Sick Day

Today, I'm home on sick leave. I was feeling a tiny bit off when I went to bed last night, but nothing major. But when my alarm went off this morning, I just couldn't get out of bed. My throat hurt, and I had a headache, and I ended up sleeping until almost 11.

Personally, I think I'm sick over Katrina.

It's just astounding. And I have no idea what to do. I mean, there's money to donate, for sure, but that feels like it's not enough right now. I'm reminded of what my life was like just after September 11, when I just couldn't stop watching the news because I felt guilty getting on with a normal, happy life when there were so many Americans dealing with such staggering losses.

I'm glad that more information is coming in, especially about the looters. Last night, all the footage I saw was people hauling shit out of grocery stores....yknow, high-value items like candy and soda and diapers. (What fucking criminals, right? Stealing Huggies for their babies!) But now, CNN is reporting that people are pillaging clothing and electronic stores, which is really obscene.

Of course, I don't know why anyone would really care. I mean, who cares who owns what and whether it was bought or stolen when you live in Atlantis or Pompeii?

I work for an association whose members are high-profile entities on the U.S. coasts. We've been getting updates from our members in the Gulf, and they're reporting that their cities need the basics like Band-Aids and water.

There are members in Gulfport, Pascagoula and Mobile whom we haven't heard from.

At least the federal government seems to be doing what it can. Right now, I'm watching a press conference by all the cabinet secretaries about what they're doing to help. It may sound like bureaucratic gobbledygook to hear the EPA Administrator say he's waiving the Clean Air Act regarding fuel content or to hear the Secretary of Transportation say he's waiving Hours of Service regulations that mandate truckers' working hours, but those are actually huge actions. Necessary and no-brainer steps to put commonsense solutions into action, but it's still good to hear that the feds are doing their part - and quickly.

I just wish I could hold a news conference of my own to announce some major contribution to the catastrophe.

Family Times

Petunia and I returned home from the Ohio River Valley last night, after a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am weekend visiting family and throwing my sister a bridal shower. What a pleasant time.

No, seriously, it was the best weekend I've had in a long time.

First, my daughter was a freaking angel all weekend. The good karma began on our flight to Cincinnati, when Petunia did not cry or squirm or fuss. Instead, she sat contentedly in my lap, looking out the window of the airplane, reading books with me, enjoying some graham crackers and milk, and then eventually covering her legs with stickers before peeling them all off and making a giant sticker ball. Like a good little girl, she ran right into her grandma's arms at the airport (Petunia is turning into a total grandma's girl and it's really cute to watch) and also greeted her Aunt Shel with hugs and kisses.

After a quick pit stop at my alma mater's Friday night football game, where we said hello to some favorite old teachers and saw my youngest brother play in the marching band's halftime show, we headed home so I could begin cooking.

I'd been a little stressed about the menu for this event. As my oldest and dearest friend (who attended the shower) later pointed out, I have kind of a complex about cooking for my Midwestern family and friends. Ever since one holiday party when I brought a bunch of different cheeses (brie, havarti w/ dill, blue cheese) and someone looked at my contribution and snarked, "Oh...it's world cheese night," I have been a little touchy about serving food that is seen as too exotic or fancy. However, I vowed that I would not just set out a vegetable tray or make a tater-tot casserole, so I set to work on the recipes I'd brought.

We had raspberry muffins, rosemary/fig/goat cheese spread on homemade crostini, corn/snap pea salad, breakfast strata (sliced Italian bread layered with cheddar cheese and either bacon or broccoli, covered in a milk/egg mixture and baked to the consistency of French toast meets custard), strawberries with sweetened sour cream, green salad w/ blue cheese/pears/walnuts/raspberry balsamic dressing and a DELICIOUS cake from a local bakery. I served water with lime and cucumber slices (very spa day) and a pineapple berry fizz (simple lime syrup, pineapple juice and seltzer water with raspberries, blackberries and sliced strawberries floating on top).

Everything turned out great. I will be making that strata for breakfast this weekend. That berry fizz is going to become a non-alcoholic summer party staple. Everyone ate (and ate well!) and complimented the food, so I was feeling very relieved about that.

More importantly, my sister had a great time visiting with everyone and got a load of good stuff.

But best of all was that in addition to seeing my mom and sister and having a great weekend with them and Petunia, I got to see a lot of other relatives. My grandmother, pretty spry at age 85, was in a great mood and looked good - though shorter than the last time I saw her (osteoporosis has shaved about four inches off her in the past few years) - and both of my mom's sisters attended the shower, each with a daughter or daughter-in-law in tow. My stepmother also attended and brought her son's little girls, whom I hadn't seen in far too long.

The aunts and cousins and grandma hung around a little longer than everyone else, so we had plenty of time to visit after the shower officially wrapped. After my sister's wedding in November, next up are the weddings of my younger aunt's two kids. One wedding is in March (which we will definitely be attending), and the other is likely in June (a work event may conflict with that, unfortunately). After having such a good time with everyone this weekend, I'm really looking forward to all these family events.

(Hell, since apparently I'm such a gourmet cook, maybe I'll even offer to cater them!)

Anyway, it's just rare to have such a great, happy, good-energy filled weekend with my family. There was one very low point, which I really don't feel like talking about right now but I'm sure I will share here eventually. Even that downer, though, wasn't enough to ruin the great times I had with my mom, sister, grandma, aunts and cousins.

When I was talking to my mom last night, I even said that whenever she's ready to move away from the Queen City, she should consider Richmond-ish so she'd be within about a two-hour drive of us. I know Petunia would love that, and I'm starting to think that I wouldn't mind having more family around myself...

Children Should Be Seen, Not Heard

Yesterday, I was in a typical DC meeting: the gathering of participants in a coalition dedicated to advancing a certain policy position.

Lots of lobbyists around a big conference table, some federal officials at one end, cookies and soda in the corner. This is a fairly senior group, and most of the lobbyists around the table have their stripes. I'd say most of them are in their late 40s, some a little older and a few a little younger (clearly, I was in the 'younger' category).

Most of these people have interacted professionally for a long time. A majority of the women have the same look: expensive suit, manicured nails, a little too much dark eye makeup, short coiffed hair, some nice jewelry. They are the alphas in the room, and they know it. And they like it.

As part of the next generation of women lobbyists who, for better or for worse, has to sit at the feet of these broads, I know that my best behavior in a meeting like that is to sit quietly, listen attentively and not call a lot of attention to myself. Especially because one of the alphas at the table is the number two in my association (though she definitely eschews 'the look').

Whenever I'm in a situation like that and I'm tempted to jump into a debate, I remember that scene in The Godfather where Sonny butts into the negotiations between his pop and Sollozzo. Marlon Brando cuts off James Caan and gives him a death stare as he politely explains, 'I have a sentimental weakness for my children, and I spoil them, as you can see. They talk when they should listen.'

However, not everyone in yesterday's meeting had seen and absorbed The Godfather.

There was a woman who was attending for the first time on behalf of her organization. She was probably about my age. She showed up at the meeting in an uber-trendy long, loudly-printed Asian-themed shantung jacket over capri pants. A standout in navy pin-striped Washington, but I don't think a bold outfit is an offense in and of itself.

However, when her cell phone started ringing from her giant tote bag under the table, I think she crossed a line. As everyone turned to stare at the person who was interrupting the meeting, it became apparent that this chick was wowing no one with her amateurism.

But what iced the cake was the fact that her ring tone was a downloaded clip of 'Sweet Caroline' by Neil Diamond.

And that a few minutes after silencing her personal serenade, it proceeded to ring AGAIN. And she had to bend over under the table and dig out her cell phone to stop the Neil Diamond AGAIN.

What an asshat.

Table for One

Basil and I had a rip-roaring party yesterday afternoon/evening, and I had a little too much wine. (Or, maybe I am just a little out of practice at drinking.) I was feeling kind of rough this morning, and as lunchtime approached, I realized that I needed a big, greasy meal to set me right.

Five Guys immediately leapt to mind. It's the world's most awesome burger and fries joint: fresh burgers with a mind-boggling amount of topping options and incredible boardwalk style fries, which I always eat with plenty of malt vinegar and ketchup.

I emailed Basil to see if I could persuade him into joining me for some meat and potatoes. He had plans. Another friend, also suffering the effects of our party, was planning to sneak in a nap over lunch. I was feeling kind of bummed about being forced to eat the leftover veggies I brought from home when I remembered that I could just GO BY MYSELF. So, off I walked to Five Guys for some solitary lunch enjoyment.

As I sat there feeling my arteries harden with each bite, I realized that it had been quite awhile since I'd eaten or - really - done anything alone. Not counting business travel, going solo is something I rarely do anymore. For better or for worse, getting married and having a baby means you are hardly ever by yourself.

When I first moved to the DC metro area, I had only a few friends. But there was so much to see and do, I hated the idea of sitting at home. So, I learned to go out by myself.

On my 21st birthday, as I walked from my temp job in Georgetown to my evening grad school class at George Washington University, I stopped off at the Georgetown Seafood Grill and treated myself to my very first whole lobster. At a table with a white tablecloth, I sat near a window and had the waiter instruct me on what to do with the crustacean on my plate. I also enjoyed my first legal drink!

My first experience with sushi was also a solo dining event. For months, I had watched a new restaurant go into the plaza where my home Metro stop was located. A few weeks after it opened, I decided to reward the proud smiles of the owners, whom I'd seen working every day, by paying a visit. Because no one was there to tell me what to think of what I was eating, I got to form my opinions about sushi in a void. (Of course, I wish someone had told me that the big lump of green stuff on my plate was NOT to be eaten by the biteful...having some company might have resulted in a less painful lesson about wasabi.)

And over the years, I got the confidence to do more than eat alone. I frequently went to matinee movies by myself, taking in all kinds of flicks without having to negotiate with someone to find a mutually acceptable film.

But the culmination of my go-it-alone experiences was my two-night bed and breakfast getaway the summer before I got married. The fourth Harry Potter book had just been released, and I was getting ready to start a new job. So I took a week off between jobs and drove down to Virginia's Northern Neck. I checked into a charming renovated old school house, where I spent a couple of days in a clawfoot bathtub and in bed under a canopy reading the latest adventures of Harry and Lord Voldemort.

But since I married, most of my traveling and eating and movie-watching has - understandably - been with my husband. Or, if Basil and I are feeling a little overdosed on our love, I'll go out with my girlfriends. It's been a long time since I actively chose to do anything by myself, other than the occasional shopping trip. (And since shopping is a pretty socially acceptable activity to do alone, I hardly even notice being by myself.)

Requesting a table for one takes some confidence, a certain level of comfort with who you are and what you're doing. My mother, who is divorced, won't do it. She says she would feel funny and embarassed sitting by herself in a restaurant that provided more than counter service. But I like having a chance to collect my thoughts and observe the people and world around me.

(And who knows? Maybe it's easier being in a more urban environment where there's so much going on and everyone has their own drummer. Going out alone in the cookie-cutter suburbs is probably a lot harder in the sense that you DO stand out to those around you.)

Being alone from time to time makes me realize that I don't always have to have someone around me to do the things I want to do. I spend time with people because I like them, because they add something to my life, not just because they are convenient. And if my family and friends are unavailable or uninterested in what I want to do, then it's perfectly okay to fly solo for an hour, an afternoon, a day or a week.

Anyway, it felt really good - in the grand scheme of things - to get out by myself for a little lunch and fresh air today. If only it had gotten rid of this headache...

Thinking About Eating

Healthy eating is something near and dear to my heart. I often struggle with it, and I struggle to impart healthy habits to my daughter. Recently, two headlines have grabbed my attention: 'Low-Carb Fad Fades, and Atkins is the Big Loser' and 'Hold the Health, Serve That Burger'

The first is (duh) a story about the bankruptcy of Atkins Nutrionals and the turning of America away from the low-carb frenzy. The second is a more recent story about restaurant chains who are removing low-selling healthy items from their menus. The reason? People talk a big game about wanting healthy choices, but in the end, they order a burger and fries.

These stories caught my eye because I've been struggling with my eating philosophy lately. I consider myself to be a pretty healthy eater...I focus on getting plenty of whole grains, as well as fruits and vegetables. I try to limit my dessert and alcohol consumption (though I am a sucker for any and all things chocolate). I have 2-3 servings of dairy each day. We use olive oil regularly and eat fish about once a week.

And while I have no doubts that I'm getting the vitamins and other nutrients that I need, as well as keeping saturated fat to about 10% of my caloric intake (and I know this because periodically I log everything I eat into FitDay.com, which computes it all for me), I am still struggling with the scale - despite the fact that I've been walking 2.5-3.0 miles per day, 5 or 6 days a week. Perhaps more importantly, I'm really struggling with my body image, too.

Unlike all the people who want to believe in quick fixes like Atkins, I know that weight loss is all about calories in, calories out. You want to lose weight? Burn more than you consume. So with the scale not budging and the body not moving, I'm left questioning my eating habits. Clearly, I'm just eating too many calories to lose the weight I want to lose.

But I don't know where to cut! Are my portions just too big? Am I only allowed to have dessert once a week?

And then there's the happiness factor: How hungry am I supposed to be? Ravenous? How often? When I try to get by on 1400 calories a day, I am cranky, unfocused, miserable, headachy and tired. Maybe I should just suck it up and give my body time to get used to the change, hoping that fewer calories will feel better as time passes. But will my ever body adjust to that? And even if it does adjust, will I ever be happy? Do I have to spend the rest of my life longing for food that I can't eat?

I see a connection between the news stories I mentioned. All the quick-fix-seekers of the world got disillusioned when they realized that gorging themselves on so-called 'low-carb' products wasn't going to do anything. So they went back to eating what they wanted, consequences be damned.

But here I am, trying so hard to do everything right - not looking for a quick fix - and I feel like I've ended up in the same place as all the Atkinsers: disillusioned.

So what are my choices? To order the burger and fries and enjoy how my food tastes and feel satisfied - to hell with diet and health and weight and body image? Or to order a side salad and pretend it fills me up, while really it leaves me feeling hungry and disappointed yet possibly moves me toward the body I want desperately to reclaim? I feel like I've been on the middle road for some time, and it's gotten me nowhere fast.

At least my mind has plenty to chew on for awhile. Calorie-free, even...

Put Down the Grapefruit!

Here is an important tip that I can pass on to all women taking birth control pills: Do not eat grapefruit or drink grapefruit juice, especially in large quantities.

I am not pregnant, but this morning I damn sure thought I was.

See, for the past couple of days, my digestive system has not felt right. It's been kind of uncomfortable, a little nauseous and kind of gassy (I would apologize for TMI but this is my blog and I can write about my farts if I want to). The first day, I didn't think much of it. The second day, I was kind of annoyed. The third day (today), when I woke up feeling the same way, I was kind of troubled.

During my morning walk, I tried to wrap my brain around it. What could be making me feel this way? Hey...I felt this way when I was pregnant! And even though I'm on the pill, I know it's not a 100% failsafe. Hmmmm....my period was kind of light last month. Could I be knocked up well ahead of schedule?

I couldn't remember any days where I had forgotten my pill, so I racked my brain for a possible explanation. I remembered reading something about grapefruit juice making the pill not work, but I kind of dismissed it at the time as holistic mumbo-jumbo put out there to discourage the taking of synthetic hormones.

So I did what any normal woman would do: I came to work and Googled "grapefruit juice birth control pill" and let me tell you, the results were terrifying!

Reliable medical sites like MSN Health and the University of Virginia said that grapefruit inhibits the metabolization of an enzyme that is present in many common medications, making them less than effective. That same enzyme is also present in ethinyl estradiol (synthetic estrogen) pills. So if you down your Orthocyclen with a glass of grapefruit juice everyday, you may be flying without a net. Without knowing it.

Well, this news set my teeth on edge, as I love grapefruit juice. I've been starting my morning with a 6 or 8 ounce glass pretty much every day for the past several months. Which means that maybe, just maybe, I had an unknown bun in the oven.

After getting a reassuring one-line result on a hastily purchased pregnancy test, I calmed down a little bit. I realized that the digestive discomfort is probably the result of my (a) really trying to significantly cut back on calories and (b) simultaneously upping my intake of fruits and vegetables. Getting used to eating less, coupled with a big increase in roughage, has had my tummy feeling ooky, I think.

It's going to be a sad time tonight, dumping my yummy tart beverage down the drain. I guess I'll have to find another source of Vitamin C and morning delight.

But I refuse to be the butt of the joke as simple citrus growers make a mockery of hard-working pharmaceutical researchers everywhere. I mean, what's next? Aspargus having the last laugh on Paxil?

Mmmm...Product

As part of the aforementioned fun spa-day lunch, my girlfriends and I were dishing about our skin care regimes, hair care products and cosmetics preferences. Between the five of us, we ran the gamut from hardly using anything to buying whatever was available at the drug store to being self-described 'product whores' working the counters at fancy department stores. Even though I fall down on my skin care sometimes, I would probably put myself in the 'pro-ho' category - especially when it comes to makeup.

I've always been enough of a girly-girl to love makeup and all the foofiness it entails. In seventh grade, my mother finally let me wear makeup, and I remember sitting at my desk in front of an old makeup mirror (the kind with lights down both sides and a mirror that flipped over for magnification) with a stash of supplies. I had been reading all the teen fashion magazines, and I was ready. For more than an hour, I painstakingly applied foundation, concealer, powder and lip gloss. When I emerged, my mom said, 'It doesn't look like you're wearing any makeup.' And I confidently retorted, 'Well, duh...that's the point...it's supposed to look NATURAL!'

One of my other favorite makeup memories growing up is my mom's crazy eyeshadow case of like 75 colors, ranging from the jewel tones of the 80s to more neutral shades. Oh, man, did I love to get my mitts on that thing. I would try out color combinations for hours, sometimes coming out looking like a runaway teenage hooker who had broken into the suburban house of this nice middle-class family to raid their bathroom.

Over the years, I loved experimenting with cosmetics. During my dramatic college years, I had makeup to match my dyed black hair...kohl-lined eyes, dark lipstick, porcelein skin. (Remember that girl in the 'She Talks to Angels' video? I was vaguely going for that look.)

Upon entering the real world, I lost the dark hair and cigarettes (most of the time anyway), and I tried to give myself a more neutral and more professional look. More browns and pinks, fewer blacks and reds.

When I was pregnant with Petunia, my makeup was my salvation. I felt like I had no control over my body from the neck down, so I could at least ensure that I looked fabulous from the neck up. After Petunia was born, I insisted on two things every day: showering and putting on makeup. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror and enhancing my face's best features made me feel like I was holding onto some semblance of attractiveness and put-togetherness.

I've bounced around from Clinique to Origins to Aveda, but for the past two or three years, MAC has been my preferred brand. I love the packaging, all sleek and black and urbane (if my friend J.Pro is a product whore, then I am a packaging whore). And so help me God, they have the BEST brushes I've ever owned. I want to buy makeup just to buy the brushes that apply it. Or blend it. Or stipple it. Or WHATEVER. I feel like a glamour queen using them.

But since I started working closer to home last spring, I don't have a lot of opportunities to get to the mall or the department store in the course of my normal day. My MAC access is limited, and I'm usually either too lazy or too busy to make a special trip to stock up. So the makeup monkey on my back has been forcing me to take a little longer walking down the 'personal care' aisle at the grocery store.

Last night, at said grocery store, I bought my first blush in YEARS. Blush is the one product that has intimidated the hell out of me since junior high. I have never been able to get it right. Either the color is all wrong and I look clay-stained or clownish, or the application is terrible and I look bruised or rashy.

But not today! No, today, I look glowing, cheerful and healthy. All thanks to Neutrogena Shimmer Sheers in Charmed (or Enchanted? I can't remember). It's a sheer cream blush that goes on very delicately...giving just a little bit of translucent color to where its applied. The product website says it provides 'subtle highlights,' and I would agree with that. In fact, when I smugly pointed out the success of my purchase this morning to Basil in the car, he squinted his eyes and tentatively said, 'Uh, I can't really tell a difference.'

That's okay, because I know. My face is just a little brighter today, and I look just a little more finished and put together.

I will never abandon my MAC (any shopping trip to the mall is sure to include a swing-by to replenish and see what's new), but I'm feeling pretty good about exploring more of what the drugstore has to offer me.

Skin Deep

This weekend, my girlfriends and I had a spa day, to mark a milestone birthday of Prurient Interest. The pampering was fabulous (if you've never had a vichy shower, I can wholeheartedly recommend one), and we had an especially good time at lunch afterward splitting three bottles of wine between the five of us. Vive le birthdays!

Usually, I spend the day or so after a spa experience riding in a little cloud. Not so much this time.

It's been quite a while since I had a spa experience. I can't say I've ever been a regular, but for a few years anyway, it seemed like I was going for a facial or a massage or a pedicure every couple of months. I'm a total slut for spa treatments. I love them. Give me a gift certificate for a body scrub or a reflexology treatment, and you're pretty much in my pants.

In particular, I usually love getting facials because I feel like my skin gets a great refresher that lasts for days if not weeks, and I get some nice compliments about my youthful peaches and cream complexion. At this visit, though, the aesthetician told me I had milia (she described them as tiny calcium deposits on the skin) and that she would remove them during the pore extraction by lancing them.

After she showed them to me, I realized what she was talking about. They look like whiteheads but aren't. They feel like bumps on the skin, but they're never tender. And they don't go away. I guess I just never gave them that much thought. They weren't moles, so I wasn't worried about skin cancer. And they weren't particularly noticeable, so I didn't feel self-conscious.

Having them removed was a little uncomfortable, and afterward my face was inflamed and red in the places where she had removed the little buggers. But now that it has settled down, it looks much better. My treatment lady, Brenda, said the only thing to do about them is to come back every 8 weeks or so for a facial. She also chastised me to be religious about an evening skin care routine.

Anyway, it put me in a little funk. I think I was on the way to a low place already (maybe reading all those dumb fashion magazines on my flights to and from Seattle had me comparing myself to air-brushed celebrities) but finding out I'd been walking around with these tiny 'benign, keratin-filled cysts' (Wikipedia) on my face made me feel like kind of a doofus. Like my underwear had been hanging out for a long time, and nobody ever told me. I mean, there is plenty about my body that is imperfect by a long shot, but I always thought my skin was one of my best features. And I'm grateful to Brenda for telling me about the problem and fixing it (my skin does look terrific where she did the removals), but I spent much of the rest of the weekend questioning where else I fall short without knowing it. I had some bummer moments, which were only exacerbated by my doing two foolish things: trying on pre-baby clothes on Saturday night and then stepping on the scale this morning.

Like I said, I'm pretty sure I was already headed into a little personal valley (everyone has cycles in their moods and self-confidence, right?), but after the lunch wine wore off, my facial left me staring at my skin in the mirror at super-close range looking for other imperfections. And then I think I stepped back from the mirror and just kept looking and looking.

Probably I should stop doing that...

Mortality

My dad emailed this morning to say that one of his brothers passed away early this morning. It was a total shock; my uncle had been in relatively good health and was checked into the 'dorm' of the local VA hospital for a routine colonoscopy. At 1:30 am, he sat up and told his wife he couldn't breathe; he was dead a few minutes later despite doctors' best efforts.

This is the second of my dad's five siblings to pass away within the past couple of years. Given that I'm a spritely 28 (at least for another month) and my parents are in their early 50s, it is incredibly unexpected to be losing aunts and uncles right now.

Then there is my mother-in-law, whom I love deeply (despite her tendency toward shopaholism), who lost one of her dearest friends early this year to a long battle with colon cancer. This was about five years after she lost her wonderful husband to freak complications from bypass surgey. Basil Sr. was a mere 63.

And this woman at my church, whose son - my age, roughly - just opened a new restaurant...She was hostessing the restaurant's opening night in February and was dead by June, felled by a cancer that no one knew was growing, despite regular checkups and screening tests.

All of these deaths rattle me. Especially since we just met with our financial planner this week and were going over our insurance policies and retirement planning. We've been trying to save enough to cover our expenses if Basil retires at 65, which seems an eternity away. But this week, our guy suggested that he re-run the numbers at 62 and at 60, and hopefully we will be able to make one of those lower ages work so maybe we can enjoy our retirement with colostomy bags and walkers.

After pondering these recent losses this morning, I think our financial planner is onto something.

I mean, seriously, people are not supposed to die in their 60s. This isn't the 1800s. We're all supposed to be alive and draining the Social Security system well into our 80s or even 90s. My peers and I are used to losing grandparents by now...but aunts? uncles? parents? It doesn't seem right.

I look at people I work with, who have celebrated their 60th birthdays in the past year or two. I think they're fucking nuts for still coming in here every day. Don't they know they should be enjoying themselves? Maybe some of them enjoy work that much, but I just want to push them out the door with a hammock and some airline tickets and scream, "GO! Travel. Read. Whatever. Just take advantage of the time you've got now, because what if you die before you retire and you never get to do anything fun?"

At least the people I named above all had some great times at the ends of their lives. Both my uncle and Basil's dad retired a little early, giving them some time to live out their respective dreams of owning a farm and traveling the country. Basil's mother's friend beat her cancer diagnosis by a long shot, surviving long enough to welcome her first TWO grandchildren into the world (no, they weren't twins, either). The woman at my church, as I mentioned, had the good fortune of seeing one of her children realize a huge dream and being a part of it all.

In the end, I know there's no cheating death. But it's creeping in on my life more than it used to. That realization is enough to motivate me to value the time I have with loved ones, take care of myself as best as I can, get my financial/legal affairs in order and aim for early retirement.

Mer-ingitis: The Memories

Where were you one year ago today? I was in a private room in a suburban Virginia hospital, riding a wave of synthetic morphine and anti-nausea medicine. I slept about 18 hours a day. It was awesome!

Just kidding. I had viral meningitis, and it totally sucked.

Seriously, I spent five or six days in the hospital, which was far longer than I stayed when I delivered my daughter. Most of my time there was in a private room because at first the doctors weren't sure whether I had bacterial meningitis (highly contagious, will kill you if you don't treat it) or viral meningitis (nothing to do but manage the pain and wait for said virus to run its course).

How did I catch such a gem of an illness? Well, unlike Brad Pitt, I had not recently taken a trip to Africa with my pseudo-girlfriend to help her adopt an orphaned child. The only thing that really stood out was that my daughter had spent the previous Saturday vomiting on me repeatedly, reaching the point of dehydration and requiring a trip to the ER to pep her up again.

The infectious diseases doctor who treated me was wholly unimpressed with my diagnosis. She was incredibly nice and very skilled, but she informed me matter-of-factly that it was the 'season' for viral meningitis, and I was one of several cases she'd seen recently.

It was a pretty big deal to me, my family and friends, though. The first nine or ten days of the illness were marked by the most spectacular headache I've ever had. At first I thought it was just another migraine, but it soon surpassed even the worst migraine I've ever had. Every noise was like a jackhammer in the softest parts of my brain. When my mother came to visit me in the hospital, I had to ask her to stop reading her magazine because the noise made by turning the pages made me want to cry. Pretty much, that sums up my time in the hospital: I slept, I cried and I rang the nurse for more pain meds.

And man, were those meds good. A few moments after getting that IV push of Dilaudid and Phenergan, I was feeling incredible. I could stare at that hospital clock for hours, all the while feeling slightly bemused and out-of-body. But usually, I just slipped into a peaceful sleep, thanking the good Lord for the advances of modern medicine.

(Of course, when they're pumping you full of those bliss-inducing drugs, they don't tell you that they're slowing eating through your veins. It took months for my IV site to heal and for the swelling/inflammation to go down in my hand.)

After I came home from the hospital, I spent about another two weeks convalescing at home. The pain had subsided a great deal by then, but I was still exhausted all the time and required a lot of quiet rest. Thankfully, a dear friend loaned me season after season of Sex and the City. (Being too cheap to pay for HBO, I had never seen a whole episode, much less a whole season.) And I caught up on girly fashion magazines. (Did you have any idea how big boucle would be last fall? What about brooches? Purple and green? I knew, my friends. I knew.)

Anyway, I was reminded of the affectionately dubbed 'Mer-ingitis' episode this month when I was noticing what a ghost town my office had become. I thought, Wow...I don't remember it being like this last year. And then I realized, I don't know anything about last August. I spent practically the whole month inside, sleeping, taking drugs and indulging the aforementioned TV and magazine habit.

Was it hot? Were there shark attacks? Did anyone famous die? I wouldn't know. Here’s what I remember about last August: Carrie and Big were together, then they broke up, then they had sex anyway, then she was dating that guy from Northern Exposure, then she wrote a book and was dating that guy from Office Space. In the mean time, Charlotte married and divorced an impotent Scotsman and discovered she couldn't have babies while Miranda had a out-of-wedlock baby with a bartender. Oh, and of course, Samantha had tons of sex. (Could somebody please loan me Season 6 so I can give those poor women some closure in my life?)

A month is a long time to lose to illness, even one that makes you sleep and get high and watch Sarah Jessica Parker all the time. While I'm glad to have used the time to my advantage by catching up on a pop culture phenomenon, I hope I'll never be that sick ever again - even if the hydromorphone is covered by my insurance.

Some Unbelievable Shit

At the nudging of my dear friend Prurient Interest, I am going to tell you all a sordid tale. I'm warning you now that both the subject matter and the language used to describe it are not for the weak of stomach, so if you're squeamish, just go find a nice knitting blog to read.

A couple of weeks ago, when my mother was here visiting, little Petunia was going through one of her unfortunate constipation bouts and we were doing our best to fix the problem via her diet. (Cause shoving a glycerin suppository up a screaming toddler's ass is nobody's idea of fun.) A few weeks earlier, we had starting giving her a dried plum or two as a first course at breakfast. Petunia seemed to like the plums, and we liked the fact that she could shit without crying, and everybody was happy with our one or two prune routine.

But then, like I said, a little constipation reared its head (get it? 'reared'!) and we decided that we should step the morning fiber up to three prunes. Well, that day at nap time, our stubborn little angel was fighting sleep as usual...singing, talking, hurling things...and then it got really quiet. We smugly grinned at each other, thinking, 'She's out!' But then, through the baby monitor we heard a frantic 'Daddy daddy daddy!' Basil rushed up to check things out, and he was greeted by a foul and gruesome sight: our first blowout poop in AGES and, to make matters worse, it had been smeared all over the crib environs by Petunia's thrashing.

He called down 'HELP!' through the monitor, and my mother and I raced up to our own private elephant house - both in the appearance and the smell. We flew into action...one of us bathing the baby, another starting a load of laundry and the other cleaning the crib with Lysol spray.

'Wow. What a fluke!' we thought. 'Guess we should stick to one or two prunes.'

Except that it happened the next day at nap time. And that's when we realized that we weren't dealing with blowout diapers...we were dealing with a toddler who was finger painting with her own shit. Yep, our feisty daughter apparently did not want to nap in the most desperate way, so she crapped her pants and then grabbed a few fistfuls to rub all over the sheet, pillowcase, crib slats, wall and her clothes. (And btw, I feel compelled to add that she was accessing her shit through the leghole of the diaper...there was no diaper removal in either instance.)

I don't know that we have ever been so furious with her or so absolutely disgusted. Basil was too angry to speak, but I made up a little Q&A mantra, which I repeated with Petunia a gagillion times in the next few hours, to help hammer home the point that civilized people do not mark their territory by smearing feces all over it.

'Where does poop go?'
'DIAPER.'
'Right. And do we touch poop with our hands?'
'NO.'
'Right. Because poop is...'
'YUCKY.'
'Right! Good girl. Poop is yucky, and we don't touch it with our hands.'

And really, I thought, 'Okay...this is sinking in. It was random that she tried it twice, but we've made clear that this is the most fucking gross thing she could ever do, and that message will resonate.'

But just in case it didn't, I asked some of my nearest and dearest mom friends 'What Would Jesus Do?' in this case. Most of them were stumped, but good ole Prurient Interest came up with a solution: thin tights under a onesie, the equivalent of a baby chastity belt.

Brilliant!

Well, we headed to Cleveland to visit my mother-in-law last weekend, ready to put the chastity belt plan into action at naptime. We had bike shorts as a back-up in case we weren't able to find tights for sale during the peak of summer. On Friday, Petunia napped in the car after a full day of sightseeing and playing, so we thought we were in the clear until Saturday's nap.

Except that Petunia decided to take advantage of the free time after we put her to bed Friday night in her normal onesie and jammies shorts. When she started calling 'Daddy daddy daddy' I went upstairs and saw what looked like a shitty murder scene in the pack and play. This time it was my turn to call for help via the monitor: 'SHE DID IT AGAIN!'

By this time, we were pretty efficient at mobilizing to clean up such a mess. I like to think that together, we are sort of The Wolf, Harvey Keitel's character from Pulp Fiction:

Marsellus Wallace: You ain't got no problem, Jules. I'm on the motherfucker. Go back in there and chill them niggers out and wait for the Wolf, who should be coming directly. Jules: You sendin' the Wolf?
Marsellus Wallace: Oh, you feel better, motherfucker?
Jules: Shit, yeah, negro. That's all you had to say.

So after dressing Petunia in bright orange bike shorts under her onesie (which had the unintended effect of making her look like a Jazzercise instructor) and putting her back to bed, we set out to figure out how and why she was doing this. We called ourselves 'PSI: Poop Scene Investigation.'

What was amazing, according to my mother-in-law, who drew the laundry straw, was that the onesie and shorts had NO SHIT ON THEM. Our little girl is a poop Houdini, removing whole handfuls of shit without so much as touching the clothes on her body. (Maybe she will be a secret agent someday with skills like that.) We decided that either she was bored or wanted attention or, possibly, was interested enough in her own body to start potty training.

The next morning, we procured some tights from Babies R Us, and the tights/onesie have become Petunia's naptime uniform, while the 'Jazzercise instructor costume' is still doing bedtime duty. Petunia has taken several craps soon after we've put her down for a nap or for bed, but she hasn't yet figured out how to get in the chastity belt.

(Although yesterday morning, we found her sleeping in her crib, having wriggled both arms out of the neckhole of her onesie and shimmied the whole thing down around her waist. So she was sleeping naked from the waist up but with a onesie over bike shorts on the bottom.)

We don't know whether she is the most clever kid ever, bound for a life of derring-do as a magician, or a young prodigy abstract artist. (Maybe the NEA would be interested in her work?) Of course, we're also equally concerned that she's soon going to start burning the wings off flies and screaming when we try to cross the threshold of the church.

So there you have it, my friends, a tale that will either (a) make you remember to take your birth control pills everyday or (b) hug your own child fiercely and thank her for not acting like a damn primate every time she moves her bowels.

THE END.

Carfuffle

Five and a half years ago, Basil and I did something that would cement our relationship forever: we bought our first car together. Before we were married (or even engaged), we journeyed to a Saturn dealership in Wickliffe, Ohio, to take on shared debt and become grownups.

It was kind of scary...I put up a couple thousand dollars for the down payment while Basil agreed to assume responsibility for the monthly payments. But Basil had been leasing a little Toyota Tacoma truck whose contract was up, and I was a car-less city girl riding Metro everywhere. And so jointly owning a vehicle seemed to be in the cards.

We picked Saturn for a number of reasons: the no-haggle buying experience, the great gas mileage, the low price, and the reliability and good marks given by Saturn owners (...maybe even the peppiness of those goofy ads the company used to run). We had a good experience, got a great deal, and drove our new car home from our holiday visit to Greater Cleveland.

This past Christmas, after a couple of apartments, one house and one baby, we finally paid that car off. And while our SL2 is still trucking along just fine despite its 66,000+ miles, I think it's time to become a two-car family.

We've kind of been a one-and-a-half car family for the past year and a half, due to the generosity of our dear friend Nate, who is on contract in the UK for an undetermined amount of time. As he prepared to head overseas early last year, he realized didn't want his convertible sitting around going to rot. Around the same time, I accepted my current job, which is a few miles from home - a little too far to walk everyday but not especially well-sited for using transit. So, a mutually beneficial relationship was borne, in which we kept Nate's car in good shape and current on tags/taxes, and he could be guaranteed to return home to a legal, reliable vehicle at any time. Our arrangement proved incredibly useful, having a second car around for days that Basil and I couldn't carpool because of schedule conflict. And I have to say that we loved taking turns putting the top down on nice days.

But Nate has decided he wants to get some money out of the convertible before it becomes too old and unsalable. And we have decided that buying the convertible just doesn't make sense with little Petunia around and a sibling or two in the cards eventually. We need something that's really safe and has decent storage capability, to drive us to the Midwest and back for holidays...something that will handle all of our beach gear without having to pack it around Petunia like those stuffed animals around E.T. in Gertie's closet.

We've been kind of musing our options for awhile, realizing that our gravy train would stop running eventually. And while Basil would be fine with a minivan, I just can't do it yet. (I feel like I'd have a pair of tapered-leg jeans on as soon as I signed the papers.) And I don't think I can do an SUV, either. The rollover and gas-guzzling factors are just too high for my comfort level.

Which leaves us with a station wagon.

I don't know whether you've checked them out lately, but today's wagons are pretty damn sporty and cute. There's no wood-paneling, and they don't look or feel like boats on the highway. In fact, some of the crossover-type wagons even have three-rows of seating.

I'm feeling like the Ford Freestyle is going to be the big winner. It's gotten good reviews by the car people (some of them grouse a little about its engine power, but I don't know why they think I'd need more than 203 hp), it has seating for six or seven (depending on the options), it gets good gas mileage (20 city, 27 highway), and it's pretty reasonably priced. It's designed to snag the segment of the market who don't want to own an SUV but who want some SUV attributes.

That's us!

Unfortunately, there don't appear to be too many people like us in the world. Or maybe they just don't know about this particular Ford vehicle. Because Ford recently let leak that Freestyle sales are disappointing in this, its first year of existence, and the company will drastically remake the wagon for model year 2007 and brand it as a Mercury.

I'm not sure whether that's good news or bad news for us, as we prepare to buy a Freestyle (assuming that we like it upon personal inspection and test drive). It could mean that we'll get a sweet deal as people are looking to move these cars off their lots. Or it could mean that in a few years we'll never be able to find parts for it and we'll regret our decision.

Oh, being childless and riding Metro everywhere would be nice right now...