More hell than heaven cake

Tonight has to be the biggest baking disaster I have ever created. Girl shared a recipe for Heaven and Hell cake. It sounded so so good, and I was feeling up to trying something more than cookies or brownies.

Momma will know the first problem when I say that you start by making an angel food cake from scratch. Not my forte. But I keep trying. It didn't taste that bad, but it was the consistency of a thick whoopee cushion.

The devil's food cake turned out so moist and soft that it fell completely apart under the weight of the angel food rubber.

The best part was the peanut butter mousse. I wish that I had just tossed the angel food and spread the peanut butter mousse on the devil's food cake and dipped it in the chocolate ganache. But I didn't. I continued to try and assemble the cake.

The ganache poured off the top and onto the counters. The devil's food gave way under the weight of the angel food and squirted out the sides. A giant glop of it dropped onto Pupstar's back and onto the floor. As much as she shouldn't have chocolate, I was laughing too hard to stop her. Most of it was the peanut butter mousse anyway. She is still trying to lick it off her back.

Forgoing the refridgeration that was the last step because it was too far gone anyhow, I scooped some onto plates for us. True to form, Papa ate his in its entirety and gave a brusque, "What? What's wrong with it?"

I adore him.

Guy and I ate enough bites to determine that it was possibly the worst thing ever to come out of my kitchen and then gave up.

Now, all I have to do is figure out how to get it in the trash without spilling anymore on the dog.

~~~~~~~~~~

I decided this needed photos.










The angel food cake. Not looking too bad here.

Unfortunately, in about 10 minutes, they looked like this:









Rubber. Scary scary rubber cakes.










This is the oh so yummy peanut butter mousse.










The finished product before attempting to cut. You can see the lump of devil's food cake that are getting ready to squeeze out the sides.










And after cutting, but just before the ganache headed for the counter.

You would think I had never baked anything in my entire life.

Haiku for you

Missing all my friends
Cravings for tacos and cake
I'm thinking of you.


Guy's calling me now
"Why do you need a haiku?"
Because it's Friday.


And a guest haiku from Guy . . .

I don't need haiku
I've much better things to do
Spend my time with you.


Sorry it's not so much today. But if you click here, you can find the rest of the bloggers writing some better quality and far more entertaining haiku.

You should talk about boobs too

I never thought I would talk about boobs so much on this blog.

Of course I never thought my boobs would get to serve a purpose. I didn't expect to get to have children. Now, I sit, Bird tippy tapping just below my belly button, and I'm peeking over my chest at the computer screen. These boobs have grown to mammoth proportions, getting ready to perform the most important task in the world. Feeding my child.

Right now, women all over the blogosphere are uniting to speak up about breasts. So many of us have been talking about how you don't have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Now though, we are talking about breast feeding.

Facebook, MySpace, Applebee's, Delta Airlines, all have brought their companies under the wrath of mothers everywhere by treating breast feeding as something dirty. Something that needed to be covered and hidden. Something that we should be ashamed of.

I don't have accounts on Facebook or MySpace. I would rather lick the bottom of some movie theater seats than have to eat at Applebees. And I fly American because there is more leg room on some of their planes. I'm all leg. And boob.

I can't even talk about Bill Mahr. It makes me too mad. Someone should wax that man's balls. With really really hot wax.

But I can post the button. And let you know that if you post breastfeeding pictures or you want to breastfeed while you shop, eat, blog - go for it. It's not bothering me one bit.

While I considered joining in and posting a picture of the acres of dairy farm that have taken up residence, there is no baby yet. So I am refraining. No baby, no boobs. So sorry. I don't have access to a wide angle lens anyway.

I joke a lot about my breasts now. I mean, they are crazy huge now, and some days, all I can do is laugh because my shoulders and back hurt, and I look a bit cartoonish. Pictures of me look photoshopped with my tiny head and overwhelming chest. It's hard to find clothes that fit, and I look a good 20 pounds heavier than I really am, just because of the chest.

But to honest. Completely honest, I'm not laughing at them all the time. I'm not ashamed of them. I'm actually kind of proud of them. It's like they are really rising to the occasion. Well, they aren't really rising I suppose.

But they are real, and they are fabulous.

At least that's what I hear. From the guy, called Guy, sitting to my left.

Guy, and those construction workers I walked past downtown today. Awesome.

Dr. Guy is in the house

Thanks for all the well wishes on the hand. I have to say, when Guy wrote that post for me the other night, I was laying on the couch with him, hand wrapped in ice, crying my little eyes out. It was hours past the incident, and I could still feel my hand burning whenever I took the cold away from it.

I just knew I would have blisters on every fingertip, all down the insides of my fingers, and spread across my palm. This would be bad for anyone, but I was thinking as a pianist. A pianist with upcoming, well paying, scheduled over a year ago, gigs.

The next morning, I woke up after a not so great night's sleep. I stripped off the glove that Guy had put my hand in after slathering it with aloe and squinted at the hand to survey the damage.

Nothing.

Not one blister.

There were red spots and tenderness. I couldn't wash my hair or do dishes or anything else that made it come into contact with heat, but for all practical purposes, my hand was fine.

So this turns into yet another post where you have to hear me talk about how amazingly fantastic Guy is, and how I'm the luckiest woman in the world.

Sorry about that. What's true is true. Annoying as it may be.

I'll be back later today with more talk about boobs. Because it's the second most annoying thing I won't shut up about.

A really bad day for Shamoopie

It is I, Guy. I am posting for the Shamoopie since she has use of only one hand today. Like the good person she is, she was cooking supper for us when the accident happened. I was reading the recipe to her when the pot ended up on the floor and she went running and crying.

Apparently it's bad to grab a pots handle when it has been in the oven for a while. :) Ouch. She grabbed the handle and then dropped the pot on the floor. Pupstar thought that it was the best thing ever. I was just plain confused as to what was going on. She has been good about keeping ice on it and some aloe. It looks like she will be fine in a few days but until then she is out the use of one hand.

So tonight she was resting on the couch and received an email telling her some really bad news. Her favorite shoe store is closing. No more fabulous boots. :(

We are hoping for a better day tomorrow.

She's not sick, she's a survivor

Edited below.

This is one of those posts that has little tidbits of thoughts that have been stuck in my throat for awhile now. Things that I would write in book and close the cover on, but haven't been willing to put out here. It seems like time though. Time to unclog the drain a little.

Whymommy is educating again. She has written a post about seeing a group of colleagues for the first time since her diagnosis, and the different responses she received from people. What struck me the most was the interpretation that someone inquired of the chemo, "Is is working?" Just like that. Blunt and intrusive.

That is how she has taught us to see it. This person was another scientist, full of curiosity driven by a penchant for research. Not necessarily a concern for the person standing right there in front of them.

In her narrative, you learn people's responses that were comfortable for her, and the ones that left her hurt and angry. Feeling more like a project than a person. We learn more about how to treat those we encounter who are fighting cancer in the present.

Sometimes though, I want to ask those questions. I want to know if it's working. I want to know what the doctors are saying.

I want to know how my friend is doing in her battle.

More than that though, I want to know how my friend is doing in her life.

There is an elephant in my room. The elephant is the fact that IBC is a killer cancer. The elephant is that more women don't survive than do. And I walk around this elephant, kicking it as I pass by, wishing that the facts weren't staring me in the face so that I could never have even a fleeting doubt.

Deep down, though, the facts don't have an impact on my belief that Whymommy will beat this. I truly believe that when all is said and done, we will have nothing but anniversaries to celebrate and years to add to the length of time she has been a survivor.

And I hope adding to the length of time that she is an advocate for IBC survivors.

Because there is something about all of this that bothers me. It isn't easy to talk about because I'm so busy trying to sound positive all the time.

The latest issue of Parents brought it to a head though, and I'm going to go ahead and say it.

People don't want to hear about Inflammatory Breast Cancer because it isn't pretty.

I don't want to diminish how happy I am that Goody Blog featured Whymommy and IBC recently. I am so happy and grateful that they did that, and then got part of that information in print as well. Many many thanks to them. Their interview with her is wonderful.

What bothers me is that in the print issue of Parents, there is no mention of IBC whatsoever, just breast cancer in the generic sense of the words. If someone is intrigued enough to take their magazine, go to their computer, and to then look up Toddler Planet, then they will learn. They will learn that this isn't an ordinary breast cancer fight. They will learn that there was no lump. No family history. No rhyme or reason to why it has struck this woman.

Guy, my ever present truth bleeder, said that I really shouldn't be surprised. That Parents didn't want to print the complete truth that is IBC right next to the cute picture of the smiling baby wearing the "Save the TaTa's " onesie. It's frightening and their readers don't want to be full of "that could be me" syndrome.

But why couldn't they at least spread the word that there doesn't have to be a lump?

Something else that bothers me is that when I asked Guy why there wasn't more research being done on IBC, he told me I didn't want to hear that answer. I pressed him further. He told me,

"The fatality rate is too high for companies to invest their research funding in."

Well isn't that just perfect? They won't invest because the chance of their success isn't high enough. Women continue to die because no one will do the research. How then, do we change all of that?

That's why I think it is up to us. That's why I think we have to acknowledge that every single solitary day that Whymommy and Imstell continue to survive, they are also offering the hope that maybe we can change the climate. Get someone to believe that IBC is worth investing time, money, and research in.

Get someone to understand that it can be beaten, and that IBC survivors are worth investing time, money, and research in.

We have to do this. We have to change the climate. Make the winds blow funding and determination into finding a sure cure or even better yet, a prevention for IBC.

While I'm up here on my soapbox, I've got one more thing to address.

Whymommy doesn't want for people to stare at her like she is sick. The fact of the matter is though, she looks like someone who is undergoing chemo. And after my visit, I was racked with guilt at the fact that I saw her as a someone who was undergoing chemo. As if I was going to have some magic power to see her with all of her energy and hair right there in front of me.

I cried for a long time after leaving her house. I felt like I had let her down.

What I understand today, finally, is that we see what we see. It is in how we choose to interpret what we see that is important.

So I say this. The next time you see someone who is obviously undergoing chemo, see them for what they are. They aren't a sick person. They are a fighter. They are a survivor.

This is what a survivor looks like:














This is a picture of strength, courage, fight, determination, and survival. One that I totally stole off of her blog, but hey. She should be glad I'm not posting the one I found in my boxes of her getting ready for 10th grade homecoming.

Whymommy, so while I get scared, and I know you do too, I don't see you as sick. I see you as a survivor. I see you as the friend you have always been. With easier hair maintenance.

I don't want the fact that I want to know how you are doing, emotionally, physically, even medically speaking, to diminish the normalcy of our friendship. I'm also going have a slew of parenting questions in January as well. Hell. I just ask a lot of questions. I suppose it could get annoying.

There are those of us who ask, "How are you?" and really want an answer. Whatever answer you feel like giving at the time, but we are asking because we care.

I'm one of those asking because I care.

Upon further reading of my copy of Parents, I do have to add that they listed some IBC symptoms on page 101. While they still never mentioned IBC or that you don't have to have a lump to have breast cancer, they did tell women to go to their doctor if they noticed changes in their breasts. Just saying. You know, to be fair to them and all.

Also, I'm back to being positive, especially for Whymommy. I didn't write this to promote fear or focus on the negative. I just want for IBC to stop being ignored. Bring it out into the light.

Haiku Friday

Searching for balance

Family is priority
I know what I want.

More haiku links at Christina's blog. Happy Haiku Friday, everyone.

Making it work

A couple of months ago, my momma made reference to when she and my daddy would be here for the birth of Little Bird. Inside my head rang, "Um. What? Seriously? Okay, no." and out of my mouth came, "So you guys are planning on coming in January?"

Momma replied, "Of course. Your daddy wouldn't miss it for the world."

I chose not to comment at that time. I wanted to think about it. Which is rare for me, but I'm glad I did.

Since then, I have thought a lot about this. I have read a lot of other people's words about how family created more work for the new mom. Extended family intruded and was in the way more than they were helpful.

Even though there is some truth to that in our situation, I'm rethinking how I feel about it. Putting my own spin on it, if you will.

There are many reasons why having my parents be here would be more work for me and Guy.
My daddy is no easy dude these days. Parkinson's and Alzheimer's have left him needing constant care and an unending supply of compassion.

However, my mother has that. She doubts it some days I imagine, but she would be wrong. She has it, and she will be here with him.

Simple things about being here will be difficult for Daddy. Or at least I think they will. Just being away from his own home will be hard. After 30 years of living in a two story home, he still tells Momma that he is "going up to bed." What some people consider habits are necessary routine for Daddy. Break that routine, and you get crippling anxiety. Some days, you just get the crippling anxiety for no apparent reason.

Stairs will be hard. Sleeping in a different bed will be hard. Finding a bathroom at night in a new house will be hard. Not knowing where to find a few snacks throughout the night will be hard.

Being at the hospital will be hard. Daddy does not do well in hospitals. When Momma was in the hospital last October, my biggest challenge was keeping Daddy corralled and calm. He would want to wander the halls by himself. He would introduce me as his sister and become confused when people would try to lead him back to his wife's room. Because it was his mother that was in the hospital in his mind. The stress of the situation had him completely rattled and confused.

Planning a natural childbirth, the most important thing in the world to me is getting Bird here safely and without interruption. I don't want to worry about where Daddy is and if he is doing alright. I don't want for him to become anxious if labor continues on and I am struggling. I don't want for him to be uncomfortable at the hospital.

And I don't want them to miss a minute with Little Bird.

And that is where the spin comes in.

Their health is not reliable. Everyday that we have with them is really and truly a gift. They have been waiting a long time for this grandchild and have stood by my side through my incredibly rocky ride through adulthood. I want them to be here with me, Guy, Lovely, and Bird.

So what if it is more work? So what if I might be a more tired and stressed with a newborn? So what if I feel like I have to clean the house a little bit better, have the kitchen a little more stocked, and make a few more detailed plans to ensure that Daddy is comfortable and safe? He is so excited about it, and I want for him to be happy.

That is my choice.

When I look back at the birth of Little Bird, I want to know that my family was included. I want my mom and dad to be able to share in the excitement. Well, whatever excitement occurs in the waiting room, but still. I want them to be there to meet Little Bird as soon as possible.

Whatever it takes from me and Guy to have that happen is okay with me.

Blah

It's 11:32 PM. I'm going to bed.

Be glad there was no post today.

There were just lots of tears. Napping. Feeling generally down.

If there had been a valid reason for all of this, I could have written. Instead, I just wondered what was bothering me. And napped. And cried. And felt generally down.

Pupstar has followed me all day. Both dogs napped with me. Now, she sits on the floor, staring up at me on the couch with her big black eyes asking me, "What's the matter? I brought you toys. I snuggled with you. I licked your face. I gave you my belly to rub. What more do you want?"

I want for nothing. I think it's just the blues.

Hormones surely.

Genius on call. Your questions answered.

Guy needs help with the house. He works his tail off during the week, and then renovates on the weekends. Sometimes the evenings too. It's all too much. Between his perfection personality and the need we both feel to pinch pennies though, we just keep trudging along doing what we can when we can.

Last Friday, he was feeling tired, and I snuck in the question of, "Would you like for me to call Benny the painter and see how much it would be for him to do the living and dining room?" In a moment of exhaustion, Guy said yes. Call the painter.

I was thrilled.

It was perfect timing. Turns out he had a cancellation for yesterday and today, so he squoze us in and got the entire rest of the downstairs and stairwell painted. It's lovely.

Today, he was touching up the kitchen while I was getting dinner ready and baking cookies. We were chatting about the fact that Guy is the one who picks out the colors in the house, and how unusual that is. It is apparently a female gene that typically selects paint colors. I'm missing that gene.

Benny says that he isn't surprised that Guy picks the colors because he is a genius. I asked him to repeat that. He said that Guy was a genius.

Now. I know this to be true. But I'm wondering how on earth Benny the painter agrees with me. And if it is possible that there is a little man crush going on here.

Benny says that a few months ago, when he was painting the outside of the house, that Guy told him he was a genius at the pharmaceutical company he used to work for.

A genius. I couldn't help but start laughing at this point. I asked him if he thought maybe Guy had said a geneticist or that he was in genetics. Benny said, "Well I don't know what that means. I think he said genius, but it could have been one of those other words."

Then he goes on to tell me that he had thought up some pretty tough questions to ask Guy seeing as how he was a genius and all. Because it's not everyday that you get the opportunity to ask a genius some questions.

"He didn't know all the answers, but he was honest about it. I wondered though how he could be a genius and not know. Turns out he's not."

I hated to disappoint him. I told him that Guy was in fact quite brilliant, but maybe not a genius. That genetics was something entirely different.

Benny is a fantastic painter, and a super nice guy. We will use him and recommend him as much as possible.

And we will try to make it up to him that Guy was not the genius that he claimed to be. Sorry about that, Benny.

I hate Craig's List

About once a year, I have a momentary lapse of reason and post some furniture or something on Craig's List. I don't know why I do this. I hate Craig's List, and always regret using it.

Last year, I posted a bunch of my furniture because Guy and I were consolidating. Doing the married thing. Combining households. I had been fortunate enough to be the receiver of many pieces of furniture that people no longer wanted, and at this point, they had been used and loved beyond Guy's discriminating taste. Read: he wanted new stuff.

The Craig's List people emailed and set up times to come and purchase my goods. Then they didn't show up. Or they showed up and decided they didn't want it after all. Or they showed up and wanted to give me $0.17 for it. I literally backed one little man out of the house, pointing across his shoulder at the door saying, "Get the hell out of my house now, buddy."

He had offered me a couple of bucks for a fourth generation cedar chest in perfect condition. Um, I wasn't even selling the damn cedar chest. Dipwad.

So today, I list some chairs. A pair of green chairs that Guy bought when he bought this house. They don't fit anymore and no one likes to sit in them. They have to go. I also list a pair of leather chairs and an ottoman that there is nowhere to put. They are lovely and we adore them, but there is simply no room. We have guitared and pianoed ourselves out of space for furniture.

All the chairs are insanely cheap. Because we just want them to go away. And because I don't want to haggle with people. I post a picture of each, the price, and the condition.

Within the hour, I get emails.

How much are the chairs? It's in the listing, you stupid moron.

Can you send me another picture? No. Just open the listing and squint if you can't see it.

How tall are the chairs? I don't know. They are big person chairs. Why do you care?

Where did you buy them? Geez people. They are cheap ass chairs. Do you want them or not?

Why are you getting rid of them? Because I don't want them anymore, Einstein.

Can I come by for a viewing? No, creepo. It's not a furniture store or a funeral home. Viewing. Gah. You can come by and buy them, turd muffin.

So I promise one pair of chairs to a nice lady over the phone. She doesn't show up tonight to get them. Butthole. At least she called and left a message that she wasn't coming. Then I promised the other set to another lady who upped my price just so she could have them.

Now, I've promised all four chairs to another lady who upped the price anymore. At least they aren't haggling downwards. However, I feel completely evil going back on my word with someone.

Even though the likelihood of anyone actually following through and purchasing these chairs (and an ottoman!) is slim to none. So who cares who I promise them to?

I hate Craig's List. And yet I continue to torture myself. Please make me stop.

Team Whymommy in the news

Check this out:

October issue of Parents Magazine

Nice, huh? Thank you, Goody Blog!


The Team Whymommy Roundup has been updated. Remember, I'm looking for that Team Whymommy button to stay in your sidebar so that every time someone visits your blog, they see it. It can link to the Team Whymommy post or to Toddler Planet. Either way is fine by me.

And if you've asked for code and haven't gotten it from me, it's because you've got that "no-reply" going on in your Blogger comments and didn't leave me your email address. Try again please, and I'll be happy to send it!

Don't forget you can order your Team Whymommy t-shirts here. Just the cost of the shirt, no fundraising going on. Simply so you can be stylish and start a conversation about IBC all at the same time.

A contest, a haiku, and more about my boobs

My friend and I just got done from a lovely morning of bra shopping and lunch. We are both hard to fit, but for opposite reasons.

I am to the point where I take a bra off at the end of the day, and it leaves an imprint of every seam or piece of lace in the cup. Textured boobs. Lovely. So I figured it was time to buy one or two more to last me the next couple of months.

Turns out, we do indeed need a new adjective. G is for ginormous won't fit anymore, quite literally. Today I purchased as 36I. Yep. I.

Remembering that it is Haiku Friday, I submit my humble lines here:

My boobs are so large
I believe each weighs 10 pounds
Sure hope Bird's hungry.

T and I decided that I should have a contest. A boob pool, if you will. Here are the rules:

1. In the comments, take a guess at what you think the girls will require one week after giving birth. Right now, at 21 weeks, we are at 36I. Pre-pregnancy was 36DDD.
2. If you are a "no-reply" comment leaver, please include your email address. Otherwise, I can't let you know if you win.
3. By Valentine's Day, 2008 (I'm giving myself some leeway here because of the whole first time giving birth and all), I'll choose a winner from the correct guesses. I'll put the names into one of my bra cups and draw the winner at random.
4. The winner will receive a t-shirt from the Pennyrich Bra Patch. As of right now, she only sells Mediums and Smalls, so I can't promise it will be a t-shirt that fits you, but I asked her if she would order more today. She said she might, because the frat boys from NCSU love them. They are awesome shirts. T got one today, and she said I could post a picture of her in hers.
5. You have to guess before I write another post about my boobs, which could be anywhere from a week to a couple of months, depending on how much humor they provide me with.
   

That's it. A simple little contest. That won't be done until February, but hey. You know you want a Pennyrich Bra Patch t-shirt.

Pee Pee Tee Pee

My friend T gave me a little "having a boy" happy today. It is a Pee Pee Tee Pee.

I pulled it out of it's stunning wrapping, and said,

"I thought it would be bigger."

She laughed and said that no, that was as big as they came, and really quite big enough.

I'm deeming this conversation a boost to Guy's ego. After all, it's his genes that are being passed on to Little Bird.

I love you, Guy. And obviously think very, well, big of you.

I eat my granola with a silver spoon

The book that I read that has made me so excited about natural childbirth is Ina May's Guide to Childbirth. Her positive outlook and success stories have me bubbling with anticipation for labor and delivery. I want to know what it's like. Feel it all, the good and the not so comfy. I am looking forward to giving birth instead of fearing it.

That is a powerful feeling.

The birth center idea went hand in hand with Ina May's ideas and methods I thought. So I was just about ready to leave my current doctor and hospital to go with a midwife at the birth center. Until the tour today.

People don't realize how much of a difference putting a positive spin on things can make. The woman leading the talk and tour must have used the word "don't" 127 times. She told us everything they don't do and very little of what they actually do. A large portion of the talk covered what happened if you ended up having to go to the hospital and the different scenarios therein. Most of which included you and your partner getting into your car and driving to the hospital, followed by your midwife in her car. Guy was not at all thrilled about that plan.

I was a little discouraged at the break. I also needed to pee of course. So I went into the restroom. That is where it hit me.

I'm standing in a tiny dimly lit restroom. The toilet is way low to the ground. After I'm done, I have to flush it twice because the first time it didn't work, but simply ran awhile. There is a can of Lysol on the back of the toilet (Satan's spit in an aerosol can).

It hit me that I wasn't comfortable there. It didn't seem as clean as it needed to be. It seemed a little run down. And the director had "don't" syndrome that was suffocating the rest of the room when she spoke.

I wanted to hear what they did do. Why they did it that way. I wanted to hear their successes and not how unfortunately their c-section rate rose to 10% in 2006 because there were 5 breech babies that year. It was almost as if she resented those babies for making their numbers look bad.

The waiting area for family didn't look very comfortable. That was one of my considerations. Daddy might be here for the birth, and he doesn't do well in hospitals any more. They make him nervous. He gets lost. It's just not a great place for him to have to be. This atmosphere though, I don't think would be any better for him.

I feel like I'm the one being negative now, and I don't mean to do that. I'm sure it is a great place to give birth, and I still love the idea of having a midwife and the theories behind natural childbirth. This location though, is not for us. And to be honest, I'm terribly disappointed that it isn't. Because in theory, it is so what I wanted.

I have to admit though, I like my clean bright and slightly posh doctor's office. I didn't know I did until today, but I do. I like being walked back and weighed in. I like the idea of someone taking care of me. I didn't feel like that was going to be the case at this birth center.

So onto plan B. As we were leaving, Guy says to me,

"You know that I'm on your team, right? That whatever kind of birth you want to have, I'll make sure that it happens."

He took my hand and squeezed it.

So you'll sneak in some food when I get hungry, fight off unnecessary IV's, and tell them to stick their hospital gowns where the sun doesn't shine, because these girls need support, and I plan to be in a sports bra or a cami and not much else?

"You got it. It doesn't matter where we end up. It's going to be you and me, and I'm going to take care of you."

That's it then. We'll stay with my current doctor and just cross my fingers that after all she has been through with me, she gets to be the baby catcher that day. We have our personal childbirth instructor meeting with us in November. We will write a birth plan together. He's promised to read the Ina May book so that he can see what I'm so giddy about.

And together, we'll make sure Bird hatches in the best way we possibly can.

Tangible

We bought baby furniture tonight. Just a crib and a changing table. Simple pieces for a small room. Bird now has somewhere to sleep and get his poopy diapers changed.

I don't know if it's because he is bigger or if he is just moving around more, but the past two days have been Little Bird's drum circle all day long. It's pretty cool.

Tomorrow Guy and I are going to tour the Birth Center. If we decide to go there, it will mean leaving my doctor and hooking up with a midwife there. I really like my doctor. A lot. I haven't seen her in months though, and have only a 1 in 7 shot of her actually delivering Little Bird. So I'm not sure liking her is a great reason to stay.

We'll see. We still have to tour the hospital where I'm currently on board to give birth. If I had done this before, then I would know better what I was looking for. Sigh. I just know that I'm not convinced I'm in the right place yet. Maybe I am. I just want to know that I chose it and didn't just take the default.

Back to the nursery, there is also a car seat. And a growing stack of little boy clothes.

It's all starting to be so real.

Nama-stay in the other class

A new class. No more of my favorite Martha Stewart impersonating yoga instructor.

This morning was my first prenatal yoga class. I knew that it wouldn't be quite as demanding as my other class, but I didn't know how incredibly right I was.

We got in some good wrist stretches.

And mountain pose. A little tree pose if you felt like it.

And Savasana.

Don't get me wrong. I love me some Savasana. Usually though, it's nice to have broken a sweat before you get there.

I think I'm going to just have to go to both classes. I can't seem to give up my other one.

But hey. Did you notice how much better my typing is now that I've had a good wrist workout?

Love me, love my Volvo

I have an old Volvo that I love. A 1992 940 Turbo. Silver. Paid for in full of course. It is the car that I think is "me."

For an old car, it has lots of perks. A sunroof. Heated leather seats. A 10 disk CD player. Air conditioning (hooray, and only 110,000 miles. I love my car.

There is the issue of gear though. I have to carry around an 88 key digital piano with me quite frequently. In order to get this in the Volvo, I would have to put it in the backseat without putting it in a case. The window on the opposite side would have to be rolled down, the keyboard lifted onto the edge of the door, the opposite door closed, and then the window rolled up again.

I thought that worked fine.

Guy totally disagreed.

Amidst the protests, Guy bought me a bigger car. Granted, after having it for several months now, I would agree that we did in fact need it, and I do love the new car. We have been able to go to my gigs comfortably with all my gear, the two of us, and even Lovely and Papa along for the ride. It has been wonderful.

Now that Guy has a bit of a commute, he has decided that he should drive the Volvo to work and not put miles on his tiny tiny convertible. Plus, he won't die if someone hits him on the ever insane stretch of I-40 he has to drive.

We were taking the neglected Volvo out for a test drive before he started using it. I was excited it was up and running again and excited that he actually wanted to drive it. My car. He liked something of mine. It felt good to be useful.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten about its little quirks. Like how only I seem to be able to turn the key in the ignition. It works, it's just a little tricky. Then there is the "chug chug" noise it makes when the Turbo doesn't kick in and you are accelerating.

My favorite though is the speedometer.

I had completely forgotten that the speedometer totally freaks out all on its own. In the Volvo, you can go from 0 to 30 in a split second, and then back down to 0 again even though you are still moving forward. On the highway, it safely rounds up to 80 so that you can feel like you are flying even though you are probably only going about 50.

And if you talk badly about it, the needle simply twitches between 30 and 80, like it has Turrets.

Now Guy is not nearly as excited about driving the Volvo as I had hoped he would be.

What I see as *ahem* character, he somehow sees as things that are broken.

I'm going to have to work on him. Or fix the Volvo. One of the two.

Button button, who doesn't have a button?

I am so far behind in the button bling it's not even funny. If I miss something or someone, I apologize in advance.

Okay. Here goes:









This sexy little booger was passed on to me by Kami. I think she just wants my boots, but I can't be sure. Kidding of course. Being called nice by Kami is like having Cindy Crawford tell you that you have good legs. She should know.

I was going to pass this onto Jennifer over at Playgroups Are No Place for Children. Because. She's nice and I like her. Plus, she's running her way into having her behind posted on a button. As in exercising. But as I'm catching up on my blog reading, I just noticed that she also gave it to me. Before I could get my lazy butt up and posting this week. That's because she's exercising and I'm not, I would imagine.

I could give it to Jessica at Oh, The Joys, but again. In my slacktitude blogness this week, she too has already passed it this way.

So who else needs a little piece of sexy blog bling? Well, Absolutely Bananas does, for sure. She is beyond nice. Super nice. The definition of all things nice.













So next we have an award by the same name, but without a sexy behind on it. Heh. I like it just as much. My new friend, CGF at I Can Fly, Just Not Up, passed this on to me. She also has an awesome recipe for Summer Tomato Pasta. Yum.

This goes out to K over at Slacker-moms-r-us. She is nice beyond nice, but doesn't need any encouragement to be naughty. Therefore, she gets the version of this button without lingerie.





Here's a cool button that I wouldn't mind having in bumper sticker form. Not that I would put it on my bumper, but still. Mom at What Works for Us passed this cutie on to me. I'm blushing at the thought.

Karaoke Diva gets this prop from me. She made me learn how to spell 'karaoke,' and has great tag lines. There's a new one up today, and it made me spit Diet Coke through my nose. Her Bean and my Cleatus just might be hanging out somewhere making fun of their mommies' blogging habit. You never know.









This little beauty is passed on for creating community in the blogosphere. I'm totally honored that Bubblewench (is that not the best pseudonym evah?) passed this onto me. Like 87 years ago. That is how much I suck. I'm completely disorganized when it comes to blogging. Ask me what my students will be doing every lesson until eternity and I can tell you, but blogging is where I let it all go. Utter chaos.

So thank you, Bubblewench. My lack of posting this is no indication of my gratitude.

I pass this little dandy on to Girl. She fosters community in a big way, and I know of dozens of people whose lives are better because of her presence in the land of the internet.






Last, but certainly not least, T with Honey bestowed me with another Rocking Girl Blogger award. Shoot. You know I love to rock (did I ever post about the Def Leppard concert?), so I'm happy to accept this little booger as many times as it comes my way. Thank you very much, T with Honey!

I'm passing this onto Mamma. Everyone knows that MammaLoves might as well be named, MammaRocks.

Whew.

If I've left out anyone, please forgive me. I'm blaming it on hormones and pregnancy brain. Can I do that? Blame everything on being pregnant? Good then.

Haiku Friday

Jennifer and Christina have instigated Haiku Friday. Which is exactly what it sounds like. Post a haiku on your blog every Friday. I'm in, but still in spontaneous form. Blogging is fun. Editing and such? Not so much.

Where we all are now

Little Bird is here
Getting in his exercise
Never still for long.

Princess on the couch
Doggie stink to high heaven
Never moves that much.

Lovely is at school
Almost time to go get her
Never quiet long.

Pupstar waits for food
Wishes I would feed her now
Never tires of treats.

Guy is still at work
Tinkering with our genome
Never stops thinking.

And I am resting
Tired from our trip and week
Never happier.

Ears wide open

Edited below

As you can see, I've been busy tidying up the place today. Whymommy emailed me to let me know the crash and burn that was the loading of my blog. As much as I love the pink and green flowers by Zoot, I decided to ditch them and see if things started loading better. I think I had just tinkered with her perfectly good template way too much. Always feel free to let me know if the blog is loading like a tractor pulling pigs through the mud.

I have no idea what that meant.

Anyway, that's left me with an unfinished post and too much to say this late at night. Luckily, Kami tagged me for the 7 things I'm listening to meme. It's been a long time since I've done a meme, and I'm always hip to talk about music.

The only problem is that she said, "besides Crowded House," and that limits it greatly this week.

1. Wilco. The newest. Love it.
2. Some Irish chick that The Dude gave me. I'll have to pop it out of the player in the Jeep and find out what her name is because it's a lovely disk.
3. Really bad Bach. Almost everyday. It's going to get better, but GAH! I really hate listening to Bach before people know how to play it. That is possibly also why I hate to learn it myself.
4. Liam Finn. There's a review in the works of this amazing guy. So incredibly good.
5. Guy playing classical guitar. More specifically Carcassi. It's also lovely.
6. The Dude's song about Raleigh. We love you Raleigh. We have to sing it next week, and I've got to learn it. Make up harmony and stuff. So I've listened to that a lot. Our trees are grand.
7. Students' compositions. It the year of the waltz. I love it when they write.

Alright, so it's not exactly a traditional list, but that's it. What I've been listening to lately. Can I tag Molly? Are you up to play a little?

The Irish chick's name is Cara Best. And if you want the name of The Dude, email me and I'll send it to you.

Little Bird's friend

Today was the big day. News of all news. Would Guy be right? Or would my Turkish friend be right? Or as Labugga put it, would Bird be a chicken or a rooster?

I conceded to Guy several weeks ago. He is annoyingly right a large percentage of the time. Guy said boy, so I started to accept boy.

Don't get me wrong, either one was totally okay by me. Baby. That is all I wanted it to be. I did, however, particularly like the girl name we had picked out.

I will have to save that name though for the next one. Unless of course I want for my son to get the crap kicked out of him daily at school for having a girl name. Which I don't.

We're going blue, folks.

Bird is a boy.

You know what it means to me

We've been across the country and back. Just the two of us and no laptops. So I didn't drop off the face of the earth, just the face of the East Coast.

If you were to nail me down and make me choose a favorite band, I would have to say Crowded House. It isn't me really, to just name one favorite, but if I had to, that would be it.

With that knowledge, Guy told me that if I planned the trip, we could go see them on their first tour in America since 1996. I have never seen them live before. This was the best present he could ever give me in a million years.

After discovering that Chicago was sold out for both nights, Nashville had really crappy seats left, and Atlanta was general admission, I figured out why Guy had turned the planning over to me. It was proving to be really frustrating.

Then I saw it. Labor Day weekend, they were playing on a Sunday night. We wouldn't have to miss work. We could fly in on Saturday, leave on Monday, and see Crowded House play live.

It was only 2873 miles from home.

With a quick phone call to my West Coast friend Tattoo Dave and a few clicks of the mouse, we found ourselves booked on a plane to Portland, Oregon to see a concert and hang out with Dave.

Many of our friends thought we had lost our minds. Most of them said, "Crowded who?"

Maybe it was crazy, but it was the best weekend of crazy I've ever had.

We stayed in the Heathman Hotel which was right next door to the venue for the concert. The hotel was beautiful with wonderful service, and Portland put on it's best facade of having perfect weather. Dave tried to convince us that it rained for 7 months of winter out of the year, but we didn't believe him. It was too stinking gorgeous for that.

On Saturday, Dave picked us up and we headed to his favorite breakfast spot. After Guy and I thought we had stuffed our faces, Dave then proceeded to go across the street and eat ice cream. I had forgotten what a bottomless pit Tattoo Dave is. A quick nap and some dinner, and we found ourselves pooped.

Sunday, Guy and I spent some alone time at the Japanese Garden and then met Dave at an art festival downtown. Before we knew it, it was time for the show.

I'm saving my thoughts of the first opening act for a Props and Pans piece, but I'll just say now that it was the most amazing solo performance I have ever seen in my life.

Pete Yorn followed that, and although I think I would like his album and songwriting, the live show was crap. There was too much guitar all in the same frequency, and the vocals were swallowed whole by the sonic soup created by everyone grabbing the neck in the same place at the same time, all turned up to 10. I got up and left just to rest my ears a bit.

Crowded House was simply phenomenal. Neil Finn still has the voice of an angel, and the band, even with a new drummer, is still solid as a rock. I forgot to take my Kleenex, and I regretted that move by the second measure of the first song.

They were perfect. And I rarely say that about a live show. There is usually something I can critique. Not here. They were absolutely perfect.

I'm pretty sure Bird liked it too. I sang along or hummed through their whole set, just so I could make sure he could hear it. That started some serious boogie down time in the womb. Bird danced almost the whole time.

The only thing I didn't count on was that it would feel like the concert was starting at 10:00 for us, so that when Crowded House took the stage, it felt like midnight. I have to admit, I fell asleep during one song from the new album, but I just couldn't help it. They played for at least another two hours, and I haven't seen 2:00 AM in a looooong time. Staying awake was hard, but well worth it.

We could have spent another week and Portland and not have done everything we wanted to do, and there was one other sweet soul that I really wanted to see and didn't, but we only had the weekend. We made the best of it. Quite truly.

The trip home included an unexpected night in Houston, complements of Continental Airlines. That's what happens when your plane lands 3 hours late and you have a connection to make. They weren't passing out hotel vouchers because they were blaming it on the weather, but they were smart enough to not want a pregnant woman sleeping in the airport because of them. We had a lovely room at the Hilton Garden Inn with breakfast provided the next morning.

Another night away with Guy isn't that bad when you think about it. One more night added spontaneously on what has to be the best vacation ever.

So yes. We traveled 2873 miles just to see Crowded House. Every second of the weekend was spent with each other. We saw an old friend. We ate well. We slept even better. And we saw an amazing show.

What more could you ask for, really?