Counting Down One Hundred Days

or: Yes, I'm Pregnant!

and more than just a little bit, at that.  This was taken at about 25 weeks.

First things first: sorry about the long silence!  But it turns out that I'm really terrible about not mentioning the pregnancy while I blog, and since we wanted to keep it under wraps for a good long while, the easiest thing for me to do was... not blog.  But I'm glad to be back!

Second things second: let's answer the Most Popular Questions!

-My due date is November 12th, one hundred days from now, although I have a hunch it will be sooner.
-Yes, we know the sex: we're having a boy!
-No, we don't have a name picked out yet.  We have a list of names, and we'll choose once we meet our son.  That's going to be irrelevant on here, however, as we've been calling him Neeps and I shall continue to do so in all public forums, just as I do with all my underage associates.
-"Neeps" came about during our trip to Scotland this past May*, where you can order "Tatties and Neeps" aka potatoes and turnips.  Neeps was the size of a turnip at the time, we found the word pretty hilarious, and it just stuck.

Nathan and I have been Nesting-with-a-capital-N, by which I mean we've been making runs to the dump and Goodwill, rearranging furniture, cleaning out and remodeling the garage, installing a new fridge, and getting serious about putting in the built-in-bookshelves we've been talking about for the past three years- amongst other projects.  I've also been Nesting via Art, so expect to see some blog entries on those in the near future.  All in all we're pretty excited: freaked out, but excited.

And now?  Back to Nesting!





*Yes, I will be blogging about that trip now that the fetal cat is out of the bag.

Like a Boy Scout

It is a well known fact that Lists help the Jenny O feel Calm and In Control (regardless of the actual situation).

mmm, crossing things off...

.

Today is the first day of our vacation, and it's a good thing we'd already decided that this was going to be a very unstructured vacation, because so far very little has going according to our (very loosely defined) plan.  The car is in the shop (and has been there since 0730 on Monday morning), several of the roads we wanted to use are closed for repair, and other roads that are open simply aren't designed for our little commuter car.

So.

We're using today to very calmly clean the house and meticulously pack the car (or, rather, meticulously pile things onto the table to be shuffled into the car in the morning) and try to replan where the hell we're going and what the hell we're doing (other than camping).

One thing's for sure- we'll be together, so it will be fun.

(Or I'll know the reason why.)

My Dramatic Tendencies

I'm out on my afternoon walk, chatting with my mom, and she mentions that my Oma is going in for surgery tomorrow.

"They didn't tell you because they didn't want to disrupt your life," she says.  "They only just told me last night."

"Uh huh," I say, squinting at the leaves doing their best to shade me from the merciless sun.  "What hospital is it going to be at?"

And she tells me, of course, because she knows exactly what I am thinking.

They're supposed to be there at 0500- and Olympia is a two-hour drive from where I live.  I do not fancy leaving the house at 0230, so I'm going to head up there in a few minutes.  And sure, I could just appear on their doorstep and sleep there, but the show-woman in me knows it will be much more dramatic if I'm waiting for them in the morning.  Which means I am booking a hotel- and sure, it will also be less stressful on my Oma not having to worry about playing host to me, but really- it's all about dramatic timing.

Quickly!

Corey DID Warn Us About This

Generally speaking, you can find me at the rock gym after work on any given Tuesday or Thursday.  Today I was joined by Nathan, which was great- although I was not having my Best Day Ever in terms of performance.  (Also I tore open a callus, which, in case you were wondering, sucks)  Anyway, since he'd met me at the gym, and rain was threatening, we popped my bike up on top of the car and drove home together.

Yeah.  That happened.

Fortunately my bike was okay (fender bent, but I just bent it right back into shape).  Unfortunately, the roof rack and car were not so lucky.  ::sigh::

But this is exactly why I am such a tight-fisted be-yotch with money; so that when these things inevitably happen, we can afford to make them better.  Plus I am choosing to think about this in terms of how excellent our REI dividends will be after we buy yet another roof rack, plus the climbing rope I was going to buy this month, anyway.  See how shiny and silver this lining is?!

But seriously you guys- I do not know how it is possible that my bike is okay.  The roof rack was ripped off the front of the car (and dented the frame in the process) so there was a hell of a lot of force going on.  But Zuri is a-okay, at least as far as a quick pedal around the block could show me.  I'm not complaining, mind you- I'm super grateful- but it is very weird.

Good weird.  Good, grateful weird.

(silver!)

In Which Isis is a Naughty Puppy

We did our best to sleep in decadently late this morning, and yet we still were wide awake by 0830.  Ah well...  We made up for it by doing the exceptionally decadent deed of ordering room service.  It just about took my breath away to be so damn frivolous- but when we realized that the service charge for room service was actually less than we typically tip, it seemed like a no-brainer.

Once we'd gotten the car loaded and had checked ourselves out of the hotel, we headed back over to the Washington side of the river to Columbia Hills State Park- more specifically for the Catherine Creek hike.  Just about the time we were approaching the turn-off, I happened to glance into the back seat- and there was Isis, merrily chewing on her leash.

"Ack!" was my articulate response, and I leaned in to take it away from her- only to discover she'd already chewed entirely through it.

That's right, Gentle Readers- she managed to ruin her first hike before it even began.  Except that I'm never one to let a little thing like a chewed-leash stop me, and so when we stopped I jury-rigged the hell out of that thing until it passed muster.  It was a very short leash, but at least it worked- and so Isis had her first hike in spite of herself.

I was fortunate that the looped end of the leash also had a D-ring that I could attach to the hook end of the leash- which I in turn attached to the ring on her harness.

The other chewed-upon end, which was thereafter wrapped tightly around my left hand.

The creek in question.

We kept it pretty short- didn't do the whole thing, probably about a mile-and-a-half.  But by the end of it the dog was thoroughly pooped- and that, my friends, is always a good thing.  She passed out in the back of the car almost as soon as we hit the road, waking up only when we made a stop in Camas for our most favorite pizza (I had the brain storm to call ahead and have it waiting for us as we drove through).

Zonked.

 And now we're home again, taking a very chill afternoon to mentally and physically prepare ourselves for tomorrow- and the three church services Nathan will be playing in... early bedtime for all!

Initial Colors?  Check!

Plans, Shmlans

In spite of the fact that Nathan and I had agreed to wait until March to get our dog, last night I saw a face on Petfinder that I could not resist... and Nathan agreed, so this morning we put in an application with Born Again Pit Bull Rescue.  And now?  Now we wait to hear back... and do a lot of doggie doodles...

(This bears very little resemblance either to myself or the dog, but that's alright...)

Picking my Poisons (and Then Throwing Them Out)

I mentioned a while back that I'd made an appointment with an ND.  Well, about eleven days ago I had that appointment, and after talking to me and looking over my history, she posited that I might have a gluten sensitivity, as well as a problem with my adrenals.  She ordered a round of tests, and a day or two later I was carefully looking the other way as a phlebotomist drew out vial after vial of the deep red stuff.

The following Tuesday I got a call from the doctor's assistant, saying that the doc wanted me to come in sooner rather than later.  I took the first available opening (Thursday, which is how I knew it wasn't really serious, because in my personal experience when it's really serious they have you come in ASAP) and tried not to let the melodramatic, worst-case-scenario portion of my personality run too wild.

So in I went, and wouldn't you know it?  Her initial suspicion was correct: I need to stay away from gluten.  In fact she highly recommended that I do a sort of cleansing program for three weeks, to give my intestines a chance to heal up, as well as add certain supplements to my diet (such as cod liver oil.  No really.)

Well I sat there listening to her and nodding, and taking my notes, and assuring her I would call with any questions, but that I needed to go home and process things before I could come up with any.  In the meantime, my internal reaction was more along the lines of:

"Pffffft."

And some less-than-flattering thoughts along the lines of "quackery".


And then I went right out and had a gluten-heavy lunch.


Now, I don't want you to think that I didn't believe her.  I did believe her, gentle readers.  What she was telling me made perfect sense in light of what I've observed in myself over the past few years, and in light of the research I'd been doing recently.  I did, in fact, believe that I needed to steer clear of gluten, and in a twisted way that's sort of why I did what I did.  I ate that gluten-heavy lunch (including bread and pasta) in defiance of what I knew to be true... and when I was rolling on the bed in agony a few hours later I did not ask for sympathy (although both Nathan and Kink did provide it, bless them).  The only reason I can come up with for why I (knowingly) did such a colossally stupid thing was because I needed to deal with the Denial-Brat inside of me.  And I assure you, she was well and thoroughly shut-up by that little experience.  She had her proof, and she stopped saying, "Pffffft."

Of course, there were other little voices that needed working on.  The little voice that totally dreads my diet becoming even more "weird", and the flak I will necessarily take from some of my friends.  The little voice that winces at the thought of trying to explain to my grandparents why I can't eat my old favorites.  The little voice that is still crying at not being able to eat my mother's cookies while we're home over the holidays.  All those voices needed some soothing, and some proving that this really is the Best Way.


It took a few more days of web-browsing and feeling-sorry-for-myself (and then feeling guilty for feeling sorry, because it's not like I'm dealing with anything life-threatening or even particularly debilitating), but I think that, for the most part, those voices are quieted.  It is enormously helpful that Nathan's immediate response to the whole thing was to volunteer to become gluten-free with  me.  By the time I'd gotten home from the doctor he'd already started to educate himself on what I can and cannot eat- and today he helped me purge the house of gluten (we didn't actually have that much, which was surprising).  Not to mention the wonderful support I've gotten from several of my friends who already eat gluten-free, either because of their own diet limitations, or because of someone they care about (or, for a select few, because they believe it's a healthier way to live).  We've already cooked several purposefully-gluten-free meals and guess what: they were awesome and pretty much exactly what we'd have made even before we knew.  So what was a bit scary and overwhelming a few days ago now seems like something totally do-able.


In fact, it seems crazy to think I ever thought it was even a little bit of a big deal.

Of course, I fully expect that pendulum to swing back and forth a few times before I'm really, truly at peace with My New Life.  And for the next three weeks I'm dealing with a much more restricted diet than just no gluten (also no sugar, no dairy, no eggs, no nuts, no high-glycemic or nightshade fruits, etc etc) which might actually turn out to be awesome, because by the time I'm off this thing, just restricting myself to "no gluten" will seem like a piece of (coconut flour) cake.

We shall see.

The Tragi-Comedic Life of Jenny O (Emphasis on Comedic)

Maybe this ought to be two posts, but since I'd already been working on writing up the First Event when the Second One occurred, you get a(n exceptionally long) Twofer.  I actually have a third one that's been bouncing around in  my head for a few weeks, but it may never actually make it to the page... we'll see...

Sunday was an odd day for me.  In spite of my glorious mood from the night before, I woke up... not wanting to wake up.  And certainly not wanting to get out of bed.  And double certainly not wanting to leave the house for church and to deal with people, of all hideous things.  But I did all of these things, and even comported myself in a manner which I do not believe belied my Mopey Funk- although on the drive home Nathan asked if I was okay, since I was so quiet.  I said that maybe sometimes I was just quiet, and he straight up called me on that BS.

We'd been talking all week about doing a hike Sunday afternoon, and although I dearly wanted to just lay in bed and Be Depressed, two things kept me from that course of action: the first was the memory of Nathan dancing with me the night before.  The second was my determination not to be That Girl anymore.  I've said it before, and I'll likely say it again- depression is like a comfortable old sweater to me.  It's cozy.  It's familiar.  But giving into the fuzzy sweater is just Lazy- and I will not be lazy.  Especially because I knew that hiking would eventually put me in a better mood.  So I changed clothes and we headed out and started our hike and I was quiet but not sulky, and sure enough- eventually we reached a good spot for photography and I lay on my back and stared up through the trees while Nathan worked and I started to Feel Better.  Then we scrambled up a waterfall and I started to feel a lot better.  Happy, even.  See?

Happy Campers.  Er, hikers.

Anyway it was about then that tragedy struck- or maybe I should say I struck.  A branch.  With my naked toe.  And it hurt, but I scolded myself for reacting so strongly, saying, "O you are just being a big baby- it didn't hurt that badly.  You're reacting to the shock, not the pain."  So I stuck my feet in the glacier-cold water and felt better.  Eventually we got out and dried our feet and started the 2.5 hike back, and at first it was a little painful, but then the pain sort of eased and I thought, "See, you're fine."

Oh but then.  Then I turned my foot a little, and put pressure on said injured toe from the side- and I was not fine.  I was not even remotely fine, as the pain exploded through my foot and up into my leg, and my stomach dropped out.  I kept moving (there may, perhaps, have been some obscenities) and soon enough it was fine again.  Walking normally was not at all a problem, and now that I knew that side pressure was, I was very careful about my foot placement.  I only screwed up twice more, and both times swiftly corrected.

We got back to the car and, out of curiosity, I took my shoe and sock off:

An instance wherein purple is NOT my favorite color.

"That may be a broken toe," I said to Nathan (although what I meant was "fractured" since obviously it wasn't broken broken).  I was all for just taping it to the next toe and calling it good, but at my wise mother's insistence I did end up going to the doctor this morning.  Here's what my toe looked like by then:

You can't tell, but the discoloration goes up into the foot...

The doctor was great (I do have something of a fondness for podiatrists- they never talk down to me or make me do pointless tests or try to force pills on me).  I expressed my fear that I was just being a baby and it was nothing more than a bruise, but he took one look at it and said that usually when it looks like that there actually is something wrong with it.  A few x-rays later we had our answer- not fractured, but definitely torn.  Oh so torn.  He commended me for listening to my mother, and then gave me a freaking sweet laser treatment.  With this machine:

It was like Star Trek. With fewer catsuits.

Anyway, he told me to keep doing what I've been doing (mostly elevation and not-doing-the-painful-thing, as it will impede the healing process) and that I was not a baby.  He also said I could do the buddy-tape thing to help stabilize, but after wearing the tape for about five minutes I realized it was hurting, so I've decided to forgo that for the time being.

So that was that adventure.  And now we come to part two,

You may or may not remember, but a while back I submitted some stuff to a magazine.  And they accepted.  Well today I went to the mailbox, and what should I find but a package!  And what was in that package?  Why, two copies of a magazine!

As you might imagine, Elation ensued.  I immediately flipped to the contents page:...

Click to Embiggen

...and immediately burst into laughter.  Why?  Take a closer look:

(My tablet isn't working right now, so forgive the funky touchpad-writing)

Ah well, I thought.  Published is published, right?  And it wouldn't be the first time my name had been published incorrectly (the first time was in college- and they not only credited the wrong artist, they didn't even get the title of my piece correct- or bother to get permission before using it.)  So I flipped to the story....

...and started laughing even harder:

Because seriously, you guys?  This:

Yes, that is the author-photo I submitted.  With my name in the photo.

::sigh::

 But I maintain that I can still call myself a published author, inconsistently spelled name or not.  (Although Nathan definitely had fun saying, "I don't know who you are," and the like...)

I sent them a gentle email to point out the oversights, but really- I'm not upset.  I've worked as an editor, I know how hard it is to catch every little thing (especially because these women also work day jobs), and quite frankly, it makes for a better story this way.

And really, that's all I ask from life- good stories.

EDIT: I got a very sweet response from the editor!  She apologized profusely, and said she'd fix the online version ASAP- before it goes live tomorrow!  (She also promised to get the spelling right for any future submissions I might make...  tee hee!)  See, mistakes happen to the best of us- but if you're willing to take responsibility and make it right, it's really not that big of a deal.  ^_^

And So You See, the Universe DOES Conspire to Be Nice to Me

So, as you may have surmised by reading yesterday's entry, Nathan and I are ill. So ill, in fact, that the doctor told us it would be a really bad idea for us to go to his family's Christmas gathering this evening (because of the little ones). If it was just other grownups we'd have thrown caution and CDC regs to the wind and gone on over... but the fact of the matter is that pneumonia can kill babies, and we just don't see the Christmas spirit in that. It's not like we're Herod, or anything...

So as you may imagine there was a bit of wistfulness going on in the O'Richey-O household, knowing we were not going to be partaking in a delicious family meal (and feeling all the more wretched since we were the ones who were originally going to provide the bulk of said delicious family meal). I went in to work this morning (my boss wasn't there and there were no clients, which is the only way I felt non-assassin-y going in) and there was a note from the delivery guy saying he'd left us a package next door. So I popped on over, and do you know what I found?

Giordano's, my friends!

Oh, wait- if you've not spent time in Chicago, you might not know why I was so excited. Giordano's is a chain of pizza places in (you guessed it) Chicago, but what's extra awesome about them is that if you pay them lots of money they will ship you one of their delicious pizzas. Well this box was addressed to my boss, from one of our vendors, but since my boss is on a week-long cruise (that left yesterday) and Nathan and I were sad about dinner, I took it as a sign that the pizza was meant for us.

So I brought it home!
And do you know what I discovered? Not one delicious deep-dish pizza, but two! Holy guacamole!


Truly a pre-Chrismas miracle for a couple of house-bound plague monkeys. Even Kink was excited... but can you blame him? (I didn't blame him, but I sure didn't let him get any closer than this...)


Fortunately in the O'Richey-O household we have Freezing Technology, and thus did not have to worry about pizza number two going to waste (because let's face it- your average person can only handle about one (two maybe) slice(s) of Giordano's pizza.


Behold! I'll take this over Scrooge's goose any day.


Seriously- even cold this thing smelled amazing.


But enough of that- it's oven time!


Twenty minutes later we had a pie so good it all but erased our former sadness. Probably killed some bacteria, too...


Look how deep! Eek!


And then it was time to dig in!


And as we bit into our unexpected culinary miracle, all I could think to say was, "Universe bless us, every one!"

The Bittersweet Viewing of a Naked Posterior

Not mine, mind you (I know- shocking, right?). Nor even a small child's, which is most often the case in these instances. No, the denuded posterior to which I refer is that of my car's. Let me explain...

I got a call around 1530 that my car would be ready for pick-up by 1600. So I took the lovely little silver-blue VW Beetle back to Enterprise, and they drove me over to the collision center. I did my little paperwork thing, then headed out to find my baby. And there she was, all fixed up and clean (they even scrubbed her insides- how's that for customer service?). And, sadly... missing her stickers.

Now it's not like I had a plethora of adhesives on there. I had three, and I fully expected to lose at least two of them (since they were so near the bumper). Those being my subtle Gorge Performance G, and my equally subtle little "Why do people with closed minds always open their mouths?" rectangle (thanks Adam!). I was a little down about losing them, but hey... life happens. What I did not expect to lose was the crowning glory of my gas-tank door: my fairy frog prince. I have had that sticker since I got my car, almost ten years ago. It was given to me by my college friend Laurie May (now Laurie Coyle) as part of a housewarming gift when I moved into my first solo-apartment, and I loved it. I always got compliments on it, and it helped me pick my car out of a lineup (an important trait when one is driving a Civic). But when I rounded the corner and saw my car- gone. I felt a little tightness in my throat, then went back into the office.

"Excuse me," I said softly, not fully trusting myself. "I know it's a long shot, but... I don't suppose you kept the door to my gas tank? With my sticker?"

The young gentleman who had the lead on my car went out to to check in the shop. He came back and explained that actually it was my little door- but because they'd had to paint it they'd had to remove the sticker first.

"Oh. That's okay. Thanks anyway."

I used to joke that the fairy frog prince was my hope- that he represented the One waiting for me amidst all the mundane frogs. So I guess it's appropriate, now that I've married my One, that he should have gone on to his next incarnation. But I'm still going to miss him.

Our Big Fat UK Adventure (Prelude)

(This is the photo Nate used for today, of the CLT Atrium)

I popped awake this morning at 0522. I know this because when I popped awake I looked at my phone (aka my alarm clock) to check the time. Since I had it set to go off at 0600, anyway, I didn't see any problem with going ahead and getting up. As I was making this decision, I noticed that I had a missed call- and a voice mail. The missed call was an 800 number, so I figured it was just the airline calling to confirm my flight. I went ahead and listened to it, just to be sure.

Good thing I did.

It turned out to be a message informing me that our flight out of Huntsville had been delayed- by an hour and a half, as of 2300 the previous night (when the message was left). I muttered expletives under my breath, eased out of bed (no need to wake Nate just yet), and headed into the living room so I could do some confirming online.

Yeah, definitely delayed. So delayed, in fact, that it wasn't going to land in Charlotte until our next flight was already in the air for Gatwick. I briefly considered texting my fellow-travelers, then realized there was no point in getting anyone in a panic until I'd seen what I could wrangle. It was possible, after all, that I might be able to get us an earlier flight out of Huntsville- it would mean missing our scheduled breakfast at the Original Pancake House, but that wasn't such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. So I started dialing.After half an hour on hold without speaking to anyone at US Airways, I got pissed and hung up. After twenty minutes on hold without speaking to anyone at Huntsville International Airport, I got pissed and hung up again. I went ahead and sent out an email to let people know what was going on, and that I was working to get it fixed. It wasn't quite 0630 yet (about four and a half hours before we'd planned to leave the city), so there was still plenty of time. Then I called Orbitz, spoke with a human for about three minutes, and settle back into hold.

About half an hour later (during which time I woke Nathan, got dressed, and had a bowl of cereal for breakfast) my dude Gio managed to patch me through to a US Airways agent named Karen, whom he'd already appraised of the situation.

Karen did a bit of clicking, then told me in a fretful tone that she might be able to get us on a flight at 1057- but that it was out of Birmingham. I started laughing and explained that we live in Birmingham! That made her laugh, too, but she stopped when she realized she only saw two seats. Then she put me on hold to go talk to her supervisor.

While I was waiting I sent out another update via email; made the executive decision that if only two could be on the Birmingham flight it would be my in-laws while us youngsters would rent a car and drive to North Carolina (only six hours away!); and had Nathan call his parents to tell them to get on the road now (they live about an hour and a half south of us).

Twenty minutes later Karen got back on and announced that she'd booked us on the Birmingham flight. "Which two?" I asked, panicking that she might not have put the elders on.

"All six!" she replied, and if I could have kissed her I would have. "Now I'm just trying to get you all routed back through Birmingham so you're not stranded in Huntsville without a car!" A few minutes later that, too, was accomplished, and Karen moved to the top of my Awesome Person list for at least the next month.This is why, rather than meeting up for a leisurely breakfast at 0900, we found ourselves at the Birmingham airport, having to be checked in individually by a couple of agents, because something was weird. I'm not sure what- I didn't want to ask- but they got us processed so no worries, right? Right.

(They have moving sidewalks in Charlotte that can keep a body entertained for just hours...)

We ended up here in Charlotte around 1320, and our flight to Gatwick doesn't leave until 1820, but I'm pretty much okay with that state of affairs. Gave me enough time to get this written, anyway... and as far as I'm concerned, it's a pretty damn good start to this adventure.

(Here's a little Post Modernism for you...)

See Aunt Jenny O Hike!

“Open! Close! Open! Big plates! Open! Small plates! Close! Close! Open! Big plates!”

This is an actual conversation that I had today, with my youngest nephew (whom we shall call Eel). And by “conversation” I mean me jabbering on like a worn out copy of Dick & Jane, holding him while he plays with a cabinet and says something to the effect of “Buh! Buh bleeh buh!”

Eel is just shy of his first birthday, and has begun to talk. Mostly he makes noises, but every once in a while busts out with an actual word, like “Dad-dah!” or “Ball!” (and uses it in the appropriate context, no less). Highly gratifying for those of us convinced of his epic (budding) genius.

Nathan had to work today, but his sister and I took Eel out for a hike here in the park. The only problem was that once we got to the trail head, we realized we’d forgotten the Eel-carrier. Whoops. But we’re nothing if not troopers, so we each took a tiny hand and began the Slowest Hike Ever.

Toddlers interact with the world very differently from adults. I can only assume it’s the newness of everything. They walk slowly not just because their legs are the length of a small bread loaves (and their balance that of an inebriated nineteen-year-old), but because they are making sure they take it all in. There are frequent stops to investigate interesting rocks (and the edibility thereof; my sister-in-law’s rule of thumb is that if it’s too big for him to choke on, he’s more than welcome to stick it in his mouth), to stare gape-mouthed at little rivulets, to point out at the vegetation and triumphantly announce, “Bush!”

It was not the brisk four-miler we had planned, but in a lot of ways it was even better. We can always load Eel up properly tomorrow, but today I’m glad we took the time to appreciate North Carolina on a smaller scale.

This is What Happens When You Eat Caterpillars

So today was Record a Video day for my long road towards becoming a certified Body Flow instructor (yes, still working towards that). The idea being that I tape myself teaching a class, send it in, and it gets Assessed (yes, the capital is necessary). So all day long I had butterflies ricocheting about my tummy. Fortunately butterflies are pretty negligible, mass-wise, so it's not like they were throwing off my equilibrium or anything, but they were making me feel a smidge woozy.

In preparation for this Event, I wore my very best ninja outfit (all my workout gear these days is black- very slimming for the camera, but also a little tiresome after months on end), pulled my hair up into it's most flattering athletic 'do (ponytail, according to Outside Sources), and even put on makeup. That is right, I did what I only sometimes do for my Real Job: applied concealer, eyeshadow, and mascara. I was ready for that camera!

Well, minus the part that I had not yet actually taught an entire class by myself (team-teaching has been the name of the game). You know. But whatever. I was going to be fine and anyway it's not like this was my one and only shot at making a video. I could re-do it as often as necessary! No need for butterflies, damn it, so quit that fluttering!

(They did not.)

I left Real Job about five minutes early (oh the shame) to ensure that I'd be there at least ten minutes before class, adrenaline humming. Waltzed into the classroom, began chatting with the woman who normally teaches at that time-slot, slowly realized that my mentor wasn't there and then realized...

No camera.

No. Camera.

Apparently wires of communication had gotten crossed somewhere (not to mention my mentor turned out to be ill, which is why she was missing) and there was an Equipment Presence Failure. So after a few minutes of "Holy crap!" scrambling between myself and the regular instructor, it was decided that I'd just go ahead and teach the whole thing by myself, anyway.

And so I did.

I'm pretty proud of myself, actually. I held it together, didn't fall off stage or anything. It was my first time using a headset mic (the class I normally teach is in a smaller studio and doesn't require a mic) so that was a bit of an adjustment, but for the most part I felt really good about it. And the other two instructors who were attending said such nice things to me that I think I couldn't have been that bad. More telling, none of the Regulars was shooting me dirty looks (members are way more harsh in their judgments than instructors, believe it or not) so it really must have been fine.

(Actually, you know what? Screw false modesty. I did well, and I know I did well 'cos I felt it in my gut: and while I wasn't perfect I was a damn site better than most people with the same level of experience. So yay me.) (And if my hands were shaking at any point, at least my voice wasn't.)

And then, since my mentor was ill, I headed up stairs to teach the next class, too. So now my quads are griping at me, but in a good way. And I'm pretty sure I used up most of my nervous energy on today (for nothing, I might add), so whenever the time comes to actually shoot my video, I'll be calm, cool, and collected as a cucumber.

(I know, I know... tell it to the butterflies...)

Huckleberries and the Women Who Love Them

Today did not go as planned.

See, the plan was that Katie and I would drive to the coast, take some photographs, have a picnic on the beach and maybe even a bonfire. It was to be a totally awesome Valentine's day girl date.

Here is what actually happened:

I woke up feeling like death warmed over and then dropped back in ice-water. I was in pain, head-achey, cold, and generally miserable. This being a continuation of the prior day's scenario, I decided it might be best to go to a doc-in-the-box.

Couldn't get in until 2:30, but that was okay- Katie and I went out to the Spaghetti Factory, where I picked at some broccoli (she insisted I needed to get more in my system than just toast, which is what I'd been eating the day before) and felt like the worst friend in the world. Afterward we drove down to Portland (the site of the closest clinic that a) would take my insurance and b) was open on a Sunday) and browsed some vintage shops until it was time for my appointment (Katie got a super-cute full-length coat. I might have been jealous if I hadn't been so wretched).

The doctor diagnosed me with "We don't know what the hell it is", which was not exactly comforting. He figures I actually do have something (as opposed to it being allergies) because I'm running a low-grade fever. The quick-strep test came back negative, so he did a full culture but of course we won't get those results for a few more days. In the mean time, he told me I could take some penicillin if I wanted to, just in case. I did (I would have preferred a shot, but they didn't do those there). And so they sent me on my merrily-undiagnosed way.

We came back to Vancouver and curled up to watch Tombstone, which had some wonderful dialog and a fairly stupid "romantic" element. I enjoyed it nonetheless, and I now understand what Nathan is referencing when he says "I'm your huckleberry," which is nice. And he is my huckleberry, so that's even nicer (he spent his day in a similar fashion to mine, only he got shots, the lucky so-and-so).

Anyway, now Katie is re-dying her hair, and I'm whipping this out and sipping on hot chicken noodle soup. The pain in my throat has progressed to the point where swallowing is a chore and speaking is just about unthinkable. Here's hoping tomorrow will dawn a pain-free day.

Church Bells

I always love church bells, but they are particularly appropriate on this day- this day that I am going to a funeral. I’m not sure why they should be appropriate- the pealing out of the hour. Maybe because church bells remind you that time is passing… and so do funerals. You are in this moment, this moment marked by such gorgeous notes reverberating in your skull- but in the next moment all that’s left are the echoes, and then only your memories, and then… silence. The normal noises of the world slip back in, taking over, carrying you on until the next dramatic moment, when you stop and remember- oh yes, another moment. Another hour. Time is passing.

It’s an odd thing, knowing you’ll never see a friend again, never talk to them again. It’s as though I am slightly disconnected from reality, not quite in synch. A sort of… drifting-through kind of feeling, more akin to vague regret than true sadness. It’s a feeling I’m fairly familiar with, at this point in my life, and occasionally I wonder that it does not affect me more. Maybe it was my upbringing (growing up military does rather get one used to permanent partings) but maybe it’s just me, just how I’m wired. Maybe it means there’s something wrong with me-or maybe it means there’s something right. I don’t know. Chances are I’m just storing up for a truly spectacular meltdown sometime in the future.

At the funeral home, my mom and I approach the viewing room, and I find myself going into a sort of low-grade panic. I do not want to go into that room, do not want to see my friend’s empty shell. I’ve pretty much gotten to the point in my life where I am not on board with the whole corpse-viewing tradition. I understand that some people have a psychological need for the sort of closure that seeing a dead body brings, but honestly- I’ve decided I can accept that someone is dead without seeing their remains, I really can. And to tell the truth, I prefer not to add that particular shot to my catalogue of mental images. Because then it’s always there, and I can’t get rid of it, and sometimes it shoves the warm, living images out of the way. And I hate that. So maybe in the future I’ll just politely bow out.

But this time I am with someone (I later remark to my mother that funerals are strangely like prom; everyone dresses up, and while you’ll go alone if you have to no one really wants to) and so I do not bow out- we go in together and I see what is left of my friend, and then do my best to scrub it from my brain.

After the service we all make our way up to the gravesite where final words are said (although we cannot hear them because we are in the back). The clouds are gathering, but one by one people wander off until there’s nothing left but a hole in the ground waiting to be filled- and, of course, the silence.

We're Not Pregnant...

...but we are expecting.

Specifically we are expecting a pair of rat babies. Rat babies that are not actually babies, they are fully mature female Rattus norvegici (is that how you make "norvegicus" plural? Anyone?), but it is more fun to call them "rat babies", and so I do. (Also, "ratkins".)

Now, those of you who know that we are already the proud parents to a pair of most excellent felines (Milktiger Kink and Krumpet Mon-Mothra) may be puzzled at this development. I don't blame you. Puzzle on, my friends. Truly, as much as I love rats (and I do- I really do love rats. It's a thing...), I probably would not, of my own volition, have adopted a pair while the kitties were still in perpetual-indoor residence. It could just lead to too many hilarious tragedies. But this is a special case, and so we make an exception.

The special case, you ask? Well, let's go back to the origin of the species. No, wait, too far- let's just go back to the origin of those rats into our lives. See, a while ago Nathan's brother Ben and his wife Heather decided that the time had come to teach their children (specifically their oldest daughter- we shall call her Thing One) responsibility towards a pet. Rats being social creatures, they got two, the other one supposedly property of Thing One's little brother, Thing Two (who is, in fact, two, and thus not really responsible for his rat).

Things were going along quite well until Ben and Heather noticed that Thing One had a truly horrific cough that never seemed to go away- except when she was at her grandparents' house, away from the rats. Yup, it looks like my poor little niece is quite allergic to her beloved pet. Much sadness all around. Ben mentions to Nathan that they are trying to find a new home for the rats (Zelda and Camilla by name) and I say, oh-so-casually, something to the effect of "Rat babies! Gimme!"

The way I see it, this is a totally do-able thing- half of our house is closed off to the kittens, so the rat babies can have their (really rather plush) cage in there. Plus they don't live more than about two years, so it's not like getting another cat. Plus, you know... rat babies.

To be completely honest, what I actually said was more along the lines of, "Hmm. It's feasible that we could take them. Let me do some research and think about it," which Nathan took to mean "Rat babies! Gimme!" and then the next thing I know Thing One is being all extra snuggly with Nathan and myself, which her mom says is probably due to "her relief that the rats are being taken by someone who will love them rather than going back to the pet shop."

And that's how I found out that we are expecting rat-babies.