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Monday, April 30, 2007And So It Begins: Bradley Method Class OneIt's official: I haven't given up my plan to enjoy a completely natural childbirth experience. So last night Eric and I attended our first of six classes in the Bradley Method. It's a cool story, really. I met this amazing woman at the park last month (she has five children ages seven and under, and she's calm; that about says it all, don't you think?). Turns out she's a childbirth educator and doula, and...well, rather than sink money into a not-so-helpful hospital birthing class, we decided to support this terrific lady and sign up for classes at her home. It was just Eric and me -- the other couple had a last-minute conflict. Which was fine with me, since I hear the other mama's only 21 years old. That's, like, half of me. So having a week to acclimate myself without the pressure of feeling older was a good thing. We had a blast. And I came away from there feeling so affirmed. I mean, who knew that squatting was a skill? Evidently most American women lose their ability to squat, and have to be trained to do it as part of the Bradley technique. I happen to squat all the time, so we were able to skip that particular exercise. Ladylike, aren't I? But hey, it's going to help me give birth without medication. And wouldn't you know it, but my favorite sleeping position happens to be the best position for complete relaxation and comfortable labor. How lucky is that? So I guess I'm on a roll. Why, I even hoofed it to Publix this morning to buy a few things that I needed. It's about half a mile to the store, so a mile's walk was awfully good for building Birth Stamina, don't you think? The best part of the trip was when Jonathan appeared on his bike when I was still about three blocks from home. Having heard from his sisters that I had walked to the store, he immediately became concerned that the grocery bags would be too heavy for me to carry all the way home. So he came to my rescue, retrieving two of the bags and attaching them to his handlebars. My hero! Honestly, life doesn't get much better than moments like that. It'll be interesting, of course, to see how willing Eric is to practice our relaxation techniques every day. He was awfully cute during the class -- attentive, involved, witty as always. But without our teacher's watchful eye, will he rise to the cause? Remind me to do my pelvic tilts before bed? Work with me on relaxing to the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand? We'll see. Boy, am I loving this. This is by far the best pregnancy I've had, and I'm enjoying every moment. And to think that I'm going to have the wonderful experience of giving birth without medical intervention, without cranky nurses, without a needle in my arm or a fetal monitor slipped beneath my baby's scalp...well, it's overwhelming. I'm so blessed. And that's your official Pregnancy Update for the week. I'm admittedly tired after my late night (our class ran an hour late -- okay, so maybe the teacher and I both like to talk a bit much) and my jaunt to the grocery store. But I really want to put in some time on my children's story, since I'm fairly close to finishing it. So here's to staying awake on a gorgeous Monday afternoon. And here's to a gorgeous Monday afternoon to all of you as well! Labels: pregnancy Thursday, April 26, 2007Life Is GoodI've been in a funk for the past week or two over the fact that my long-laid plans to take my daughters to see the Nashville Ballet's production of Swan Lake never materialized. Not that Nashville Ballet is the be-all-end-all. It's not. They're good; they're the best we've got. But they're not great. Still, we enjoyed their performance of Sleeping Beauty a couple of years ago, and Swan Lake is a must-see for any budding ballerina. So when I learned that Swan Lake was on April's agenda, I set my heart on it. Eric, our finances, and a new baby on the way sort of changed things. The matinee performance I had so long dreamed about -- this coming Sunday, actually -- was no longer on my horizon. And it really stank. This morning I received yet another email-that-I-almost-always-chuck-without-opening from one of the local homeschooling groups I subscribe to. God is good, because I opened this one, and it was a reminder about tomorrow's field trip to see Swan Lake. Huh? Yeah, so maybe I miss things by not opening emails. Lesson learned. I popped over to the Yahoo group page to see what it was all about. And sure enough, there were seven tickets available. No woman on the planet has ever zipped off an email as quickly as I did. And I got 'em. I got the last three tickets. We're going to see Swan Lake tomorrow morning! And here's the best part: It only costs $7.00 per ticket. Homeschooling field trip groups are my new favorite thing. Have I mentioned that I'm a little bit excited about this? Forget that the carpet cleaners are coming tomorrow morning; Jonathan can handle them. Forget that I'll probably have to pee at least twice while I'm there; the bathrooms at TPAC are generally clean. Forget that I have no idea how to get there or where to park. That's what Eric's for. I'm taking my girls to see Swan Lake! Funny timing, too, because just this morning I was checking show times and ticket availability for the New York City Ballet's spring performances, since we're planning on taking the children to the city for a day while we're visiting my parents in June. How could I live with myself if I brought my daughters to NYC and failed to take them to a ballet performance? $60.00 a seat doesn't quite compare with $7.00, though, so I'm not so sure Eric will buy it. Even though I've assured him that it would be a Girl Only activity. He and the boys can run the streets for a couple of hours during the show. Or do something boring like take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. (I'm sorry. I just don't find the ferry ride and subsequent tour of the museum at the base of the Statue all that intriguing. I'd rather sit on a bench in Central Park and watch people. Seriously.) So. I'm happy. It's an unexpected gift. All I have to do now is figure out what to slip my pregnant body into for the affair. Something that goes with flip flops, of course. I'll let you know all about it tomorrow! Labels: homeschooling, life Tuesday, April 24, 2007Sharing My BirthdayIf I've got to share my birthday, I suppose it could be a lot worse than sharing it with Agent Jenny Rappaport's Blog, which turns one today. In honor of the day, Jenny is hosting a Sonnet Writing Contest. Pop on over to her blog to read my entry, along with all the others (some stiff competition there). And so today I celebrate the Nth anniversary of my thirtieth birthday. Eric took me out for breakfast this morning before work, which was absolutely the most wonderful, delightful, perfect thing he might've done. We ordered omelets. Mine had cheese, tomato, and mushrooms. Eric's had cheese, tomato, and ham. Halfway through our meal, we realized that we had each other's omelets. Guess the conversation was just that riveting. We swapped omelets, and I definitely got the short end of the stick. Eric eats faster than I do, so there was a lot less omelet on my plate after the swap. That's okay, though. I happen to know that he picked up a birthday cake for me last night at Wild Oats. It's hiding in the refrigerator. No, I haven't peeked. I can...feel it. It's chocolate. It calls to me when I pass through the kitchen. And now I've got to go do some ironing. "Don't do all that work today," Eric said. "It's your birthday. Don't do all that ironing." Pause. "Except my pants." Right. Happy birthday, where are my freshly pressed pants? Anyway, I suppose the breakfast makes up for it. I'm smiling, so I must be right. There's nothing quite like feeling utterly loved by the people who mean the most to you. I'd iron a hundred pairs of pants, just to have that feeling. No I wouldn't. But it did sound poetic while I was writing it. Labels: life, marriage, writing Monday, April 23, 2007Internet: The Bane of WritersI'm a long-time fan of Miss Snark's blog. She's sharp-tongued, savvy, quick, and has a heart of gold. (But beware: She is not for the faint of heart.) Recently, Miss Snark wrote a piece that included advice to writers to, basically, just shut down their Internet connection and WRITE, for goodness' sake. I felt myself prickling defensively on the inside because...well, because I think she's been peeking in my office window. My work habits are more akin to a divergent squirrel than a diligent writer. It's embarrassing. Not that I'm not devoted to my craft -- I am. It's just that it's far too easy to "click out" of my Word document in order to check email, my favorite agent and publisher blogs, my latest visitor stats...you get the idea. And I know I'm not alone. What's a distracted writer to do? Reverting to a typewriter is out of the question, and my computer is always connected to the Internet, unlike the olden days of dial-up. So it's either buck up and get some major self-discipline -- or bug Eric to buy me a laptop with nothing on it but a Word Processor and a Thesaurus/Dictionary. That should do it. To be fair to myself, I'm not a web-surfer-time-waster sort. I'm more of an information-gatherer-check-for-good-deals-on-Ebay sort. And the Ebay thing is seasonal, such as shopping for Christmas or the perfect summer maternity wear. As for the information -- well, I'm checking my writers' boards for information on agent response times, editors who've switched houses, etc. I'm checking my email to see if I've heard back from my sister or if my latest query has garnered a response. I'm checking my blog stats to see if I've picked up any interesting, regular readers. Like, anyone from NYC. 'Cuz, you know, that's where It All Happens, right? And wouldn't you know it. Miss Snark wrote, "Checking site meter stats to see if anyone from NYC is reading your blog is not writing." Ur...um...right. I knew that. Sometimes I really do redefine "dork." Thing is, I'm far too savvy to believe that agents and publishers actually scour the blog-o-sphere looking for the next bestselling author. They don't. (Did you all writer-types out there catch that?) Getting "noticed" is all about writing a darn good story and a first-rate query letter and sending it to the right people. I just like that warm, fuzzy feeling of knowing "someone in the Big Apple" or "someone on the West Coast" or "someone in the same state as the publisher who currently has several chapters of my novel on her desk" is reading my blog. Because I take my blog seriously (meaning, I strive to write well, not that I stick some sort of immeasurable worth on it). I don't blog to vent my pent-up emotions or to share the mundane minutiae of every hour of my life or to entice hapless agents to call me on my cell phone begging for more. Still, I really do need to adjust the timing of my blogging. Because, you see, any type of "serious" writing expends energy. And I tend to "blog first, work on books second," which is admittedly backward. So. I've got Miss Snark to thank for the kick upside the head. And I'm passing that kick along to all of my writing readers. The message: WRITE. You've got other responsibilities in life, whether it's raising your children or working a fulltime job or running your household or taking the car in for an oil change. When you do have your golden hour or thirty minutes on the computer, don't squander it. WRITE. And now I'm going to go take my own advice. Labels: writing Friday, April 20, 2007Ten StanzasYes, I'm crowing a bit. I've written an entire ten stanzas of my rhyming children's book this afternoon. Considering the way my writing's been going lately, that's incredibly productive. I'm happy. Add to the productive afternoon a good dose of sunshine, seventy degrees, and the fact that it's Friday, and you've got a recipe for Just Plain Awesome. All I need is something chocolate. And since we're heading shortly to downtown Franklin, that will be easily remedied. The Cocoa Tree is always ready and waiting to fulfill my deepest organic chocolate desires. May you have a joyful, soul-freeing weekend! Thursday, April 19, 2007Ban Me From the KitchenI have a new warning for pregnant women: Don't try new recipes until after the baby's born. Because we all know that those hormones drain the thoughts out of your brain like a sump pump in overdrive. I had a hankering for a nifty pasta and spinach salad. My usual trying-new-recipes method is to do a brief search online to get some good ideas, and then come up with my own recipe. It didn't take me long to concoct a passionate conglomeration of ingredients in my head, and I headed to the grocery store after dropping off my daughters at ballet. Who could resist a spinach-and-wagon-wheel-pasta salad, redolent of fresh lemon juice and minced garlic, tossed gleefully with grape tomatoes, black olives, red onion, marinated artichoke hearts, grated Parmesan, crumbled Feta, and -- as a special tip of the hat to my husband -- pine nuts. So I doused the pine nuts with olive oil and slapped them under the broiler while the water boiled. Then I promptly forgot about them. In the midst of grating cheese and slicing olives and stirring the boiling pasta, it occurred to me that something smelled odd. I thought maybe it was the permanent food crust that lives on my stovetop. But no. It was Blackened Pine Nuts a la Jillian. I was devastated. They were expensive. Eric is going to tease me mercilessly. And the entire downstairs smells like the residue from a kitchen fire. Still, I quickly regrouped and continued to toss the remaining ingredients in the bowl. I sliced open the container of Feta -- ah, I love Feta! -- and it looked blueish-green. This wasn't a good sign. In a fit of panic, I read the lid to confirm my suspicion. Yep. I had accidentally purchased crumbled bleu cheese. Two whole containers of it. Ask me if my children like bleu cheese. Now ask me if I'm going to tell them that the cheese in their pasta salad isn't Feta. Overall, the salad is beautiful, and even pre-soaking time, it tastes pretty darn good. Still, I think I would have been safer putting this one off. I think tomorrow night we'll order a pizza. Wednesday, April 18, 2007The Fifty Yard LineA strange analogy for someone who loathes football, but it's the first that came to mind. Today is my "official" (if there is such a thing) halfway mark for the pregnancy. Twenty weeks down. Twenty weeks to go. Little Girl is a feisty one. She doesn't just move around in there -- she dances. Seriously. I'm sure she's dancing. She especially loves to dance after I've had my morning coffee. Slowly but surely, all thoughts are turning toward welcoming Child Number Five. Dreams have turned from blue to pink, and I find myself getting all gooey over teeny-tiny pink things, like socks and drool bibs. I never thought I'd go all gooey over drool bibs again. Well, at least not until I became a grandmother. And while I'm in a rambly sort of mood, I simply must tell you that on Monday, not ten minutes after I'd posted my "Stupid Questions" diatribe, I called my midwife's office to reschedule my next appointment. I explained to the receptionist that I had an appointment scheduled for May 18 that I wanted to change to May 15. Her response? "Do you have a conflict?" Does it ever end? No, I don't have a conflict, ma'am. I'm just changing the appointment to screw up your schedule. Because I love wasting my time changing appointments just for the heck of it. Who hires these people? Really, I'm not in a perpetually ratty mood. I actually just had a delightful trip to Babies R Us to finish up my registry. I've got a new hair cut. The weather is actually warming up. And my daughters are finally -- finally -- showing real excitement about the new baby. I was beginning to think it would never happen. Life is good. Now if I could just focus my hormone-impaired mind and get some writing done, I'd be in excellent shape. Wish me luck. Monday, April 16, 2007Stupid QuestionsI tell my children that questions are good. It's how we learn. If we don't ask, we don't get answers. Right. Maybe it's my pregnancy hormones, but over the last few days I've had precious little patience for Questions That Should Not Have Been Asked. Scenario One: Eric and I went to Toys R Us to register for baby gear. There's a kind of a rush involved in aiming the rectangular zapper (a twenty-first-century version of a medical tricorder) at much-needed merchandise and not spending a dime. Of course, the trick is to first overcome the frustration of getting the whole thing set up at the customer service desk. I rose to the task to spare Eric the pain -- after all, he was good enough to agree to come in the first place. Miss Customer Service was (slowly) taking care of things. And in the midst of her rambly explanation of the system, she looked up at Eric and me and said, "Are you married?" Now, I know that enough couples "do things backwards" these days that hardly anyone blinks an eye. But seriously -- Eric and I are way married. Eighteen years of it, and I'm sure it shows. We wear big, fat wedding bands. We're not young, boho lovebirds who can't keep our hands to ourselves. We're....well, yeah, married. And I answered the poor gal with such incredulity in my voice that she was taken aback. "Well..." is all she mustered in the way of a response. The implication being, of course, "Not everybody is." Use your eyeballs, girlie. We're the epitome of Old Married Couple. Scenario Two: I returned to Toys R Us this morning to add a few more things to the registry (which was annoying to begin with, since the stuff I wanted to add wasn't on the web site). When I'd finished making my choices, I was given into the care of a customer-service-gal-in-training who didn't quite understand the system. Gal Number One gave her some instructions about finding my name on the computer. After a minute or so, the new gal looked up from her monitor and said, "Are you Brittany?" "No, it's Boehme," I said. "Jill Boehme." Pause. "That's B-O-N-E?" Hello. My last name was clearly displayed across the top of the medical tricorder. It did not say "Bone." I spelled my admittedly unusual name for the poor girl, who frowned and shook her head as though my response made absolutely no sense to her. Why do people like this work at customer services desks? Scenario Three: And I've saved the Biggest Stupid Question for last. It happened on Friday while I was at my midwife's. Sadly, I didn't get to see her this time. The midwifery practice is affiliated with a hospital that happens to be a teaching hospital, so it's crawling with embryonic nurslings and doctors-in-training and a slew of medical student-types at various stages of their grasp for a degree. Seeing one of them from time to time is a given. You get over it. So in walks a woman who introduces herself as a soon-to-be-real-nurse. This was strange enough, since usually the interns at the midwifery practice are training to be -- well, midwives. Last month I met an incredible gal who is going to make an awesome midwife some day. But I digress. After offering a clammy hand for me to shake, Ms. Pre-nurse looked me up and down and said, "So. Gaining weight?" If that isn't the stupidest opening question in the examination room of a midwifery practice, I don't know what is. I think my jaw audibly hit the floor. And it didn't get any better from there. Her next question was, "Is this your first baby?" Had she spent even twenty seconds perusing the small chart in her hands, she would have immediately discerned that this was, in fact, my fifth child. Hadn't she learned anything in nursing school? Step one: Glance over the patient's chart before you enter the examining room. She must have slept through that particular class. I wish I would have had the opportunity to evaluate her. I'd have given her a zero on bedside manner. I'm not even sure why she's interested in working in a people-care profession. She absolutely stank. Blame the pregnancy if you will, but my tolerance for stupid questions and a general lack of people skills is at an all-time low. Don't stick me in a room or at a counter with someone who doesn't know how to smoothly interact with the rest of the human race. As my belly expands and my lung capacity decreases, it's only going to get worse. Maybe I'd better let Eric do all the talking for a while. Friday, April 13, 2007It's a..............
 Girl! Stunned. Blindsided. Was absolutely certain it was going to be a boy. But....well, isn't she beautiful? I think I'm in love. Thursday, April 12, 2007Blindfolds and Bellies
  Yesterday was Eric's birthday, and it seemed like as good a time as any to pose for a "belly shot" with my sweetie. After all, I suppose we must preserve for posterity proof of "Eric on his 44th birthday with Pregnant Wife." There you have it, belly and all. Secondly, the blindfold. In honor of the day, the children and I blindfolded the Birthday Boy and took him on an adventure. He loved it, of course: center of attention, taken from place to place without knowing where we were going, etc. Except. Except that Eric has an uncannily accurate sense of direction. He almost always knew where we were going before we got there. Almost always. I tried to throw him off. I succeeded in getting him to Smoothie King without his having figured it out. He thought we were at Bread and Company. That sounds like a grand success until you realize that Bread and Company is extremely close to Smoothie King. He knew where we were, he just didn't know the exact location. How infuriating. At one point, I was driving along the road that leads to Best Buy. Eric, blindfolded, suddenly waved out the side window. "What are you waving at?" I asked. "Smoky Bones." All right. We were passing the restaurant Smoky Bones on the right -- at exactly the same moment when Eric was waving. How does he DO that? Still, we had a lovely day, rounded off with a romantic dinner for two at a delightful restaurant in downtown Franklin. I had a bowl of French onion soup followed by blue crab ravioli. How exquisite is that? It's always the simple things, isn't it? They make life worth living. Stay tuned for another Simple Thing -- tomorrow is Ultrasound Day! Big announcement forthcoming. Labels: family, life, marriage Monday, April 09, 2007I'm Married To the Lorax"Mister!" he said with a sawdusty sneeze, "I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues, And I'm asking you, sir, at the top of my lungs" -- he was very upset as he shouted and puffed -- "What's that THING you've made out of my Truffula tuft?"* Everyone knows that The Lorax is a thinly veiled environmental message. Still, it remains one of my all-time favorite Dr. Suess gems. I absolutely love reading it out loud. Now, reading The Lorax is one thing. Being married to him is quite another. Yes, I'm talking about Eric. You see, the unseasonable cold snap we've experienced over the past few days has inflicted upon my spouse a deep, psychological wound. Three nights in a row of Deep Freeze have left their mark on him -- and on our trees and shrubs. As in, dead leaves. Everywhere. And Eric, who seems to be spiritually tethered to the trees (a latter day Ent, perhaps), is vicariously feeling their pain. It's beyond ridiculous. I've watched him gazing mournfully out the back window during our morning coffee time, his eyes laced with agony for the languishing trees. I've listened to him lament, ad nauseum, about the plight of the poor spring flowers, the defiled bushes, the unhappy oaks. It was particularly bad while we drove to church on Sunday morning. Try as I might, I couldn't get Eric to get off the subject of the frost-damaged trees we passed along the way. "Eric will you please stop talking about dead things!" I finally said. "It's Easter!" His heart was not moved. "I speak for the trees," he said. Right. So pretty soon I guess he'll be lifting himself up by the seat of his pants and heisting himself through a hole in the smog, without leaving a trace. If that's the case, I'm wondering who will do the gardening. Honestly, I've been miffed by the stinky weather, too. I'm sure my lilacs, barely thriving as it is, have lost their opportunity to bloom this season. The trees do look rather pathetic, and I've had to fight hard to not succumb to gloominess on account of the stupid cold weather. (This is April in Tennessee, after all. It's supposed to be warm.) Gee whiz, though. At this rate, I'll be sending Eric to therapy sessions. "It's the trees. I...it's like I can hear them. Crying. Moaning. Like each leaf is a cell in my own body. I can feel them dying. Sometimes I see my wife's lips moving but I can't hear what she's saying. It's the trees. They're screaming so loudly inside my head. I just....I speak for the trees. You know?" Oy. *from THE LORAX by Dr. Seuss, copyright 1971 Friday, April 06, 2007Be Blessed
 A happy Easter Sunday and blessed weekend to you and your families. Thank you all for the privilege of allowing my words -- if even a few -- to slip into your minds, hearts, and lives. It's what writing is all about. Be blessed!
Thursday, April 05, 2007A Silly DistinctionJust a brief rant on a too-chilly Thursday: If you've spent any time hanging out at writers' communities online or reading the blogs of folks involved with the publishing industry at any level, you will sometimes discover a conversation on the difference between "author" and "writer." Aspiring novelists actually debate which one they should call themselves. Some people claim that one can only be called an "author" after one has been officially published. Tada! You get another bar on your collar. You're a full-fledged AUTHOR now! Oh, please. If one plays the piano, one is a pianist. If he graduates from college and starts playing professionally, he is a...pianist. It doesn't even get a capital "P." Now, if you're writing just to amuse yourself, or just to record memories for your children, or just because you don't know how to type, then you are certainly not an "author." (Though you may, of course, be considered the "author" of your family memoirs.) But if you are writing seriously; if you are slaving away at your first or second or twelfth novel; if you are actively pursuing publication while continuing to hone your craft in all ways possible -- well, if you want to call yourself an "author," you go right ahead. Foo on the elitists. Anyway, I once made the mistake of introducing myself as an "aspiring author" to a gal at our church who is a published novelist. Her response? She invited me to attend her upcoming writing classes. (Yes, I wanted to kick her.) Aside from the fact that her response was not only presumptuous, but rude (did I ask her for help? did I mention that I needed a writing class?), she obviously took the word "aspiring" to mean that I was trying to be an author. What I really meant is that I was trying to become published. There's a world of difference there. (Are you wondering what I think she should have responded instead? How about something like, "That's great! What do you write?" or, "How lovely to meet another writer," or, simply, "How nice.") So. I write. I take it seriously. And the next time someone asks me, I won't add the word "aspiring" to it (which sounds too close to "perspiring" at any rate). Are you an "author" or a "writer?" Be both, or be either. You won't get any grief from me. Labels: writing Wednesday, April 04, 2007Ugly With a Capital "U"I'll be the first to admit that, back in my 20s and early 30s, I had no sense of style. None. I seriously cringe when I look at photographs of myself. Who is that shapeless, aesthetically void woman? is the question that pops to mind. I never really thought about it, you see. Oh, I thought about a few things, like favorite colors and such. But in retrospect I can say that I was dressing to please others. "Others" as in "My Mom." Not that this was done on any kind of conscious level. It's just that my mom has always dressed very conservatively and largely uninterestingly. She'd rather "blend in" than make a style statement. I love her dearly and wouldn't trade her for the world, but it took me almost forty years to realize that I don't want to "blend in," and that I do have a style statement to make; not to please others, but simply to express myself and Who I Am. Now, this is a lot easier to accomplish when one is in a decidedly un-pregnant state. And while it's true that maternity clothing in the last three or four years has done a remarkable turn-around, it's still relatively difficult to find cute, trendy maternity clothes without spending truckloads of money on obscure web sites and local specialty stores. Eric is going to confiscate my bank card if I'm not careful. Anyway, I went out on an Emergency Maternity Outfit Hunt yesterday afternoon. Why? Well, it's this dang directing-the-choir-on-Easter thing. I don't want to stand up in front of all those peoples and look like an off-kilter sack of potatoes. So I thought I'd hit a few stores that tout "maternity" as one of their departments. Oh. Goodness. Me. I don't think I've ever seen such ugly clothing in my life. Granted, my hopes were abnormally inflated due to my state of desperation. I unequivocally hate department stores and usually avoid them. But I knew that J. C. Penney and Sears were the most likely to have clothing-for-women-with-expanding-bellies, so off I went. And it's amazing that I didn't throw up right there in the store. We're talking UGLY. UGLY as in big-splotchy-prints-from-hell in gawd-awful color combinations. Shapeless shirts that looked as though they might double as gas grill covers. Bits of fabric labeled "sleeveless smock" that looked like leftover E.R. scrubs with the sleeves removed. I'm sorry. It's an affront to pregnant women everywhere. Maternity clothing should certainly be affordable, but to remove from it every vestige of beauty, of self-respect? It's appalling. My most delightful experience occurred at Macy's. Having spotted the word "maternity" on their store directory, I began to peruse the endless rows of women's clothing, but came up empty. Finally, I asked a sales clerk where I might fight the elusive maternity department. "Oh, we don't have maternity. I know it's on the sign..." I don't normally glare at sales clerks, but this gal got my most whithering rendition. "Yes, it is," I said. I hope she got the full effect of my dramatic sigh as I walked away. So I ended up buying a sweater top at Target, which had been my first stop. (You know that saying, "Stop while you're ahead?" It's been tormenting me since yesterday.) I don't love the top, but I don't hate it. And it goes well with my white prairie skirt. I am completely through with stressing over what to wear on Sunday. Naturally we are entering an unseasonable cold snap, and I will be freezing my lil' fanny off this weekend. After all that I went through to find the Perfect Spring Maternity Outfit, the weather fluke is par for the course. Anyway, I've just self-medicated by purchasing a darling Gap maternity halter top on Ebay. And I'd better look darn sexy in it, or Eric will confiscate my bank card, for sure. It ain't easy being pregnant. But I wouldn't trade it for the world. Labels: pregnancy Monday, April 02, 2007I Write, Therefore I Need a MacBook ProWell, it's only fair. Eric has one. I think that he and "MacBoy" have a kind of symbiotic relationship going on. (Not that I really want to know.) I've got a good list of reasons why I need to have a MacBoy, too. Want to hear them? 1. MacBooks are the new "cool tool" for real writers. Seriously. Why, I'd fit right in. 2. Since much of my time with Eric is now spent with MacBoy on his lap and a glazed look in his eye, I would at least be able to IM him or something on my own MacBoy. It might foster a hint of real intimacy. Maybe. 3. I could write anywhere. The screened-in porch, McCreary's Pub, Starbucks, the beach, the toilet. Imagine my increased productivity. (I shouldn't have typed that last sentence after the word "toilet.") 4. Did I mention it's the new "cool tool" for real writers? 5. I wouldn't have to listen to Eric's silly rants about Why Bill Gates Is The Antichrist anymore. We'd be on the same team. Comrades. Fellow Mac-odians. 6. The glowing apple is really neat. So is the little light that snores when MacBoy is in standby mode. (You didn't know that MacBoy snores? Oh, what you've been missing.) 7. People would see me with my MacBoy in public places and automatically assume that I was a Real Author. I could practice smiling mysteriously while raising one eyebrow. 8. My children would stop favoring their father just to grab a turn on MacBoy. Anyway, it's not going to happen. Not this year, anyway. I'll have to keep plugging along on my e-machine-with-Sony-monitor. And I'll have to find some other way to get Eric's attention when he's idolizing his MacBoy instead of endlessly doting on his wife. I'll have to think of another (cheaper) way to be a Cool Writer. Or not. |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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