Ch-ch-ch-changes. Or not.

This weekend I slapped on a pair of Spanx, slathered on some BB cream, tried to remember how to use a curling iron, and headed off for my 20th high school reunion. 

Yes, I graduated high school when I was 8. No, wait, actually, I was 6. 

I know what you are thinking.
Yep, my hair was that awesome.
Oh, and it made me 5'8".

I was actually pleasantly surprised to see my classmates. Yes, the one mean spirited boy who liked to target insecure girls is now a mean spirited man who picks the same targets, but this insecure girl is now more willing to let it roll off her back. For the most part though, we've all remained pretty nice people. And, know what's weird? I don't think any of us look that different. 

I mean, we have to. It's been 20 years. We've all gotten older, and our hair has greyed or thinned. Some of us have put on weight. When I looked at these people though, some of whom I hadn't seen since the day we graduated, I still saw who they were. And then I wondered why they were married to people who are so much older than they are. 

Maybe time is like beer. It gives you goggles. Maybe when you know someone in youth you will always see them that way, no matter what the years pile on. After all, no one ever really changes. Sure, they go to medical school, or they develop new world views, or pick up veganism, or decide that an English accent suits them better, but at the core something constant remains. Voices still sound the same. Jokes are told in the same manner. Body language is still familiar. And it's comforting. At least to me. 

It's nice to know that if I still see youth in these people, maybe they still see it in me. Because, really, I don't feel any different than I did 20 years ago. I'm stronger, and I'm more confident, and I pay my own bills, but I know that spark I had in me at 17,  I mean at 6, is still there. The kid in me isn't disappointed in who I became, because she is still there, and telling me that the game isn't over yet, that there is still more to do. 

She's also telling me Spanx are absolutely ridiculous. But she doesn't really want to go to the gym either. 

See? I'm still the same. 

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Cup O' Trouble

Over the years I have been, for the most part, lucky enough to work in close proximity to people who don't make me want to poke out my own eyes. The women, and men, I have had to share space with have had few bad qualities and have somehow not found my bad qualities that objectionable. Either that or they just haven't had the balls to say anything. Both are a win in my book.

Currently, I share seven feet of desk space with a woman named Molly. I don't like to play favorites, but Molly is in the desk mate top ten out of all the people I could possibly share a desk with in the whole wide world. Oh, and I actually love playing favorites.

Molly and I are both theater drop outs with wicked senses of humor fueled by mean streaks neither of us like to admit we have and try hard to conceal. When I write that out it makes us sound bad, but really, we're a lot of fun.

Life isn't all snarky remarks on Twitter and critiquing the "Today" show though. There is a darker side to getting along so well with someone at work. A side few people like to talk about.

Addiction.

No, not cocaine. We work in television news, not high finance. We can't even afford cocaine knock offs. No kokane for us. Ours is a much cheaper, yet just as bloating addiction: Cup O'Noodles.

Molly and I each blame the other for bringing this salty, chicken flavored, oh so delicious scourge from the mini mart downstairs to our desk. I guess it doesn't matter who started it any more though.

When we started it was just when we really needed a pick me up, or on special occasions. Soon though, it was every day. We made excuses to head to the mini mart. Breath mints. V8. To check if the cottage cheese cups had finally expired. We knew why we were really going though. And each time, whichever one of us went made sure to bring back two. After all, it's easier to do something so wrong if you aren't acting alone.

We've gone on like this for month. Pretending we just really like water. Like our fingers are swollen because of the heat. Like the three freeze dried peas are a serving of vegetables.

I knew it was a real problem though today, when I went into the grocery store and this sight almost brought me to my knees:

Okay, not just the sight of it. The fact my first thought was "how many do we need." You know, because one case definitely wouldn't be enough for two women over 30 searching for hypertension.

I have to tell Molly it's over. We have to stop chasing the MSG dragon, or go ask Alice for some diuretics, or look for Nissan Anonymous. There have to be 12 steps for this. I'm guessing at least one is admitting "just add water" is not the answer to all problems.

We'll just have to take it one day at a time.

It's either that, or eventually co-workers will find us under our desk, snorting salt right from the shaker.

Then both of us will definitely go on the "do not sit by" list.

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Right Idea, Wrong Reason

My mother is quitting smoking. But that's not the point of this post. The point of this post is why she is quitting smoking.

Guesses?

Did you say because of her health? You're wrong.

How about because the price of cigarettes is going up, and she is trying to save money? Nope, wrong again.

Did anyone say doing it to help her best friend who is also trying to quit? Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner.

Now, can anyone guess why the friend is quitting? I'll give you a hint, it's not health or money.

Oh, and it's not because smoking is becoming totally socially unacceptable.

Or because it's just generally gross.

Give up? You might as well, because you are never going to guess it.

My Mother's best friend is quitting smoking, and taking my Mom along for the ride, because she is sure the world is going to end on December 21st 2012.

Now, I am sure you are saying "well, if the world is going to end, why doesn't she just enjoy her cigarettes?" After all, that's what I said. You see, she doesn't plan to die in Armageddon, but instead to take off with her family in their RV for a safe place to ride out the storm until society is ready to rebuild.  And in that safe place? It will likely be very hard to find cigarettes. She's quitting now so she won't have to deal with both the apocalypse and nicotine withdrawal.

It would be a brilliant plan if it wasn't so totally and completely insane. And it's led to a brilliant plan of my own.

I am going to start stocking up on cigarettes. If the end of the world is coming, there have got to be some people out there not as prepared as my Mom's friend. There have got to be even more people who will want one last drag before they hurtle out of existence. At the end of days I will be queen -- because I will have all the smokes.

And if the world does not end on December 21st?

I will have one hell of a Christmas present for my mother... and her friend.

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The Reluctant Bride

I have christened my friend Molly the "reluctant bride."

It isn't that she doesn't want to get married. She does, and rightfully so; her fiance is a great guy. It isn't that she doesn't want to have a wedding. She's really looking forward to celebrating her marriage with her family and his at a small ceremony back east. No, she wants the wedding, and the marriage, she just doesn't want to have to do anything too "bridey." 

Pick out invitations? Not interested. 

Peruse bouquets? She doesn't want to carry flowers.

Fantasize about the perfect cake? There will be no fancy cake. 

Thumb through magazines looking for the perfect dress and hairstyle? She bought the dress years ago (on sale), and figures she will just "figure something out with her hair."

I can't even convince her she needs to register for gifts. Now, that's the one that really got me. After all, they are GIFTS! This is one of the only times in your life as an adult you can ask people to give you nice things, and THEY DO! Right now, if I asked a friend or family member to buy me new bed linens they would A) look at me strange, and B) tell me to buy them myself. Molly could totally get those bed linens though, and no one would bat an eye! She might even get too many sets and have to trade them in for other things like chafing dishes, and fluffy bath towels. 

I actually thought about registering for her, but I decided I don't want to be the "crazy friend" of the "reluctant bride." Also, I was kind of worried if I did that I would have to write the thank you notes for all the gifts. I still have flashbacks of that from my wedding -- and that was 7 years ago. I mean, after about the 76 note about flatware and kitchen utensils all creativity goes out the window.  I think at one point I actually wrote a thank you featuring the sentence "the rack will surely add 'spice' to our marriage."

I digress. 

I guess things could be worse. I could have "bridezilla" as a friend. Or "perfect theme wedding bride." Oh, or the worst bride I have heard of as of late: "grow all the food (including the chickens) for the wedding bride." That one scares the shit out of me. I mean, there is micromanaging, and then there is that woman. I'm sure she pictures perfect plates with home grown herbs sprinkled on them, but I see her curled in the fetal position, covered in chicken blood and mumbling about aphids eating the lettuce. I definitely prefer Molly to that nightmare.  

Still... 

Maybe if I could just get Molly to do one "bridey" thing: like commit to a tea party shower, or go on a crash diet that requires her to be on a feeding tube...

Of course, either of those things might push her over the edge from "reluctant" to "runaway." Dammit. 

If only she would just ask for a toaster. 

WHY DOESN'T SHE WANT A TOASTER?

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How to Deal with Crazy

I like to think I have experience with crazy. After all, I've been living with it for more than half my life. At times I have truly believed my biggest accomplishment is not letting anxiety and depression crush me into a cube like a cosmic garbage compactor.

Since I have had to live with crazy pretty much anyone who has wanted to be even a semi-permanent part of my life has had to deal with it too. I known people who have dealt with it well. I have known with people who couldn't deal with it at all. The best ones, though, are the ones who don't deal with it at all, but deal with me instead and help me come through it as unscathed as possible.

So, how does one do that, should one encounter someone suffering from crazy? After years and years of research I think I have come up with a short list that may help...

1. Never assume it is about you. It isn't. It's crazy. Even if the person in question is going on and on about how their life sucks, and you are a big part of that life, it STILL has nothing to do with you. Trying to determine what role you play in causing the crazy, or how it is affecting your relationship is for later, not in the moment. In the moment it will just make the crazy person crazier because they will assume they have hurt your feelings, or that you hate them. Both are rocket fuel for crazy.

2. Don't try to force them to stop being crazy. If they could stop the crazy, they would. Telling them are being embarrassing, or unreasonable, or ridiculous, or that they just need to "knock it off" will just reinforce the thoughts they are already having, and prolong the crazy.

3. If you are worried about saying the wrong thing, don't say anything. You never know what a person in the middle of crazy is going to take the wrong way. Sometimes just being there, and letting them know you aren't leaving is the best thing you can do.

4. Let them cry. Sometimes it is the best thing to wash all the crazy away.

5. Let them know you still see them through the crazy. This is the big one, and the best way to make crazy go away fast. Let them know, in any way you can, that this is temporary, that it is something they are dealing with, and not who they are.

There are other little things to do, like making sure they have taken their meds, telling stupid jokes, eating carbs, and making sure they are cool with the term "crazy" before using it (I, myself, have embraced it), but those are the big five.

Oh, and when all else fails, remember, this is someone you care for, crazy or not. Fall back on that to guide your actions, and everything should be okay.

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I Don't Get It

When I was in third grade I couldn't roll my r's.

Everyone else could do it. They would all happily rrrr their way through "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" at song time while I mouthed along until the "caw, caw" part, hoping no one noticed. I would look at their mouths and try to figure out how they were making that sound while I could not. I asked friends who knew about my plight to help me, to show me exactly what to do. Still, I couldn't do it. I remember how left out I felt, and how thinking there was no worse feeling in the world.

I had no idea about the bitch of infertility.

It has now been two years since we stopped actively trying to have a biological child. Ryan and I both decided we don't want to try fertility treatments again. We both could not be happier with the way things turned out in the end with the adoption of Meg. We wouldn't want it any other way. We are both fine with never having a biological child. Still, sometimes that feeling, that left out, "why can't I do that" comes back to haunt me.

Right now I have two friends that are pregnant. One was actively trying not to get pregnant, and the other had just started trying like five minutes ago. Neither one was taking pills, or getting shots, or monitoring their basal temperature, or peeing on everything for signs of fertility. I am absolutely thrilled that neither one of them had to do any of that, and I look forward to the births of their children. Yet, still I wonder "how did they do that?"

I can go through all the reasons in my head for my infertility. PCOS. Irregular cycles. Too many years on birth control. Still, there are people with all of those things that have had children. My doctors told me I was making eggs. I had no "structural factors." Ryan was not a factor. We are pretty sure we are doing it right. What's the problem?

Honestly, I don't think I want to know the answer, even if there is one. I think that might make things worse, possibly luring me back into the world of fertility nightmares to prove "yes I can." My life is too good to even think about going back there.

At least now I can roll my r's. It gives a certain flair when I talk about being inferrrrrrrtile.

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Four Year Old Memory Shark

I think we all know the only reason to play a game with a child is the secret knowledge that any time we could crush them. Yes, yes, we play games to foster creativity, and for interaction, but what is really enjoyable about it is that we know we are letting them win, and that at any moment we could snatch that away from them and leave them crying. It's sad, but it's true, and it has made Parker Brothers millions of dollars. It's only when that knowledge leaves us that the games are no longer fun.

That is what happened to me last night.

It was all so tempting. A new memory game featuring brightly colored candy, a warm sitting room, a fire in the fireplace, and, best of all, a bright eyed four year old girl. I thought I would sit, drink wine, talk to my friend (the unwitting child's mother), and magnanimously let her win, all the while enjoying my benevolence. Really, could you pass that up? I thought not.

I didn't really pay attention during the first game. It was all so fast, and I was drinking wine. The next thing I knew it was all over, and I had only three pairs: circus peanuts, candy necklaces, and some sort of nonpareil. Not only had she beaten me, but she had only let me take the crappiest candy on the board.

She wanted to play again, so I took the challenge. I put down my wine glass and concentrated on the board. Every move she made I watched, trying to burn the location of every candy into my brain. I started wondering why the hell we need so many types of candy in the world. I began to imagine that some of them had to be made up. The child started to make chewing noises every time she turned over another pair, letting my know she was not only eating candy, but my self-esteem as well. I wasn't going to let her swallow it whole.

I picked up red licorice. She picked up Good and Plenty. I picked up peanut brittle. She took candy corn. Lollipops. Taffy. Some kind of candy that looked like rabbit turds. One that looked like Czech cough drops. The cards were flying fast and furious. Finally, only four remained -- and it was my turn.

I turned over the first card -- jelly slices. I knew exactly where it was. I had seen it at least 20 times during the game. Also, there were only four cards left. I grabbed the second card and deftly turned it over revealing gummy -- wait for it -- WORMS.

The chomping noises she made while gathering up the last cards still ring in my ears.

The worst part of the story? At the end of each game, in order to name the winner, we had to stack our cards next to each other. Once stacked the four year old, who now appeared to have the eyes of a demon would say "look Libby, mine's bigger." Not only did she win multiple times, but she publicly shamed me too.

On my way out the door, my friend patted me on the shoulder. "She always beats me too," she said. I know she was trying to make me feel better, but I swear I heard a hint of pride in her voice.

My memory training starts now. Retribution will be mine. Oh yes, yes it will.

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In The Event of My Death

I am getting to the age where I am attending funerals on a more regular basis. I mean, not weekly or anything, but more than I have in the past. They are funerals for parents of friends, or friends of parents, and, while none of these people are ancient, no one at theses events says things like "they were just so young," or "what a tragic accident." Like most people at funerals, I usually stop thinking about the deceased pretty early into the service, and start thinking about myself. More specifically though, I start thinking about my funeral, and how I really don't want it to be so boring people stop thinking about me, and start thinking about themselves.

To that end, I am laying down these ground rules, to be followed at my funeral/memorial service/shooting of my ashes and/or frozen head into space:

1. Drinks and food will be served before, during and after. No one is going to have to sit through the whole thing in order to get a glass of wine. In fact, I think the whole thing should start off with a drink. Also, if someone needs a nosh right in the middle, I don't want them having to dig through their purse for a stale breath mint. Nope, not at my funeral.

2. No one gets to speak for more than four minutes. Let's face it, brevity is wit; and I don't want my funeral to be anything other than witty. I figure that four minutes allows people who really knew and loved me to share something from their hearts without getting maudlin, or saying something unintentionally mean. It also is short enough that people who are just attending out of courtesy don't feel they are being held hostage.

3. The words "she loved life" must not be uttered. I mean, duh. Of course I loved life, that's why I stuck around as long as I did. Also, I didn't love life all the time, no one does. If anyone has to use such platitudes, they probably don't even need four minutes to talk about me, and should be made to stop talking immediately. Oh, in this same vein, if I die of some horrible disease, no one is allowed to say I "fought valiantly." I know me. I probably fought whinily, and bitchily, so that's how I want to be remembered.

4. No pictures, please. If people don't know what I looked like, then why the hell are they at my funeral? Also, I don't want them to feel like I'm watching them, and making sure they are grieving properly. I mean, I will be; I just don't want them to know.

That's all I can think of right now. I mean, I'm sure I'll have more ideas later, but I think you get the general idea. Of course, in the end, no one actually has to follow any of these rules. They could have a five hour ordeal, filled with Hallmark card sentiments, no bar, and my picture printed on napkins, and there would be nothing I could do about it.

After all, I'll be dead.

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Doctors of the Round Table

A friend of mine found this flier hanging up at work.

Yes, that's right, it is a flier for "medieval" sword fighting lessons, taught by a person who admits he has been he has been doing this since he was 12, and is now much older than 15. It is an invitation to revel in geekdom -- in a public park.

Now, as much as I would just like to roll my eyes, do some light mocking, and then move on with a "to each their own" shrug, I can't. You see, there are several things about this flier that scare me. First, there's the fact the friend you found this is a doctor, and he found this in the doctor's lounge. Second, there is the fact some of the tabs on the bottom have been taken. This means there could be an abundance of health care professionals are spending their weekends beating each other with Nerf swords in the park. That should scare everyone out there. Doctors could be making life and death decisions -- with the help of 12 sided dice.

Still, I guess I would prefer this to Twilight fans in the operating rooms. You know they're just there for the blood...

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Robot Love

I admire people who are willing to put it all on the line to make something cool. People who are able to push aside the fear of failure, and are willing to try something new, no matter what it takes.

People like my friend Murphy.

I think I have mentioned Murphy before here, usually in the sense that we both were in D.C. at the same time, both love bad T.V., and both speak sarcasm fluently. However, I don't think I have ever mentioned that he is also very creative, very funny, and has a drive that would be admired by Ghengis Khan.

Right now, Murphy is working on his latest project "Boop Beep," a cardboard robot romantic comedy short film. You know, because there are so many of those around. Oh, wait -- NO THERE AREN'T -- and that's what makes it brilliant. Truly, truly brilliant. What makes it suck? The fact all movies, no matter how long or short, cost money to make. Murphy has two adorable kids, and we all know those don't come cheap, so he's asking for a little help in the film fundraising department.

Wait! Wait! Don't go!

I am not asking you to give him thousands of dollars. If I thought you could do that I would be asking you to give thousands of dollars to me. No, what I am asking is that you at least "like" the film's Facebook page. Maybe go to the film's Cafe Press store and buy a coffee mug. You like coffee, right? Or, if you are really feeling like a mogul, you can make a TAX DEDUCTIBLE donation and possibly be listed in the credits.

C'mon! I bet you give to the NPR pledge drives, and you don't even get a tote bad any more from those! Also, this push won't last for two weeks! Plus, you'll be a part of something really cool. How could you not love that?

I know I do.

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Ghost in the Machine

I got an email from my friend Jane last night, which is interesting only because she has been dead for almost five years.

I think it's obvious what happened: the virus that has been plaguing everyone's inboxes somehow got passed onto her old account, and sent out to everyone in her address book. However, for just a second, when I saw her name pop up in my inbox, I didn't think that. It actually took me moment to remember she's gone. In that split second I was just getting an email from my friend Jane, that would probably mock me, or annoy me in some way. I really liked that instant; probably because, even almost five years later, I still haven't been able to let Jane go.

Jane's number is still in my phone, even though I have changed phones numerous times. Her email is not only still in my address book, but in the "first contact friends" file. There are still times when something will happen, and I realize Jane would be the only person to truly appreciate it. I really can't believe she didn't get to meet my daughter, or her nieces, or any of the other fabulous children that are now in the lives of her friends and family. Those kids are definitely missing out, if for no other reason than she would have taught them really dirty jokes. I can't believe she missed out on Obama becoming President. She would have loved that. Oh, and the Kardashians! I know she would have been totally obsessed, all the while pretending she knew nothing.

Sigh.

Now I kind of wish someone would hack her account again. I would even click on the link.

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Thanks, Interwebs

You guys sure know how to make a crazy girl feel loved.

Really, I was so overwhelmed by your kind words and suggestions that I considered writing some bad poetry about night rainbows and missing unicorns just to keep the love flowing. Then I realized there is a line between depression and reverting to junior high, and stopped work on my painting of Robert Smith done in my own blood.

One of the things that always surprises me when I am in the depths of depression is how many other people do know what I'm talking about. That I am not the only one. It's like the part of my mind that knows that completely shuts off, convincing me that I am the only one that has ever felt this way. Of course, that is also the part of my brain that tries to convince me that the averageness of depression makes me even more worthless when I remember I am not alone in all this. That part of my brain is a real asshole.

I am ignoring the asshole part of my brain right now though, and taking comfort in not feeling alone -- whether it be from Tara reminding me that she knows my crazy so well she could map it -- and match it with her own, or Joe hitting on our common panic button of death from way across the pond. I also did my first day without Nutrasweet in probably years thanks to a suggestion from the Tame One. I don't know if that will work yet, especially since Diet Pepsi withdrawal rage is powerful in my blood, but we'll see. I am even considering Shalyse's suggestion of acupuncture, though I tried it before for fertility, and it just felt like little needles in my face.

It's nice to know the Internet is good for more than porn and pyramid schemes. I mean, at least the non-money making part of it.

Thanks again.

I mean that.

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The Big Purple Mark of Shame/Coolness

A friend of ours was at home yesterday, enjoying the afternoon, when her son came into the kitchen with a mark on his neck. A mark that had not been on his neck before his girlfriend had come over to study, in his bedroom, with the door open. A mark that was purple, and mottled, and obviously caused by suction. Yep, her baby had a hickey.

Like any good mother, our friend freaked out. How could HER son had gotten a hickey? They had the door open! She was less than 20 feet away! He dates a nice girl! She raised him better than that! She quickly sprang into action, letting him know she noticed the love bite, and that studying in his room, door open or not, was now off limits. He was embarrassed. The girlfriend was embarrassed. I don't think anyone was as embarrassed as our friend though. Not only was she having to lay down the law, but she was facing the fact her son is now doing stuff she never wanted to picture him doing, and that in the future he will likely be doing more of it. Oh, and then she had to think of all the things SHE had done when she was young, feel shame about them again, and then fear he will do THOSE things. Sheesh. Talk about mortifying.

After hearing the story I suggested she make him wear a scarlet "H" on his shirt, and assured her that the mocking from the other kids at school would probably be a worse punishment. I knew that wasn't totally true though -- remembering back to when I was his age, and the fact I wanted a hickey more than anything else in the world. I bought mock turtlenecks just in case I got one. I envied my friend Patrice, who looked like a leper with no self esteem. I knew that if I got a hickey I would have trashy, physical proof a boy liked me. My Mom told me nice girls don't, but I didn't want to be nice, I wanted to be cool.

I have no idea what I am going to do when Meg wants to be cool. Maybe by then have platonic relationships with boys will be all the rage, and sexual activity will be seen as tacky. Yes, I know that would mean the end of the species, but it also would mean me not having to worry about my daughter ever worrying about being a slut, or a prude, or having a boy use her physically because she wants him to love her, or deal with disease of heartbreak. I think that's a fair trade.

It hurts my head, and my heart just to think about it. I mean, to her it will just be a hickey, but to me it will be the first signpost on a road filled with dangers that I have already traveled, and don't want her to wreck on. Oh, and I can't provide her with an accurate map, and even if I could, she probably wouldn't take it.

Thank god for my friends -- and the fact they are going through this first.

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Britney Spears Federer

Everyone has an almost but not quite brush with fame that they like to think about: going to a restaurant Julia Roberts supposedly loves, but she isn't there that night, hanging out in the club where the Sex Pistols first played, buying the same socks as Bill Clinton. In my case, I almost ran into Britney Spears as she was slowly going insane.

Picture it. The year was 2008. Ryan and I were in L.A. visiting Tara and Kent along with our friend Jason. We decided to do something totally Hollywood, and get chichi, overpriced drinks in a strangely decorated hotel: the Viceroy. This place was so Hollywood it has the calorie count for each cocktail listed on the menu. Oh, and everything is (was) at least 15 dollars. We went there to see someone famous, but got there too early, and left with nothing but a 100 bar tab and not even a buzz. Luckily, the drinks we had consumed weren't going to make us fat.

The next morning Tara and I got up to check the news, only to find that immediately after we had left Britney Spears had dragged her crazy ass in there, checked in, checked out several hours later, and then gone to Tarzana to shave her head. If we had only stayed a little longer, maybe we could have talked her out of it. Of course, then the world would have missed out on so much. So, maybe we could have gone with her and gotten matching buzz cuts.

Our brush with Britney is a story that Tara and I never get tired of telling. We were telling it again while I was in L.A. this last time, bemoaning the fact that, now that we're mothers, we will probably never get the opportunity to meet an insane pop star again. That's when Tara's partner Kent decided to join the conversation, and things got weird.

Kent: Was she really insane?
Tara: She shaved her head. Her parents had to take over her finances.
Me: And she had to give her kids to Kevin Federline. I mean, you know it's bad when he's the better parent.
Kent: She gave her kids to the famous tennis player?
Me: What?
Tara: Who?
Kent: The tennis player. Why would he have anything to do with it?
Me: You mean Roger Federer? No, she wasn't married to him.
Tara: Although, if you think about it, he may have been the best possibility in the situation.

Yeah, that's why celebrities will never want to hang out with us. Well, that and the poor and old aspects too.

At least we'll always have our brush with Britney.

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Tara in Ten

Today I have a headache, am slightly depressed, and feel like I am developing the gout and/or cirrhosis of the liver. Yes, that's right, Tara was in town this weekend. Now, I could give you a blow by blow account of her visit, running down the activities of each day, or you could just go bang your head against something hard. Instead, I think I will just give you the top ten high points* of her trip.

1. We ate. Oh, how we ate. We went to all of our favorite haunts and are all of our favorite things. Mexican food. Pizza. Pastry. Pasta. Fried cheese. Crazy bread. As we all know calories do not count if you are pregnant or on vacation. Since Tara was both, I took advantage of her extra immunity.

2. We drank. Well, actually I drank. Tara has this whole thing about "fetal alcohol syndrome" so I had to pick up her slack. I can't be sure, but I am pretty sure at one point she yelled "Drink monkey! Drink and dance for me!" as she elted me with wine bottles. I might have just dreamt that though.

3. We beautified. After all, summer is coming, and no one likes to look at ugly toes. While Tara picked a suitable red, I decided to be a little daring and pick a beautiful blue.


Yeah, it looks like a smurf puked on my toes.

4. We conquered her baby registry. No, I did not get her to brave going into an actual Babies R Us. Let's face it, that is not for the faint of heart, even with a newly minted Mom as a guide. You need someone with at least two years experience and maybe a minivan to help navigate that heart of darkness. We did get on the internet though, and set up a registry with enough items to get her through at least the first five days of the baby's life. Then she can send Kent into the belly of the B.R.U.S beast to get anything else needed.

5. We crafted. We had to. We needed an activity for her baby shower, and it was either decorate onesies or make her eat candy bars of diapers. I value my life, so the choice was clear. This is the one I did:

This is the one Tara did:


Whatever.

10. I was mistaken for her mother. At the airport, as she was leaving on Sunday, I helped Tara get her stuff out of the car and to the skycap. The traffic officer came over to tell me to move my car. I said I would, but that I was helping Tara. The woman said that was fine, adding "you're a good Mom." Now, it was early, and no I was not looking all that great, but I did not look like the mother of a 36 year old woman. I have now decided to start mainlining Botox.

Wow, I think those ten points really paint a full picture of the weekend, don't you? The laughter. The tears. The moments when Tara and I realized we are friends because we know just how insane the other person is, and both respect and fear it. Oh, and that soon we will both be responsible for raising children, and that neither one of us is quite sure how we feel about it.

Good times.

And yes, that is how I count to ten.

*The term "high points" is subjective. You may have had other high points. And yes, I know I am using this footnote thing a lot lately. Deal with it.

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No One Gets My Books

Writing a will is nearly as exciting as I thought it would be.

When I was a kid I would look around my room and decide who would get what if I unexpectedly croaked. Once or twice I even wrote a cursory list in my journal. I would picture my friends and loved ones going through my things, crying with grief and joy when they learned they had been bequeathed my favorite Depeche Mode poster, or learned in my absence they would be kept company by my pet newts. I could see my sister roiling with jealousy when she learned she got none of my cassette tapes. Yeah, I was a morbid little shit, and vindictive too.

Once I got older I didn't really think about my will. I figured I didn't have anything anyone wanted, and as long as my Mother didn't clean out my apartment, or have to go through my bank statements (I had a little credit card debt), all would be well. I actually remember one night when I almost got hit by a car thinking "oh, man, thank God I didn't die owing American Express. Mom would be pissed."

Now, I actually have a will. Ryan and I decided to get one after Meg was born. And that's pretty much what it is: getting a will. We didn't have to sit down and discuss anything, or make lists of our possessions, or decide who to leave out so that our wrath can be felt from beyond the grave.

There was no writing of heartfelt tributes, or giving of explanation as to why Tara gets one, but not both of my monkey earrings.

No making someone spend the night in our basement where the ghost lives in order to get our silverware.

All we had to do was call our friend Ben, and ask him to draw up a will. He did -- a basic whoever dies first leaves everything to the other, and once we're both gone Meg gets it all. We have to pick a trustee, sign some papers, make sure Ben didn't put in any clauses about the Pittsburgh Steelers, and then it will all be done. Nice and legal. And boring.

I guess this is the best thing. I mean, after all, we're adults, and the most important thing is making sure our daughter is taken care of in the long run. We're really lucky we have a friend who is a fantastic lawyer who is helping us do that. And it's not like any of our friends or family are really going to be wishing we had left them the "Devil Baby" artwork instead of Meg. Still, it makes me yearn for the excitement I pictured in a will when I was young, and stupid.

Maybe I'll write a secret will and hide it somewhere. Then I'll leave a series of cunning clues as to where it is...

Oh, that would piss Ryan off so much. Piss him off from beyond the grave.

I think the first clue should have something to do with llamas.

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Second Generation

I am not what you might call a "fashion plate," and not just because I don't put on outfits by rubbing crayon over raised plastic drawings. I like things that are comfortable and functional, and that preferably don't touch my body too closely. Yes, I am talking about fun pants. Over the years my fashion choices have been misunderstood and mocked, mostly by my sisters, Tara, and my friend Murphy -- who started his mocking before we even knew each other.

Murphy and I met when we lived in the same apartment building in D.C. It was an L shaped building, which meant Murphy and I could see each others apartments from our windows. Now, at the time I was sarcastic and judgy, but I had nothing on Murph. He had formulated named for everyone in the apartments he could see. There was "lonely computer boy," "three way girl" (she lived up to her name), "sex on the floor girl," and me: "lesbian overall girl." I earned the name because I never had male friends over (I was horrible at dating) and I liked, no, loved, my overalls. Even after we met, and I had boyfriends, he kept the name for me.

I still do love my overalls. I would love it even more if I could fit my ass in them without looking like a joke involving Lynyrd Skynyrd. Luckily, Meg looks great in them, and is finally big enough to wear a pair...

See that smile? I sent that picture to Murph and he said he was calling child services -- or "What Not To Wear." Cynic.

If only he knew ow much she loves the Indigo Girls, and Crocs. Then he would understand...

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What Comes Around

Believe it or not, I used to be crafty. Not super-crafty, by any means. Ryan is still waiting for a denim jacket decorated with a sparkly embroidered dragon, holding a kitten, and crying a single tear that he requested the second year we were dating. However, there was a time when I dabbled in things like crocheting and embroidery. Most people who have known me at least five years have some piece of my handiwork: a scarf, or a blanket, a tea towel, or a shirt. None of these pieces are spectacular by any means. Most of them are flawed in some way, and I'm sure a few are only used when I come to visit.

Until this week though, Meg had nothing that I had made.

I had thought about embroidering some clothing, or crocheting a blanket for her, but instead I have just been spending time with her. Also, with the speed I finish projects anything I would have started would have been too small by the time I finished.

Thank goodness for hand-me-downs.


I made that onesie. Well, I didn't make it, but I put the little flower on it. And I put a little flower on another onesie. And cherries on a third. And there is even one with a palm tree. I embroidered all of these onesies when our friend Liz had her baby five years ago.

This week Liz brought us more clothes than I think Meg will ever wear, all now too small for her girl. These onesies were in with those clothes. I am so happy to have them. What a great surprise.

It's baby clothes karma. And it's actually inspired me to finally start on that jacket. Only this one will be a 2T.

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Cookbook?

This is Dave. We work together. Hi Dave! Hey, what's that book you have?

What's that you say, Dave? It's a book about corpses? And about death investigation? Okay, Dave, I won't ask why you are reading it. I will just assume that it is because of an interest in science, and not because you are disposing of a body...

What, Dave? You say you got the book at a secondhand store? How thrifty of you! And you say there is writing in the book? In the back? Whatever could it be?

Why it appears to be a recipe! A meatloaf recipe! Why, imagine that, a meatloaf recipe in the back of a book about corpses. How, um, appetizing.

Um, okay, Dave. I, um, gotta go. What? No, that's okay, I don't want t come over for dinner. I'm, um, a vegetarian. And fasting. And have the stomach flu...

Bye, Dave!

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My Famous BFF

I am thisclose to being friends with THE Angelina Jolie. Well, the Angelina Jolie of Sweden. Yeah, that's right, I am talking about Regina Lund. THE Regina Lund. Jealous?

Oh, so now you're trying to pretend you don't know who Regina Lund is? Like you don't read "Bröllopsmagasinet." Like you don't know all the classic lines from "Solisterna" or "Göta kanal 2 - Kanalkampen." Oh, yeah, and I bet you don't eat food or breathe air either. Poseur.

So, how I know you are asking, how did Regina and I meet? Well, we didn't, but I am pretty sure that I could meet her any time I wanted. You see, it turns out that she lived with Ryan's friend Ben's family when she was an exchange student in 1990. Ryan even MET her when she came to visit Ben earlier this month. The first thing she said to Ryan? "I am from Sweden." See, I always knew my new best friend would be real like that.

I don't know which aspect of Regina I like the most. I mean, yeah, she's a brilliant actress, but her singing. Oh, her singing! It's like an angel.



The poetry. I mean "bartender, my tender, tending my dreams?" It's like she can see into my heart. I'm sorry, I need a minute just to compose myself.

Okay. I'm okay now.

I wonder if we can duet on her next album? Maybe an ABBA remake.

Now, are you jealous?

Oh, yes you are.

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