Dignity - of which I have none left

Last Tuesday I lay in bed trying to get to sleep.  As I tried to finagle my pregnancy pillow into a comfortable position, I thought about how grateful I was for that very (uncomfortable) moment.  Blake was asleep next to me, dead to the world, Bear was curled up at my feet - snoring and acting like a portable heater.  I felt so lucky that IVF worked for us and that things were going so well (aside from the ever-present nausea. yuck).

I fell asleep happy.  And then I woke up to a nosebleed.  Not just any nose bleed, but the most horrific blood faucet I've ever had.  I spent the next 45 minutes hunched over in the bathroom, pinching my nose and trying to get it under control while Bear paced and whined next to me.  Poor guy is very sensitive to when we're not feeling well and he was not pleased with the situation.  Either that, or he was antsy about postponing his morning walk.

Thankfully, I got the nosebleed under control in time to walk over to my dentist appointment.

I brought some spare tissues in my pocket, just in case, but didn't seem to need them on the walk over.  However, right after I signed in at the front desk, I felt the familiar rush.

[Warning, graphic descriptions ahead. Proceed at your own risk.]

Before I could even grab the box of tissues on the counter, my coat, hands, and the bottom half of my face were covered in blood.  I mumbled an apology to the receptionist and took a seat in the corner of the waiting room, hoping that it would stop quickly.

No such luck.

The old ladies trickling in for their appointments looked ill at the sight of a someone dripping so much blood all over the place.  Pretty soon, the entire staff of the dentist's office was crowded around me trying to help.

My dentist, who is probably the world's coolest dentist, had the distinct privilege of helping me change the packing and seeing huge, slimy clots dangle out the end of my nose in between tissues.

They moved me to my own room to "bleed privately," and brought me ice packs, tissues, gauze, and a slew of packing materials that look suspiciously like tampons with the string cut off.

Half an hour later the blood had dried up...along with what remained of my dignity.  I mean, I thought I'd lost all dignity being sick from IVF and then being sick from pregnancy (being sick in public is just soooooo fun!), but here I was going deeply into the red (pun!) in the dentist's office.  Oy.

Here's hoping that the holidays this year will be more green and white...and less red.

Before I go and leave you with the image of gooey blood clots lingering in your mind, here are some darling picture of the Bear.  We bought Maybe Baby a small stuffed animal that looks just like him, but now he thinks it is his.  Sigh. Sibling rivalry already?

The Lunar Eclipses of the Apocalypse

So here's a story that has kept me laughing all morning.

Bear and I were out for our morning jog today when we came across a woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of her house.  I detoured into the street so little Bear wouldn't try to cover her with kisses (which is what he'd do if he had his way), and smiled and said good morning.

She started talking to me immediately, like we were already acquainted and in the middle of a conversation.

"So, have I ever told you about DayStar TV?"

Playing along because maybe she is just lonely?  "No, I haven't"

"It's this great TV provider with over 100 channels and lots of good news programs with great announcers.  And you can pick and choose what you like.  And you will like everything.  It's great.  It's called DayStar.  There are programs about everything.  You can find anything you like on there.

"Oh, that sounds nice."

"Yes. It's DayStar and it is so much better than other TV.  You can even call them today to have it set up.  You can call them anytime and change things, too."

Who is this all-encompasing "them"?

"Well, thanks. That's good to know."  Starting to walk down the street to get away from where this crazy conversation is going.  "Have a good morning!"

"I mean, on DayStar they've been talking about all of the stuff happening in Israel and how terrible it is.  Biblical stuff! Terrible stuff!  That part of the world is going to affect and take down the United States"

Still trying to gracefully exit the situation by slowly walking away.  "Well, thanks for telling me.  Have a good one!"

"Also, have you heard about the four lunar eclipses?  Those are signs of the apocalypse!  This is Biblical stuff.  All of the happenings in the heavens and the Middle East.  It's mentioned in the Bible. It's all signs!"

I decided to pick up the pace and not look back to continue the conversation, but she did still continue to call out to me all the way down the street about the impending apocalypse and the necessity of having DayStar TV.

Because apparently DayStar is actually a real thing?  What would I do without Google?

I feel like writing to DayStar to tell them that they need to get spokespeople who sound a little less crazy.  It's not great for credibility.  It's also not great for a peaceful morning jog.

But it is great for a story, so there's that.

Navigating Early and Lately

"Fly fishing is not about catching the fish.  It is about enjoying the water, the breeze, the fish swimming all around.  If you catch one, good.  If you don't...that is even better.  That mean you come out and get to try all over again."

- Clare Vanderpool

Navigating Early

Last week I read one of my favorite books of the past few years (in fact, I'm adding it to my top 10 of all time)- Navigating Early by Clare Vanderpool.  It's the story of Jack Baker, a Kansas boy who moves to Maine to attend boarding school at the end of WWII.  His mother has passed away and his dad is in the navy.  At school he meets a boy named Early Auden who (against any expectations) becomes his friend, mentor and side-kick.  

Early and Jack embark on an adventure quest together over fall break and end up meeting a cast of interesting characters along the way.  One of the men they meet happens to save them from a near-death experience in the river and lets them stay with him as they recover.  He is a Norwegian with a penchant for fly fishing and a knack for giving great advice.  

As they're fishing together and getting frustrated about the lack of catch, he says the quote above.  I read it over and over again.  "If you don't...that is even better.  That mean you come out and get to try all over again."  Have you ever heard anything more beautiful, simple, and true in all your life?  

I'm adding it to my list of mottos.  It's sort of a take on "come what may and love it," but it resonates more with me somehow.  

I've never been great at enjoying the journey.  I tend to be a "look ahead" person rather than a "enjoy the moment" person and I think it's probably my only constant regret.  I'm working hard to remain positive when things are hard and to enjoy the opportunity to try things again that didn't work the first time.  

It's hard sometimes, though, to be positive.  Take yesterday, for example.  I went grocery shopping and got in a car accident on the way home.  I won't get into the details, but the story ends with the woman who hit me telling the cops "I had foot surgery on Friday, so my foot hurt too much to put enough pressure on the brake to stop."  

I'm a bit shaken up and not wanting to drive anytime soon.  But I'm safe and the car is just a car, so I really should just be grateful.  I'm lucky that she hit me where she did and that there was a safe place to pull over.  

But enough about the sad state of our Honda.

What I really mean to say is: go buy yourself a copy of Navigating Early.  If you're like me, you'll want to read it over and over again.

On Shutterfly and Infertility

Those of you who know me well know that Blake and I have been trying to start a family for a few years.  Those of you who don't know me well...um...you're about to.

Not getting pregnant is hard.  It's hard after 6 months.  It's hard after 27 months.  It's just hard.

I guess if there's anything I've learned from this experience it's empathy.  I had never understood what heartache comes with wanting something so badly and then being betrayed by your own body.  I feel like I need to personally apologize to all of my friends who have gone through this before me.  I just didn't understand.  And it kills me that I wasn't more present for them.

And so, here we are.  After a year of poking and prodding.  After a cancer sentence and a reprieve.  After countless medicines and doctors.  After false-positive pregnancy tests and un-endurable Mother's Days.  We are here.  Starting IVF.... And alive.  Which I feel like is a feat in itself.

If there's anything to take the wind out of your sails, it's IVF.  It's a very exciting and interesting process (SCIENCE!), but it has made me feel like I'm underwater.   It's been simultaneously worse and better than I expected.  The injections aren't so bad.  Sure, they're a bit painful and I'm running out of un-pricked space on my stomach, but that's probably the least of my worries.

I spent Monday crying all day.  Why?  I have no idea.  I wasn't even sad...I was just leaking tears all day.  Darn hormones getting the better of me!  I've spent the subsequent days waddling around feeling like two sacks of marbles have been inserted into my lower stomach.  I've developed a small beer belly that's as hard as a rock.  And I feel the need to wear stretchy pants all the time.  Ahh. That's the life.

Early in the week I also received a rather timely (except the opposite of that) email from Shutterfly congratulating me on my new baby and asking if I'd like to buy baby announcements.  Thank you, Corporate America, for that slap in the face.  No wonder I prefer getting my goods through the garbage.

Honestly, I wasn't that upset by it...however, the irony was not lost on me.  I wrote a short email to the Shutterfly team asking that they re-check where they are getting their marketing data because an email like that was in rather poor taste.  i wasn't rude about it, but I just let them know to double check so that it doesn't happen to other people in my situation.

I got an email back directly from the Chief Marketing Officer with his sincere apologies.  So there's that - at least they are reachable.  Guess you haven't lost my business after all, Shutterfly...you'll live to send me another inappropriate email.

But lest I come off sounding extremely whiney, I'm actually feeling really lucky.  I fall into that small percentage of women with "unexplained infertility," which has been frustrating at times, but it means that the doctor has no reason to think that this won't work.  And that's comforting.

I've got a husband who has been supportive and kind (even on my non-stop crying days) and who encouraged me to quit my day job to do something I love.  He has held my hair back when I've puked from procedures, bought me ice cream when I need it, listened to more information about women's bodies than he's ever wanted to know, shuttled me back and forth to appointments when I've been too stressed to drive myself, and generally been the best husband and friend a girl could ask for.

I've got family that pick up the phone just to let me cry or talk when I need a listening ear.  And family to send me flowers to brighten the days, or clothes as a fun surprise.  And family to share in our heartache and our excitement, and support us through this process.

I've got friends who have brought me meals, offered to drive me to appointments, sent me texts to check up on me, sent me encouraging emails, and forwarded funny videos to brighten my day.

I've got a home that I love in a city that I adore.  I've got a puppy that starts crying when I cry...that snuggles me when I'm sad and makes me happy with his goofy grins. I have the chance to do what I love from home even if it doesn't make much money.

I've got a team of the kindest doctors and nurses I've ever met working with me to help us start a family.

So even though I've had my fair share of bad days in the past few years, for all these reasons I feel lucky.  And blessed.  And hopeful.

Il faut qu'elle fasse pee pee

I dearly wish this story were mine, but I've got to give credit where credit is due: it's Blake's story.  But it was too funny not to share.

Blake's been fighting a sinus infection off and on for the past couple weeks, so I've been picking him up at the metro in the evenings when it's particularly cold.  The other day he got in the car with mixture of glee and disgust on his face and a fabulous story to tell.

The metro was packed and he was holding onto the center pole.  A woman who looked down-on-her luck (or, mostly just drunk) and two of her friends squeezed themselves into the car and held onto the same middle pole.

After a few minutes the lady poked Blake in the side and asked "Can I pee here?"

Blake didn't want to engage...or even ask what she meant...so he started sidling over to the other side of the car.

As he was backing away, but still watching the woman, she dropped trou and started peeing.

Let me repeat that.  SHE DROPPED HER PANTS AND STARTED PEEING ON THE METRO FLOOR.

She piddled a huge puddle.  Folks sitting around her were taking pictures and videos to report it.  And Blake could hear the puddle piddling from across the car.

Then.  Get this.  The woman and her friends stayed on for THREE MORE STOPS before getting off. That is 10 minutes standing in a puddle of pee.  On the metro.  In the middle of a crowd.

That's what I call city living at its finest, folks.

Nightmares

Bear has nightmares.  Do dogs even have those?  Mine does.

Last night he woke up crying/shouting and shaking, so I went over to investigate and found him cowering with the most terrified look on his little, fluffy face.  It took several minutes of rubbing his head and another few minutes of him snuggling into my hand for him to fall asleep again.  Poor little guy.

What could he possibly be dreaming about that's so terrifying?  A big dog that doesn't want to play with him?  Not enough treats for performing a certain trick?  Too many crunchy fall leaves to eat?  It's a mystery.

Luckily for my sleep habits, most of the time he's a pretty happy little guy.  He makes the best co-pilot a girl could ask for (even if he is covered in reddish mud from a frolic in the back yard).

27 - A very special birthday

Blake and I have been trying to go to Rasika together for years.  You generally have to make reservations two months in advance, and even when we do remember to make reservations, we always have something come up at the last minute so we have to cancel (I'm sure to the delight of folks on the waiting list). 

The cosmos finally aligned.  We arrived for my birthday dinner and were seated at one of the small, intimate tables in the dimly lit restaurant.  I say intimate not because it was in any way romantic for the two of us, but rather because we quickly became intimate with our neighbors - who were sitting practically shoulder to shoulder with us.

Along with everyone else that night (and probably everyone to eat there in the history of the restaurant), we ordered the Palak Chat as an appetizer.  It was divine.  But, I digress.

The couple at the table next to ours finished inhaling that heavenly spinach at about the same time we did and were (as we were) chatting amongst themselves while they waited for the main course.  That is until he was suddenly down on one knee 3 inches from me with a small box and a shaking hand outstretched toward his date.

It took me a moment to process what was happening.  In that moment and the short time following, I witnessed the world's most awkward proposal:

-Three seconds of "I love you so much. Will you marry me?" whilst Blake and I tried to shy left so as to create an extra few inches between us and the awkward.

-Approximately .5 seconds of a squeaky "yes" from the now fiancee, whilst Blake and I try in vain to not be included in the photos that are now being snapped from across the room.

- Another 30 seconds explaining "I was going to propose at home last night when we got takeout, but decided to wait until now."  Oh gosh, buddy. A proposal over takeout?  I'm so glad you waited. 

- Followed by 30 seconds of Blake and me wondering if we should congratulate them.  Then 10 seconds of actually congratulating them.

This all took - I kid you not - less than a minute and a half, making this quite possibly the shortest and most awkward proposal known to man.

I think being a part of a stranger's proposal is maybe the best accidental birthday gift I've ever received.

The weakest cat

	I'M WRITING IN
	A pen may be stronger than a memory, but cats really take it to the next level.  Spend your evening writing profound poetry in cats here.

On why my life is really exciting.

I had myself an existential crisis the other day while I was cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast.

I grabbed a paper towel and started wiping off the counters (sesame seed bagels are delicious, but oh so messy).  I swept the crumbs off and into my hand to dump into the garbage can.  But what I thought was a particularly large crumb turned out to be a feisty black spider.  A black spider that I'd just swept into my open palm.

It only took me a fraction of a second to realize that the "crumb" was moving, and just a fraction of a second more to squeak with disgust and frantically shake my hand. But that moment was enough time to sufficiently question the essence of my existence.  Spiders chill me to my core.

No time to question the futility of life, though.  The panicked hand shaking/finger solved the problem only momentarily.  And that was a mistake.  It was time to get to the task at hand - searching out the little deviant and re-sweeping the sesame seeds.  Thank goodness for the peace of mind a good vacuuming brings.

Flo Rida

Blake and I went to Florida over the weekend and I only took one picture.  But maybe this one picture counts extra because it's so awesome.

Blake's parents just bought a vacation home in a golfing community that almost seems like Disneyland for adults.  Everyone has a golf cart, and almost everyone uses their golf cart instead of a car.  The have their own lanes on the roads and special parking spaces at the grocery store and movie theater.  We went out to a movie on Saturday night and had to park quite far away because we'd driven a car and the golf carts had the primo parking spots. 

Some folks even have their carts pimped out to look like mini escalades, hummers and rolls royces.  It's incredible! 

It definitely feels like a make believe world world down there - one filled with key lime trees, humid 105 degree weather, jaguar golf carts and pools that don't allow anyone under 30 (whoops!). 

Anyhow, our flight back yesterday was delayed several agonizing hours, and we didn't get home until around 4:00 a.m.  I'm tired enough that I'm questioning my coherence, so I'm going to stop typing before I stop making sense.

Of Biblical Proportions

It has recently come to my attention that we're expecting the once-every-17-years plague of cicadas this summer.  And you know what?  Now that I know they're coming, it's like some sort of horrible waiting game.  Sort of like a slasher film when you know the guy with the mask will show up at any point, but you can't do anything to prevent it (because, after all, it IS a slasher film).  Yes. Like that. Except with these terrifying bugs: 

Look at those beady red eyes!  The horror, the horror!

My reading has confirmed that these suckers will show up as soon as the ground temperature reaches 64 degrees.  Then they'll crawl out of their subterranean bug villas and descend upon us like a plague straight out of the Bible.

How exactly does one test the ground temperature?  And is it worth doing, or should I just accept my fate? 

Blake said that in 1996 they were so plentiful that he had to scrape them off the car before getting in.  And that you can't help but step on them.  And that when they die (all at once, apparently) you have to rake their carcasses just like you would a pile of old leaves.

In conclusion, I'd advise all you unsuspecting interns planning to come to the DC area this summer to do one thing: turn and run back to where you came from.  Escape while you still can.

Panic! in the Kitchen

I read Born to Run last month and am now making my way tentatively into the world of barefoot running.  I've got terrible feet and am pretty much willing to try anything to help with the back and leg pain that comes with having the feet of a 95 year old woman. 

I've gotten surgery on both ankles, worn orthotics in my shoes for the last ten years, and bought the most expensive bunion-widowed, pronation-fixing shoes ever to grace the Asics line.  And nothing has completely prevented the pain.

So, I'm a convert.

I'm going to be buying some of these slightly freaky FiveFingers shoes come spring and then I'll run outside.  For the time being I've been running barefoot on the treadmill.  It has vastly improved my running posture already, so I'm looking forward to seeing if it completely reduces my aches and pains.

As I mentioned, I've been running on the treadmill.  On Wednesday, my feet were quite cold, so I decided to wear some thin socks while I ran.  I noticed several minutes into my jog that my feet had started to hurt, but I thought, "oh well, rug burn i guess?" and kept going.  When I finished and hobbled upstairs I noticed that I'd developed enormous blisters all over my feet.

Not exactly a pleasant feeling for me the next day when I put on my work shoes. 

Now, let that image ruminate in your mind while I segue into my next story.

On Thursday I was totally on my game.  I'd gotten the right groceries to execute my pre-planned meal.  I had defrosted the salmon and soaked the cedar planks.  I was feeling pretty good about myself.

I put the quinoa in the rice cooker, I chopped the broccoli, I dressed the salmon and pre-heated the oven. BUT, as I was waiting for the oven to finish heating up, I heard a loud pop from the oven and looked over to see error message flashing across the screen.  It started beeping uncontrollably - and try as I might to turn the darn thing off, it just wouldn't cooperate. 

I looked inside the oven and was alarmed to see every heating element turning on and glowing red-orange.  My oven was possessed!

Or, at least that's what I thought.  But, like any child of the new generation, I quelled my fears and turned to google.  Oh, that oracle of answers!  In two minutes I had researched the problem and found out that it was a defect with the oven (that Kenmore has refused to recall). The electrical panel had fried and it was now on overdrive. Folks had reported that their ovens had turned on and had the same error while they weren't even in the house - resulting in kitchen fires and whole-house fires.

The reviews mentioned that the only way to stop the oven from continuing to heat is to pull it out and turn it off or unplug it in the back.

Well, at this point that's not a possibility because I can barely even get near the thing let alone touch it.  I had to remove the dish towel from the front because it had already begun to singe in that short time.

There I was- home alone in a smoke-filled kitchen - with panic rising in my chest and the fire extinguisher in my hand.  I had to do something fast or face the fiery consequences.

So I ran down to our electrical box to flip the breaker.

This was a great idea except for the fact that none of our breakers were labeled.  When we got our electrical box replaced, our electrician disappeared without re-labeling anything.  We've slowly been doing it as needed, but I hadn't yet gotten to the oven one.

I spent what felt like ages (but was probably only 5 or 6 minutes) stress sweating and sprinting from our kitchen down to the corner of the basement to try breaker after breaker.  All of this, of course, being done with maximum discomfort to the twin pillows of pain residing on my feet.

I hit a breaker and went up to the kitchen to see every appliance and light in my kitchen off except for the oven.  At this point I was fairly certain that my oven had gone rogue and no longer needed an external power source (maybe I've been reading too many dystopian novels lately?).  Of course it was the very last breaker I hit that actually turned the oven off.

I was just breathing a sigh of relief and trying to fan out more of the electrical-fire smell when Blake walked in from work.

He took one look at my face and one sniff of our house and decided we were going out for dinner.

I think I'm still getting over the initial stress of the evening.

Just up in India, stealing your cash.

The worst way to wake up on a Sunday morning is undoubtedly by getting a 7:00 a.m. complimentary wake-up call from American Express to ask you if you just spend 1,500 rupees at a cosmetics store in Delhi. 

If we're looking for bright side here, maybe it's that I've never felt so instantly awake that early on a weekend morning.

I went through my mental checklist: card has never left my possession, never written the number down, never said it out loud in a public place, haven't ordered anything from sketchybiz.com. 

And this whole time at the back of my mind I'm remembering those hilarious identity theft commercials from a few years back where they'd show a wizened old man sitting in a Lazy boy, smoking a cigarette, but when he opened his mouth he sounded like a teenage valley girl discussing the merits of a recently purchased bustier. 

Sort of like that time in college when someone in Moscow got a hold of my bank account information and started withdrawing my money in $250.00 increments from various ATMs around the city.  After the initial shock wore off and the I'd survived the crazed visit to the bank to verify that I had not been in Moscow in the last 10 days, I may or may not have spent the day breaking into a Vladimir-inspired accent and mentioning the expensive Vodka I was purchasing with that cold, hard, American cash.

T-Bird Pride

I enjoyed high school.  Don't get me wrong...there is no amount of money you could offer me to make me go through it again, but it wasn't all that bad.  I had good friends, I liked my classes (for the most part), I was a member of the Dorchestra, the French Club, the Ski/Snowboard club and the track team.  [I may mention that I was not the star of anything in which I participated...].  I wasn't what you'd call popular, but all was well.

I went to most of the basketball and football games.  Not as a cheerleader, and usually not with a big crowd of friends.  Generally, I went to geekily hang around with the band kids and to pay more attention to cute boys in the crowd than to what was actually going on in the game.

Our high school mascot was the mythical Thunderbird.  A creature painted in orange, white and blue on the sides of our gym and other leering places around the school. 

My friends, who were on the cheer squad, liked to make up goofy cheers imitating the t-bird.  They'd chant "thunder, lightening," then kiss both biceps and growl.  To me now (and probably to you) this seems odd.  To us then it was a thing of beauty and a source of much amusement. 

But, I digress.

What I meant to say before I got distracted by memories of my younger, goofier, freckled and brace-faced self, is that I've never had a ton of high school pride.  Timpview is just not  place I spend a lot of time thinking about.

However, last week I had the occasion to bust out my old yearbook and have a few moments of t-bird pride boasting to some of my other YA lit loving friends.

Camille and I met up at the Bethesda library last Thursday to hear YA author Ally Condie speak.  Camille and I are both fans of her Matched series, so we joined what seemed like half the teenage population of Bethesda for the Q&A session and book signing.  If I had to guess, I'd say that we were the only people above 15 who weren't there as parents with their 15-year-old kids.  In a word: it was awesome.

Ally took questions for an hour.  She explained how she got the inspiration for the opening scene of the first book from a prom that she and her husband chaperoned when she taught high school English.  As she described the school and the prom, it all sounded eerily familiar. 

So, when I had her sign my book, I asked her, just out of curiosity, where she taught.  She then confirmed my suspicions that she'd taught at Timpview.

When I got home I googled around the Internet and found out that not only had she taught at my high school, she actually taught while I was there.  It was a big enough high school that I'd never met her, seen her, or even heard of her, but when I checked my year book there she was.  A younger, early-aughties haircut version of her, but her nonetheless.

Small world, isn't it?

First world problems

Most years I have my Christmas shopping done (or close to done) by Thanksgiving.  This is partially because I like to plan ahead and find deals throughout the year, but it's mostly due to the fact that I absolutely can't stand going to the mall in December.

The crowds.  The harsh lights.  The cold weather outside that makes me dress warm and then carry around more and more clothes as I shed layers in the store. 

I get stressed.  I get tired.  I get sweaty.

This year I am way behind.  As in I just started my shopping this week.  November 2012, I love you, but you're bringing me down.  Why are you bringing me down?

Now, this late start would be ok if I actually had a idea in mind of what to buy for everyone on my list.  Then I could go clicky clicky online from the comfort of my own bed on Black Friday morning and get most of it taken care of.  But alas, I'm fresh out of ideas. 

Like most December-mall-o-phobes, I'll be turning to the internet for guidance (and pestering my family and friends with every spare second of my time for their lists).  I'll tell you one thing, though, there ain't no way you'll see me out at all hours waiting in line with those hooligans on Black Friday.

BuzzFeed claims that the the US Army lists Walmart as the most dangerous place in the country on Black Friday each year.  Not Detroit, not SE DC, but Walmart. 

If that's not enough to keep you out of the malls this weekend, I don't know what would.

Apocalypse Now

The world is in a sorry state.  You know how I know?  Because something like this is for sale on the world wide web.  And it's for sale for $49.00 (!!!). 

The dubious levels of taste on Etsy make me question the status of the human race. [And now I'm off to have nightmares about those bulging black eyes.]

Hannah at The Nail Bar

Blake's been out of town for work a lot lately, so I've had to find ways to keep myself entertained.

I was pretty exhausted after work yesterday, and after making it through the 60-person sit-down dinner I planned this past week, I figured I deserved a little pampering.  So I treated myself to a pedicure at my favorite place.  I picked out the perfect wine-red color (the color this fall, I've been told) and settled down in the massage chair to oogle my Crate & Barrel holiday catalogue and enjoy the foot massage.

My nail technician (is that what they're called?) didn't speak good English, but she was very emphatic on trying to up-sell me on various beautifying procedures.  In fact, her method of up-selling made me feel rather fugly:

Pointing to my face: "You want me to clean up your eyebrows?"

What?  Are they really that bad?  Thanks, but no thanks, I'm not letting you anywhere near my brows. 

Reaching for my nail-bitten hands and clucking in disapproval: "You need manicure."  Not said as a question, but as a fact.

Great.  My hands are grotesque, too.  What next?  Is she going to suggest that she wax my upper lip? 

Pumice-stoning my rough feet: "How many times you get pedicure?"

"Um, I dunno, two times a year I guess?"

Clucking again with disapproval and looking around to see if anyone else had heard my answer: "ONLY TWO TIMES?!"  Smug laughing.  Shaking her head.  "You only come two times?" 

Ok lady, so I don't want to spend $20.00 a month getting my toes shined.  Sue me.  I'm cheap.

At this point she then calls all her colleagues over to tell them (in what I think was Thai) all about how I only get pedicures twice a year.  They all proceeded to shake their heads in disapproval and give me looks of pity. 

So now I'm ugly and unkempt.  Perfect. 

I'd had about all I could take of Hannah and her high-pitched insults, so I dove back into the lovely retail world of red waffle makers and holiday-shaped marshmallows.  Besides, what does she know anyway?

S'More Nothing

Do you ever feel like everything exciting happens on the same day?  Not necessarily good exciting or bad exciting, but just out-of-the ordinary.

My week has been like that.  Monday, Tuesday, meh, same-old same-old: get up, get ready, chomp on breakfast on the way to the metro, work, read, cook dinner, work out, shower, watch a show, go to bed.  Repeat.

Then Wednesday hits.  A normally 35 minute commute takes 1 hour 35 minutes due to lack of power on the rails. We spend 15 minutes standing on a platform in NE DC wondering how in the world we're going to actually get to work (and join every single other person on the platform in frantically calling our offices to let them know we'll be missing whatever we have scheduled that morning):

I finally make it to work an hour late feeling ennui that can only be cured by Diet Coke or ice cream.  I opt, due to the morning hour, for the Diet Coke route.

A couple of my colleagues and I decide to further combat our metro-induced frustration by taking a long lunch and walking to the MLK library and then out to lunch.  I am now the proud owner of a DC library card (hooray for reciprocal borrowing privileges!).

The weather is perfect when I get off work, so I enjoy the walk home in the crisp fall air.  I dodge the oddly cut branch overhanging our walkway (it's a long story...), open all the windows in the house and start in on dinner and the cream cheese pound cake recipe I've been dying to try. 

Ten minutes later a man (woman?) from a childrens' poverty sponsorship agency (to sponsor the children, not their poverty...obviously) knocks on the door and proceeds to make me awkward by 1) asking if I'm really over 21, and 2) telling me that during the course of our conversation, "Bam! 50 children have already died of starvation etc. while we've been talking."  Feeling guilty and grumpy does not make my wallet open any more easily, lady (man?). 

Right before book group is supposed to start, I hear what sounds like a cross between a crying baby and a strangled cat howling outside the window.  I think at first it is some friends playing a joke on me, but Kristin knowingly informs me that it was actually a male cat in heat. 

We find him lounging in the ground-cover in the backyard, arching his back and yowling unceasingly.  It is simultaneously hilarious and terrifying and I find myself considering how I'd defend myself in the event of a cat attack (stop, drop and roll?  cover eyes, nose and mouth to prevent massive allergy attack?).

Book group otherwise goes off without a hitch, but I find myself absolutely exhausted by the end of the evening. 

What will tomorrow bring? 

A blog about nothing

Today's street-preacher snippet (mind you this was being yelled into a cell phone - because apparently he preaches remotely, too):

"...and men were made by God to be warriors.  And you aren't born a warrior.  You have to go on a quest to be a spiritual warrior. I only recently became a warrior as I was previously possessed by devils..."

Yep.

On Tuesday night Blake and I were watching TV in our family room with all the windows open because the weather was incredible and we wanted to dispel the fumes from refinishing our kitchen counter tops.  We noticed that it started to smell like smoke. This didn't bother us. In fact, it kind of made me jealous because I thought someone was having a BBQ and that sounded nice. 

Then we started hearing multiple fire engines and ambulances.  Then we felt the floor rumbling faintly and finally roused ourselves from the couch to look out the windows.  The engines were parked just a couple houses down from us! 

Blake and I ran outside and walked up the street to investigate.  It was only when we were standing in front of the fire engines and the evacuees that we realized that we still had our bowls of ice cream in hand.  And I continued to eat mine in the soft glow of the fire engine lights - I couldn't just let it melt!  So, yes, we are those people: the ones who bring treats to a tragedy.

Finally - because this has been a post about absolutely nothing - I give you Cookies About Nothing. 
Enjoy.  And have a happy weekend!

And one more thing.

Did you know that when the power goes out and the ice in your freezer starts to melt, it will drip continuously out of the ice dispenser and soak the kitchen floor?

Did you know that when you remove the ice box from the freezer and place it in the sink, it will halt the dripping, but the when the freezer turns back on it will continue to make ice?

Did you know that the ice maker will continue to make ice because it does not feel a box starting to fill up?

And when it continues to make ice at a unceasing pace, did you know that when you open the freezer door after coming home from your trip, several hundred ice cubes (along with some suspect re-frozen fish and chicken juice) would cascade out into the kitchen?

We didn't.