Thursday, April 30, 2009
Cravings
I hate being a cliché, so I’m reluctant to admit the only foods I want for lunch or dinner these days are pizza, hamburgers, BLTs, and grilled cheese sandwiches. For snack, it’s cheese Dortitos, Oreo cookies, and iced tea. I might as well buy a minivan, stock my closet with yoga pants, and start watching Everyone Loves Raymond.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Pastry By Any Other Name
Next in the lineup of domestic issues to be sorted out is the name thing—not the baby’s first name, which we more or less decided on within a day of getting engaged, but our various and sundry surnames. Dr. Fiancé is 100% adamant that his kids have the same last name as him—and that his last name not be changed. He’s less adamant—like maybe only 99%—that I should keep my last name. I, too, would like to share a last name with my children, though I’m seldom if ever 100% certain about anything, and though I’ve always imagined I’d keep my own last name when I got married, I never really imagined my children having a different last name than me.
I tried suggesting that Dr. Fiancé take my last name as his middle name and giving it to the kids as their middle name, too, and me taking Dr. Fiancé’s last name as my middle name so that we all have both surnames somewhere close at hand, but my Taurus of a fiancé was not inclined to change even his middle name.
And did I mention he’s morally opposed to hyphenation?
When we visited my aunt and uncle in North Carolina last month we found out that my cousin and her fiancé are jamming their surnames together—with no hyphen but with a capital letter in the middle, like an email address or URL with capital letters here and there for clarity’s sake. I was so glad my aunt told us this because I figure the more creative/unique/unusual solutions we hear about, the more normal hyphenation or middle-name-changing will start to seem.
One of my writer friends suggested we take the anagram route and came up with Strudel, which is a near anagram (minus a few letters) of our last names, and which, I have to say, totally rocks.
Dr. and Mrs. Strudel has a pretty nice ring to it, you have to admit, especially if you’re as fond of pastries as I am.
I tried suggesting that Dr. Fiancé take my last name as his middle name and giving it to the kids as their middle name, too, and me taking Dr. Fiancé’s last name as my middle name so that we all have both surnames somewhere close at hand, but my Taurus of a fiancé was not inclined to change even his middle name.
And did I mention he’s morally opposed to hyphenation?
When we visited my aunt and uncle in North Carolina last month we found out that my cousin and her fiancé are jamming their surnames together—with no hyphen but with a capital letter in the middle, like an email address or URL with capital letters here and there for clarity’s sake. I was so glad my aunt told us this because I figure the more creative/unique/unusual solutions we hear about, the more normal hyphenation or middle-name-changing will start to seem.
One of my writer friends suggested we take the anagram route and came up with Strudel, which is a near anagram (minus a few letters) of our last names, and which, I have to say, totally rocks.
Dr. and Mrs. Strudel has a pretty nice ring to it, you have to admit, especially if you’re as fond of pastries as I am.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Living Dangerously
Dr. Fiancé put in a special request for chocolate chip cookies tonight. Without thinking about it, I licked the raw-egg-containing cookie dough off the spatula. I hope I haven’t killed our child.
Monday, April 06, 2009
The Sweet Smell of Spring
This is the first morning I’ve woken up and felt halfway decent in nearly a month. The movement of rolling over to see what time it was didn’t make me feel seasick. Hallelujah. I took a deep breath, turned back toward the spring sun streaming through the window, savored the moment, and immediately began worrying that the reason I feel better even though I have a few weeks left in the notoriously nauseating first trimester is that something bad happened to the baby-in-progress.
But then I came downstairs and the chemical-sweet stench of Febreze emanating from the leather chair I stupidly bought off Craigslist last year without giving it the sniff test was so sickening I nearly tossed the chair in the garbage (again). Ditto the kitchen sponge. And the soap. And the overly browned bits on the edge of my English muffin. Yep—still pregnant.
But then I came downstairs and the chemical-sweet stench of Febreze emanating from the leather chair I stupidly bought off Craigslist last year without giving it the sniff test was so sickening I nearly tossed the chair in the garbage (again). Ditto the kitchen sponge. And the soap. And the overly browned bits on the edge of my English muffin. Yep—still pregnant.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
I Am Not a Doctor
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am not a doctor. According to my dad, I wanted to be one when I was three, but I must have changed my mind. It would have been a bad career choice for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that my knees buckle under when I so much as hear the words “bile” or “mucous.” I would have never made it through a dermatology slide show, much less an anatomy class. When I watch Grey’s Anatomy, I keep one finger on the fast-forward button, skipping the surgeries in favor of the banter. In college I only pulled one all-nighter and vowed never again. I like my sleep. I like my sanity. I like to have time to sit on the grass in the sun and write poems. I am more cat than crow, more inchworm than hummingbird.
Sure, I can run around crossing things off a list, accomplishing an impossible number of errands, but at the end of the day I feel dull and hollow—and possibly bipolar—and who needs that?
Dr. Fiancé and I have, as he puts it, “different ways of dealing with discomfort.” Namely, he throws himself into situations that cause it—hiking, kayaking, running, playing basketball, traveling to places that don’t have proper toilets, whereas I like to avoid such things. Life is uncomfortable enough as it is without seeking out blisters and sprains and fatigue and revolting smells.
Likewise, some people enjoy traveling to countries where they don’t speak English so that they’re pushed out of their verbal comfort zone. I, on the other hand, do not require a foreign tongue to feel challenged and self-conscious and misunderstood. An audience of two—or sometimes even one—is all it takes for me to develop performance anxiety.
This is all to say, my “approach” to “handling” the discomforts of pregnancy has caused some tension chez nous. Dr. Fiancé is of the school (specifically Harvard Medical School) that believes in pushing through discomfort. I suppose that’s what you have to do to make it through medical training, but it seems ironic—the people in charge of helping us take care of our bodies are forced to take such poor care of their own, deprived of rest and sleep and three decent meals a day. If you’re running yourself that hard, don’t you lose touch with what’s going on with your body? If you need sleep but aren’t able to get any, aren’t you setting some part of yourself up to mistrust the rest of you?
Many times these past few queasy weeks I have wondered—frequently out loud—how other women do it. How do pregnant doctors-in-training get through residency, for instance? Do they just accept the fact that they might throw up on a patient? I’m scared to throw up on my car. And do they just not worry about the fact that their brains are muddled with raging hormones and thoughts of food and waves of nausea and that those distractions are probably preventing them from performing at the level to which they’d previously been accustomed? Am I a wimp for, say, feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of teaching creative writing to high school kids once or twice a week, working on my own writing, planning a wedding, keeping up with the rigorous travel schedule Dr. Fiancé prefers, tending to a house and yard larger than any I’ve ever lived in, growing a baby, and trying to remain gastronointestinally intact?
Dr. Fiancé is worried he won’t be able to have the adventures he’s always dreamed of if I don’t push myself harder. I’m worried my child might grow up with a dead father and a mother in prison for homicide.
Sure, I can run around crossing things off a list, accomplishing an impossible number of errands, but at the end of the day I feel dull and hollow—and possibly bipolar—and who needs that?
Dr. Fiancé and I have, as he puts it, “different ways of dealing with discomfort.” Namely, he throws himself into situations that cause it—hiking, kayaking, running, playing basketball, traveling to places that don’t have proper toilets, whereas I like to avoid such things. Life is uncomfortable enough as it is without seeking out blisters and sprains and fatigue and revolting smells.
Likewise, some people enjoy traveling to countries where they don’t speak English so that they’re pushed out of their verbal comfort zone. I, on the other hand, do not require a foreign tongue to feel challenged and self-conscious and misunderstood. An audience of two—or sometimes even one—is all it takes for me to develop performance anxiety.
This is all to say, my “approach” to “handling” the discomforts of pregnancy has caused some tension chez nous. Dr. Fiancé is of the school (specifically Harvard Medical School) that believes in pushing through discomfort. I suppose that’s what you have to do to make it through medical training, but it seems ironic—the people in charge of helping us take care of our bodies are forced to take such poor care of their own, deprived of rest and sleep and three decent meals a day. If you’re running yourself that hard, don’t you lose touch with what’s going on with your body? If you need sleep but aren’t able to get any, aren’t you setting some part of yourself up to mistrust the rest of you?
Many times these past few queasy weeks I have wondered—frequently out loud—how other women do it. How do pregnant doctors-in-training get through residency, for instance? Do they just accept the fact that they might throw up on a patient? I’m scared to throw up on my car. And do they just not worry about the fact that their brains are muddled with raging hormones and thoughts of food and waves of nausea and that those distractions are probably preventing them from performing at the level to which they’d previously been accustomed? Am I a wimp for, say, feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of teaching creative writing to high school kids once or twice a week, working on my own writing, planning a wedding, keeping up with the rigorous travel schedule Dr. Fiancé prefers, tending to a house and yard larger than any I’ve ever lived in, growing a baby, and trying to remain gastronointestinally intact?
Dr. Fiancé is worried he won’t be able to have the adventures he’s always dreamed of if I don’t push myself harder. I’m worried my child might grow up with a dead father and a mother in prison for homicide.
Sweeter Than a Hallmark Commercial
Dr. Fiancé and I took a long walk this morning, heading a litle further north than we normally do and ending up near one of Seattle’s premeire private schools—the “artsy fartsy” one that still manages to look like a place the Obamas would consider sending their girls.
One of the beautiful old brick buildings had a porch with an old-fashioned rocking chair swaying in the breeze and a memorial plaque that included the Charlotte’s Web quote, “It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.”
“It would be so cool to walk our kids to school,” I said, all casual-like, flicking the pregnancy-induced tears out of my eyes. Why wouldn’t I want to send my kid to a school with quotes like that on the wall? And maybe a better use of my energies isn’t to talk Dr. Fiancé into public school, which, frankly, I’m ambivalent about, but to make sure our kid gets lots of art classes and access to rocking chairs and Charlotte’s Web quotes.
“I’d be thrilled if my kids went here,” Dr. Fiancé beamed. “It’s a really good school!” Then he took my hand in his and we headed home and then to the antique jewelry store to look for old, arty, classy wedding rings.
One of the beautiful old brick buildings had a porch with an old-fashioned rocking chair swaying in the breeze and a memorial plaque that included the Charlotte’s Web quote, “It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.”
“It would be so cool to walk our kids to school,” I said, all casual-like, flicking the pregnancy-induced tears out of my eyes. Why wouldn’t I want to send my kid to a school with quotes like that on the wall? And maybe a better use of my energies isn’t to talk Dr. Fiancé into public school, which, frankly, I’m ambivalent about, but to make sure our kid gets lots of art classes and access to rocking chairs and Charlotte’s Web quotes.
“I’d be thrilled if my kids went here,” Dr. Fiancé beamed. “It’s a really good school!” Then he took my hand in his and we headed home and then to the antique jewelry store to look for old, arty, classy wedding rings.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Paper Trail
I’m feeling a little better today, thanks to the twice-daily dose of drugs that hopefully are not messing up the little person growing inside me. Armed with a nausea-reducing travel mug full of Keifer and a constipation-reducing Fiber One bar, I ventured on yet another wedding-related errand: the stationary store.
It has finally dawned on me that our wedding is not going to be the cake-and-champagne-in-a-picnic-shelter-in-a-nice-park-type-affair that I’d imagined we could throw for, like $5,000. We have numerous meals and tons of logistics and multiple means of transportation and, clearly, a dress that’s going to cost more than $15.
All of a sudden yesterday the plan of D.I.Y.ing our wedding invitations seemed not just daunting, exhausting, and taxing in my newly nauseous state, but kind of not fair. My 13-year-old future half-brother-in-law had invitations that look like tuxedos made for his upcoming Bar Mitzvah. Yes, it might have been more his mother’s doing than his own, but still, shouldn’t I be allowed to have invitations made for my wedding? I don’t need them to be engraved or even letter-pressed, and I don’t need envelopes inside of envelopes inside of envelopes with ribbons and shiny lining and all that crap. I just need them to look like I didn’t make them myself with Microsoft Word clip art.
The woman at the stationary store was perfect—a young woman who collects old ephemera and would be thrilled—seriously thrilled—to come up with the design I have in mind, based on antique train tickets. (Did I mention that one of the means of transportation at our wedding is an antique steam train?) She’ll make an invite with a tear-off RSVP card attached to the bottom. There’s perforation involved, which adds a few hundred dollars, of course, but I figured out I can do that myself with a sewing machine or some sort of roll-y tool that I’m sure is available somewhere on the internet. I can handle that much D.I.Y., even in my current condition.
It feels so good to have someone helping—someone with the tools and the skills and the know-how, not to mention the unbridled enthusiasm for all things wedding. I got kind of lonely making our save-the-date cards, just me and my jam-prone laser printer and the sound of my own voice cursing.
Dr. Fiancé asked where exactly the bulk of the cost of the invitations comes from, and I explained we were mostly paying for someone else’s design work. “So it’s like art?” he asked. “We can hang one of them on the wall later?” Unclear whether he was being sarcastic.
Either way, he gave the project the thumbs-up and quickly busied himself looking for train-themed stamps on the internet.
It has finally dawned on me that our wedding is not going to be the cake-and-champagne-in-a-picnic-shelter-in-a-nice-park-type-affair that I’d imagined we could throw for, like $5,000. We have numerous meals and tons of logistics and multiple means of transportation and, clearly, a dress that’s going to cost more than $15.
All of a sudden yesterday the plan of D.I.Y.ing our wedding invitations seemed not just daunting, exhausting, and taxing in my newly nauseous state, but kind of not fair. My 13-year-old future half-brother-in-law had invitations that look like tuxedos made for his upcoming Bar Mitzvah. Yes, it might have been more his mother’s doing than his own, but still, shouldn’t I be allowed to have invitations made for my wedding? I don’t need them to be engraved or even letter-pressed, and I don’t need envelopes inside of envelopes inside of envelopes with ribbons and shiny lining and all that crap. I just need them to look like I didn’t make them myself with Microsoft Word clip art.
The woman at the stationary store was perfect—a young woman who collects old ephemera and would be thrilled—seriously thrilled—to come up with the design I have in mind, based on antique train tickets. (Did I mention that one of the means of transportation at our wedding is an antique steam train?) She’ll make an invite with a tear-off RSVP card attached to the bottom. There’s perforation involved, which adds a few hundred dollars, of course, but I figured out I can do that myself with a sewing machine or some sort of roll-y tool that I’m sure is available somewhere on the internet. I can handle that much D.I.Y., even in my current condition.
It feels so good to have someone helping—someone with the tools and the skills and the know-how, not to mention the unbridled enthusiasm for all things wedding. I got kind of lonely making our save-the-date cards, just me and my jam-prone laser printer and the sound of my own voice cursing.
Dr. Fiancé asked where exactly the bulk of the cost of the invitations comes from, and I explained we were mostly paying for someone else’s design work. “So it’s like art?” he asked. “We can hang one of them on the wall later?” Unclear whether he was being sarcastic.
Either way, he gave the project the thumbs-up and quickly busied himself looking for train-themed stamps on the internet.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Maternity Wedding Dress Shopping Expedition No. 1
What is it that makes so many brides—and their mothers—lose their sense of humor? I mean, I assume they once had one, these ladies scowling at me from their risers and three-way mirrors as I step up to my own riser and three-way mirror, my giant belly protruding from a series of cheaply made wedding gowns like the world’s largest marshmallow popping out of its bag.
I reply to their stares with a smile and a belly pat, saying in a tone that I mean to be simultaneously reassuring and ironic, “It’s just a pillow.”
They do not crack a smile, not one of them.
I reply to their stares with a smile and a belly pat, saying in a tone that I mean to be simultaneously reassuring and ironic, “It’s just a pillow.”
They do not crack a smile, not one of them.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Triumph
Yesterday I successfully consumed an entire popsicle in just two sittings.
Today: two slices of pizza!
Today: two slices of pizza!
Saturday, March 21, 2009
That Deep-Down Body Thirst
I went to the doctor yesterday and got a prescription for a drug they give chemo patients to stop them from throwing up. Supposedly it won’t deform the baby, which is nice, but not as exciting as not dying of dehydration or starvation or frustration. I also got some Gatorade at the pharmacy—the red flavor. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my whole life.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Reality
I don’t want this to become a pregnancy blog in which I go into gruesome detail about my various discomforts and discharges and alienate people who aren’t pregnant themselves, but I’ve just spent the past four days throwing up—and I mean continuously. Think food poisoning. Think stomach flu. Think “I wouldn’t particularly mind if I died right now.”
“Try saltines,” the books urge—but I can’t even hold down an ice chip.
I am so never getting pregnant again.
“Try saltines,” the books urge—but I can’t even hold down an ice chip.
I am so never getting pregnant again.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Optimism
I thought it was just motion sickness from the airplane ride home, but we’ve been home for 18 hours now and it hasn’t gone away. My mom said she had almost no morning sickness when she was pregnant with my brother and then just a little bit with me, so I’m hopeful it won’t get much worse than this.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Breeders
It’s my birthday today. I’m 34—and did I mention, pregnant? Yesterday afternoon Dr. Fiancé and I went to South Beach’s lone bookstore and bought a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting—the only pregnancy book they could fit in between photobiographies of Marilyn Monroe and coffee table food porn. Dr. Fiancé also picked up a copy of Pat the Bunny. The combination of the two purchases caused the uber-trim, black-clad, perfectly manicured salesman to give us withering look that sighed: breeders. Then he said it’s a good time to bring a kid into the world—which we assumed was sarcasm. “At least we have Obama,” I shrugged, wishing I were wearing the “Silence Equals Death” t-shirt I never got around to buying. The salesguy smiled and nodded and pointed out that by the time our kid is old enough for it to matter the economy will have improved and maybe the country will be a more progressive place than it’s been for the past eight years. “Congratulations,” he said as he handed us the bag—and he seemed to really mean it.
Today’s adventure was our first trip to Baby Gap (a set of stripey socks and two onesies) and then to Everglades National Park, where alligators lollygagged right next to the sidewalk—close enough to touch if common sense didn’t dictate otherwise.
Also I found out I’m already considered five weeks pregnant and that the little critter has a heart the size of a poppy seed. It’s a total cliché—but it does truly feel miraculous.
Today’s adventure was our first trip to Baby Gap (a set of stripey socks and two onesies) and then to Everglades National Park, where alligators lollygagged right next to the sidewalk—close enough to touch if common sense didn’t dictate otherwise.
Also I found out I’m already considered five weeks pregnant and that the little critter has a heart the size of a poppy seed. It’s a total cliché—but it does truly feel miraculous.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
So
It turns out having to pee all the time is an early sign of pregnancy. As is feeling all week like you’re just about to get your period. As are breasts that suddenly weigh as much as watermellons and nipples that have been standing at attention for six tiresome days. (Did I neglect to mention that before?)
I peed on a stick this morning and a big blue plus sign emerged before I could even set the stick down on the side of the sink.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant?
I’m pregnant!
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
I’m pregnant.
I took Dr. Fiancé to the beach to tell him the news, figuring it was a nice echo of his marriage proposal. It turns out that South Beach isn’t quite as private as a beach on Molokai’. Even in this struggling economy, people are vacationing in Florida. I pulled him out into the ocean until the water was up to our knees and the nearest people were a few yards away and asked him if he wanted to be a dad. He smiled his sweetest smile and said of course, and I said that’s good ’cause you’re going to be, and he said, yeah—like someday, yeah, of course I’ll be a dad. “No,” I clarified. “I mean—you are going to be a dad.” Dr. Fiancé’s eyes got all big and his eyebrows went way up and he hugged and kissed me and said, “Wow”—and couldn't stop saying it all day long.
I peed on a stick this morning and a big blue plus sign emerged before I could even set the stick down on the side of the sink.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant?
I’m pregnant!
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
I’m pregnant.
I took Dr. Fiancé to the beach to tell him the news, figuring it was a nice echo of his marriage proposal. It turns out that South Beach isn’t quite as private as a beach on Molokai’. Even in this struggling economy, people are vacationing in Florida. I pulled him out into the ocean until the water was up to our knees and the nearest people were a few yards away and asked him if he wanted to be a dad. He smiled his sweetest smile and said of course, and I said that’s good ’cause you’re going to be, and he said, yeah—like someday, yeah, of course I’ll be a dad. “No,” I clarified. “I mean—you are going to be a dad.” Dr. Fiancé’s eyes got all big and his eyebrows went way up and he hugged and kissed me and said, “Wow”—and couldn't stop saying it all day long.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Lost in Translation
Guess what my aunt made us for breakfast this morning: a British-style tea party complete with homemade scones and crème fraiche and get this—lemon curd. Always the polite guest, Dr. Fiancé spread some curd on his scone as directed, and proceeded to declare it delicious. I shared my cake quandary with the table, telling my relatives about Dr. Fiancé’s aversion to the word “curd.” Everyone pitched in with alternatives: lemon spread, lemon cream, lemon delight, lemon surprise. My teenage cousin looked up a French translation online and proceeded to mangle a phrase that sounded like “coffre beurrehgh.” Not much of an improvement. I tried to read Dr. Fiancé’s face throughout the conversation to see whether he truly only minds the name of lemon curd, or if he truly doesn’t like the taste. The answer remains unclear.
In other news, I keep going to the bathroom every 20 minutes to see whether my period has started. It hasn’t. Weird. Very weird.
In other news, I keep going to the bathroom every 20 minutes to see whether my period has started. It hasn’t. Weird. Very weird.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Late
Dr. Fiancé and I flew to Charlotte, North Carolina today to visit my aunt and uncle the minister who’s performing our wedding ceremony.
I checked my calendar yesterday, and my period was due last Saturday, give or take. “Maybe you’re pregnant,” Dr. Fiancé grinned, but I assured him I’m crampy and feel like I’m just about to get my period—it’s just taking its sweet time in getting started for some reason. “I’ve never heard of feeling like you’re going to get your period being a sign of pregnancy,” I said, as I climbed over him to get into my seat after heading to the bathroom for the third time on the flight to check my cycle’s progress. He pointed out that he’s never heard of someone feeling like they’re just about to get their period for a whole week. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” I proposed to no avail. We’ll just wait another few days and see.
I checked my calendar yesterday, and my period was due last Saturday, give or take. “Maybe you’re pregnant,” Dr. Fiancé grinned, but I assured him I’m crampy and feel like I’m just about to get my period—it’s just taking its sweet time in getting started for some reason. “I’ve never heard of feeling like you’re going to get your period being a sign of pregnancy,” I said, as I climbed over him to get into my seat after heading to the bathroom for the third time on the flight to check my cycle’s progress. He pointed out that he’s never heard of someone feeling like they’re just about to get their period for a whole week. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” I proposed to no avail. We’ll just wait another few days and see.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
A Club of Onesies
Last night I gave my first public reading of my work, at a local writing center. I read my blog entry from December 8 about my misadventures in biofeedback and the one from January 12 about my perennial baby-craziness.
I was a nervous wreck all week, my stomach a flock of angry birds, and the anxiety making my period late. I’d been assured by friends and fiancé alike that once I got started, the nerves would wear off and I might even start to enjoy myself.
They were totally wrong.
The lights were super bright and in my eyes, and I couldn’t see anyone’s face to be able to tell whether they were enjoying themselves which was particularly important to me since I, as I mentioned, was not.
Eventually I finished reading and took my seat and drank Dr. Fiancé’s cocktail and then started to enjoy myself. A particular highlight was when one of my Writers-in-the-Schools colleagues came up and gushed, “Oh, my god! The onesies! I thought I was the only one so crazy about wanting to have babies! I love it!” I told her I’d already made note of her at our first work meeting and had flagged her as a future mom-friend, since she had a kid and I’ve heard it’s really hard to meet cool fellow moms. “Why wait?” she shrugged. “Let’s be mom friends now!”
I was a nervous wreck all week, my stomach a flock of angry birds, and the anxiety making my period late. I’d been assured by friends and fiancé alike that once I got started, the nerves would wear off and I might even start to enjoy myself.
They were totally wrong.
The lights were super bright and in my eyes, and I couldn’t see anyone’s face to be able to tell whether they were enjoying themselves which was particularly important to me since I, as I mentioned, was not.
Eventually I finished reading and took my seat and drank Dr. Fiancé’s cocktail and then started to enjoy myself. A particular highlight was when one of my Writers-in-the-Schools colleagues came up and gushed, “Oh, my god! The onesies! I thought I was the only one so crazy about wanting to have babies! I love it!” I told her I’d already made note of her at our first work meeting and had flagged her as a future mom-friend, since she had a kid and I’ve heard it’s really hard to meet cool fellow moms. “Why wait?” she shrugged. “Let’s be mom friends now!”
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sass
Yesterday I learned that Dr. Fiancé doesn’t mind the taste of lemon curd so much as the name of the stuff. “Unless you’re referring to the Kurdish people, I don’t like the word,” he explained. “So if we tell people our wedding cake contains layers of, say, lemon Iraqi, you’d go with that cake?” I mocked—unsuccessfully.
My mom is flying in today from Iowa for a weekend visit. We’re supposed to be doing wedding planning stuff while Dr. Fiancé’s out of town, but I confess I’m not in the mood.
Though I probably could be talked into shopping for shoes.
My mom is flying in today from Iowa for a weekend visit. We’re supposed to be doing wedding planning stuff while Dr. Fiancé’s out of town, but I confess I’m not in the mood.
Though I probably could be talked into shopping for shoes.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
What Would Marie Antoinette Say?
A couple of smart, creative friends have gently suggested that Dr. Fiancé and I have a “groom’s cake” in addition to a wedding cake. I’m sorry, but what the fuck is a “groom’s cake?” Why would a wedding need two cakes? Are wedding cakes “bride cakes”? I’d always assumed that wedding cakes belonged to the couple—that’s why they slice off a piece and feed it to each other before anyone else can have any. If you have a groom’s cake, do you have to feed each other a piece of that, too? Which one do you eat first?
Isn’t having two cakes just a way of announcing: We’re so incapable of compromising that we couldn’t agree on something as simple as dessert? Or does it say: We’re so good at picking our battles that we won’t waste our time trying to come to consensus on something as trivial as dessert?
Call me old-fashioned, call me inflexible, call me a pain in the ass, but I just want one cake.
Is this the first step towards becoming a bridezilla?
Isn’t having two cakes just a way of announcing: We’re so incapable of compromising that we couldn’t agree on something as simple as dessert? Or does it say: We’re so good at picking our battles that we won’t waste our time trying to come to consensus on something as trivial as dessert?
Call me old-fashioned, call me inflexible, call me a pain in the ass, but I just want one cake.
Is this the first step towards becoming a bridezilla?
Monday, February 23, 2009
A Woman Knows
I’m pretty positive I’m not pregnant. The being hungry all the time thing passed—a momentary state of affairs perhaps born out of the fact that I generally don’t eat enough protein. Or vegetables. Or whole grains—whatever they are. (I like my bread the way I like my vodka-and-kahlua drinks and the way I like my wedding cake: white).
I’ve always figured that I’ll be the sort of woman who knows when she’s pregnant. How does she know? She just knows.
This is how I knew I’d broken my toe, how I knew each time I've had a UTI, how I knew it was the sausage in the spaghetti sauce that make me barf all night, not the zucchini.
Of course, sometimes I’m wrong.
Before Dr. Fiancé, there were any number of men I just knew I was going to marry—the Brazilian/Spanish geneticist, the Crow Indian poet, the guy from Idaho with whom I shared an amalgamated French-English language that his girlfriend could not understand, the creative writer I met on the first day of grad school who clarified to our peers that though I was in a relationship with a woman, I was definitely not a lesbian.
How did he know? He just knew.
I’ve always figured that I’ll be the sort of woman who knows when she’s pregnant. How does she know? She just knows.
This is how I knew I’d broken my toe, how I knew each time I've had a UTI, how I knew it was the sausage in the spaghetti sauce that make me barf all night, not the zucchini.
Of course, sometimes I’m wrong.
Before Dr. Fiancé, there were any number of men I just knew I was going to marry—the Brazilian/Spanish geneticist, the Crow Indian poet, the guy from Idaho with whom I shared an amalgamated French-English language that his girlfriend could not understand, the creative writer I met on the first day of grad school who clarified to our peers that though I was in a relationship with a woman, I was definitely not a lesbian.
How did he know? He just knew.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
And Eat It, Too
Fuck it, I want white cake at my wedding. Sans little brown flecks. Maybe Dr. Fiance will go for it if we replace the lemon curd with chocolate? Or maybe barbecue sauce? He's a really big fan of barbecue.
Have Your Cake
Dr. Fiancé and I tasted wedding cakes this evening: a coconut one that evoked the smell of suntan lotion, an almond one peppered with little brown flecks sullying the cake’s virginal whiteness, and the one with the rich delicious flavor accented with thin layers of lemon curd. Guess which was my favorite.
Dr. Fiancé preferred the coconut and almond options. He said the rich delicious cake was neither rich or delicious, even without the lemon curd. This from a man whose favorite birthday cake flavor is oh-so-culinarily-daring “yellow.”
As soon as we realized our taste buds were following different trails of crumbs down divergent paths, we just sort of stopped talking, returning our attention to Step-Brothers, a movie I'd specifically selected for its antidote-to-girly-things-like-tasting-wedding-cakes properties.
I could probably get excited about the almond cake. Maybe I’ll be able to come to regard the little brown flecks not as blemishes but as confetti—the confetti of compromise.
Sigh.
I guess I really wanted Dr. Fiancé to see the error of his ways and take a bite of the rich, delicious cake and be all, “Oh this is lemon curd? I love this stuff. I must have been confusing it with lemon Jell-O. Silly me. Yes, by all means, let’s serve this cake at our wedding. It’s perfect—just like you.” [Smackery sounds of kissing.]
Once again, felled by the power of my high expectations.
Dr. Fiancé preferred the coconut and almond options. He said the rich delicious cake was neither rich or delicious, even without the lemon curd. This from a man whose favorite birthday cake flavor is oh-so-culinarily-daring “yellow.”
As soon as we realized our taste buds were following different trails of crumbs down divergent paths, we just sort of stopped talking, returning our attention to Step-Brothers, a movie I'd specifically selected for its antidote-to-girly-things-like-tasting-wedding-cakes properties.
I could probably get excited about the almond cake. Maybe I’ll be able to come to regard the little brown flecks not as blemishes but as confetti—the confetti of compromise.
Sigh.
I guess I really wanted Dr. Fiancé to see the error of his ways and take a bite of the rich, delicious cake and be all, “Oh this is lemon curd? I love this stuff. I must have been confusing it with lemon Jell-O. Silly me. Yes, by all means, let’s serve this cake at our wedding. It’s perfect—just like you.” [Smackery sounds of kissing.]
Once again, felled by the power of my high expectations.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
One or Two or Three of My Favorite Things
I submitted my grant proposal online last night. It wasn’t due until Friday, so I’m feeling pretty grown-up about the whole thing.
If only I could translate some of that adult-level having-my-shit-together-ness into patience. It’s been 18 hours and already I have the urge to check the website to see if they’ve made their decision. June is going to be a very long time in coming.
Not to mention July 13. Can't we just do this wedding thing and move on with our lives?
Must we choose a cake flavor and style and menus for two dinners and two breakfasts and pick out shoes and jewelry and a photographer and a dress for my person of honor and music for the procession and the reception and flowers and more flowers and still more flowers and outfits for the boys and a dress for my mom and a sleeping arrangement for all the guests and a way of getting all the food and cake and flowers halfway up a mountain?
Was this wedding thing really my idea? Why on earth would a person for whom every tiny thing does matter—a person fond of saying that god is in the details (even though she’s an atheist) and who uses only high-quality wrapping paper and cloth ribbons on birthday and Christmas presents and keeps her art supplies in old Ball jars that she bought not in small part because they say Pat’d July 14, 1908 and she met her fiancé on July 14—how the hell could such a person take on planning a wedding and delude herself into thinking she could be low-key about it?
This morning the issue was lemon curd.
I myself am a fan. A big fan. I have a family recipe for the stuff and make it on special occasions—or, more accurately, when I make lemon curd the day becomes a special occasion. It’s smooth and creamy and tart and completely delicious.
When Dr. Fiancé put me in charge of “artistics,” I of course assumed the cake fell under my purview.
I did some web research and visited my favorite Seattle bakery and tried a slice of “European style cake, ivory in color with a rich delicious flavor that is accented with thin layers of homemade lemon curd and fresh raspberry preserves.” The flavor was indeed delicious—rich and buttery but not too heavy, thanks in part to the light, refreshing zip provided by the zesty lemon curd accent—and my work was done. So simple. So easy.
Too easy.
This morning on our daily walk Dr. Fiancé said something about how next weekend when he’s in Vegas with his boy friends and my mom’s in town from Iowa, she and I can do fun wedding-planning stuff “like choosing a cake.”
“I already chose the cake.”
“The one with the lemon curd?”
Uh. Yeah. The one with the lemon curd.
It turns out Dr. Fiancé, who has eaten my insanely tasty lemon curd on numerous occasions and declared it to be quite tasty doesn’t like lemon curd.
A crabby exchange ensued, the kind I’m sure our neighbors appreciate us having within earshot of their homes. “Is the cake one of your two things?” Dr. Fiancé asked in a tone that can only be described as pointed.
Oooh. Guilty. I’ve tried cashing in my “TBD” on the style of Dr. Fiancé’s tux, the number of attendants, the decorations at the inn and in the church and on our persons. And now, the cake.
Dr. Fiancé says he doesn’t care about the cake one way or the other—the lemon curd one is fine if it means he doesn’t have to add “taste cakes” to his to-do list. I, however, am not wild about the idea of feeding my chosen mate, the love of my life, the father of my future children a sugary morsel of desert symbolizing the sweetness of our union only to have him make a face and spit it out or fake a smile as he gags on one of my favorite things.
If only I could translate some of that adult-level having-my-shit-together-ness into patience. It’s been 18 hours and already I have the urge to check the website to see if they’ve made their decision. June is going to be a very long time in coming.
Not to mention July 13. Can't we just do this wedding thing and move on with our lives?
Must we choose a cake flavor and style and menus for two dinners and two breakfasts and pick out shoes and jewelry and a photographer and a dress for my person of honor and music for the procession and the reception and flowers and more flowers and still more flowers and outfits for the boys and a dress for my mom and a sleeping arrangement for all the guests and a way of getting all the food and cake and flowers halfway up a mountain?
Was this wedding thing really my idea? Why on earth would a person for whom every tiny thing does matter—a person fond of saying that god is in the details (even though she’s an atheist) and who uses only high-quality wrapping paper and cloth ribbons on birthday and Christmas presents and keeps her art supplies in old Ball jars that she bought not in small part because they say Pat’d July 14, 1908 and she met her fiancé on July 14—how the hell could such a person take on planning a wedding and delude herself into thinking she could be low-key about it?
This morning the issue was lemon curd.
I myself am a fan. A big fan. I have a family recipe for the stuff and make it on special occasions—or, more accurately, when I make lemon curd the day becomes a special occasion. It’s smooth and creamy and tart and completely delicious.
When Dr. Fiancé put me in charge of “artistics,” I of course assumed the cake fell under my purview.
I did some web research and visited my favorite Seattle bakery and tried a slice of “European style cake, ivory in color with a rich delicious flavor that is accented with thin layers of homemade lemon curd and fresh raspberry preserves.” The flavor was indeed delicious—rich and buttery but not too heavy, thanks in part to the light, refreshing zip provided by the zesty lemon curd accent—and my work was done. So simple. So easy.
Too easy.
This morning on our daily walk Dr. Fiancé said something about how next weekend when he’s in Vegas with his boy friends and my mom’s in town from Iowa, she and I can do fun wedding-planning stuff “like choosing a cake.”
“I already chose the cake.”
“The one with the lemon curd?”
Uh. Yeah. The one with the lemon curd.
It turns out Dr. Fiancé, who has eaten my insanely tasty lemon curd on numerous occasions and declared it to be quite tasty doesn’t like lemon curd.
A crabby exchange ensued, the kind I’m sure our neighbors appreciate us having within earshot of their homes. “Is the cake one of your two things?” Dr. Fiancé asked in a tone that can only be described as pointed.
Oooh. Guilty. I’ve tried cashing in my “TBD” on the style of Dr. Fiancé’s tux, the number of attendants, the decorations at the inn and in the church and on our persons. And now, the cake.
Dr. Fiancé says he doesn’t care about the cake one way or the other—the lemon curd one is fine if it means he doesn’t have to add “taste cakes” to his to-do list. I, however, am not wild about the idea of feeding my chosen mate, the love of my life, the father of my future children a sugary morsel of desert symbolizing the sweetness of our union only to have him make a face and spit it out or fake a smile as he gags on one of my favorite things.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Love Like a Red, Red Beet
Tonight Dr. Fiancé made a belated Valentine’s Day dinner with a theme: steak, red wine, red chard with bacon, slices of blood orange, and—the best part—beets hand-carved into heart shapes.
Am I an asshole for wanting a card, too?
Am I an asshole for wanting a card, too?
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