan piece of lettuce, and a sesame bun that was, indeed, dwarfed by the chicken.  It was DELICIOUS.  And I ate the entire thing, but for a tiny bite that I left on the plate just so I could say I couldn't finish it. 

Our waitress was disarmingly friendly, calling all of us "hon" and "sweetie" and telling us about not wanting to get up when her alarm went off.  I miss that folksiness, that personal touch to service -- I felt like she genuinely cared whether or not I liked my sandwich or how freshly topped off our coffee was.  Not that service here is generally bad; it's just more detached, which can be fine -- when you're not used to the openness elsewhere, it's hard to match it or not look like a deer caught in headlights when someone presses you on how well you're doing or where you're coming from -- but I am always comforted and somehow lifted by the friendlier approach.

I brought back with me a garish sunburn on my arms -- it looks like I have crimson gloves pulled up over my elbows -- because apparently 32 years is not enough time for me to learn that my skin?  Burns like the dickens when exposed to direct sunlight for more than a few minutes.  We'd gone out to a park on Sunday with my friends to enjoy the sunny, warm day, and after playing on the swings (yes, we're five) we sat out on the grass and chatted and soaked up the sun.  Some of us more than others.  (In my defense, because usually I am hyper-vigilant about this sort of thing, I had been wearing a sweatshirt to cover up, but then I got too hot, and it was a little too chilly in the shade, and...well, I am dumb and figured the sun didn't feel that strong and we weren't out there for that long.) 

Separately, a friend e-mailed me to let me know that the James Bond marathon is on TV this week.  Has anyone else here ever been addicted to Seven Days of 007?  I don't know if it is intentionally scheduled by the network to coincide with final exams around the country, but in college and, even more so, in law school, that was the world's greatest procrastination tool.  How could I have been expected to focus on the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure, when I could be watching "Dr. No" and debating the relative merits of Sean Connery versus Roger Moore?  (I am 100% a Connery girl, and I have trouble accepting that anyone could be otherwise.)  I'm glad to know the tradition of time suckage continues for students across the land. 

Happy short week to everyone!

She Really Is Quite Cheeky

When I was in third through about, oh, sixth grade, I had an especially unfortunate fashion proclivity:  I liked to wear tube socks.  Men's athletic tube socks, for the most part -- the white ones with primary color stripes toward the top.  Sometimes more feminine ones in pastel hues like peach, yellow or pale green with white stripes.  This might have been acceptable on its own -- barely -- but, for reasons that remain mysterious but may have related to my affinity for soccer (at least in theory, since I stopped playing soccer in second grade), I pulled the socks up over my knees.     

One summer, our family went to Seabrook Island, one of those resort-y places off the coast of Georgia and South Carolina, over by Jekyll Island and Hilton Head.  Allison's extended family was there as well.  I strolled over to the pool one day in my over-the-knee tube socks and met Allison's cousin, K., for the first time.  To this day, some twenty-plus years later, K. asks Allison how That Girl with the Socks is doing. 

All I can say is, like mother, like daughter.

It's sort of hard to know where to begin with this outfit -- the multiple levels of tucking-in, the MC Hammer pants (not to be confused with the George Costanza sweatpants, but certainly in the same family), the untold number of layers under the sweater ("I can't put my arms down!").  But as several people pointed out upon seeing this, it says a lot about Noelle that she can rock these sweet threads -- if she can be this cute in an eclectic ensemble such as this, then she will truly be the belle of the proverbial ball in even the most basic Baby Gap staples. 

And, hello, can you BELIEVE the CHEEKS?  They get more monchable with every photo.  OMG.  I'm wondering if the red mark on her face is a sign that she might take after my clumsiness as much as my longstockinged fashion sense.  In either event, she appears to be well-nourished and happy and still chillaxin' on the dog sheets.

She's also apparently been touring the countryside, or at least the yard outside the orphanage.  I think she looks like an absolute dream in this shot, but I may be a tad biased:

Look at that skin!  The rosy cheeks (again with the CHEEKS!) and the gleam in her eyes.  She looks so content. 

We'll see if she remains so content when a couple of perfect strangers (sans Balki) show up out of the blue to take her from what is clearly a loving and, obviously, familiar environment.  But maybe, as we do, she'll know right away that we're all meant to be together, that the three of us are kindred spirits, soulmates in our love of socks and grass and sunshine and comfy pants. 

I can't wait to find out. 

Lapse

This evening, I opened my wallet to pay for a short cab ride.  Inside, I found a one and a five.  I pulled them out and stared at them in disbelief, then rechecked my wallet -- now empty -- and gaped at my husband. 

"Somebody stole my money," I said, aghast.  I was certain -- I mean, certain -- that I had had at least $120 in there when I left the house this morning.  I mentally combed through my day, trying to figure out if someone could have plucked my wallet out of my bag while I was on the subway and put it back without me noticing, or if I was out of my office long enough to allow someone to get in there, find my bag, dig around and find my wallet, remove my cash, and leave without being noticed.  It didn't seem possible...but where could all that money have gone? 

I knew I'd gone to the ATM on Saturday morning after the gym and gotten a hundred bucks.  (My husband sometimes calls the ATM a "cash station" -- isn't that hilarious?  He's not...foreign or anything; I think it was something he picked up in college.  He also calls a mix tape a "combo tape", which I am sure I've mentioned here before, but it kills me every time I think of it.  A combo tape, like it's something you could have ordered by number at Record Town:  "I'll have the Number Five combo tape with a side of Pac-Man Fever, please!")  Anyway, I'd also taken our eighty pounds of change to the Coinstar machine, which netted another sixty dollars.  

I distinctly remembered being flush with cash going into the week, although I'd put money on my MetroCard ($20) and bought my morning soda a few days running (<$10), and this morning I left a tip for the cleaning lady ($20 -- I only leave her a tip every few times she comes, basically whenever I remember to, so I have to make it count).  

That was all I could come up with.  Where was all the rest, all those nice twenties I had in there, I could have sworn, all the way through this morning?  Could I have dropped a whole packet of bills today when I pulled out a couple of bucks at the deli to pay for my Diet Mountain Dew (and, in a break with my usual routine, a packet of Twizzlers Cherry Nibs, which I started craving this morning out of the blue -- I don't think I've eaten those in at least three years -- so I bought them and inhaled them after my South Beach Diet Bars, sort of a dessert for my breakfast)?  I started thinking about whom to alert at the office about my possibly stolen, possibly lost money and cursing myself for my carelessness.

As I sliced a red pepper and some sausage to go in our pasta for dinner, I tried to reconstruct in my mind what I'd done since Saturday morning.  Let's see...grocery store (debit)...drug store (didn't buy anything, line was too long to cope with, stupid Duane Reade)...oh yeah, wine!  I had swung by the liquor store and picked up a nice pinot noir and a zinfandel ($45-ish, cash)....then, on Sunday, I got a pedicure in preparation for the wedding we're going to in Michigan this weekend ($40-ish with tip).  Riiiight.  So between that and the Metrocard and everything else, that...pretty much got me to what I had as of Saturday morning.  Whoops.

Is this...normal for someone at the age of 32?  Not to be able to remember basic things, like where a bunch of money went over the course of a few days?  Some days, I can't remember what I had for dinner the night before, or on Monday morning I can't come up with the name of the movie we watched on Saturday night.  I guess I have a lot crammed into my head at any given time -- work stuff, baby stuff, family stuff, friend stuff, errand-y stuff, dog stuff, wardrobe stuff, blog stuff, wondering why the Sex and the City movie ever got made stuff -- and maybe I don't focus enough on individual things or...clean the slate, if you will, every so often so I can be more present and alert and so forth.  But come on.  Can it really be stress/overload/distraction?

I already keep extensive lists so that I won't forget to do stuff (I mean like, make a vet appointment for the cat not like, eat and breathe), and for brain-building I do crossword puzzles and flex my vocabulary muscles at freerice.com!  But I'm mildly curious to know if it's possible that in a few years you'll find me wandering the streets naked, muttering something about a puppy and a pair of pants.   

(By the way, on a completely unrelated note, Fleet Week has just begun here, so at any given time you can see groups of guys strolling about in those little white doughboy outfits.  Are those not the most irresistable things ever?  They make me think of On the Town and sailors kissing women in the streets on V-Day.  It makes me happy. And having lots of Marines roaming around never hurts, either.  Easy on the ol' peepers, is all I'm saying.  Men in uniform = thumbs up.) 

Have a great long weekend everyone! 

Bookish

For whatever reason, I've had more time and inclination to read fiction lately (I finished The Time Traveler's Wife a couple of weeks ago, and...well, I liked the plot and the concept a lot, it was definitely gripping and kept me engaged, but the writing was, at times, distractingly lacking, I thought), so I went and picked up a fresh new stack of novels this weekend. 

On Jonna's recommendation, I got an Elizabeth Berg book, although apparently I selected the wrong one to start with (The Year of Pleasures) -- faced with an array of options on the shelf, I picked this one because of the pretty picture of the pie on the cover (mmmm, pie).  And even if it isn't her best work (which I have no way of confirming yet), I really like it so far.  It's reminding me that a novel doesn't have to be all flashy, with wild twists of plot and impossibly quirky characters.  A good book can be about ordinary people with ordinary habits and traits, and they don't have to be caught in a web of exceptional circumstances.  I feel like so much of current fiction relies on party tricks instead of simply telling an absorbing story about people who could actually exist in the real world.

I went to Elizabeth Berg's website today, and it made me want to sit down with her and have a cup of coffee and a piece of that pie.  She looks pretty much exactly like what I imagined the main character of her book to look like, and she's got recipes and pictures of her grandkids and dog and an endearing blog on there.  Reading it, I felt like she was a nice woman from my hometown and we could run into each other in the grocery store and have a chat now and then. 

Plus, as Annabanana commented on Jonna's entry, linked above, Elizabeth Berg has been known to bring homemade Rice Krispies treats to her readings, which is just lovely.  How darling is that?  I mean, she's this New York Times best-selling author -- she's had a book on Oprah's book club, for goodness sake, which is enough to skyrocket anyone to unexpected, head-swelling fame -- but there she is, with her Rice Krispies treats for her fans.  Of course, she's Midwestern and has a reading coming up in Oskaloosa, my family's ancestral home, so she has to be good people. 

This is the sort of thing I love to learn about someone who is extremely successful or famous -- that they are gracious, family-oriented, down to earth.  Of course, right?  But it's sad that something so simple can be so refreshing.  It's hard to imagine, for example, a hot young author, one who's got a bazillion dollar brownstone and gets a seven-figure advance on their next postmodern, post-9/11 literary achievement, doing things like keeping a light-hearted blog that mentions Weight Watchers points, taking the time to write an email to a fan, or thinking to add a homey personal touch to a book signing. 

In case you're curious, I also bought Richard Russo's Empire Falls (I saw a bit of the miniseries a few years back, and thought it was unbearably talky and boring, but for some reason the book appealled to me); Curtis Sittenfeld's The Man of My Dreams (I'm sure I've recommended Prep to every one of you who have ever asked me for a book suggestion; I looooooooved it and plan to read it again if I can locate my copy, as it seems to be absent from our shelves -- I heard her second book was just eh, but I felt like reading more of her); and Janet Fitch's White Oleander (again, I saw the movie ages ago and always meant to pick up the book as well).

So that should keep me busy for a few weeks.  And maybe one of these days I'll finally be inspired to pick up my own writing again.  Geh.  I wish I could just do it without constantly telling myself that I suck and my ideas suck and my writing sucks and what's the point anyway?  I need to find a way to enjoy the process for itself, without thinking about a result; because what does it really matter if no one else ever reads it, so long as I enjoy putting (figurative) pen to paper, creating characters, and seeing what happens to them?  Maybe it will help to think that if I somehow published something someday, I'd be the type to bring homemade cookies to my readings.      

Yet Another Crotchety Rant

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

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

Uh.  Wha? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tidbits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Step It Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Which I Eat a Lot and Get Presents

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Those Things...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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