Congratulations! You have a Beautiful Baby…Gut

Yikes.

I am at the coffee shop right now, ostensibly to work. But I cannot work. I cannot work because I just had one of those encounters that you hear about but assume you will never be involved in. Believe me, you don’t want to be on either side of the conversation I just had.

A lady just asked me when I am due. Our eyes locked. Her question registered. “I’m not,” I said.

I was surprised; so was she. But at least she was more humiliated than I was.

“Sorry!” she rushed to say, eyes wide. “I have babies on the brain! See?”

No, I didn’t see. But she gestured to her midsection. She’s pregnant (considerably smaller belly than mine, but pregnant nonetheless). I nodded.

Then she tried to blame it on the cut of my shirt. “Someday these flowing shirts will go out of style, and these things won’t happen anymore.” (Cringe. I can’t even think “Nice try!” for that one.) I nodded again, and longingly eyed my table, where my computer sat waiting.

“Your shirt looks really pretty with your eyes!” she tried—her last, desperate grasp at fixing this mess. I continued to nod. And I willed the crowd to clear so I could go sit down. And I’m sure, she wanted the same so she could go hide under a table of her own.

Obviously there’s no recovering from a faux pas like this one (and obviously this shirt that brings out my eyes so beautifully didn’t do the job I intended: hiding my great big belly.) I got my chance and went for an even quicker getaway than she did: I poured my half-and-half (bad choice? I only use it occasionally) and skedaddled. I just couldn’t nod through her flailing anymore.

“I have babies on the brain, too, just not on the way,” I said brightly. “Congratulations!”

So here I sit, eating my bagel and cream cheese (Is that OK? I was going for protein) and wondering what my next course of action should be. How does one get rid of a sizable stomach anyway, other than giving birth? This is all new to me. For the most part, until this point in my life, I have been a twig—for the past couple of years, a starving twig. My little one weaned, I seized the opportunity to break the strict allergen-free diet I had been on for his sake while nursing—finally satisfying my constant hunger—and then I turned 37 and this—God, I guess it’s a slower metabolism?—dawned.

Apparently sporadic walking and yoga ain’t cutting it. And apparently the pound cake, ice cream, half dozen or so cookies a day, and frequent pizzas are having an effect. A big one. For a few weeks now, my husband and I have been observing and commenting on what my yummy new expanded diet has left in its wake: this mass that’s poking out and hanging over my beltline. My food baby remains long after mealtime. My food baby is well into its second trimester.

I guess it’s time to stop wondering and just confront it. It’s not going to just disappear on its own, and if this were to continue throughout winter…

Hooray. I have a new project.

R.I.P. M.J.

Back when I used to teach college, maybe in 2004, I taught a class in the late afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays. For most of the students it was their last class of the day, for many the last of the week (crafting a schedule to avoid Friday classes means you can nurse one more hangover with one more day of lying around on the beach.)

I really liked this group, but they could be quiet. I did more lecturing than I wished; it could be hard to get a conversation going. They were tired, they were digesting lunch. But most at least tried to pay attention; there wasn’t a lot of obnoxious talking or texting or otherwise ignoring the subject at hand: Intro to Literature. I did have some dutiful smart ones, who were actually glad to be learning, as well as plenty (thankfully polite) ones who were there only because they had to get the required credit over with. And I had a few surprise stand-outs.

The most surprising of my students were these three boys who sat by the door. They were all surfers. They all lived together and shared one textbook. They all always had bloodshot, glassy, squinty eyes. Sleepy? Didn’t act like it. Maybe it was constant allergies. Or maybe they all had a water aerobics class right before mine and were bothered by the chlorine.

Whatever the cause, they were all engaged and intensely interested in my lit class. It was always like they were watching a play or a movie. They paid close attention to what I said and to class discussion. None of them ever took notes, though. On the occasions when they did talk amongst themselves, and I would interrupt them, it would inevitably turn out they were discussing the class subject, and then they’d share something insightful and thought-provoking with the class. They flattened some of my preconceived notions.

One day we were discussing what happens when the mighty fall: Faulkner’s Emily, Sophocles’ Oedipus. They become horrible versions of themselves. Frightening, sad, objects for attack.

“Like Michael Jackson,” somebody piped up.

Laughter. But I latched on.

“Yes! Just like him.”

Then I sighed and leaned on the podium, my chin in my hands. “Oh, y’all, I wish you could have seen him before the freakshow started,” I said. “He was amazing.” (Wow. Where did that come from? I immediately wondered.)

More laughter.

Then one of the surfers by the door—the long lanky one who always wore a little grin as if he had a secret—spoke up: “He was awesome! I got an old copy of Thriller when I was like, four. I listened to it over and over. And he could dance!”

So I guess that served as permission to take this seriously, to take the teacher’s uncharacteristic sentimental outburst at face value. A hush fell over the room. People who had been studying the tops of their desks looked up instead. The class, as one, leaned forward.

There I was: a skeptical GenXer addressing a roomful of jaded Gen Nexters about the King of Pop and what he used to be. MJ had still been OK back when they were babies, and here was an old timer who actually remembered those Halcyon Days of Billie Jean, Beat It, and Thriller.

I had witnessed peers dancing like miniature, marvelous M.J.s in the hallways of my own junior high, boys wearing the studded jackets and single sparkling gloves as if those accessories might impart just a little of Michael’s greatness. I was one of those young people who waited with eager anticipation for each new music video, waited to be transfixed by the way Michael could move, as if, for him, being subject to the forces of gravity were optional. I remembered the sweetness of Bubbles and Neverland and the hope of We are the World. I remembered all of it, and it was good, not weird or scary or uncomfortable.

We forget Emily was once young and artistic and in love. We forget Oedipus was once a strong, respected leader who swore to never hurt his family or his people. We forget Michael was once, simply, wonderful: He filled generations with wonder.

Bad Energy

All this time I thought our bathrooms just had bad energy.

After we moved into this tidy little ranch in 2001, the septic failed. Then one of the sinks started leaking. Then the soap dish and shelves and tiles started falling, one by one, off the shower walls. Then the toilets stopped flushing completely. Sure some of these (translation: all of these) problems were because these fixtures were 30 years old. But still, something was going on in those rooms. They’re clustered together in the middle of the house; it had to have something to do with too much water energy or north-facing windows or earth meridians or some such bad feng shui.

We replaced stuff and painted and tiled and redecorated and updated a little bit. Then the electricity stopped working. Neither of the plugs (brand new; replaced during the 2003 paintjob) in that cluster of rooms (it’s called a Hollywood bath; chic, no?) had any juice. They stopped working–I don’t know–in 2005 or so? We just gave up. Bad energy was upgraded to bad magic: “Those rooms are cursed,” I declared. And we started dragging around lengths of extension cord whenever Chris needed to shave his head or I needed to blow-dry my hair. The bathroom-specific dust buster became nothing more than a reminder of the curse.

So last week we finally had an electrician visit about all the picky things falling apart and down upon us in this no-longer-tidy little ranch. That ceiling fan looks very, very dangerous hanging from a few wires as it does. Those dual light switches are dueling: We have to walk back and forth and back just to get the light to turn on–three flips of switches for one light! And these outlets give out no power.

Bad energy was actually no energy. All those years ago, all this time, there was a breaker switch, a special breaker switch called a ground-fault interceptor that had, very smartly, simply flipped itself. “You’re not serious,” I told the electrician when he broke the news. It flips itself when the outlet gets wet–as outlets are prone to do in bathrooms. It is our job, when the outlets give no power, to flip the smart switch back–after giving a little prayer of gratitude for its intelligence and another day of living electrical fire-free. Another day of keeping the energy moving in our chic little bit of Hollywood right here in Crustwood, Wilmington, NC.

Trouble with Peripherals

Yesterday Jonah stuck his tongue in the USB port on the side of my laptop. Ever since then this message has been popping up: Device not recognized.

Some computer this is; his tongue isn’t even in the USB port anymore.

Christmas in Crestwood

Christmas is behind us, but we have photos to prove it happened. There was merriment; we have evidence.

We did not decorate beyond a wreath on the door. We figured anything inside was a toddler-fueled accident waiting to happen. And these days, when we have free time we’d rather sleep than unpack, hang, and repack piles of stuff. Our neighbors made up for our failure to decorate.

The carpenter who lives a block over has the most wonderful wood figures in his yard.  Here are his Christmas additions:

 
In years past, there has also been a cowboy santa who waves a lasso and is accompnanied by a great, big sign that reads “Merry Christmas, Y’all!” I love that thing. I wish he’d bring it back.

We went driving on Christmas Eve to look at Christmas lights. Jonah freaked out because of the change in routine and screamed bloody murder in the car. Then we got out and looked at this house. Wouldn’t you know it, he got quiet:

The man who owns the house saw us, came outside to chat, and soon invited us indoors. (We got the feeling Mrs. Wonderchristmas was not too happy to have us in her home on Christmas Eve; nonetheless, we were impressed.) Every single surface was covered. Words and pictures cannot convey the unbelievableness. He said that the tree alone had more than 700 ornaments and took 3 weeks to decorate. (I wonder what drives these people. I thought the wreath was a hassle.) We didn’t take pictures inside, but you can get a glimpse past the porch pig:

After that house, Jonah started screaming again, so we made only one more stop: The World’s Largest Living Christmas Tree (more accurately, the World’s Largest Christmas Tree that is an Oak and in Wilmington, N.C., Right Next to the Sewage Plant):

Somebody got very cool rain boots for Christmas, and somebody else looks very cool wearing them:

Happy new year, y’all!

Just Had to Share

This  is awesome. It is so true. Tofu does bring magic happy.

There is actually food wearing a monacle in this picture. And I wish I knew what that adorable little crazy-eyed tofu cube was saying to the big, scary tofu block with the dilated pupils.

“No, really, it’s fun when you make tidal waves. They don’t endanger all the other tofu cubes too much.”

“The real reason you go on these rampages is because you care, right?”

“I love you, even when you’re on a bad trip.”

Baby’s First Tropical Storm

We thought it would be baby’s first hurricane, but Hanna just never strengthened.

Around 2:45 Saturday morning, I woke up to a gust of wind–and then went right back to sleep. Chris says green pinecones hitting the roof kept him awake for a while. Jonah never woke up. Any other day, he wakes up from butterflies blowing cottonball kisses across the street –but Hanna didn’t have that effect on him.

Here is Jonah next to a downed limb (our only one) in the front yard.

Here are some of those pine cones that kept Chris awake.

Here is what is left of our neighbor’s downed tree.

Another neighbor’s downed tree.

These neighbors did not prepare. Always prepare! (These neighbors are carny folk–really! They travel with the carnival, so they weren’t around to prepare. But that’s no excuse! Always prepare!)

This is what tropical storms do. They knock down pinecones, the occasional tree, and, yes, basketball goals as well. And they drop a lot of water. They also:

Make the the neighbors congregate. Many Crestwoodians were outside Friday because schools were closed and several businesses shut down early. Everybody was preparing and getting in some outdoor time before the rain started. It was an opportunity to chat–generally about storms.

Make my nose run. Something to do with the barometric pressure. I’m sniffling.

Make my hair huge. It’s the humidity. Yesterday, I “looked like a poodle,” according to Chris (sweet, no?). Really, though, my tresses were a hairicane. (Ha!)

Make us create and impose deadlines. Of course, everybody goes to the grocery store to stock up on bread and milk and other staples. Also, everything involving electricity and water must be taken care of before the storm hits. I did all the laundry and dishes before the storm, and even though the deadline was a week a way, I completed copyediting my latest manuscript because I did not want it on my desk if we were left without power. I had memories of Hurricane Fran and how impossible it was to get anything done after that storm hit. I figured I might very well spend the weekend trapped inside, folding all that clean laundry in a hot house, because the roads would be impassible and the electricity would be gone. Instead, Jonah and I headed to the beach with his cousin Erin to watch his dad and cousin Jake surf in the aftermath.

The Gnome Catalog: Part 3

Finally! The third installment in my gnome series. It has been so long since I’ve visited my blog, I barely remember how to use–what’s this thing called?–WordPress.

This trio of gnomes hangs near our garden in the backyard. I got Chris the shepherd’s hook for Valentine’s Day years ago; he got me the gnomes for some other occasion in more recent years. I like this set. They’re playful. Probably all gnomes are playful, though; I can’t imagine they’d be surly or grumpy.

This is One-Eyed Jack. If he had a red beam of light coming out of that eye, he’d look just like the Terminator.

Pipe-smoking gnome (we have a duplicate, so there is one in the front yard, one in the back).

Here’s another trio of gnomes: See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil. These I got at Target (those dangerous dollar bins at the front of the store) just before I began writing my gnome series. They sit in the flower pot that was Chris’ birthday present to me this year. One of them was cruelly and wantonly dashed to the ground by a little girl I was babysitting, Mary Ruth(less).

Practical impulse buy: Gnome thermometer.

This elegant gnome was a gift from a former employer, early in my gnome-collecting days. He is very heavy compared to the others because he’s made of concrete. He stands next to a friendly hedgehog. When I was taking pictures, Chris insisted I move the gnome to a more attractive backdrop. The move immediately made me uncomfortable. My gnome catalog should be truthful; therefore gnomes shouldn’t be moved, creating an unrealistic portrayal of the collection.

The elegant gnome with the hedgehog companion actually sits by the front door. Here is a photo of him in his correct spot.

We bought this gnome doormat with some of the money on a Target gift certificate given to us by Chris’ coworkers when Jonah was born. I don’t think it was an improper use of the money. We will let Jonah use the doormat once he begins walking.

This is not a  gnome; it is some sort of awesome leaf god. I can see the argument for keeping it in (perhaps gnomes have deities; gnomes are fantastic creatures, and this thing’s pretty fantastic; where else could I possibly put a photo of it?) or leaving it out (this is a gnome catalog, period; it is not an awesome leaf god catalog). If you feel very strongly one way or the other about its inclusion, let  me know.

And last, here are some shots of the gnome graveyard, The Island of Misfit Gnomes.

Thanks for taking a look at my gnome collection. I am considering taking pictures of my neighbors’ yards now.

Book Slinging

Jonah went crawling-crazy in the library the other day. He was  up and down the rows like he was training for some kind of crawling competition. Which is fine with me–gets him exercised and exhausted.

But then, of course, he started pulling books down. I stopped him after the first, but I didn’t put it back because the title and jacket looked intriguing. Something about unicorns. So I checked it out.

This is going to be my new system for choosing books for a while. I used to visit churches somewhat randomly on Sundays (church-hopping) just to see what was going on behind those doors. So, naturally, it makes perfect sense to let the baby randomly choose my reading.

Here’s how it will work: I will set Jonah loose in the library. Eventually, of course, he will pull books off the shelves. Then I will pick up my next read from the floor. Probably the best method is to do it the way it happened the first time: Stop him after the first pick. It wouldn’t be honest if I let him pull down a book, read the jacket, reject it, put it back on the shelf, and follow him until he pulls down another.

This is more of a leap than church-hopping. With that exercise, I could make a judgement beforehand by the look of the building, the people going in and out, the sign out front. During that experiment (which only lasted a few months because we found a cool church!) I used to visit websites beforehand to make sure there was a nursery and to otherwise check the place out. So it wasn’t blind. Picking up a book after the baby slings it to the floor? That’s blind.

Whatever he picks, I have to check it out–no fudging. The book he pulls down is the book I check out–even if it doesn’t look intriguing, even if it doesn’t have a unicorn on the cover. There is a caveat, though: If I hate it, I don’t have to finish reading it. Really, all I am going to commit to is taking the book home and taking a stab at it.

Also, because I have been lax in my reading lately, I have decided that something has to give, yet I don’t have a lot of somethings to give. So I am giving up perezhilton.com. Even though it is only 20 minutes or so worth of reading per day, those are 20 minutes that would be better spent reading something else. I can’t give that man any more of my time and energy. I’m too old for him, anyway. Plus, he’s really mean. So no more celebrity gossip while I’m a member of the Baby Book Club.

Gnomes, Part II: Speed Posting

Blogging is supposed to be fast. But I play around with my words and, nowadays, fool around with photos and links. I don’t go fast.

My goal today, however, is to get this post done and up in 30 minutes or less–typo free. I have set this goal so I can finally achieve last week’s goal: Finish part two of my gnome catalog and history. (In case you haven’t yet experienced the gnomes, here is a link.) Let’s see what happens when I write real fast.

 
This gnome is part of a set. The other members of his posse are the guy reclining in the pond and…some other gnome. (I’m on a deadline. I can’t go out in the yard and look.) He hangs out by the cactus. Someday we’re going to fry some of that cactus up and eat it.

This gnome was another gift from Chris. Can you believe he got this bit of beauty from Target? This guy reminds me of those bunches of statues of soldiers they found buried in China; there’s something very upright and, well, statuesque about him. Our neighbor around the corner has the exact same gnome. On several occassions I have mentioned to Chris during our walks that I want to steal it and bring it home. That would be all kinds of wrong because: 1. Stealing gnomes is a crime and 2. They may truly love that gnome even if I do think it’s being neglected and 3. I already have that gnome anyway. The flowers around this gnome are bearded irises, I believe.

This rustic gnome swings from our dogwood tree. Over the years we have talked about restoring the gnomes, including this one, but I like them as they are, with paint chipped and soil in their beards. He looks happy to me. If you are interested in gnome restoration, there is a blog post somewhere on wordpress about that very thing. I was going to link to it, but I don’t know where it is, and I’m running out of time.

By the way, I made up a new word as I was walking in the door today. I spied a gnome we haven’t photographed yet and made the decision to finally write this post. I asked Chris which other gnomes haven’t had their pictures taken so far, and committed to shooting the rest of my gnomagerie. Gnomagerie. My new favorite word.

(Correction: Those are not bearded irises around that second gnome. We do not know what kind of irises they are.)