Got to tip on the tightrope

That's us, tippin' on the tightrope, always.
It is crazy here. As Bird recently declared, "This house is nothing but babies and crazy people."

Well said.

Work is nuts, A's work is nuts, kids are nuts, social calendar is nuts, weather/ heat is nuts, dogs are nuts, family is nuts:
IT'S A DAD-GUMMED PARTY MIX, Y'ALL.

And on Friday, we all (except Gopher) woke up with some kind of awful stomach ick which passed-- violently-- in about 24 hours and our tiny one-man bathroom saw A LOT of action.

In the past few weeks, I've been on two bizarre work-related road trips, one in which I saw a sign by the side of the road that said "Twenty Kinds of Cheese" and I actually got to stop, and another in which I drug my friend T. along and visited the most delicious-smelling Mennonite grocery in all of West Tennessee, plus saw buzzards, plus saw a goat standing on top of another goat (!), plus drove a Grand Marquis all over the countryside, plus visited a very creepy home/ museum or two, plus plus plus. This project, it wears me out in a good way, and it beats the hell out of writing healthcare marketing copy day in and day out behind a desk, so I'll take it.

Also watched the LOST finale, and I have one thing to say: pbbbbbbffffttt. Way to waste a few years of my life, LOST. It was as if the writers showed up for the final exam but hadn't really been doing the reading all semester, which is something I wake up in a cold sweat over, still, 12 years post-college. So in essence, the finale of LOST was my recurring nightmare.

Plus, it was lame.

There is more, but I am tired, and A. is at Bonnaroo doing some supercool work opportunity fun creative project stuff, and I'm supposed to be doing actual work-work (sewing machine marketing, anyone?) that I promised to do for Monday since I had to leave the office early on Friday on account of a guts-puke-out. Because I'm dedicated like that.


I'll leave you with our latest favorite dance party:
Me: What do you think those guys are?
Bird: Mirrors with coats on. (duh).

Welcome, dimentia

At my office, every person has a small bulletin board next to their office door to post clippings, projects, quotes, whatever.

There is a moon-shaped, wire-and-bead creation hanging on mine. It is about 8 inches tall and hangs from a shiny pink and purple ribbon.

I noticed it last week.

I have a vague sense that it was a gift, but I have no memory of it past that.

I have no idea how it got there, how long it's been there, where it came from, or even if I put it there or it was put there for me.

****

And would you like some losing-my-mind related TMI?

Every time I use the restroom at work, I return to my desk and cannot for the life of me remember whether or not I flushed. So I return to the bathroom to check. Every time.


That's it. Carry on.

Mistakes I Have Made, March 2010 Edition

1. Emailed the circulation dept. of a magazine I love to tell them, in response to their subscription renewal reminder, that hey! I ordered this subscription in September and I haven't received any issues! And they sendt the 3 back issues I've missed and will be sending everything first class from now on, yadda yadda terrific customer service yadda. Fixed. And then. On my bedside table (ok, old tv tray, but whatever, it sits by my bed with a lamp on it), I happen to notice the Winter issue. Of the magazine. Which I now remember reading cover to cover. Oh, and on the shelf by the window is the Fall issue. So I've been getting it, reading it, and forgetting all about it.


2. Bought a semi-gnarly booster car seat from a woman on craigslist, primarily because I had already written out the check before I met up with her in the parking lot and for some reason felt the deal had already been set in motion. It will do, but in hind sight... eh.


3. Pumped breast milk like a dedicated mama-mammal at the office, washed and sterilized all of my pump parts, and promptly left my baggies of nutritionally perfect and hard-won milkiness in the car all night. On at least three separate occasions.

4. Came within a millimeter of dumping a scoop of baby formula into an open jar of olives.

5:25 Sunday afternoon:

Reclining on the couch with one foot on the ottoman and my belly hanging out of my shirt, talking to Bird about spiders and letting the dog lick a pile of potato chip crumbs from my already-filthy pants.

And that ends our latest trip to Indiana.

Still here, ya'll.

Quietly cookin' up a big thing over here, hush hush for now.

Getting ready to go on vacation, so so so so ready. Except for packing and getting physically ready. We will do that poorly and at the last minute and it will not matter one bit.

Birdy is a big kid. Unbelievably big. She uses words like "beverage" and "interrupt."

I have been eating an awful lot of cereal.

I have been sewing a little, cursing a lot. Jersey fabric is not for beginners. Also, wingin' it without a pattern-- not for a freshman like myself. A bit of an epiphany today-- that I may enjoy sewing more if I used an honest-to-God PATTERN, instead of trying to hold things up to my body in front of the mirror and guessing. Birdy's skirt turned out super-cute, though. And Venture Alivans got a matching one as well. Photos as soon as I can get her to sit still.

... because our camera just completely sucks. It takes fabulous photos of still subjects in broad daylight, but not active preschoolers. Anxiously awaiting the freeing up of the Panasonic Lumix inventory from backorder.

Got my kitchen painted (by A.) for Mother's Day. S'nice. Again, pictures soon.

Everyone is sleeping at my house, I'm up waiting for a lentil bake to cool so I can fridge it to take to a new baby's family tomorrow afternoon.

Not thrilled about my return to the office tomorrow. Not thrilled.

Somethings

Something I actually said today walking home from daycare:

"We are not going to go back and put that poop in your bag. And I am done talking about it."

Something that actually happened today:
Home appraisal for the Great Refinance of 2009. Felt super weird sitting on my couch pretending to read my new Vegetarian Times while the (very kind and fatherly) appraiser took a picture of the World's Tiniest Bathroom, clunked down the basement steps, peered into the guestroom/ graveyard of bullshit. And after he left I realized the toilet lid was up, prominently displaying a nice big wad of TP (thanks, Bird) floating around in there, with maybe some... is that pee? Cheers! Thanks for checking out the house! Maybe the memory of the toilet paper floater will erase the memory of the plaster cracks and weird wet spot in the basement!

Something I'm wondering about:
How many pounds of chickpeas can one family eat in a year? Because seriously, we are chickpea-heavy for at least 3 meals a week, and one of which is always Mediterranean Night.* Do other veg families lean this hard on the bean?

Something I'm loving:
Veganomicon. OMG. I've said it before, I'll say it again. Even if you are a raging carnivore, this book has the potential to rock your world or at least your side dish reportoire. A. has developed an addiction to the chickpea cutlets, which we now make in double batches and freeze half for quick & easy deliciousness, though they never seem to stick around long. Tonight's dinner: chickpea cutlet sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, avocado slices, Vegenaise, dijon mustard, red onion on homemade (thank you trusty little breadmaker) french baguette, served with roasted potatoes, onion, and asparagus. And yes, Bird will even eat a chickpea cutlet. This book is magical, I tell you.

Something that did not work:
We were on such a streak with Veganomicon that we branched out to try the Tempeh with broccoli and whole wheat rotini last night, which was under 45 minutes in prep and cook time as promised, but it was an intense 45 mintues. And the verdict? A. started out with, "yeah, I don't know if we should make this again, it seemed pretty complicated." and on to, "Maybe it would be better with a little more vinegar" to "I don't think I'll eat the leftovers, probably" to scraping the pot out into the garbage and saying, "That was disgusting." Should have known by the tablespoon of fennel seeds. I hate fennel. And yet still remain a little shocked that I hated this dish. That's how magic the V-con is. It romances you into thinking you might even like fennel in your tempeh, and you don't hold a grudge when it's gross.


*Mediterranean night = one tub of Bobbbi's Your Favorite Hummus + homemade pita +red peppers, carrots, olives, red onion. One plate, almost no dirty dishes. WIN!

** OMGOMG tried to find a website for the very yummy and insanely garlicky Bobbi's Hummus and came up emptyhanded. I buy it at Turnip Truck so go find it there. BUT! In my search, I ran across a random discussion board post that claims to be the Bobbi's Recipe. I. do. not. jest. After tomorrow (when we are scheduled to have Mediterranean Night, so lookout vampires) I might be the most-seven-dollars-savin'-est mama in the 'hood.

LOOKOUT, I just posted yesterday

And now again today, what is up with that??

If you know me in real life, you know I'm a big menu planning/ grocery shopping/ budgeting nerd. I just used my very last menu/ grocery worksheet (I made 52 copies this time last year, so that's about right, I reckon) and now face the task of creating an updated version. So when I came across this post today, I squealed with glee, pushed my dork-glasses back up on my nose, and adjusted my pocket protector. I am inspired to create a prettier, bad-ass-er version of my tried-and-true system, and more than anything, happy to know I'm not alone when I spread out my cookbooks and tattered recipes on a Friday night and start mapping out my grocery run, aisle by aisle.

Anyway, if you know me in real life, you know I am a clumsy human, both socially and physically. On the physical side of things, I regularly discover small bruises in unexpected places and never think twice about it, as it would be an all-day activity to try to recall the many things I've bumped into, tripped over, or smacked against in the last few days. But in the last week, I have discovered four bruises on the front of my upper thigh, all in a cluster, and I'm now on a fairly passive hunt to find the offending table corner or piece of furniture and move it out of my path once and for all. I will let you know how that goes.

Also, I am going to sew something. Soon. I also need some black flats, because the birthday shoes I loved in July are feeling all clompy and stompish. And I just ate a salad with too much red onion for most people, but exactly enough red onion for me.

*Edited to add:
Also found this post about using Google Calendar to menu plan. It blew my mind. I don't think I'm ready, but I'm intrigued.

Oh, hello, it is March, I am still here

Lyrics to the song Bird sang to me this weekend, with gusto (and wild hand gestures):

I am going to the DOCTORRRRR
And I am bringing my PURRRRRSE!
And in my PURRRRSE
I have some doctor STUUUUUUFFFF!


My brother in law and his fiance visited this weekend, lovely time, etc.
Took Bird to the "Slumber Party" at daycare (Parents' night out, WOOT!) and finally made it out to this place, which was delightful, and then on to other places closer to home where I ordered additional fine beverages crafted by the first place. We saw friends, we shouted over the crowd, we spent some money. We were OUT and ABOUT, dammit.

When we got back at 11:30, the floor of the daycare was dark and lumpy with sleeping children. And my Bird was the only kid standing up on her mat in her sad little mismatched jammies, watching the door for us to come back. Ouch.

And today, my dear sweet husband has alternated between writhing around in cold sweats and sleeping like a rock. I gave him a mild level of shit about it (attributing his illness to his sinful livin') until I realized he was burning up with fever and probably dealing with actual illness. Since then I have been really, really nice. And Bird has been even nicer, stroking his hair and bringing him saltines and using every giant plastic tool in her doctor kit. I can't wait to see which one of us will be the next victim of the sudden puking fever illness!

I have no idea how old I was, but I remember very vividly one night when my brother and I were left in the care of a high school-aged babysitter, staying up (!!) until my parents got home, which probably really peeved the babysitter who, I'm sure, would have preferred to yap on the phone to her BFF or watch one of our four luxurious television channels, or any of the things high school kids did before texting and reality TV and the internet. But we were up. And I remember mom and dad walking in the front door, surprised to see us, and me hugging my mom through her taupe-colored trench coat, and her clothes smelling like smoke because they'd been to a bar. Which I didn't understand at the time. But I knew when I hugged her this was no church meeting they'd been to-- that they were out having some kind of fun that did not involve me in any way, in a place I had never seen or visited, and I felt a little "WTF" about the whole thing, clearly, because I remember it now, in my mid-30s. Mostly I was just happy they were home, and a little weirded out about this secret life of theirs. Which is probably how Bird felt when I zipped up her jacket and put on her shoes and she said, "Mama, what did you do?"

In other news, I am trying to complete the paperwork on a refinance, because DAMN interest rates are low. But I can't fight the feeling that I'm signing over permissions I don't understand, like maybe mistakenly joining a cult, or the circus, or becoming an exchange student, or donating my live body to dangerous scientific testing. When they come to collect me and put me in the experimental colony under the volcano, you'll hear me wailing all the way down the block about how I thought I was dropping a whole point.

Dear 2008,

What a year you've been, 2008, my first year without cigarettes since 1994. I certainly wasn't expecting you to come along when my coping skills were so scratched and raw. Under your watch, I've lost my charming granddad, lost a child I'll never meet, lost a powerfully loving mamaw, lost a dusty old cat. My dad fought cancer and my dog had surgery. You obviously had something to teach me-- that is to say that I prefer to think you weren't just fucking with me.

But I have learned, have let go, have wrinkled, have fattened, have picked myself up (and let myself be picked up) over and over. Sometimes I felt like I was just weathering the crashing waves of you, 2008. And I'd like to think I gave you a run for your money. Finally, the days are getting brighter and longer, and you're on your way out.

But listing it out like that isn't really fair. I don't want us to part this way, me having dragged out the facts to build the case for your good riddance. Let's not have an airing of grievances.

2008, you weren't so unbearable. The guy I voted for won-- about damn time-- and I'm still adjusting to my own optimism. You brought me a career change and a kick in the ass. You gave me time to shake my own expectations about balancing work and life. You gave me another year with my perfect match of a husband and a priceless stretch of time to watch Birdy work on becoming herself. You were my eighth year in this city, knitting me closer into my precious little circle. Indiana seems more like a pleasant place I've been, and this feels more and more like home.

So goodbye, 2008. At the stroke of midnight, I'll you a hug-- and mean it-- and then flip you the bird as you walk out the door.

Rollercoaster

Sunday, lovely Sunday:
A. played basketball for a couple of hours, Bird took a long (and necessary) nap, and I spent two and a half hours in my sunny little kitchen making food for the week (bread, paella, lentil casserole, edamame-corn salad) and thinking about nothing in particular. I listened to the end of A Prairie Home Companion (which I find more enjoyable as I grow old and weird), cranked up some Stan Getz for awhile, and finished the dishes with All Things Considered.

Mmmmmm. Content.


And then, by Tuesday:
I started laughing over my dinner and pretty soon, I was crying big clumsy tears, shaking shoulders and the whole bit-- crying from laughing, crying from sadness and worry, crying from grief, crying from anxiety and fear, crying from relief, crying from being completely overwhelmed. Bear's surgery finally over. Midwife appointment today that made me remember. Birdy's bird-ness. Rushing off to an afternoon meeting before dinner. Out of onions. Out of money. Out of clean clothes. Holiday plans and guilt coming from every direction. Suitcase still packed from the funeral in Indiana 2 weeks ago. Staying tired. Staying behind. All of that. Plus the good things, the Bird things, the A. things, the roof-over-my-head and food-on-my-table things. All of it, too much sometimes.

Haircut: Fixed.

Hello, $30 haircutter lady with the good-smelling shampoo. I have learned my lesson.

Yep, that's a picture of my haircut. I don't usually post photos of my own damn self here. But it's late, A. is out playing loud music in a sketchy neighborhood somewhere, and I thought it might be a good idea to take a photo of myself at 11pm in my raggedy-assed Vandy sweatshirt with no makeup on. And oh, hey, is that a 2006 calendar displaying the month of December hanging on my bathroom door? Yes! Yes it is!

And some more about my hormones

Also, as my hormones level out, my skin is freaking out a little bit, and I have a giant zit just under the outside of my right nostril. Like GIANT giant. So giant that when I told A. I was meeting two friends for lunch, he asked if we would be getting a table for FOUR.

I've taken to calling it the Zit Mustache, and making feeble attempts to cover it with makeup, which I am not so good at, and which you might think I might be good at having spent so much time in the fine arts department with paints and such, but no. I cannot successfully cover up a zit on my own face. I must have completely skipped that lesson in Junior High—when all of the other girls my age were learning how to convincingly apply cover-up, I was probably practicing for the Spelling Team. (You think I'm kidding. I was a competitive speller. Explains a lot, no?)

But the zit. It will go down in history along with the monster zit that appeared in the middle of my left cheek a week before my wedding, the one I fiddled with and poked at so much that I actually had to wear a band-aid over it. And apply Neosporin.

We will mark time by this zit. When I am old and gray and I drag out my ancient crock-pot to make some spicy black bean soup at the holidays, my adult children and their spouses will gently joke with me about how old that crock-pot must be, and I'll turn to A. and say, "honey, how old do you think this crock-pot is?" And he will say, "Well, you got it the year you had that zit mustache. That makes it thirty-four years old this October."

$15 well spent

Well, it's finally caught up with me. The fifteen-dollar lady gave me a really shitty haircut. Maybe the worst haircut, actually.

As in, visibly uneven.

As in, may have forgotten to work on ONE WHOLE SIDE OF MY HEAD.

I didn't notice it when I left-- she doesn't really blowdry/ style much (hello, $15) and we were chatting away about something or other and I was excited to meet my friend J. for dinner and drinks afterward*. So I guess I just didn't see it then, but holy shit, my friends. Holy Shit.

And do you know that for a second, I considered trying to fix it myself? Both for the sake of immediacy and because I didn't want to hurt her feelings? Because it is totally sane to walk around-- and go to one's JOB, live one's life, be photographed with one's relatives at significant family events-- with some kind of bizarre experimental and asymmetrical hairdo. As if my crap-tastic highlights weren't already winning the beauty contest, now I have to sit with my head cocked to one side until I can get in for a rematch.


* because I'm the kind of cheapskate who will meet you for dinner with a damp, uneven haircut.

Good Grief, it's already October

Pumpkin Spice hershey kisses? Exactly how I would imagine a softened "Fall Spice" scented Glade plug-in refill might taste.

****

A.'s words of wisdom about the EastSide softball league:
"It takes all kinds. But mostly, rednecks."

****
Honestly, there are more desserts in my office building on a consistent basis than any place I have ever worked. And I have worked in a wine + dessert bar. I will be 300 lbs by Christmas. I will have this baby in April and you won't even notice anything different about me.

****
I've kept quiet about the details and shared only the vaguest of stories and whiniest of attitudes with you for the past month or so, but what ended up finally happening this past week is that I almost left my new job for my old job. And then I realized that would be a really, really bad decision. And since my moment of clarity and closure, my current job seems about 300% better.

****
Fall weather is upon us, thankfully, even with its dark mornings and earlier sunsets. I'm getting up way too late in the mornings-- what I need is my dad, circa 1992, to walk into my room for the third time at 6:00 am and just flip the stinkin' lights on and walk back down the stairs. I would be pissed, sure, but I would be on time.

****
Big dog can open Bird's door if it's not latched just right. He can open a lot of doors, actually, with a combination of turning the knob with his teeth and ramming his body against it. But Bird's door is one of his favorites, because she has a rug in her room, and it's the only rug in the house. He likes to curl up and get comfy and commence making a calamitous noise chomping his own ass. Anyway. More than a few times, I've been climbing into bed and hear him bust into her room, all legs and stomping and clumsiness and clanky collar. So I curse under my breath and stomp down the stairs to find him not curled up with his ass in his mouth, but rather standing in her doorway wagging his tail furiously. And then I look at her sleepy little self, about a half inch away from falling out of bed. And he looks at me like, "see?"
So add that to his predictive abilities-- thunderstorms and little kids falling out of bed. We all have gifts. His are just unexpected.

Bird needs a haircut and other bits of information

So, after another trip to Urgent Care and many, many hours waiting to see a bona-fide opthamologist and a series of three waiting rooms full of elderly people with cataracts, my husband is fine, his sight has been restored, and the eye patch has been retired until the next ocular tragedy or costumed holiday, whichever comes first.

I'm still looking for the camera cable so I can share a photo or two. Our little catch-all office area is still a shambles but a more, uh, planned shambles, as we now have some actual piles of things that might really go together after we build the shelves we've promised ourselves. A. has separated all of "his" stuff from "my" stuff... editing and video and random cables and hard drives and nerds-only equipment over here, teeming piles of shit to be shredded, shit to be reviewed, shit to be paid, and general miscellaneous shit-- oh, and the massive collection of daily finger paint masterpieces on thick construction paper--over there. Seeing as "my" computer doesn't have internet, or electricity at the moment, I'm typing this on some kind of bozo keyboard that has editing symbols and colored keys instead of letters, and I must say I'm faring remarkably well. Mrs. Gibbs (high school typing teacher-- we actually used typewriters. And corrective tape) would be proud of my mad blind typing skeels.

Anywho, just thought I'd share that I didn't make bread this week and didn't buy any either, and yet we have miraculously survived. I received my political bumper sticker of choice and continue to race home to check for my t-shirt daily, but alas, it does not arrive. I made a delicious thing from the October VT tonight that I didn't expect to be quite so delicious, but hey, we were pleasantly surprised (served it over cous cous). Birdy has declared a tolerance for cous cous, and the new kid in her class at school seems to cause her mild stress by simply existing to this point without a working knowledge of the rules and culture of her beloved Red Building. I just spent an outrageous amount of money on 2 new dog beds and the big guy still insists on sleeping in his stinky old chair, which I have a desire to un-stink and about which he has a fierce re-stinking agenda. He is more underfoot than usual tonight, like the worst version of a needy, underfoot cat, if that cat weighed seventy pounds.

And another thing: I'm pregnant. You may know that already, because you know me outside of this blog or because I've not exactly been NOT hinting about it. We're excited, we're terrified, we're freaking out about the cost of dueling childcare. We're savoring the tail end of our three-pack days and preparing for a new life-- both the literal human one that will keep us up all night and smell like a heavenly human biscuit, and the new life we'll be navigating and fumbling with as everything changes in all six of the lives that are currently being lived under our little roof. I'm due April 28, almost ten weeks along at present. I'll keep you posted.

Hi. I'm still here.

There are big things happening, y'all. I've been a bit preoccupied, a bit tired. So much to consider, so much ahead. All good things, but so complex.

Also, we've been carting our happy little asses back and forth to Indiana for all manner of family events, and we're road weary. We're deep in a laundry crisis with no way out-- let's call this a laundry quagmire-- and we've stopped unpacking suitcases, treating them like special floor storage for the clothes we wear the most. We're over-committed after work to all kinds of worthy and unworthy causes, we're spending an ass load of money on groceries because we don't have the time to be smart about what we're buying. I feel like we're living event to event to event and we're facing another trip to Indiana this weekend. Fortunately, the last until the holidays, but damn, our (paid) dog sitter is LOVING us.

Does that sound a little down? I know. It is. I'm a little down, a little overwhelmed, a little pissed off and a lot emotional. We've made some decisions I certainly don't regret but now that we're at a no-turning-back place, I'm seeing more clearly how other things (job, for one) don't fit the way I thought they could. My math isn't working out and I'm feeling so disconnected from my real life-- the lively, interesting one-- spending all this time here in my box with my tiny window. I'm itching for a change again, even though change is barreling down the path, coming right for me.
Nothing is WRONG, but still, things don't seem quite right. The nudges are becoming shoves.

And to counter all of that moping, here are the things that are oh-so-good: my funny, funny Bird becoming more herself every day, doing awesome Bird things like hollering upstairs to A to make sure he doesn't forget his "deenerant." Saying, "Let's rock out" when she's got her shoes on and ready to leave the house. Reading her books to us, teacher style, slowly moving the book in front of her body in an arc so we can see the pictures. A's startup business taking a little more shape, gaining a little more momentum. Cooler weather, a heavy garden, never needing to buy tomatoes or peppers. A house I love that is patient with me and all my neglect. Little things like new tupperware. Constant things like old smelly dogs that tolerate being covered with stickers and friends who don't care if you don't call.

Where's my Ouija

I had a nice little chat with my friend Stingray today on IM, following up on the progress of his house-buying adventures. I suggested that a previous offer that fell through was meant to be, because the house was built on a Native American burial ground. He said he wouldn't mind a mild haunting, a little blood on the walls, whatever. I said I'd like a poltergeist that folds laundry. Hello, friendly, helpful haunts! Find me on the Eastside!

Punch, Cross, Hook, Upper

There was a staff picture today at work. It was emailed to everyone. It wasn't my prettiest day. Ill-fitting clothes, dough-white legs, dried strawberry smoothie in my hair that I wouldn't find until about 4:30. The smoothie didn't show up in the photo, but the ill-fitting skirt really, uh, highlighted the ole midsection.

Reminding me why I've been getting up at 5:30 and doing a kickboxing workout video* in my garage for the past week. And damn, am I uncoordinated. But I'm doing it alone, before anyone is stirring, and when that little muscle-bound Australian smiles at me from the screen and says, "Yew deed grite!" I'm all like "F-YEAH I DID EFFING GREAT" and my mornings start to feel a little bouncier. Hopefully my midsection will soon feel less so.

And now, the story you've been waiting for
I've started buying dried beans instead of canned. And when you eat as many beans as I do, that's actually worth mentioning. The thing is that I've been buying them, but usually bail out or plan poorly and turn to a can in a pinch. I finally had the foresight to soak 2 cups of black beans all day yesterday only to realize as I started dinner that I was looking at another couple of hours to COOK the damn things. I ended up going to Ghetto Grocery (which smelled suspiciously pukey) for a can of beans, and all told, the big pot of beans caught up with the pot of canned beans and they all finished cooking at the same time, which is to say that I have a veritable shitload of black beans in my refrigerator. And which is also to say that while you may pay half as much for dried beans, they're going to require a nice, clear page in your planner.

* I let A. preview the kickboxing video with me. The line I hear about a hundred times a day, in an exaggerated Australian accent? "Yer riddy feh anything. Lit's jump some raope!"

City Mice

Okay, can I contradict that last post? Yesterday we woke up and got to cruisin' before the Tennessee heat sat it's nasty, humid self down on the rim of the bowl where my city is nestled.

With Birdy strapped into her "drive bike" we pedaled to the library to pick up a book A. had requested, to the bike shop to get a new helmet for the now-preschool-sized head, and to the old-timey hardware store with the lazy cats in the window for a big honkin' bag of clothespins. And that was a pretty good time.

During one of my epic whines to A. about moving to the country, he explained that while he loves the big green leafy peace of the rural midwest/ southeast as much as the next guy, he feels more comfortable as a part of a big living breathing community where the constant motion and contact of the parts keeps the whole thing sputtering along, taking care of itself. And you know, I agree with that just as much as I want to can vegetables and let my dogs and children run their little legs off without a fence or a sidewalk in sight. And yesterday satisfied my need for urban opportunities and small-town insulation, all within 7 blocks.

Welcome to my life: it's all indecision and restlessness and greener grass just around the corner sometimes. Admittedly, it's when I've got ants in the pants about some other, separate issue.

AND. To the anonymous donor who turned over his/ her bread machine to the Goodwill where it was sold to me for $12 :

Thank you, thank you, thank you for donating the instruction manual as well.

Today is my Birthday.

Yesterday I was toasted by a handful of my nearest and dearest and given a composter (thanks, y'all!). Today, I received a staghorn fern from my in-laws (photos coming), a non-enormous bathrobe from my parents (yay), and tickets to see David Sedaris read here in October from my husband. So far, 32 is spoiling me.

We also took our very first post-bird camping trip over the weekend, which turned out really nicely. Hot, to be sure, but fun. Bird was a trooper, as always. There will definitely be more of that in our future. I mean, look how cozy they are in that little tent? You totally can't tell it was 600 degrees in there.