For Bash

Sebastian is our first child, our furry golden god of the passenger seat. He has protected us and our home, cheered us up when we have succumbed to self-pity, kept watch over us while we were sick, and been a good sport about toddlers flopping all over him. He’s enjoyed rousing games of Frisbee, hide and seek, and find the binky (where it was usually found under his tongue). In his youth, there were many, many good walks that we never would have taken had he not plopped the leash in our laps and gently suggested we all needed some exercise. In fact, he often wandered over and placed his big head on our knees to remind us that we were staying up too late or had forgotten to eat, in an effort to keep us as healthy as possible. Perhaps most generously, in deference to my obsession, he has never once chewed up any shoes—even the fine leather ones, though he has masticated his fair share of toy cars and done some unmentionable things to a number of throw pillows.

At thirteen, his big, furry body just couldn’t contain all the goodness he’d built up, and it was time for him to move on to the next phase in his plan. Thank you for all the good times, Bash. Don’t worry about us; you taught us as much as we were ready to learn. We’ll miss you, buddy. Remember, you’ll always be “Our Sunshine.” We know you are happy—wherever you are.

Sebastian "Golden Boy" 1995-2008

Fashion Roulette

This is what I call the third trimester of pregnancy-- when the daily lumber from the bathroom to the closet is filled with trepidation. Will the item I wore last week still fit? Is it possible that I have outgrown my granny panties? Will my recently purchased industrial strength bra accommodate my chest, or should I simply carry my breasts around like misbehaving puppies?

Currently, my place of employment is burgeoning with glowing soon-to-be-moms. They are all surprisingly well dressed, which sort of makes me look bad since I was the queen of “Yeah-These-Are-My-Husband’s-Pajamas-Don’t-Bug-Me-About-It-Or-I-Will-Give-You-A-Tonsilectomy-With-My-Fist.” As these moms approach their third trimester, I look forward to some creative fashion forward ideas, like shoe wear brought to you by Glad Garbage Bags to house swollen feet and shawls by Wamsutta.

Ah…pregnant women everywhere, may the fashion gods be with you. And may the lycra in your granny panties stretch.





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Flirting Rituals of the Adolescent

This exchange was overheard at the beginning of class today. In order to capture the adolescent in its natural habitat, I posed as a "teacher," which is something the adolescent views as a cross between a human and a house plant. The conversation is transcribed virtually word for word.

Young woman: Hi.

Young man: Hi.

YW: How was your weekend?

YM: Mmmm…okay.

…

YW: Mine was pretty good.

YM: Oh. Good.

YW: Hey! Did you get a haircut?

YM: No.

YW: Oh. I thought you did.

YM: No.

YW: Because your head looks…rounder today.

YM: Rounder?

YW: It looks good round.

YM: My head looks rounder??

YW: In a good way!

YM: Oh…thanks.

YW: You’re welcome.



Geez. Why don’t they just get a room??

But seriously, don't you just adore young love? (However, I think a course in flirting may be in order or human life on this planet may come to an end.)

My Dirty Little Secret

I dread going to the dentist. Dread. It. Not because of the cleanings. Not because of the occasional cavity. Not even because of the Novocain shots. I dread the confession time. I cringe when the dentist looks at me over those enormous goggles and asks, “How often do you floss?” because I have a dirty little secret: I don’t. Ever.

I know, I know—you are recoiling in horror. So did one of my coworkers. For some, flossing is as important a part of their daily hygiene as bathing. The thought of going a day without flossing causes these people to gag and claw at their throats. However, I was somehow born without the flossing gene. One of my parents must be missing that rung of the DNA ladder.

So, I skip it.

Which is why I have two little cavities between my teeth.

Now that I know my dentist and I are going to be spending some quality time together in a couple of weeks, I have been thinking about other cool procedures he could perform on my soon-to-be-anesthetized mouth, and I have hit upon a potential prospect: Zoom Whitening. I have been fascinated with this bleaching technique ever since Jon and Kate of Jon and Kate Plus Eight had their teeth whitened. I mean, I drink a lot of coffee, but even my coffee intake cannot compare to what the parents of eight children consume. Their teeth looked fabulous after the bleaching. Like rows of tiny dominoes. (By the way, the dentist who volunteered to do that? Genius marketing move on her part. I bet her Zoom Whitening client base tripled after that episode.) Besides, I hear that whitening one’s teeth makes one look younger. I want to see if this is true…not for myself, of course. I am doing this as an experiment for my blog readers. Because I am a giver.

Cross your fingers for me!

F- Jute!

If jute is so often touted as being a "natural, fast-growing, sustainable material," then it bloody well ought to be cheaper when it is made into rugs because dog vomit and sippy cup drips don't come out of the damn things!

Note to all: Despite the appealing photos in Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware catalogs, DO NOT BUY JUTE RUGS if you have a pet, child, or husband. Actually, if you have FEET, you may want to reconsider this purchase.

I Guess Men CAN Have Babies?

I need to stop watching television. Last night I saw a show about two women who both miraculously survived ectopic pregnancies which burst their fallopian tubes. The placentas of their fetuses attached to other internal organs within their abdominal cavities and the fetuses began to grow outside the womb.

And now I? Am never having sex again.

I think I threw up in my mouth a little bit. No more medical shows for me.

What Platelets and Semen Will Get You

As long as this exterior remodel of our house has led me to reevaluate my financial goals, I figure I may as well start a therapy fund for the boys. Let’s face it, there’s no way they are going to reach adulthood without some major blow to their psyches--probably because of something I did. I may as well start stock piling for the inevitable analyst fees now. I mean, one of them is sure to have a foot fetish because they always accompany me while I shoe-hunt. Josh, at age four, already has definite opinions about shoe wear. Lately, he has favored his snow boots. Yes, I know it is August, but he is insistent that nothing completes his mini-soccer ensemble like a pair of puffy, black snow boots. Laugh if you will, but I am convinced that this is how Uggs started. (That? Right there? Is a foot fashion I have never understood. I’m fairly certain that Ugg is short for “ugly.” If you own a pair, I’d love to know what drew you to them because they fall into the realm of “fashion mystery” to me.)

Speaking of mysteries, I recently stumbled across a show on Discovery called Medical Mysteries. It is a documentary series about people who have strange symptoms that their doctors either misdiagnose or can’t seem to diagnose. The premise of each episode typically involves an afflicted patient going from doctor to doctor-- often for months-- getting progressively worse with new, unexplained symptoms until one is absolutely sure the patient is going to die. Finally, the nearly dead patient ends up being seen by some doctor who puts all of the pieces of the puzzle together at the last possible moment and figures the whole thing out, saving the near-comatose person. The problem, of course, is that I end up thinking I have all of the bizarre illnesses identified on the show. To date, I am suffering from an out of control thyroid, an infection of my arterial walls, and a leak of my spinal fluid. I’m even half convinced my prostate is enlarged. Clearly, I cannot watch any more medical shows or I may grow testicles and they will become critically inflamed.

However, one good thing did come out of watching Mystery Diagnosis. One of the patients was wearing a pair of great looking Frye boots. I think they are Frye Villager lace ups. They aren’t this season, but they do have a certain classic appeal. Take a look and see what you think. If I were suffering from a rare, unexplained illness, I do hope I would be carried into the ER wearing something along these lines paired with an almost knee-length A-line skirt and chunky silver jewelry.

When Scott gets back from donating his blood and semen (Cheryl!), I may have to send him out to contribute more hemoglobin so’s I can gets me a pair of these!

Will Work For Michael Kors

Though the wittle and daub suggestion for sealing the rotting window sill and surrounding casing was an interesting one (Kristy!), I am all out of animal dung and, as we all know, wittle and daub just doesn’t adhere well without a good dose of dung. Looks like I’ll need to replace that window after all.

The architect dropped off the plans for the exterior remodel, and they look fan-tas-tic. They involve building a new gable, building a new stone column at the entry way, adding stonework to the exterior, replacing the siding with cedar and shingles, installing new gutters, replacing the bay windows, replacing the front windows, installing two sets of French doors, removing a beam above the front door and relocating it to the attic, replacing the garage door, replacing the front door, installing new shutters, and installing new windows in the kitchen where there is currently wall. This will be a phase-in plan that will take us about seven years to complete. Each year, we will tackle and pay for a new portion of the project, which will be a little easier on the pocketbook…and my credit.

You know what this means, right? Fewer shoes. Dear Lord, just typing that phrase made the breath catch in my throat a little. I am trying to control the rising hysteria. I mean, autumn is approaching, and I need new leather boots. And I can’t just get basic black, either. I’ll need brown, too. Chocolate is the new black, I hear. My old boots are getting ratty and have the pointy toes, and pointy toes were so last year. Heck, pointy toes were TWO YEARS ago.

I foresee a situation where I am plastered against the shoe stores on Michigan Avenue, drooling on the glass. (sigh….)

Well, there’s only one thing to do: sell my body. And by “body,” I mean organs. Hmmmm…what is the function of a gallbladder? Do I need it, or is it one of those organs that are thrown in there for aesthetics, like the appendix? And which organ is it that spontaneously regrows? Is that the liver? Looks like that organ could be a cash cow!