Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I was like a cross between Fabio and a toilet brush.

P-Man
Open Letter to Mo

I never write about work, but...

Maybe it is just me, but when you give someone an assignment during a meeting at which that person is not a participant, it is helpful if you tell the person about the assignment, especially when the assignment is a presentation in front of a group of important people, scheduled to take place the following afternoon.

But it could just be me who thinks that.

Update: Thanks to all who commiserated, the presentation went well (smoother and better received than I'd hoped, even) and I ducked out at the break to run home in time to spend a lovely evening with a friend visiting from South Africa.

Stumptown Ladies Sing This Song

One of the benefits of starting this blog, and of reading other people's blogs, has been meeting some fantastic people. I started to worry a bit when several people who I first met through their blogs stopped posting. I am still friends with them in real life, but I started to wonder whether I had a similar super-power to that my friend Jiro years ago learned he possessed. In Jiro's case, his special power was making women drop out of college. Each of the women he dated in college dropped out. Not one or two, either, but he dated five women while the women were in college, and each left school during or after their relationship with him. In retrospect, he realized he'd had a chance to use his power for good, if only he'd known what to do. You see, while Jiro did not attend the same college as she did, he was in college in the same city as Monica Lewinsky, at the same time. Just think, if he'd dated her while she was a college student, she'd have dropped out, which would have likely made it impossible for her to get an internship in the Whitehouse, thereby changing the course of history!

But it is too late to think about that. And I took you on this entertaining little digression only because, as I mentioned, I started to worry that I possessed a similar power, making bloggers stop writing just by becoming friends with them. But then I became friends with Debbie, who in addition to being a real-life nice person and funny, smart girl, is a fantastic writer in the best kind of stream-of-consciousness way. Her writing is hilarious and poignant within the same breath-taking paragraph, digging deep to offer truths about her darker corners while leavening a post with references that stretch your brain and make you cackle with recognition. This is a woman who, even when she wants to stop writing, can not, and for that I am very glad.

And this wisp of Portland fantastic-ness, she nominated me for a Perfect Post award. The post she honored, about not being pregnant, was written from a moment of darkness. Talking about light in that post was a form of self-therapy, an attempt to remind myself that the despair I felt on that day would lift. Thankfully, it lifted, and faster than I would have imagined. Just as I was moved that people responded with support and condolences, I am honored that the post meant enough to Debbie that she bothered to make her feelings known. Thank you Debbie, it means a lot to me.

I'm okay, you're...not in costume

It is probably not necessary to explain to fellow parents that despite expressing excitement about dressing up as a purple cat for Halloween (for weeks she told anyone who would listen), when it came to actually wearing the costume ON Halloween, my toddler decided she was over it and wanted nothing to do with the purple cat outfit. She did agree to have cat whiskers drawn on her face, but only after I'd drawn them on Chris first. Thank goodness for Monkey Boy. Ever the enthusiast, Monkey Boy asked for whiskers too. Which was fantastic, especially since he was an alligator. An adorable alligator.

Cue the off key singing of "A, alligators all around, B, bursting balloons..."

A neighbor had everyone on the block over for dinner. She was fantastic to host a bunch of kids ranging in age from 1 to 7 (plus their parents). She made dinner, plus bone-shaped cookies (it was a cookie graveyard!). It was great. The kids, predictably, ate way too much sugar (plus a little stew and a bite or two of dinosaur shaped chicken pieces) before running out into the night.

A night filled with pumpkin light. How much do I love that our 3 year old neighbor - dressed as a fireman - asked if we should maybe blow out the candles, because you know, the fire hazard?

What I most want to record about tonight is my struggle to let Ada do what feels right to her, even when it conflicts with what I think she "should" do. I recognize that this could be the last year that Ada does not understand Halloween. I should let her have that innocence, but I wanted her to play along.

I tried to get Ada to wear a costume, telling her that all the kids were dressing up. No luck. I explained that the idea is to dress up and visit people's houses. Even the idea of getting candy didn't sway her. If I was a Zen Buddhist, it would have been a perfect opportunity to practice non-attachment. As it is, it was a chance to allow my child to be who she is. And I hated it.


I wanted Ada to wear a costume, wanted her to get the positive attention I know comes with a small child in a cute get-up. But she did not want it, and despite my heart's desire to force her, I let her be. So this post is a record both of Ada hanging on to baby-hood and of my early halting attempts to let her follow her own path.

Even though Ada wouldn't dress up, I did. I hate for a chance to wear a green wig to go by. I may have to wear the wig every Halloween. It is as good as a warm cap on a cold evening. Should the kid ever decide to give trick-or-treating a try, I'll appreciate the warmth. Given how well Ada took to the candyportion of Halloween, I am guessing one of these years she is going to take me on a long walk for Halloween. Probably in the rain.

peeved, but soothed by peanut butter m&ms

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

If you're into mayflies, it's hard to eat just one.

Ian Frazier

Balance Sheet

After I got my negative blood test results, a good friend reminded me that I didn't owe the blogosphere a report, that I could wait to write about it, or not write about it at all. Having written about the lead up didn't require me to follow through. She's right, but I wanted to write about it. I wanted to acknowledge what happened, not just to get the (very much appreciated) kind words of condolences and support, but also to note that I'd lost something. I realized I wanted to mark the loss after talking to my sister on Tuesday. Karen suggested that my experience might feel different from having a miscarriage. I agree that it is different, but I still experienced the news that I wasn't pregnant as a loss.

I lost the pure potential I'd carried in my heart, if not my uterus. In the two weeks between implantation and blood test I felt it was going to work out. I had moved past the test to the first ultrasound. I was waiting to hear Jill tell me that, like the first time, my hormone levels were so high I was likely carrying multiples. I'd started to wonder what we might name a boy. How we'd afford the time off. I'd invested in a good outcome, and on Monday I lost that investment.

I don't mean to suggest I suffered a life-changing loss. As low as I was on Monday, by Tuesday I felt significantly better. It helped that it was a perfect, beautiful fall day in Portland and that Ada was at her most charming all day. It helped that I have wonderful family and friends. It helped to hear from so many of you. It was not an earth-shattering loss, but it was a loss nonetheless. Lucky for me I have a pretty heavy list on the plus side of my balance sheet, so a loss here and there is sustainable.

As just one item on the plus side of my lifetime balance sheet, I offer this clip of Ada "reading" Maurice Sendak. Please forgive the odd angle. We were in post-bath mode.

Thank you again for all your kind words and support. They have meant a lot to me.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

He was on an upslope. He was the happiest hooker I ever met.

Lola Rock n' Rolla

Three Little Acorns

I had my blood test today, and this afternoon Jill from the doctor's office called. Just from her greeting, I knew it wasn't good. Last time her voice was full of joy. This time her tone was a clear sign that I was getting bad news.

"I'm sorry, you aren't pregnant."

I am too. I was so confident this time. Maybe because things went so well the first time we tried IVF, maybe because I wanted it to work, but I really felt it was going to happen. So much for intuition.

I am really disappointed. I am sad, but even more I am just so diappointed. Outside my office is an oak tree. Talking to my sister by phone, I bent over and picked up three little acorns. Each is small and perfect, and I could not help think about the three perfect little embryos that I won't see become babies. I'm not crazy, I didn't actually want three babies, but I did want one. I do want one. I am so happy to have Ada, and I will live without another baby, but I so want one.

I put the three little acorns in my pocket. Having thought I was pregnant, the loss of the embryos is so acute right now. It will get easier, but for now I need to hold on to the three little nuts to remind me not of my loss, but of hope. There are a lot of acorns strewn around the tree. Most of them will not become oaks, but one or two could. Hoping my odds are better than that, I am calmed by the idea that we still have chances left. But realistically, I will worry about that tomorrow. Today I really just need to crawl into bed and feel shitty.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I most admire the bad girl.

Mario Vargas Llosa

Pumpkin

Chris and I went to a "parent enrichment" night at Ada's nursery school. We knew what we were getting into, but the reality was still exhausting. Ada attends a Waldorf-inspired nursery school, so it is very touchy-feely and odd in some ways I like and others that impress me less. (Among the less: the Waldorf folks think young kids should not be exposed to bright colors or music that doesn't conform to the pentatonic scale.) Plus, this is Portland, which is already one of the most hippy places on the planet. I still wasn't prepared for a half-hour spiel on the value of soaking grains for a day prior to cooking them. Then there was the singing.

I am exhausted.

In lieu of a real post, I offer a couple of photographs of Ada at the pumpkin patch.

As usual, I took mostly pictures that failed to highlight the key element (other than my child) of the day's outing. Oh well. I know there were a zillion pumpkins there.


This is a picture of Ada with her new down-the-block friend. I have a couple of great shots of them together, but I want to ask Iya's mom for permission before I post them.

Going to farms with Ada - to pick berries, or find pumpkins (and scale the hay pyramid, marvel over the soft foot of a baby goat, or thrill at a bumpy ride in barrels tricked out to look like cows) - this is one of my favorite things to do with Ada. She has a great time, and the joy on her face is always worth the trip.

At least her priorities are straight

Tuesday afternoon (post-IVF) I picked up Ada from Ellen's house. She'd had a great time playing with Monkey Boy and tearing up their house with him. The moment I arrived, her mood shifted. Ada turned into a whiny, crabby monster child, scanning her environment for things to complain about. First it was that I was not sitting close enough to her while she ate her snack, then that the socks I wanted her to wear were not her socks, she wanted her socks! (You mean the socks I pulled out of your boots? I'm pretty sure those are yours.)

Tipping Ada into utter crazy mode was my refusal to let her ride in the stroller. I walked Ada to Ellen's that morning, but I picked her up in the car so that I could then get gas. Foolish, I know, but I thought it would be a good idea to fold up the stroller and stick it in the trunk. This sent Ada into howls of complaint. Tearful pleas followed, "I want to ride in the stroller! It's my stroller, I want to ride in it!" She even tried to negotiate a little, suggesting maybe she could ride in the stroller in the car. When I told her this was not possible, she wailed and moaned.

Reaching the end of my capacity to hear such insane complaints, I asked her, "Ada, are you frustrated?"

"Yeah," she replied tearfully.

"Are you upset because George Bush is president?"

"Yeah."

"Are you upset about global warming?"

"Yeah."

"Are you upset because the Bears aren't going to be Super Bowl champs this year?"

"No."

"So it's just about global warming?"

"Yeah."

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Time isn't holding us
Time isn't after us

Talking Heads
Once in a Lifetime

Today's the day

8:30 am
I am working from home today, sitting on an hours long conference call. I am also waiting for a call from my doctor about how many of my embryos survived the thaw. I didn't think I would be so nervous, but I am. If all six embryos survive the thaw, we'll let them grow two days (to become blastocysts). Any casualties at the thaw and we implant day-three embryos today.

9:30
I got the call, and three made it, so I am going in today. I'm disappointed, and not just because I will miss the last 90 minutes of my conference call. (Oddly, I am actually upset about that.) Strong embryos are more likely to survive the thaw. The fact that they didn't all make it doesn't necessarily mean that they aren't strong, but it isn't the positive sign I was hoping for.

Moving on. I am going in today to have two of the embryos implanted. In typical fashion, I have not been worried through this whole process, but now I am sweating. I contacted Chris and my acupuncture doc, both of whom will join me for this fun.

I'm staring at a huge glass of water. I am supposed to drink 20 ounces of water so that I have a full bladder for the procedure. Last time I drank a ton, and the doctor was a half hour late for the procedure. I was in tears, waiting and fearing that I would ruin my chances for a successful implantation if I lessened the pressure on my bladder. I had to pee three times while waiting for the doctor to arrive, but in the end everything went fine. At the time I was horrified, but in retrospect it is pretty funny that something so high tech could be compromised by something so basic. This time I am only drinking 8 ounces.

1:20

So apparently, with my tiny bladder even 8 ounces was too much. By the time I got to the office I was close to writhing. I peed twice before the procedure, but was not moved to cry. Or rather, I didn't cry until the physicians assistant pushed the ultrasound probe on my stomach. This made me cry, then laugh. The PA primly asked if I could stop laughing. No, I can't.

All went well. And by "all" I mean three embryos were implanted. Oy. As I mentioned previously, I fear the possibility of multiples, so the idea of three successful embryos is a bit daunting. As I do not have a moral problem with what they call selective reduction, if three make it we'll be taking action to make sure I don't carry three fetuses. This whole thing is an odds game. The odds of getting one successful embryo goes up when you implant two or more. Two of the embryos looked great, one was fine but not first class. Implanting them all gives us a good chance of getting at least one healthy embryo to take hold.

Of course, there is the possibility that an egg will split on its own. The doctor mentioned this possibility, quickly dismissing it with a breezy "but that RARELY happens!" Um, except it happened to me last time. Right, good to know. Still she thought 3 was the best way to go. So three it was.

After the implantation I waited the requisite 15 or 20 minutes, then got a visit from my fantastic acupuncture doc. Although it is her day off, this doctor made a "house"-call, joining us in the procedure room and hanging out in the waiting room on top of it. Who does these things any more? (If you live in Portland and want a recommendation, shoot me an email.)

Now I'm "resting quietly". I am resisting the urge to run a load of laundry, clean up the dining room table, squeeze in some gardening or do anything else that it calling to me to get done. Instead I think I will do some reading and maybe take a nap.

Book 'Em, Dano

The thoughtful and literate (un)relaxed dad tagged me for a book meme.

Total number of books?

Do people who own a lot of books know how many they have? Too many, not enough. Ok, I'll try. From counting one shelf with 40 books on it, I am estimating about 800. It's tricky, because some of the books are Chris's, but then we have a lot of books we've bought for one another, or together.

Last book read?

Absurdistan. My brother-in-law left it with me when he visited recently. I got really into it, then stalled out midway through and then loved it again by the end. The main character is a 300+ pound Russian Jew desperate to return to New York (and his Latina girlfriend), but thwarted by his father's murder of an Oklahoma businessman. He goes to Absurdistan to buy himself a Belgian passport, which is where all hell breaks loose. If you don't think I'm a good judge, check the reviews. Everyone freaking loved this book. Except - don't read it if you need things to be heading in some direction immediately.

Last book bought?

I have been trying to get books from the library. We are out of shelf space at home, so if I want to buy more books I may need to start shedding some old ones. That said, I made an exception for the my friend Jonathan's book The Pinball Theory of Apocalypse. I was going to buy it at his reading, but I got distracted talking to people afterwards. Plus, buying it on Amazon seems like it could help his stats somehow. I've written about Johnathan's book before, and I ate the book up one day at the beach this summer. Reading Pinball Theory, Absurdistan and Clown Girl all within close temporal proximity made for a sort of odd-plot trifecta, in a good way.

Five meaningful books?

Wow is this hard. What the hell does meaningful mean? While trying to decide what to write about, I walked around looking at some of my books. And I considered using the Cooks' Illustrated New Best Recipe cookbook as one of my five. It certainly is one of the books I consult most often. Eventually I decided that meaningful could be interpreted as books that stick with me years after I read them. It seems fair, since some books stay in your mind long after you read the last page. Sometimes you are left with mental images of the plot or characters, sometimes it is just a feeling that stays with you after you've put down the book. Here are some I can't shake, and wouldn't if I could.

I loved Truth & Beauty. I really enjoy Ann Patchett's writing (Bel Canto is one of my all-time favorite novels) and was very excited to read this book about her friendship with writer Lucy Grealy. Grealy wrote the heart-wrenching Autobiography of a Face about her childhood battle with cancer. Friendships have been a large part of how I define myself. This book is about a friendship, and about devotion to a friend who can not save herself.

Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies. I normally shy away from short story collections, because I am frustrated that the story ends just as I am getting into it. That said, a good short story can be fantastic, and Lahiri's are beautifully crafted and a joy to read, even when the story itself is about loss or isolation. I loved her book so much I was inspired to pick up other books of short stories, most notably Nathan Englander's For the Relief of Unbearable Urges. (Like most people who sucked down every word of her book of short stories, I was less enthralled by Lahiri's first novel, The Namesake.)

Wisława Szymborska's poetry collection Miracle Fair (translated by Joanna Trzeciak). This is one of those books that I buy for other people. I looked in vain for it the week before my sister's wedding, hoping to find a copy to give to her and her husband. Maybe for Chanukah. Szymborska won the Nobel Prize in literature in 1996, so it can't be just me that loves her work. Her writing is understated, ironic and often funny.

The Catcher in the Rye. I actually never read this in high school. I read it a few years ago in one of my "gee, seems like I should have read that" phases (see: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter). I am not sure I would have liked it as much if I'd read it as a teen ager, but in my 30s it read as an authentic depiction of a disaffected teen.

(When Chris gets one of these urges, he reads The Odyssey or parts of the bible. I pick a short novel about a pain-in the ass kid.)

Snow Falling On Cedars is one of those books I didn't want to read. It got very popular, and I recall seeing it for sale at the Starbucks near my office in Chicago. Once I got over my reticence, I was completely drawn in by the beauty of the language. (I am a sucker for beautiful language coupled with sad plots.) All these years later I still think of the courtroom scene.

As a bonus I offer a few books I love that don't rise to the level of the books I have just mentioned above.

• The Last Word. I love obituaries, especially well written ones. The is book is a collection of NY Times obits. It made a great book to read in small chunks just before bed. One life a night. (the book is old enough that I can't find a link, but there are a number of books like this on the market.)
  
• Middlesex. Loved, loved, loved.
  
• I would have used To Kill a Mockingbird in my five, but that seems so obvious, what with every other child being named Scout, Harper or Atticus. Still, a beautifully written book that speaks to children and adults.
  
• Motherless Brooklyn. Who wouldn't love a book about a detective with Tourette's?

It is obvious who I have to tag. Metrodad is the biggest reader I know in the blogging world. I am sure his answers will put mine to shame and I'm dying to see what he has to say.

All's well that ends well

Or, Why I should not be allowed to screw with a pattern

I have the sense that the blog is getting a big heavy these days, what with thoughts on parenting, breast cancer and the like. Here's a quick change of pace. For the majority of you not interested in the details of my (un)crafty life, forgive me. This may be just a post for Stephanie, in lieu of calling her up at 2 on a Saturday afternoon and blah-blah-blahing at her.

I started with this pattern from Amy Butler. I'd previously made the a-line skirt and apron from this pattern. Finding some great orange silk I'd gotten on deep discount, I decided to experiment a little with the layered skirt. First, I wanted the skirt to be a little less wide of an a-line. Not quite an H, but you know. Then I thought, with such a fun fabric, why make such a long skirt? So I started to measure, and scheme. I bought pattern paper and fiddled a bunch with the original pattern to make a 3 tier skirt with less flare out than the original (a four tier). All was going well until I sewed the three tiers together into the outside of the skirt. I tried it on and decided that, although in its unhemmed length it made a nice sexy little skirt, once I hemmed it I'd have a skirt that left sexy and moved into embarrassing. Maybe not Britney embarrassing, but close.

Having bought way too much fabric (my one saving grace here), I cut out pieces for a fourth tier. Great, but I didn't notice until I'd done the cutting that I didn't leave enough for the seam allowance. So I cut out new pieces again, making sure to leave extra room for big seams. Great. I sewed the back two pieces on, then tested it against the main part of the skirt. Everything works, so I proceed to sew the front and back of the tier together. Done with that, I notice that I have managed to sew the seams on the opposite side of the fabric from the side on which the back pieces are joined. (This means that either the side seams are inside out, or the back one is.) I grab my seam ripper and start to tear out one of the side seams, before realizing I'm doing twice the work by not just ripping out the (one) back seam. Sigh.

Meanwhile, I wonder why my eye keeps twitching.

The layers are supposed to be fray-y like that, really.
the skirt, the whole skirt, and nothing but the skirt
We'll see how this whole raw edge layered thing wears
Oh, and while we're on the subject, I also recently made this purse:


It was from a lazy girl pattern. I never would have made the purse if I had only seen the pattern, which used an ugly fabric for the example shown on the cover. I was done in by a cute version on display at the fabric store.

The inside looks like this:
The green is a lazy but effective way to make pockets.

And I made a skirt this weekend, but no photo because I didn't plan ahead, it is upstairs and I'm pooped.

***********
As long as we are talking crafty, there is an article in the Willamette Week about Portland's crafty women.

People, people who make comments, are the luckiest people...

Usually I don't notice this kind of thing until mid-day on the day in question, but for once I am up on it (thanks for posting on this early, Mo-Wo!)

Schmutzie (who created the button above) says comments are down everywhere. Good to know, since the autumn increase in comments I experienced last fall hasn't materialized yet this year. If you are lurking about, never commenting, use this opportunity to say "hi". I'd love to know you are out there. A real post will follow tomorrow, I promise. With photos of my semi-craftiness, no less.

If you won't take my advice...

then maybe my friend Stephanie's story will have an impact.

When I moved to Rhode Island in 2000, I left a job I loved and a close group of friends, in a city I'd come to see as home. Chris is an academic, so he made friends at work, but I struggled to meet people in a place where most of the residents are natives. Almost everyone I met had lived in Rhode Island their entire lives, had the same friends they'd had since before kindergarten, and though they were kind, it was clear that they were not looking to make new friends. I really struggled to find friends, and in the end one of my favorite people in Rhode Island did not even live in the state.

Stephanie Williams was the girlfriend of one of Chris's colleagues. Every other weekend she would take the train from New York City to visit him. A journalist, Stephanie was interesting, funny and smart. Some of my favorite moments in Rhode Island were spent in the company of Stephanie and her boyfriend Dan. Chris and I liked them enough that we we saw them in New York too. We went to NYC regularly to see family, and we'd meet up for brunch or pizza.

Shortly before we met, Stephanie was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was 30. One of the things that impressed me about Stephanie was that despite dealing with cancer (surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation), she was always interested in other people. Maybe because she was a journalist, she tended to look out into the world rather than retreat into her own pain.

Stephanie fought her cancer for three years. She ultimately died, but not before fulfilling a dream to write a novel. Her book, Enter Sandman was published in 2004, the summer she died. Stephanie's story, including her struggle with cancer and her decision to use her limited time to write a book, was featured in a number of national and local publications. She herself wrote an article for Glamour that was published after her death. Her alma mater wrote a a very nice article about her.


It is terrible that Stephanie died so young, but you can do something to help ensure that you and your loved ones do not. Please do monthly self breast exams, and please get an annual exam every year. This is a great start for young women, especially those of us who are generally healthy and do not see ourselves at being at risk for cancer. If you do not know how to do a monthly exam, click here. Most insurance covers annual exams with either a very low or no copayment. It is more than worth the $10 doctor fee and an hour of your time. I know you are busy, but really, this seems like a good use of time. I hope the men in my readership will urge their loved ones to do these exams as well.

I thought to tell you this because October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, but you should do an exam every month. Even though I admit that I have not been so good about this in the past, I'll promise if you do too.

Random post and unrelated photo of the week ("Oh I love Chicago" edition)

The police are not here to create disorder; They are here to preserve disorder.

Richard J. Daley

Here we go

I started taking Estridol. This is the stuff prescribed to some menopausal women and to men and women with certain cancers. And apparently, to women getting ready for a round of invitro fertilization using frozen eggs. (Or someone else's eggs, I imagine.)

This stuff thrills me to no end. Mostly I am thrilled not to be giving myself shots this time around. The pills are tiny, which makes me love them more. They are so tiny I can take my daily dose without water. (Why are prenatal vitamins so huge? Why can't they just make them half as big and make the dosage two?)

In a few weeks I will get shots, at least for a few days. When a woman gets pregnant on her own, the body produces a good bit of progesterone in the first trimester. To tell my body it is pregnant, I'll pump progesterone into it. I took it last time, and somehow never got around to asking my doctors why taking it as an injection is superior to getting it in some other form. I have an appointment in a week or so, and I really need to remember to ask. I'll still take the injections when it is time, but it would help me to know why I am doing it this way.

The injections themselves are not so fun. The progesterone is in suspension in oil. To get the oil into the muscle (of my butt, thanks for asking) takes a good sized needle. If I'm lucky, and one of the embryos attaches to my uterus, I'll be getting shots for a while. If things do not work out with this round, I can stop the shots sooner. (Small consolation, but it is something I guess.) Since I won't start the injections for a while, right now I'll focus on the estradol (did I mention how much I love that it is in pill form?).

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Shit, if this is gonna' be that kind of party, I'm gonna stick my dick in the mashed potatoes!

Mantan Moreland

I want it anyway

Karen was telling me about a book she'd read recently called Stumbling on Happiness. (In her defense, I want to note that Karen is not a big reader of self-help or touchy-feely books. Apparently there was a copy of this book in the apartment she was until recently sharing with several other people.) One of the big themes in the book is that people are terrible judges of what will make them happy. People think "when I get a raise I will be happy", "when we buy a house I'll be happy", "When we have a baby I'll be happy." And then they are wrong. The raise itself doesn't change things in a person's daily life, the house comes with added responsibilities or means that money once spent on entertainment now goes to update, paint and furnish the home. And a child? Children are a lot of work. They are a pain in the ass. A joy, sure, but not really something that makes everyone happy in the day-to-day. (Karen mentioned that the surveys about how happy people think kids will make them correlates with how happy people remember being with kids, but not with how happy people with children actually report being.)

The thing is, I don't think that having another child will make me happy. When I think about what it will be like to have a second child, I imagine being tired, frustrated, stressed. Having Ada is in many ways fantastic, but on a day to day basis she is just as likely to drive me to frustrated tears as she is to make me weep with joy. A second child will be an additional set of difficulties and annoyances. (Ada can barely stand for me to be on the telephone, so I can only imagine her reaction to an infant sibling.) And then there is the new child, with the attendant joys of a child's first year of life. Even if we don't have another colicky infant, we'll be sleepless and overstretched. Taking time off work means being financially pressed as well. So no, I don't think having a baby will make me happy.

And yet, I still want to do it. It makes me wonder what is wrong with me. During Ada's nap I biked over to the plant store. Heading back to my bike with my packages of cover crop seeds, I started to cry. I have been so on edge lately, so stressed out by life in general that I am having a hard time taking joy in the numerous wonderful things about my life. I have been stressed enough that for the past several weeks I've had an eye twitch that won't go away.

I know that having a baby will add to my stress level, but I still want to do it. Not in a "I feel like I should do it" way; I really want to. I'm not normally a glutton for punishment. I can't think of another reason why I'd intentionally put myself into a situation I knew would make me unhappy. (Ok, that isn't entirely true. I have taken jobs I knew were going to drive me crazy, but for the most part I avoid doing things that I know will annoy me.)

By blog post convention, this is where I'm supposed to bust out with a revelation, a "but this is why I want to do it", some kind of beauty-of-life take away message. Except I don't have one of those.

I've got nothing other than an understanding of the strength of this desire. Always a bit chagrined to admit how much biological urges influence me, I have been thinking about this strong urge the past couple of days. A few days ago I read a post from the woman who runs found clothing. She posted an argument for remaining childless, on an environmental basis. While I see her point, I also wanted to write to her. I wanted to say: maybe you'll never feel what I've felt, but my desire to bear a child was so strong that I worried it could crush me when I thought we couldn't have a baby. I didn't always feel that way. In my 20s, I believed that IVF was a foolish thing. I remember saying that if people could not have children without intervention, they should adopt. It seemed really simple. IVF is expensive and there are lots of children who need good homes. But it isn't so simple now. What I want is not simple. There might not be a good reason for it, but I do want it. Lucky for me, Chris wants it too, and is willing to tough it out with me during the coming months and years, whether or not those years include a second child.

My friends are weird, but they sure can sing

Jiro sent me the following.

Which prompted Ellen to send me this.

Apologies

I am an unobservant Jew. Maybe secular Jew is better. Unobservant makes it sound like I don't notice things. In any case, I am not so lapsed that I am not aware that the Jewish new year is upon us. Between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Jews are supposed to repent for their failings and mis-steps of the past year, to seek forgiveness before the words written in the book of life are made permanent. Rosh Hashanah (which was yesterday) is a day that is meant for prayer and reflection. No work should be performed. I do not belong to a synagogue, and it feels wrong to me to take off work and not participate in ceremonies. (I have really enjoyed Rosh Hashanah services when I have gone, but as I often do, I waited too long before thinking about whether I might find someplace to go this year. For Jews this is the toughest ticket of the year.)

So in lieu of a day of prayer and reflection, I offer some of the things I wish I had done differently this year:

• I was not always as nice to Chris as I should have been. Taking for granted that he loves me, I can be less respectful or polite to him than I am with other people. That isn't fair.
  
• I care more about my blog stats than I would like to. It is shallow and not part of why I started the blog. Plus it can make me feel like crap.
  
• I have not worked as hard as I could have. Or should have.
  
• More than once I have know that someone was in pain and could have used my time, but I was not willing to give up my free time or listen to their needs.
  
• I wasn't honest or clear about my needs, and then I resented people for not taking those unexpressed needs into consideration.
  
• And of course there is the usual list of petty jealousies, aggressions and poor driving.

Whatever your religion (or lack of it), I hope the coming year is a sweet one for you. (Just to be sure, you might want to have a little snack of apples and honey.)

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I'm a produce clerk, not a therapist.

Friendly produce guy at my local New Seasons market


(and hi to all the folks clicking through from Make.)

One of the things I haven't been writing about

When I wrote about whether one should talk (or write) publicly about trying to get pregnant, Chris and I weren't trying yet. Technically, we still aren't. We are planning, not by timing sex or considering names, but by visiting the fertility docs. Last month we went in for our mandatory $300-and-no-insurance-will-cover-it consultation. It went a lot more smoothly than last time.

Last time, I started crying the moment we sat down in the doctor's office. I remember looking at the photographs of his wife and children and resenting his success. Every time I looked at him I thought: "stop being so cheerful, you don't know what I am going through, you person with children."

This time I sat in the consultation room, cheerfully discussing our last round of invitro fertilization three years ago, secretly thrilling when the doctor spoke glowingly of our high quality fertilized eggs. The meeting took longer than I thought it would, as the doctor and resident kindly asked about my pregnancy and labor, things that technically don't have much to do with whether the IVF itself is considered successful.

I have been wanting to write about moving toward a second round of IVF. Last time I wrote about it secretly, only making my words public after I started this blog, more than a year after the pain and fear of the process were behind me. I am finally moved to write about it after reading the words of other people discussing their own struggles. That and the fact that I am thinking about this a lot lately, and it feels like I am hiding something if I don't write about it here.

I've written this before, but during the months and years of trying to get me pregnant, and then of testing for possible reasons for our infertility, I felt alone. I felt we were the only ones with this problem. I was so completely wrong, something that I became aware of once I started talking to other people about our efforts. I heard other couples' stories and those of friends' sisters, cousins, uncles, friends. The research I have read suggests as many as ten percent of reproductive age couples deal with infertility, but it doesn't actually matter to me exactly how common this is. I know we are not alone.

Going through IVF the first time was scary, uncomfortable, expensive and emotionally draining. This time it will likely be significantly less intense on all fronts. We've gone through this before, and successfully. Last time I knew that if we could never have a child, I would feel devastated. If we can not have another, I will be sad, but I will not be crushed. Ada is fantastic and Chris and I will be fine if our family never grows past three.

On some days, I like the idea of keeping our family small. Like many parents of a single child, I wonder why we should not leave well enough alone. I love Ada and know that the first year of life with a second child will be hard on her as well as us. But I also love my sister, and I want Ada to have a sibling. I can't guarantee Ada will be as close to her sibling as I am to mine, but writing on a day when talking to Karen was once again better than therapy, I want to give Ada a chance for that kind of relationship.

So I will be writing about what we are going through this time around, letting you know that I've had a trial transfer and started acupuncture. This means that when we have the eggs implanted, writing about whether the process worked. This means discussing the pregnancy early, much earlier than I did last time, when I held superstitiously to the rule "do not talk about pregnancy until the second trimester." I know that this means that I may be writing about failed IVF, or about a miscarriage, or about the top of my head falling off when I find out I'm carrying twins. All these things scare me, but it is because they scare me that I want to write. If anything bad happens, I will need to write about it. With all that, you might as well know where we're heading, right? And hopefully I will just get to write about fear, and love, and nausea. Of explaining my expanding belly to Ada and wondering when to tell my office.

The thing I know this time is that I am not alone. You are here with me, so close I can practically feel your hand on my elbow. You have told me your secrets, shared your hopes and fears. Now it is my turn. I am scared, but I am not alone.

Here's to sharing! We are talking about juice, right?

Color Wars

While waiting at a traffic light:



Ada: Red means GO!

Me: Really? What does green mean?

Monkey Boy: Green means GO!

Ada: Red means Green!




Just wait 'til they hear about yellow.

Quintessentially Summer

At the end of August, my family rented a beach house for a week. My parents instigated the vacation, hoping to spend some time with their daughters, sons-in-law, and of course Ada. This is the first real stretch of time we have all spent together, the seven of us. My sister and I shared some trepidation about an unstructured week with my parents in a semi-remote location. We both love our parents, but like any parents they have the (mostly unwitting) ability to crawl under their children's skin in an not entirely pleasant way. Despite some fears, and a lingering stress-induced blue mood on my part, the week was pretty fantastic.

Ada had some firsts, like her first taste of chocolate milk:

Because I am a bad mother I told her it was Tillamilk, only available in Tillamook, where we'd stopped for gasoline and snacks. The lie must have worked, because despite her keen interest in the drink at the time, she has not asked for it or wondered aloud if we could go back to the coast to get some.

This was Ada's first trip with extended time on the beach, with real building of sand castles, digging huge holes, and playing frisbee. Our two other trips to the coast this year suffered some from Oregon's unpredictable weather, but Ada's attention also ruled the day. On those other visits she seemed only mildly interested in the beach, ready within minutes to return to the house, eager to explore the inside spaces of our rented houses. This time Ada really enjoyed playing at the beach, allowing the whole family to spend good chunks of the day with sand between our toes.

What does this need? A stick? A rock? A crab carcass?

This trip was also the first time Ada stepped onto the sand this year without anxiously and repeatedly clarifying that we would "no go in" the water. The waves are a big concern to Ada. She got over it enough to walk near the water, but shows a healthy amount of toddler fear for what she called the "big ocean". Lucky for us (and her) she had no such concerns about going into the little ocean (a creek running out of the hills and into the ocean, bisecting the beach near our rental). The creek is filled with all manner of treasures, some of which currently reside in a large container on our front porch. The chance to dig up rocks, shells and ocean-smoothed sticks was a joy for Ada. And for me to, truth be told. Then again, I may be part magpie.


possibly the best part of the aquarium, which is saying a lot

Beyond my enjoyment of Ada's entertainment, this was a good trip. As a family, the vacation was successful despite my emotional state. I went into the trip feeling blue. This makes me more susceptible to annoyance, at my father in particular, though at the world in general too. After a couple of days of me sniping at him, my father told me (in the most polite and thoughtful way possible) to stop being such an asshole. I felt terrible when I realized how rude I'd been and how much I had hurt him. My father really made an extraordinary effort to be gracious and forgiving. He'd clearly thought a lot about how to most kindly tell me to shape up, which I did. I am still working out what was (and is) at the root of my crab. I think it is mostly stress-related, and ironically I found that merely leaving the stressers behind didn't manage to eliminate my bad mood. But once in a while, getting a little reminder that my bad attitude is ruining other people's good time does actually manage to shake me out of my funk. (Don't tell my Dad I wrote that, or he'll be wanting to read me the riot act every month or two.)

Look, I brought you some seaweed! Want to eat it?

Another highlight of the trip was spending time with my sister and brother-in-law. And by spending time with, I mean kicking their butts at Settlers of Catan. Oh, and eating my brother-in-law's fantastic cooking. To give you a sense of the wretched (and delicious) excess, I will just say that over the course of the week he made slow cooked pork ribs and butt, lamb, Mexican chicken soup, and seven or eight other things that couldn't be beat. Not to be outdone, Chris made gumbo and barbecued brisket. Plus we had champagne and pie to celebrate my parents' anniversary. Several weeks later, my mother is still thanking her lucky stars that Karen and I married good cooks. If we hadn't she might have had to cook at least once during our trip.

I am not sure exactly what to make of this video. On our last day she found a long piece of string and was suddenly a cowgirl.


So yeah, I was a jerk for a bit of the trip, but I mostly got into it and enjoyed collecting sea shells, talking to my family, reading books (entire books, read in one day!) and sifting sand looking for the perfect skipping stone. Ada had a great time, and was a blast to watch in action.

And THAT is what I did on my summer vacation.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

The silver coins stayed in my pocket, the anger burrowed and expanded into some future ulcer. I was my parents' son.

Gary Shteyngart
Sixty-nine Cents

Extraordinary

I know every parent who employs an in-home child care provider fears that they'll lose him or (more often) her, to another job, to burn out, to the proverbial "bigger and better things". We hear the stories. The caregiver who leaves to have her own child. The nanny who calls an hour before she is supposed to arrive for duty, to belatedly say she is not coming today, or any day. (This recently happened to a friend in Chicago.) We fear these things, and know they happen to the best of us.

But no one fears losing their child care provider more than I do. Why? Is it JP's loving care of my daughter? Her adoration and loving attention, her willingness to hear and tell "cute Ada" stories? To sing Ada to sleep when she balks at nap time? To cook her delicious lunches and second breakfasts? Yes, but... Is it that she's introduced my daughter to her family, making them Ada's extended family by proxy? Is it that JP's mom gives Ada gifts, including some awesome thrifted kid plates featuring Pooh and cavorting bunnies? Is it that her sister joins JP and Ada at least weekly for a picnic in the park, lunch at the local cafe, or other neighborhood excursion? That's a nice bonus, as is the psychic link that caused all three of them to wear the same outfit a couple of weeks ago.


But one day last week, on a (for Portland) blisteringly hot 91 degree afternoon, I took a break from working at home to bike down to the post office. Returning home, I collapsed (slightly sweaty) onto the couch. Just then I hear Ada and JP talking outside. The front door opened, and JP popped in. She'd taken a detour from her store-to-park route with Ada to drop by and offer me an ice cream. A delicious, minty, chocolate covered Haagen Dazs.


What would I ever do without her?

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I think Portland needs to get over the iPod. It's just a lazy man's way of listening to music.

Cyder Verling
Quoted in Kvetchfest

Nice is as nice blogs?

I grew up in big cities, among the rush of crowds. I'm used to a little push and shove in public places. The way Chicagoans take a motorist's lit turn signal not as a warning of impending lane change, but as a sign of weakness and reason to speed up to cut off the foolish driver. LA is not known for its warmth between strangers. Amd New York? Well, New York's reputation is staked on rudeness. (Whether this latter one is really true is debatable, but for the sake of flow let's just press on, shall we?)

Despite the places I have lived, I am a firm believe in making an effort, of being polite and even friendly to strangers, of nice. Things move a lot smoother when a little nice is applied. Moving back to Portland has both strengthened and challenged this feeling. I love living in such a community-centered place, where people leave clothes, vegetable starts, and books on the curb, offering them to strangers with a little "free" sign.

I saw this sign today, on top of a CD player and stereo receiver someone had put on the corner. Free audio components are good, but leaving such a detailed note, now that's nice.

I love how friendly Portland is - that the people at the grocery store smile and chat, that the gas station attendant jokes with me, that my neighbor watches out for me. Ok, I mostly love it. Once in a while I just want to buy my food and go home, and sometimes drivers around here are too polite for their own good. But in general, I enjoy living in a place that values "nice".

I have been thinking about this because Something Baby Blue gave me a Nice award. (Hey, nice award! Thanks, I just got it!)

To pat myself on the back, I'm going with this button, since I agree with SBB that nice is sexy. Or at least, more interesting than pink ribbons and lace would suggest.



To paraphrase what I read over at SBB's place: the award recognizes bloggers who make you feel good, inspire you, and who are a positive influence on our blogging world. Getting named acts as an encouragement to pass on the love. (I'd say requires you to pass it on, but these are nice people, we don't need to force them, do we?) So without further ado, some of the blog-folks I think people should know are nice:

Stephanie, who is so nice that she can barely say no to everyone's ridiculous requests.

Mo-Wo and P-Man, who stop by and say nice things to me, even when the blog is a traffic-free dustbowl. I think they must have consciously agreed that I'd be their charity case for the year. (Not that I'm complaining, I love charity.)

Then there's Aarin, who didn't complain when it took me FOREVER to give her back the toys and baby things she'd loaned me.

Even though she won't admit to being nice, my pal the stute fish is nice. Plus, not only does her blog have the word nice in it, she manages to speak about what is hard for her in a considered and lovely way that constantly has me sending her little "me too" notes.

Unrelaxed Dad, who consistently posts interesting and insightful things, and who made me a more committed reader of his blog by posting a photo of his shrine (I really do plan on posting a photo of mine soon, I mean it!).

Yeah, and LA Daddy, because how else could a Midwestern-born guy with 4 working taste buds survive in LA if he wasn't nice? (notice I didn't say "make it in LA" because I don't think that takes nice, so much as well, I can't write about it in a post about nice.) Plus, bonus nice, he didn't block my email when, after I'd read his blog for a week, I decided it was a good idea to email him asking for a recommendation for new year's baby-sitting in LA.

I think lots of people are nice. I definitely think you are nice. I didn't go on listing people because it is my bedtime, and I've got to get up early tomorrow. Won't some nice person turn out the light for me?

Open Letter to the Bridge Pedal People

(I meant to post this weeks ago, but better late than never, right?)

Hi - I wanted to offer some feedback on this year's ride.

I enjoyed the ride (this was my 5th) but was disappointed that the hour long delay just prior to the Ross Island Bridge meant that I did not get to go over the St John's bridge. I imagine that the popularity of the ride has increased a lot over the past years (it certainly felt more crowded this year) and I noticed a lot more kids (both on their own bikes and in trailers), which slows things down a bit. All of this (more riders, more kids) is great, but I wonder whether you are planning to make some route or other changes that will allow a better traffic flow (and avoid hundreds and hundreds of riders from having to walk their bikes for an hour or more).

Everyone around me during the walking was very pleasant and in good spirits, but no one was thrilled to spend part of their "ride" walking. This was especially true when we learned that we'd missed the deadline for getting up to the St. John's. I strongly encourage you to figure out how to avoid this kind of bottleneck in the future. For my part, I will likely be choosing an earlier start time next year!

best,
nonlinear girl

Crochet tiger, hidden search terms

I was at the beach all this past week, but while I shake the sand out of my pants and sort through the laundry and Ada's piles of broken shells, I thought I'd share my google embarrassment. I'm never too busy to share my embarrassment.

I was laughing that someone found me by googling "free chroched baby blankets" (and trying to imagine a crotch in the blanket, for easy swaddling!). Then I followed the link and noticed that earlier this year I did type "croched". Even better, it was in reference to an actual, um, knit novelty item that makes croched more appropriate than crochet.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

There is, I found, something soul satisfying about attending a panel titled "Gumby!"

Manohla Dargis
We're All Geeks Here

A kind of house

My parents decided they wanted to give Ada a playhouse for her birthday. My big fear was a plastic house, so I quickly did some research on wooden house kits. Chris said he'd be interested in building the house (which is good, have you seen how expensive a pre-built wooden house is? Not that we wouldn't love to spend several thousand dollars on a PLAYhouse, but it wasn't in the cards.)

So build it we did. Er, the family did, since I pretty much had nothing to do with this bit of backyard construction. Chris got the plans and wood. He found some great used cedar siding at the ReBuilding Center here in town (for an extravagant 13 cents/yard). Chris's brother and father helped build the house, and we'll be painting it barn red (made from reclaimed paint, 'cause what kind of Portlanders would we be if we didn't get the greenest red?).

Over a couple of weekend days last month the house came together. Ada even helped, hauling out her tools to make some adjustments here and there.




Ada says, "It's a kind of house. It's Ada's house."

The other things on my mind

Lately I have been fairly stressed out (work mostly, plus a few other things thrown in). I have started several posts about my blue mood, but I'm hampered by the fact that (a) posts about how low I am feeling are not very interesting; and (b) it is hard to explain to others what is bothering me when I am not entirely sure myself what is at the root of my recent funk. Ironically, once I figure that out I know I'll feel better, but that's something for another day.

In the mean time, here are some of the other things floating around the margins of the blog, each one not quite enough for a post, but still hoping to see the light of blog:

You Ate What?

You know how little kids can be very sensitive about food - its texture, physical heat, spiciness? Well, Ada can be pretty picky, and often refuses to eat things on sight. When I can get her to agree to one little bite, she often notices that she actually does like the food in question. (Take Wednesday night's arroz con pollo, for example.) Despite reading and rereading Green Eggs and Ham to Ada (and making repeated comments to her like, "wow, he thought he wouldn't like that, but then when he took a bite he LOVED it!") Ada still resists.

Despite Ada's opposition to certain foods, she tends to be pretty open to trying new things (as long as they don't fall into a forbidden texture or look category). Now that she's tall enough to reach up to the kitchen counters and grab things off, she'll help herself to snacks when I am not quick enough on the draw. She'll nibble on whatever she finds, whether or not it is a known item. Today I noticed her holding something green, and when I asked her what she was eating she held out a small green vegetable:


I took it from her, worried that she'd start screaming when the heat hit her. But apparently this is a mellow jalapeno and she munched happily on the bit that she'd already gotten in her mouth. Next time she complains that some food is too 'picy, I know what to give her instead.

Evil, But With A Sense Of Humor

I have been working more, which is part of what has me stressed out. I moved up to 60% time at work, but the past two weeks I have had meetings scheduled on my off day. An 11-1 meeting (that doesn't actually end until 2) eats up the whole day and leaves me feeling like I have lost time with Ada and yet didn't have time to be productive at work. Once in a while the meetings do offer some side benefit. One meeting this week included a delicious lunch, and walking out of a downtown building afterwards, I saw this on a Honda Odyssey:


Now I know what bumper sticker to buy if I ever have to buy a minivan.

There are a bunch of other things floating around in my head, including:

• considering IVF again
  
• wanting to write a post for all the people who find me by googling about crying
  
• wondering why I feel so overwhelmed by what seems like a pretty normal and easy life, and
  
• wanting to share pictures of some of the shirts I have made recently.

(Speaking of which, if you are a small/medium and think you might like a shirt, I have one that is just never going to fit me no matter what. Let me know.) Those posts and others may or may not get done any time soon, but that's the way of the blog, right?

Where'd Ben Go?

Just the question made me want to cry.

"Where'd Ben go?"

It is a question she asks all the time. Daily, and more. Ada's interest in our 7 year old neighbor started when he and his mother moved in up the street, and has not waned, even as Ben has turned from a ceaselessly chatty preschooler into a serious and not always toddler-approving boy. Clad in clip-on tie and knee-high boots, Ben is a dreamer, a planner, a gardener and construction foreman to a crew only he sees. Ben was the one who suggested ways to catch my tulip thief. He told me why and how to enroll Ada in the public library's summer reading program. He has waxed eloquent about topics that I thought beyond a first grader's grasp, and showed me the Chinese characters he had been learning in school.

Ada always wants to see Ben, follow Ben, climb up to Ben's porch to find out what he is doing. Sometimes Ben was happy to oblige, talking to and directing her and generally giving her the attention she craved from him. Sometimes Ben did not want to play. To Ada, this was a blow, but she was almost as happy being around his stuff as she was being around him. His porch, filled with flat rocks, baskets of shells, bubble bottles and child-sized furniture, was a holy site; Ada's pilgrimages made as frequently as we let her.

After Ada made a particularly disruptive visit to his porch, Ben politely requested that she not visit when he was not there to supervise. Chris and I agreed, trying to limit Ada's visits so as to not further test the patience of this sweet boy.

So although Ada's question was not unusual, the answer was different today.

"Ben's at his new house. He moved to a new house, Ada."

I hoped that having just seen some close friends move from their "old" house to a new one, Ada might understand the move a bit, even if she didn't like the answer.

"Where'd Ben go?"

"He went to his new house. He and his mom moved into their new house. Do you want to look in the window?"

Hand in hand we climbed the porch steps. She looked hopeful that I'd made a joke, that she'd look inside and see Ben sprawled on the couch. We looked into the window at the empty living and dining rooms, and talked some more about Ben's move.

"Where is the couch?"

"Ben and his mom moved it. They moved it to their new house, with the table. Ben's bed is at the new house. His tent is at the new house."

"I want to see upstairs."

But we couldn't go upstairs, and Ada seemed to understand that there was nothing to see there anyway. We walked back down the steps, and moved down the block. Watching her move slowly down the sidewalk, I wiped away tears. But then she was looking back at me, calling "chase me!"

I always forget how strong she is. I imagine that every change or slight will wound her. I should know, after watching her respond to a scratch or skinned knee, that she is both resilient and brave. She took this in stride too. She will miss Ben for a while, but when she asks for him we can go into the backyard and play in the sandbox he gave her. And go up on his old porch to visit whoever moves in next.

Don't worry mama, I still have this guy to chase around

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I wonder where all the porn stars go
'Cause when you need one, they are never around

Everclear
Volvo Driving Soccer Mom

A Toast!

To kind and generous Sarah, who sent me this:

(The opener, not the beer. She's generous, not crazy.)
She had them made for Blogher, but since I didn't go (and told her that I like to think of her when I open a beer) she sent one to me.



You wouldn't know it from how sketchy this photo turned out, but Chris took a bunch of pictures. I finally agreed to just use one of the pictures he'd taken when he refused to go on, noting that I was drinking all his beer.

Thanks Sarah! I feel both thrilled and refreshed. (Hopefully you can get that from the picture above.) And if you have been hiding under a rock and don't know Sarah's blog, let me just say that it is the best glimpse into the mind of a football-obsessed, cheesy metal-loving, drivers license losing mother of twins I have not actually met but enjoy knowing nonetheless.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Pin your ear to the wisdom post
Pin your eye to the line
Never let the weeds get higher
Than the garden

Tom Waits
Get Behind The Mule

Don't Shoot

When the number of visitors to my nonlinear home started to drop this summer, I was not concerned. I remember this from last year. People are busy in the summer, and it seems right that they would not be spending their time here when they could be out with friends and family, enjoying back yards, porches and sunny parks.

But a few weeks ago my visitor count spiked. I was suddenly getting a third to half again as many visitors as I normally do. At first I was really confused - why were people googling a particular phrase and ending up here? (I'd tell you the phrase, but that will just encourage google to keep me high on the first page of this particular query. The phrase in question happens to be the title of a recent post.) Little did I know that my title hit a hot google search phrase. And by "hot," I mean pictures of women in states of undress, sexily hamming for the camera.

So yeah, for the past few weeks hundreds of men around the world (ah, the global p-rn viewership) are popping by my site, only to find a complete lack of nakedness, and quickly clicking away. And although I am happy for people to stop by, I am pretty committed to NOT taking my shirt off on the blog.

So, to all the wayward googlers: Go Away. What you want is the FIRST site on the page of links. Not me. Nothing to see here.

I'm sure that in another few weeks my post will be old enough that I will slide down the rankings enough to be moved off the first page. For now, I can live with the higher than normal number of visitors recorded by sitemeter as staying for 0:00.

What She's Learned

What Ada has learned:

when one parent tells you "no,"
it is worth asking the other one.


What Ada has not yet learned:

it is best not to ask the second parent
when the first is sitting next to her.