Going Out With a Meh

We had a friend over for dinner...and she was delicious!

Heh. No, but she joined us for yummy seasoned fried tofu steaks and stir fry veggies with noodles and ginger sauce...wow. I'm totally full, and yet just reading that makes me hungry.

Anyway, she did, we ate, and I put Tankers down late and still have to shower, so this, my final NaBloPoMo entry will be utterly devoid of ceremony. Or possibly quality.

First, if you haven't already, go give a cosmic hug to BugginWord, who got some perfectly wonderful, deserved news today.

Secondly, for your absent-minded giggles, here are some misspellings and malapropisms that have made me chuckle today (four of the five are from Facebook, which should come as no surprise):

1) "I have to give the dog a shot. I'm a canarian."--Utterly serious five-year-old in class today, armed with a stethoscope, a needle, and, one would hope, a newspaper-lined cage.

2) "My simpathies."--Posted on a Facebook status update of a friend about a recent loss. While, obviously, there's nothing funny about the loss and this person's sorrow is clearly heartfelt, I am a bit tickled at the connotation of simpering condolences. Maybe because I was sometimes on the receiving end of them (again, by well-intentioned people), and found them aggravating. "You know, these things happen for a reason..." SMACK.

3) On an entirely different status update, someone wrote, "Contratulations." I dunno...it seems to...mean less when you write it like that.

4) On one post, a few women were posting back and forth about running off together. The original poster agreed to the plan, and I'm pretty sure she meant to write "definitely." But what she actually wrote? "Defiantly." Like, eff you, world! We're all running off together! I mean, we've all had those moments, no?

5) One more Facebook one: A friend wrote that she once said that she was "bleeding like a stuffed pig," and asked others to post similar oopses. I shared this true story: Once, when I felt that MOTH was being patronizing, I shouted indignantly, "I don't need your condensation!" Ahem. I was going for "condescension." I lost the argument.


I'd list more, but I think it's a mute point.

That's MIZ Cranky T. Mutterpants to You

I had a six-hour training today at work, on a topic about which I have strong opinions. Strong opinions that are at odds with what the trainer was talking about. Which means I spent six hours alternately participating in and cursing myself for participating in discussions where I started most sentences with "But.."

And now I'm retroactively feeling like a bitchy ol' fusspot.

I hate it that I went into the training without an open mind (with a closed mind?), and I really did try to pry it open throughout the day. Because it felt awful to sit there and be frustrated and mute, except for the temporary reprieves of being frustrated and vocal (there were a lot of discussions and group brainstorming sessions; it's not like I was derailing the presentation) (not that that wouldn't have been pleasant at some point) (but come on, I wouldn't do that).

I was by no means the only person with these opinions, and I don't think I was even the most vocal. Which makes me feel a little better, except that then I think of poor Joe Presenter Guy (strangely enough, that's his real name) trying to preach his gospel to a room full of heathens. Opinionated, vocal heathens. Who knows, maybe he's the kind of guy who went home and said, "My, but what a lively discussion we had today!" I tend to project, however, and worry that he went home to his wife and kids all sad and Bob Cratchitt-y, with only a few sou in his fingerless-gloved hand, shoulders bent under the weight of our criticism, explaining that the Christmas turkey will be small this year...

Huh. Got a wee bit dramatic there. Ahem.

But I do feel badly when I'm watching a presenter do poorly--in this case, not because he wasn't a fine presenter (after all, "Presenter" is his middle name), but because he wasn't teaching to a receptive audience. Which isn't his fault. I tried to make that clear on the evaluation form: "Yes, the presenter was well-organized, friendly, open to questions...I just happen to think he's full of bool-sheet."

Which isn't exactly true (the bool-sheet part, not that I didn't write that on the evaluation form. I totally did.) (come on, how mean do you think I am?) (only somewhat). His ideas were fine, lovely...one might even say ideal. But in the real world, with budget cuts and more a-coming, when we're already having to make more with less, hearing about the ideal anything is a sure-fire way to engender resistance and resentment from the troops.

And I did really take a minute to think each time I added something to the discussion. I tried to verbally and vocally own which things were my emotional reaction (he was describing a model of service that would drastically change my job) and which were realistic, logical challenges. I was polite, I made jokes, and I tried to make notes of where we agreed. And I spent most of the day swallowing my tongue, choosing instead to write snarky notes to the woman next to me (the act of which a co-worker called "pre-texting"). But I was telling MOTH about it tonight, and all I can think about is that I was too negative and that I knew I didn't have an open mind and that I should have just let this roll off me, mentally checked out. Because--say it with me now--what if someone (gasp) disagreed with me? What if they think I'm wrong? AND NOW THEY WON'T LIKE ME--WAAAH!

On the other hand, I know (because they told me) that there are people who agreed with me who don't feel comfortable talking in front of a large group of people. And maybe I was their voice.

Yargh. I wish I could be bold and unapologetic. Or meek and uninvolved. This combination of in-the-moment-mouthy and later-anxious is for the birds.

High Fructose Corn Syr-YUM-p

Today is the 28th consecutive day that I have not eaten any candy.

Don't get me wrong...I've had sugar in other forms. A friend's birthday cake (only one slice, but I will admit to consuming the leftover frosting over a matter of days), cookies at a bachelorette party, and a cup of hot cocoa even as I'm writing this. I fully recognize that giving up sugar as a whole = impossible for me. And that's sad. Go ahead and judge, as long as you don't take away my chocolate brownie frozen yogurt, I'm fine. (Because I will cut a bitch for some fro-yo, oh yes I will.)

Anyway...I thought I might try to just limit myself and see if I could go without candy for a month. I love candy. I may have mentioned this a few times already, but I don't think I really explained how much I. LOVE. CANDY. I really don't get sick of it. Sick of myself? Sure. But the sweet, chewy, fake-fruity goodness of a handful of Mike & Ike's? Not on your life. Part of it is an oral-motor thing, as I eschew hard candies and, while I certainly like chocolate, I will always pick the sour gummi worms over the Snickers bar. I also like sweet/tart/fruity things, as long as they're chewy. Jolly Ranchers? Are good if you need a small, solid adhesive. Otherwise, get thee back and bring forth jelly beans (Starburst are a favorite, although the Smuckers and Sweetarts are also quite good).

Um. This might not be such a bright idea, posting about this during the period of abstinence. It's possible I might have just drooled a little bit.

Anyway, the point is that, of all the sugar holds under which I am powerless (what? nothing, just keep going), candy is the worst. I can exhibit self-control at the store and not purchase cookies or donuts, but if it's April, there is some sugar-encrusted marshmallow Peep/Chick/Rastafarian thing going in my basket. (Mmm...crunchy sugar crystals over gooey fake marshmallow--marshmal-faux, if you will...) And then it's in my house, in the candy jar, and I grab a handful whenever I walk by. And I live in a very small house. I eat it mindlessly while reading or nursing or chatting or (and this is just sad) cooking a meal. I keep stashes in my car. I try not to bring it to work, but then I just raid everyone else's candy dish/jar. I'm that girl, the one who brings her files in piecemeal to get a separate Hershey's kiss each time.

I've tried to make some changes. Like only purchasing candy that cannot be wolfed down by the handful. No jelly beans (well, except for Easter, but that's just...anti-religious, that's what that is! Jesus wants me to eat jelly beans to remember his resurrection!), no Whoppers. Mini Tootsie Rolls, Smarties...things that require unwrapping and a bit of attention to consume.

But the bottom line is, I'm more than a little embarrassed by how little willpower I have over candy and how unthinking my consumption has become. It was one thing when I was 22 and we were all young and invincible. I didn't smoke, drink, or sleep with caddish men, so I figured, if this was my one vice, so be it. But now...now I'm 35 and have the metabolism to match. And I have a kid. A kid who watches me and mimics me and who has cottoned on to where my hand goes when I reach waaaay up on that one shelf and says, "Baby? Eat?" I really should put some broccoli up there to throw him off the scent.

So, I've gone the whole month. I ate a good chunk of Tankbaby's Halloween candy that evening and then gave the rest out to other trick-or-treaters so it wouldn't be in the house, tempting me. Then, of course, MOTH brought home a whole container of candy corn. But I stuffed it back on the shelf, above the soups, and--while I can't say I don't notice it when I open the cabinet--I have pretty much forgotten it's there.

And that's been the month. I've been tempted and I've been humbled. Working late at the office one night, totally stressed out, I had to stop myself each time from instinctively reaching for the secretary's candy bowl (what I finally did was take that last damn Reese's peanut butter cup and shoved it in a drawer, just to shut it up). On Thanksgiving, my friend's (soon to be ex) husband brought over a bag of holiday M&Ms that they snacked on while we cooked. And it was really annoying not to be able to just grab a handful.

(Except, of course, that it wouldn't have been a handful. All the other grown-ups had a few here and there, but gradually forgot about the bag of green and red goodies. If I hadn't had a moratorium on candy, I guarantee I would have consumed enough M&Ms to calorically outweigh a big ol' scoop of mashed potatoes.)

And that's what has been the most embarrassing and disappointing and humbling: recognizing how thoughtless--no, that's not right, really...it's careless--eating candy is for me. And that I miss it. I wish I could say that after a month, I'm all "Ew, candy is gross! I can't believe I ever ate that junk!" But I'm not. Instead, I'm marking my calendar for December 1st, when, O Desk Drawer Reese's Cup, you shall be mine.

On the other hand, I know that I can do it. I know that I can walk through the candy aisle (can't skip it, as that's also where crackers live) and, stifling a soft moan, not pick up a bag of Fruiti Gummi Squishie Platypi, or whatever. And I think that's what I'm going to hang on to: the knowledge that I'm not powerless over candy. I can refuse to buy it. I can keep it out of my house (mostly, because see above re: resurrection jelly beans). I can take just one piece out of the office candy dish. Or maybe two. Shut up. The point is, I think sometimes I succumbed out of a sense of "I might as well, because I know that I can't stop myself, so why bother trying"--which is fucked up in its own way, yes?--and I can't use my own weakness as an excuse any more.

MOTH says that my giving up candy while still eating other sugar is like an alcoholic saying, "I'm just going to give up gin." I can see his point, I guess, but I'm still kinda stupidly proud of myself. I think mainly because I think of myself as having zero willpower (there's a reason why I never started smoking/drinking/sleeping with caddish men in my twenties, and it's because I have an addictive personality and would now be a lung-cancer-ridden alcoholic riddled with STDs) and this proved that untrue. I feel embarrassed and silly and ridiculous to stake a claim on this particular trial, but I like that I've succeeded (I say optimistically, as I still have two days left to go). I like that I've proven that I can set a goal (no matter how dinky) and meet it, while still being a mom and socializing with friends and dealing with work stress. Now that I know that, just think of the possibilities! What's next? Showering daily? Cleaning out my purse on a semi-regular basis? Finishing that pile of sewing repairs? The world is my mollusk! The top-of-a-not-terribly-tall-tree's the limit!

Dutch Babycakes Tells a Bedtime Story

So, one of the reasons I keep falling asleep with Tankbaby these days is because we've been breaking the nursing-to-sleep habit (obviously, with MOTH he's been doing this forever, since MOTH simply refuses to lactate for fear of it ruining his figure). It's not something I've been worried about particularly, since I am and always have been very Malcolm X by-any-means-necessary about getting him to sleep (and thus, being able to sleep myself), but lately, more and more, he's not nursing to sleep but nursing himself awake. He gets drowsy, but wakes to keep nursing. Or, worse, doesn't get drowsy and just hangs out, tethered by the mouth, but with flailing hands and legs akimbo. (I have friend who will happily tell you that Legs Akimbo is her name in the Boom-Boom Room. For the record, my Boom-Boom Room name is Dutch Babycakes.)

Anyway.

The unexpected boost in this particular sea change is that Tank has decided that my pillow is da bomb (that's right, folks, you can always count on Falling for the hippest, newest street lingo). So as long as he wants to nurse, he has to stay on his pillow (the Boppy cushion). And I give him a one-minute warning and then put away the sweater cows (tm Stewie) and offer up the chance to share my pillow. This has been working pretty well at defusing any protests that may arise. He crawls up and nestles in, and we cuddle until he falls asleep. The only problem is that I used to use my smartphone to read; since Tankbaby was facing me, I'd simply extend my arm behind him and scroll away, thus keeping myself awake. Now that he's not nursing, however, there's not a way to do the sneaky reading thing, so I end up just lying quietly, miming sleep. Until I'm not so much "miming" as "actually in a dead sleep until MOTH comes in and asks, 'Have you blogged yet today?'"

Some nights, the boy has a harder time falling asleep. In order to keep him in the drowsy (and, most importantly, STILL) state while he snuggles, I've been telling him stories, long, rambly stories in a whispered monotone, creating a background of white noise. These stories are all about a little boy named Tankbaby and his three friends: a fox, a zebra, and a dinosaur. (The zebra and the dinosaur live in the backyard. The fox is more of a wandering soul and lives in the general neighborhood, but the dinosaur can call him when needed.) They don't have names yet (suggestions currently being taken).

In case any of you are having trouble sleeping, here was tonight's story,written as exactly as I can remember it. Have someone read it to you in a boring whisper...works like a charm.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Tankbaby. He had three friends: a fox, a zebra, and a dinosaur. One day, the fox came to Tankbaby's house and said, "There's a princess who needs your help!" Tankbaby climbed on the 's back and they started--wait. First he packed a lunch: apples, bread, and cheese. Then he climbed on the--no, wait, then the zebra asked for a lunch, so they packed some leftover curry for him. Then the dinosaur said, "What about me?" and they asked him, "What do dinosaurs eat?" and he said "Leaves from trees" and they said, "How about you just watch for trees on the way and eat when you want?" and he said, "OK." Then Tankbaby turned politely to the fox and asked, "Should I pack a lunch for you, too?" and the fox sighed with exasperation and said, "I'll eat leftovers. Let's just get going! That princess needs your help!"

So Tankbaby climbed on the dinosaur's back and they started down the road. After a while they came to a big castle, surrounded by a moat. And at one end, there was a turret, which is like a big round room with a cap on top. And looking out of the window of the turret was a princess with long brown hair named Natalie. Wait, the hair wasn't named Natalie, that was the princess' name. Anyway, Tankbaby called up, "We're here to rescue you!"

Natalie replied, "I don't need rescuing. I just need help."

"Oh," said Tankbaby. "OK, well, how can I help?"

"I have this heavy table, and it needs moving and I can't do it all by myself," she said. "Can you help?"

"Sure," said Tankbaby. "Open the door, and I'll come right up."

"That's the problem," said Natalie. "I can't open the door. The key is under the table. And I can't move the table until you come help me move it."

"I can't help you move the table until you open the door!"

"Well, I can't open the door until you get the key!"

"Well, I can't get the key until you help me move the table!"

"WELL, I CAN'T HELP YOU MOVE THE TABLE UNTIL YOU OPEN THE DOOR!!" Tankbaby shouted.

Finally, the fox raised a paw. "Can I interject? What about the window?"

Tankbaby said, "Yes! The window! Only...how will I get up there?"

The dinosaur shrugged and said, "I dunno, but all this thinking is making me hungry," and he stretched his long neck up to get some leaves off the tree...the tree right next to the princess' window.

"That's it!" shouted the fox. "Climb up the dinosaur!"

So that's what they did. Tankbaby climbed right up onto the dinosaur's head and the dinosaur stretched his neck up until his head was at the level of the window. Tankbaby climbed in through the window and said, "So, where's that table?" He and Natalie moved the table and found the key. They ran downstairs and opened the door.

Tankbaby asked Natalie to come home with him, but she said, "No thanks. I've got my mommy and daddy here, and I'm working on that big block tower over there, and later we're getting ice cream and I just have a very full day. Thanks anyway. Can we still be friends?" and Tankbaby said, "Sure," and they exchanged e-mails. And then Tankbaby climbed back on the dinosaur and headed home...and then the fox...fell out of the nest and...the wings were growing on the mushrooms...and they drove for a while...and the...frog took off the grass skirt and....she said, "wear the brown belt," and...they kissed and...then the plates started dancing....and...desk lamp...penguins...Morgan Freeman...The End."

It's possible that I might have been falling asleep at the end, there.

Phoning it In

I got nothin' today, kids.

I am sleepy and full of half-formed thoughts and not an insubstantial amount of carbs, and the call of my warm bed is so loud I can't hear myself half-think.

I'm a little embarrassed that I'm petering out so lamely tonight, and am already panicking that I won't be able to come up with anything else for the next four days (and then...what? What exactly do I think will happen if I fail at NaBloPoMo? I guess I don't really know, since this is only my second, and I did manage to write every day next year...maybe they hit you with sticks or something. While publicly shaming you. And making you eat pineapple. I really hate pineapple. Jeez, I can't believe I'm not writing more tonight--I'm so clearly on my game, here.).

I offer up the following distractions:

1) While going about my business with Tankbaby today, I listened to archived episodes of NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour. I enjoy it inordinately, especially considering that, given my limited exposure to pop culture these days, I don't get a third of the jokes. But I enjoy feeling like a part of the smart, funny kids' table.

Part of what they do in every episode (issue? session? what do you call a unit of radio?) is end with a round of What's Making You Happy This Week. In that vein, allow me to share something I just discovered that is making me happy this week:

2) Backwash, a strange, strange little web series starring Joshua Malina (of Sports Night and West Wing fame) and featuring guest stars like Allison Janney and Jon Hamm. It's very strange and stylized and kind of impossible to describe. Or, at least, describe well, apparently. But if you have seen minutes at a time to spare and want to enjoy the adventures of someone named Jonesy, I recommend you stop by.

Now, go forth and enjoy smart, funny, people who are stronger in resisting the lure of the warm bed.

Requisite Thanksgiving Post

Oh, I had big plans to write about something quirky and unusual and long, but that was before I fell asleep while putting the baby down (as soporific as the process usually is, it's twice that when preceded by a large meal of turkey). So, here goes nothing...

Today, I am thankful for:

• Good friends who have become family. We have had the past three? four? Thanksgivings with another family, one whose children refer to Tankbaby as their "little brother" and let us run amok in their house. This year had the potential to be tense and awkward, as the parents have separated, but they pulled off an almost entirely tension-free afternoon and evening together. If you'd been there, you would never have known.
• The fact that Tankbaby, when he throws a chubby arm over my shoulders at night, freaking patted me with soft, doughy pats. And then I died of cuteness.
• Pumpkin stuffed with everything good
• MOTH sending me a perfectly phrased text message in the middle of the afternoon, just when my head was starting to explode (I did say "almost" tension-free, you know; it actually wasn't so much about the soon-to-be-exes, but more about that inevitable moment where you realize that the food schedule is all off and your turkey is going to be done but you haven't even started the potatoes AAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. And I was trying to pass messages along about how to solve problems and everyone had different thoughts about what to do and I was all LET'S JUST HAVE PB&J SANDWICHES). The text started with "I love you and trust your judgment" and just helped me feel instantly better.
  
• Skype! We called my dad this morning and I just keep marveling at the Jetson-like technology that allows him to see his grandchild running around the house and babbling (at least until said grandchild tries to close the laptop lid, effectively ending the conversation).
• The fact that I still have a three-day weekend ahead of me. I believe the word I'm looking for is woot.
• The moment at dinner where the kids decided to tell us what they were thankful for and the 4-year-old said something like, "I'm thankful for my family and that you guys are our family too because I love you." It was a very "God bless us, every one" little moment and I totally, um, got something in my eye. Sniff.

Erk. Here's a weird and abrupt ending, but the little internet-connected-ness symbol in my toolbar keeps going on and off, which makes me feel like I oughta click "publish" now while the gettin's good. (What the hell does that mean, anyway? I've used it all my life, my mom used it, but...what? The getting is...good?) Anyway, hope you are all full up of love and stuffing. Happy, happy day.

No Battering the Baby! No, Not Like That...I Mean...

I did not need to threaten to deep-fry the baby...because...

SEVEN HOURS IN A ROW, BABY!!!

Me, I mean. The baby has been sleeping for 7+ hours in a row for some time now, but unless I want to go bed at 9:30 each night, that hasn't meant that I got a similar stretch. But...last night...maybe it's because I wrote nice stuff about him, maybe it was the roofie I slipped him (heh), but that beatuiful baby of mine slept from 9 pm until 6:27 am. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I tell you that this was the first time in 21 months that I have slept for that long. I've explained to Tankbaby that if he can get me one more hour of consecutive sleep, he can have a sibling. Or perhaps a pony. We haven't decided yet.


In other great news, my sister sent us a thank-you card for her wedding, and it included a Calvin and Hobbes stamp.

In honor of these two momentous events, I give you one of my favorite C&H strips of all time:


Consider this my early-Thanksgiving "what I'm thankful for" post. Mwah.

Bedtime for Bonzo

I put Tankbaby (Tanktot? Tanktoddler? Tankkid? Chuck?) to bed a while ago. He nursed, as usual, but more often lately, he doesn't nurse to sleep; I generally call a halt to it at some point and just tell him it's time to go to sleep. Sometimes he protests, but tonight he just kissed me and laid his head down on the pillow. A soft sigh, and he dolphin-flopped his little body over so that he was facing away from me, knees bent and feet tucked against my thighs, hard little skull wedged in under my chin. I kissed the back of his head and put a hand on his shoulder, pulling up the monkey quilt a little more snugly. Behind his back, I pulled out my phone so that I could read a little bit (I am trying to catch up on all the blogs I've abandoned these past months) and try to avoid falling asleep, as I almost always do.

After a few minutes, he turned back to face me and flung one little arm over my shoulder, a chubby hot hand on my face, right where my jaw meets my neck. His eyes were closed, his chin raised slightly, and I thought surely he was asleep. But then he opened his eyes (so I quickly shut mine to model "see, now is the time when we sleep"--and this, dear friends, is how I so often am awakened by MOTH saying, "It's 10:30, did you still need to blog/make lunch/shower?"), still breathing quietly, evenly. I peered at him through my lashes and watched him look quietly around, finally fixing his gaze on me. Fully aware that this could be where I derailed the whole thing, I couldn't resist opening my eyes and gazing back at him. We lay there, in the glow of the nightlight, blinking at each other from a distance of a few inches, my body curled around his, his hand still resting heavily on my face as if to mark his place. Finally, his eyes drifted shut and stayed shut. I was feeling dozy, and I knew I should get up before I actually dropped off, but I couldn't make myself move. The warmth, the breathing, the sweet little face that still looks babyish while the rest of him looks like a little boy...I was literally captivated. I cannot believe how much I love this wild, weird, confounding creature.



One of you remind me of this at 5 AM tomorrow morning, when Milk Negotiations are in full swing and I threaten to dip him in batter and deep-fry him.

Poetical Perspective

A man said to the universe:

"Sir, I exist!"

"However," replied the universe,

"The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation."
--Steven Crane

Directions: Just add water. Shake. Watch self-pity disappear.

Equalizing

I had a lovely time last night. Intelligent, funny ladies, all. At one point, the bride-to-be took a picture of me, highlighting my (ahem) abundant cleavage (no, it wasn't THAT kind of bridal shower, but I was wearing a v-neck sweater, and the girls, they are prolific). She sent it to MOTH, with the message "your pretty woman." Later, she got a message back, saying, "Who is this?" I laughed, figuring her number wasn't in MOTH's phone, but really. Who did he think it was? He knew who I was with that night, it was only going to be one of a few people.

Today on our walk, I asked MOTH what he thought of the picture. Raise your hand if you can see where this is going.

"What picture?"

Yep. The "who is this" was not meant as "who is sending me this message" but as "who is this manic-eyed, Muppet-browed girl with the nice rack and why are you sending me her picture at 8:3o on a Saturday night?!"

I have no idea who the recipient could be, but I am wondering if he/she will be at the wedding and have a weird sense of deja vu when they see me.

***

I had a weird moment last night where I think I said the wrong thing. My friend is pregnant, and I was telling her something I wish someone had told me before I had a baby: if you're breastfeeding, the first several months (or longer) are just going to be unfair. No matter how egalitarian your household, no matter how enthusiastic your spouse about sharing the responsibilities, there are going to be times--a lot of them--when you are going to be the one doing most of the heavy lifting. And it doesn't mean anything negative about any of you, it's just the way it is: Mamas got it rough.

I think my friend didn't want to hear that at that moment, and I didn't present it as eloquently as I could have, and I quickly apologized. But I remember vividly a day when Tankbaby was about five months old, visiting my dear friend Ms J and her saying, "Oh, yes! Those first six months...I remember thinking that if J and I got divorced at that point, dammit, I got to keep the kid. Like, sorry, dude, but I've put in the time. You can have the couch."

I felt so relieved, like it wasn't just that MOTH and I were failing or that we were making stupid choices or that I just couldn't hack it...all thoughts that had been taking up more and more real estate in my head when I would take a shower and listen to Tankbaby wail and feel guilty for those fifteen minutes I was taking for myself. But I would also think, Damn, kid, your dad is right there, and you are not actually ON FIRE right now. And later, when I would be quite literally weighted down by the baby and watch MOTH enjoy an hour on the couch reading or playing his video game, and I'd quietly burn with resentment because HOW DARE HE enjoy some quiet down time when he could be sitting and fretting with me over whether shifting ten degrees to the right would disturb Tankbaby's fragile drowsy state.

I remember reading Dr. Sears' books, which I generally quite like, because they appeal to my hippie, attachment-parenting self. But I also remember reading something at one point about "honoring your partner with his share of the parenting," and having hot, frustrated tears spring to my eyes. It wasn't that MOTH wasn't willing (and in fact, really wanted) to be an equal partner. It was that Tankbaby wasn't having it. He was a boob man, a mama's boy, and while he and MOTH did fine while I was at work during the day, once I got home, he needed to be in physical contact at all times.

As part of my work, I've done a lot of reading about attachment and bonding and temperament, and as such was both a) well-equipped to understand what was happening and thus respond generally with patience and acceptance of my child's needs and b) COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT because what I understood on paper was SO MUCH HARDER in real life and what if it was all wrong, or worse, all right and it's just me who sucks for not being able to hack it, even though I am so well-informed and AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. I mean, intellectually I understood that Tank and I had a very strong, secure bond, and that babies are designed to want to be around their mamas and that's what has helped keep the species alive and not have our young wandering off to be eaten by cougars. And after I went back to work, I was gone all day. Of course he'd want to be with me as soon as I returned. On the other hand, I was working all day on five interrupted hours of sleep, commuting during rush hour, and I would get to the doorstep and hear wailing through the door. Inside, an exhausted and frustrated MOTH would explain how little the baby'd slept that day as he handed Squally McSleepless over; I'd hold him in one arm and unpack the breast pump with the other, effectively clocking in for the 14-hour evening shift.

You'd think it'd be helpful to have some professional knowledge to back up your instincts. Which it is, sometimes, except when sleep-deprived, hormone-fueled anxiety starts messing with you, in which case you doubt your instincts and then have the existential angst of your personal and professional belief systems crumbling around you in a moment where you think, "Maybe four months old isn't too soon to teach kids that life is unfair and then you die."

Looking back, I don't regret how we handled it. I think it was hard, sometimes feeling impossible, but clearly we all survived it. I think MOTH had a hard time being constantly the second choice, but his hurt and frustration wasn't always voiced, and I sadly didn't have the extra resources to check on him, because I was so busy feeling overwhelmed and HEY AT LEAST YOU GET TO SHOWER IN PEACE. So I felt resentful a lot and he felt rejected and have I mentioned that we were both. So. Tired?

But we found our way. Our co-parenting became more me-parenting, MOTH-everything else-ing, as he did laundry and dishes and cooking dinner while I rocked and sang and nursed. And eventually it evened out, and he could play with the baby on the floor while I made dinner. I think having that desire and intent to share parenting equally, even in the months where that wasn't possible, formed a foundation that we're now getting to take advantage of. Tankbaby can handle new people, but still has a healthy amount of stranger anxiety. He does great for babysitters. Most importantly, he has a dad who knows all of his words and signs and will often tell me, "Oh, now we're doing x for that" and who is in tune with teething and bowels and vaccinations. And while he still likes mama's boobs, he can go to sleep without them.

And two nights ago, during the cacophonous fire drill that was the 5 am wakeup, while Tankbaby cried and writhed and flailed, at one point he wailed, "Da?" And I immediately said, yes, of course, you can have Dada, and rolled him over next to MOTH, who put an arm around him. Tanky quieted and let out a shuddering sigh and I thought, There it is. That was the first time he'd requested Dada instead of me. I had a rush of feelings: happy (for him that he'd found some comfort, for MOTH for being chosen, for me for getting a break), but also sad that I wasn't able to comfort him then, and a little rejected. (And, because it was still early in the battle, the moment lasted only about three minutes, and then all bets were off and we began to play "Who Put Fire Ants In the Baby's Diaper?" again.)

I know that was the first of many times where I will hear "Dada" as my arms are pushed away. I know that in the future, it will be deliberate, sometimes with purpose (Daddy does the train better) and sometimes just to exert a choice, any choice, because that's how kids roll. And I will try not to get bent out of shape, feeling rejected, all YOUR DADDY DIDN’T CARRY YOU FOR NINE MONTHS/WAKE EVERY TWO HOURS TO FEED YOU FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS/HAVE HIS KEGEL MUSCLES SO STRETCHED OUT OF SHAPE THAT TRAMPOILNES ARE NOW A REALLY BAD IDEA and instead smile, kiss them both, and go sit on the couch with a book.

In Which I Provide Effective Birth Control

Dig me, posting before dark for a change. Tonight I am going off to a friend's bridal shower, so MOTH graciously took the boy to the library and farmer's market so I could come here for a bit. Why not write during Tank's nap, you might ask?

Oh, ho, ho. That's a good one.

Mama's going to nap with Tankbaby today. Or possibly instead of. I don't really care which, but the point is, I'm going to need a nap at some point, or else it's entirely likely that I'll be driving home from the shower tonight and veer off the road, a fiery crash of naplessness and ire. I guess it will bring new meaning to the phrase, "You can sleep when you're dead."

I believe I've mentioned once, twice, or thirty times that Tankbaby isn't, and has never been, a good sleeper. We've really come so far from where we were a year ago, or even six months ago, and the nightweaning has been pretty successful.

Except for lately, when 4:30-5 AM rolls around and Tank decides that his tank (so to speak) is empty. There are three ways this can go:

Scenario A: Tank whimpers and signs "milk" while saying "Mama?" I roll over, cuddle him, whisper, "Milk in the morning." He whimpers again to make sure his objection is noted, and then crawls up onto my pillow, flings a chubby arm across my neck, and goes back to sleep, his sweet baby breath on my face (when do kids start getting morning breath? I thought it might be by now, when he's got most of his teeth and is eating adult food--he had hoisin salmon last night, which you'd think would emit some sort of odor when incubated in a moist little cave--but so far, I'm OK with my nose being an inch from his open mouth). We all go back to sleep for another hour or so, at which point he gets to nurse and we hang out in dozy cuddliness until I have to get up for work.

We get this for a few nights in a row, long enough to lull us into a false sense of security, and then...

Scenario B: Tank whimpers and signs "milk" while saying "Mama?" I roll over, cuddle him, whisper, "Milk in the morning." He whimpers again to make sure his objection is noted, and then crawls up onto my pillow, flings a chubby arm across my neck, and...grabs it, pulling me closer, trying to get access to my tank top. He asks more urgently, "Mama?" and signs "milk" with whatever hand is not involved in snaking its way under shoulder straps or down through the neckhole. I reassure him that milk will be forthcoming sometime after FREAKING DAWN, for crying out loud, but that it's time to go back to sleep. I gently guide his hands back away from all my vital organs. Repeat once or twice more, then we all go back to sleep. Cuddly dozing, get up for work.

This is, obviously, less desirable than Scenario A, but still doable, especially if I manage to get to bed early enough that I've had a nice chunk of sleep before he wakes. (Did you catch that part? Because it becomes important later.) It only lasts about 10 minutes, it's generally still done quietly and I can literally do it with my eyes closed.

But last night? Last night was the dreaded

Scenario C: Tankbaby wakes with a cry, I pat him on the back or cuddle him. He asks for milk. I explain the (at this point, extremely well-established, consistent) no-milk-between-10-and-6 policy. He crumples as if I have told him that Santa Claus is a lie (and, I guess, that Santa Claus existed in the first place...a poor simile, but I'm running against the clock, here). He cries piteously, saying and signing "milk?" with his best Charles Dickens orphan face. I remain sympathetic but unmoved, disentangling his hot little hands from wherever they've managed to lodge themselves (dude, WHY are your hands down my pants?). He gets more agitated, arching his back, crying more loudly, flinging himself around the crib, into our bed, trying to climb over me to lie between me and MOTH. I continue to pull him back down, offering cuddles, kisses, and sometimes cash if he'll just lie down and go back to sleep. He refuses all such reasonable offers, crying "Nah! NAH!" (his version of "no") repeatedly, long after I've stopped offering the pony rides and free magazine subscriptions. He continues to flail, I continue to try to be calm and soothing and sleepy-looking while simultaneously catching all those little limbs of his (dude, WHY are your hands down your pants?) and trying to mentally calculate, "If he falls asleep right now, I can still get another 47 minutes of sleep." He finally buries his head against a pillow or my chest or my armpit and quiets, breathing more deeply, juuuust long enough for my heartrate to slow and then the slowly erupting cry, "I thought I was feeling better but I just remembered THE MILK THING and now I AM VERY UPSET ALL OVER AGAIN WAAAAAHHHH!"

Repeat. And repeat. Eventually, he gets so worked up that he is just sobbing inconsolably, those jagged, hiccupy sobs that you cry if you're foolish enough to go see the new romantic comedy too soon post-breakup. And I rock him and hold him and MOTH hugs him and he finally, finally lies down and sighs, those long, staggering sighs that follow sobs. His eyes, screwed shut from crying, finally relax a bit, although the lashes are still wet on his cheeks.

It is simultaneously the most infuriating and most pathetic thing I've ever seen.

To be fair, last night was only the second night of this we've had since the nightweaning process back in June, and the other was the night we moved the clocks back for Daylight Savings Time. But still. You can see where it would grow tedious rather quickly.

Part of it is my fault: when putting Tankbaby down for the night, I accidentally fell asleep with him, until MOTH woke me at 10. (In case I haven't described our co-sleeping situation before, we have Tank's crib up against our bed with the side rail out, so we can lie with him to snuggle, but he also has his own space. So I was sleeping in my bed, not crammed into the crib with him, in case you were wondering why MOTH left me in there so long.) I came out into the living room to blog, while MOTH went to bed, but was in that logy place where I was too groggy to write much (or well), but couldn't actually sleep, either. I watched Glee on Hulu (which will explain why, at 5:37 AM, I was shushing with Tankbaby while singing Cee Lo in my head, and also illustrate how unhip I am, that I learned about Cee Lo from a FOX sitcom) and finally went to bed after midnight, but I tossed and turned for another hour (still singing Cee Lo, "I pity the fooo-hool who falls in love witchoo...").

Anyway, the point is, I'm gonna need to take a nap later.

If You Can't Say Something Nice

Yeah.

It's been one of those days, at the end of one of those weeks.

Luckily, I have all of next week off. Except for the day I'm going in and not getting paid, because I have to have to have to get caught up, because that constant screeching in my head is getting louder, and at some point it's going to drown out the constant screeching of my kids. So I spent a little time today getting all hinky about how the Department of Ed keeps adding paperwork requirements with one hand and taking away funding (and therefore, staff and time) to meet these requirements with the other. The whole agency is nervous and on edge, the general feeling being that we're lucky to have jobs...jobs that are rapidly becoming impossible to do. Or at least, to do well or meaningfully.

So! (claps hands briskly) Let's ignore that. And look! Over here!

Growing up, one of our traditional holiday viewings was a little thing called Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas, a little special that Jim Henson made back in 1977. Based on the children's book of the same name, it's a very Gift-of-the-Magi-esque story about a mother and son otter, a talent contest, and a washtub. I defy you to watch it and not have your cockles warmed.

We used to watch it on a rapidly-decaying VHS tape, labeled with Sharpie, taped off of TV with the commercials paused out. A few years ago, they released it on DVD, which means that I can enjoy it without feeling like each viewing is one step closer to the disintegration of a cherished childhood memory.

So, rather than blather about Job Woes, which is fun for exactly no-one to think about, including me, I direct your attention to the following. As much as I love the Muppets (which is a LOT), I love Muppet outtakes even more:

Scene From a Grocery Store

Setting: Neighborhood grocery store

Time: Eveningish

Shoes: Chuck Taylors


Me: Oh, Tankbaby. You are so cute. Can I give you a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah. (his version of "no;" I'm from Chicago, I can dig it.)

Me: I can't? OK. How about...can you give me a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah.

Me: Fine. Can I give Dada a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah. (points to teenage employee, stocking soup on a nearby shelf and makes kissing noise)

Me: You want me to kiss her? (He nods.) I don't think so.

Tankbaby: (makes kissing noise and points to the girl) Mama!

Me: Yeah. Mama's not going to kiss her.

MOTH: Can Dada kiss her?

Me: Nah.

MOTH: OK. Just checking the boundaries.

Me: (clobbers him with a can of Campbell's tomato soup)

End scene.

But How Does That Make You FEEL?

I so love therapy.

For a verbal processor like me, an hour of yakking, answering probing questions and gathering feedback...ah. Torture for many, I know, but for me a good therapy hour is like a mental massage: I leave feeling relaxed, refreshed, and other spa-advertisement adjectives. Lest you think I'm being terribly selfish to admit that I like an hour of talking about myself while someone listens, I should point out that a) I do pay for the services, and b) I try to throw in some jokes.

I have been feeling absolutely overwhelmed the last few days (weeks? longer?) and am now at that point where something like misplacing my keys brings actual tears to my eyes for a second, when Perspective is not only something I've lost, it's a fictional character to me, like the Jabberwocky. Some of it is work stuff, and I've finally resigned myself to going in one day next week when we're closed and just working for the day (unpaid, natch) in hopes that getting caught up (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) will be worth it. I do love being productive. I love crossing stuff off of lists and making files and finishing projects, but I think at this point, a thought I get to have to completion also sounds mighty nice. Not that I wouldn't get a nice buzz off of a clean workspace, an x-ed out To Do list, and a nice color-coded binder...mmm...

The stuff that isn't work is less easily solved, but...today, at least, I'm feeling more optimistic about it. I talked to Dreamcatcher Therapist today a lot about the notion of there being One Right Way for things, and that, while I intellectually understand otherwise, I still secretly believe in it. (Please note: I'm not saying that my way is the right way, I'm saying that there is some independent, external right way that should be obvious to all and I am holding myself to it.) And am constantly judging myself as to my success in attaining this One Right Way, Anything Else is Wrong and Worthless. Which, of course, leads to peace and enlightenment, right?

Dreamcatcher Therapist: It's like you're a kid coloring, and you look down and see that your house isn't perfectly in the lines, and it's a different color, maybe not quite as good as those kids', but that's OK, you know?

Me: Totally foreign concept.

DT: Okaaaayyyy....(scribbles furiously)

The best part is that, at no charge to you, I will also judge you about your willingness to follow the light. So when someone (cough...MOTH...cough) manages to be all Zen, like, "Heck, I'll color my house pink, 's cool...whatevs," I am very threatened because there is only Zool One Right Way, dammit! And if you have another Right Way, then my Right Way must be Wrong and then I am doing it Wrong. And no-one likes the kid who does it Wrong, Right? So just tell me WHAT COLOR DO I PAINT THE DAMN HOUSE?!

Ahem. Or something.

Of course, I know better intellectually than to go down these roads, but emotionally, that's where I head. Judging those around me so that I know how best to judge myself when I inevitably compare myself. And this is truly where the approval junkie thing goes off the rails. Where I have this innate desperation for external approval, but I know that's not what I want for myself, so I try to intellectualize around it, stuffing it down and smothering it with appropriate words while my hamster-wheel brain spins ever faster.

DT: How do you walk around doing that all the time?

Me: I'm...very tired.

See? See how I'm feeling more optimistic? Doesn't it just shine through?

You'll just have to trust me. I'm feeling like I'm starting to untangle some stuff, which feels good (see: organizational high, above). Also? MOTH is making chicken tikki masala tonight, with warm naan on the side. How bad can life be with warm naan? (And, I don't care what you say, warm naan definitely falls into the category of Things That Are Right.)

And This is Why I'm Eating Chocolate Frosting on Graham Crackers at 10:00 at Night

OK, first of all? I'm still in it to win it, NaBloPoMoFos. I dunno what happened, but I did post yesterday. It was the post I started on Sunday before the evil virus got me down. And for some reason, when I hit "publish" yesterday, it just stuck in on underneath Sunday's Evil Virus Post. So, um, scroll on down to where you see "Gazing Comma Navel," why dontcha.

Secondly? When you've had a day where:

* You started the day with a 5 AM, 40 minute period of coaxing your toddler back to sleep, so that you ended up grabbing the fifteen minutes that you should have used to get up early and wash your hair so it is now twisted on your head in a devil-may-care-but-she-sure-doesn't poodle poof...

* A child runs out of your classroom and runs for the front doors and when you catch him he makes all 50 pounds of himself go boneless while the school secretary watches, and

* You learn that a kid on your caseload went into foster care not just because of the homelessness and neglect and mental health issues, but because, when he was 18 months old, his mother flung him against a wall in a grocery store bathroom, and

* You work through lunch (again) and somehow still can't get your head above water, even though you'll be working for 12 hours today, and

* You listen to a radio interview with an economist on the way in to work and realize that you can't afford a second kid and will probably have to sell the first one when you run out of plasma...


Well, that is a lovely day indeed for your MOTH to show up at work with hot, homemade beef stew for dinner, complete with crusty loaf and cloth napkins. Even better if he brings your kiddo, smiling and calling, "mama!"as his chunky legs pedal towards you. And you can eat and relax and watch your kid insist on eating out of your bowl and thirty minutes are all it takes to reset.

A bloggy kiss for my partner, who sat in traffic both ways in order to do a little something nice for me today, even without knowing how badly I needed it.

These Are Not the Droids You're Looking For

You guys.

I had a whole real post I was working on. It wasn't a random assortment of thoughts with occasional puns thrown in--I had notes! And time to ponder! And I was actually writing something kinda heartfelt that was making me think...

And then my computer started FUH-REAKING out. I started getting pop-ups like, "Stealth Intrusion! Infection detected in the background. Your computer is now being attacked by spyware and rogue software" and "Your PC activity is being monitored. Possibly spyware infection" and "ZOMG YOU'RE TOTALLY BEING HACKED RIGHT NOW BEEYOTCH!"

Best of all, the calls were coming from inside the house. It claimed to be "Vista AntiSpyware." A quick Google search revealed that this is a fake anti-malware scam, where they want you to "click here for an anti-viral scan." So while there isn't any program "IRC-Worm.DOS.Septic" trying to "exploit Windows security holes," what this shit does do is screw with your existing anti-viral software. So my hours-long McAfee scans were for naught, and cheerful green screens told me my computer was squeaky clean, even as more dire pop-ups sprouted, screaming "YOU'RE IN FOR IT NOW! VIRUSES! VIKINGS! ZOMBIES! YOU REALLY OUGHTA CLICK HERE, OR YOU'LL BE SORRRRYYYYY!"

More Googling (which took forever, because these stupid, tedious thing also throws dire pop-ups whenever you try to open a browser) led me to different versions of removal instructions. I tried McAfee's "stinger" first, which did zip, other than gleefully assure me that I was 100% clean! Yes, sirree! Nothing to see here SECURITY HOLE DETECTED BLOCK THIS ATTACK BY CLICKING HERE OR WE TAKE THE CHILD!

I found very clear instructions (complete with screenshots) here, which I'm including on the off off off chance that anyone with the same problem finds this blog. I'll let you know how it works (updated: seems to have fixed it!). (I will admit to a certain paranoid fear that maybe these "fixing" instructions were just another form of malware...they're all in it together! But I found this solution listed other places as well, so either it's the real thing or there's a vast conspiracy and we'd all best decide whether we're going to be Browncoats or Alliance.)

I know I can't take it personally, but I do. These pimply assholes sucked away the rest of my lovely Sunday afternoon. The post I was working on, luckily, was saved mid-draft, but I had to do all these scans and figure out how to manually search and destroy this thing (the success of which has yet to be determined, by the way, as I'm typing this on MOTH's computer while mine is being exorcised) and I snapped at Tankbaby when he kept mashing on the keys and...pleh. Anyway, all this to say that you're not getting my sincere, heartwarming post this evening. I guess you'll just have to wait. It's a shame, too. It came with a pony.






OK, fine. You can have the pony tonight.

Gazing Comma Navel

MOTH thinks I am a pessimist, because I am constantly worrying about what could happen or what did happen or what what's currently happening might mean. It really bothers me that he would see me as so negative, because I don't want to be seen that way. Other than a brief period in college, for which I blame too many Melissa Etheridge videos, I have never wanted to be that dark, twisted, damaged person. (I have, however, often wanted to date that person, which is another topic all together.)

I maintain that I am an optimist, because I do see all those negative, worrisome possibilities and yet continue to move forward. I got married, I had a kid, I went back to school, I moved across the country, I left everything I knew and started over. And I was terrified about all of those things, but I did them anyway. I think that's optimism. Not that everything's going to be OK, but that it might not be, but I'm going out there anyway. It takes a certain amount of faith in the universe to walk out your front door when you're fairly certain that the hive under the garage is full of killer bees, you know?

Part of what I've had to come to terms with about my own anxiety is that it's always going to be there. It's not something I can just will away. I don't mean that in a defeated way, but that I have learned that I have to figure out how to manage it rather than spend my energy trying to fight it. I try very hard not to indulge it, but sometimes I only manage to tread water when I want to swim. So I don't get into panic mode, but neither do I relax and enjoy the moment. It's like I'm out there on the surfboard, crouching, not being knocked down, but I can't stand up and ride the wave, either. (What's with all the ocean/water metaphors? DON'T KNOW. I am not an ocean person...I've watched Shark Week, you know. Murky depths are not my scene.)

One of the questions my therapist posed for me last week was about living in the present. Being in the moment. Now, my therapist is a little, as my friend C says, "dream-catchery," but she's not wrong here. I struggle with being able to be present and relax in the moment and not think about what just happened or what might happen or what could happen IF I LOOK AWAY FOR A SECOND AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE CONSTANT VIGILANCE!! The way my brain works, I'm able to see all these possibilities in every moment--good and bad, but why spend energy worrying about the good, right? When I could be dedicating myself to anticipating every possible negative ripple and preparing for each?

What a weird way to live, right? And I'm not, like, constantly miserable or anxious or anything. It's just that I'm seldom really relaxed, either. I have trouble feeling like this, whatever it is, is "enough" in any given moment. There's always something I'm missing out on, something I should be doing, something I need to be thinking about. My hamster-wheel of a brain is always turning, and I keep running, like the thought of just getting off has never occurred to me.

I sort of manage to do this with Tankbaby. I mean, he's just so darn delectable and fun and all-encompassing that I do sometimes find myself just reveling in his sweet, weird babyness (see also: mondo kisses instead of bedtime). And sometimes, when I'm reading a book with him or walking around the neighborhood, I'm wholly there, sucking it all up. But, probably more often, I catch myself thinking about how big he's getting, imagining him as an older kid, worrying about weaning, trying to figure out if I want another, etc. And, as my therapist would point out, whenever I do that, I leave--at least in some way--the present that I'm in.

Weirdly, I was very much about living in the moment when my mom was sick and I was around her. Because it was too painful to remember the blissfully ignorant past, and even more frightening to think about the future, I actually did manage to stay very much in the present when I would visit her. Even sitting in the chemo room, I was just...there, making jokes and being slightly uncomfortable and trying to make personal connections with the nurses. And then we'd leave chemo and go to a play or go home and make dinner, and I just kept taking it moment by moment. However, I don't think that's quite the same thing, as it came less from a Zen place of acceptance and more from a white-knuckled terrified denial. I wasn't relaxing in the moment, I had it in a choke-hold, because it was all I could handle.

One of many lines I love in Suzanne Finnamore's Otherwise Engaged is when one character, imitating Deepak Chopra says, "If you think of your mind as a seething serpent, why would you walk toward it?" Or our inimitable Anne Lamott, who says, "My mind remains a bad neighborhood that I try not to go into alone." These two quotes pop into my head when I think about meditation, and the idea of just sitting quietly with my hamster-wheel brain makes me roll my eyes. But I keep considering it, because I've gotta learn a way to quiet the shoulds and coulds and maybes and whatabouts and whatifs. And I don't drink, so blackouts are right out. What's left, you know?

I'm not done thinking about this, but I am done writing about it. For now. Head-shrinking again this Wednesday, maybe I'll have be awarded with great clarity. Or possibly a root beer. Both sound nice about now.

In Which I Push the Boundaries of What Could Be Considered a Reasonable Segue

So if you've been following along (or if you're Elly), you may have noticed that our own darlin' BugginWord has been leaving me random topics to write about. This saved my NaBloPoMoAs for many an entry already, I can tell you. But I haven't used her prompts the last couple of times, because I had (gasp) actual things already in mind to write about.

Part of why I'm doing the whole NaBloPoMo is to just force myself to write something every day. Not something long or great or worthy of future readings, but just something, for God's sake. I'm just trying to get back in the habit. Now, if you've read this for any length of time, you might have picked up on the fact that I'm the teeeeeensiest bit perfectionist, and that I must have everyone else's approval about all things (kinda makes you wish I were single, doesn't it?). So blogging is a challenge for me in general, because EEP WHAT IF SOMEONE OUT THERE READS THIS AND...DOESN'T LIKE IT? AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE! And to write daily, without the option of spending a day or two tweaking or editing, well, that's just crazy talk. And, I know from crazy.

So that's why I want to give a shout-out/big ups/props/other street lingo for recognition and thanks to Elly from the Block. I might sit here thinking, well, I kinda wanted to talk about x, but then funny thing y happened, but what if I can't tell it right and FUCK IT, I WILL WRITE ABOUT PACKING TAPE.

In that vein, I present to you a little melange I call FUCK IT, I WILL WRITE ABOUT ACRYLIC NAILS, SANDWICH BOARDS, AND TOPAZ:

(Ahem.)

Acrylic nails were always both a mystery and somehow the height of sophistication to me in my impressionable teenage years. I have been lucky enough to have good, strong nails of...German peasant stock, I guess, and I generally don't have trouble growing them out. In fact, as I got into my 20s and 30s and my life was about guitar lessons and puppet-building and kid-wrangling, I mostly had trouble keeping them short and practical. But I was a young girl during the age of Lee Press-On Nails.* As you can see from the commercial, these were nothing sort of genius. A bit of adhesive and you had talons to rival any of those Dynasty bitches. You could buy them at Walgreens and apply them at home, and for the next 24 hours, you could walk the halls of your junior high with your head held high, your nails blood-red (or frosted pink!) and a sudden inability to spin your locker's combination lock. I wonder what our teachers thought, when they saw nails that begged for Vanna White sequined dresses or shoulder-padded power blazers on the hands of young teens wearing pegged jeans and rocking the baggy-sweatshirt-over-turtleneck look (with your necklace charm dripping up and out of the turtleneck, if you please). Like the big crispy bangs of yore ("yore" meaning circa 1989), my own laziness, cheapness, and unsophistication mostly saved me from this particular craze. I'd like to say it was foresight, independence, and taste, but I'd be lying.

Speaking of things that have changed since the 80s (Nice segue, Falling! Thank you, Falling!) I don't know the last time I saw someone wearing a sandwich board in person. It's certainly a cartoon/comic staple, and you'll occasionally get people wearing them as part of a protest or rally, but in terms of human-as-advertisment, now you get those people who hang out at intersections with a plain old non-sandwich sign, dressed as food or the Statue of Liberty (MOTH and I have a friend, Tall Matt, who is 6'8" who occasionally does this gig. So every once in a while, you drive past the tax service and get to see a nearly seven-foot-tall Lady Liberty).

Did you know that the Statue of Liberty was officially finished on October 28th, 1886? Only a couple of days later, and her birthstone would have been topaz (Ooh, that was a rough one. Judges?). Topaz is a silicate mineral of aluminium and fluorine...with, um, orthorhombic crystals and....

DAMN YOU, ELLY....I AM BESTED.


*When I Googled LP-ON, I came across this piece of brilliance on wiki.answers.com:
Q: Who invented the nail?
A: It was Thomis Edeson.

Just...sigh.

I Used to Play Bass for Elaborate Pseudonym

Just returned from a lovely evening with friends. We joined some friends J and J (huh...identical initials foiling my elaborate pseudonym plan) to celebrate E's birthday. There were homemade pizzas and shrieking children chasing each other through the house and I made a cake! From scratch, even! We fed the children first and sent them downstairs for a movie (Mr. J casually informed us that he'd rented Apocalypse Now), then the adults (and Tankbaby) sat around and ate pizza and drank wine (um, not Tankbaby) and laughed. It was just easy and constantly amusing (at one point, MOTH referenced the Simpsons' "fifth-level vegan...eats nothing that casts a shadow," and Mr. J chimed in, "They consume only pollen and dew.") and had that lovely rhythm that comes of a group of people who have known each other for years. It was all warmly-lit and I stepped outside myself for a bit and panned around the room, aware of how this would clearly be the scene tat the end of the episode, where the beloved characters took a break from resolving plotlines while some Decemberists song swelled gradually in the background.

J-the-woman was rea-hilly enjoying the wine, and the rest of us were enjoying her. E had borrowed J's luggage for a recent trip and, while unpacking, came across this purple post-it with names and dates and things like "Edwardian period" written on it. Realizing it wasn't hers, she took it to work the next day and put it on J's desk. An unremarkable story, except that in the telling, tipsy J began to moan and shriek, "I'm a sham!" She then burst in to explain that the subtext of that meticulously placed post-it on her desk was, "And you call yourself a former lit major! You don't know your Edwardians from your Victorians! I thought I knew you, but it's all been a pack of lies! Lies! LIES I TELL YOU!!!"

E kept protesting, "I put the post-it down. That's the end of the story as far as I know it."

But J would burst in, "No! I just...I needed to remember! Anne Bronte, Elizabeth Gaskell...I should...I couldn't..." and then fall into embarrassed giggles, hiding her face.

I finally asked, "Um, do you think we're friends with you because of your literary knowledge? Because I'm friends with you because you give me all your kids' hand-me-downs."

It degenerated from there, and after finishing her glass of wine, J turned abruptly to me with a mock accusatory finger and asked, "So, what's the deal? Why don't you drink? Is it a thing, or just a... thing?"

I started to answer, "Well, I don't like the taste, for one thing, and it just never seemed like something I wanted or needed to bother to cultivate, and--"

She turned to the rest of the table, triumphantly shrieking, "Who's thinking about the Brontes now, eh?!" She couldn't seem to believe that we hadn't been thinking about the Brontes before. Mostly we were thinking, "Hmm...maybe we don't open that third bottle of wine." But Ms. J seemed reassured by the idea that a quick left turn into my abstinence would distract the angry hordes from the public stoning in the town square that would otherwise be her fate.

This is, by the way, the mom of the kid who opened with "You know what's cool about me?" So in addition to that as an opening gambit, I now offer you "Who's thinking about the Brontes now, eh?!" as a way to declare victory in conversation.

********************

This actually happened today, I swear: I was folding laundry and Tankbaby kept tugging on my pants leg, whimpering. I was all, "What is it? What is it, boy?" and finally followed him...to where the dog was trapped. Suck it, Lassie.

********************

P.S. Confidential to Elly, some more: Don't give up on me. I'm going to collect your random suggestions and weave them all into a hilarious, coherent, culturally-relevant entry. No, really.

This is My Head, Shrinking

I went to therapy tonight for the first time in over a year (boo to increased co-pays, but yay to my old therapist now on my new insurance!). So I have scrawled notes about "humility=vulnerability=why a negative?" and "SPLITTING" (underlined twice) and "judgment--know you're right," all of which will provide ample navel-gazing fodder for future posts (she said, optimistically, as all three of her readers raised eyebrows with a collective "yeah, right"). But I left therapy, came home for a quick sandwich with my boys, and then went to see a friend's play. It's now quite late, and in the interest of my own sleep and getting this post up before midnight (and thus counting it for today), I'm tabling these Big Important Thoughts for a Favorite Funny Story:

When in Chicago, when I first started to understand what was happening to me as panic attacks, an actual thing that I could learn about and manage, I loved therapy. I loved my therapist. I didn't love the anxiety, but I was learning to live with it. All was going swimmingly for some time, and then one day I got slammed by a big wave of panic. The circumstances allude me now, but I remember calling my dear wise friend C and complaining about how I thought I had it under control and would I always be like this and and and...

I finally sighed, "I just don't want to be crazy anymore."

She, in her dearness and wisdom, told me, "Listen: crazy people don't think they're crazy."

I found that very reassuring: the notion that the very analysis of my wacky brain probably meant that it was actually a pretty functional organ. A few weeks later, my friend J and I were walking together and discussing our mutual histories of anxiety and panic. I relayed my frustration with the recent weeks and told him about my conversation with C.

Me: So she said, "crazy people don't think they're crazy."

J: No, crazy people think they're Napoleon.


****************************

I must be tired. In my comments on my last post, I went to type the word "phrase" and what came out was "frace."

****************************

P.S. Confidential to Elly: Can I have an extension? (Get it? Fake nails...extensions? What, am I reaching? Ha! I kill me.) In the meantime, I saved you a Google search.

If You Googled "Pasties," "Yooper," and "Microsoft Word," You're in the Right Place

So. Ten days in and I'm doing OK, right? Yes, some of my posts are lame (my BFF pronounces that "lem," very Valley Girlesque, as in, "my mahm is sehh lem!" and that is now how I always hear that word in my head, assuming it's used to mean "pathetic" as opposed to "crippled." Wait, where was I?), but I'm here! Granted, I haven't read anyone else's blog in weeks, and I'm relying on my househusband to prepare dinner, the leftovers of which I then use for lunch, but hey, that's why I set the bar knee-high.

Elly, who I think reads me out of pity, has offered up another topic for tonight, and I'm grabbing it. I keep making notes to myself about things that I should blog about, but when someone says, "Write about pasties," well, I hear and obey.

So, I'm guessing that when Elly writes "pasties," she means something like these. Or these. Or, dear God, these. And, I gotta say, with the current MNP (mysterious nipple pain), I'm not thinking sequins, I'm thinking some sort of analgesic patch. With a tassle, if you like.

However, when I see the word "pasties," in my head, I don't read it as PAY-steez. I read it as PASS-tees, with a nice flat, broad A sound, and I hear it in a very particular northern Michigan voice.

Several years ago, I worked in a small adoption agency. After I'd worked there a little over a year, they hired a new front desk person, a girl I will call...Danika (because she was Dumb ANd KIndA mean...I realize the letters are screwy, but go with me, will you?). So, good ol' Dani was always talking about her husband, Bri, and how she (please put on a proper Yooper accent here) "made him a whole batch of pasties dis weekend." And, while I have nothing against meat turnovers per se, this particular phrase, in that particular grating voice, became the quote that my friend M and I would use as a shorthand for, "Oh good gravy, can you believe they hired this chick and that she makes more money than us?"

Now, lest you think I'm being too harsh, allow me to share some illustrative moments. First of all, this girl had no computer skills. She had to constantly ask M or me about how to do x. We'd show her, then she'd ask us again the next time. Then again. Eventually, one of us would just do it so that we could move on with life. Then the Big Bossman would compliment her on x, and she'd smile and say "thank you" with some "aw, shucks" false modesty. And then she'd take a long weekend.

Just seems like your average office oops? I got another one for you: Without going into too much detail, the fee structure of our agency for a traditional domestic adoption was that you paid for some services (application fee, etc.) at the beginning of the process, and then a whopping ($18,000) placement fee at the end. This is because the agency paid for all the advertising, screening, birth parent counseling, medical bills, etc. The adoptive parents paid a placement fee only after the adoption was finalized, so the agency took on the financial risk. Now, our primary demographic was upper class white people (everyone's favorite!), but we had non-white birthmoms, as well as white birthmoms with non-white babydaddies. Because our primary client demographic generally wanted babies who looked like them (white, in case I'm being too subtle), biracial or African-American babies were sometimes harder to place. For these babies, the agency offered a "scholarship" for the placement fee: a discount of about $10,000 for biracial babies, and the entire placement fee waived for African-American babies.

Now. This was the policy that was in place, and I had nothing to do with it. As someone who often answered the phone, however, I did have to explain it to prospective adoptive parents. I tried to present it as neutrally as possible, of course, as did my friend M, who also answered the phone quite a bit.

One day, M and I were both up in the front desk area, making copies and filing and whatnot, when Dani answered the phone. We listened to her fumble through the explanation of the process and fees, and then we heard her say Yoop, "Now. If you're willing to take a black baby, den you don't have to pay dat fee. Dat's if you could do dat. I don't tink I could, but you know..."

Yeah.

She also had some charming stories about "dese black guys" in her neighborhood. You get the idea. And yet, the Big Bossman loved her, probably because she was willing to suck up (or she actually felt like this receptionist job was her dream), whereas the rest of us were willing to do our jobs, but not to pretend that we were fulfilled by bureaucratic paper-pushing. She got long weekends, long lunches, and special field trips (she got to go to a filming of Oprah!).

So, given that, and the fact that we were young and stupid (although much, much less stupid) ourselves, I hope you won't think too ill of us when I tell you that one day, M came back to my cubicle, giggling and snorting and gleefully rubbing her hands together.

"I fucked up her buttons!"

"What?"

"I fucked up her buttons!!"

In the olden days, before Windows Vista, Microsoft Word had a customizable toolbar. This meant that you could assign icons to functions, like a pair of scissors for "Cut" and a clipboard for "Paste." Now, the icons were only one way to cut and paste. You could also use the right-click shortcuts or the drop-down boxes, or Ctrl+X. That is, if you knew anything about Word. But if you were really dependent on the little pictures AND a little dumb and racist, and someone...switched the icons, well, then you'd cut every time you tried you paste, and vice versa. And if you'd constantly taken credit for work you hadn't done, you wouldn't have anyone to turn to to ask for help. And if you'd let your boss think you were terribly proficient, you wouldn't be able to explain to him why you were having such trouble finishing that document.

Hee.

Oh, unclench. M only left it that way for a few minutes, then when Dani was at the copier, she went back and fixed it. Which, of course, only confused Dani more.

Luckily, she could go home and drown her sorrows in pasties.

Let's play Bad News, Good News!

Bad News: Due mainly to financial reasons, we won't be going back to Chicago for Christmas this year, for the first time since moving out here.
Good News: We get to pick out a Christmas tree for our house for the first time since moving out here.

Bad News: I didn't manage to have lunch today. Again.
Good News: Lunch for tomorrow is already prepped!

Bad News: I still have this mysterious pain in my nipple. Plugged milk duct, thrush, and bacterial infections have been ruled out and no-one seems to know what to tell me.
Good News: There's no "s" after "nipple."

Bad News: Tankbaby has taken to seeking renegotiation about all manner of nighttime rules...between 2 and 5 AM.
Good News: Some day he'll be a teenager and he will mow my lawn.

Bad News: I didn't manage to have lunch today. Again.
Good News: Guilt-free second helping of bacon-squash risotto this evening
(Boy, that skipping-lunch thing just keeps giving!)

Bad News: You get a rather lame blog entry.
Good News: I get to go to bed early.



P.S. For Elly: You say typewriter, I think, "Noo, ne noo ne noo noo..."

Deep Breathing Time...or Shallow, Panicked Gasps, Whatever

There is this noise. In my head.

I hear it when I'm driving, listening to NPR and thinking about the midterm elections.

I hear it when I look at my work calendar and the growing to-do list and the furlough days that are eating away at my time to-do.

I hear it at 4:30 in the morning when Tankbaby decides to stage a late-game renegotiation about nightweaning, Malcolm X-style.

I hear it when I look ahead in the week and can't figure out when I will blog/exercise/do laundry/write e-mails/be a good, non-preoccupied friend.

I hear it when I'm trying to calmly think about whether or not I want another kid.

I hear it when the bag of dog poop breaks, leaving a smudgy fecal trail down my pant leg.

I hear it when I try to sleep.

And that sound goes like this:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!



Maybe if I turn up the radio a little louder.

The Hole (No, It's Not Dirty)

We've lived in this house two years now, and I haven't yet found The Hole.

In my mid-twenties, when I first started to learn about anxiety and recognize what was happening to me as panic attacks, we were living in a loft in Chicago. It was basically one large room, with the only door the one for the bathroom. The kitchen and the living room were divided only by a counter, and above a closet was a ladder that led to a small platform, which we called our sleeping shelf. We had a mattress on the floor up there, a small set of drawers, and enough room to sit up, but not to stand. I was going to therapy regularly then, reading about anxiety and taking Zoloft for the first time. I practiced breathing deeply and getting enough exercise. And I pretty much had the panic attacks under control, but I still struggled with a free-floating anxious antsiness that would have me walking aimlessly around the apartment sometimes.

One day, when I had wandered around for a bit, lost in my own repetitive brain cycles, and ended up stopped a few feet in front of the ladder, staring at the wooden steps. After a few minutes, MOTH came over and gently teased, "Are you stuck in a hole?" And I kinda was. I shook myself and moved on to whatever it was I'd been about to do, but over the next couple of weeks, I found myself back in that spot over and over again. I don't know why I'd get stuck there, but it was never intentional, it just seemed like a natural stop. It was oddly comforting, this weird space where I would just rest, physically, while trying to slow down my mental gymnastics. Later, we rearranged our furniture and found a second, slightly lesser Hole, between the TV and the bookshelf. Occasionally, MOTH would find himself stuck in The Hole as well, and we both agreed that there was just something about that spot (and neither of us are particularly woo-woo, voodoo people who talk about "energy" much, but there it was).

When we moved out here, we lived in a little white box of an apartment for the first year and a half. It didn't happen immediately, but MOTH and I both agreed that the Hole there was just to the right of the TV stand, almost in front of the bedroom door, facing the kitchen. I didn't get stuck there as much, probably because I was too busy being depressed about leaving my mom and the rest of my family behind, and instead of a fidgety anxiety, I was more overcome by a crushing lethargy that seemed to require endless reruns of Law & Order.

I love our little house. I fell in love with the windows that face the backyard, taking up one whole wall of the living room. The strange built-in cabinets by the fireplace, the falling-down carriage house, the park at the end of the block...all these were the things I obsessed about when we were trying to figure out if we were going to buy the house. And I've certainly had my share of anxiety here. But I haven't found The Hole here yet. Maybe it has to do with having multiple (OK, five) rooms, instead of that open space. Maybe there are smaller Holes, one in each room? Maybe not all dwellings have Holes. It's not like I need one, of course, but...is it weird that I miss having one? A place where I could stop, where I got stopped by something I couldn't explain, without feeling claustrophobic or pressured, but where I just...rested. I sort of want to figure out where it would be...just in case I need it.

Anyone else out there have any idea what I'm talking about?

Some Like it Not At All Hot, Not Even a Little Bit

You know how you'll be driving in your car and see a neighbor and wave, but you'll only mouth "hi" because they can't hear you from behind the windows anyway? Well, I did that today to my neighbor and looked at me a little funny. Possibly because I was riding a bike at the time.

To be fair, I'm pretty sure I was suffering from head trauma at the time. I put Tankbaby in the trailer and rode to the optometrist for a quick glasses adjustment. Someone around here, and I won't say who, thought that maybe Mama's glasses were silly putty and twisted them so that they would sit on my face like a cartoon "after"picture when a safe is dropped on someone. While keeping Tankbaby from eating the jar of decorative potpourri resting on a window ledge, I stood up with great intent, right into the glass-topped podium nearby. Luckily, none of the $300 frames were damaged. The skin smack in the middle of my forehead was not so lucky. Good thing I had Tankbaby with me all day to poke me right in the third eye there and crow sadly, "ow," like a miniature E.T.

So! Elly, in her infinite wisdom, has given me "curry paste" to work with today. Not that I'm complaining, oh no, because when she gets bored of this game, I'm gonna have to come up with something to write all by my lonesome. What you should know, however, is that I am very cautious about anything involving the word "curry." My palate is quite infantile when it comes to anything even remotely spicy. I have to modify almost all of Kitchen Witch's recipes in order to not sweat just reading them.

In case you think I'm exaggerating, I offer this illustrative story: MOTH and I were out with some friends, having Thai food. The other four adults at the table ordered dishes to share, with varying levels of spiciness. When the server turned to me, I ordered my usual: Pad Se Eew with chicken, no spiciness whatsoever. The waitress raised a questioning eyebrow and repeated my order. My friend E leaned over and said, "She can't handle it. She needs, like, baby food." When the food arrived, the waitress passed out the dishes: "Chicken cashew, medium hot," "Mussaman curry, hot," and, when she placed my plate in front of me: "And...for the baby..."

So, I basically avoid any curry paste that I didn't assemble myself. I actually enjoy curry powder, tumeric, etc. It's just the chili aspect that sets me back (and here is where I lose 95% of the world, when you all shout, "But that's what MAKES it curry!"). I like Thai food and Indian food, but only familiar dishes at trusted restaurants. That being said, MOTH and I have been experimenting with Indian cuisine at home, removing all the heat for the basic prep, and then MOTH grabs his Sriracha later.

Now, I know that some of us have very...particular feelings about Rachel Ray, but if you can overlook the chirpiness, the strange second-face syndrome (seriously...has anyone but me noticed that she had surgery or something? She has a totally different face than she had five or six years ago), and--most egregious to me--the marketing of her own particular "EVOO," this is a quick, yummy recipe with a lot of flavor. And no heat. Unless you add it later, you sadist.

Curry Crunch Salad

1 cup plain Greek-style yogurt
juice of one lemon
2 tbsp curry powder (for this and the following three spices, I used what you might call "heaping" or "rounded" spoonfuls--see, I like spices!! Just not spicy.)
1 tbsp honey
1 tsp tumeric
1 tsp ground cardamom
ground cinnamon, for sprinkling
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil (I refuse to abbreviate this, just on principle)
salt & pepper
3 cups poached chicken or skinned rotisserie chicken
1 cup red or black seedless grapes, halved (or quartered, if you're sharing with a toddler)
4 scallions, thinly sliced on an angle
1/4 cup slivered almonds, toasted

Dig this: two steps!
1) Combine the first six ingredients in a bowl; sprinkle with cinnamon, whisk in olive oil, and season with salt and pepper.
2) Add the rest of the ingredients and toss to coat.

Easy peasy, right? Serve it with warm naan and you will, I promise, exclaim out loud.

(I feel a little bit like I'm cheating by responding to "curry paste" with a recipe, not to mention being a poor imitation of our Kitchy, but it's almost midnight, so I'm going to learn to live with disappointment.)

Ornithorhynchus Anatinus

(First, remember my opening paragraph from last night? My sweet story about the kissy baby goodness? Yeah. Guess who has a runny nose and a bad case of the Pissies? So, I give myself about 48 hours before I also succumb to both.)

I so heart Elly. I mean, just generally on principle, as should you all. But especially because, rather than berate me for my absentia here and my even less frequent appearance on her blog, she continues to graciously provide me with writing prompts for NaBloPoMo. Platypus, she says! Tell us about the platypus! And I live to oblige...

OK, this is the first thing I thought of (make sure you watch to the song!). Does anyone else remember this movie? We watched it over and over again at our babysitter's house. Looking back, I'm flabbergasted at the weirdness of this movie. Also, I still find the Bunyip song creeeepy.

I actually have two contact entries in my phone labeled "Ben Platypus" and "Steve Platypus." And, as disappointing as this may be to hear, I'm not actually friends with a couple of Platypi Brothers. A couple of years ago, at Burning Man, we had the luck to camp across the street from these two wonderful guys from the Southwest. By the end of the week, we were all like old friends. They sat out dust storms in our dome, we enjoyed the rarer gentler breezes in their shade structure.

MOTH had built a solar oven for the trip that year. We'd used to to great effect on a recent camping trip; it actually worked so well that we over-cooked our pasta. MOTH had made a yummy cornbread for our 4th of July BBQ, and we had visions of yummy, fresh-baked food in the middle of the desert. Most of our experiments panned out. However, on an impulse, we'd also bought a tube of cookie dough (wow, just writing it like that makes me realize just how wrong that clearly is...dough in a tube. And yet, mmmmm....). We thought, how cool would it be if we could make fresh-baked cookies out on the playa. Imagine, if you will, a long week of dust and heat and freezing nights and constant techno and all your meals come from either the cooler or the camp stove...and then? Warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. (To be fair, to me, you could put anything in that first sentence and follow it with "warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies" and I'd be sold.) We set out the cookie dough blobs, set up the oven, and waited. And while we waited, we giddily hyped up our sweet snack to our new friends across the way.

We waited. And waited.

The dough got flatter, spread out, but failed to...solidify. After about 45 minutes, we gave up and gathered around the tinfoil contraption. A collective silent regarding, each of us looking at the dough, then at each other, wondering just how judgmental the other people might be. Finally, someone who might or might not have been me, said, "Screw it. I'm eating it." And we all dove in with dusty fingers, scraping the dough up and licking it off. Someone complimented us on our cookies, and someone else pointed out that these were not so much cookies as they were hot dough. Because I am my father's daughter, I said, "I used to play bass for Hot Dough." The group chuckled, and without missing a beat, Steve thoughtfully added, "I think I saw them play at that new hot club...Convection?" And it began: "I remember their comeback album, We Will Rise Again!" "Oh, yeah? I prefer their live album, Raw." "Is that the one with their hit single, 'Slow Rise'?" "You know what their fans are called, right? Doughboys." "I remember dancing to that great slow song, 'I Wish You Kneaded Me (Like I Knead You)'."

You know when you're laughing and laughing and you look around and you just have a moment of, these are my people? It's one of the best feelings in the world. Possibly my favorite.

So, when it came to the night of the burn, the night when the whole thing goes from a level seven party to a level twelve, the night where you stay up all night under the stars and you dance and you hold hands with everyone and you head back to camp at three, four, or five o'clock in the morning, knowing that you'll be up with the sun to pack up your entire camp...that night is always bittersweet, but I was more sad than not that night. The idea that these people lived so far away and that I wouldn't see them for at least a year...it depressed me. And, not unlike camp, every year at Burning Man you forge these crazy bonds with strangers, but other than the occasional e-mail in September, you don't actually keep that bond going throughout the year. And the next year, you get lost again in the swirling chaos of new people. And that thought made me sad. It's not everyone who appreciates the power of the pun.

Steve and Ben were going to the burn with other friends of theirs, and our camp was headed out together. I asked, rather forlornly, "But how will we find you out there?" to which Steve replied, "We'll have a code word! You shout it, we'll shout it back, and you can find us." Because I always like a good echo-location plan, I agreed. "But what will our code word be?"

That's right. "Platypus."

So, we all dressed up. We watched a whole lotta stuff burn. And we wandered around, calling plaintively, "Platypus?" But really? Fifty-thousand people, most of them stoned out of their gourds, and seven voices calling out the name of a semi-aquatic mammal? It was bound to fail. I don't know why we kept calling.

And then...

"Platypus!"

Seriously? "Platypus?"

"Platypus!"

I think it came from over there! "Platypus?!"

"Platypus!!!"


(See, and you didn't think I was going to get there, did you?)