New Year's Eve

Well, we're off to a party at a good friend's house. We went last year, and there were, well, incidents. Those will not, happily*, be repeated this year since I will be drinking soda, or water, or whatever non alcoholic thing strikes my fancy. Which isn't much, but hey. I'm all gussied up in a cute little red dress, hair done, made up, shoes entirely too high so I plan on sitting a lot. Last year, one of our friend's guests rented a stretch limo, and we all got to cruise around in small groups pretending to be important. :) Maybe that fella will be here this year too.

I hope you all have a nice night, whether you're watching the ball drop on TV or headed out to a party yourself! Just make sure to be careful.... my mom, the long time bartender, used to call this "Amateur night." 2005! Can you believe it? Just yesterday, we were calculating how old we'd be when the Prince song predicted the end of the world. (Well, I was.) And now it's been five whole years since then!

*Depending on your perspective & view....

New Year's Resolutions?

Do you do resolutions? I never really have. The year before last year, I decided to lose some more weight and after the round of New Year's parties, swore off liquor for 6 weeks a la the Oprah boot camp diet. That, in addition to my workout plan, lost me the last 30 pounds I needed to lose to get back to my target weight--which of course is gone now that there are two other human beings living in my abdomen. :) When people asked how we did it (Andrew lost about 50 pounds too) we said "oh it's easy. Just change your entire life" (exercise and eat right!) Change can be so hard, but once you've done it, I think you usually look back and think "what was I fighting it for all this time?"

But other than that, I've never really done a resolution. I stopped biting my nails about two years ago, on the plan that I wanted to have fingernails for my best friend's wedding, at which I was the most important person. (You know, the maid of honor.) I couldn't believe it was possible-- I'd been a nail biter all my life-- down to the little nubby bits and sometimes even encouraging infections in the cuticle.

Last year, I decided to study & become an aerobics instructor-- which I did. Which was pretty cool; even if it's something I'm not going to do much longer.

I'm not really inclined to do resolutions this year, either, but I can see why some people like to. I must, which is obvious to me and pretty much anyone else who knows the situation, do whatever the heck I can to get to a good place on my dissertation, for reasons of which regular readers are quite aware. Suggestions to not worry about it and do it later aren't going to work cause I have a deadline at the University-- you have to be done within five years of your preliminary exams-- which will be in September of 06, if my math is correct. So I don't have that much time. (You can take longer, of course, but it means you have to retake your prelims, which would NOT be a good development.)

When you work, as I usually do, in the University system, you kind of get several chances a year to "start over." With each new semester, you get a new batch of students, a new chance to try something that might work, to get rid of those things you know didn't work last time. When you're an adjunct like I have been, you even often get a new office cause they move you around like a hobo. You pack your boxes with all those handouts you saved all semester and wonder why you kept 60 copies of your introductory day handout (which was dated, and you won't use again anyway!) And throw away the daily homework students hand in and never pick up. But there is a fresh feeling on campuses usually, and it affects everyone. I miss that a bit right now not being there. Time seems to blur into one long blurry guilt-ridden (cause I should be writing) day. No fresh starts until I'm done with the document from Hell!

But what about you guys? Do you plan any resolutions? Or are you just the kind of person who, when change needs to happen, does it no matter what time of the year? I really am curious. Weigh in on comments and I'll reward whoever has the coolest ideas with some sort of literary prize. :) (Bribes. I know how you folks work.)

Favorite Holiday

I don't really have lots of kidhood memories of great holidays, thanks to two factors-- 1. mom usually had to work on the actual holiday so we didn't usually do much 2. when there was stuff to be done, for a longish period of time, we lived with the alcoholic who made life miserable. I don't mean to bring that up again, but it just seemed to be the introduction to this post.

So in an admittedly late concession to the recently past holiday, I thought I'd think of something to post as my favorite holiday memory. I know it sounds awfully "seize the day"ish of me but it has to be this year. On Christmas eve, we had a large group of Andrew's family over to the house. My sister was in town, and we had good food-- tamales & chili, cookies, sheperd's pie. Eggnog. The relatives of Andrew's included some teen cousins we haven't seen in a few years, and a younger (maybe five?) boy-cousin who ran up to me with that youthful abandon and hugged me like I was his long lost best friend-- surprising me because he doesn't really know me. The tree was sparkly in the corner of my living room-- set up in "Christmas mode" which spreads the couches out more and feels cozy still. The fireplace roared, and candles were lit everywhere. I had worked all day and told Andrew that this was the last party until significantly after the twins come because even though it wasn't nearly the amount of work I normally do for a party, I was really tired. Of course, I was already fighting off the cold that has had me down since Christmas eve. *

Then Christmas day, we were lazy all morning and headed to Andrew's mom's for her signature Christmas dinner. I, being the pregnasaurus, am a major celebrity and didn't really have to do anything but lounge prettily.

It was a really nice holiday. The way it is supposed to be, really, with family and not so much focus on presents that you go crazy shopping for months and months and are still unhappy.

At the risk of causing a cavity or two, I just hope to say that every holiday from this one on will get better. I can predict that being the case. :)

*Damnit. Just as I was writing this, someone with godawful olelady perfume had to come in and sit right behind me. Why oh why do I have to have superpower smell and why does it seem to attract women with no olfactory taste near me?!

Sick as a Dog?

Where does that expression come from? I've seen sick dogs and they aren't particularly more sick than other animals. But that's what I've been. For three days, I have been in bed, runny nose, splitting (and I mean that-- worse than an entire bottle of tequila induced hangover) headache, sneezing, eyes runny watery. I was SOOOO attractive. My husband, the saint, was very sweet, even said I was gorgeous. (I will admit that he knows if he didn't, I'd probably kill him. Probably by suffocating him in used Kleenex.) But today, I'm feeling modestly better. I can actually be seen in public without causing people to run from me like I was one of the zombies in Dawn of the Dead. So that's why no blogs-- being in Shreveport, in order to Internet, I have to come to the Moxie Java shop & use their lovely facilities while sipping decaf ginger peach tea and contemplating some sort of cookie action. :)

I am most likely (and the equivocation is only because I haven't yet made it official) not going to be teaching aerobics anymore. Yesterday, based on the illness factor, I called around and tried to find a sub for my classes. My "manager"-- who I've never really felt very comfortable with-- is one of those women who, even when she's saying nice things, you think is really thinking mean things. She basically tried to bully me into teaching anyway. Even though, pregnant with twins at 35, I'm officially what is considered a "high risk" pregnancy, and I had told her I was sick as said metaphoric dog. I don't know if she thought I was lying about being sick, but she really pissed me off. At first I was willing to be understanding; I know she has a job to do and all. But after I thought of her smiling and saying "you just take care of you and that baby" back when I told her I was pregnant, and then being Miss Bitchgoddess because of me being sick and not at all willing to work out while so, I just can't think of doing anything that would remotely make her life easy again. I had been thinking of stopping teaching-- although I will continue to DO aerobics-- because I have to take it a bit easier already. But this was just the last straw. The bullying tactics don't work with me. One has to actually CARE about losing one's job for the "you must do this or else" implication.

Anyway. Screw 'em.

In the long run, everything's just fine; there is a chocolate chip cookie somewhere in my immediate future, and my head is not about to pop off and orbit the planet anytime soon. We're headed home this afternoon (although there will be ONE MORE annoying trip up here soon-- to send Andrew off to Guam, in about a week). And I will go catch up on everyone's blogs now.

Cookies. Yes.

How About A Quickie?

No, it's not Rudolph the red-nosed-reindeer; it's Kim! (this makes sense later in the post. Call it foreshadowing.)

Christmas was nice; we got to see lots of fun family (including cousins we hardly ever get to see... and corrupt.... mwah hahhahahahaha!) Andrew made a hit with one young cousin by being a big coffee geek. Said cousin's mom looked on worriedly, but I don't think she has much to worry about. :)

We're headed up AGAIN to Shreveport (we just got back Thursday night!) since Andrew is in the last few phases of deployment prep. Sucks. I hate the drive. I wish we could teleport or something.

Especially cause as of two days ago, I have the snotty-nosed* head cold from Hell. And, being as how I can't take any "dry up the mucous" medicine thanks to the bundles of joy, I have to suffer. Poor me. It's not that bad, just mostly what one calls "Hay Fever" and usually loads up on Dayquill for. But still. If only snot was an alternative fuel source, I could power a large city for days.

And on that note, I will leave you all with happy visions of me.


*Don't kiss your honey when your nose is runny, you may think it's funny but it'snot. (Say outloud, laugh uproariously, and duck when people throw things [preferably soft tissues] at you.) Hee hee hee. :)

Merry Christmas Eve!!

Sorry for no post for a couple days-- we were out of town and no internet.

I'm getting ready for the family to be here in a few hours, big Christmas dinner with tamales/chilli & Sheppard's pie. And cookies & stuff too. :) Fun, rush, cold. (It's 29 degrees here right now-- with a brisk breeze. I know it's no negative 22, like in Minnesota, but for us, that's darn right nippley.)

Anyway, I don't know if I'll post tomorrow, or if you'll read, so Merry Christmas to those who partake, and happy holidays and great everything to everybody. :)

Finally

There are few pleasures like that of finally being completely done with Christmas shopping. Even for my father-in-law's gifts, I am done. The presents are all wrapped & under the tree. Many gift cards were bought this year because I have no earthly idea what to get the four pre-teen nephews. Or the grandparents, who don't need anything.

Do you play lottery cards? The scratch off kind? I normally don't; I see it as a bit of a waste of money. But for Andrew's grandparents, I thought they might like to scratch a bunch of tickets. And if they win, that's nice, but again, they live in a tiny cramped retirement apartment & don't need anything. So I thought I'd buy 20 or so tickets. Luckily the guy said "even the thirty dollar ones?" Um. No. Since when did they start making 30 dollar lottery tickets? And are your odds of winning better? Cause that seems a bit like a scam. They also have 5, 10, and 20 dollar ones, apparently. I did splurge & get the grandparents ONE 5 dollar one. I hope it was worth it. :)

I also bought some maternity clothes. Yay. This means I'm getting a bit fat... even as early as I am. None of my normal pants fit, and most maternity stuff is still too big (thankfully--if it wasn't, that would be bad!) But I found some things. I have been avoiding the shopping thing as much as possible-- not fun for me right now. But maybe, just maybe, I'm set now for a while. Sigh. Now I need a nap. Anyone else up for one? You can do it at your desk, if necessary, just pretend to be reading something very intently and lean your hand on your head. Naptime!!!

Blog Sisters in the News

Peeking in for my morning read of the smart & insightful Lauren at Feministe,* I discovered this morning that Blog Sisters was recently featured in Time Magazine's article "10 Things We Learned About Blogs"-- part of the Person of the Year issue!

This wonderful cooperative site featuring women, run by women, written by women, has made at least someone on a "national stage" notice! The article's blurb on Blog Sisters states:

Most Bloggers Are Women
Men may have taken the lead in the early (read: geeky) days of blogging, but that's not the case now. According to a survey of more than 4 million blogs by Perseus Development, 56% were created by women. More bad news for the boys: men are more likely than women to abandon their blog once it's created. Call blogging a 21st century room of one's own.

So if you're ever wondering if the writing we do here gets noticed, or if women's contributions are ever really valued, (after yet another of those "where are all the female bloggers" articles comes out), take heart. Somebody out there has noticed. As if you needed to be told, what we do matters.

And if you're at a loss for what they meant by "a room of one's own" then here's my enlightening bit of trivia for the day (although trivia is a bad word for it because it implies unimportant, which this piece is far from.) It's a reference to Virginia Woolf's essay that argues, for one, that in order for a woman to write, she needs "500 pounds and a room of one's own, with a door, and a lock." In other words, financial independence and privacy. The essay has been pivotal for women's studies for a long time; there have even been wonderful performances of it that bring the words to life in a voice much like we imagine Woolf would have used. I highly recommend it; it is quite readable, and gives you much to think about. I even have a speech that I gave at a Professional Women Writers' meeting that muses on the idea (along with some others). Food for thought.

Blogging gives women a voice, and while many may dismiss much of what women write as "just journaling" or "not important political writing" they are wrong. It doesn't matter what you're saying-- just keep saying it!

*In a way that shows the collaborative nature of blogging-- it's usually a conversation between people, and often we find out new things from other women writers that we wouldn't have known on our own. Cross posted at Blog Sisters

Quiz Time

Via Lauren @ Feministe. I like this quiz, cause I get to be the hot ass kicking chick. Woo!

Max - from Dark Angel

Who's Your Inner Bitch?brought to you by

Why Spammers Should Rot in Hell

I just spent thirty minutes or so proving again and again to myself that the file I thought I had, with a backup of my extensive listerv for my "professional" website addresses, is actually gone. And it's all the fault of the bastard people who think it's okay to fill our inboxes with their crappy advertisements, which I'm quite certain no one has ever thought "wow, I'm so glad I got this information about stock tips from a complete stranger".

My listerv was spammed, so I was trying to fix the problem and change the list to a moderated one. In the midst of doing so, a command went awry and I did not get the email addresses sent to myself that I meant to send. I thought I had a backup email with all the addresses (over 100) in it. I do not, apparently, have such email, which I clearly remember meaning to save only a week ago.

I am so pissed. I mean, I am an experienced computer user. I knew better than to click the confirm button on changing the listserv, but I did it, and now it's screwed. One tiny half a second mistake and now it's just fucked. No word is strong enough to describe it, so profanity and all, it stays.

So how's your morning going so far?

Winter Cool & Comfort

In Texas, when it gets down past say 60 degrees, people start pulling out long sweaters, layers, coats. God forbid it should get lower than 40 cause then the Texans believe the Ice Age has landed. There is much talk about how cold it is. Yes, it's a little colder feeling in some ways cause in areas where there's snow, the snow sort of insulates, and it "feels" warmer-- yadda yadda yadda. Texans can handle heat-- if it's up to 100 degrees, they're pretty much fine. But if it turns cold they're a bunch of babies.

I basically include myself in that. When we lived for the three years we were in Washington state, I was constantly cold, even in the "summer." I would come out to my car which had been sitting in the sun and bask in the heat of the car for a few minutes before turning on any engine or driving. It doesn't even get that cold in the Puget Sound area cause of the Japanese warm water currents-- but it does rain A LOT. I just couldn't stand it; if you grow up in the South, you want it to be warm. Intolerably so. I knew a girl in grad school from Oregon who was constantly depressed by all the sunshine here. She, as far as I know, hightailed it back to Oregon when she was done with school.

Is it just me, though, or is this time of year the time for casseroles, soups, stews, pasta dishes with lots of carbs & cheese & tomato sauce? And crusty bread pulled warm from the oven and slathered with butter? And baked goods-- I'm on a scone kick right now cause I bought a new scone pan at Williams Sonoma-- pumpkin scones with chocolate chips. MMMMM.

I dunno. It could just be the hormones talking, too. Give me carbs lots of carbs. :) On Atkins? Fine. You can have all the damn bacon you want (it makes me want to hurl right now) and I'll eat your portion of crusty bread. Today's lunch: yummy hamburger (from a place called Chester's-- it's sooooo good) with a buttered poppy seed bun and the works toppings and onion rings. Jealous? I am, after all, eating for three. Woohoo! 3700 calories a day, baby!!!

The "Two-Fer" Details

So yesterday, we went to our Dr's appointment ignorant of the changes that were to occur mere minutes after arriving. I drug Andrew along cause I had been told we'd hear the heartbeat at this visit (which never happened, with all the hooplah. We saw the hearts beating healthily in sonograms, though). I'm really glad he was there. To tell him afterwards would have been significantly less cool.

I have to say there have been moments so far in my pregnancy where I have suspected perhaps I might have been carrying twins, but I dismissed them as improbable. As we waited in the exam room, with it seeming weird to undress in front of my husband in a Dr's office, and me feeling the cold December air on my bare butt as I sat on the table, Andrew had gotten a phone call, and was finishing it up as the doctor came in. She switched on the ultrasound machine, and squeezed the cold gooey gel on my tummy. She wiggled the wand thing around a second or two, with me watching. I saw two alien-like blobs appear on screen, but assumed that it was just the doctor getting her bearings, two different angles of the same image. Then she said "Oh my gosh."

Not something you want to hear your doctor say, generally.

Then "Are you seeing this?"
Am I seeing what? Um, kind of?

Then the doctor said the magic word. Twins! Almost giddy, she was. Or perhaps I was projecting cause that's how I felt.

Andrew, momentarily stricken deaf, did not hear. He thought he was about to get to gloat after he had a dream a few days ago that it was a boy. He thought she had said "a boy." Nope. After a stunned blink or two, he repeated Twins?

We discussed it for a few minutes with the doctor, who then told us we would see the sonogram tech in a little bit. We retired to the waiting room, two unsatisfying magazines, and some excited moments of getting a grip. Every now and then a new thing would occur to me. Jeez. We're going to need two of everything! Andrew did the math on probability of two boys (25%) two girls (25%) a boy & a girl (50%).

Having become accustomed to the idea of one little person wandering around the house soon, now I have to wrap my brain around TWO OF THEM who will likely look a lot a like (even given that they are fraternal, not identical--two placentas=two eggs). It's mind-boggling. Truly.

Plans have already begun to change a bit. We had planned to try to keep the "guest room" a little more guest-room-ish for a while, with no big wholescale shift to nursery mode. We figured we'd keep the baby in our room for a while, and there would be plenty of room to keep the queen sized bed & tons of bookshelves in what will be the twins' room now for a while yet. Till toddler stage at least. But now, we'll have to redo the room. We're going to need two cribs, and just basically a place to put baby A who is sleeping when baby B is squalling.

They'll undoubtedly do that, since while watching the sonogram they took turns. Baby B was wiggling, kicking, & doing the macarena at first while Baby A appeared to be napping. Little see-through hand balled up to the mouth (probably thumb in mouth from the looks). Baby B wiggled, protested the paparazzi cameras. Baby A napped. When the sonogram tech tried to get Baby A to cooperate with her measuring needs, she had to poke and prod and get me to switch from side to side. Baby B calmed down, went still with tiny hand up to face. Appeared to go to sleep. Baby A, irritated with the poking, turned a clearly perfectly formed butt to the camera for a moment. We could see the little braid of spinal cord snaking down and little globes of baby butt roundly formed, smooth. So I have already been "mooned." Figures. Just like daddy. But then, eventually, the baby, kicking and wiggling and waving arms about, got the measurements done and satisfactorily judged. From those, the chances of Down's Syndrome was ruled out. So that's a relief, although I wasn't really that worried about it.

The sonogram tech said "they take turns."

So yes, as Robotnik already predicted, I doubt I'll get much sleep after June/July ish.

But the good news is that this morning, sleepless at 5 am, I thought of a way to sketch my unifying thesis for my chapters of my dissertation. So that's a good development, which may lead to much rejoicing soon.

I again promise not to overwhelm the blog with too much baby talk. I think I'll probably go through with my earlier plan to see if I can sustain a separate blog for baby talk. I think I'll call it twofer. We'll see if I have time/energy/artwork to do so. Would anyone read it? Maybe.

In the meantime, on to the re-rack. (Which means: you get out of bed. Spend several hours up and about. Then you go back to bed.) If I can sleep with thoughts of "eating for THREE!"

2 for the price of 1

Well I have amazing news to share with my blog family. If you happen to be one of the members of real family reading this (cause there are a couple who do) then don't tell anyone else. We're going to make a big Christmas eve announcement.

But for the rest of you, you don't have to wait.

Are you sitting down?

Well. I am a big believer in efficiency. Getting the job done. (Stop rolling your eyes. It's sort of true.)

I am having twins.

We just found out. There are two of them!!!!! It explains why my belly has been pooching so much! It also explains why I felt pregnant so soon. It explains many things. I didn't know they run in my family-- my mom says on my Grandma's side there are several cousins with twins. But I think that's pretty far removed. My guess is that the chances go way up when you are slightly older (over 30 does it).

It's been a bit of a surprise. I can't stop wanting to giggle. I'm very excited, and can't wait to tell more people. (Oh yeah, if you're a local friend reading this blog at work don't tell anyone else... we're telling tonight at Flats).

Cue REM: And I Feel Fine....

I kind of like disaster books/movies, end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it type scenarios. One of my all time favorite movies is Night of the Comet from the 80s (Daddy would have gotten us Uzis is a frequent comment in our home. Doesn't usually relate to anything, but it cracks me up). It always makes me think about how I & mine would fare in a day-after scenario.

The other day we watched The Day After Tomorrow.* I had thought it might be interesting to watch, but wasn't really inspired by reviews I had heard to see it sooner. It was pretty entertaining, overall. Yes, some of the plot was a little cliched. Some of the situations were pretty over the top (the leap Dennis Quaid's character makes to save his core samples in the first few minutes of movie? Whatever. Wolves? Yeah, sure.) But I liked the movie, and found myself thinking about the ice age this morning while lying snuggled cozily under mounds of blanket, listening to Andrew get ready for work.

It's pretty scary to think of all the changes that we might be making to our climate. Will we see any major effects that are very obviously our own faults in our lifetimes? I mean, people are always saying "AUGH! It's warmer than it should be; global warming is happening" and then, days later when it's back to normal, they don't notice. We've only been keeping track of temps for around 100 years, so it's not like we can really tell. I recently read a fictional book that took place during/after the real volcanic explosion in the 500s AD-ish which caused some major weather changes for quite some time, and starvation & disease for a few years after. What it showed is that even small changes to climate can have long-lasting, far reaching effects. What would you do if you couldn't go down to the grocery store to buy your dinner?

I even have a novel in my head that takes place after an apocalyptic global warming event. I've written some on it, did some research, but there are other things going on, the novels will wait. (As long as the icebergs don't get us).

I remember when I was a kid there was a lot of talk about how the Ice Age was coming again. This was way before we even heard of Global Warming. I read a book a few years ago about what the world might be like in that event-- it was a pretty good read; the author imagined some things I wouldn't have thought about, like a drought in the southern regions (cause all the water is in the glaciers!).

I mean, it's pretty obvious the world will continue to change. Things will not always be as they are now. Will it be for the better or for the worse? It's already pretty awful for some places on the planet. And pretty sweet in others. I wonder what the trends will really be, though. When I'm my Grandmother's age (and I hope I make it that long) what will I look around and see?

So for today, a question: Do you think it will be better in the future (flying cars, jet packs, travel to Mars, everyone happy) or bleak (toxic rainfall, Replicants among us, small civilized centers in the city and barbarians in the 'burbs?)

*And you know, of course, if you live in or are in New York City during an apocalyptic moment that all you have to do is hide in the torch of the Statue of Liberty? Cause it always survives even the worst disasters.

Coming soon....

Christmas blog design. If I can find some Christmas chippies with long lean legs and Santa hats on, they'll be in the works. Since the house is all decorated, I feel a little less Grinchy.

Stubby Fingers & Toes

Legacies I have from my father include stubby chubby fingers and fat little feet. I call my feet "Fred Flintstone Feet" cause they look square like on the show-- I could stop a Flintstone car with my stubby feet. Often when I say this people get all sensitive "nnnoooo, they're not fat, they're fine" as though it will hurt my feet's feelings for them to be caught agreeing with me. Look. The feet are size 6 and a half long and an extra wide width. That means stubby fat feet. I am almost 5'8" and the feet are proportionally much shorter than most people my height-- I know this; I've worked in a shoe store. Most people my height are at least size 8s.

For my hands, I always envied my mom's long, lean fingers cause I also got Dad's stubby short fingers and hands. I used to be a serious nail biter-- so bad so that once I even got a big swollen infection in one cuticle and had to have it lanced. That was a riot. My bitten-to-the-quick fingernails made my hands look even stubbier. When Andrew & I got married, I got fake nails applied cause you have to have that picture of your hands clasped over the Bible, showing off the rings and the symbolism of "joined in marriage." The nails were pretty and I liked them a lot, but they made me prissy. On the rehearsal video, I am appalled at how I flounced around, flopping my hair and holding my hands with their long nails. It's embarrassing. I had to pull the fakes off as soon as possible cause I kept jamming the long nails in things like doors, and the pain was incredible.

About two years ago, in order to have nice nails for my best friend's wedding where I was going to be the goddess of honor, I decided to try to not bite my nails long enough to get fakes put on. Then, I managed to get them long enough to look nice without the fakes. Who knew? Now, I haven't really bitten my nails in that much time. Oh, I'd get loaded on margaritas and bite them all off every now and then cause when they'd snag and I was looped, I just didn't care. I'd been quite proud, for the most part, of my ability to quit biting my nails-- it seemed like a very grown up thing to do, to cold turkey quit such a bad habit.

With the prenatal vitamins and no getting looped on margaritas, my nails are now quite long and pretty strong. And here is, after all this time, the point of this blog post. I am torn between being a little annoyed with my long fingernails and happily in lust with my newly not-so-stubby looking fingers. They are seriously affecting my ability to type. I'm a pretty fast typist, can probably do something like 60 WPM when I'm really going. Normally. But with these fingernails, I keep typing wrong letters, hitting the H key over and over again looking for F. It's quite irritating.

Is the trade-off in vanity worth the extra backspaces and annoy8iing* little glitches? I am not yet convinced. Maybe I should go back to stubby bitten fingers.

*See what I mean? And I did not do that on purpose. I just didn't correct it that time since it seemed so serendipitous.

**And no, it's not a Pulitzer prize winning post. I have to do the last of my Christmas shopping today, so I'm not in the mood to think hard. Especially since I don't get to go have a gingerbread or peppermint latte or something to rest between stores. And if I hear that stupid Christmas bells song there might be serious consequences to the world. I may even pull out my supervillian costume & demand one billion dollars or the head of whoever wrote the song.

***I've commented on this before, but does anyone but me find it ironic that the blogger spell check does not have the word BLOG in it? I don't know. Maybe this is a sign of something.

Dream Badness

So what do you do when you have a dream where someone you know is "bad?" I always tell my hubby when his dream alter ego has been naughty. But it's a weird feeling; you wake up and you're sort of mad at them for the crappy behavior in the dream, behavior that if done in the real world would get them in big trouble. And you know, in the fuzz of sleep, that it's not really them, and that you really shouldn't be mad, but you still kind of are. Just thinking about them actually having the little chippy friend sitting on his lap makes you cranky. Then you wake up and describe the dream and it's so absurd, would be nothing that would ever really happen in real life. But you still want to whack them.

Can one be held responsible for what one's mate's subconscious makes one do? Nah. But it does make for a good story. Andrew smiled as I told him he was sitting with one of our sort-of friends on his lap. She's SO not his type. And that I was mad in the dream and everyone else yelled at me for being mad, when in reality, people would be whacking him severely for the dream behavior. I'm sure it has something to do with anxiety over not being as "hot" as I was once. But it's silly, cause the hubby thinks I'm a goddess (as he should) and said "sort of friend" would never compare. So hush, subconscious anxieties. Try spiders next time. They'd be a lot more convincing as a night fear.

What to do what to do

Nap, shop, go get my eyebrows waxed (I'm looking a bit like a wookie), or work on the dissertation. Hmmm. Decisions. Or maybe eat cookies and read?

If I were actually sticking to the semester schedule of school, I would be on Christmas break right now. So maybe I should give myself a break from the writing guilt and just relax for a couple of weeks. (Like I haven't done enough of that?!)

Holidays

Since I'm in a better mood this morning, I thought I'd try to improve myself even more by thinking of good holidays. When I was a kid, I didn't really have a lot of great holiday memories-- it comes when you live with an alcoholic that holidays are great excuses for the drunk to drink a lot more, get mean, toss the Thanksgiving turkey down the stairs. The kids have to hide. Stay out of the way. Which is difficult in a tiny trailer. So for a long time, holidays were just another day for me. Usually a bad one. As a grown up, away from the drunk, I just avoided them. I didn't really get it how much other people seemed to look forward to them; even if they weren't having bad days like mine, could it really be that much better?

When I married my husband, it was May. My first "holiday" with him was during our honeymoon, when we stopped off on our way to Washington state to visit his family in Texas. We stayed at his parents' place and there was a Memorial day cookout. His dad grilled fajitas; his mom set a gorgeous table; everyone drank yummy margaritas and scooped homemade guacamole onto chips. It was happy, and that was my first exposure to big family-- as I shyly dipped into the food, Andrew said "You have to grab what you want; there are no shy Wellses, they died off of hunger years ago."

The next holiday was Fourth of July. We lived in Washington, just a little outside of Seattle, on the Puget Sound. We had a lovely little condo that was right off the sound; in the morning, often, while I ate my breakfast I could look out and see a Bald Eagle perched on the washed-ashore log in the low tide, looking for scrumptious tiny fish to scoop up. The mountains peered bluely over the horizon. On the fourth, the little town had a fireworks show over the harbor, and we invited the ten or fifteen new friends we had made with Andrew's work over for coffee and firework watching. It was cold, believe it or not. There were low clouds hanging in the sky, and the fireworks blasted into those clouds and looked spooky. But we were all warm, sitting on the gold shag carpet of our little rental condo, drinking hot coffee laced with Bailey's. The fireworks were almost secondary to the warmth and laughing that was going on in our little condo living room. There may not have been hot dogs and cotton candy and a picnic blanket out in the hot summer park, but it was a great summer moment anyway.

On my birthday that year, just around dinnertime, Andrew disappeared for about an hour. I didn't know where he went, and I wasn't really sure if I should be annoyed or a bit concerned. I thought he had gone to get gas for the car (cause we were going out to dinner at fancy restaurant). But he was gone so long! Early marriage, you aren't used to each others' patterns so much yet-- every delay of five minutes brings fears of some terrible accident, death, and you alone forever. He showed up with roses and emerald earrings. He had already bought me a present, so I was totally surprised by these perfectly green sparklies.

I'll finish with our first Christmas together. We drove his beat up red truck that we rode in on our first date out to the country and bought a real pine Christmas tree that we actually watched the guy cut down. (This more than made up for the moment in my childhood when my mom & her friend cut down a scrubby trash pine at the dump for our Christmas tree). We got up in the morning, drank Andrew's lattes, exchanged our little presents (slippers, robes, wallets--the kinds of things people get for each other when they're not sure really what to get.) I made something yummy for dinner (this I can't remember for some reason-- but I'm certain it was delicious cause hey, it was me!)

Since then, we don't really exchange big Christmas presents. What's the point when you're just giving each other slippers and pajamas? But we basically make it a point to treat each other really well every day of the year. We say "thank you" to each other for performing the most mundane of tasks, the ones we do every day (like maybe take out the garbage, or load the dishwasher). We buy presents for each other when we see something cool-- not because some commercial holiday shops have declared you must spend thousands of dollars right now cause it proves you love each other. So we never have a "special thing" that we've been dying to get all year cause we just get it if we want it, whether it's June 18th or December 25th.

But I did get him a present this year. It's something I saw at Williams-Sonoma, and a "random guy" walked by as I was talking to the salesgirl, he said "Wow that's a great thing, I love mine, use it all the time." After checking to make sure he didn't work there, I thought, yeah. Andrew will love this. It just so happens it'll be wrapped under the tree. He's gotta get me something now, cause otherwise it'd just be awkward, right? :)

Think of the origins of the word holiday (from dictionary.com). : Middle English holidai, holy day, from Old English hlig dæg : hlig, holy; see holy + dæg, day; see day. It's a holy day. A day that you set aside to count your blessings, to acknowledge that there are miracles occurring in everyday life. At the risk of making you all get cavities with the sugary sweetness of the ending, I consider every single day I spend with this fabulous man a holiday. When I tell him I think I'm the luckiest girl in the world, I. really. mean. it. Even after a cranky day when I've had to resort to eating an entire half quart of orange sherbet and lay on the couch watching Dirty Dancing* he can say the perfect thing to make me forget how annoyed I was earlier. Make me wonder why I was annoyed in the first place. I would wish this kind of relationship on everyone.

Happy Holidays to you, too.

*cause nobody puts Baby in the corner.

and not only that but

the guy fixing the deck leaves the toilet seat up.

And I'm not even allowed to have a consoling margarita later.

Sigh.

To top it off, the cat is meowing plaintively in the other room.....

Let me detail my current frustrations for you. Perhaps in a humorous way-- I don't know yet, I'm just getting started here. I doubt I can live up to Robotnik's hilarious description of his recent plumber adventures, but then, that is yet another frustration to detail (that I'm not funny and no one really loves me). Maybe, in hearing my annoyances, you can feel better about your own life. I don't know. Or maybe you'll see what a petty little brat I can be. If I were a betting woman, I'd go with option two, myself. (Maybe if I add an occasional joke you'll keep reading: okay, then. A horse walks into a bar, and the bartender says "Why the long face?") (That work? Still here? Sucker.)

As you all know, since I harp on it constantly, I am trying to write my dissertation. I've written millions of stupid papers (maybe not millions, and no, they weren't really stupid, it's the hormones adjective-ing there) in my collegiate career. I have the exact idea of what I want to write. I have read the books I want to write about three and a half million times. The little laptop Andrew bought me to write said dissertation is awfully cute, and fun to use. But for some reason, I get bogged down in minutiae and have been crawling along at a snail's pace trying to write the damn thing for almost a year now. (Yes, I have some progress made. No I am not freakin' close to being done yet.) (So the grasshopper said "You have a drink named Stanley?").

This is from a woman who can sit down and write a ten page (well-written) essay on something that is really not important in about thirty minutes. Seriously. I really mean it-- if you said to me "Kim, write a paper on the imagery of paranoia in Edgar Allen Poe's "Telltale Heart" and how it reflects his latent pedophilia" I could do that. Probably with graphics. And some sort of Power Point presentation, too. I'm just that talented. When it's not important to the rest of my freakin' life. (I'm sorry, I didn't know that was meatloaf. Nah. Doesn't work on the Geico commercial either.) Mental note: scratch off career plan as standup comedian.

I haven't written anything on it in over a week, and I woke this morning with enough nagging guilt to plan a serious day of trying to write. (I didn't say getting any done. I said trying. We all go with what we can.) But the sneaky suspicion that like most days, I'll get about two hours worth of work done and then need a nap. And then other things will come up. I'm pretty sure of it. And two hours of work is not going to get the damn thing done anytime soon.

So that's number one.

Number two: The deck.
We're having a guy build us a new deck. The old one was rotting and falling down due to last homeowners being cheap bastards. (Say that last in a Foamy accent & you know what I mean.) Andrew's friends were here last night (okay, they're my friends too. Whatever.) designing a new cool deck design. Now I'm supposed to go into this program we bought a few weeks ago and lay out the design. The guy who has been building stuff at our house for about a month now will be here later bugging me about seeing the design, and whining about when Andrew will be home. (Why does an elephant paint his balls red? To hide in cherry trees.)

However, said deck designer program is unwieldy, not intuitive, and downright annoying. I think, honestly, the scribbled on paper layout that the guys did last night is better than what I just spent thirty minutes trying to coax out of a computer program clearly designed by a misanthropic computer programmer who wasn't getting a bonus so deliberately left out all the key commands he knew the average user would want to use. (Like the "edit this segment" command, or the "move this piece" command.) Bastards.

Number three: The freakin' holiday season.

I just spent two damned days at malls trying to shop. For someone else's presents. Yes. Andrew's dad always asks me to buy his presents to give to people for him. Mostly cause he sucks at it, and in past years, I didn't mind. It meant I got a really good present out of it because I buy my own gift, and I spare not the cost on me. But this year, with all of the issues I have, including the alien being sucking the energy out of me, I just don't feel like it anymore. Add to that the fact that all those stores in the mall that usually have billions of cute outfits I'm just dying to wear had NOTHING for me yesterday. Until I went into Express and found a sixty dollar skirt that was the only thing remotely appealing. And I have to go to a stupid work holiday party Saturday and look presentable and I have this extra bulge that does not yet look like baby, just looks like I've been perhaps stopping at Krispy Kreme every day for one of those death-by-drinking-straw lattes that they have. Plus some donuts. (Have you ever seen an elephant in a cherry tree? See. It works.)

This is probably way more griping than you can handle. I don't think it's very funny. I can't imagine why you want to read it (you'll probably leave here thinking Good Lord someone warn her husband to buy flowers tonight, or bring home chocolate). And you would probably be right to scurry away like little scurrying things in front of something scary (it's a crappy simile. Live with it.)

And the last joke of all? Writing this terribly grumpy blog entry has now cheered me up. Perhaps it's like a song worm. Passing it along to someone else helps you not hear that stupid Christmas Bells carol over and over until you're begging someone to jam an ice pick into your left eye.

So. Happy 3rd day of Hanukkah. Keep those candles burning. Whilst I go attempt to drag something relevant out of my red-headed skull. Wish me luck.
(So the duck says, yeah, could you get this guy off my ass?)

Don't Go Calling her Bitch

Thanks to a link from Lauren at Feministe, I now have the ultimate present for myself after a hard long workout. My superhero alter ego.

She's winged and bad assed. If you take a liking to her, you had better be able to whup her first. She doesn't fight fair. She's a biter.

And don't go thinking the kitty there is in the mood for bellyrubs. You'll end up with a nasty little scratch. I went for a kind of "chick power Valkyrie look. I'm very happy with her. I particularly like the crossbow.

Now, off to crush the forces of patriarchy!

A Dream

I've dreamt many times in the past 20 years or so that I was in a mall. It's usually the same basic mall-- there are long long escalators, a food court, and many familiar stores. I am often looking for a store I remember being in one place that is somewhere else. Once I was in the parking lot looking for my car-- I found my OLD car, but not the one I was currently driving. And I was on the other side of the mall in the wrong parking lot and the mall was closed so I would have to walk around the mall to find the right car.

Usually, I am searching for formal wear. I don't know why. I search and search, try on some cute dresses, but I've never found the right one. Sometimes I find a great sale, and there are dozens of women trying on formals, but I just don't find the one for me.

Well, this morning, something new on the horizon. I was in the mall. And this time I was searching for a cute petticoat, like this one, to make the Heidi outfit (which looked a lot like the one in the picture linked there) I was going to wear to this gay bar later that night look cooler. I guess this particular gay bar had a reputation of being big on Nordic activities, cause it would have worked, too. I would have been the bomb. That would have been THE outfit that night (I knew this in the dream.)

Same mall-- same food court, which I passed up. Same escalators-- but this time, they weren't working. I irritably asked the mall employee where another one was, and they had this long line temporary escalator set up which I waited for. Bill Cosby was also in the line. (He didn't talk much, in contrast with his usual persona.) I finally made it to the Foley's where the lady in my usual "searching for formal wear" shop told me to look for the petticoat. And guess what?! They had it! I had found my petticoat! And it didn't even take very long. And I was getting just about ready to go buy said petticoat when I was awoken by the alarm clock.

What do you think it means? To seek and yet find? For it to be a petticoat I was searching for?! It boggles the mind. Maybe you guys have a guess. I'm at a loss. But I'd look damn cute in that outfit. For a few more weeks....Even with my current less than slender waistline. Cause I have the big hooters. Yes. The one perk of early pregnancy, when you have the big hooters but very few other obvious physical signs. :) Anyway. Back to work on the new website issue. Shouldn't you be doing something too, like commenting on my dream?

Contrasts: Yum & Yuck

What am I having for dinner tonight? In the winter, I tend to crave pasta dishes, comfort food. Something that bakes in the oven for an hour and then fills you with cheese and carbs and protein. You sit on the couch afterward and ease open that top notch on your belt, the button on your jeans. You feel a bit like a bear ready for hibernation. Satisfied and mostly capable of not swatting the park ranger with your razor sharp claws cause you're just so happy.

Browsing my usual sources, I found this lovely recipe for pastitio-- which is kind of like a Greek lasagna, of sorts.* The other day, we went to a Greek restaurant & I thought I had ordered Pastitsio and I had actually ordered something else (that other Greek pasta, whatchamacallit, you know... with the eggplant... good too, but not what I wanted). So as soon as I saw the recipe, I knew I had to have it TONIGHT. It is baking now. The bechamel sauce smells & tastes wonderful-- I varied the recipe slightly and instead of boring old dill, I put this "Mt. Olympus Rub" Greek mix that I got at Whole Foods Market-- which includes all sorts of fab spices, even lavender. :)

While I was at the grocery store buying the ingredients I didn't have for the dinner, I was minding my own business & the man behind me came up with his groceries and started loading them on the belt. He looked like your normal average old guy in a hunter's outfit-- camouflage and a baseball cap. But as he worked, the breeze of his efforts kicked up and the smell of urine came my way. Strongly. Of the sort one usually only encounters in cranky babies and homeless people. This wasn't pee of the sort you get if you've got a bladder issue, and have accidentally lost a bit on your little adult sanitary device. This was hard core, been sitting in it for a while and liking it smell.Here I am pregnant, smells are my new "superpower" and smelly piss-guy is loading the grocery conveyer behind me. Lord Lord Lord. It made me wish for one of those frilly hankies folks used to carry around, doused in perfume, to wave in front of one's nose when the unwashed masses came near, or someone dumped a chamber pot in front of you. How could he NOT know how bad he smelled?

Sigh. I know. This blog entry is a study in contrasts. Lovely bechamel sauce and old smelly guy at the grocery store. What's a girl to do?

*If you like to cook this is a great recipe to try. Don't be scared by the idea of a Bechamel-- it was quite easy to cook. And the pre-oven time only took about thirty minutes. It'll need to sit a little while after cooking to "set" into the nice firm portion for the plate. Try it! If you've never had Pastitiso, you don't know what you're missing!

Christmas Frenzy: Avoided

You should be proud of me. I needed a new mouse, since the one I have had has been acting screwy for a while. Since I usually only use the computer with the mouse for checking email and a few other things, I have been dawdling on getting a new one. But today, I have a bunch of work to do on my other website. Which requires using this computer. So I had to go to Best Buy to get my new little Microsoft Optical mouse (only 20 bucks! A bargain.) I don't care for wireless mice (hee hee) cause you have to change the batteries all the damn time. And I don't need anything too fancy. Just a stupid plain old mouse. So I picked up my simple little mouse and headed directly to the checkout counter. I did not go browse computer games. Or new music CDs. Or even what is new on DVD.

Other people had that glazed-over frenzied look which will only get worse as December moves on. The checkout girl tried to win the current employee contest by trying to get me to sign up for a Best Buy credit card. (Do these companies think we consumers don't know why the sales people hassle us every single time? NO! I know how to get a credit card, thanks, I just don't want one of your incredibly high interest rate scam cards. Thank you.)

I made it out of there in under twenty minutes. And I didn't even LOOK at the naughty naughties that might have distracted me in times past (like the much-coveted but desperately being ignored new Sims games.)

I've got stuff to do. Websites to edit. Dissertations to finish. Naps to take. No time for fake people in a fake world today, thank you.

Now, on with the work. With my new happy little mouse. See-- I'm going to click that orange button right...... there.... with it.

You have reached Kim's blog...

And I can't come to the blog right now, because I'm out of town this weekend, so that's why no post yesterday. Andrew needed the car all day & I just didn't get to the coffee shop. It's amazing how tiring it is to lie on a bed and watch tv all day, don't you think?

We watched Supersize Me last night. You know, if you watch that movie, it's very likely you'll never eat at McDonald's again.

Anyway. We're headed home tonight, and it's cold here by the door at the coffee shop where I'm having herbal tea.

Leave a message after the beep.

Toasters

I don't know where that rumor started-- was it Ellen's show back when she first came out?-- that when you "converted" a person to the "other team" you got a free toaster. But today, as I was leaving the grocery store, I saw a smiling woman with not much more in her cart than three new toasters. I couldn't help myself but think "woo. Someone had a busy campaign". Then of course I had to stifle my giggles because people would have thought what the hell is that crazy woman laughing at toasters for? Which of course made me need to giggle more.

These are my thoughts, people. Perhaps it's better you don't know.

Balls

Last night on CNN they did one of those "human interest" pieces with a slightly sarcastic, half mocking tone about men and crying. They featured a clip of times like when Shatner (i.e., the GOD-- I'll hear no dispute about it!!!!) lost his wife and was mobbed by reporters as his voice broke and you could measure the weight of his grief on the Richter scale, when Jimmy Swaggert poured fake glycerin out of his eyes, when Cronkite had a hard time getting through the announcement of JFK's death and turned his face slightly to the side to avoid the unblinking eye of the camera. They interviewed people on the street who had mostly glib answers about men & why they cry. Women laughed and said they found it "creepy." There's a website with photos, called "Old Men Crying" that I'm not really sure of purpose-wise. Does it mean to mock the men, or pay homage?

It made me think of a few sad old men I've known.

Just before I got married I worked at a Subway in downtown Pensacola. It was right on the edge of seedy neighborhoods, and just down the street, apparently, from one of those kinds of bars that people sit in all day and drink their sorrows numb. I didn't work late very often, but almost every time I did, there was this man who would come in, just before closing. He wore a business suit and a dark London Fog, had shortly cropped silver-grey hair. If he wasn't rat-assed drunk, he would have looked respectable. In fact, sometimes when he'd come in, he wasn't quite as into the gutter as others and you could see someone who people probably called "Sir" or "Boss." Once, there was a long string of mucus from dry-heaves clinging to the upper lapel of his dignified black raincoat and he swayed slightly as he waited for his sub to be made. He came in, always alone, always just before the store closed, and blinked his eyes slowly in the way that only drunks and babies who are fighting a nap have, counting out the crumpled dollar bills and leaving with his plastic bag of sub and chips clutched to his chest. I always used to wonder what it was that made him drink so much, what secret sorrow did he, a man who by all appearances during the day probably looked like your basic young, but still hopeful Willy Loman on a sales call.

Then there was the old man who was the husband of one of my mom's home-health patients. She was frail, thin. You could see the tendons bulging out of her neck each time she gasped a painfully short breath in, and out. You could almost see through her skin, it was so pale, and it was quite plain that she was dying, soon. She told my mother you're so lucky to be poor, so you don't have to worry about all your things, and what will happen to them. Her dusty china-cabinet filled with crystal and plates testified to the worries she felt she had.

This guy had bought her a beautiful gold and silver Christmas tree that the store just delivered, he said completely decorated! and that sat year-round in the front formal living room, because she had thought it beautiful. They had taken it down the summer day we went over to deliver a lasagna for her wake. This guy would walk the two blocks to the restaurant/diner greasy spoon that served breakfast like you see in old 40s movies--on white plates with a cobalt blue rim, with matching coffee cups, all of which carried chips or scuffs but were clean and perfect. He would stumble back to the house and sit wheezing on the La-z-boy in the TV room, next to his wife's sick bed from which she never moved. (Her "necessaries" being a portable gadget that could be placed under her when she needed it-- which she, not taking much more than the IV, didn't often.) I remember her face when he brought home several barely-weaned kittens from the diner, and they jumped and tumbled, tangling in the tubing and knocking luckily empty bedpans over. The tiny kittens, filled with energy and life, somehow seemed bigger than the dying woman. His corresponding happiness at making that sad mouth turn into a smile.

These men had sorrows, and probably would have benefited from a good cry. I think it's saddest that men still feel that they should not be seen crying, should remain stoic like some Greek Warrior on a pedestal. But remember: Achilles destroyed an entire city, in part, because of his great grief. He drug Hector's body around that city time and time again in the rage at his loss. His rage, I am quite certain, would have included tears-- if only of rage and pain.

It's not a joke, nothing to take sarcastically, when real pain brings tears to a man's eyes, whether he is old or young. Now, those fake tears, the "I'm so sensitive" dab of the corner of the eyes at the right moment, the fake water pouring down the Televangelist's face as he swears his pain at his "betrayal" of his flock. Those are okay to mock. But the real tears-- they should be a badge of courage greater than a medal of honor. Because it takes more than courage for a man to cry instead of take it out on your liver, or lie facedown in your own puke-- it takes balls.

My Refrigerator

I have these two finger puppets on my fridge-- yes, they're magnets too. Virginia Woolf and Frida Kahlo. The place where I bought them had lots of the male puppets and didn't have the Zora Neale Hurston, which I definitely would have bought if they'd have had her. It's really funny to have little finger puppets of these great figures. The two I have both have their hair in buns, and that's where the little magnets go, so their heads are sort of stuck to the fridge while their little finger-puppet bodies hang loose. I found a perverse sort of amusement in Frida hanging out with Virginia. I think, actually, that the two of them might have not gotten along. Frida was so outrageous in her personality and Virginia was very much the shy Victorian-type. But who knows-- they might have loved each other.

My fridge also has a Diva David. If you've ever seen the David/Venus magnets, this is like that only instead of boy clothes, you have drag clothes for David. I notice that in houses where people had both Venus & David people tended to cross dress the two-- this one comes that way. Some friends/co-workers of Andrew's once bought David some "boy clothes" because, I guess, they were disturbed all that he had was drag. But the funny thing is, the stuff they bought him ends up looking pretty gay on that statue. David is just too hunky and well-built to be most straight men. The clothes the friends bought are Hawaiian vacation-- so there are these tight tight little blue spandex shorts with a major camel toe. Very hilarious.

I also have that magnetic poetry, which someone is always trying to make naughty dirty poems out of. Come on people. Show some creativity. I even took the word "sausage" off the fridge cause I was sick of seeing what people did with it.

Of course, there are also pictures of family, friends' babies, etc. We have a few really cool fortune cookies we particularly like. It's rather cluttered, but I like it that way.

Just a slice of my kitchen for you, even though you didn't ask. I'm actually waiting for the furnace fixing guy to be done so I can take Andrew some lunch (leftover gumbo... mmmmm) and had to do something to stop pacing and being irritated he's not done yet. So there you go. :)

Woe is Me & Kitty Tales

It's finally pretty cold here in Texas, and the joy (/sarcasm) of it is that our heater isn't working properly. It won't stay on if you put it on "auto"-- just clicks off right after it turns on. If you run it on "fan" which makes it go all the time, you have to crank the thermostat up to 90 to get it warm in the house at all. So it's fairly cold in the house, and that just sucks. Today's dissertation writing is going to be done on the couch in the room with the fireplace, cause that makes it a little warmer (it's just a small fireplace, so it doesn't get that toasty).

But we do have the fluffy down comforter on the bed, and sleeping in this morning (called "the re-rack" when you get up for a little while then go back to bed") the cat crawled under the blankets with me. It was very sweet, and I was thinking as I was dozing off about writing about it. Furry little bundle, purring softly, her whiskers tickling my belly where the pj top had pulled up a bit. (And, I have to admit, where it's poking out a bit more than it used to).

I was thinking of when we got her, so long ago. Andrew & I had been married about 6 months, and I wasn't able to get back in college yet cause the move made us show up in WA in the middle of a semester. So I was bored, bored, bored. I took a job as a salesgirl in the mall, at Lerner NY. While on break on night, I wandered down past the pet store and there were three kittens. Two stripey grey ones were fighting each other, and this cute black one with huge ears and green eyes and a little curly tail she flitted about like her personal banner. I poked my finger into the cage and she grabbed it-- gently-- claws out, but not sharpy poking. She purred so loudly I could hear her from the cage. I said "oh, aren't you cute. But you'd scratch up the leather couch, now wouldn't you". To that, she mouthed a squeeky "mew" which I, speaking fluent "cat," took to mean "No, I promise I won't if you just get me outta this dump." I said "okay, then, if you promise not to claw the couch, Andrew won't mind too much." And the funny thing is, she never once has clawed that couch. Of course, she rarely claws things, so it's not that big of a deal. Andrew, sitting on the couch when I got home and announced "We're home" heard her purring all the way from the door the second we came in. He definitely thought she was cute.

She's such a sweet, smart kitty. I know non-cat lovers say "there's no such thing, your cat is not smart, it's just like all other cats." Which of course is wrong. If you're not a cat lover, you don't know that like people, there is great variation in cats. I've known some very stupid cats. Some mean ones. Some that were the epitome of everything non-cat people hate about cats. But Tituba is quite smart-- she wakes us up in the morning at the correct time, even when that time changes. She has a little "schedule" that she likes to adhere to, and she "talks" to you when you talk to her. Lots of folks who aren't especially fond of cats have said about her "gee, she's really kind of cool." And she really is.

I'm pretty sure she won't be all that fond of our next new addition because babies & little kids freak her out. They move way too fast, and like to grab ears and stuff. She usually hides under a bed or something till they're gone. Hopefully she'll get used to him/her slowly, cause the baby won't be that noisy and that quick at first. Generally, just a little bundled up blob lying in a sleeper and getting all red-faced and grumpy when hungry or pooping. Just like Daddy :)

Tituba's still my "first baby" though, and will always receive a spot under the covers when she wants one.

Gumbo Gumbo Yay!

For dinner, homemade gumbo. I don't really use a recipe. There's gotta be some benefit to living 8 years in Louisiana. :) It's gonna be yummy. With garlic bread. Which also rocks. I invited this friend of mine but I think she chose to go drink margaritas instead. Poor thing.

The gumbo will be better.