I can't smile without you. Really.

I have a confession to make.

As I was sitting up at midnight writing the Christmas cards I swore (swore!) were going to be in the mail Dec. 1 and berating my very existence, I had HDNet on in the background. Which was playing a Barry Manilow concert.

I not only left it on. I enjoyed it. Right on down to the last notes of "American Bandstand" and "I Can't Smile Without You."

If I had even a shred of coolness left over from my youth (which would be a stretch to say I had any to begin with), it is now certainly gone. And I'm OK with that.

A big hot cup of democracy

Did you get all your Election Day freebies today?

From Starbuck's coffee to Krispy Kreme donuts, you could get plenty of free hot (and cold, thank you Ben & Jerry's) food to match the warm spot in your soul left by voting.

My favorite moment today came when I stopped into a Georgetown Starbuck's on my way home from a Washington election party. The half dozen or so people in the store were in there to proudly flash their cherished "I Voted" stickers to the baristas in exchange for their free tall cups of coffee.

Waiting next to me were two Georgetown students, one sporting a "Karl Marx for Obama" T-shirt. The two youts were eagerly slurping down their cups of free Ben & Jerry's ice cream to prepare for their free tall coffees. Once we all had our free non-plumber Joe in hand, I mentioned that it looked like they were making the rounds. They laughed, and appreciated the tip that they had missed the free taco at California Tortilla.

That's exactly why I love about Election Day. Beyond the banners and the bunting, way beyond the attack ads and the slogans, it gets neighbors of all ages, races and backgrounds talking, laughing and discussing the future of their country, if only for a few minutes over a free cup of coffee.

Communications Geekery

On this election eve, an interesting link compliments of my husband/fellow media geek C. about the chaos that Hilary's top spokesguy caused and later dealt with.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to grab my sleeping bag and get on line for concert tickets to vote.

The Secret o' Life

Those words jumped out at me while listening to James Taylor on my iPod on the Bolt Bus (yay, Bolt Bus! The Internet sometimes works, but the $49.50 is well worth it) a few weeks ago coming home from ridiculouschick's shower.

If you're not familiar with the song, the refrain goes something like this: "The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time."

I was reminded of that again when chatting with HappyLiving yesterday, who was having some of her own revelations about her own current stage of life.

We all spend so much time analyzing what's behind or straining on our tiptoes to see what's forward that it's all too easy to miss what's happening right now.

If I were writing a letter to my younger self in a few years from now (not to sound like a scene from Spaceballs here), I think that might be one of the most important things to know, and to remember.

Catching up

OK, lots of loose ends to catch up on.

First, Rainn Wilson may just be my new favorite celebrity. This guy is truly the real deal. Here's why: The cause he was in town supporting is an incredible group called the Tahirih Justice Center, which provides legal aid and support to women fleeing gender-based violence. What does that mean? Women who are trying to get away from their African tribes to protect their daughters from FGM. Many have them stolen in the middle of the night, no matter how hard they try to protect them. Women who are in arranged marriages who emigrate to the country only to be abused in any number of awful ways, and be left with no legal status to defend themselves, because their visas are tied to those of their husbands.

Not exactly the kind of stuff you'd think the guy who plays Dwight Schrute would support, let alone wholeheartedly.

Yet he did, far beyond the call of duty. He ransacked "The Office" prop closet to bring goodies for the silent auction (including Michael's Dundie award and Andy's Cornell sweatshirt, both used on the show). He posed for picture after picture, in between playing with some of the clients' children. He went to the executive director's home earlier that day to meet with clients and hear their stories. He auctioned off brunch with himself on Sunday for another fundraiser.

He even sat down with me for an interview long after the event was over and most other celebs who come to Washington charity events (Sharon Stone, I'm looking in your direction here) would have been whisked away to their suites or Towne Cars.

As it turns out, both he and the director of the group are Baha'is, and the religion places a heavy priority on seeking social justice. As his celebrity grew, he said, he got all sorts of requests to participate in charities, and finally decided that he had to focus on one cause that spoke to him.

All in all, he was a really cool guy, even if I did sound like Chris Farley on "The Chris Farley Show."

Awesome.

There are other things, but this blog post has well overstayed its lengthy welcome, and you're bored from all that scrolling. More to come.

Schrute Space

First off, man, I've been depressing lately. Not only have I had a serious lack of posts, but those that have been there have not exactly been the stuff of Hallmark cards.

Sorry about that.

So, on a lighter note, I'm gonna meet Dwight tonight! Yes, this Dwight, in all his calculator-watch wearing, beet-loving glamour.

He's emceeing an event in town that I'm attending for work, and that they'll be granting interviews for reporters afterwards.

Awesome.

Here's the thing, though: When it comes to talking to celebrities, my interviewing style looks and sounds amazingly like this, Chris Farley's "The Chris Farley Show" character on SNL.

"Remember that time, when Jim sent you faxes from Future Dwight? Um... that was awesome."

Also, think of the most non-funny cause you can for the event to be supporting. Got it? OK. If you guessed combatting gender-based human rights violations against women and girls, you'd be correct! You know, just the kind of easy, lighthearted topic that lends itself to a fun, non-serious interview about life at work and Dundie Awards.

So, I'd love to some help with questions. Here's the scenario: I need to somehow ask Rainn Wilson, the guy who plays Dwight and who is not Dwight tonight, questions that will make sense and maybe even entertaining reading for a business publication during an event with serious overtones.

Hey, how hard can that be?

C'mon, people. Whaddya got?

So many questions

Slate.com has some very thought-provoking comments on Sarah Palin today. Thanks to the smart author of Quibbling.net for the link.

Crash

It finally happened.

C. walked into our house last night to find both of us crying. Baby in his playpen. Me on the couch.

I finally hit that point, the one I kept thinking that I was tough enough to overcome, to hold myself together, to not give into the desire to just fall apart.

But I'm not.

Poor C. wasn't sure what to do. I tried to explain it, but didn't do a very good job, in between the sniffling and whimpering. It's a combination of things, really, some within my control, some not.

It's an overload of stories at work that I'm doing neither well nor on time and have nothing to be proud of there. It's anxiety about stories, which is something that comes with the job and can often be controlled, but sometimes, you get a big helping that you have to just get through. It's missing my friends there who have left, and not feeling bonds with those who have stayed. It's needing a big heap of inspiration and not knowing where to find it.

It's feeling like I have absolutely no idea what to do with this now one year old, other than feed, change and try to keep from whacking his head on everything. I'm not a mother, I'm a goalie. And I just don't know what to do with this kid right now. I'm not a very good entertainer. I'm at a loss for games to play or things to do.

It's feeling out of touch with friends, and like life if just a series of short, difficult sprints, with some time to sleep in between before you have to get up and do it all again the next day.

And maybe most difficult, it's this dull, emotional ache that seems to have invaded everything I do. Some of it is people related, but much of it is just there. I try to fight and put it in its place, but sometimes, it's too fast for me. It's not painful enough to do anything about, but it's always there, like a nasty hangover headache that just won't finally subside.

I try to power through, and tell myself I'm tougher than this, I can keep it together, that I don't have the luxury of letting myself fall apart. I need to keep going, that I can do this. But sometimes, just sometimes, I want to just give into the sadness and cry. I know I need to be the one to make it better, but sometimes, I just wish someone else could do it for me. Just for a moment, the mother becomes the child again. I know I'll summon up the strength, but right now, the demons sank a few three-pointers when I wasn't looking.

Who's more fun to be around than me?

Seriously... ?

The trampoline is an Olympic sport? The trampoline?

I've probably seen nearly a dozen sets of Olympics in my lifetime. How can I not know this?

And which camera guys draw the short straw to get this event? "Oh, sorry, Bob, we're all full up over at swimming and track. Let's see ... oh, have we got an assignment for you! It'll pull a real, ha ha, bounce in your step..."

My particular good thoughts go out to the low angle camera guy, who spends his entire night earning himself a one-way ticket to Whiplash Street.

Must. Stop. Watching. Camera. Motions. Making. Me. Nauseous. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

There must be some synchronized diving on somewhere?

You never know who you'll run into

I went to hear Dan Pink speak tonight. For those of you who aren't avid geeky business book readers (ahem), Pink is the former chief speechwriter for Al Gore (the vice president version, not the"A Convenient Truth" version) and the author of books such as "Free Agent Nation."



I also used to run with him.



Whaaaaa?, you say?



Back in 1999, I trained with the AIDS Marathon Training Group, where I raised money to fight AIDS and ran the Marine Corps Marathon. We had a very cool training group of 15 or so, one of whom is a very dear friend to this day. But I've lost touch with most, unfortunately, and Dan was one of them.

Dan and I ran together a few times, and we talked about work a bit during those five and six hours, 105 percent humidity in July early Saturday mornings on the trail. I remember thinking what a cool job he had - writing speeches and books.

Even with the subsequent success, he still seems like a normal, interesting guy with smart things to say, the kind you'd talk shop with or who would be good to brainstorm ideas with. He pleasantly endured lots of people wanting to talk with him and/or sign books, me being one of them.

The longer I live in Washington, the more I'm convinced that it really is a small town on steroids. It's a small business world out there.

Workout Work Over

Anyone who thinks that pyramid schemes have gone the way of the parachute pant hasn't tried to join a gym lately.

A friend recommended a trainer who helped her get back into shape after the birth of her second child. Excellent, I thought. I talked to the trainer, a crazy Australian lady who seems like she could give me the exact ass-kicking I require to get moving again.

Then she realized I wasn't a member of the gym where she trains, and broke the news that I'd have to join. OK, I thought. I'm sure they have some sort of three month membership, even if it's a little more expensive.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

How is it, in this Internet-information-everywhere day and age, that they still don't have published prices and can still fish in new members with teaser rates that only apply to one- or two-year memberships (including the bogus "initiation fee" which is waived if you sign on for a year, but costs you $150 (for nothing!) if you want to pay their higher month-to-month rate), all before even getting to the trainer's fees?

Even in spite of the crazy costs, I'll admit I was tempted to try and figure out how to pay for it all, because I'm totally sucked into the idea that if she helped my friend look as great as she does, then it HAS to work for me, right? (Right?? Sure, there's the little matter of the hard work, and physical endurance, but hey, how hard could it be... ). But for now, it's probably not the best option for the family budget.

Goodbye for now, awesome trainer and swanky gym. Hello, late-night infomercial order of "The Firm."

Before I knew you

Baby's moving on up. To a bigger car seat.

Our little tiny baby has neared that line where he's almost outgrown his infant car seat - those buckets o' baby you always see new parents proudly toting around - and is ready for a convertible.

For the uninitiated (you know, those people who aren't sitting on their couches blogging about car seats at 11 p.m. on a Friday night while the post-college group house next door plays beer pong outside your windows), a "convertible" car seat is stage two, the kind that start out rear-facing and then can be swapped around toddlerhood to forward-facing.

What does this mean? Well, a turn once again to the bible of mothers-to-be and new mothers everywhere, that indispensible guide known as "Baby Bargains." Never read it? Just look around the next time you're in Babies 'R' Us buying a shower gift. I'll give you five bucks if you don't spot at least three pregnant women toting them around the store.

In flipping through my very dog-eared, written-all-over copy in the quest for the Ultimate Convertible Car Seat, I happened to be going through the index. There I spotted a listing for Dreft.

Again, for the uninitiated, this is specialty baby-friendly clothes detergent that new parents can't fight the compulsion to use on baby clothes.

But tonight, in seeing the word Dreft, I was suddenly transported to sitting in my living room, just a little more than a year ago, very pregnant. We had just put the final finishing touches on Baby's room, from setting up all his stuffed animals in his crib, to lining up the diapers in the new lined wicker baskets I'd purchased to set on top of his dresser/changing table, to hanging the shelves holding the classic children's books and stuffed versions of their characters that my sister-in-law had purchased for him, from the Cat-in-the-Hat to Babar to Rainbow Fish.

And yes, we had just washed his very first sets of clothes, in Dreft, and I had just folded them and spent time trying to figure out how to best organize these tiny little garments. I was partially caught up in the organizing, but mostly marveling and overwhelmed at the very idea that there would soon be a little person who would be wearing them.

For some reason, the mere mention of the word Dreft tonight sent me back, and had me feeling incredibly nostalgic for those last few weeks of our pregnancy. Standing in that quiet, perfectly neat and pretty little room that seemed so ready to receive its new owner close to a year ago, I remember anticipating all that was to come, and feeling excited, afraid, overwhelmed, terrified, prayerful and hopeful all at the same time. In a way, I still miss that strange and wonderful time. I still cherish those moments of anticipation, of hope of a person I did not yet know.

And I cherish the person I know now even more.

It Takes a Village to Fly a Child

I've been bad about posting lately. I'm sorry.

(Random recovering nonprofit executive tip: You will use the phrase "thank you," "please," or "I'm sorry" in every single conversation you have. And sometimes all three. Saidreallyfasttogetherallatonetime. Apparently, this may hold true in blogging. And life.)

That said, I do have a good tale to tell of Baby's first plane ride, and Mommy's first threat to take recreational valium. Baby and I took a Mommy-Son trip to Boston this weekend to see dear friends whom we miss a lot, which included ridiculouschick, with whom we were able to join for an engagement celebration.

However, it involves detail to be told correctly, so I will be taking a play out of City Mouse's handbook and her mini-series-esque tale of her move from Washington to the Great White North. Very soon. I promise.

To whet your appetite, highlights included the discovery of an expired driver's license at check in, and having to try and brace the college age dude with the unfortunate luck of sitting in the middle seat next to me for the wonders of breastfeeding.

Excellent.

Jane, stop this crazy thing!

That image of George Jetson running on the ridiculously accelerating treadmill has been a metaphor for my life in the past (you know, like when I lived in space) but never so much as lately.

I have no idea how parents with more than one kid do it.

We have a very good baby, with a good temperment and generally all-around sunny disposition (thank you, C.). He's sleeping - mostly, save for a few teeth waging war with his gums.

But we are exhausted. Absolutely, totally exhausted. Like can't get out of bed in the morning, and drag ourselves into it again at night. Everything in between? Great big blur.

Will one of you parents out there please assure me that there will be a day, even if it's in the distant future, that we won't feel like we're in this fog? That there will be a time when we return to some semblance of normal that isn't restricted to get up, go to work, feed/eat dinner, go to bed, with the occasional load of laundry thrown in for the occasional giggle?

I know, I know, I'm supposed to find those special moments in life in the process, as part of the journey, blah blah blah. But people, I sleep on planes. Almost always. I'm not so good on the journey part of things.

And for treadmills, I'm more of an outdoor runner, where I can easily vary my speed and surroundings.

OK, the metaphors are now out of control, and this is starting to sound like the whiny ramblings of a crazy person. Or at least a really, really tired one.

Parents, feel free to chime in with advice, quityerbitching remarks, or just general tomfoolery to remind me that there is plenty of humor in simply watching the dog await manna-like Cheerios falling from above. I promise I will appreciate it all, just as soon as I come to.

Baby training

I've often referred to having a dog as being really good training for having/raising a baby. And it is.

The only problem is when you hear your dear husband ask the baby if he wants to go out (a.k.a. for a walk in the stroller) or if he'd like a chew toy (a.k.a. a teething ring).

Perhaps the training (of us) is a little too good.

An explanation of the soul of a Jersey girl

Sometimes, you read something that just explains who you are, right down to your core.

Growing up on the Jersey shore, I have a passionate allegiance to my state, and particularly to the area in which I grew up. In that area, it's almost blasphemous not to have at least a basic appreciation for a certain Boss.

That said, there are those who have only experienced the "Born in the U.S.A." Springsteen (and yes, you know who you are). Or who only know the one that shows up on the cover of Rolling Stone.

Yes, I am a fan of his music. A huge fan. But I am even more of a fan of his ability to put pictures into words then into music, all at the same time, with such ease and authenticity.

But I just read Springsteen's N.J. Hall of Fame acceptance speech, and was overwhelmed by how much it describes what New Jersey means to me, and to my love for all things Jersey, good and bad.

What particularly sang to me was this:

"So anyway . . . you get a little older now, you get those crisp fall days that come in September and the beginning of October. My friends and I, we slip into that cold water of that Atlantic Ocean. These days, you take note that there's a few less of your friends swimming alongside of you as each year passes.

But something about being in one place your whole life, they're all still around you, in the water. And I look towards the shore, and I see my son and my daughter, pushing their way through the waves, and on the beach there's a whole batch of new little kids running away from the crashing surf. Like time itself.That's what New Jersey is for me. It's a repository, now, of just my time on earth. My memory, the music I've made, friendships, my life, it's all buried here, at this point, in a box, somewhere in the sand, down on the Jersey Shore. And I can't imagine having it any other way."

That is what New Jersey is to me.

If there's a "before"...

I chopped the bulk of my hair off recently.

Someone asked me why today, and I replied very matter-o'-factly, "I looked in the mirror, and realized I bore a striking resemblance to those "before" pictures you see in makeover stories."

The haircut was a good first step, but at a GW event I was at today, a "business attire" lecture by Stephen Hawking, I realized that the rest of the image - make-up (or lack thereof), yellowed teeth, frumpy shapeless sweater and too-big black pants (because I broke the zipper on the almost-fit-slightly-too-small-but comfortable other black pants I usually go for) - still needs a lot of work.

You know it's bad when you're the least stylish person in a room full of astrophysicists.

It's a lot

One of the funny things I've noticed about motherhood is just how overwhelming it can be. That's in both a good and bad way.

As I rocked Baby to sleep in the glider tonight, after reading "The Cat in the Hat," I found myself getting all choked up, and then crying. Part of it was because I can't believe he's almost eight months old already. The sight of the little stuffed "Special Delivery" stork in his room brought me to tears. How has it been so long already? And how did I get so lucky to be his mom? How did we get so lucky to be his parents? Talking to my pregnant friend/co-worker today, who has a due date just about a year after ours, I can't believe how much more intense and emotional I feel now, and how all that kicking and moving around I felt wasn't a separate, different being. It was Baby, the little person we're still getting to know, and getting to love more each minute. And I didn't think that was possible.

I so used to mock motherly sentiments like this, and always shook my head at friends who told me, "Oh, you'll understand some day." OK, you were right. All of you. I hereby rescind my mocking.

But on the flip side, it's hard. It's a constant treadmill, with very few, if any, breaks. There's always another place you're supposed to be, another bottle to wash, another pumping session to make sure there are enough bottles tomorrow, another pick up to desperately try not to be late to, another bag to pack and prep.

And then there's the emotion. Worries about family, and the job. Missing my friends, who I can't seem to even find a decent 15 minutes to make a quick phone call to, and suddenly six months has gone by. Wanting to reach out to everyone at once, and feeling like I'm not doing a good job for any.

As C. said tonight, as he very kindly prepared dinner as I fed and prepped Baby for bed, "It's a lot."

It is. I love it all, and struggle with it all. A lot.

Actually

C. recently came to the conclusion that he and I both overuse the word "Actually" an insane amount.

He pointed this out during our basement cleaning marathon Sunday. No, we don't, I protested.

And then proceeded to use "actually" in at least four instances in the next hour.

Actually, maybe he's right.

Catching up

I'm sorry I've been away. It's been quite a week and a half.

Here then are the Cliff's Notes:

Thursday: Go to neurosurgeon consultation to see what's up with Baby's big head. Thankfully, the surgeon arrogantly dismisses us, which our pediatrician later shows me is a very good thing (you want specialists to be bored and uninterested), but which does result in me having a near meltdown when the front desk staff treats me as if I'm bothering them when I ask them to check their fax machine for Baby's charts.

Friday night: Just as we're about to jump into the car to head to Jerz to throw my dad a surprise birthday party, C. gets a call. Very sad news. His grandmother has taken a turn for the worse, and is nearing the end of her life. We need to go see her. Tonight.

Friday night, later: We detour to western Maryland, and thankfully have a chance to see Mom-Mom. She's not awake, but I think she knows we were there. And Baby was able to give Chris' mom some relief.

Friday night/Saturday morning: Arrive in New Jersey. Collapse.

Saturday: Spend all day acting like nothing's going on, while secretly prepping for Dad's party.

Saturday morning: Chris gets the sad call that his grandmother has passed away. She was 90, almost 91, and a very cool lady.

Saturday afternoon: We stay through, because there's nothing we can do back in Md., but also because the party is that night.

Saturday evening: Finally get Dad out of the house with Bro #2 and C. to play golf. Clean like madwomen with Mom and sisters-in-law.

Saturday night: Surprise! Thankfully, everything goes as smoothly as a crazy surprise party can. Dad is happily surprised.

Sunday, 2 a.m.: Good Lord, how are we all still awake? And who drank all that Ketel One?

Sunday: Drive to Maryland. See family. Be sad. Return to Va. to unpack, repack, and plan for the week.

Monday morning: Go to work, explain that I'm doing as much as I can in a few hours, then heading out.

Monday afternoon: Head back to Md., hopefully in time for the 3 p.m. viewing.

Monday evening: Go to viewing, then back to my mother-in-law's house for food. Marvel at the machine that is the church ladies feeding team. Unbelieveable. Head back to funeral home for evening viewing. Return. Collapse.

Tuesday: Get everybody up and out to funeral at the nursing home. Marvel at how life can be summed up in a few words, some flowers and thankfully the many, many people who cared deeply about you. May we all live so long with so many people who love us.

Tuesday afternoon: After trip to Pa. cemetery, and a sad final goodbye, return to mother-in-law's. Devour any food that dares get into our path.

Tuesday evening: Stay at in-law's. Amuse with baby whenever possible.

Wednesday morning: Get up. Get packed. Get dropped off at work.

Thursday-Friday: Work, including evening events.

Saturday: Thankfully, nothing. Lots of it.

Sunday: Cook (OK, C cooked), clean, grumble at one another about WHY WE DIDN'T DO THIS YESTERDAY, frantically dart around like waterbugs trying to get cleaned up, Baby dressed, us all out the door to church and back again to welcome in-laws for Easter dinner. Change plans midstream, to go with a divide and conquer strategy: I'd take Baby to church why C. finishes house. The reasoning was sound, and the dear Lord would understand, for good reason, as C. so eloquently stated: "I fear the wrath of God, and the wrath of my relatives. And one of them is much more forgiving." Have Easter dinner, to include an incredibly good meal of horseradish and garlic encrusted prime rib roast. Smile in amazement at Baby's ability to light up everyone's faces even in the saddest of times. Say a prayer of thanks.

So that's what's been up. More to come on my education on all things Baltimore, of what a cool grandmother my husband had, and the definition of a club basement.

Virtually bumping into one another

I've spent this morning, when BabywithaCold decided on a blissful (for both of us) hour-long nap, to kick around with some of the social bookmarking sites.

I write about this stuff all the time, but don't do a great job of using it. Translation: I have a facebook account, but unless I look a lot like a silohuette with a question mark in it, I don't think I've uploaded a photo.

But as some of the old new media gets upgraded to new new media, I'm starting to realize there are some new rules in this strange new frontier of etiquette and plain old human relations.

For example, I've used Yahoo! mail since the dark ages of the mid-nineties. They now offer an instant messaging feature, which includes anyone who's listed in your address book to pop up on an IM list. I use IM all the time, but it's mostly with people I work with, and those I still wish I worked with. I don't even use it with very close friends, who are still more the e-mail or cell phone types.

So when I look at my list of available IM people, and see high school friends I haven't spoken to since, well, high school, I'm tempted to say "Hi!" but then stop myself when I suddenly feel like the creepy stalker spammer schmoo.

I love reconnecting with old friends and colleagues, but it was so much simpler when the way to do that was it was at the bar at a conference, or at the local Safeway or ShopRite. It just seemed more natural, and you always had some sort of out like, "Oh, look, I need a refill on my drink!" graceful exit.

Somehow, once I get past the initial, "Hi, X! How are you?" I feel like I'm in creepy stalker, now-what? territory.

But then again, maybe the chance to reconnect and just say hi is enough after all.

Culinarily Illiterate

I'm culinarily illiterate.

That doesn't just mean I don't like to cook, or that I'm not a very good cook (although I'm not). It means I'm terrified of the kitchen.

The problem is that I not only married someone who loves to cook and who happens to be very talented at it, but who also comes from a family where food isn't just a passion, but an actual dialect. It's how you tell someone you love them. It's how you connect and share substance. The amount of care you put into planning a meal is a direct correlation to how much you care about the people you serve it to.

I come from a family where food wasn't all that important. For us, food is more sustenance than an expression of love. So the fact that yes, if I'm tired, a bowlful of Life cereal and milk seems like a perfectly acceptable dinner to me just does not compute for my poor spouse. Why is cooking so hard and frustrating for me, when it's one of the most sincere ways to him to show how much he cares?

The only people who truly understand this fear of cooking are other culinary illiterates. For people who like to or who are good cooks are completely confounded by this concept. Can't you read a recipe, they ask? Have you tried to learn? Why don't you like it?

Here's the thing: Culinary illiterates don't have the basic building blocks, so trying to follow any sort of blueprints don't make any sense to us. It's like trying to learn how to read without first knowing the letters of the alphabet. For me, it's like what happened to me in high school math. I never really got algebra II and trig, which made calculus a painstaking experience for me

This is what I mean. It's not that I don't know how to make a recipe. It's the things that AREN'T written in the recipe that terrify me. When do you cover the pot, or remove the cover? How do you get the oil to the right temperature so that you don't splatter it all over the @#$#$% stove and damn near start a grease fire every time you attempt to cook something? Are frozen shrimp actually cooked, or not? And can you refreeze shrimp, or will you run the risk of killing your family with some sort of evil food virus that you don't know about because you're culinarily illiterate???

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

That's exactly it. I don't know what I don't know, and it stresses me the heck out. What's relaxing for some has the exact opposite effect on me, and frustrates me to the point of tears. I need to do something to get over it. Maybe I'll look into a class. I'll have to do that. Just as soon as I put out this #$#$%$ grease fire.

Stupid, stupid, stupid

I'm tired.

And no, not because of the logical reason that has something to do with a six-month old. No, I'm tired because I'm not so smart.

I (stupidly) stayed up way too late. Partially because I was watching the Oscars, but moreso because I was accomplishing a few things, and it's very easy to get give into the desire of doing things when the baby's sleeping, because it's easy and oh so productive, but you know you're going to pay for it the next day.

Which makes you write in long, run-on sentences like that one. Which is great when you have a bunch of stuff to write at work today while you're really tired which means all of your stories are going to be really unnecessarily long and your editor is going love you because of all the editing the editor then has to do since your stories don't say anything other than lots of words, stuck together and pasted onto a page. I'd make a funny comment here about being William Faulkner but it just took me 10 minutes to remember his proper name, instead the moniker I was going to go with, which was "You know, that guy who wrote the long, run-on, crazy book about the bear, what was it called again, oh yeah, "The Bear," you know, the one from high school or college English class, which one was it again? Oh, oatmeal! I have oatmeal in my desk drawer! I'm going to go make some oatmeal..."

Yeah, it's going to be a productive day.

Dear Universe, I Get It, XOXO, Me.

I'm struggling at work right now, trying to dig myself out of some holes I've gotten into while trying not to fall into upcoming holes in the process. Ah, the cycle of fun.

To try and catch up, I worked late, to see if I could somehow get ahead of the snowball for just a few minutes (I didn't). When I told C. this, he, with the best of intentions, read me the riot act, explaining on how I was missing out on time with Baby (I was) and that time with my family is more important than any job (it is). And that he was just trying to help.

I tried to calmly explain that while I appreciated his helpful intentions (I did), he was really frickin' stressing me out further (he was). But I would do my best to get home soonest.

Still all wound up, while I was driving home, I turned on a sappy, way-too-soft-rock evening radio show that I hate to admit that I like (but do), in the hopes that I might unwind.

The song that came on? Harry Chapin's "The Cat's in the Cradle."

Dear Universe:

I get it.

xoxo,
me.

Georgetown Time Travel

I walked through the time the other night.

After dinner with a dear friend at Pizza Paradiso in Georgetown, I decided to walk down M Street to see if Lush was open, and if so, I'd buy some of their very cool, but very expensive, shampoo and conditioner. Besides, it was a nice night, and our dinner had been a quick one.

As I walked on that very nice night, the smells I encountered were like time travel. Maybe it was all the open windows and doors in the stores and restaurants. But suddenly, the smell of stale, old cigarettes wasn't bad, but a ticket back to high school gatherings in bowling alleys and the boys I wanted so badly to like me then. I thought of people I hadn't thought of in years, saw faces in my mind's eye as if I were passing them on the street. The smell of cigarette smoke reminded me of bowling alleys we hung out in during high school, when we couldn't sneak into any bars, and made me suddenly nostalgic for friends I hadn't seen or talked to in years, and even for the times and events of high school. This was particularly odd, as I didn't even like high school all that much. I didn't like the social structure, I didn't like myself very much, and I had a thimble full of the confidence than I have today (which, for anyone who knows me now, says a lot). But somehow, I suddenly missed driving to the beach while listening to the Cars, and playing miniature golf on the boardwalk with my crush of crushes in my little high school life.

I laughed when I passed the Izod store, with it's windows decked out in pique shirts with their collars up and whale print pants. Yeah, if they only knew we've so been there before.

As I passed Clyde's, the smell of stale beer didn't make me wrinkle my nose, but instead long for days lounging about at friends' fraternity houses, or running through the snow and the biting wind to wait on line to cram into six inches of space at 44's, where the music was too loud, the beer was cheap, the friends were there and there was always a hope of meeting and smiling at a cute boy. Who maybe, just maybe, might smile back.

A few Georgetown students walked by, talking to one another, trying to look so much older than their probably 20 years each, and I couldn't help but smile to myself. I'm still that high school kid in the varsity jacket, and that college kid with baggy sweater and jeans. And it's nice to go back and visit once and a while.

VH Wonderful

I'm sitting here, trying to pound out an article that I've needed to have done for two days, which should be a snap, but like all of the ones that should be a snap, oddly, they're not.

Adding to my distraction/procrastination/glee is the fact that I have VH1 Classic on in the background. After an excellent viewing of "Ghostbusters" (and no, I ain't afraid of no ghosts, in case you were wondering), what should happen to come on?

Pop Up Video, 80's Movie Songs editions.

Oh, great googley moogley. I'm never getting this story done.

"Ghostbusters"? I had no idea how many 80's superstars proclaimed their lack of spectral fear. Followed by Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone," Madonna's "Into the Groove" (yes, that was from "Desperately Seeking Susan"), Pyschedelic Furs' "Pretty in Pink," and that leg-warmer, steel welder, strobe lit, running in place classic "Maniac."

It's almost embarrassing how happy this is making me right now. Almost.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go make a mix tape, feather my hair, and set my Trapper Keeper by the door before I go to bed. And to all, a good night.

Washing the dog, washing the dog

In an e-mail exchange with a good friend of mine whom I hadn't caught up with in a while, he posed the following question: "On a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being 'not at all' and 10 being 'like, ridiculously,' how much has his arrival changed your life?"

Some days, it doesn't feel all that drastic. Hectic, a little crazier, but still manageable.

And then there are nights like tonight.

Today was Baby's first day with his new nannyshare set up, which we're thrilled to have found and which seems to be going well (knock wood). But still, I've learned that transitions from any form of daycare to another is hard, at least on the mother.

So it was a bit of a day as it was. But as I returned, unloading the 18 bags I now seem to travel with at all times (diaper bag, work bag, purse, breast pump, bag o' bottles to be cleaned and re-stocked, and in tonight's circumstance, a Babies 'R' Us bag and yes, that nectar of the gods, one (empty) Dunkin' Donuts bag and cup of D&D coffee), I stopped in my tracks immediately after I parked Baby in the living room. What ... is ... that ... smell?

Like every new mom, the immediate instinct is to shove one's nose into the diaper region. But in this case, nothing. Odd.

I then began the fool's quest of Where-Is-That-Smell-Coming-From?, which is a futile effort at best that at worst leaves you hyperventilating.

As I was crawling around the living room, sniffing this and smelling that, C. came in. I barely got in a "Hi, honey!" before I immediately enlisted him in my quest.

"Wait! Hold still! There it is!" I exclaimed.

Just then, the dog stopped in his tracks, and looked at us. C. immediately started giving him the nose over, and moments later, our culprit was identified.

Here's the odd part: Somehow, our basement door blew open during the day, not only leaving the house wide open and vulnerable, but allowing our dear (and very indoor) cat and dog to roam the neighborhood at their leisure.

During Wondermutt's adventures, he obviously found something very attractive, and likely very dead, to roll and flop around in. And then brought it back to the house (thankfully that he returned, not so much for the smell). And then proceed to lay on the rug. And the couch. And yes, on our bed. The pillows, specifically.

So, our evening, which should of consisted of play with baby, eat dinner, talk, go to bed, has now expanded to the following:

1. Watch and entertain baby.
2. Wash dog.
3. Sniff dog. Realize there are still miles to go to remove Eau de Dead Thing.
3a. Lather, rinse, repeat.
4. Continue entertaining baby, who's not so interested in dog's hygiene.
5. Drag hair dryer into kitchen.
6. Blow dry dog.
7. Alternate between entertaining baby who's not so interested in dog's hygiene and keeping now-quasi-dry dog off of the bed he so wants to lay on.
8. Strip bed.
9. Wash and dry comforter.
10. Change Baby's and Daddy's clothes, after Baby projectile vomits on Daddy while waiting for comforter and dog to dry.
11. Laugh at dog's frizzy 'do (talk about your bad hair day).
12. Light candle to try to exorcise dead thing stench that's now mixed with wet dog smell.
13. Marvel at how the Yankee Candle Company hadn't thought of Christmas Wreath Dead Thing Wet Dog scent all on their own.
14. Get Baby ready for bed.
15. Put Baby to bed.
16. Eat pizza that C. had kindly made, even after having to wash the dog and comforter.
17. Try to find humor in the fact that even with the best of intention of trying to clean up a bit, the house now looks worse than when we arrived home. But at least everyone is home, safe and sound.

From three steps to 17. Or, on the factor scale, "Like, ridiculously." Yep, that seems about right.

Back at it

So I began this blog with the best of intentions.

Then I had a baby. Then I went back to work. And then I slacked off.

But a strange confluence of events have lead me to begin posting again: Three of my friends (all of whom happen to be incredibly talented writers who's skills are transferring wonderfully to blogging) have jumped into their own blogs with great zeal, and one of my favorite daily reads is updating her site, and I live in fear of losing my cherished spot on ridiculouschick's blogroll.

So for these reasons, and many others, I'm back. More to come soon. Promise.