Candy & Iron

Six years ago today was also super sunny, the air thin, the first cherry blossoms on branches. We took a cab down to city hall where beneath the 5^th largest Beaux-Arts dome in the world a judge told us that nothing he said would marry us, that it was what we said to each other that truly sealed the deal.

Then there was the other night as I leaned forward to eat my dinner you reached your hand out to talk to the baby and there was an awkward moment, wasn’t there? As you rubbed my ginormous boob thinking it was my tummy. Six years later and I want to keep on talking to you, laughing with you, saying the right things and doing the wrong things, the other way around and then some until the day you rub my breast thinking that you are patting me on the knee.

Happy anniversary love.

February 1

I have this memory of February. I am 12 and at a friend’s house. She has a pool and we are in one-piece bathing suits standing with our toes over the edge of the deep end. Remember this, I told myself, remember this forever because this is when Spring starts, and we laughed, screamed, jumped in.

I thought of that this morning on the bus to work and I wanted to hug my 12 year old self, I love her so. (12 and long straight up and down, my body growing into a vertical axis these days.) It was foggy this morning, and on the bridge you could barely make out the blinking yellow lights of a bridge patrol car stopped mid-span. As the bus drove slowly past it I noticed that all of our heads turned heavy and knew that we were all thinking the same thing though no one said a word simply because the morning bus is supposed to be silent. And then the heads turned back to their laps and their phones, necks wrapped in wool, the market watch section of the paper lengthwise in the proper commuter fold.

I love February, I tell people, because February is when Spring starts, and people laugh at me. Are you kidding? They say, but I’m not and I know. I wanted to tell those people on the bus this morning that it’s true, it’s possible—sometimes you can jump into a pool in February. I remember. Do you?
Apropos of not much but a 7th grade memory of those impossibly scratchy Mexican hoodies that I loved so much back then, I want this ridiculously overpriced Tory Burch hoodie to wear with cutoffs and flip flops. This is when it starts.

Happy Spring,
S

The Green Flash

There exists an optical phenomenon known as The Green Flash. Ever seen it? Pas moi, but I’ve been told it occurs right before sunrise or sunset, a momentary refraction of light that moves slower in the lower, denser air than in the thinner air above, enhanced by mirage and probably myth. Tssssss. (I’ve also heard the flash is accompanied by a hiss as the sun hits the water, but honestly I think I got this info from The Blue Lagoon and do not always trust the science of Christopher Atkins.)

What is not so widely known is that there exists another, lesser known Green Flash, a moment of pregnant phenomenon when I raise my head from the nausea and actually look cute. Oh, it’s brief, this moment, a flash of glow before I sink into the bloat of latter pregnancy, my eyes suddenly smaller, my breathing almost an embarrassment. I so wanted to catch this elusive Green Flash but I must have blinked, because the other day I looked down and noticed the tell-tale swell of an ankle. Quick! I turned to Bryan—take a picture of me! But it was too late, so I leave you with this: the sight of a pregnant lady sinking into her 21^st week (if you really concentrate you can hear the hiss).

More than halfway there, people.

xo,
S

No Harm in Asking

I can't decide if I hate this guy or if maybe I'm a little bit in love with him.

It's kind of unbelievable, really, but it's on the internet so I just know it's true. What do you think? Is it real or fake? Funny, fortuitous or flat-out disgusting? And if you are of the funny/fortuitous club and have the finances, I would like just $100,000. I mean, I'll take a cool $mil if that's what you want, but really I just need $100,000. So you should probably give me $200,000 seeing as how I'd have to pay 50% in taxes. Baby needs a new pair of shoes. And a house. Donate button's pretty rusty there in the right-hand column. Give to charity. Or don't. Go buy $200,000 worth of Cool Ranch Doritos, whatever, it's your money. I'm just saying I'll take it if you want to give it. (I just happen to suck at asking.)

Happy Monday,

S

Shoes I Used to Wear (A Post On the Literal Shoes I Used to Wear)

I used to wear shoes so high I could see a light layer of dust on top of the fridge.
I took these red shoes backpacking through Europe, crammed them in the bottom of my bag one winter in Paris. I wore them on New Year's Eve as Bryan and I tried to find a bar, a club, a restaurant we could afford, finally settling for gyros on the street corner with me in these red, red shoes. At a few minutes to midnight we were on the metro, so we got off at the next stop not knowing where we were and ran up the stairs to the street just in time for the countdown. Trois, deux, une...we kissed on a street corner in Paris amid a crowd of French people making out, my life momentarily a Robert Doisneau poster taped to a dorm room wall, and to this day that night in those red shoes stands as one of my most romantic.
I eyed these gold glitter shoes for months at a transvestite store on Haight Street until they were the last pair and went on sale seeing as how most men's feet are larger than mine. When I wasn't wearing them I kept them on my desk as inspiration for something.
I bought these for my birthday one year--can't remember which though I'm fairly certain it started with a 2. (I have always loved a well-placed rainbow.) The night I wore these a man told me I walked like a cocktail waitress, and though I'm not sure how he meant it, I hold that still as one of the best compliments I've ever received.

These shoes are vintage, from the 20's, the fabric inside the sole worn metallic threads. Of all my shoes I loved these the most, wore them to bars and parties, sometimes during the day. With jeans? That was the joke back then, everything held up to have its cute-quotient questioned. Yes? With jeans? Because everything looked cute with jeans. When I wore them I imagined all the fun the shoes had had in the past 80+ years, what sort of evenings, the stories they might tell, and I was just so happy to be a part of it.

Then there are these: another vintage pair of hand-beaded shoes, the wooden heels carved with palm fronds and fruit, a score at a flea market one Sunday morning. One of the heels on these is stained dark brown, and so I always thought it was blood, because, well, why not? A woman dancing in a nightclub in Cuba for so long that her heels bled, yes? You just know her name was Lucia.

And then there are these. Ugly flat mom shoes I bought while still on maternity leave. I don't know what I was thinking other than I guess this is my life: hairy toes and sensible shoes for pushing a stroller, my fingers smelling of peanut butter. I had to bribe Zoey to try these on which I think is a pretty good barometer for moxie. Would a 4 year old want to wear it? If the answer is a quick no, then no. Just no. On these I blame hormones and me trying to find my new normal when life was anything but.
These days I wear ballet flats, boots with no heel, Havianas when it's warm. I don't know when it was that I lost the ability to wear heels, but I am certain I no longer walk like a cocktail waitress, the dust on the top of the fridge now thick, though who cares if I can't even see it?

A Deep Blue Period

Know how much I’m craving spring? This much—here is an actual train of thought I had the other morning as I walked to work: the city is too gray. Gray buildings, gray sky, gray sidewalks and streets. If I were Mayor Queen Master of Something I would pass an ordinance that each building be painted a different color. Pink and green, turquoise, orange…then the city would look more like the Caribbean and people would surely smile more. Right? Note to self: pick up some fresh fruit on the way home today.

Then I saw this amazing art installation and immediately felt quenched. Like if a soul could be quenched, mine was. Check out artist (and diver) Jason deCaires Taylor. He creates these immense ingots and anchors them to the seabed. He chooses material conducive to marine life, so that new coral reefs adhere and grow like children. The result is hauntingly beautiful.

Did you know? Over the past few decades we’ve lost over 40% of our natural coral reefs. Scientists predict a current demise of 80% by 2050. I’ll shut up now and just post some of the delicious photos.

It'salmostspring, it'salmostspring, it'salmostspring...sounds vaguely like inspiring.

xo,

S

Grainy Photos of Double Double Helixes, Animal Style

I forgot to show you what Zoey got me for Christmas...
She replicated a photo of me when I was her age, right down to the pearls*. I'd be lying if I said this didn't make me a little teary.** I'd also be lying if I didn't say I felt some sick sense of BOW DOWN BEFORE MY AWESOMELY STRONG DNA.


*With the help of her Grandma DD.
**Then again, I also got teary the other day when Jamba Juice told me they were out of Peanut Butter Moo'd.

Honestly I Just Want Pajamas, Hold the Jeans

I was all set to make fun of this infomercial until I realized that I have a few pairs of the Official Pajama Jean stacked in my closet only they are called jeggings, cost more and don't seem to feature any sort of Smooth Butt Lifting Technology. Then I felt like a real asshole.

Still I refuse to order anything from an infomercial featuring softcore porn music because that would make me feel worse about my pregnant self than I do when I order oatmeal at Starbucks because it's healthy, but can I have extra brown sugar? And no nuts? Just two packets of brown sugar, please. Make that three. Thanks.

xo,

S

First Post of the Year (And It's a Winner)

This is a total C U Next Tuesday kind of post. Except it’s not next Tuesday but this Tuesday, i.e. it’s a bitch and—oh! Happy New Year!

See, something’s fallen flat in the land of Petunia and it sure as hell ‘aint my stomach. I am 18 weeks pregnant and uninspired. Tired. For days now I have paused over a post centered around this video about dent removal.

And while it is kinda’ super awesome and I am for sure buying some canned air just for Bryan’s truck it begs the question: really? Dent Removal? Because that’s all I got these days. Which is how I imagine men must feel when they can’t get it up. Soft and sleepy, a little bit defensive. So? If only there were a little blue pill for writers needing inspiration, canned air for those that can no longer breathe.

Because then I read this article about how blogs are dead. And maybe it came to my attention too close to the news of thousands of birds dropping dead from the sky (not to mention the fish), but I started to wonder if it wasn’t true. Is blogging dead, dying, falling from the www heavy with too many characters? Tell me the truth now: do you read as many blogs as you used to?

To close out this peppy first post of the year I will tell you that the other day I saw the newspaper headline The Year We Stopped Talking. Which seemed like a lovely title to a book that needs to be written about something that has been written a thousand times before, because that’s all we humans ever do is talk and then stop. The Year We What? Is it an omen, the end of days with fish falling from the sky and birds beaching themselves on shore? Or is this the ramblings of hormones gone amok, the same ones that have turned the palms of my hands into roadmaps, visible blue veins going somewhere off the beaten track?

Puppy Dog Tails

Stinky feet and guns made of sticks, straws, toilet paper rolls, nose picking and the go go go thrum of kinetic energy. This is what I’m afraid of in having a boy, the compulsion to have one hand down his pants at all times and random photos like this that I see on the internet:

But then I see this last night, how my husband who was once so afraid of having a daughter now sits still for a makeover by a girl wearing too-small skeleton pajamas and a cat mask.

And I think how this guy...

This surfer, sailor, beer-drinking, burrito-loving architect of a man has really stepped it up…

Which means, of course, that I need to step it up, too. Sharpen my sword, stick my hand down my pants, cock my finger and suck it up. I am going to be the mother of a boy. I am the mother of a boy.

Here--pull my finger.

xo,
S

In 2006 She Hardly Had Hair and Couldn't Stand; I Have No Idea What Happened to 2009

Christmas 2007.

Christmas 2008.
Christmas 2010.
Sometimes I think everything is magic. The way the sun rises, sets, the postal system, how incredibly cruel we can all be to each other, how kind, universes contained in something as sick as spit. (Other times I don't think like this at all since it would be too time consuming and The Real Housewives keeps my mind occupied just so.) But this time of year? At Christmas? It's all pure magic. The presents and pasts, pajamas. I remember creeping into my brother's room on Christmas morning, how we would wait as long as we could together, the two of us in his bed while down the hallway the two of them who knew the truth just wanted to sleep. This year Zoey is getting a zsu zsu pet, a Rapunzel doll, art supplies and a microphone, but she is also getting someone to wait with, a brother, the most magical thing of them all.
(Yesterday I took Zoey with me to get my blood drawn, two of a thousand vials they take when you are pregnant. As they inserted the needle Zoey asked me why I wasn't laying down, shouldn't I lay down? No, I said, I can just sit here, and her eyes got wide. When it was over and I put on my coat to leave, Zoey asked why we were leaving without the baby and I realized that she thought we were going to the hospital to have the baby. Seems I have some 'splaining to do.)
Merry merry everyone. May it be magical.
xo,
S

Whiskers On Kittens

If I ever open up a store I think I will name it Whiskers On Kittens. Or Frock, I’m not sure, it depends on if I’m selling cute clothes or disassembled cat parts, I guess.

The weatherman says there are six large storms stacked up from here to Japan and this makes me all sorts of fuzzy seeing as how it’s Friday and my bathrobe is clean. Other things that make me happy? This Nutella Snack Pack I just discovered. Honestly the only way you could make this more me is if there were a fourth compartment with insalata caprese smashed inside. Looking for something to gift me this holiday season? You can buy it here.

Also on the list of things that are me me me is this bitchin’ rainbow turbo bike. Truthfully, though, it would be totally me if it were somehow battery or electric powered as I am not known for my exercise regime.

And then this. Fuck the whiskers on kittens—I want to spend this rainy weekend making out with these happy paws. I imagine they smell faintly of corn chips.

Cuddles,

S

I'll Tell You What's In A Name

That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

See, now I call poo poo on Shakespeare with this one. Because if someone came up to me with a rose and said hey, check out this new rose variety called Diarrhea Coffee-Breath Fart Locker Delight—take a sniff! I probably wouldn’t register the same sweet smell as I would had it been called Lady Delight Pink Vintage Tea Rose. Am I right?

So you can imagine my dismay over the fact that Bryan and I cannot seem to agree on a name for the little lemon-sized baby in mah belly. (Somehow I don’t think I can call it Mister Man forever.) And if you don’t help me with this and suggest some rockstar names STAT, Bryan is going to keep pushing Conrad and Allistair. Or Texas. TEXAS. We have never been to Texas, have no affiliation with Texas, don’t even particularly like Tex-Mex, so I don’t know where this name is coming from. Next thing you know the name Randy will be in the running and I absolutely refuse to yell Conrad Allistair Texas Randy across a playground.

So here are the rules: there aren’t any, really. I like unconventional names, but classic is good, too. You might already know the worst-kept secret in the blogisphere, aka what our last name is, but if not it starts with an M and is two syllables. Stay away from names like Ethan because Ethan has whispy pube facial hair and everyone knows Laird takes photos of his bowel movements and emails them to his friends. Help me name this baby. Go!

Road Rage

This is the time of year when everything is bigger, brighter, at once both faster and slower. There is a line to wait in line and if you look closely at the shadows, they are darker.

On my way home every night there is an intersection. That sentence seems full of portent, but no—it’s just an intersection full of cars full of people full of themselves. Glass half full kind of girl, you know? And in this intersection every night I wait. Through one red light, then two; my record is six red lights. Because the traffic in the other direction never fails to block the intersection, darkened cars stacked together like hyphens, each of us so sure that we are more important than everyone else, (myself included). Because dammit I am pregnant and have to pee. Prius, don’t you know?

I have been wishing for Spring, when on the drive home I will be able to see inside car windows. I have a feeling people will be less likely to block the intersection when their faces are still visible. Then this morning as she ate the waxy chocolate from Day 10 of her advent calendar, Zoey told me that rain is her favorite season, her voice like an ellipses. So I wait.

Truckin'

What in the world ever happened to sweet jane?

Well, let me tell you. Because sometimes life hands you a story that truly is stranger than fiction. And you don’t know where to begin, although disclaimers are always nice. DISCLAIMER: This story is only funny now, after she is clearly alright, healthy, unharmed. Please know that we immediately contacted medical professionals (plural), who told us she would be okay, that it just needed to work through her system. (Insert sense of foreboding here.)

Friday morning. Zoey and I woke up at my brother’s house at 7:00am. Everyone else is still asleep. At 7:30 my dad comes into the living room and says I can go back to sleep for a bit if I want, that he would watch Zoey. I want. I sleep. Apparently at 8:00 Zoey asks for Jello, having the razor-sharp memory of a child tracking the last place she had such a treat. Being a grandpa, my dad says yes, Jello is a fine meal to start the day, but cannot find it in the fridge. But stashed behind the acidopholus and vitamins he finds some chocolate macaroons and gives that to her instead. First one, then two, then three pieces. 8:15am. My brother wakes up and sees the chocolate wrappers on the coffee table. He storms into the kitchen yelling WHO ATE THAT CHOCOLATE? WHO?! My dad and Zoey are sitting at the table scarfing down bagels and dry Cheerios straight out of the box. Because of course on the wrapper in very fine print it lists the ingredients as shredded coconut, sugar, egg whites, bittersweet chocolate, cream, and the medical equivalent of 2.24 grams of dried cannabis sativa. You know, my brother has a bad back, insomnia or some such malady. 9:30am. I wake up.

This part of the story is boring. Me freaking out, pissed, scared, my brother stammering that he is so so sorry, that he called his doctor, a pharmacist, repeated assurances that Zoey would be fine, my dad giggling out apologies and referencing Hunter S. Thompson, then retiring to his room to take a nap. What is not boring but flat out wide-eyed funny strange (and funny ha ha only after she is okay) is a 4 year old stoned out of her mind. I took a video but after much soul-searching decided I do not want my daughter to be the new David After Dentist because the video would most certainly go viral. In it, she is cramming Cheerios into her mouth and laughing, laughing, waving one arm over her head and trying to talk. This went on all day. So instead of going to Disneyland on Friday we listened to Bob Marley, ate an entire box of dry Cheerios, a dozen bagels and watched cartoons. It is rare that the scariest thing that has ever happened in your life is also the funniest thing that has ever happened.

The next day we went to Disneyland. And as people ooohed and aaahhhhed over how cute the little Rapunzel girl was, we whispered to each other that if only they knew how high she had been not 24 hours before at the real happiest place on earth… She does not remember much of that day—her lost day—but has asked why we keep making such a big deal out of the chocolate.

And here is where I owe my mom an apology. I was so afraid that she’d be the one to misbehave. Little did I know that it would be my own father, the man with 19 years sobriety who would get my daughter high. And possibly himself since I’ve never seen him turn down a sweet, though he has denied, denied, denied.

Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;

Other times I can barely see.

Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it’s been.

*LAST DISCLAIMER: I do not smoke pot, eat pot, get high on anything, really. I don't even drink. There is no marijuana in our home. Zoey is safe. It was just the perfect storm of highly accidental events featuring someone else's house, very fine print and a grandfather without his reading glasses which then led to a very scary incident that is only funny in hindsight.

It's a...

Yep. I got the results of my CVS test and all is healthy and "normal," and it's a BOY. We are, of course, so so happy and wow'ed and excited, although I admit to having eyed all the naughty little boys in line at Disneyland with the slight metallic tang of fear in my mouth. A boy. (!!!)

I'll be back tomorrow with stories of the weekend. One in particular. I have to figure out how best to word it to minimize legal ramifications. (No hyperbole needed.) Plus, I'm getting more than a little joy in having my family sweat it out. The waiting is the hardest part...

Down the Rabbit Hole

There is a very real chance I am in jail right now. Actually no, that’s not true because our plane doesn’t leave until tonight. But there is a very real chance I will be in jail tonight because I am traveling with my mother who does not believe rules apply to her. No, she carries 4 oz. of liquid in her carry-on because, well, why not? It’s not like her carry-on would ever fit in the overhead bin anyway. Her purse overflows with tweezers, lighters, prescription pills rattling loose in unmarked containers—so help me god, if she makes one joke about the explosive properties of a crushed Xanax mixed with two parts mouthwash I am going to pretend I am not with her and stand next to the nearest 65 year old woman who looks like she makes a mean casserole. (The TSA pat down should be interesting, though.)

And if I am not in jail tonight then I will most certainly be in jail tomorrow, because tomorrow we go to Disneyland, and my mother has never been to Disneyland. Which is where that silly rules thing might come up again since she pays no mind to designated smoking areas. (At least it should be the happiest jail on earth.)

So yes, this weekend Zoey, my mom and I are going to visit my brother and his wife where my dad will also meet us, and time will fold over onto itself, a synchronicity of a family in front of the Princess’ Castle where we will have our picture taken as if The Great Divorce of 1992 never happened, a Portrait of a Family as What If. God grant me the serenity…

Back on Monday no doubt with stories.
Xo,
S