Hold the Diapers

The Grand Plan: Announce to our families over Christmas that a little Rough was on the way.

The Problem: The baby didn't show up in my womb.

A Friend's Thought: Well, kids do misbehave.

Iron Stomach

Whenever someone blogs about habbing a heabd cold I feel like washing my hands and taking a vitamin C. I know germs can’t travel over the Internet. But ICK – colds are so darn contagious.

Don’t worry. I’m not sick. I’m as healthy as a fresh green bean.

Nary a sneeze or sniffle.

Better yet, I’ve officially crossed my one year “throw-up” anniversary. I hate puking more than just about anything in life. But with the world’s most sensitive stomach – the teeniest, tiniest flu bug, or motion sickness, or eating pasta with too much butter will bring me head-first to the toilet bowl – I’ve never ever gone 365 days barf-free before. Until now.

Yay me!

Pajama Party

Ring. Ring.

My brother’s on the phone.

We’re coordinating holiday plans.

His wife is in the background, cheering: “This weekend I say we wear pj’s 24/7!”

“Good call!” I holler.

My pink pj’s with blue hearts, my grey sweats, my blue yoga pants, my red flannels with white checkers – they’re all clean and ready to go.

Ring Ring.

I’m calling my brother.

“So are we set for the trip?” I ask.

His wife is in the background. I can practically hear her bouncing up and down: “Let’s wear pj’s in the car!”

Oh yeah, baby. The next four and a half days are going to be a FULL OUT pajama party.

Happy Thanksgiving.

May yours be warm and fuzzy!

A Blogette

Hubby: What are you doing?

Me: Writing a blog post. Just a little one.

Hubby: A blogette?

Me: Heh, heh. Yeah, a blogette.

Hubby: Are you going to blog my poem?

Me: What poem?

Hubby:

The thunder roared
The lightening flashed
A tree fell
A frog got smashed.

So there you have it folks. A poem by my spouse.

(Um, technically I think this was a ditty he learned eons ago in Boy Scouts. Just thought I’d mention that to avoid any plagiarism charges.) Here's what we pondered after he recited the poem: why do we remember silly stuff like that but forget important stuff?

Please Don't Pass the Icky Stuff

Ew! Squash is squishy.

Ew! Cranberries look like blood clots.

Ew! I don’t wanna eat brussel sprouts.

Yep, those are my childhood memories of Thanksgiving dinner (just kidding, Ma – mostly I remember yummy food and bonding time).

Lately, each year during Thanksgiving, the nurse in our family asks: “Who wants a flu shot?”

She can get the vaccine at the clinic.

I don’t do needles. That’s always my excuse.

“Now they have nasal mist,” Nurse says.

Frankly, I don’t like sniffing things up my nose either. Besides, thanks to a friend, my awareness about vaccines has climbed a few notches. This Thanksgiving I have a better reason to avoid a flu shot: the ingredients. Flu shots contain dead viruses, egg products, formaldehyde, and mercury. Gross!

Gimme the turkey, pass the potatoes, LOAD my plate with squash, cranberries, and brussel sprouts (well, not too many brussel sprouts), but please don’t pass the icky, poisonous stuff.

Oh, and if you have a minute, watch this: What’s in a Flu Shot?

And if you have another minute, my next Ask a Blogger column is online today here. I'm collecting questions on blogging for use in my next column, so if you have any post them!

Let's Go to the Movies

Flipping through the channels.

Well after 1:00am, and I can't sleep.

A movie, in black and white, starring Rosalind Russell and Jack Carson. The description on the bottom of the screen says: A woman is determined to succeed in a man's world.

Check out the title here. (Or I can spoil it and tell you the title is Roughly Speaking.)

How funny is that? I'm going to have to rent it and watch the whole thing.

Red Red Wine

A few weeks ago I buckled down and got serious about this baby making thing. I quit drinking coffee (I miss it SO much, by the way). And I cut out sipping a glass of red wine with dinner (which wasn’t hard considering the fact that I rarely cook and we don’t keep wine in the house). But then I was talking to my friend the other day:

Friend: You really shouldn’t get too caught up in following so many rules when you’re trying to get pregnant.

Me: So my next “rule” is no more rules?

Friend: Exactly. I got pregnant with my second over the holidays and I was drinking like crazy.

I started making a mental list in my head. At least THREE people found out they were preggers a few weeks after Hubby and I got married. They partly thank the amount of alcohol they consumed at our reception.

Me: Oh, good. So I can drink red wine for the holidays?

Friend: Well, within limits.

Me: Wahoo!

The next day, when Hubby and I went Christmas shopping, we bought a bottle of organic wine from Yorkville Cellars. We wanted to test it out for our generic holiday party.

It was delicious. I know this because I sluggged two glasses of it later that evening.

Hubby: So is it time to start trying for a baby this month?

Me: Zzzz, snort, zzzz, drool.

I lift my head from the pillow.

Me: Huh? Tomorrowwwwwwzzzzzzzzzzz.

Clearly this plan is not going to work for us.

You Say Envelops, I Say Envelopes

I quadruple-checked my submission letter.

Perfecto!

It’s the third time I’ve submitted a piece to this publication and this one will make it through the slush pile. Yes, I just know it.

Zing! Off it goes with a click of the mouse.

I look in my Send Box to make sure it’s gone.

It’s left. But one word stares at my face, sticking its tongue out: Envelopes.

I wrote envelopes when I meant to write envelops.

ARGH!

Why do these mistakes always pop out after the letter is sent?

Yeah, so moving on, I found this site yesterday. An online memoir about a marriage that survived the death of a son. www.TheSonshineBoy.org. Intense topic, I know, but I love memoirs, so I had to spread the word.

While I'm at it, I took a writing class with a woman whose piece is being published in the anthology Pulse of the River. If you’re a river-lover, or Colorado lover, or just want to support my classmate Diane Fromme you can find the book here: www.PulseOfTheRiver.org

Okay, so I just typed classmake instead of classmate. But I caught it in time. Of course. Because it's not going to an editor.

Mission Not Accomplished

Me: Can I buy these slippers?

Hubby: For whom?

Me: Me.

Hubby: No! We’re Christmas shopping for others.

Hubby: Can I buy this computer for my bike?

Me: No!

Hubby: But it keeps track of distance, time, speed . . .

Me: We’re Christmas shopping for others. Wanna go in the bookstore and look for a gift for my mom?

Hubby: What are you doing in the memoir section?

Me: Um . . .

Hubby: Let’s go! But first let me show you this book on Arabs I want.

Hubby: Wanna go into the sporting goods store?

Me: Okay.

Me: Ooooo! Wigwam socks. They keep my feet soooo warm. My other pair has holes in the bottom so I should really just buy these.

Hubby: No. Hey, if you wanted to buy me a tennis racquet my grip is 4 3/8”.

Two hours later . . .

Gifts bought for others: big, fat zero
Gift ideas for ourselves: tons

Keeping the Faith

Me: Hey Hubby, check out our Christmas party invitation before I send it out.

Hubby: Why don't we call it a holiday party?

Me: Because honey, we're Christians.

Hubby: But not all our friends are Christians. Don’t you think it’s insensitive to call it a Christmas party?

Me: We’ll have a tree with a star on top. Angel decorations. Joy to the World will be blaring on the stereo. The whole reason we're throwing the party is to celebrate Christmas. Well, that and for a good excuse to make peanut butter buckeyes.

Hubby: But we're inviting Jewish friends.

Me: Should we throw a Christmahanuk party?

Hubby: What about our friends of other faiths?

Me: A Christmahanukkwanzaa party?

Hubby: Hmmm.

Me: I can’t believe you’re actually considering that. I’m taking a poll on my blog!

Results of Blog Poll:

• “Call it a Christmas party. I’m honored when people of other faiths invite me to their celebrations and I’d NEVER expect another person to call it something different to make me feel more comfortable.”
• “Call it a Christmas party. If I were invited to a Kwanzaa party, I’d be psyched! I would never want anyone dumbing down what THEY celebrate.”
• “I usually say holiday party on the invite, but I slip and call it a Christmas party.”

Me: See, look at the poll results. I won!

Hubby: Those are all your bloggy friends. Of course they’re going to say that.

Later, in bed . . .

Hubby: Are you upset?

Me: Sort of. I mean, I can’t believe we're at odds about this. I expect disagreements over which radio station to play in the car, or whether we should set the thermostat to 72 or 82, but not whether we should invite others into the intimacy of our home – our Christian home – for a party and then disguise it as some generic holiday event.

Hubby: All I’m saying is that last year we threw a Christmas party and not a single one of our Jewish friends came. And neither did the Indian couple we invited. The ones who are Sikhs.

Me: They had other plans.

Hubby: So they said.

The sun went down.

I was still mad.

So was Hubby.

The next morning we were right back where we started, arms in the air, fists poised. Or, at least, mine were.

Me: When we got married we threw a Christian wedding. Our invitations quoted a bible verse. We took our vows before God. We said all sorts of prayers, and people of all sorts of faiths came to our wedding.

Hubby: But-

Me: What are we going to do if we throw a birthday party for our kid but one of his neighborhood friends who he invites practices a religion that doesn’t celebrate birthdays? Are we going to have a cake and presents but refuse to call it a birthday party in case we offend his little friend? Huh? Huh?

Hubby: What are you talking about? We don’t even have kids.

Me: That’s not the point!

Hubby: Call the party what you wish. Really. If you think we should call it a Christmas party, I guess it's okay.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel like throwing a party anymore – Christmas or otherwise. When Hubby left for work, I sat at my computer stewing. Why was this issue important to me? Why did I feel the need to be right? Why couldn’t I give an inch and chose to respect Hubby’s opinion, even if I disagreed with it? I redrafted the invitation. I titled it “Celebration” and invited our guests to join us for the season of peace, love, and joy. All faiths can do that right? Besides, it seemed like the Christian thing to do.

Procreation Vacation

A Procreation Vacation. That’s what CNN is reporting as the new trend among couples trying to have a baby. Actually, it’s more like a new twist on an old trend – I believe I was conceived on a similar vacation 33 years ago, minus the official name and the new price tag.

Here are some highlights from the article (forwarded to me by my sister-in-law Emily) which profiled a couple named Lucinda and Kemry Hughes:

“Resorts are offering on-site sex doctors, romantic advice and exotic food and drink calculated to put lovers in the mood and hasten the pitter-patter of little feet.”

“Hughes and her husband were served an age-old Caribbean fertility concoction three times a day: sea moss, the Caribbean's version of Viagra, mixed with evaporated milk, sugar and spices. (She said it tasted like an almond smoothie.)”

“Now three months into the pregnancy, Lucinda and Kemry Hughes have picked out baby names: Kemry if it's a boy, and if it's a girl, Lucaya, for the resort that made it happen.”

It worked! And best of all, the woman who conceived is a freelance writer from Washington.

Okay Ron. Where are we going?

The Procreation Ski Vacation in Jackson Hole?

The Conception Cruise on the “Love Boat?”

Ooo, hey, lookie: there’s a Birds & Bees package on Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay. How convenient.

For the full article click here.

Welcome to My Flap

Welcome to my flap.

That's the first line in Amy Sedaris' new book, I Like You.

Actually, it's the first line of the inside cover of the book jacket, or in Amy's words, the flap.

Let me say, I am SO picky about books. If the first line doesn't grab me, I'll put it down. My theory: it's not the story that makes a book interesting, it’s the writing.

Sometimes I think my "Test" is harsh and unfair (gosh, please don't apply that silly idea to this blog!), so I'll read the entire first paragraph. If the book doesn't grab me after five to seven whole sentences, adios. No book for me (for the record, my book-buying method has been pretty successful over the years).

Point is, I read Amy Sedaris' first line and I was hooked. Nobody can make me laugh out loud when I'm in a serious mood and I was in a serious mood, darn it! I know nothing about this woman except that my mom thinks she's funny and she is related to David Sedaris.

At home I realized I paid $27.99 for a book that I knew zilch about.

I looked at the picture on the cover. A woman who I presume is Amy holding a cooked turkey. I read the subtitle. Something about hospitality.

Oh no. Was this book going to be about the kitchen and stuff? I am no Martha Stewart. In fact, my fridge is so bare I had to leave the house to buy a veggie sandwich at a cafe, which happened to be within walking distance from the bookstore . . .

Anyway, I kept trying to figure out what the book was about but I couldn’t make it to the first page. I was caught up in the funny flap.

Oh, crap.

A COOKBOOK?

You know what? I don’t even mind. My theory is still holding together so far because I’m dying to read this book and I hate to cook. And I’m excited that the book is fat. It makes me happy because when I find a book I love I never want it to end. So goodbye, I'm off to read.

Happy Wall

In Stephen King’s book On Writing, he says that when he first started submitting stories to magazines he hammered a nail into his wall where he’d hang his rejection letters – until he had to replace the nail with a spike.

Apparently it’s a common practice among freelance writers to wallpaper their bathrooms with rejection letters.

I thought this was funny. I still think it’s funny. I keep meaning to start my own rejection wall, because, well, I need a bit more funny in my life.

But the other day I got a letter from an editor: “This is beautiful,” she said. “I couldn’t/wouldn’t change one word of it. Thank you.”

No – thank you, dear editor, for your heaping handful of encouragement.

I love to write. I’m grateful every single day for my job. But at times I tire of the hard knocks, especially after putting so much care and effort into my work. So I think instead of a rejection wall, I’ll focus on letters like the one mentioned above.

I’ll make a Happy Wall.

Best of luck to each and every one of your on your own professional endeavors as well. I’ll let you know when the essay is out. In the meantime, my piece Ready for a Step? is online at Seattle’s Conscious Choice magazine. And for anyone who loves numbers, click here for my latest What Counts? column.