Fluffing the Pillows of Neglect.

It has been so long since I have blogged, that it is quite possible that I am simply typing into a deep and empty abyss, void of any captive eyes and ears, within the World Wide Web. Awe, it sounds so pathetic and hopeless when I put it like that, but like my grandpa always says, “You make your bed, and then you’ve gotta lay in it." He's got a quotable quote like that for just about every situation. Some are more, ahem, "colorful" than others; when refering to something with a foul odor, he says "it could knock a buzzard off a gut wagon." He's an eloquent man. So, before I wallow in this poorly maintained bed of sparse bloggage, let me air out my proverbial sheets by giving you all a list of perfectly legitimate excuses:

First up is school. I go to classes online, and set my own schedule for the most part. This often means that I wait until the end of the semester, and do a crap-load of assignments at once. Neat, huh? Not really. I like to say that I simply work better under pressure, but I really don’t know, because I’ve never tried it the other way. I made it though, and “no more pencils, no more boo-ooks…” until August.

Next, not to be dramatic or anything, but I did give birth to an 8 and half pound punk rocker in April. He is great, I am great, but the months leading up to debut of "El Duderito" were, for lack of a better phrase, the epitome of suck. Because I love you all, I decided to spare you the rage-filled, hormonally-amplified editorials detailing the exciting world of high-risk pregnancy that I was compelled to share. It was all worth it, of course, and K is infatuated with her little bro (mommy and daddy are pretty pleased with him, too).

Also in the sphere of parenthood, I am in the midst of potty-training K. As a result of the exponential increase in dirty diapers since Baby E's arrival, I’ve considered changing my title to Countess Poopetta Doodiesmith of the Crapchester Manor. It sounds impossible, but I estimate that I spend about one fifth of my day dealing with the southern ends of my children. I’m quite certain that I could have a Doctorate in Dungology, if I could find a school that offered it as a major. Needless to say, it’s time to get K into big girl panties permanently, and the transition has been pretty tedious.

There are also my sewing projects, both current and potential, that have halted my writing for the moment. I recently got a dress-form (yessss), and I am trying to get everything ready to do some new stuff with it. Can I get a whut-whut for fabric arts? ... Anybody?

Finally, I’ve been having fun, people! I just celebrated my 26^th birthday, and it was pretty much a week long event. Great times were had at various restaurants and watering holes about the area, and an undisclosed rooftop in mid-town. For those of you who gave me food, drinks, birthday wishes, etc; it was all thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated!

Maybe I’ll blog about some of these events in detail later, but this one is just about excuses. So here’s another topic that has the potential of becoming a future excuse for my minimal bloggage: HBO’s summer line-up! Not even mentioning the series finale of The Sopranos this Sunday, there are a TON of new shows which reaffirm my belief that it is totally worth putting off important stuff to watch TV! Anybody seen the previews for John from Cincinnati? That crap looks awesome! Annnnd, Flight of the Concords got their own series?!? Frikken A! This extra workload may force my Tivo into a union for media recording devices; it's bad enough that my Ipod won’t even speak to me without a mediator present.

Keep checkin’ in folks, hopefully all of this external stimuli will inspire me to write an entertaining little nugget for your reading pleasure. Until then, I suggest you all watch reruns of Scrubs; that Zach Braff is a funny guy…

RD

A Survey for the Snarky

On a cold, rainy night like tonight, there's nothing like a little sarcasm and total fabrication to make me feel all warm inside. While it is true that surveys generally annoy me, ridiculous questioning can sometimes be a great vehicle for merriment:

1. Do you trust your friends?
No, my friends are all vindictive scallywags with the cunning and wit of serial killers.

2. Would you move to another state/country to be with the person you love?
I'm changing this question to "If you moved to another state/country to be with the person you love, would you use it as leverage in an argument?" And the answer is yes.

3. Name two things you would NOT tolerate in a relationship.
Bestiality and necrophilia are both dealbreakers.

4. Are you afraid of falling in love? Why or why not?
You know those doors you sometimes see on the outside of a two-story house or church with no stairs or balcony under them, I'm more afraid of falling out of one of those. Not because it would hurt, so much as it would be unexpected and awkward.

5. Is there someone who pops in your mind randomly throughout the day?
President William Howard Taft, I can't get that sexy bear out of my head.

7. What qualities do you find most attractive in the opposite sex?
A natural aptitude for table tennis, a healthy enthusiasm for modular furniture, and well-proportioned kneecaps.

8. Fill in the blank. I will NEVER _______ again.
sell my own vital organs on the black market

9. What is your number one priority in life?
Clay-mation, no wait, Riverdance, boy this is a tough one...

10. What can you tell about a person by kissing them?
A few things, but mainly whether or not they floss regularly.

11. When you get married, how do you envision your dream wedding?
Call me old-fashioned, but I always imagined my wedding in the stockroom of a dollar store, surrounded by several people that I have never met. I would wear a purple HAZ-MAT suit and flippers, and everyone would sing "Heat of the Moment," by the 1980's supergroup, Asia, off-key as I walked down the aisle.

12. Honestly, does your crush like you back?
The restraining order may say "no," but his eyes say "oh yeaaaah"

13. What makes you most happy?
When pretentious hipsters mispronounce words.

14. Are you musically inclined?
I'm an accomplished master of the keytar... still waiting on that acceptance letter from Julliard

15. If you could go back in time and change something, what would it be?
First, I'd go back Feudal Japan, and learn the ways of the Shogun. Then, I'd morph myself to CP Elementary's playground in 1986 on the day that two second grade boys yelled that they could see my panties (They were bloomers, NOT underwear!!) while I was climbing the monkey bars. This time, instead of crying however, my five-year-old self would deliver a furious Samurai-style beating to those puke-stains.

16 If you MUST be an animal for ONE day, what would you be?
A liger...because, come on, is there really any other acceptable answer?

17. Ever have a near death experience?
No, but one time, I dreamed that I was a doorknob, which is totally irrevelant, but still kinda trippy.

18.. What's the name of the song that's stuck in your head right now?
"Fantasy" by Aldo Nova (thanks, B). I must also say that everyone should watch this music video on youtube, it will change your life.

19. Name someone with the same b-day as you.
No one...I'm so original, my birthday cannot be found on traditional calendars.

20. What's the first thing you notice about the OPPOSITE sex?
General pallor.

21. Have you ever stolen something?
I once stole the heart of a wayward Union soldier during the Civil War, but I gave it back after he chased me down and threatened to give me a purple nurple.

22. What is your favorite number?
Let's see...if one is the lonliest number, two's company, and three is a magic number, I guess I'd have to go with 2(x) + 5.

23. Name something funny that happened to you.
When I was in the 5th grade, we were doing sprints in gym class one day, and, through an unfortunate combination of my natural clumsiness and a lack of observancy, I ran full-speed into the cinderblock wall of the gymnasium...chin first. I didn't go to the doctor, but my mom says my chin has never looked the same. (This is a true story, in case you were wondering)

24. What's your favorite smell?
Boiled cabbage and stale cigars, probably because they remind me so much of my childhood.

25. Do you believe in ghosts?
No, because I don't think they really believe in me. Sure, they SAY they support my dreams of becoming a professional bowler, but I can see the doubt in their eyes...phonies.

Given the Choice, I'd Be an Artichoke.

As you might have noticed, I'm pretty unreliable when it comes posting blogs. Things have been hectic, and the details are boring, so I'll spare you the minutia.

I have a couple of stories I'm working on, but they aren't ready yet. I'm hoping to have them up soon, but I won't give a specific timeframe because I will undoubtedly miss it.

How about some random conversation starters, instead?

• What are your thoughts on the Mooninite bomb scare this week in Boston, and the subsequent press conference held by the alleged terrorists/marketing team? Follow up question: How do you feel about haircuts of the 70s? (If you have no idea what I am taking about, go here for the story, and here for the press conference.)

• Have the writers of ABC's LOST finally alienated all potential viewers with their vague and convoluted storylines (not to mention upcoming appearances by Bai Ling), or do you still hold out hope that the new episodes will finally answer some important questions and rationally explain the deadly attacks by vicious polar bears and black smoke (Assuming that is even possible)? Also, how do you think it rates against its new NBC counterpart, Heroes?

• My two-year old daughter has learned to distinguish between males and females, but now when I ask her what a person's gender is, she says "a broccoli" and laughs. If you could become any vegetable, which one would you choose?
  

• And finally, in the spirit of Black History Month, explain why Mr. T would win a fight with Chuck Norris.

Please expand on any or all of the prompts listed. I am eagerly anticipating your opinions!

The Attack of the Bloody Hedgehog

Cute, harmless pet or vicious Hell-creature?

When I was in the first grade, I tripped over a wooden stake in my backyard. A nail that was sticking out of that stake scraped across my foot, and sliced through the skin just below my big toe. I can remember looking down as the blood started to coat my glittery pink Jelly shoe, and in a daze of confusion and fear, running inside the house for help. My mom, probably even more freaked out than I was, threw me into the car and sped off toward the Medi-Quick in a neighboring town. The doctor gave me seven stitches (“6”, which was my age, “plus one to grow on,” he told me) when I got there. On the top of my right foot, I still have a scar that resembles a fossil imprint of an ancient centipede.

I was never very adventurous as a kid. In truth, I spent most of my free time inside reading a book, or cautioning my little brother against risky behaviors like jumping off of small sheds or petting stray dogs. I never sustained any broken bones or experienced any notable brushes with death. The gash on my foot and subsequent stitches are probably the worst childhood injury I endured, and honestly, that in of itself is not a very exciting story. How I came to trip over the stake in the backyard, however, is a little more noteworthy.

My family and I had moved into our brand new house a few weeks earlier, and everyone was just beginning to settle into the place. On this particular day, my mom asked me to take a bag of rotten apples out to the burning barrel (A sidenote for those deprived of a redneck upbringing: Our house was located in a rural area of Arkansas that didn’t offer waste removal services at that time, so we had to burn our trash in a metal drum, hence the sophisticated term “burning barrel”). After a good deal of whining about not wanting to go outside, I finally obliged and took off through the French doors that led out to our backyard. The burning barrel was located at the very edge of our yard, and behind it the endless brown rows of bare cotton fields spread out in every direction. The walk from the back door to the barrel was roughly fifty to sixty feet in a straight line. As I surveyed the carpet of grass just beyond our small concrete patio, my imagination took over, and not in a pleasant rainbow and unicorn kind of way.

A flash of movement caught my eye, and I saw a trail of uprooted dirt and grass as it formed across the backyard. Suddenly, up from the ground, a hedgehog appeared. It was moving in a frantic and jerky fashion, and as it came closer, I realized why. The hedgehog’s spiked tips were soaked with blood, and its back had been maimed. I quickly deduced that this unfortunate creature had been in some sort of accident with a lawnmower, and now, he was hungry for revenge. As the demonic hedgehog darted toward me, I actually heard him squeal.

At this point, it is important to know that none of this actually happened. No hedgehog, living or dead, not even a stray leaf blowing in the wind, had triggered my nightmarish vision. In fact, I never owned, nor knew anyone who had owned, a hedgehog as a pet, and as far as I know, they don’t roam free in the flatlands of the Deep South. My little warped brain thought up this entire scene from scratch, and sadly, at six years old, it all felt horrifyingly real, or at least plausible.

Needless to say, I would have preferred taking my chances with a slightly miffed mother before crossing the yard at that moment, but we’d been through similar instances before, and I knew she would just make me face my fear anyway when I told her what had happened. I decided to be brave on my own this time. I whispered to myself that there was nothing to be afraid of, wiped my damp palms on my cut-off jean shorts, and steeled myself for the walk across the yard. I focused solely on the burning barrel and tried my hardest not to let any thoughts of the hedgehog enter my mind. I was doing pretty well, keeping my eye only on my destination, and my mind free of spiny mammals. What I didn’t realize, however, was that, in my direct path, a marker had been left at the edge of the concrete for the construction workers to pour the foundation of the patio. I never saw it coming as the wooden stake caught my foot.

For a couple of years after this incident, I had some recurring visions of the hedgehog when I had to go into the backyard, though none of them were quite as extreme. Even as an adult, my imagination occasionally turns on me in various ways. Every time I have routine blood work done, for example, I’m convinced that I have whatever it is they are testing for, and I become obsessed with finding out everything I possibly can about the condition, as well as my lab results. My husband affectionately refers to me “The Doomsayer” when I start in with my outlandish worst-case scenarios.

I suppose I’m kind of glad that I have this scar on my foot because it serves as useful reminder when I start to conjure up wild conspiracies. I can look down and remind myself that, while a vivid imagination is a gift, if I spend too much time in my own weird thoughts, I will end up missing out on the real things in life, good and bad.

So in closing, I'd just like to say that if any of you out there find yourself being overly paranoid and/or irrational at times, just remember this: If you’re too preoccupied with imaginary bloody hedgehogs, you’re likely to trip over the wooden stake right in front of you…feel free to use that quote if it ever becomes appropriate.

It's In the Bag

It's really hard to get used to new stuff. Like purses, for instance.

There is always a great struggle within me when it is time to buy a new purse. See, I'm the type of girl who builds a committed relationship with one handbag over time, and I rarely, if ever, switch out to coordinate with outfits through the duration of said partnership.

No, I'm the girl who carried her battered leather lime green wallet purse to the club, the grocery store, and the doctor's office for six months no matter what shoes I happened to be wearing for each outing.

To save myself from feeling like a complete fashion mutant today, I might tell myself that I look "eclectic" when I carry my olive and lilac colored cloth tote while wearing a red-orange sweater. But, I know deep down inside that this combination is tacky.

Is it possible, that I am just not as accepting of change and variety as I have imagined myself to be all of these years?

Sure, I talk a big game about being a progressive thinker, and on large-scale issues that only indirectly affect me, I am. When it comes to the little, everyday things, however, I can be as obstinate and impetuous as a small child.

I hate the idea of changing shampoo or deodorant, and I will stand at the hygiene aisle and agonize for eons trying to decide if "Spring Breeze" or "Orange Blossom" is a more pleasing fragrance. When I go to a restaurant, I rarely try something that falls outside of pasta, soup, or mexican criteria. I am much more inclined to pick from the "favorites" on a menu, rather than the "specials," because, well, that title alone just reeks of controversy. Interestingly enough, though, when I do move away from my safe zone, I find that I usually enjoy the experience, and gain some sort of insight from it, no matter how trivial or monumental. I am not picky in a conventional sense, but I am resistant to the idea of breaking a routine or, as I have stated previously in more blunt terms, lazy.

All this strange talk about change and regrettable fashion decisions comes as I am moving my old blog here to Blogger. I am trying to learn all about this new format and its tons of features, and I have to say that it has been rather frustrating at times. Thank goodness for my husband. He created some really cool custom art for me, and pretty much set up all the features on here. This page would look like one of those bad pharmaceutical ads (a generic flower here, some vague text there) if not for him, and I probably would have given up on trying something new, as I am not exactly known for my tenacity or determination.

To get going, I brought over some of my old posts a few days ago, and I told myself that I would delete the old blog after I posted a new entry here. Metaphorically speaking, I have put all my belongings into my new, snazzy Blogger shoulder bag and I am finally taking it out for a test run. Cheesy, I know.

With that in mind, however, please give me some time to get comfortable with my new "accessory". If I fumble a little over the next post or two, or I can't find new comments immediately, it's probably because I lack the familiarity and confidence that came from that old comfy spot I used to inhabit in the blogosphere. So stick around; I might grow on you...kinda like that hobo bag you thought was hideous the first time you saw it, but now, you're starting to see the function of it.

Very soon, I won't be so concerned about what is "appropriate" and "correct," and I can get back to the sometimes tacky and mismatched style that I try to make my own. This is my "Hey there, check me out!!" to all you readers, old and new, and I hope that you will let me know what you think...just don't compare me to one of those god-awful sparkly sequin purses they sell at mall kiosks, my frail ego couldn't take that.

RD

A Very Special Christmas Update

RD edit: In this post I said I was having a girl, but it turns out I was one of the lucky few to have an incorrect ultrasound reading, and I had a boy instead. His name is "E" and we all think he rocks!

This post is intended as an update, but I am afraid it may mutate into a rant on Christmas before I am finished. If anyone here is having all those warm, fuzzy holiday feelings right now, fantasizing about opening gifts with loved ones around a blazing fireplace while the snow gently falls into beautiful drifts outside, I suggest you leave now. Your overly sentimental Hallmark attitude, mocking me with "Glad Tidings of Comfort and Joy," is not welcome here.

So before I spiral off into a full-scale holiday assault, let me get to that update. School is out for a few weeks (yay!). I took my last final on Tuesday, and it looks like I did decent this semester. Also, for those that didn't get my bulletin, we found out last week that we are having another girl at the end of March. I'm really starting to look pregnant, and not just fat, so I that's a plus.

On to the holiday happenings (and the last chance for all you "holly jolly" types to cut and run). Last week, S put up our Christmas tree, no that's not really accurate, I think the more fitting term for it would be "pitiful shrub." Our "tree," which I can only deduce is missing its bottom tier, stands at a whopping three feet tall. After we put up the lights, I couldn't even attempt to decorate it without bursting out into laughter (and subsequent uncontrollable sobs). Instead, we simply topped it with one of the most comically tacky angels I have ever laid witness to.

For the purpose of this piece, I'll call her "Heloise." Heloise, who is around 6 inches tall, is a hand-me-down, like the rest of our decorations. She is bedecked in an oversized red robe with a curling black ribbon cinched at the waist. The look is made complete with a pair of huge gold lamè wings, and two blinking lights, one under her skirt and another clasped in her hands. Now, this is going to come off cruel and inappropriate, but aside from her innocent face, she looks more like the dark angel of Lucifer than a messenger of the Lord.

Starting to get a mental image of the family Christmas Tree? I would put up a picture for visual documentation, but I don't think I could stomach the relentless ridicule that would most assuredly follow. At this point, the beer can pyramid at the local frat house is starting to look more festive.

In addition to the tree, I have done no Christmas shopping, that's right, zilch. I have been way too caught up with school to even consider it, and I'm so not looking forward to sifting through what's left over with all of the rest of the holiday slackers this week. It makes my brain freeze up just thinking about it.

K will not be getting a photo with Santa this year, either. And I know what you're thinking, but it's not because I am an uncaring Scrooge. Rather, because she is absolutely and completely terrified of the famous fat man in red. The simple mention of his name pushes her to the edge of hysteria. Each time someone innocently asks, "And what is Santa bringing you for Christmas?" sheer horror fills her eyes and she clings to me as if they have just threatened to abduct her. Fun times.

In addition to the listed grievances, I have an important weather-related comment on the impending holidays. Anyone planning to sip hot chocolate or don a fuzzy red sweater in the next week is out of his/her freakin' mind: it's 70 degrees outside, people! K and I went to the Zoo yesterday, and there were people actually walking around in the heat with toboggans and winter jackets on! I am utterly confused as to how this kind of delusional hopefulness was not phased out through natural selection centuries ago. I realize that the "Ideal Christmas" includes Jack Frost and his nose-nippery, but no amount of wishing or layering clothing is going to change the weather. Maybe it will snow, maybe it won't, let's all dress appropriately until then, shall we?

Aside from all the hum-bug crankiness, I must say that I am excited about being able to spend some time with the family next week, as cheesy and clichè as it sounds, that really is what it's all about. And I'm sorry if I've rained on anyone's Christmas lights with this post. Next year, I can get tanked on spiked eggnog and rejoice in the magical joys of the season like everyone else. For now, though, you better keep that mistletoe the hell away from me.

Merry Freakin' Christmas To All,
RD

My Culinary Doppleganger

It seems like every thought I have lately involves food in one way or another. Not only do crave a different entrée for every moment and mood of the day, but I want to make them all myself.
Under normal circumstances, I am by no means a friend of the kitchen. Cooking makes me nervous, all that planning, and measuring, and timing, and chopping, bleh, chopping is the worst. Every time I see the term "diced" or "minced" in a recipe, I cringe. The ugly truth is that my use of culinary tools usually extends no further than the can opener and microwave.

I have always categorized "those who cook'' into the same category as "those who clean," which means that these are the same people who are so organized and together that their sinks are always sparkling clean with not a dirty dish in sight, and their "to do" lists are consistently checked off.

I am the antithesis of this person.

I consider it a personal triumph if my dirty dishes end up in the sink, and not under the couch or on the table for two or three days. If I actually make a "to do" list, I end up with two weeks worth of work and not a single item gets checked off before I lose the list under the couch or cram it in an overstuffed junk drawer where it sits with old bills and invitations, not to be seen again until I pack up and move somewhere else.

I am the worst when it comes to executing a plan, no matter how great or small. I would much rather contemplate all of the aspects of said plan and its subsequent consequences than to actually carry it out.

Divergent thinking, ADD, or just plain lazy, call it whatever you wish, it remains a part of who I am.

With this in mind, I am sure you can see why I have found cooking to be a somewhat elusive skill, what with all the strategy and work that it entails.

Because of this, it has come as a huge surprise that I actually have the urge to prepare full meals for my family and me on a regular basis. Even the prospect of having to wash dishes every day hasn't been enough to deter me from cooking.

It's insanity, I tell you.

Take, for example, two weeks ago, when I bought a potato ricer to make homemade mashed potatoes, and ACTUALLY USED IT. If I wasn't pregnant right now, I would probably scoff at the idea of a potato ricer and buy a box of Hungry Jack. (Side note: Potato Ricers rock! They really do make your spuds fluffier!)

It doesn't end there.

I made a pumpkin pie last Thursday, and considered making the crust myself. Common sense finally prevailed and I bought a pre-made pie-crust, but the thought alone was more than a little startling.

Right now, I'm thinking about what I should cook for dinner, and I'll probably search the internet for a good recipe using asparagus in a minute.

I'm starting to sense that these thoughts are not my own, how on Earth could they be?
It is almost as if this baby that inhabits my body is a tiny little Martha Stewart urging me to commit domestic acts. Sort of like "Invasion of the Body Snatchers Meets The Food Network."
While I am thankful for the sudden urge to be productive, I am pretty sure it's just a hormonal imbalance. If you start hearing rumors that I have started canning vegetables, or wearing an apron in public, try to keep in mind that I am pregnant, and not myself. When the baby is born, and the nesting period ends, I'm certain that I will be back to my old, lazy ways.

Until then, however, here is a nifty recipe for mashed potatoes:

3 lbs Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and quartered length-wise
1 teaspoon salt
8 Tbsp heavy cream
1 Stick Butter
½ cup milk
Salt and Pepper
A potato ricer

1. Put potatoes into a saucepan. Add 1 teaspoon salt. Add water until potatoes are covered. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered, 15-20 minutes, or until done - a fork can easily be poked through them.
2. Warm cream and melt butter, together, either in microwave or in a pan on the stove. Drain water from potatoes. Put hot potatoes into a bowl. Use potato ricer to mash potatoes. Use a strong spoon to beat further, adding milk, cream and butter to achieve the consistency you desire. (Do not over-beat or your potatoes will get gluey.) Salt and pepper to taste.
Serves 8.

Feel free to share your own recipes, as well!
RD

Motherhood and the Surreal

Recently, I found out that I am pregnant with my second child. The whole experience has got me waxing nostalgic about my pregnancy with K, and many different memories from that time have come flooding back in the last few weeks. One of the most notable (and hilarious) occurrences during that time was an extremely bizarre dream I had while in my second trimester. People are quick to tell you about the physical changes you go through while you are expecting, but, in my experience, no one really talks about the number it does on your psychological and emotional state.

This particular dream started off normal enough; I am in the local grocery store, waiting to be checked out. A woman behind me comments on my expanding belly, and we begin to talk about my pregnancy.

It is at this point that things take a sharp turn off of Rational Avenue onto Freak Show Alley.

The woman says "Can I see it?"

And I smile and say, "Sure!"

I feel the need to explain that while I was dreaming, none of this seemed out of the ordinary. It was as if a million other people had already requested to have a look at the unborn fetus growing inside me, but back to the story:

I reach inside my purse, and produce a clear plastic deposit bag that is filled with fluid and wires. I unseal the bag, and a tiny baby, about the size of a thumb, floats up to the opening, and peeks over the top. The woman, who under normal circumstances would be recoiling in horror right about now, says,

"Oh, she is just beautiful!"

I grin, so full of pride I could burst and say "Thank You."

I then turn back to the bag, lean in and give the diminutive baby a kiss and say "I love you," like I've been doing this for years.

Then, a tiny voice replies, "I love you, too."

I reiterate: the miniature baby living in the deposit bag has just spoken.

As if things could not get any creepier, as I start to close the deposit bag, the baby's lip gets stuck in the sticky part of seal. So, I calmly pull back the plastic, and give the baby a gentle push down to the bottom of the bag. The dream ends, and I wake up in complete confusion, which is followed immediately by horror.

Every time I tell this dream to someone new, I can never be sure how they will react. Some people, namely my family, think it is hilarious, but others just kind of look at me, stunned, and then laugh nervously. Maybe you have to know the depths of my peculiar imagination to fully appreciate it, I don't know. While this dream is perhaps a little disturbing, I've decided to share it to make a point: Pregnancy is a major event within your body, but also within your psyche. So important, in fact, that it causes your subconscious to concoct the most outlandish scenarios to help you deal with all of the changes. I believe that the best way to handle all of the new, and often odd, changes that come with motherhood is to laugh about them, and never take yourself too seriously.

So to all of you women out there who are pregnant for the first time, when your ankles become cankles, and you are worried about your abilities as a mother, take a deep breath, smile, and remember that you are going to make it, and take comfort in the fact that you haven't dreamt that your baby lives in a deposit bag.

How Do You Spell Victory?

Tonight was one of bitter defeat for many, and triumphant glory for one. Dreams were made and broken, and victory was spelled u-r-s-p-r-a-c-h-e. I look forward to this evening every year, for the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee is my favorite competition. I love to watch, awestruck, as prepubescent teens spell words that I have never even fathomed to exist. Now, I am a rather capable speller, but each year, this competition is a humbling experience, as these young spellers make me feel like a blithering idiot. The competition also takes me back to my own childhood. I have very fond memories of my brother and I standing on the hearth of the fireplace while my mother would act as the officiator over our own impromptu spelling bees. I reveled in the satisfaction that came from a correctly spelled word. This makes me sure of two things: one, I have been a dork since birth, and two, the children who are competent enough to make it to the national spelling bee must feel extremely accomplished. So as I pop open a celebratory Red Stripe, the first toast goes to you, Katharine Close, the winner of this evening's competition and a champion of words and will.

Next year, I think I will host a National Spelling Bee Bash, as this event is the Super Bowl of Nerds. Everybody clear your calendars.

Conge: n. a leave-taking or formal bow,
RD

Stung on the Ass by Vengeance

I was stung by a wasp thirsty for revenge today. K and I had stopped at Target to grab some essentials, and when I opened the door to get out of the car, there he stood (well, hovered, actually), my future attacker. I swatted carelessly at the wasp, and he dove for the interior of the car. Annoyed by his advances, I slammed the door shut, and quickly opened K's door to get her out. I surveyed the inside from the backseat; no wasp to be seen or heard. "Must've flown away" I thought to myself. Me and K made our way inside the store, and shopped for over an hour. I got back to the car, buckled K into her seat, and opened my door. I was immediately charged by the earlier mentioned wasp, and my eye was drawn to the flutter of his crippled wing. Before I had time to react, he dove under the flap of my polo shirt, and I felt the frantic beating of his wings against the back pocket of my jeans. I did an embarrassingly awkward dance trying to get at him, and after a few moments, I hear a 30something mother who had watched the entire incident say "I think you got him." There he was, on the pavement, injured and trying to scuttle away. I took two steps forward, and stomped him; once to kill him, and a second time purely out of wrath. At this point, I'm not sure whether to feel satisfaction or guilt. From the wasp's perspective, I did pin him in my hot car by slamming his wing in the door, and he had a good hour to hang there and do nothing but plot his counterattack. In my defense, however, I didn't maim him intentionally, and he did sting the phooey out of me. It was a horrible misunderstanding, and if I spoke wasp, I'd be more than happy to find his family and express my remorse for killing their loved one. Alas, I do not, and until we can bridge the communication gap between humans and insects, I suppose I will have to comfort myself with the fact that we were both just trying to survive. Luckily, I came out on top this time. I just hope his wasp posse wasn't watching and followed me home.

Looking over my shoulder,
RD

Sesame Street Grows A Pair (Sort of)

While watching Elmo's World tonight for what feels like the five-billionth time, I heard what seemed like a rather subtle, yet clever, swipe at the conservative pundits who claim that funding should be cut from public broadcasting for promoting the "gay agenda." (I'm sure everyone is aware of the rumor that Bert and Ernie are more than just roommates, and the uproar that this has caused for several years.) So in this episode, Elmo is just hanging out in his room, checking his emails and whatnot, when Bert busts through door. A rather disoriented Bert looks around and asks where he is, to which Elmo replies: "You're in Elmo's World!" (which is a little self-absorbed, but beside the point). Bert wonders how to get out and Elmo plays dumb (what kind of tool doesn't know how to get out of his own room?). Then, Bert turns and says "maybe I'll just take a left in the CLOSET and then straight on until morning." Maybe I'm reading too much into this, but did Bert just metaphorically out himself by stating that he is going back in the closet? It's like the writers of Sesame Street are saying "Yeah, maybe Bert's gay, but if you guys can't handle it, fine, we can live the lie until you're ready to accept the truth. Until then, just know in your heart that Bert and Ernie are the real deal." I don't really care if Bert and Ernie slide their twin beds together when cameras stop rolling, that's their business, and kudos to them for staying together for the kids for this long. How many couples (straight, gay, or puppet) do you know that have made it through disco, the Reagan years, and both Woodstocks? Just keep teaching the kiddies the letters E and B, boys, and I can live with whatever sexual-orientation you are assigned. Ever notice how nobody ever mentions Ernie's fondness for sheep in the middle of the night, or the fact that Grover likes to "dress-up" in a cape. Why? Because THAT would be ridiculous. To Bert and Ernie: Keep it real guys, and don't let the haters get you down. To everyone else: Do we really care if two guys share an apartment (and possibly a life-long commitment to one another) if they teach our kids how to read, count, and be nice to others?

Postscript: I am very bored, and trying to make the repeated viewings of Elmo's World a little more tolerable. This post is not meant as serious social or political commentary, its just a diversion from the "C is for Cookie" song that is playing on endless loop in my head. Furthermore, I am well aware of the fact that this post makes it painfully apparent that my life is extremely boring.