The Facebook Phenomenon

I joined Facebook a few months back. If memory serves, I was invited to join by a friend who used to live in Atlanta, but I don't remember clearly -- it could have been that I was in a frenzy of googling old friends and trying to find people I'd gone to school with.

Having lived around the world and gone to so many different schools (I counted once -- not including preschool, I went to 7 different schools for elementary, middle and high school, in 5 different countries, and then of course there's college and law school), there are so, so many people that I've known and been close friends with that I not only never see, I don't even know what country they're in or if they're still alive. It makes for great reunions, but the last big India reunion I wasn't able to go to, and I don't think my school in Israel even has reunions outside of Israel. Which provides a great excuse to go to Israel, but there are so many other claimants on my pocketbook at the moment that I don't see that happening any time soon.

Anyway, so Facebook is a great way to search for people and reconnect with old friends. I've reestablished contact with some friends from college and high school and middle school, and it's been great to catch up with them and see how their lives are going.

But Facebook is also fascinating for the sheer multitude of opportunities it provides to "interact" in cyberspace with people on a regular basis. There are all of these applications that allow you to do things like send each other greeting cards and write on each others' "walls" and rate your friends' hotness and "poke" them and start cyber-snowball fights and send them imaginary gifts and drinks and rate your compatibility on everything from taste in movies to who you were in a past life. You can join groups and networks revolving around TV shows, politics, knitting, where you go or went to school, and about every other thing you can think of. Essentially, you can have an entire, active social life without ever leaving your computer.

And of course, as with all social interactions, patterns emerge, only because they are all chronicled and cataloged in each person's profile, they are much easier to see and assess.

There are the people who are obviously concerned with having as many Facebook friends as they can possibly collect. I got a "friend" request from a guy one time and I saw on his profile that he went to the University of Virginia, but his name didn't sound familiar. So before confirming the request, I sent him a message asking who he was and if we had known each other in school. He replied that he didn't know me, but that he saw that I went to Virginia and liked collecting as many friends as he could. And sure enough, I checked his profile, and he's got over 1000 "friends." Where does he find the time?

Then there are people who are really into the cyber-interaction, and they make great use of the various games and "compare your scores on this quiz with Justin" and "start a pie-fight with LaShonda" and "give Dexter a Vampire Hug" and on and on. I think those might be the people who have jobs that they either don't like or that allow them alot of time to fuck around online, because while that stuff can be fun, it's also incredibly time-consuming. And also, addictive. To the point where if you couldn't be online every day, or almost every day, it would be really depressing, like you couldn't get your fix.

And I also wonder how fulfilling it is, ultimately. From a psychological perspective, it's kind of like collecting. I've never been a collector of dolls or stamps or spoons from the fifty states or refrigerator magnets or anything, because it always struck me as an enterprise that could never be satisfying. In addition to the fact that you've got all of this stuff sitting around your house or filling up you're drawers, you're never done. No matter what you've got, there's always more to get. If you can look at your profile and you can see exactly what how many friends you have compared to other people, and who's got a higher "hotness" ranking, and who's got lots of people sending them cards and gifts and wanting to get in pie-fights, it's like having your coolness graded, and your grade posted on the board for all to see. You've given your social standing a number that can always be improved.

I don't mean this as a criticism of Facebook or its fans at all -- I'm guilty of all of this stuff as well. I'll spend hours on the "how many cities have you visited" application, as if not being able to remember the name of one more little Indian town that I've visited will make or break me. I've wasted time playing the Never-ending Movie Quiz, trying to get my world-wide ranking up. And I search for people I know and look for new friends, because I feel like my paltry 12 makes me look like a loser.

Geez, didn't high school end 20 years ago?

I'm a Western Medicine girl

You know that cold of Zeke's that I've mentioned from time to time? Well, it turns out it's a sinus infection. Yesterday was the third time I've taken him to the doctor because of a stuffy nose, but now he's developed a hacking cough as well, and instead of clear mucus, last week he sneezed and blew a big river of green goo down his face. So the doc put him on antibiotics and albuterol (for his coughing), and last night he slept much better than he has for the last few nights because he wasn't waking himself up coughing every few minutes. It's so hard seeing him suffer -- last night he was so in need of mommy-love that he cried if I tried to put him down at all, and even when I held him he would sort of moan softly -- he was obviously really uncomfortable. Poor little pooper.

So finally getting some drugs for him was a huge relief. Last year the FDA came out with this decision/ruling/recommendation/whatever that over-the-counter cold medications, even those ostensibly developed for children, were verboten for babies under the age of 2. So up to now, the doctors have been telling me to put saline drops in his nose and put a humidifier in his room (both of which I did) and that he would just have to suffer through it until his body worked it out. I found these namby-pamby recommendations to be hugely unsatisfying, because one of my family's mottos is "better living through chemistry." If you've got a problem, Big Pharma has a solution. My mother has even taken this theory global -- she knows exactly what drugs can be purchased over-the-counter in which countries, so if you're going on a trip, she's likely to put in an order for Australian allergy medicine or Mexican ambien or Romanian headache pills. Her medicine cabinet is a wonder to behold, and I love and respect her for it.

Mommas, now don't let your babies grow up to be unbelievable assholes

The following is based on a true story. I've changed the details not out of concern for the perpetrator, who is a wretched hag and is entitled to no discretion from me, but out of concern for others whose feelings I don't want to hurt.

Imagine, if you will, that you've been going to charm school, and that you're sitting for your final exam in Etiquette 201: How To Act Like A Human Being When Someone Does Something Nice For You. When the teacher says, "you may open your test booklets," this is one of the questions you must answer:

You have a relative who is a bit frenetic and crazy, but she's a warm, caring, lovely human being. She contacts a clothing designer and commissions a scarf for you. She does this for purely altruistic motives, i.e., she wants to do something nice for you. The designer makes the piece and sends it to you. When you receive the package, you open it and you hate it. You hate everything about it, it's something you would never wear, and you think it's awful. Which of the following actions would you take?

A. Thank the relative graciously and then put the scarf away and never wear it except for when the relative is in town

B. Thank the relative for her generosity, but let her know that the scarf isn't really your style, so that next time she wants to buy you something, she'll know what you like

C. Call the designer and rant and rave on the phone about how you much you HATE the scarf, you would not and could not EVER wear something like this because it's the UGLIEST thing you've ever seen, and bitch and complain to the designer about how your relative is an idiot who obviously pays no attention to what you wear or like because if she did, she would never have bought you such an ugly piece of shit. Then send the scarf back.

Now, if I were the teacher, the only acceptable response would be "A." I can't tell you how many ugly pairs of earrings, matching shirt and pants sets in bizarre prints with sharks on them, etc. I have received and have had to wear, gritting my teeth while smiling the whole time, because some beloved family member bought them for me as a gift. Someone with an incredibly deft and gentle touch might be able to get away with "B," but quite frankly, I'm not sure that person exists, and I still think it represents crass behavior. But a student answering "B" wouldn't fail the class -- they just wouldn't have made the dean's list. At least they said "thank you" and tried to be somewhat nice about it.

But "Bridget", if she were a student in our imaginary charm school class, would have failed -- in fact, I would have made her sit in the corner with a giant dunce cap on her head -- because apparently, she is of the mindset that "C" represents acceptable behavior.

Now, let's delve into this a little bit, because as outright shocking as her behavior is when you first hear or read about it (I think my brain got a bit of whiplash when my mother told me the story), it's like an onion -- there are layers and layers of pathology represented in this one incident. It's not just Emily Post rolling over in her grave, it's Sigmund Freud leaning forward with interest, saying, "tell me about your mother...."

First, there's the utter lack of grace in Bridget's entire reaction. Would it have been so hard, so awful, to simply say "thank you, you're so thoughtful," and then put the scarf in a drawer and not worry about it? I mean, really, how taxing would that have been? What is she going to tell her relative when she sees her? How will she explain that she no longer has the scarf because she was so offended by its existence that she not only won't wear it, she had to banish it from her presence by returning it. Bridget clearly is one of those people who pumps herself up by letting others know that they don't measure up to her levels of taste or sophistication. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't seem to recognize that she possesses neither.

Then there's the utter lack of discretion demonstrated. She was indiscreet in ranting and raving about her relative to the designer, who might very well have let the relative know that the scarf had been returned. I know for a fact that this won't happen, but why would she take that risk? Because she secretly wants it to get back to the relative, but she doesn't want to be the one to actually deliver the news? So she's cruel and a pussy?

Incidentally, this is not the first time Bridget has exhibited a remarkable lack of discretion. At a wedding a few months ago, Bridget complained to my mother -- MY MOTHER -- about me and Jason because when we were in her home town last year, we went to dinner with Bridget and her husband, and she bitched that we split the bill even though Jason ate more than anyone else. Which is true, except that we split the bill because Jason and I had water with dinner, whereas she had 2 mixed drinks, so it evened everything out, price-wise. And why would she say something like that to my mother, in any event? Fucking bitch.

Anyway, in addition to being graceless and classless and indiscreet, she's also just flat out mean. She called the designer who made the scarf to tell her how much she hated it. Setting aside the fact that this was a custom design based upon the relative's specifications, and not something the designer came up with, what possible reason would you have to berate someone over something they created? It's not like she ever has to order or wear the designer's clothes if she doesn't like them.

I've only met Bridget that one time we went to dinner, and I have to say that at the time, I thought she was OK. A bit flinty, but not the fiend she's revealed herself to be. And if I see her again, I'm not going to get in her face or yell or anything like that. But I will ask her about her behavior, both to see her squirm and also because I'm genuinely curious to hear what she has to say in her defense.

Trading success for fleeting mommy time

I bagged on the sleep training. Well, more accurately, I bagged on the results of the sleep training, because by the third night, Zeke rolled over and went to sleep without any fussing as soon as I put him down.

But I was miserable. I discovered that I don't give a shit about my kid being sleep-trained at three months old. What I want is to still have that time every night when we sit in the rocker and he snuggles into my arms and relaxes against my body and goes to sleep.

Not all aspects of caring for such a young baby are loads of fun. He's smiling and cooing and responding to me now, so we'll play on the floor and he'll giggle and grin and it's awesome. But other times he'll fuss and I won't know why, and it's stressful. And it's exhausting to be so utterly needed by another human being. When my husband is needy and it gets on my nerves, I can tell him to sack up and quit bugging me. But my son needs me for every aspect of his life, and no matter what mood I'm in, no matter how tired I am, I have to tend to him and I have to be sweet and loving and protective, because to take out my tiredness or grumpiness on him would be monstrously unfair. And most of the time, I'm in a good mood and it's fine, but sometimes I'm not in a good mood, and I just have to get over it.

But bedtime is always my favorite. I never mind bedtime. Because before bedtime, he has a bath, so when we settle into the rocker, he's all sweet-smelling and gorgeous. And he's wearing cute little footie pajamas and looking so little and adorable and perfect. And he fits against me just so -- we always arrange ourselves the same way. He lies with his head in the crook of my left arm, resting his face against my chest with his legs draped over my lap. I'll brace his back with my left hand, and cradle his butt with my right. He lets his right arm drop under my arm and sometimes he'll rub my back with his hand. His left hand, always, always, is either resting on my boob or he reaches up into my shirt and nestles his hand right into my cleavage (the men in this family are all breast men, and I guess Zeke is no different). And I rock in the chair and pat his butt and rub his back and kiss his forehead, and he melts into me in a way that makes me miss it even as it's happening, if that makes any sense. Because I know that it is such a short time in his life (i.e., now) that he will be this small and this vulnerable and this willing to surrender himself to me so completely, and I don't want to waste any of it. All too soon it'll be pouting and wiggling out of my arms when I try to snuggle him and "nooo, mommy, I can do it myself."

So the sleep-training theorists and proponents can all go piss up a rope for the time being. I know I'll need them eventually, but for now, I'm going to baby my baby while he lets me, and take as much time in the rocker as I can get away with.

New look

As you can see, the blog looks different. I was looking through posts and decided that I was tired of the dark template. It felt very heavy to me. The switch has messed up the font size on some old posts, so if you're going through archives and find some posts that look like the fine print in a used car contract, that's why.

Please don't call social services -- we're actually very good parents.

I know the "dance" Jason is having Zeke do is a bit on the crass side, but it cracks my ass up every time. And Zeke seems to be having fun...

adventures in getting out and about

Yesterday I had my meeting with one of the University of Hawaii law school deans to talk about teaching an education law course. The meeting went very well, and there's a decent chance it could happen. It would be a new course, so it has to go through the proposal and approval process by the curriculum committee. Over the next couple of weeks I'll develop the proposal and the syllabus, the dean and I will tweak it, and then she will present it to the committee. Everybody keep your fingers crossed for me.

Of course, given that I was going out into Hawaiian society, the outing wasn't completely without incident or dilemma. First I had to figure out what to wear. This may sound frivolous, but as I have written in the past, Hawaiians are casual to an extent that I really have a hard time getting used to. Like the wedding we went to where Jason and I were the most dressed up people there -- and Jason wasn't even wearing a tie -- and the bride's parents wore jean shorts. Or Jason's company holiday party, which was held at a country club but people showed up in jeans and ratty t-shirts and baseball caps. So I was at a bit of a loss yesterday. On the mainland, I would have worn a suit or some similarly appropriate business outfit, because that's what people do when they're conducting business. But no one wears suits here. I didn't want to show up in jeans and flip-flops, though I suspected that's what the dean would be wearing, but what if she wasn't? What if she was dressed business casual? I couldn't show up looking like a schlub.

Finally I went to Old Navy, bought a nice skirt and blouse, and wore them with some gorgeous high heeled sandals I have.

When I got to the meeting, the dean was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt, velour track pants, and canvas ked-type slippers.

*Sigh*

I also had another typical Wendy experience with island bureaucracy. There's a big parking lot behind the law school where I went to park. I pulled up at the little attendant's booth to make sure I was in the right place.

"Is this where I go to park for the law school?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's $3."

I rummaged around in my purse and discovered I only had a dollar and some change. "Do I pay in advance?" I figured I could find an ATM and get cash before coming back to the car.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't have cash. Do you take debit cards?"

"No, ma'am. Cash only."

I shrugged, "OK. Is there an ATM nearby where I can go to get some cash?"

"Yes, ma'am, there's a bank machine in the Century Building. I'll show you where it is on the map."

He pulled out a map and showed me a building that looked like it's in the middle of the crowded campus with very little parking around.

"Great. Where do I park to go there?"

"There's a visitor's lot. " He paused. "But it costs $3 to park there."

I plastered a smile onto my face and tried to keep my head from exploding.

"Well, since I don't have $3, that puts me in a bit of a bind, doesn't it?"

"I guess so, ma'am." He seemed confused, but soldiered on. "But that's where you have to park to go to the Century Building, and you have to pay to park. It's $3."

My fingers hurt from gripping the steering wheel so hard in an effort to avoid tearing out my hair. "Right, I understand. But like I said, I don't have any cash, so if I have to pay to park, that's not really an option, is it?

"No, ma'am, I guess not."

"No. Ok, is there a gas station nearby? They usually have cash machines."

"There's a Jiffy Lube about a block away on Beretania Street."

"Hmmm. I'm not sure the Jiffy Lube will have a cash machine because they usually aren't attached to convenience stores where people spend money on random things."

"Yeah, I guess not."

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a couple of seconds, and then the light bulb came on.

"There's also a bank right there where the Jiffy Lube is. You could get cash there."

"Yes, I could. What a great idea. That would be perfect. I'll go to the bank and be back in a few minutes."

"OK, ma'am, see you then."

"OK, thank you so much. Bye."

*Sigh*

Sleep training

Last night we started "teaching" Zeke how to fall asleep on his own, in his crib, without being rocked to sleep with a bottle or pacifier in his mouth and then transferred to the crib after he had fallen asleep. The training involves putting him in his crib when he's drowsy but still awake, so that he learns to associate being in the crib with falling asleep by himself. Otherwise, he falls asleep all cozy in my arms, but then wakes up in the crib, having no memory of being moved. So suddenly, instead of rocking in his mommy's arms, he's alone, in a different place, with no rocking and no mommy, and he doesn't know what to do. This way, he learns to fall asleep in the crib, and when he wakes up during the night, he looks around, sees that nothing has changed, and goes back to sleep without incident.

The first night was, to say the least, a bit rough. We went in to check on him at increasing intervals -- first after 3 minutes, then after 5 minutes, then after 7 minutes, and then after 10 minutes. He cried as if he were being tortured. At one point, Jason went in to pat his belly and see that he was OK (i.e., extremely pissed off, but otherwise fine), and Zeke grabbed Jason's finger in a death grip and held it to his chest as if it were a lifeline. So pitiful. We felt evil and were sure that our child would regard us coldly and with disdain from that point on. After 25 minutes, right before the end of the first 10 minute interval, he stopped crying and went to sleep, and slept well after that, only waking up once during the night to eat. When I went in this morning to get him up for the day, he was awake and gurgling to himself, and when he saw me, he gave me a big grin. Obviously, this kid doesn't hold grudges.

Tonight was remarkable. I gave him his pre-bed bottle and rocked him a little bit, and as soon as his eyes started to droop I kissed him goodnight and put him in his crib. He looked a little confused, and a few minutes later started whimpering, but it was a lackluster whimper, as if he felt like he needed to put up a little bit of a fight even though he didn't really want to. Jason and I went in and checked on him after 5 minutes, and he was crying, but without much enthusiasm. Three minutes later he was asleep. Is this kid awesome or what?

The iPod gods smile on me

Two good things happened this weekend. First, Michele and David had another baby -- a beautiful little boy named Gavin. Welcome, little monkey! Second, I experienced a nice bit of luck that was almost poetic.

Saturday night, Jason's company had its annual Christmas/New Year's party. Yes, I know, I know -- a little late, n'est ce pas? The party line is that they hold it late so as not to conflict with all of the myriad Christmas parties and family activities filling our schedules in December. Whatever. I think they just want a cheaper rate at the Honolulu Country Club, which, for a country club, is already a bit low rent, in my humble opinion.

Yes, I know, I know, I'm a snob.

Anyway. The big draw of the evening is a door prize competition. To win a prize, you had to guess its value, and whoever came closest without going over won. The nonsensical part was that each "price" included not only the cost of the item, but also an arbitrary additional value representing the cost of obtaining the item and transporting it to the country club, plus another arbitrary 5-10% increase or reduction of the total value. So it was kind of like the Hawaiian version of The Price is Right, i.e., similar to the game show, but without making any kind of logical sense.

I know, I know, I'm a haole bitch.

Anyway, there were 11 or 12 prizes altogether, and they were pretty sweet -- a bunch of LCD TVs (a 50 inch, a 40 inch, a 32 inch and a 20 inch), some vacation packages (including a trip for 2 to Las Vegas), and some other electronics, like a Wii, a PS3, and an 80-gig Classic iPod. Each couple received 10 bidding opportunities to be distributed among the various products however they wished. We put in guesses for the Vegas trip, an inter-island trip, the PS3, the 32-inch TV and the iPod.

When it came time to announce the winners, we had the correct guess on two of the items -- the Vegas trip and the iPod. Unfortunately, there was another person with the same winning bid for the Vegas trip, and the tie was settled by drawing one of the two names out of a bag, which we lost. But we got the iPod. Woohoo!

And here's why it's poetic. Back in July, for Jason's birthday I had his van outfitted with a new iPod compatible stereo and new speakers. The problem was, he was using an old iPod mini that wasn't compatible with the newer stereo, so I gave him my newer iPod and took his older one. Then a couple of months ago, his van was broken into and his wallet and (my) iPod were stolen. He was really bummed, so to make him feel better, I went out and bought him a new 80-gig Classic iPod and surprised him with it. He was chuffed. Meanwhile, I was still using the shitty old iPod mini, while secretly coveting his sleek black Classic with its video capability and general bitchin-ness. So on Saturday night, it was awesome to be rewarded by the iPod gods with a new Classic of my own. Sometimes what goes around really does come around.

It's my policy to not do things I don't have to do

Yesterday was the last day of our lease on our old place. We scrubbed the place out this past weekend, and yesterday I went to drop off the keys. The property manager seemed very confused to see me there.

Her: Do you have a final inspection scheduled?

Me: No, nobody contacted me about one.

Her: Did you fill out a notice to vacate?

Me: No, the lease says no notice is required.

This seemed to confuse her even more.

Her: It's our policy to have people fill them out.

Me: Well, I didn't know that, and the lease doesn't require it, so I didn't.

Her: Would you be willing to fill one out now with your forwarding address and contact information?

Me: Sure.

She gave me a form which was attached to a multi-page document full of tiny print with detailed instructions on exactly how to clean out the apartment before vacating it and providing a schedule of charges in the event you haven't done a sufficient job. Like, "failure to treat for fleas and ticks if you have a pet -- $125"; "dirt on the counters -- $25." The list was extensive and totally unenforceable, in my humble legal opinion. The notice to vacate form had a series of boxes to initial indicating you had received the instructions and fee schedule such that, presumably, you agreed to be bound by them.

I filled out the form with my new address and phone number, but didn't initial any of the boxes, and I handed the form back to her and started to leave.

Her: Wait a minute! You need to initial these boxes.

Me: No, I'm not going to. I didn't receive any of this information before today, and in any event, it's not in the lease, so I didn't agree to it and it's not enforceable against me.

Her: But I'm giving you the documents today, so you can initial that you received them.

Me: No. Today is too late. I didn't receive them in advance.

Her: But you're getting them now.

Me: Look. If I initial these boxes, then that could be interpreted as some kind of acknowledgment on my part that I received the documents in advance and that I agreed to comply with all this stuff. And I didn't get it in advance -- I got it today, after I had already moved out. It's too late. I'm not initialling.

All of this may seem very tough on my part (my mother called me a "pistol"), but it was made infinitely easier by the fact that when we moved in, they gave us a special promotional deal in which we paid no security deposit, so they have nothing of mine that they can use as leverage. If they ask me for money, I'll tell them that I'll rewrite their leases and forms for whatever amount they're seeking, and we can walk away even.

Zeke so far

The kid has his own music video.

(Special credit goes to Fred and his artdada blog for turning me on to Animoto and giving me the idea)

I continue to be amazed at my status as "luckiest beeyotch on the planet"

Remember last year's New Year's Eve? When Jason surprised me by awarding me the Spouse of the Year trophy that he had schemed with our friends to make and engrave for me? Well, he's outdone himself. Because apparently, pretty much since the bestowing of the Spouse of the Year award -- i.e., for the last year -- he has been planning a birthday surprise for me for my birthday next month involving the rental of a massive beach house and the visit of our closest friends. The planning has involved hoarding money so I wouldn't know about it and hiding it in socks and ski parkas and attics, faking bike rides and surf outings to meeting with realtors, and having everyone in on it, from my parents to my friends, for six freaking months, without me finding out.* He seriously showed up to pay the realtor with a sock full of money, because it was impossible to open a secret bank account without having statements sent to the house, such that I'd find out about it. Anyway, circumstances have prevented everyone from being able to make it, but Mindy and Chris and their brood are coming, which is so awesome. My mom might come out for a bit as well. And we've got a beach house on the North Shore for a week, and we might take a trip to another island (I'd love to see the sunrise on Haleakala Crater on Maui), and and and... I'm so touched and surprised and blessed with the sweetest husband on earth. Seriously. I have no idea how I worked it, since I'm kind of grumpy and depressive and demanding, but I guess, to quote that song from The Sound of Music, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.

*As I have pointed out to a couple of people (including Jason), the big reveal cleared up a few mysteries, including a period of a couple of months last year when Jason was constantly taking cash out of the ATM but never seemed to have any cash on him. We'd be out and we'd stop and get a soda or something and I'd ask him for money and would berate him for not having any cash when he had just taken $150 out of the account 3 days before. He'd claim he had to buy tools, or lunch, or whatever, but I suspected either a gambling problem or a plot by him to hoard money so he could leave me if he felt like it.

hair today, gone tomorrow

Jason and I have been insanely lazy about cutting our hair since we got married. He hasn't cut his for about 3 1/2 years and basically, neither had I, so we both had long scraggly manes that desperately needed to be chopped. I went in last week and got about 7 inches cut off, so now it's a manageable long bob, about 2 inches below my chin. Jason went in yesterday and got a whole new 'do. He looks awesome. Rrowr.

You get extra points if you run them down and they're haoles

Jason is getting a Hawaiian driver's license because he lost his Georgia license when his wallet was stolen. Today he went in to take the written test. He said the questions on the test were ridiculous. One of them asked what to do if you are approaching an intersection with a green light, but there are pedestrians in the intersection. Choices included -- and I swear I am not making this up -- "Speed up to try to cross the intersection before they do" and "Cross the intersection as close to them as possible to try to frighten them." Another asked about merging onto a busy highway. Choices included "drive as close to cars in other lanes as possible to intimidate them into yielding the right of way." Jason got 100% on his test, but apparently many people in the room were having major problems. Oy.

Back to work

I'm officially done with maternity leave. I haven't worked in 2 1/2 months, though I feel as if I've done nothing but work, albeit a different kind. But Zeke starts full-time daycare tomorrow, and I'm back on the clock. It feels weird. I also may have a new second job. I wrote to the University of Hawaii Law School's academic dean and asked if they were interested in having me create and teach an education law seminar, and they are. I'm meeting with her later this month to talk about it. Kinda cool.

Apparently, because I'm white, it makes me an asshole when I don't like people waking up my sick 2-month-old with illegal fireworks

I just had my first experience of being called a haole bitch and being told to go back to the mainland. I tell you, I'm finding Hawaii more and more charming every day.

What happened was this. For some reason, some people in my neighborhood feel compelled to set off fireworks every night. They usually start right after we have put Zeke to bed (around 7 pm), but they are sporadic and not big bright ones so it's hard to tell where they are coming from. But tonight, at 7:15, I heard some really loud ones, and saw a big red flash outside my window. Immediately after that, I heard Zeke, who has been suffering from a cold and therefore sleeping particularly badly, start to cry. So I went to his room and rocked him back to sleep. At around 7:30, I heard the fireworks again, and looking out the window I could see exactly where they were coming from. I ran downstairs and told Jason, "keep an ear out for the baby, I'm going to tear some ass." The fireworks (and they were huge) were coming from a couple of blocks over, and I ran over and found a huge group of people milling around in the street, having a bit of a house party around the fireworks. I walked up to the group and said, "could you stop with the fireworks, please? they're illegal and they keep waking up my baby." At which point, two women started walking towards me, in full head-shaking mode (as if to say, "oh no she di'int"), yelling, "oh, yah, haole bitch? why don't you say it to my face?" This confused me a bit, because as far as I could tell, I was saying it to her face, so I said, "I am saying it to your face. Stop setting off the fireworks." And she said, "well, you could say it nicely." So I said, "OK, fine. Would you please stop setting off the fireworks? In addition to being illegal and not allowed in this complex, it's waking up my baby and it's rude and inconsiderate." Then this big Samoan guy said, "oh yah, lady? if you don't like the idea why don't you just go back to the mainland?" I rolled my eyes, and contemplated explaining to him that setting off fireworks isn't an idea, it's an act, but this probably would have gone right over his head, so I just said, "Give me a break, dude." And then everyone started yelling and getting in my face, "oh no, you give us a break, bitch. Fuck you, bitch." So I turned around and said, "never mind. I'll just call the police." And I did. I also sent the security dude over there, and I'm reporting them to management, and since I have the addresses, they're all going to be fined. On the other hand, they don't know who I am or where I live, but if anyone bothers me, I'll just sic Jason on them, because he got a Bowflex for Christmas so he'll kick some ass for me.

New York money, but with none of the New York advantages...

I'm sitting in my upstairs office in the new house. There are 4 neighbors whose houses are in close proximity -- I can hear activity in all 4. All day long I've had to listen to the shitty Hawaiian versions of Christmas carols coming from the radio of the people who live behind us, with occasional 20 minute bouts of their shitty little dog yipping. I can hear my neighbor next door blowing his nose in the shower. I can hear kids playing in the yard on the other side of us. Only in Hawaii can you spend almost half a million dollars on a house and still feel like you're living in a tenement.

a little star is born...

So Zeke wasn't an elf in the school christmas play. He was a star, along with the other babies in the infant class. The teachers marched the tiniest babies out and rolled out a crib containing the rest and sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." The role of the children was to look cute in their onesies decorated with stars. They succeeded. Then they got presents from Santa. It was too adorable -- Jason and I both cried.

My personal act of rebellion

I love Zeke's school. The place is open and colorful and cheerful, the staff is lovely, and the caregivers in the infant room are wonderful with the babies. But they're going a little overboard with the Christmas business. Not that I have a problem with Christmas -- it's a lovely holiday -- but there doesn't seem to be any acknowledgement at all of any possibility that Zeke might not actually be Christian. Everyone I meet talks about how it's his first Christmas, he's got a Christmas stocking in his crib, they're having a Christmas program today (in which he will be featured as an elf -- Jason and I are seriously going to lose our shit when we see him), etc etc. I refuse to be one of those assholes who throws a Christmas greeting back in the giver's face by saying, "actually, we're Jewish and we don't celebrate Christmas" -- I think it's rude and mean and totally unnecessary. So I had to send a message more subtly. I sent Zeke to school today wearing his onesie that says "save the date - my bar mitzvah 2020". It'll probably go right over their heads, though, because I'm sure that not a single person working there has any freaking clue what a bar mitzvah is. But still. It made me feel better.

The 8 week old clothes horse

I was just organizing Zeke's clothes drawers, and came up with an enormous pile of onesies. This isn't counting the ones that he can't wear right now because they're too big, or the ones in the wash, or the one he's wearing, or the extra outfits he keeps at daycare. This is only the ones that fit him, in his drawer right now. He could wear a different outfit every day for over a month and not wear the same thing twice. I've never had that many clothes in my life.

Peanut School

Zeke had his first day of daycare today. It's a lovely place with a very warm and nurturing staff. The teachers in the infant room are all big bosomed, soft-armed older ladies that seem tailor-made for holding and comforting babies. I was a little nervous (and feeling a bit guilty) when I dropped Zeke off this morning, but when the teacher picked him up he smiled at her and I sighed and knew he would be fine. The school is very detail-oriented -- even a 7 week old gets a daily progress report. So when I picked Zeke up at noon, I was pleased to learn that he had had two short naps (and at what times), had two bottles (how much and at what times), and that he enjoyed rocking in the rocker and was "very observant of the room, his friends, and his caregivers." So hilarious. The kid's been in school one day and already he has friends -- I've been here 10 months and I barely know a soul.

Two years ago today...

 

Two signs that the apocalypse is upon us...

1. I got my hospital bill for delivering Zeke. Uncomplicated vaginal delivery: $12,000. Holy shit. Thank god for insurance (though it only covers part of it, so don't anybody expect expensive Christmas presents from us this year).

2. With a completely straight face, the local weather forecasters are describing our current conditions as a "cold front." High of 83, low of 73.

Zeke has a bath

not that having a bath is such a monumentous occasion, but I couldn't resist posting a photo of him in the froggy towel that my friend Ali got for him (it's even got his name embroidered on the back - so cool). Every time Jason and I look at him like this we crack up. I hope he never runs for office, because his constituents will never be able to take him seriously with pictures like these out there...

what's up

It's one of those rare days in Hawaii -- particularly on the side of Oahu we live on -- when it's rainy and crappy out. I've actually always loved rainy crappy days, so having the weather be perfect all the time isn't all it's cracked up to be. But right now it's thundering and lightening out, Zeke is dozing in his carseat on my desk, the dog is asleep at my feet, and I've got a mellow playlist going on iTunes. It's very peaceful.

It's been hard to find time to do anything not baby-related these days, thus the dearth of blog posts. Zeke is doing great -- at his 1month checkup he was 10 lbs 6 ozs and has grown an inch and a half. He's a solid little munchkin. He's starting to react to my facial expressions - I've gotten what looks like smiles, but I'm not sure. In any event, he's pretty damned cute.

In other news, we had a nice Thanksgiving with my brother Sam and his wife. I discovered that the key to a great turkey is to brine it. I also discovered, when we went for a hike, that not sleeping more than 2 hours at a stretch for a month is not conducive to cardiovascular strength. I practically coughed up a lung trying to walk up this hill. Also, we are getting the keys to our new house on Monday, and will move in the following weekend. It's going to be so great to be in our own place. We're going to get a Christmas tree - my first.

The happiest mommy on the block

When I was about 5 or 6 months pregnant, I ordered some DVDs from Amazon. One was a childbirth class, and the other was called The Happiest Baby On The Block, and it showed techniques for calming a crying or fussing baby. We watched the childbirth DVD in preparation for labor, but stuck the other one in a drawer and forgot about it.

Until last night.

Zeke has had a rough couple of days. He has been very fussy, and I thought he had bad gas, and then thought he was sick with a cold because his nose sounded congested, so I took him to the pediatrician yesterday to have him looked at. Apparently, his belly is nice and soft, indicating no gas problems, and according to the doctor, his nose wasn't even stuffed up. So in addition to being unable to calm my child, I have become that mom that rushes off to the doctor like a ninny the minute the kid shows signs of having a hangnail. But I did discover he now weighs 10 pounds (as my father said, "great news! we've never had a Sumo wrestler in the family!")

Anyway. He was relatively calm all morning yesterday, but then at around 2pm started this cycle of hysterical crying for 20 minutes followed by 5 minutes of calm, then more hysterical crying, then maybe 10 minutes of sleep, then more hysterical crying, etc. Nothing worked. I walked with him, sang to him, tried giving him a bottle, tried giving him a pacifier, tried holding him up on my shoulder, tried cradling him on his side, tried putting him in the carseat, the bouncy seat, and the swing, and nothing would calm him down.

Finally, he seemed to settle down on my shoulder (doing that "huh-huh-huh" thing kids do when they've been crying forever and are trying to calm down -- so pathetic), and I remembered this DVD and decided to watch it. It's made by a pediatrician whose theory is that the first 3 months of life are essentially a fourth trimester of pregnancy, and the best way to soothe a baby and make him feel secure is to mimic the conditions the baby was used to in utero. Common sense, yes, but sometimes it takes someone showing you the obvious before you get clued in. So the techniques are, you swaddle the baby tightly, hold him on his side or stomach, "shush" loudly (or use some other form of white noise), gently jiggle the baby, and give him something to suck on. Jason got the tricks down right away, but it took me a little while to get the hang of the side/stomach position. But I tried again this morning when Zeke was fussing; I swaddled him tightly, put him on his side (carrying him like a football, with his cheek in my palm), shushed him, and jiggled him a little, and he literally went from crying hard to passed out cold in about 10 seconds. He is now asleep in his crib with my white noise machine on loud about 6 inches from his ear, happier than a pig in shit.

shhh...

Dr. Harvey Karp, if I could nominate you for a Nobel Prize, I would. I think you saved my life, or at least my sanity.

Thank you, Babycenter.com...

for reassuring me that I'm not a monster and that it's perfectly normal for me to not find taking care of a newborn to be particularly enjoyable. My days have a foggy sameness -- waking to the sound of crying, changing a diaper, giving a bottle, burping, saying "shhh" when he cries (which is alot -- poor monkey's got bad gas and I'm having a hard time getting rid of it), waiting for him to fall asleep, falling asleep myself, waking to the sound of crying, and on and on. I love the kid, but I'll be really happy when he starts daycare.

The cure for insomnia

As anyone who knows me knows, I am a chronic insomniac. Haven't slept well for 10 or 11 years. I usually have no trouble falling asleep, but I'll wake up in the middle of the night and then not be able to fall asleep again until 4 or 5 in the morning. But I think I've finally figured out my issue. Apparently, my problem was that I had too much time to sleep. All of those uninterrupted hours during the night were too much for my system to handle. It was an embarrassment of riches. Because now that the time available to me for sleeping is so drastically limited -- I'm getting maybe 3-4 hours a night, in 1-2 hour increments -- I'm sleeping like a champ. No more waking up in the middle of the night, staring at the clock, unable to drift off again. So for all of you poor saps who can't seem to fall asleep or stay asleep, just set your alarm to go off every 3 hours or so, and then make yourself get out of bed and either rock in a chair or walk the halls for half hour to an hour at a time. You'll be nice and exhausted and will never have trouble sleeping again.

I'm a cliche

Not much blog-worthy going on these days. I spend my days and nights feeding the baby, looking at the baby, reading to the baby, taking pictures of the baby, talking about the baby, and trying to catch a bit of sleep when I can. Zeke is very mellow and easy, doesn't cry much, and loves to be held and to snuggle up with mommy or daddy or grandma.

To make up for the lack of posts, I've added a Flickr button to the side of this page -- I'll add new pictures as I take them. Feel free to admire my cute little munchkin.

Going native

The Hawaiian ladies are very big on getting designs on their big toes when they get pedicures. I always thought it was a bit too ghetto-fabulous for my tastes, but the other day Mom and I went and got our hands and toes done and figured, "when in Rome..."

I kind of love it, actually.

Hands down, the bitchinest new baby card we have received thus far....

I might manage to finish the book by the time Zeke is 2...

When Dave and Michele came to visit in April, they brought a wonderful children's book for me to read to Zeke called On The Day You Were Born. It's about how the sun, moon, ocean tides, animals and people in the world celebrate a baby's arrival. It's beautifully illustrated and written in a poetic, soothing style, and as soon as I looked through it the first time I knew I was in trouble, because it's so sweet and lovely and expressive of the joy of a new baby that it makes me cry every time. After we brought Zeke home, I tried to read it to him and couldn't even get through the first paragraph before I started to bawl. The second time was not much better; I might have gotten through the first page. Last night we tried again and I was fine until I hit page 4. My mother thinks it's hilarious -- I sit there crying and laughing at myself, and she just laughs.

But it's not as bad as my reaction to The Giving Tree. One time I was merely explaining to someone else what the book was about and I choked up and started to weep. I would love for Zeke to have that book, but I may have to get someone else to read it to him.

Who the f@&k is Billy Ruebens?

As I mentioned in my previous post, Zeke is a bit jaundiced and is receiving phototherapy for it. He's doing fine and we're going home in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I learned something new.

When the night nurse came in a couple of nights ago to test him for jaundice, she said she was taking him to get his "Billy Ruebens" checked. I was a bit confused and asked who that was, and she explained that they were looking to see if Zeke had jaundice. So I figured that "Billy Ruebens" was a doctor back in the day who had come up with the test for jaundice or was some other prominent person in the medical field.

Then earlier today, we were meeting with the pediatrician who was explaining a bunch of stuff to us, and when she asked if we had any questions, I said, "actually, yes. I was just wondering who Billy Ruebens was and if he had something to do with jaundice research." She gave me the look that is usually reserved for people with dementia or some form of brain damage and explained that people hadn't been saying "Billy Ruebens," but rather, "bilirubins," which apparently is a chemical that has something to do with jaundice. Thankfully, her explanation was not followed by flashing sirens and large illuminated arrows with "moron" pointed in my direction, but it wouldn't have surprised me.

Look what we made!!

Introducing Ezekiel Monash

The last 3 days have been the craziest of my life. An amazing and overwhelming combination of excitement, apprehension, tedium, dread, elation, intense physical pain, intense euphoria, and finally, a contentment that I have never known. Just typing these words is making me bust out in tears all over again. I feel so blessed and insanely happy, and I wish that everyone in the world could feel what I'm feeling right now, at some point in their lives.

But getting from noon on Tuesday to this point was going to hell and back. I had been 1 centimeter dilated for 2 weeks, and I was afraid I would pass my due date, which would have sucked on so many levels. First, as my previous posts make clear, I was completely over being pregnant. Second, my mom is coming in today, and it would have been a huge bummer for her if I didn't give birth until right before she left, because she has been so excited about seeing her new grandson. So on Sunday, I started going on 5 or 6 walks a day to try to move the dilation process along. This was a huge boon for Max, who is always thrilled when I pick up the leash and slip on my shoes. Monday I must have walked him 5 times, and I also took a couple of brisk mile long walks with the iPod.

I guess it did the trick, because I woke up Tuesday morning feeling off, physically. Very tired and achy all morning, and then at noon I started having contractions. At first they were very mild -- more like menstrual cramps than anything else -- but by 2 or 3 in the afternoon they were definitely discernable and regularly spaced, albeit far apart (at least 12 to 15 minutes). I was also having "bloody show," so I knew that the time had probably come. I called my doctor at about 3:30 in the afternoon, and he said that when the contractions started getting closer together -- under 10 minutes apart -- I should probably head into the hospital. I didn't want to head all the way over there (it's in Honolulu, about 21 miles from where we live) only to get sent home because I still had too long before true labor would begin, so Jason and I hung out for a while and figured that we'd head into the hospital at around 7 or 8. In the meantime, we let our neighbor know (she was going to look after Max while we were gone), did the dishes, did some laundry, and finished packing the hospital bag.

But by 5, the contractions were getting more intense and paintful, and were between 6 and 8 minutes apart. We decided to head in. We got to the hospital at about 6 :30 or so, but I was still only 1-2 cm dilated, so they made me walk around for hours, checking my progress every hour. So we walked. I shuffled along in my hospital gown, and Jason held my hand and walked with me and rubbed my back when the contractions hit, while I gripped his arm or the railing on the wall and tried to breathe through the pain. By 10:30 at night, I couldn't walk around anymore -- the contractions were too painful and too close together, and it was wearing me out. The hospital staff decided to put me in a labor room (up to that point we had been in a triage room) and give me a narcotic to try to dull the pain a little bit.

The pain medication didn't work. For the next few hours, I lay in bed while wave after wave of pain washed over me. At around 2 in the morning, the staff checked my cervix again, and I was still only 2-3 centimeters dilated. I was exhausted and worn out and still had a long way to go, so when they asked if I wanted an epidural, I said "hell, yes."

The anesthesiologist showed up and inserted the catheter at about 3 am, and 15 minutes later, I was in heaven. Totally, 100% pain free, though all my contractions were continuing unabated, growing stronger and stronger and moving the dilation process along. The only scary part was that the medication made my blood pressure plummet and the baby's heart rate dropped very rapidly, so all of a sudden there were 6 people in the room, poking and prodding at me, making me get up on all fours while they inserted more tubes into every orifice of my body and broke my water, and adjusting various medications to get us back on track. Finally, they got me and the baby out of distress, and I spent the next 10 hours or so dilating to 10 centimeters.

The problem, though, was that by the time I was done dilating and ready to push, the epidural was wearing off -- just in time for the hardest part. The doctor gave me two "toppers" -- smaller doses of pain medication to help me out during the pushing -- but they didn't last very long. So I spent the next 4 hours pushing out an 8 1/2 pound baby with a 14 inch head. The baby was tolerating the pushing, so we kept going. At first, it wasn't too bad, but by the last hour, he was starting to move down the canal and then got stuck behind my pubic bone, and it got kind of brutal. Finally, finally, the baby's head cleared my body and the rest of him slipped out, but I was sweating and crying, completely worn out and in horrible pain. I didn't even really get to enjoy seeing him or holding him at first, because the doctor had to stitch me up. Jason was excited, but also traumatized at having witnessed me in so much pain, so he couldn't really enjoy the moment either.

But then, after Zeke got cleaned up, we heard this squeaky little cry. And we looked at each other, smiled, and both burst into tears. There he was. Our little boo-boo. And he was healthy and looked perfect (except for a bit of a conehead) and was alert and beautiful.

The past two days we've spent hanging out in the hospital, snuggling the baby, marveling at how awesome he is, telling each other how much we love each other, and experiencing the family we have created. We were supposed to go home yesterday (Friday), but Zeke was a little bit jaundiced so the docs decided to keep him overnight for photo-therapy. Basically, he gets to spend the night in a baby incubator with a bright light shining down on him. So I'm here with him and Jason went home to spend some time with Max, get a change of clothes, and pick up my Mom from the airport. They'll come straight to the hospital from the airport, so I should be able to see them in about 6 hours. I'm exhausted and ecstatic and weepy and totally in love, with both my husband and my son, and I feel like the luckiest woman alive.

Don't call us, we'll call you

I say this without any desire to sound like a bitchy asshole, though I'm sure to some that's exactly how it will come across. But I can't talk any more about how I'm feeling these days. I've received so many lovely emails and phone calls from friends and relatives whose motives are nothing but pure and who are excited about the baby's impending arrival and how I'm doing. But the truth is, I feel like dogshit and I don't want to talk about it anymore. I've got nausea and heartburn, I can't sleep at night because I'm so uncomfortable, my feet and hands are so swollen that when I do sleep I wake up unable to feel my fingers because they have gone numb from the nerve pressure, my abdominal muscles ache and pull every time I switch positions, and my bowels are in an uproar. I'm so excited to meet my son, but to be honest, he has worn out his welcome in my body and I just want him to get the fuck out. When I go into labor and give birth, I will let everyone know, but until then, I have nothing new to report. If you want to call me and talk about the Red Sox-Indians series or how Friday Night Lights is the best show on TV or how awesome the New England Patriots are this season or the turmoil in Pakistan or what an idiot Britney Spears is, I'm all for it, but I can't talk about contractions or cervical effacement or anything like that anymore. Sorry.

home

The seller accepted our offer, with the only sticking point being the closing date. We wanted late December, they wanted mid November. We split the difference, so we're closing on December 3. Very exciting!

making progress

The house-hunting process has been a bit stressful. First, I'm experiencing extreme sticker shock at the price of real estate here. Basically, we're going to be spending twice as much as our Atlanta house sold for, to get something with similar square footage on 1/10 the plot of land and in a suburb 20 miles outside of Honolulu. Second, schlepping around to look at houses is physically taxing for me right now I'm less than 2 weeks from my due date and feeling absolutely enormous, and the baby loves to kick me hardest when I'm up and walking around. So getting in and out of the car and walking up and down stairs to check out open houses and showings leaves me exhausted.

But... I think we found a place. It's got 3 bedrooms, including a master suite that has a den attached that I can use as an office, a big downstairs with a new kitchen, a little yard where Jason can garden (he's way into it all of a sudden), and a two car garage. It's on a quiet street with nice neighbors, it's close to the beach and is in a community with a pool, and it's near a reasonably good elementary school, so I may be able to avoid the expense of private school for a little while. We're making an offer on it tomorrow. Fingers crossed...

The theme is "prison"

I've never thought of interior decorating -- or other similar stylistic choices -- in terms of having a theme. Because of my parents' jobs, our house was decorated with rugs and paintings and sculpture they acquired in their various diplomatic posts around the world, accompanied by neutral-toned furniture that wouldn't compete with the art and various objets. Nothing matched in the sense that they didn't pick out upholstery to match drapes to pick up the pattern in the throw pillows, but everything complemented everything else and looked cool. Likewise, I never had a bedroom that was all decorated in Holly Hobby or Peanuts characters or anything like that. It wouldn't have occured to me to ask for it, and it's not really my thing.

As a result, I've been at a loss lately when people ask me what my "theme" is for Zeke or his bedroom. I don't get this at all. I mean, he's a baby. He's not going to give a shit about themes. All he's going to want is to be warm and comfortable and to have access to my boobs whenever he's hungry. My feeling is, if his clothes and sheets and stuff are clean and safe, I've done my job, and as far as their appearance goes, anything simple and not ugly is fine by me. But the women from my exercise class, for example, ask me about my theme and tell me about how their theme for their babies' nurseries was "bears" or "sports" or "Winnie the Pooh." They look at me sort of blankly when I appear confused and a little bit panicked by the question until I blurt out, "my theme is 'baby.' Ha ha." Then their looks change to slightly pitying, as if I'm some poor soul who lacks the imagination to come up with a theme for my child, who will doubtless grow up neglected.

So I've decided on a theme. "Prison." Jason and I joke about how Zeke with be our little convict baby whose ancestors were sent to Australia when it was a penal colony. He's got a Johnny Cash Folsom Prison onesie, and yesterday I made him a t-shirt that says "I Just Spent Nine Months On The Inside." I'm trying to find some jammies that look like an orange prison jumpsuit. So there's your theme, exercise class ladies. I hope it meets with your approval.

Items from Zeke's layette

Because we don't have enough going on these days...

We're starting the house-hunting process. We've got our prequalification letter from the bank, our realtor is lining up open houses and showings, and we want to be under contract soon so we can close before the end of December and get the tax break for 2007. Let's hope my water doesn't break as I'm traipsing through someone's house...

A womb with a view

Aww... he's got my cankles!

I'm giving birth to the creature from the black lagoon.

This past weekend we went for an ultrasound to check the baby's size and development. All looks good. We got one of those "4D" scans. I was hoping for a better shot of the baby's face, but because of the position he's in, it was hard to get a clear picture. His features look squished and weird and half his face was in shadows. But all is well, and I'm now less than 4 weeks from my due date. Which can't come soon enough, because I'm so ready to have this baby. I'm bored and huge and constantly needing to pee and I can't do much of anything without feeling completely exhausted within 5 minutes.

My baby brother is kewl

My youngest brother, Sam, is one of my favorite people in the world. I've thought so ever since he was a little kid -- he was always smart and funny and looking at the world in a new and unexpected way. He has the left brain of a money guy but the soul of an artist, and I respect him enormously for it, and for his willingness to make an effort to create art, be it music or photography or whatever catches his fancy. He has a band called Lipstik, and they play gigs and write and record songs and get stuff on iTunes and put themselves out there. They may make it big, they may not, but props to them for giving it all they've got. Here's their new video for "Honey Eyes." According to the band, it's "a meditation on the songwriting process and on the dual lives we all tend to lead."

Yay!! I said something that wasn't totally inappropriate!!

It's no secret that I share my father's tendency to say wildly inappropriate things in public. With a certain gift for the gab comes an inability to keep my mouth shut, I guess. Just last week, I was waiting in line at the post office, and the line was growing behind me while some lady carried on a long conversation with the postal worker behind the counter. For a long time she blathered on about non-post-office-related matters, while people impatiently tapped their feet and checked their watches behind her. Then she asked a question about online postal services, saying, "you know, I don't like having to come here if I don't absolutely have to." And before I could stop myself, I said out loud, "yeah, neither does anybody else, lady, so let's cut the chatter, shall we?" Oops. She gave me a dirty look and hurried away.

Saturday night, Jason and I went to see a high school football game at Kapolei High School. It's about 3/4 of a mile away, so we thought it would be a nice walk and fun to get out of the house.

A beautiful night for a game

We had a really nice time hanging out and watching the game, even though the game wasn't very good. Kapolei's team had a couple of drives in which they were able to string together some good plays, but for the most part they looked pretty inept.

Jason has lost all feeling in his leg taking this picture

Kapolei's team didn't match up well against the Mililani Trojans. I think the final score was 31-7.

The high school band, on the other hand, was pretty impressive. I don't even remember if my high school team had a marching band, but if they did, I don't think they were as good as these kids were. They played tunes that were recognizable and upbeat, on key, and they marched in pretty tight formation and seemed to be having a good time. As they walked off the field from doing their half-time performance, I turned to Jason and said, "that's the most organized and cohesive group Kapolei's had on the field all night!" A guy sitting right in front of us who looked to be a couple of years older than us chuckled and gave me an appreciative smile, and a few minutes later, two of his kids walked up, and they were band kids. So I had paid him and his family a compliment!

KHS's rockin' band

Jason looked at me and said, "hey, look at that! you said something that didn't insult anyone!" I laughed and replied, "I know, I was just thinking the same thing. Maybe my streak is broken!"

Don't anyone hold their breath, though.

Aloha?? Anyone??

Yesterday I walked out of my house at about 2:45 in the afternoon to go run some errands, only to discover that I had a flat tire. A pain in the ass, but nothing catastrophic, as I have a full spare (no crappy temporary spares for Mercedes!) and I was paying attention the day they taught us how to change a flat in driver's ed. The fact that I'm huge and cumbersome and exhausted was a little bit of an impediment, but the tire needed to be changed, so I sucked it up and got to it. I dragged the (heavy, dirty) spare tire out of the trunk, loosened the lug nuts, and jacked the car up. I was sitting on the ground as I was doing this, so in addition to getting tire shmutz all over my hands and clothes, my butt and legs were getting all dirty and grass stained, plus the size of my belly makes it difficult to sit on the ground comfortably in any event, let alone maneuver big heavy tires on and off of a wheel, all while trying to hold the spare tire in place and line up the lugs at the same time so that I could screw it in place. What I'm saying is, I got the job done, but it wasn't pretty, and to anyone passing by, it would have been obvious that I was having a difficult time.

Oh, yes, did I mention that it was the afternoon, and that people were trickling home from work, and students (including able-bodied high school boys) were trickling home from school, and generally there were many people passing by who could see me? People that I see in the neighborhood every day when I'm out walking the dog or getting the mail or going for a stroll with my husband? People who say hi to me and ask me how my pregnancy is progressing, and therefore know who I am and that I'm hugely pregnant? People like the leasing agent who drove by with some prospective tenants, slowed down to look at me, and then kept driving? Or the landscaping guys, who also slowed down to look at me and then kept going? Or my next door neighbor's 17-year-old son, who walked by me, and was at most 10 feet away, but resolutely kept his eyes on a point in front of him so that he wouldn't have to acknowledge my presence? Yeah, them. All of those people, who know me, who are well aware of my condition, who saw that I was having a hard time, and not fucking one of them stopped to see if they could give me a hand. Say what you will about the South (and I lived there for almost half my life, so I am generally not one to bad-mouth it, but plenty of people do), but if this had happened in Atlanta, not only would multiple people have fallen all over themselves to stop and change the tire for me, but they (or their spouses) would have send me casseroles afterwards and called to make sure I was OK. Hawaiians like to brag about the "aloha spirit" that pervades these islands and makes them such a hospitable, friendly place, but I sure didn't see much evidence of it. Maybe we just need to move to a better neighborhood.

Happy 5768

Tonight is the start of Rosh Ha'Shana, the Jewish New Year. It's the beginning of the Days of Awe, the 10 days leading up to Yom Kippur (the day of atonement), during which time a person is supposed to settle up spiritually, both with people and with God, making right the wrongs of the past year, so that the next year can begin with a clean slate. So tonight I will be going to synagogue, eating apples dipped in honey, and renewing my efforts to be a good and loyal friend, daughter, sister, wife and soon, mother. I wish all of my friends and family a happy, healthy and prosperous year, and may I be worthy of the love and support I am showered with on an embarrassingly regular basis.

I need a book

I've been plowing through all of the books on my must-read list, and I've hit a bit of a lull. Stuff that I've heard so much about -- The Memory Keeper's Daughter, Water for Elephants, to name two -- have left me feeling decidedly unsatisfied. I want to read something that blows me away, like The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay or The House of the Spirits or One Hundred Years of Solitude or Handling Sin. Something smart and original and unique. Any suggestions would be most appreciated, unless it's for an Ayn Rand book, because I think she sucks.

In other news, my life is incredibly boring these days. Work is kind of slow, and I'm so tired all the time that I can't really do much of anything without needing a nap (or a pee break) after 15 minutes. I spend my days either working or reading or watching U.S. Open tennis and Law and Order reruns, and my nights trying to get comfortable or making 3 a.m. runs to Safeway for Pepto Bismol to battle heartburn. Exciting, exciting stuff. Hence my need for a great book.