We're Here

Leaving was even harder than I expected. If there wasn't a train and we weren't already on it, I couldn't have done it. But once the truck comes, the stuff's packed, the car's packed, the dog and cat are in the car, what else can you do but let the wheels roll.
No rooms in Cheyenne. Mind you check when Sturgis is if you're traveliing East through Marlboro Country.
But, we're here.
Slightly traumatized. VERY nice neighbors. Perhaps too nice. They visit often. Kendall & Lt. (perhaps Capt by now) came and de-loaded the truck. Erik's mom and dad have been here watching Zo and mowing down all the greenery that grows even out of the gutter. We went to the lake yesterday. Big lake.
I might survive. Might not.
I feel very "observed" for some reason. Neighbors and bosses and orientation all serve to make me feel very suburband and attended to.
Sorry to be so long in between posts but I had nothing but sad to say. Now, at least, things are new and strange. And therefore, writable, I suppose.

Zo's Birthday

Dear Zoë,
All over the blogland, women write letters to their babies on their birthdays. Even their one month birthdays. I am not so good at birthdays, as 31 and KJ will tell you. I tend to write people checks. And yet, I do like my own birthday to be celebrated with well-thought out gifts. I hope you get your aunts’ and grandmothers’ talents for generosity and celebration.
The good thing about writing on one-month birthday letter is that nothing gets missed. I will only remember a few things—but maybe I can get your dad and grandmas to remember a few things too and I’ll write those down later.
It’s been a great and hard year. You are such a good baby— you’ve already endured what I think is a lot. Being preemie (20 days in the hospital), me going back to work six weeks after you were born, me going on the job market, all that travel, another hospital stay (8 days), dad and me moving to Michigan, selling the house—fixing the house. But I wonder, as you sleep your good 11 hour sleep each night and eat the 17th grape for the day, if any of this fazes you. Is this list of hardships just projection of my own bullet-point list of “hard year?” Still, you are brave, as 31 says.

And she’s right, you do eat onions. You eat everything first with caution—“What the hell have you put in my mouth?” And then the next bite, you reach for it with abandon, saying “Give me another one right now or I’ll unhook my bib and huck it in your general direction.” You like steak, salmon, veggie sausage patties, yogurt, bananas, raspberries, blueberries, cherries, peaches (OK, you haven’t met a fruit you didn’t like), hotdogs—both tofu and Hebrew Nationals, chicken nuggets, ice cream, cookies, and, most of all, M & M’s. (You also eat a lot of dog hair. Sorry.) At this point, there’s not much you don’t like though you’re occasionally not in the mood for it—avocados are kind of hit & miss which makes your grandma Ellie and me wonder if you maybe were switched at birth in the hospital, since that’s our favorite food. This openness to new foods, I fear, will not last, so I plan to feed you foie gras and calamari before your palate closes down like a time capsule that won’t re-open, if you’re like me, until you’re 19. You love black beans and chicken and, of course, your favorite is sweet potato. I made 8 sweet potato pies for your birthday party. I hope your dad’s whole side shows up. I also bought 60 pieces of fried chicken for the family. Happy birthday to all of us.

In the morning, you wake up and talk to yourself for about half an hour. You have much to say about the letter “a”. When I come in to get you, you smile. And, since you were ten months old, you sit up for me to get you. And in the past few weeks, you’ve pulled yourself up to meet me halfway. When I pick you up, you point at the light switch. And then the picture frame. And then your hippo. We go around the room every morning, touching each thing in precise order, preparing youfor early onset OCD.

I bring you into our bed and your dad and I feign sleep while you drum away at our backs. You pull yourself up by my hip skin even though I’ve told you that’s not a handle. In the bath, you like to pull out a pubic hair and hand it to me as if I’ve misplaced it and you, Dr Watson, have found it.

You have two teeth on the bottom and you like to jut them out. It makes you look serious. In some ways you are a very serious baby but when you get laughing, it’s hard for you to stop. Or, rather, it’s hard for us to stop what you’re doing so that you’ll keep laughing. Maestra got you laughing like crazy by pulling the screen door’s chain and letting you reach up to get it. Your grandpa likes to tip you upside down, which makes you giggle. Your grandma dangles a necklace and you watch it, then grab. She pretends to be surprised and you laugh even harder.

You’re very busy. You must get to everything right now. You share all your toys. You continue your pointing ways by sticking out your index finger at every one—to say “you.” We say,“No, you” in return. You play Leapfrog noisy machine and with your blocks but you really prefer my cell phone and the remote control. When we moved the TV downstairs and began to spend most of our time up, one of your trademark busy business toys disappeared. Whenever we go back down and you see the remote, you clamor for it like you’ve found a long-lost friend.

You crawl like crazy. Sometimes, you stick your right leg out as a special rudder that propels you at the speed of light. Your dad chases you on his hands and knees but you still outrun him. You crawl to the dog food. You crawl to the stairs. You crawl to the cords that stretch seemingly from every light socket. But you don’t wear me out. Chasing you is never frustrating because so much of your time thus far has been stuck in beds and carseats and high chairs. That you can move on your own makes me know you will be the fierce woman I want you to become. Also. I carry you less, so much energy has been saved.

You like to go on walks either in BOB the stroller or in your baby backpack. You like to crawl around outside on the grass which doesn’t seem to sticker you like it does so many babies. And adults. And all of they who need a blanket to sit outside in the summer.

You’ve been swimming twice, both times in the last two weeks. You are, as expected, a water bug. We ferry you around on our backs and you look like you might go ahead and kick and blow bubbles. You wear your yellow sunhat and splash like a frog. You even leapt off the side into the water. Your dad scooped you up before you sunk too far, but we knew we were in trouble when we saw fearless in your shove off the concrete pool’s edge.

They say you can tell how much you are loved by the number of names you are called. This is a short list:
Zo, Zoster, bliggedy blig, turtlebutt, busy bee, wild woman, big head, rabbit roo, trouble, bubble butt, sweet potato, big kid, blue eyes, monkey (you do make this wild screeching noise when you want something and we haven’t read your mind quite yet—or followed your pointy finger), goose, and pterodactyl, (both also due to the very primordial sounds you make).

You blow bubbles and raspberries. You slap your fat thighs when you think something’s funny. You clap when you realize we’ve figured a little of you out. You spin around on your butt while drinking your sippy cup. You laugh while I watch you turn. You stick those two teeth out in front and dare me to come and get you. And I do.

Happy Birthday baby.

In which I complain once again about moving

Waiting

What to do for the next month? Read “Underworld.” Already by page 12, I see a new way to be. When Cotter’s gearing up to jump the turnstile to get into the Baseball game, he summons a force, and, more important, a style, that is completely unaffected and internal.
“He surprises himself this way every so often, doing some gaudy that that whistles up out of unsuspected whim.”

This month will be odd. I’m done with everything except a few niggling details at QW and packing. It’s a little bit like waiting to die. Of course, I believe in reincarnation: I’ll be reborn again in Michigan. I hope. But I am leaving this life wholesale. I’m even leaving Zo and Egg, in a way. For whoever they are here, they won’t be there. The way Zo’s grandpa calls her a “Wild Woman.” The way her grandma says “You come here. You come here right now.” The way my mom makes her laugh by turning her backwards, upside down, and letting her little one year-old body hang there. Only grandparents love your kid as much as you do—and, as my friend Steve Tuttle says—no one else wants to babysit them. Others will, but no one else actually goes so far as to ask. No one else will want to hear, “she ate three grapes and a hot dog today.” Or, maybe they will want to hear it but they won’t exclaim and enthuse as if she had just solved Fermat Last Theorem.

And Egg, what will he be like without his skis or his camera? With his chair facing south instead of north or with a boat? What will we do on holidays? On weekends? On Tuesday nights. I don’t think I realized how much time we actually spend with our family until both my mom and his mom went out of town last week. We’ve spent every waking minute with Thirty-One to fill in the gaps. And the one night since Thursday we didn’t hang out with her? We spent it with Egg’s cousin Em.

Of course all this doubt will also lead to new adventures and new manifestations of self. Hence the “surprised himself” excitement while reading “Underworld.”

So I’ll wait. Wait for the truck to come. Wait for the house to sell. Wait for someone rejection and acceptance letters. Wait for Zo’s first birthday.
Maybe I’ll surprise myself by waiting with good character and patience.

Umbrella trouble

It is raining in July. I know I said it never rains in July. I attribute all of my previous misstatements to global warming. Even those that weren’t weather related. It IS raining. Hard. On the fourth. Egg’s at work and Zo is asleep so I’m writing this while it rains. It’s almost done now, but I can imagine all the barbecuers in the valley running into the house—half-cooked burgers in hand, chairs pulled in, tents blowing, then falling down. In the mad rush, ketchup is knocked to the ground, the potato salad gets dumped into the coleslaw and the barbecuers turn to look at the already-stopped rain and get mad because they jumped the gun. Five seconds of rain can ruin a picnic as bad as real rain.

It looks like it’s clearing up. We’re not cooking at Thirty-One’s until five anyway. I’m bringing a six-pack and a bottle of wine. It’s not much but Val should have wine herself and Dr Write and folks might bring something I’m sure. I shouldn’t panic but the liquor stores are closed today and in Utah, you can only buy wine at a state-run store.

Now it’s thundering which makes me think this may be a bigger storm than I thought. I would give anything for it to rain a lot today. I read in the paper that at 12. 76 inches this year, we’re almost an inch short for the water-year. A huge storm, one that would coat both the cars and the driveways, would be such a bonus.

In times of great scarcity, such as store-closings and drought, I like to compensate with a bit of excess.

Red Butte--John Hiatt

Oh, the Red Butte Concert Series is afoot. As Dr Write pointed out--it's a blissful way to spend the summer evenings here in the land of salt.
Though last night (touched as I was by a bit of the ennui--which I also call Petite Syrah) I found the audience to be a bit disconcerting.
First off--everyone had blond hair. This is not unusual for the Scandinavian rooted stock that is Utah. BUT most of these were older blond heads. People who went to Lagoon to see the Doors and the Beach Boys play.
And then I had a moment of: I am a old blond too. What's the point of having blond hair if you're over 30? I'm becoming agist against myself.
On the other side of the coin was this young girl in front of me. She was, you guessed it, also blond. And the tannest and most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. She was, I think 8 or 9. But she was hot. And she knew it. And the boy who was obviously the son of her parents' best friends knew it too. And he ignored her like she was a napkin. Everything she did--take a drink of soda, stand up, eat a carrot, brush crumbs off her shorts--she turned to look to see if he noticed. And I, who was sitting behind saw that he did. But to her, no. He turned his head to look away every time.
He was about ten. His parents left before hers did. After he left, she relaxed. She danced around like a little girl should. She stood between her mom and dad and felt protected not only by their bodies but in the way they weren't pretending not to look at her as they looked at her.
I just wanted to go up and tell her--keep your clothes on. Next time you see this boy. He's not worth the amount of nakedness you'd have to show him to get him to look like he's actually paying attention. He already is.

TV Free

We're closing in on the move. Much is packed and stuffed into the garage. We're closing on the MI house next week and this house is on the market as of Friday. Many of my friends are leaving for their jobs soon. I'm kind of in a holding pattern--I'm done with the bittersweet: I can't leave this tree, this sidewalk, the cabinet, this blade of grass. Instead, I go outside without my shoes on and sit on the backporch to watch the sun go down. We have packed the TV. I try to read in the waning light.
Monday night, Zo was sick again. Every cold goes straight to her lungs. She sounds almost as bad as when she had RSV--Respiratory Scintilla Virus. I particularly find the Scintilla to be illustrative because she sounds like she inhaled a Chinchilla. And, as we all know, rhyming is true etymology. We went outside and let her wheeze the fresh air and we drank wine. We put her to bed and went back out. It's like when we were first dating. I don't think we came inside more than twice that first summer. Perhaps I love no TV.
This week: I'm reading Steve Almond's, (who I'm intruducing on Thursday at Writers@Work new book "Which Brings Me to You;" I'm revising my novel again (just a little) to send to the agent I met yesterday, I'm driving Writers @ Work folks to the airport, entertaining Erik's aunt, going to a cocktail party going to my mom's family reunion, waiting for the home equity line to go through and figuring out where this new Franck's restaurant is that the Trib gave 4 stars to. Thirty One and I will be there soon.
Speaking of sisters, Thirty-One's twin has started her own blog: Kendall Jackson. Hurrah! And, Thirty-One talked Kendall into coming to visit in July. Another Hurrah! And, she's meeting me in Michigan to help us unpack and get settled. Triple Hurrah!

Titles

I haven't looked completely at App Crit's Titulary Discourse post but I do like to come up with titles. I have a new book of poems that I want to call "King George's Book of Cliches" but I also like "King George's Book of Birds and Cliches" which takes the birds out of their lofty position and elevates the cliche a bit. There are a number of birds and cliches in the book so it's also descriptive!
It's fun to make new books. I have only 48 pages though. I might have to write some poetry filler. What's a good cliche that I haven't used?

Greed

I've been a bad blogger. I want to write more, but as usual, I want more of everything. I was obsessed for a moment with personality quizzes like BlogThings and QuizBox. I like to go back and change my answers to see how the quiz is formulated. I usually know in advance which personality trait, which animal familiar, which IQ, which aura I would like to have and I answer accordingly. However, on one of the quizzes--I believe it was the 7 deadly sins quiz--I thought I was answering that sloth was the one sin I was most guilty of. Turned out, it was greed. I thought that was odd because everything in my life is geared to make me lose money, not make it.
But then I thought of what I actually spend most of my time doing--wanting more publications, wanting more time to write, wanting to eat more, wanting to be thinner, wanting a beautiful space to be in, wanting to spend more time with Zoe, wanting more long conversations with Egg, wanting to live by a lake, in the mountains, with a big great-room for company, wanting more friends so I can have more company, wanting more mail, more blogs to read, more time with my family, more choices, more plans, and, even, in a way, more money (or, less debt).
I'm greedy in all things. It's a kind of lust too--wanting so much stuff. No wonder the quiz had a hard time finding me lazy--so much wanting keeps me very very busy.

Night

All the cable to the TV has been unplugged. There is no furniture to sit on. I can either go to bed or go outside. Z has gone to sleep. I come out back. I take my computer. I've never seen the screen so clearly. It's a little cold and all I can see is the light emanating from the active display, but man is it nice to be outside. It makes blogging seem less nefarious, more healthy. Me and the moon and the lot of you.

I may be out here all night.

I may, when it gets really hot, figure out how to write outside at night, in the dark, but for me and this funny TV.

Sweat

One hard thing about writing work is that there is scant evidence of that work. Egg will go to his job at 9, and, if I were to write all day, when he came home at 6, nothing would have changed. Even the kilobyte count of my harddrive would be more impacted by downloading a song than the filespace of eight hours worth of writing.
Also, when there's more obvious work to be done, it's hard to make writing the number one priority.
So, instead of writing much this week I mowed the lawn, packed the living room and front room, moved the furniture out of said rooms, swept the driveway, weeded and mulched the flower beds, swept the porch, cleaned the garage (to make room for moved furniture) and repacked a bunch of book boxes.
Impactful and somewhat satisfying (plus, such heavy lifting alleviates the non-running guilt). I also cooked twice and cleaned the kitchen at least twice. This work can be seen immediately, if someone were to look.
But, no one's really watching. I suppose, like writing, the joy of it is in the doing rather than in the recognition for having done it. I look around and I admit that I want the credit, that I want someone to notice--wow, what a great system--the to go boxes on a platform, the thrift-store boxes to the side--or, wow, you started that beastly lawn mower yourself?
Unlike Dorthothy Parker, I love writing; I am happy to have mown the lawn.

Success!

I ran very slow. So slow I was practically running backward. So slow, Cleo the dog could actually keep up. But I ran the whole thirty minutes stopping only to pick up dog poop. I even ran in place while Cleo sniffed flowers, ate crab grass and pointed (she is not a pointer) at a squirrel. Usually, when I run, I run so hard that my lungs clutch at air by the time I get halfway. This time, I ran so slowly it actually hurt my muscles--strange, stoppy muscles-- to go so slow. The iPod shuffled John Prine, Spoon, Mazzy Star, Cowboy Junkies, Jimi Hendrix--much goodness for Slow Running. Perhaps Slow Running can be like Slow Food. Me and my local produce and my mile an hour running speed.

The good news: Erik's going to get me proper running shoes for mother's day. He said he needed to go shopping for Mother's Day on Saturday but I said all I want for Mother's Day is the hallway painted. I also said all I want for Mother's Day is the glass taken to the recycling bins. I also said all I want for Mother's Day is breakfast. But for the fact I made the breakfast I got all that. And, when Erik asked if there's anything else i wanted, I said running shoes. He said sure, that's what he wanted to get me but he didn't want me to think that I thought that he thought that I needed to run.
His mother also got me running shorts and shirt. She said she didn't think I needed to run either. Sweet.

Other good news. Did the Ask Marilyn puzzle in the Parade for the first time ever. Easiest thing ever, a lot like running slow, but did it nonetheless.

First attempt

Thanks to Doctor Mama's Blog I tried today a new way of running. I tend to "run" (scare quotation marks seriously meant) about once or twice a week, but I always hate it, never want to go longer, dread doing the next day, etc. But Doctor Mama says to go slow, so slow that people will laugh. I like to make people laugh so I figure that I will give this a try.

So I woke up, a bit worse for wear because of the two glasses of wine too many and the dog vomit interruptions of REM sleep. It's OK, I think. There's nothing like a good sweat to get rid of a tiny hang over.

I have three cups of coffee, feed Zoe some applesauce and read the paper. I really read the paper. Stalling? I'd say so. But it's ten and it's getting hot and Cleo the dog hates running almost as much as I do, especially in the hot, so I get going.

I put on a pair of yoga pants, a bra and then one of those tank tops with a built-in bra thinking this is what Doctor Mama meant when she said "double bra."

I put Zoe in her stroller, let Cleo follow behind off-leash, and walk up the hill to warm up.
Once on flat-land, I put the iPod on the stroller because the yoga pants have no pockets. I turn the Pod ot shuffle and hear The Melvins, the Stooges, Fugazi, and Nirvana all in the first five minutes of "running." You'd think the hard core would make me lift those knees, but not so much. Instead, I keep stopping to skip the song. Then I stop to yell for Cleo who is now a whole block behind. Then I stop to pull up my pants which are riding down, down, down. So with one hand on the stroller and one on my pants, I tell Cleo to hurry and begin to run so slow. So slowly in fact that it turns out I am walking. I've been walking for some time. Perhaps even ambling.

We get to the park. Cleo thinks she wants to say hi to this cute (so not cute) Bloodhound so I wait for about half and hour for her to play. She approaches and runs away, approaches and runs away. She's a huge malumute/shepherd but she thinks she's a Chihuahua. Now that whatever elevated heart-rate I once had slips away, she finally sniffs the dog and we're off again. There had been a slight incline on the way to the park, but the way back slants down and I'm hopeful I can keep the bounce in my step to qualify as a "run."

I put Cleo on her leash this time to force her to keep up though this means half the time I'm pulled to a deadstop so she can smell the daffodils.

But foor one whole block, I'm running and bouncing all the way to the next street when Cleo darts for a squirrel, the leash is torn out of my hands, the iPod falls, I bend to pick up the iPod, the stroller rolls on its own, threatening to careen down the very steep L Street, I dive for the stroller, the pants lose whatever hold they once had and, as I push the stroller to safety, pick up the now-scratched iPod, scream for Cleo, and finally, finally pull up my pants, an jerk in a truck drives by to whistle, "Nice crack."

I drag Cleo the rest of the way--hand on leash, hand on stroller--my pants staying up thanks to the slow, slow walking of my feet.

I'm going shopping for proper shoes, bra, and, most importantly, pants or shorts with a string, tie, or other cinching devices. Plus, pockets for the iPod and a long, long leash for the very ass-dragging (though not ass-crackin') dog. I'd give up the dog, but she could stand a little heart-elevating exercise as much as I could.

I'll try again on Sunday & let you know how it goes.

Graduation

I thought it would be majestic. I thought it would be full of ceremony. I thought that the ritual and commraderie would be transformative. What it really was all my graduate school anxities piling up. I spent most of the two hour ceremony sitting on an aisle, separated from the rest of the English PhD's because of my last name being, well, last, trying to get my mortarboard to stay on my head. I think my hair is slippery. I don't think my head is particularly small, (you can't get a PhD with a SMALL head). My mom said that the band was overstretched. Thanks mom.

My name was not in the program which made me think I wasn't actually graduating. I kept looking up at my family but I couldn't see them very well and they couldn't see me and I was sure they were freaking out more than I was that my name wasn't listed. It was all very grim with speeches and honorary degrees until the hooding of the PhD's--then, three of my professors came up to hood me--which entailed not the K*K*K-like hooding I'd imagined. In fact, it's more of a draping, or perhaps a shawling. But regardless of the dumb name, I felt summoned and enveloped and invited. And photographed. Badly. I'm very very worried about these pictures. I'm pretty sure I look like a frog with a square on her head, set off in squareness by my square face.

Then, the 982,217 undergrads were given their diplomas. I about had an anxiety attack waiting for the names to be called. I kept watching the rows, thinking now we're 1/3 done, now a half, wait a minute, I said half over 789,212 people ago.
Apparently, my mother, whose chair was being kicked by a thirteen year-old who was playing his gameboy, was also made anxious. She turned around and stared at the kid for 7 entire minutes and then asked why in the hell did he bother to come. My mom loves crowds even more than I do, let me tell you.

Afterward, we had the lovely Batts and families over for drinks. Then, to the Metropolitan, sans husband who couldn't get off work, but all six of us (mom & SO, mom & dad in law & Thirty one, in one car, The Chrysler Pacifier, to support eco driving.
4 of the 6 of us ordered the prix fixe.
Amuse bouche of Porcini Fritter with Truffle anglaise.
Then the 7 courses:
1. white gazpacho with celery leeks & parsnips (Mom & MIL had spring vegetable consomme where the tiniest veggies in the world came in a tiny bowl and the servers brought out a teapot full of broth and poured it on top of the veggies on site.)
2. Chilled seasonal vegetables--baby squash, radish gelee, micro basil (pretty good but the radish jello didn't dissolve as I hoped it would)
3. seared foie gras with black truffle ice cream, balsmic vinegar, & microgreens. (much discussion about animal cruelty and the foie gras ban in Chicago. Ate it all anyway. Not eco-eating. Loved it though the truffle ice cream tasted a lot like vanilla. I do love those tiny veggies)
4. Butter poached giant prawn with shrimp crisps, cilantro (micro, what else) & savory bisque. (One of the best courses, though the shrimp was about 2 seconds overcooked).
5. tangerine sorbet (you call this a course? OK, whatever.)
6. tenderloin surf & turn with wild ramps (like baby onions), dungeness crab, horseradish hollandaise (pretty good though the tenderloin was a bit mushy. I stole thirty-one's bigger portion then ended up giving it back).
7. dessert sushi (Metaphorical sushi-the ginger was candied, the nori was granache, a sliced strawberry was ahi, a sliced mango was hamachi, the pistashio creme was wasabi.

Did I mention we drank some wine? About 18 bottles? Maybe not quite that many.....

The whole day I was reminded of my college graduation. where I had been invited after to Emeritus Professor Kaspar Locher's house. I was one of 8 students invited, plus a guest. I took my ex-boyfriend. We sat on the back deck, drank champagne and ate cocktail shrimp as spring blossoms fell into our glasses.

Ah, maybe Spring is the ritual I was looking for. That or being invited to play with the big kids.

Colbair Repair

So exciting, all these politics. Immigration protests all over the country thrilled. It gives me hope that enough people can agree and plan and get it together to get out, all on the same May Day. I particularly like that it's International Labor Day (not the US's we-have-to-have-our-own labor day.)
I, however, screwed up and sent Erik to pick up Barbacoa for lunch today. I was staying home, not buying anything to support, if nothing else, the day-laborers who get hosed on home-improvement projects such as my kitchen and landscaping projects, but I blindly said, I'd love my favorite Mexican food for lunch. Duh.
Turns out something like 49% of day-laborers are hired by home-owners.
Mostly though, I'm happy about Stephen Colbert and the White House Correspondent's Dinner. A White Bear has a smart post about satire. Colbert is one of the most subversive because he talks the funniest Conservative talk, undermining every word that comes out of this administration's mouth. Not for everyone, apparently, but I'm not sure why. The video of his talk IS uncomfortable. No one laughs. But I laughed. He's my hero.
In less politicky news: I painted the bathroom entirely by myself. I'm not usually allowed to paint because I a)tend to flick paint b)have a hard time "staying within the lines" c) not stepping in, walking through, or running my butt into the newly wet paint. But time restraints and Erik's painting threshold pretty much crossed, I sanded, cut in, rolled, re-sanded and second coated the whole damn bathroom. I did cheat on the medicine cabinet and the closet--if you come over, you'll see my sloppy work there, but, for the most part, it looks pretty good. All white though. Maybe, if I promise to be good, I can do two-tone in the future. Though now my "they won't let me paint" excuse not to paint is kaputt.

Balanced

Erik is not one to exaggerate. So, when we ate New York Strip Steaks at Ruth's Chris(choosing them over filets or ribeyes for a balance of flavor/fat) and he said, that was the best steak I ever had, it was true. It confirmed my sometimes hyperbolic belief that there is no point in eating steak if it's not a Ruth's Chris steak.

Tonight, we went over to thirty one's for dinner. From her own memory, like a pianist with a good ear, she recreated the Cafe Rio salad. White rice with cilantro, beans with southwest spice, avocado, tomatillo-ranch dressing and a pork butt/shoulder that she cooked all day in her slow cooker with cumin and chile powder and other love spices. Better than Cafe Rio.

Erik, on the way home, said. "That was good." He does not exaggerate.

What's the point in eating tomorrow?

Whither art thou?

The kitchen is doneish. It looks very nice. So nice I think it's too nice for us. We had better move before we ruin it. We've already stained the granite. I'm sure the internets will provide a stain-removal system that doesn't remove the entire igneous rock.

I have also successfully entertained while in town: sister P and boyfriend Charlie, Friend Misty and boyfried John (who we once called John Crack. He's stayed at my house often enough that I can call him a friend too) and my mom and dad's old friend Lori Friedman who has three boys--Chason, Asher & Daden. Her husband, who I met at dinner, ran the show. He'd say, tell me what you want, I'll go order it and yell, how many more pitchers of beer. Sometimes, especially in groups of 16, I like that sort of take-charge guy.

I missed K.C.'s birthday party, many many deadlines and sleep.

I also neglected to list my Friday Stupids list. Twice!
The capper was getting a phone call from my nonfiction editor asking me if I was coming to the lunch I had organized. I had said when I arranged the meeting, oh, I like to be places early. I'll be there at 11:55. I showed up at quarter to one (edited from my earlier mistype that said "noon").

Brilliant. On so many levels.

I've also lost my debit card, my car keys, my school keys, my cap & gown receipt and Zoe's favorite toys.
And yet, barring any unforeseen slights and misgivings, they still might give me my PhD.

So, decisions.

At this juncture--and the road must be chosen quickly--I still have to decide if we're renting or selling our house, having movers move us or stuffing our own stuff into a truck, taking these hideous hutches, buying a house in East or downtown G.R. and whether Egg will work or stay home with Zo.

And, to be done in the next few weeks: grade 25 proposals, contract for, receive files from author and layout Issue 62 of QW, write rountable review with E Burger and Paul K and submit book(s) to last of the season contests.

Speaking of contests, my poetry manuscript/dissertation "Comeuppance" was one of 6 finalists, along with my friend Mike White's book "Vegetable Love" for a pretty big poetry contest. Another decision: Change my title? Vegetable Love, now that's a good title.

Referents

I took Zo to my Writer*s@Work board meeting. She was OK. She called alot of attention to herself with her squawking and her squirming and her occasional LOL. She did one jog of crying, which I hate because she isn't real mamacentric unless she's hungry or tired. She was both, but I didn't know. The time change confuses me but apparently, she still likes to go to bed around 8:30.
Anyway, this is one of the meetings that was held at the Pres's house. I stayed after because I like to stay after. I convinced Zo to go to sleep in her baby bucket and I stayed and drank wine and chatted with members of the erstwhile science community as well as Dr Write. A biologist/mathematician from Panama was staying at said Pres's house. He was very funny and told long stories about his son who wrote SF. He said, I respect my son very much in all things, it's just his writing that I respect the least. I think my mom could get in on that rationale.
Anyway, as they spoke, they kept referring to this guy as DH or BH or something and we non sciency types had to keep asking who or what they were talking about. Or rather, we nodded, as if we knew.
This reminded me of Reed College days when I would go to my friends who lived 4 or 5 strong in a Reed House (the equivalent of a fraternity but the hazing often involved a raucous game of "Dictionary) and they would swap terms and I would nod as if I had the slightest idea what the hell they were talking about--NEXT computers (from a guy who's now buco(Valley Spelling) rich investing in Amazon) and John Cage and Benzene circles. Now, I'm much less shy about my stupidity (more on that on Friday) and am willing to ask, what?, when I don't know what, but then, I really wanted to know it all. I still want to know it all but I'm much more likely to actually know it all if I ask what the it is first.

The beginning of the end

I found a home for one of my cats--fluffy black cat Bagiera. See 31 for one reason I accumulated so many. I'm terrified he's lonely and confused but I think he'll be happy being an only cat and not being pushed off my lap every five seconds because of the baby and the dog and the 3 other cats. My mom is going to take my other fluffy one. And friend J says she'll take the sweet tiny one.

We're really moving.

Here's a link thanks to Trista for this test.
Warrior? Hm. I am picky. Especially about buggers. Good thing Egg is an Old Soul.

You Are a Warrior Soul

You're a strong person and sometimes seen as intimidating. You don't give up. You're committed and brave. Truly adventuresome, you are not afraid of going to battle. Extremely protective of loved ones, you root for the underdog. You are picky about details and rigorous in your methods. You also value honesty and fairness a great deal. You can be outspoken, intimidating, headstrong, and demanding. You're a hardliner who demands the best from themselves and others. Souls you are most compatible with: Old Soul and Peacemaker Soul

What Kind of Soul Are You?

However, if I change my answers to reflect the softer side of Sears, I get:

You Are a Peacemaker Soul

You strive to please others and compromise anyway you can. War or conflict bothers you, and you would do anything to keep the peace. You are a good mediator and a true negotiator. Sometimes you do too much, trying so hard to make people happy. While you keep the peace, you tend to be secretly judgmental. You lose respect for people who don't like to both give and take. On the flip side, you've got a graet sense of humor and wit. You're always dimplomatic and able to give good advice. Souls you are most compatible with: Warrior Soul, Hunter Soul and Visionary Soul

What Kind of Soul Are You?

Perhaps Schizoid Soul is an option?

Not so bright

I spend a lot of time thinking about how retarded I am. Retarded acts today: using the word retarded, paying $24 for lunch yesterday because I was at Mama's Southern Plantation and the owners were black and I wanted to be cool and helpful so I just paid whatever instead of asking, how might lunch possibly cost this much? though I did order ala carte and strangley. Of course, now I'm sure they think I'm the biggest idiot in the world. Which I may well be. So I'm not only retarded but racist. I also convinced myself that the lunch wasn't very fattening because I didn't have any sides with my two pieces of fried chicken and 3 ribs. I also put my coffee cup within Zo's reach and she spilled it all over herself (it wasn't very hot, but still). I made two separate lunch appointments for the same day. I went to Ace Hardward to buy stem-to-faucet caps and a 1/2 inch to 5/8th transducer and came home with neither. I tossed Zo's carrot babyfood spoon in the sink and it splashed carrot juice all over the bathroom walls. And, unlike Bitch PhD,I neglected to hide my identity well enough from my future school so now they know, if they read my blog, I'm not the genius they might have hoped for.

On a bright note: I did figure out how to reprogram a new garage door opener. Our old one was but a circuit-board, some binary switches and a battery. Now our door goes up. And it goes down.

This could be a weekly post--like a column. Dumb things I did this week. Look forward to Fridays to hear how I managed to hemorrhage another $700 in car repairs or neglected to ask the countertop guys why they left behind four pounds of granite in the form of dust on my new cabinets.

Updated to include biggest boner of all: Remodeling kitchen 5 months before you're moving out of state. It has been the 3rd circle of hell having it redone. And it will be the 5th circle leaving it--so beautiful it is, I might even post pictures.

Updated blog list

Dr. Write very kindly took me to dinner at Martine last week for successfully getting the hell out of graduate school. We had lovely tapas--lamb with pomegranate sauce, almost cajun scallops and the beef tenderloin tips with a lovely crouton and a basil aioli. And wine of course.
While we were eating, I annoyed myself by talking about blogs. And Thirty-One had me over to dinner for delicious Wahoo (Ono) with a cherry, wine sauce, spinach with prosciutto, broiled zucchini with parmesan and we further discussed with her DH what's different about blogs and webpages and essays and blog posts.
It's amazing how much time I've wasted reading them the past few weeks. I forgive myself for these reasons: 1-it's one thing I can do while feeding/playing with/watching Zoe. It only requires one hand. Even reading needs two and though I love every minute I get to spend with the Zoster, I need a tad more mental stimulation than peek-a-boo. 2-with the kitchen upended and my bathroom doubling as service station and bath house, I can't cook and I'm trying to avoid any other household duties while dust spirals and 3-I feel like when I move, I can take my blogfriends with me. It's amazing how quickly invested I can get and how immediately intimate blogs seem. I know it's a false intimacy to some degree, but I like the idea that if, when I'm in Michigan, I run into Barely Tenured and can ask how her classes are going. It may be a wispy connection, but it's better than just googling about.
I'm off to write something less wispy right now, assuming Baby Z stays asleep until 4. I'm writing an essay right now but I miss the novel blog though. Sleepy-E finished his but maybe Lis is ready to start again? Dr Write, you ready to write?
And, last question--is there such a thing as blogger shoulder?

quotidian

Thirty-one (ha! I just got the 2nd meaning of her blog title--she IS 31.) said that I should post the essay I was writing and see how it differs from sending it out and publishing it in a magazine. I do wonder how my pontifications change depending on the medium it's presented in. A blog post is not an essay yet I see a lot of long blogs that are full of good writing and are topic-specific enough that they verge on becoming art. I wonder, as I traipse through the blogs of some many people, if they're all actually writers too, publishing in the land of lit mags, commercial mags, and in books that I would read if I wasn't reading blogs.
Hm. Perhaps Dr. Write and I can have a panel at AWP.
Other trouble: Still kitchening. I'm sitting here hoping that Zoe will sleep through the airgun that's stapling the trim to the walls. Why are we home? Because there's no where else to go. My mom is sick and Erik's parents live so far in the mountains that it takes a week of grocery shopping to go up there. Where else can a mom and her baby go for ALL day? 31's? No, the nanny drives me mad. Though 31 does have wireless DSL.....
Also: Too much wine this March. With AWP, job offers, birthdays, PhD defenses, and going out to dinner every single night, there's been a few mornings of deep headache and metal jaw. I'm hoping April is less celebratory.
Cats. Too many of them. Is it too late to donate them to science? I'm afraid, after Zoe's RSV, that she may be prone to asthma. 4 cats, a dog, and a house under construction (please don't spew lead paint, please), will not be good.
And this is how my blog differs ever so slightly from my essays: On the blog, I stick to one topic never. On my essays, I at least try one topic. For at least a page.

Premature Write-elation

You know when you haven't had sex for a long time and then you do and everything seems weird--like the pores of your partner seem a little gigantic and their genitalia a bit too pink? That's how it feels trying to write after a 4 month haitus. I'm trying to get to it--the job market, Zoe's hospitalization, the kitchen remodel, AWP--each worked to steal whatever writing mojo or motivation I had.

Now, when I sit down to write, my words seem pimply and my sentences awfully raw. I wonder if I can write while Zoe bounces or while I stuff QW envelopes or perhaps on the way to pick up tile????

On another note, or, speaking of genitalia, the lot they want to build on nextdoor has asked for a height and size variance. I want to go tonight to protest but I've gone to enough political meetings in Utah to know that I'll leave dejected and sad. And Zoe won't have that much fun either. But I think we'll go anyway. How can I complain about the 3 car garage I'm staring at if I didn't complain?

Back to back vacation

Except it never is. Before we left for AWP in Austin, Erik and I had to completely empty out our kitchen so that while we were gone, the new kitchen cabinets could be installed. Our garbage can(and a number of neighbors' garbage cans were) filled to the brim. Packing for the trip and for Zoe's trip up to her grandparents, asking the neighbor to not only feed the cats but change the litter box, and check in with my webct students was work. AWP itself, although I was there for work, was not actually work. It was great fun. I saw my friends from SLC and friends who now live afar and my new colleagues. I made some new friends and connected with Dinty Moore who has been so kind to me. Erik was so cool and sat at the table in the Bookfair and sold magazines for me and Dave.
I'm thinking now of compiling some essays to teach next semester. I'll try to post some stuff at http://teach-essay.blogspot.com/
I'm really looking forward to working on syllabi for GVSU.
Which is part of the now work: more kitchen stuff-shop for cabinets, pay two tickets for my expired plates, send out Quarterly West, taxes. Another vacation masquerading as work.
Glad to be back.

AWP

Off to Austin where I hope to see Lisa B. and Dr. Write. After the whirlwind of December & January travel, I'm not too excited to go, but at least I won't be interviewed. Instead, I'll be hawking the magazine and eating too much.

The new cabinets came today. They are too beautiful. We'll never be able to leave now.
What kind of dumbasses redo their kitchen while they're on the job market?

Don't answer that.

Defensive

That's Dr. Otterbutt from now on.

Did it

Took the job. The one at Grand Valley State University. 3/3 teaching load. Good salary. GREAT benefits. It's in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I'm excited, I think. The folks there are so kind. They sent Zoe and me flowers when she was in the hospital. I went from total exhiliration--especially when they told me they voted for me unanimously. And it's hard to become a professor. They don't just dole those jobs out. But then I got depressed about moving and about other peoples' jobs. Some folks got an interview at Portland State. But I know I wanted that too much to actually get it. I wrote a special letter for them. I had KB send an extra letter of recommendation to them. That was the worst day--realizing that GVSU is as good as it's going to get this year. But that good IS good--it's just hard to leave the west. But Erik's completely into going and it's time for an adventure. The nice thing is my blogging life will come with me!

To Blog

One of my sister's has finally started her own blog--Thirty-One Flavors http://thirtyandone.blogspot.com/(tribute to Ani over Baskin Robbins? I think so). In so doing, she said she blogged me about it, which seemed like a better way to say "I posted a comment to your blog." So in my lexicon/grammar text, I will suggest that "to blog" as an intransitive verb means that I wrote in my blog today. Example: I blogged. As a transitive verb, it will mean that I sent you a note in your blog. Example: I blogged you. See. And now I'll teach grammar with a 21st century foxiness. Now blog me. Blog me hard. (Imperative form of to blog).

Mess

I feel mentally unstable. I just proofread an essay of mine that's coming up in a journal and it's much too personal, especially if it's read without the essay that explains why I have no modesty whatsoever. Ugh, the whole nonfiction book project is a rubbernecking, gossip fest. Which is how I'll market it, but still. There's something a little striptease about it.
Which makes me think I'm unstable. Which makes me wonder how can I take a job when I know some of the reasons I'm doing it are bad ones--for money, for esteem, for natural career progression. Good reasons would be: I want a change, I like the school, I like the city, I love to teach. And I'll go for those reasons too, but the bad reasons are the ones that make me wonder what choices I would make differently if I wasn't so, well, conventional. But even my most unconventional friends have begun to make the responsible choices: Misty became a lawyer (and goes by Renae), Joy join the HotShots in New Mexico so she could make enough money to live in Idaho next year, John got a full time job for the forest service.....
And, I'm so lucky to have been offered this great job. But I don't want to use up all my good luck on jobs. I was looking at some wineglasses sitting on the counter and one of them was tipped, held up by another glass and I thought I don't want to waste all my good luck on keeping wineglasses whole. But it's true. I have substantial good luck in wineglasses. I still have 5 of the 8 Erik and I got for our wedding. On the other hand, I have bad luck with cars. Just yesterday, with TWO cars of mine in the driveway, neither would start. Erik's ignition was frozen (or the key is dull) and my battery is dead. On the same day! I guess I should take my good luck where it comes. But sometimes bad luck masquerades as good. What if I'd missed an accident because my car wouldn't start???? I know, thoughts like these are paralyzing. The truth of the matter, it will probably all come out in the wash. Or, in other words, it will all end in cliche. One way or another.

Other Worlds

When I got back from my 11 days of campus interviewing, I said "I feel like I've been in a hospital for a month." Then, 4 days later. I moved into the hospital for a month. Zoe is sick from the world's dumbest virus. RSV. Respiratory Scintilla Virus (Scintilla rhymes with Chincilla). I'm going mad being here. I came in and blamed the doctors and nurses that we were stuck here. Then I realized she was pretty sick and I was glad that she had some help and I should stop being such a selfish bum. Then she got an ear infection, croup, and pneumonia and now I blame the hospital for its germy, stress-filled environment.
We've been here too long and I'm having a hard time being rationale. But the system is designed to make me feel irrational. I can't make any decisions, nor do I have any idea when this will be over. I keep guessing. I'm an optimist. I always say tomorrow, but I'm always wrong. Being an optimist is very depressing work.
I make a lot of jokes about how air travel and hospital styas are comprably unbearable (subtracting of course the fact that my baby was so sick I cried). Unbearable defines 2006 so far.
But I did get a job offer at the GVSU job in Michigan. I'll probably take it. They are great folks and the program's great and the money's great and Dr. Write reminds me I can always come back (by "back" I hope she means back to SLC, not the hospital). I'm actually kind of touched that I made it to this point. In a lot of ways, that's enough.

Although Dr. Write SHOULD remind me to graduate and call myself Dr. and check myself out of this hotel.

Ft. Lauderdale/Boca Raton

Boca Raton=Mouth of the rat. I've learned much. FAU is made of concrete. It's full of nice folks though who may or may not want to hire me. I saw a comorant, a blue heron, a lizard, a coonti plant, a dutch pipe vine, a monarch butterfly, and several turkey vultures.
I do love big birds.
But pink buildings--not so much.
I've never been this hot. I've been sweating since I got off the plane?
How much red wine can I drink at dinner???? Less, than I want, I presume.
This is a good job--grad students, 3-2, non-adversarial department....The chair is one of the funniest, smartest people I met. Plus, man can he eat. He's my metabolistic role model. In fact, as a teacher, a writer, and an administrator, he's a role model for all.
But this part of Florida is super-suburban, expensive, and humid.
I don't know. I had a gut feeling for a moment.
I'm off to the other two interviews on Wednesday. I fly all the way back to SLC and then to Atlanta. Which wouldn't be so bad but for the very bumpy skies.
I feel like a sponge--absorb, absorb.

Exercises in Futility

This week has been nothing if not one step forward, two steps back (The Dow Jones and I may run on syncopated paths).
For instance, today I went to the eye doctor, loading the heavy Zoe in the bucket and driving through rushhour traffic, only to find the office closes at 1. Great. Then I went up to campus to find the latest issue of the Chronicle which has an article written by one of my interviewers at Florida Atlantic. The new issue just came out--supplanting the issue I needed.
So, I was inspired by Unhip's blog to really exercise. I emailed all 78 legislators and asked them not to support HB 45 the Bear River Development act:

Please don’t support the Bear River Development Act—HB 45. This $1 billion water project promotes waste, discourages conservation, uses funds poorly, and threatens to destroy one of the last wild waterways in the west. With a bit of conservation—by which I mean less irrigation, not less “drinking water”—we can easily compensate for the amount of water that would be appropriated by this bill that provides no healthy vision for the future.

I kept it short and pointless since it will fall on 70% deaf ears. I end this week by embracing my (and the Dow Jones) path.

Home, underrated

As it looks more and more like I may actually be moving (I'm hoping to jinx it by writing it in ink--or pixel), I keep thinking how very underrated staying in the land of your birth is. Since I was seven, my parents made it clear to us that had the economy been different, we would have been raised in NYC. Every slight made against me or the twins would cause my mom to rail against this backwards town. And it's true. Everytime the legislature convenes I say to myself, "we're out of here." But I do think that the imperative to leave can be a overrated. The opinion that to be truly career-oriented and grow- up requires that one leave town. And, I subscribed to that when I lived in Portland. But I also think appreciating what is here becomes evident only as the moving threatens. It's important to me that Zoe grow up around people who think she's truly unique, not just another baby; that Erik and I can go to dinner at the drop of a hat because her grandparents will come over at a moments notice; that her cousins are close enough to be like siblings; that when she looks outside she sees amazing land.
But there are enough drawbacks--bad legislature, bad restaurants, bad smog, bad legislature, the bad house being built next door destroying part of the amazing land, bad jobs--that we should at least seriously entertain the notion of going.
I can come back for summers, I'm reminded.
Zoe can visit her grandparents for weeks at a time, I'm told.
But having left home and come back, I feel like I know exactly how much I'll be missing--

Friday the 13th

Usually my Friday the 13ths aren't marred by disaster so much as dissatisfaction.
To note:
No new interviews. Which is OK because I'm really happy with my two, but I got SO addicted to NEWS in December, I'm going through withdrawals.
The lot next door just got surveyed for building. From what I can tell, their back door will open directly into my living room.
The cats think the new carpet in the basement is a brand new litter box. We've barracaded them upstairs but me thinks one or two of the cats may have to find a new home.
Erik is on call tonight which means he doesn't want to have people over. I haven't just hung out in weeks. I would like to relax with his folks or some friends of ours.
I ordered the wrong soup at Big City Soup.
No mail.
No email.

OK, apparently this 13th is marred by NOTHINGness. And a litany of small complaints is NOTHING. But, if something truly horrid happens, I'll keep you posted. And if you have any horror stories, I'd love to hear them. Because I'm horrid.

Door to door sales

I have a soft spot in my heart for Rugby because it was the only game anyone at Reed was any good at. So, when the kid from Westmini's CHAMPIONSHIP RUGBY TEAM came to ask me if I'd buy a raffle ticket, I said, sure. In fact, I bought 6 for $10 (what a bargain--$3 for 1!). I never win. I may come in 2nd. I may occasionally even get a prize for coming in 2nd, but I just don't catapult myself (or luck neglects to catapult me) over the top.
Still, I keep trying. Perhaps my number will come up (I hope not the "when your number's up" of my mother's Woody Allenesque take on fate) this time. What will I win? I don't know. I didn't really read it. Something about Vegas. Or Park City. Two nights.....
So, I suppose my point is, if you'd like to get $10 from me, come over and show me a nice picture of young folks (at Reed, Rugby was co-ed) with lots of bruises and soft buttons and hand me some tickets. Don't bother tearing off the part that you keep. I won't even notice until you leave that I have all the parts and the raffler has no idea how to contact me should I win. Which I won't, in good spirit. In fact, were it not for this post, I would have forgotten about it already.

looming

2nd interviews loom. What to do? Take Erik and Zoe so I don't have to pump & go? Buy real estate in upstate new york? Write pro and con list and make sure I realize that it gets below zero in both Michigan (GVSU) and NY (Alfred)?
The real question: what to wear? I already wore my power suit. Plus, it's two days of interview. Even if I re-suit on the first day, should I differently suit the next?
When will I write again since all I do is make travel plans.

How does this philosophy work of "what should happen, will happen?" Where is free will? Is there any free will when grandparents of a six-month old are involved?
Where are the west coast jobs? Is there anywhere as beautiful as Utah? Does better politics trump beauty?
How many questions can one ask to the ether???

pre-decision decisions

Though I have no idea if I will actually get any job offers, I am in complete arrest because I cannot decide what I want to do.
So, I leave it to my blogging friends to help me decide. If I have any left, since it's been so long since I've posted.
Here are the job interviews thus far:
Grand Valley State University in Grand Rapids, MI. Teaching load--3/3 (creative nonfiction)
Susquehanna State University in Selinsgrove, PA. Teaching load--3/3 (poetry)
Alfred University, WAY upstate New York. Teaching load--3/3 (poetry)
Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, FL Teaching load--3/2 (creative nonfiction)
Westfield State College, in Western MA Teaching load--4/4 (poetry).

If you know any one at or anything about these places and want to give me a little insight about what jobs sound best, I'd be happy to hear.

Long weekend

No cooking for me. This may be the first Thanksgiving since I was 19 that I didn't cook at all. Well, I went from house to house making proper gravy, but otherwise, no mashing, no probing, no stuffing, no sauteing. It's really kind of sad. I'm thinking of having a make-up turkey dinner soon.
Weekend was full of correspondence, writing, seeing the very very bad (bad in a good way Act, 1, bad in a bad way, Act 2) Mamma Mia and eating at the delightful Martine. Why doesn't every meal out consist of 7 little dishes? I love to taste things. When I move to Napa, I'm going to eat at the French Laundry every day. Also, this will happen when I win the lottery. But, if I do win the lottery, maybe I'll start my own French Laundry in Salt Lake. I'll call it the Mormon Clothesline to avoid charges against copyright infringement. I'll serve tiny gallettes of funeral potatoes, bread cubes ala sacrament, ambrosia salad--one marshmallow, one cubic centimeter each of madarin orange, grape, pear and peach, deep-fried chicken wing atop inch of mashed potato & cream gravy, ahi tuna casserole--seared ahi, homemade potato chip, mushrooms in cream sauce (aka, can of cream of mushroom soup).
Now I'm hungry. On Wednesday, Erik and I did cook. We made green chile sauce from anaheims from the last farmers market and 1/4 of a habenero from my garden. Too spicy to eat. Today, I mellowed it out with a can of tomatoes. Now, it's red chile sauce. Still hot, but not killer-death hot.
Tonight, I'm driving all the way out to the south Trio for dinner with cousins. And, considering my last Trio experience, I'm not too excited.
I also must go to the Avenues Bistro for a pity dinner. Terrible review in the Tribune by the new food critic. She was absolutely right. Maybe this town's restaurants will get in shape if someone kicks them in the butt a bit. I can't help. I feel sorry for all those chefs.

Salt Lake City Restaurants

I like to go out to eat. I like to cook too but I get a lot of my ideas for what to make from restaurants. Since this week was my birthday week, I happened to go out to many restaurants--from cheapish to expensiveish. Plus, I made a dinner of Striped bass with balsamic reduction, beet reduction, spicy turnip greens and swiss chard on a palette of diced sweet potatoes (mucho butter involved).
The best dinner:
Bambara. Scallops with truffle butter reduction, fennel slaw and pureed parsnips--all my favorite foods together and I didn't have to cook it. Much wine. $$$$$$$
Worst food:
Trio. Usually good but this time Trio Club with absolutely no flavor. Dry chicken, dry bread, dry tomatoes. Even the bacon was dry. Yuck. No wine. Sad. $$$$ (for what it was).
Mediocre food, best time:
The pub. Cheese enchiladas. (Felt guilty eating that much cheese but covered them in super spicy salsa, which let's me believe I'm "cutting" the cheese with spice. Oh the way I can wish away calories. I wish I was lactose intolerant) Just Erik & Zoe & me and great conversation about San Bernardino. 2 glasses cheap wine. $$

Which meal was BEST? On the one hand the scallops haunt my palate. Each flavor perfectly balanced--sweet and savory, buttery and sharp. On the other hand, the relaxing atmosphere of the pub and the easy conversation made for a great night. And we saved a lot of money. How to value these things? When I go out next time--go for the unique and complex flavor or comfort of our go to place?

The saddest part is that Erik & I drove all over the city looking for a new, fun place to eat. We found nothing. We can either spend $$$$$$$ or go to the pub. Perhaps I'll save my money for Wahso in Park City--featured as one of the top 10 restaurants in the world according to Fodor:


Nov. 7, 2005Park City restaurant named one of best 10 eateries in the world By Debbi TaylorStaff Writer One of Utah's most unique restaurants has been named as serving some of the world's best in the Fodor's Choice Winter 2006 list. Fodor's says the Park City restaurant Wahso offers a "not-to-be-missed experience." Wahso, one of five restaurants owned by Bill White, joins a list of top 10 restaurants in the world that also includes Bukhara, Delhi, India; Casa da Feijoada, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil; Casa Picasso, Ambergris Caye, Belize; Chef Mavro, O'ahu, Hawaii; Chez Pascal, Antigua, Caribbean; Findlerhof, Zermatt, Switzerland; George's at the Cove, La Jolla, Calif.; Hunter's Vineyard Restaurant, Blenheim, New Zealand; and Per Se, New York. http://www.slenterprise.com/topnews.html

Trista's Right

This site needs more pictures. I worry about people tracking down Zoe and stealing her. But I've decided baby-theft is more an impulse buy than a premeditated investment. Plus, since she's disguised here, I don't think I run too much risk.

Don't need a weatherman

Winter is coming--eventually. Even with global warming, it will still get cold and snowy for at least a couple days this year. Egg and I spent all day winterizing the backyard. We mulched plants and dug up sunflowers. I'm going to make habenero salsa with the beautiful orange peppersI salvaged from the impendng (we hope) freeze. The mums were red and some weird flowers Erik planted were orange to match the peppers.
When I came inside to save Zoe from the Cleo dog who knocked the baby over in her bouncy chair, there was a wasp buzzing around. A bee in November. Ah well, the peppers will get hotter, the tomatoes more red as the summers get longer.

Happy Halloween

I am going as "Stucco'd with quadruped and birds all over" from Leaves of Grass. Or, as my nephew Cameron says--a zoo.
Zoe is a lamb, or maybe it's a bunny, but she's definitely a quadruped.

I love Halloween.

Erik's going as KUTV's gift from god. I thought a bit obnoxious but funny nonetheless.

Today--the job letters are mostly done.
QW meeting tomorrow to see why we still don't have more money.
Begin new business.
Start a new novel.
Figure out what to do about my Walmart boycott--see, they've gone "eco-friendly"--minimizing packaging, cutting energy costs, buying clothes made from organic cotton (although also made with a 9 year-old's organic fingers). It's probably all a marketing ploy but what if it does effect some consumerist consciousness? Will I have to enter a Walmart? I'm afraid of getting hit on the head with falling prices.

schedules

I'm giving up the ambivalence about going on the job market by remembering:
I need an adventure.
I want my own students. There's something about TAing and working for peanuts that makes me feel a bit removed from my students--like there's always a graduate director in the room.
I need a 401K.
I get summers off.
Erik doesn't want to do camerawork for news the rest of his life.
Erik might start working nights.

Erik always has a somewhat awful schedule but when he works nights, I go crazy. And as those of you with babies know, the baby is one kind of creature by day and another more scary creature by night. I know that will change but it's A LOT easier at nights.

I'm not so good at getting it together in the morning either. By the time I read the paper, walk the dog, check the blogs, make breakfast, it's time to make lunch. I'm more of an afternoon worker and if Erik leaves me with Zo right at the time I usually sit down to work, I won't be able to get anything done. Plus, it's just depressing being home alone every night. The last time he had this shift, my friend Steve was still in town and we went into deep debt drinking red wine and going out to eat at every good restaurant in the Valley. Steve and I went to restaurants far and wide--out in Draper at some huge French gig, out west to a great barbecue place, up canyon for good salmon. Mostly we went to Greenstreet. But, the point is, Steve and I went out more than Erik and I ever did--I don't have that Steve friend because he's got one of those jobs I'm thinking about trying to get. And, even if he was here, I don't think Zoe could go with us.
So with Zoe and sans Steve, the idea of Erik being gone every night instills me with a deep panic.
Say what you will about professorships, no one has to get up before 7 or work after 5.

As I think about moving, I allow myself to watch "Sell this House" where Roger and Tanya Memme go in to people's houses and fix, in a weekend, what's wrong with a house so they can sell it. Usually it involves paint and new linens. But it's an amazing transformation. The hard part for me to swallow is the price of the houses. One in Scottsdale AZ should sell for $700,000. One in Glendale, CA, $650,000. And these are nice, but normal houses.
Who can afford a $700,000 house? The average appearance of the potential buyers make it appear that everyone can. Our housing market, though booming, isn't skyrocketing like everywhere else in the rest. I'm not sure how Erik and I could make enough to buy a house anywhere in, say, California. I guess this is how the Midwest will lure us. Or even the East Coast.

So. One more pass over the job letter and touch up the CV and call it a job search. I already feel the job thing has taken me away from what I want to do:
Hang out with Zoe.
Cook.
Write.
But this writing of the letter and imaging all the consequences of the is the lame part--anxiety-making, self-doubting, and time-robbing.
I still plan to cook Chili and bug Zoe.

Update. The current episode of Sell the House has a house for sale for $125,000-well, it's a townhouse.... I am grading while I watch. Well, in between blogging and checking my email too....No wonder it takes me all day to grade.

job market angst

Before I launch in, I want to register dissatisfaction with Blogger. Why name each post? I like the idea better of a daily log. Now I always feel I have to be "on point."

Anyway--the angst.
I don't want to have it. I went on the job market last year with some success but I hated the rigormorale--the mock interviews and the angst of my friends, amplifying my own, and the desire for external approval, and the fear that I might actually get a job and have to do something about it.
This year, although I thought because I'd suffered it last year, I'd feel old hat about this, is worse. Nearly all my friends are going on the market. Competition and friendship bite. And nothing else is new this year--I have no book. I have a few more publications, thankfully in Nonfiction, but so do my friends.
The truth is, my ambitious streak, at least in terms of professionships, is kind of thin. I always wanted the job that supported my writing. Somehow, I think I misunderstood the likeliness of this happening. With the market such as it is, I'd be lucky to teach 3 classes a semester. Which is one more than I'm teaching now, plus service, plus administrative work.
Full time. The thing I'd spent my life avoiding.
The truth is: I want to write. But. I want to write in a community/atmosphere that supports/appreciates writing. Hence the teaching idea. In retrospect, maybe I didn't commit myself properly to the professorship project. Publications and Editorship are not enough. I think I needed a bit more work on--well, what? Scholarship? Academic papers? Talking with my professors about Donne? Fellowships? Teaching more diverse classes?
I fear it's my nature to care more about liking my days rather than shaping them to advance my prospects. But, if I suffer for that lack, am I actually liking them?
Ah, the suffering is short, the days of wine and song are long.....
OK. I'm off to drink some wine and forget about how I screwed up my career.
If I did.
Maybe my real career is something else.
Or maybe this is where everyone's at.
But.

on babies etc

Babies: Much recommended. Most fun thing ever. Zoë is pretty squawky. I think she spends too much time thinking about her bowels. She expresses herself mostly through farts and burps but she's also been known to slug you across the face with her wild swinging arms. Her main talent--snarling. Everyone else says she smiles but I'm pretty sure she has nothing nice to say about the state of the nation, and, more pointedly, the state of her bowels. She also does not like it when Box the cat tries to sit on her. Which he tries to do every day. This also makes her squawk. At her age--2.5 months--she could be cooing. I consider these squawks coos. Though again, more an expression of gas than joy.

Since having Zoë I have gone mostly blind and have contracted MS. My arm falls asleep every night but Erik attributes that to me trying to nurse with my left hand and scroll through Blogs with my right. The blindness--I've heard your eyesight changes, but really, I walk into class and just blink at my students until they come into focus.But that's the only drawback. Zoë wakes up at 2 and 5 and then 7:30 (basically)--which is about how often I used to wake up anyway. Now I just have to feed a tiny barracuda for 20 minutes each time. And I go right back to sleep, unlike my insomniac wakings of before.Bonus to having two parents--two separate babysitters--one on Friday night, one on Saturday.

Erik is pretty goreat about the wee lass. I'm trying to convince him to take Fenugreek. Apparently men on the Mormon Trail took fenugreek and could actually breastfeed the baby. If he could breastfeed, well, I'd take Wednesdays completely off. As it is, I pump, then teach, then work on the Mag then drive home as fast as the stop sign-heavy Avenues will allow and drag my forty pounds of drooping milk into the house. Invariably, Erik will have just fed her, so I pump again.Evenings, when Erik usually has her, if Zoë makes the slightest peep, Erik apes for Zoë: "Mom, can I have some milk?" Helarious. Also, any time I sit down to eat something, she decides she's starving. I try to convince her that for milk, I must eat mucho, but she doesn't care. She looks at my fat butt and says, I think you can probably stand to skip a meal or two.I'm almost back into my regular clothes but I think it's a lie that you can eat anything and breastfeed.

Endangered species

Who needs 'em? When it comes to Walmart versus the spotted owl, why not choose the one where the price is right? Or maybe, with the new bill the house just passed, you can make money off the damn owl. I own its rotting old grown habitat. Perhaps the government can buy my land. I think I'll set the asking price at $50,000/acre. The govt. can afford it. Especially with the way we're making the poor pay more. And the more they pay, the more poor we create. Heck, maybe I can charge $100,000 because the govt helps those who help themselves.

Following the intelligent design model, the intelligent designer (whose name shall remain upspoken) spotted owls are less complex a model, therefore, worth less.

The only value is that which useful to humans. And making money for those humans. I suppose having the whole planet covered in Ivory homes will be profitable.

I wonder how to quantify the value of wilderness and diversity of species--perhaps I should say to those who complain that wilderness is only for backpackers and hikers that we won't go there either. That they're for no one. That the idea of the place is all humans get. And that is a lot. Being able to imagine a place separate from humans is what helps us to understand what it means to be human.

Perhaps only by hanging a price-tag on wilderness and habitat is the only way to decide what it's worth. So how much for the spotted owl? How much for the Amazon rainforest. Bill Gates has a lot of money. Can he buy it? And then put a big electric fence around it to keep the poachers and land-clearers and Republicans away. Until they can pay up.

Nonstop work or no work?

I can't tell if I'm never working or always working. I woke up at 1:15, 4:59 and 8:16 to feed Zoe. Up for good at 8:45. Made coffee, fed the cats, fed the dog, made 4 slices of the Avenues' cranberry pecan bread. Read the paper. Fed Zo at 9:30. Found Cleo's collar and leash, put Zoe in her kangaroo carrier and walked ourselves to the park. Came home, watered outside plants. Came in, cleaned up wineglasses from last night, read more newspaper. 11:17 Tried to convince Zoe she wanted to be naked in her crib. 11:35 gave up, gave her an apricot oil massage, fed her until 12:05. Recycled newspaper. Started to think about lunch. Got out a chicken breast and went outside to start grill. Grill wouldn't start. Came in to get lighter. Zoe fussy. Took Zoe and lighter outside and stood in front of grill, gas on. Thought better of lighting it and put Zoe on the grass next to Cleo (good babysitter, Cleo). Lit grill, came in. Put Zoe in swing. Grated parmasan. Made a fake Caesar Salad dress (lemon juice, mayo, worstchestershire, parmasan, garlic clove). Grilled chicken. Tore up lettuce. Looked at blogs while chicken cooked. Blogged a short depressing blog about New Orleans. (Blogs--like newspapers, but worse. I've read the entire alittlepregnant.com twice). Checked email (not much. One from Burger. It's Sunday of a labor day weekend). Got chicken off grill. Let it rest. Read some more blog. Cut up chicken and tossed salad. Ate while reading blogs. Found Cleo. Gave her a bit of chicken. Turned off swin for Zoe. Found bar of chocolate. Ate some of it. Blogged this.
I wanted to do today:
Send out manuscripts.
Writer more on the wolf piece.
Finish new QW website.

Must put down chocolate to even begin to do work. Now I feel like taking a nap.

Perhaps it's the blogs/newspapers that seem like I'm doing something (I like to call it research in my day planner) when I'm not. Perhaps I should limit the research to an hour a day. Of course, I'd probably just fill that time with more research, like watching the Discovery Channel or reading the New Yorker.

Now I've eaten most of the chocolate and thought about how I must have missed Lynn and Sylvia's half marathon. Guilt for the chocolate and for not cheering on my friends. Go friends I say from here as I look to Zoe to see if she's hungry. Someone has to get the calories from the chocolate and it had better not be me. See. Even eating chocolate can be considered work. I'm metabolizing for my baby!

OK. Really. Now I have to breastfeed and type if I'm going to get a stitch of work done today. I need one more arm. Or perhaps a well designed sling......

End of the world

I keep thinking about the dogs and cats left in the houses. And global warming. And the way that now that catastrophe has struck, everyone's shelling out the cash but when New Orleans asked last year for 2.7 billion dollars to reinforce and modernize the levee system, it was deemed too expensive. Now people are wading through a soggy cemetery trying to get some place dry. 10.5 billion dollars later, the government comes to the rescue--throwing MRE's and bottled water to the masses. At some point, this wait till it's broken approach will fail even more ridiculously. Part of me looks forward to seeing how bad it gets. No oil. No heat. No trucks to bring groceries. No water where it's needed most. Too much where it's not needed at all.
Perhaps I can go into business, try to entrepreneur my way into watching Utah turn temperate forest or plush agricultural center or buying property in Western Nevada as I wait for the waters to rise.
It doesn't look good for you if you're poor. But it doesn't look all too rosy for the rich either. Think of all the walking they'll have to do. Think of the Hummer becoming the primary residence. Sure, we'll all be starving too, but at least natural (or the oxymoronic manmade nature) disasters democratize us all.

From Impossible to Possible

A word on girl pain: cramps are not so bad for one reason--you know they're going away. Although it feels like some hand has reached through your spine and twisted your uterus as if they were trying to squeeze the last drop out of the juice of a lime, you know that hand will eventually let go. That too is what is do-able, supposedly, about giving birth--it too has an end point. The contractions I was having early on were no worse than bad cramps. But these lasted long. And, as far as anyone wanted (except me, in the pain, and even I wanted to hold out a bit longer--like an hour), the "cramps" could have lasted eight more weeks. I knew that I wouldn't make it ten more days in this much pain. I kept looking to see if the windows opened. I could jump. And my house is only three blocks away. If I was there, well, then maybe I could stand the pain. Maybe the nurses would quit coming in to take my blood pressure or wake me to give me more pills that did who know what to me or the unborn fetus?

Anyway, back to the narrative.
So I ask the resident to check me again, this time with her fingers. They MUST be missing something. But I can't really argue. My jaw is clenched shut tight and I don't have a lot of energy. Erik is so strong. He is totally focused on me making me try to relax. But again, I'm not sure how to relax. It isn't supposed to be happening. And according to medical science, it's not. So whatever relaxation techniques I'd like to employ are psychologically prohibited--either by my desire or by "fact." The resident goes away--I think she'll be back in a minute with permission to find out what's really going on but she doesn't come back.

I get up to pee and find that bending over pressing my feet one by one into the floor as if I'm walking helps a little. Just being out of the bed helps. As does being off the monitors. One time, I kept me and the baby off the monitors for almost half an hour. The nurse came in to protest, but when she saw me, she quickly left me alone.

My mom came in and brought Arby's. I couldn't quite concentrate/relax enough to eat. Plus there was a question about whether I was "allowed" to eat. Being in such intense prelabor. Not that I wasn't going to eat or drink. I'd gone through 4 of those big gulp size hospital jugs of water in the past eight hours. Hence the peeing. The water and the peeing were the only things I were really in charge of in terms of my body or the hospital. The water quenched my thirst, the taking off of the monitors to get up to pee quelched, by its small token of rebellion, some of my desire to jump out the window and run away.

By 6:30 or so, unbeknownst to me at the time, Erik was starting to panic. He called my sister Val and told her that I was in so much pain and had been all day and that no one believed me and he didn't know what to do. One problem with having a "team of midwives" is that there is no one midwife on whom you can call. Plus, since we were in heavily hospitalized way, the midwives weren't likely to hold any sway over actual patient care. But still. Erik had no one to call except Val who had had a baby just a year ago, had been involved all along and had planned to be our Doula had we ever enough time to take another hypnobirthing class.

(Strange to note, though. This is when I hork down an entire ARBY's roast beef in fifteen seconds. Thanks mom.)

So Val races from Holladay to Downtown in ten minutes. She rushes in and is shocked by the attitude of my nurse, who is ARMY-trained for sure. Her hair is so short I can see most of her scalp. When I tell her how bad it hurts, she grunts as if to say--let's amputate your leg without anesthesia and then we'll talk pain. Plus, you've already morphine you baby.
And although at the time I thought she was a horrific nurse, in retrospect, that kind of hard-ass attitude probably kept me calm. Others nurses, who may be more disposed toward empathy, would probably have made me think I was in so much more pain than I could handle. ARMY nurse does tell me that clenching will make it worse. I should try to open up and breathe through them (indicating she does think they are contractions and yet can't contradict the doc?) and RELAX. Although the word relax makes me tighten up like a poked anemone, I do try what she says and find that I can kind of ride them in a surfing kind of way. A cold, hard, coral ripped surf, but surf nonetheless.

And even my screams don't daunt her. Val and Erik are looking at the nurse as if to say "can't you hear her." She looks at me and with only a look, I get the distinct impression that I should be quiet. But I keep screaming every time I get a little cramp. I imagine my leg being cut off as some kind of solace.

And again, Erik is being great. He tells me to remember the fish pond we hiked past on our honeymoon, backpacking in the Wind Rivers. Although there was no discernible tributaries, the pond ran as clear and deep and anything I had ever seen and was full of trout circling.

Finally, even the nurse is convinced by my screaming that perhaps the resident, who had come by 3 hours ago and left the distinct impression she'd be back in a minute with a solution, should actually be summoned.

Suddenly, things change. I no longer feel cramps (albeit himalayan sized cramps). Now I feel weird. Like there is an alien body inside me, trying to come out. It wants to come out through my belly button, throat, butt, vagina--anyway it can get out. It's like the baby doubled in size, started doing jumping jacks and tugging at my kidneys. This s something foreign and now the real screaming begins. I don't even feel bad. I tell Val--I feel like I have to push. I feel like I have to poop.
The nurse goes to get a bed pan.
And thank God for Valerie who translates for the ARMY nurse. No. She says. She is having PUSHING CONTRACTIONS. And Val, who had an epidural with her babies, still knew what the hell I was talking about.

The resident is summoned. The speculum is brought back. I lift my hips and think, if I had the energy, that I would visegrip the resident's head between my knees if she doesn't check me with her goddamned fingers. But she emerges, looking convinced. I'm so sorry she says. You're fully dilated. I see the head.

what the hell? I could have been visualizing that turtleneck this whole time. Been thinking of the unwrapping of my uterus as a beautiful present. Instead, I'd been holding it in, clenching my jaw, my gluts, my abs, such as they were.

I fall in love with this pain. It hurts so bad I scream. The nurse tells me to be quiet and I scream louder. I arch my back. Erik shows me his thumb. He says look at the rivulets on the print. See the piece of skin forming a hangnail. Look how big the nail is, how round the pad. Erik is brilliant. I am fully hypnotized by his fingers. And he learned all of this in one scant class.

But no more time for practicing hypnosis. The resident is hustling into her scrubs. The nurse is throwing scrubs at Erik. He's putting on a blue hairnet hat and I'm thinking, wow, I guess we're going to have a baby now.

They ask if I'd like my midwife to come in now. I did want one of them to come. And Angela was on her way. She was one of my favorites because she was the most beautiful of all the midwives. And again, I'm on my barge, being ferried down the watery halls to the OR.
Babies born this early have to be delivered in the Labor and Delivery OR because it's right next to the NICU.

The lights are too bright and the resident has brought a student, also named Nicole, to come watch. Whatever I say. Learn from my mistakes. I'm screaming and arching and scaring everyone within a block radius out of having a baby (which, being in Utah, is probably a good thing for population control). Angela arrives and finally, someone I trust is here, although I really have met her only once, and she says that instead of screaming, put my scream into my push. I'm told to bend my legs--ARMY nurse holds one and Erik holds the other--and I'm supposed to squeeze out this tiny baby. No problem, I think. Finally, I have something to do. Finally, they believe I'm having a baby. Finally, these fifteen years of practicing my Kegel muscles will come in handy. I'm so thrilled with this pain. I push so hard I think my ear drums will burst. I hope I'm not pooping on anyone. I push from the top of my lungs down through my toes. I do this about eight times. They hold a mirror up for me to look.
I see a gigantic baby come out covered in white and red. She is huge. Of course, I don't have my contacts in, so I can't really tell. Her Apgar is a ten. She screamed right at first. No need for oxygen. She's breathing and crying and red as a reindeer's nose. The placenta is easy to birth and I am suddenly in no more pain. Except the ARMY nurse is kneading on my stomach to get my uterus back in shape. I tell her, do it as hard as you want. At least now somebody believes me that I'm having a baby.

Zoe was born that Saturday night at 8:54 p.m. She weighed 4 lbs and 7 oz. She spent three weeks in the NICU and has been home for 3 weeks. She's very mad now because I'm typing instead of feeding her. It's good to have a loud baby--I always believes she's here.

Disbelief/Not Believed

or: Good Reason part II

They won’t give me anti-contraction medicine—not that they think I’m having any contractions—but they will give me morphine. I think this is not so good for the baby but better than dying. Which is what I’ll do if I have to wait in this much pain to reach the 34 weeks where they’ll induce me. I imagine they won’t give me an epidural every twelve hours for the next week and a half either. As I start to clench my jaw and grip the bed rail, I wonder how pre-labor can be this painful and how anyone who is in real labor can do it naturally. We’d had exactly one introductory hypnobirthing class. I loved the images—to think of the uterus as a turtleneck just slipping over the baby’s neck, to imagine the uterus as a beribboned package and unlacing it, to think of a snowcapped mountain as a reserve of endorphins, let them drip onto your brow, through your cheeks, across your jaw. But I can’t really embrace these images. The baby isn’t supposed to come now—I don’t want to encourage it by visualizing a positive birth. I’m not really having contractions. No birth is what I’m shooting for, but I figure imagining the endorphins to be a universal visualization tool--I make it to my shoulders before I’m clutching the rail of the bed like the cold steel will provide a good role model.
Erik gets up every half hour or so to check on me. All I want to do is get up and walk but I was told to stay in my bed—and I do what I’m told because I don’t want anything bad to happen to the baby—or to think it was my fault for walking my baby into birth this many weeks early. I get up a lot to go to the bathroom, even if I don’t have to because that’s allowed. The morphine seems to do absolutely nothing but it must have had some effect because I made it through the night.
Every four hours, the nurses come in to take my blood pressure and check my contractions with a portable machine. Still, they see only little blips—tiny little hills along a mostly-flat line. I look like Nebraska but I feel like Colorado.
By the time the resident visits again I won’t let go of the bed rail. I arch my back every seven to eight minutes.
By three or four that afternoon, I ask the resident to please check me with her fingers. Double glove or something, I ask, but this can’t go on. She says, truly sympathetically, that she just can’t. They wheel me back to labor and delivery, just so she can check me again with the speculum. Fortunately, more morphine comes with this. Unfortunately, morphine is overrated. How is it possible? All this time I’ve waited for a reason to need morphine and it happens at a time when my opiate receptors are completely disinterested in receiving any opiates. Again, the promise of my needle-drug days dwindle. I imagine snow-capped mountains melting down my forehead.

To be continued again....my, it takes a bit longer to write for some reason....

Good reason

I haven't blogged for so long for what is a pretty good reason--the little baby that is due in two weeks decided to come six weeks ago.
Eight weeks early is a little too early for comfort. Nowadays, you can really feel at ease at anything over thirty weeks gestation, but there are difficulties and worries and expenses and traumas still. The worst thing is: they tell you at the hospital to plan that your baby will come home on its due date. That means 8 weeks of NICU land. But we were luckier than that, thank god.

Let me back up: On Wednesday morning, July 13th at about 2:00 a.m. I got up to pee. When I came back to bed, I saw what appeared to be quite a bit--a spot the size of my hand-- of water on the bed. I woke Erik up and asked him if he thought this meant my water had broken. He didn't know but thought perhaps we should wait and see. Unbelievably, I fell back asleep. About an hour later, I felt a gush. I woke Erik up again and said we'd better call the midwives.

(The plural "midwives" is semi-important to the story. Instead of having one midwife who followed me throughout my pregnancy, I rotated through seven of them during my prenatal visits since whomever was on call the night I went into labor would deliver me).

The midwife said I should go to the 4th floor (not the emergency room) of the hospital to have it checked out. She said there was no rush, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
When I got there, they tested the water to see if it was amniotic fluid. So it was.
I didn't believe it. Or, rather, I did believe that some water had broken, but that it wasn't enough to be worried about.

Apprarently, any water breakage is worrisome, according to the residents. The primary concern is infection, which sounded more benign to me than having a 32 week baby. I asked them why they didn't give me medicine to stop whatever contractions I was having (to my mind, I wasn't having any) and they said (residents with the attending visiting once) that the risk of infection was worse than having a baby early. They wanted to pump me up with ampicillin and erythromycin and wait in the hospital bed for a week and a half. 34 weekers do the best apparently. But everyone was operating on a "this baby is probably coming now" program. Again, I didn't believe it. I thought, since we live only a few blocks from the hospital, that I could go home and if my water broke further or if contractions started I could just come back. (The stress of being in the hospital wasn't helping anything. Plus, I couldn't like to spend all that money). I'm booked into labor and delivery with a nice view of my house.

But no, they weren't going to let me go. In fact, they weren't even going to let me out of bed except to go to the bathroom. (In fact, the whole experience was centered around the bathroom. Everytime I had to pee, I had to cart my IV full of antibiotics and the cords to the monitors with me. I hated the IV. My veins rolled and they had to restick me a bunch of times. My whole arm was bruised. I kept thinking how bad I would have fared if I'd chosen needle drugs as a sport.) I'm booked into the antenatal wing (which is exactly where the recovery room is). I don't like my view out the window. It's of the next wing of the hospital. I can see the roof's tar paper, the chimney stack and some ugly exterior wall. I cry. Erik asks if we can have a different room. I like the one they move me to. It's exactly like my sister's where she had Lily just ten months before.

On Thursday, lots of good people came to visit. I got no reading done, no thank you cardsfor the shower I'd had just three days ago, just a lot of chatting--which was good and distracting, though perhaps exhausting. Poor Erik slept in a cot beside my bed. I had comparatively, with my foam-pad lined bed and motrin and ambien, a good sleep. (I thought it funny how many drugs they were giving me: steroids in case Zoe was born soon to get her lungs working, antibiotics and motrin and percoset and ambien--all those months of abstinence seemed to go to waste). I'm wheeled out to the ultrasound room--the same one where we learned Zoe was a girl only three short months ago. There, they measure my amniotic fluid. 8--20 centimeters is normal. I had 17. I'm pretty sure I can go home.

That Friday, more visitors. I'm kind of liking this. It reminds me of when I had my hernia out and I was able to order popsicles from the nurses all night long. But I'm kind of stressed and I want to pretend this isn't happening by going home. Apparently, everyone thinks they can go home if their water breaks and no contractions are forthcoming. But only 1% of amniotic sacs re-seal. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be that 1%.

Until, about four o'clock that afternoon. Three people were sitting around my bed just keeping my mind off things when suddenly I just want them to leave. I don't tell them so but I think they can read it in my face because by four thirty, everyone is gone. Erik is back from work and I tell him I feel different. There is some pain now where before there was none. Like little tiny menstrual cramps.

I get wheeled back to labor and delivery so they can monitor me there. This is where the contraptions are they test for contractions and make it difficult to pee. They hook me up to the fetal monitor and the contraction monitor. Fetus is fine. Contractions--minimal. Finally a resident comes to check me. Now here's where things get a little tricky. Besides the fact they won't give me anti-contraction medication, they also won't check my cervix to see how dilated I am with their fingers. Apparently, testing digitally is more accurate and the standard by which they can tell how dilated one is. But again because of the risk of infection, they can only check with a speculum and their eyes. This, apparently, is not very accurate. The resident, Barbara came in to "look." She says I don't look dilated at all. I'm starting to clench my fists every for minutes when there's a cramp but Barbara says they're not contractions because they're not showing up on the machine.

I'm wheeled back to the antenatal room which they've kept for me. I ride my bed back down the hall as Cleopatra riding her boat down the Nile.

More later.....