I'M STILL HERE

Thought you should know.

In My DREAMS

This is fun!  And feeds my delusions!  Twofer!

from "Sartorial Splendor in a Small Town" and "You're Not Doing That Right"

I write like
Margaret Atwood

I Write Like. Analyze your writing!

from "Have Yourself a Scary Little Christmas"

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like. Analyze your writing!

from "Two Weeks in Texas"

I write like
H. P. Lovecraft

I Write Like. Analyze your writing!

from "Say My Name"

I write like
William Gibson

I Write Like. Analyze your writing!

Sartorial Splendor in a Small Town

I recently attended my nephew's high school graduation in East Texas. There were 70-some odd graduates and lawd, I love a small class. But that's neither here nor there. The graduates mostly wore gowns, of course, so this is not about their clothing choices (although, honey, that ankle-length ruffly whatever-that-was under that gown did you no favors—burn it).

But, people, really. Let's start with the painfully obvious. Get dressed. You are not going to the city pool or a backyard barbecue—do not wear shorts and t-shirts and flip-flops. You should not need to be told this. Stop being a dick. Show some respect or stay home.

Also, that sundress with cowboy boots thing isn't as cute as you think it is. That might work if you took two seconds and tried to actually match them somehow, but since the common wisdom seems to be to throw any old boot at any old dress, there was a constant chorus of rejection buzzers going off in my head. If you insist on sticking with this look, let's try to keep it to spring and fall—by the weather, not the calendar. Leather shoes in general and boots in particular are not summer-friendly footwear. All I could think when I saw the girl in the micro-mini and the over-the-knee boots was, "Stank foot! Stank foot! Girl's got serious stank foot!" and then, "Oh, we're going to see her butt soon."

In other footwear news, six-inch glittery stiletto platform pumps are not appropriate for an afternoon graduation. They're not appropriate for anything, really, that doesn't involve a stripper pole. And here's some more really basic advice—if you can't walk in them, leave them in the store. I never saw so much ridiculous hobbling in my life. That's not hot, ladies, that's stupid. I'm only sorry that I spied the worst offender on this front in the lobby instead of getting to witness her attempt to walk down the sloped auditorium aisle.

On another note, the appropriate undergarment choice for a white, backless, eyelet dress is not a regular-backed black bra. And a word to the wise: side cut-outs are friendly to very few. Approach with extreme caution and be ready to run.

And don't think you're getting out of this, guys. I'm going to give you a pass on the khakis and boots; it is small-town East Texas—that is the acceptable dress code. But you lost me with the turquoise and yellow Under Armour shirt. You looked in the mirror and thought that was working for you? Oh, who am I kidding? You didn't get anywhere near a mirror.

Okay, folks, let's work on these few points, and next time I'm in town, we'll have some other gathering of some sort and I'll get the chance to judge you again. I hope you're looking forward to it as much as I am. Please don't hit me.

Hey, Blowhard! Fact-Check Your Mouth!

Ages ago, for obvious reasons, I blocked a blowhard know-it-all on Facebook. Since then, through a series of unfortunate events, he has been hired in my office. Now I am forced to listen in person to all the same erroneous information he used to spew online. His voice carries. He will never admit when he is mistaken and just continues to compound his original errors and sometimes just introduces new and also completely untrue facts into the conversation. (His wife, however, is delightful. How does that happen?)

Last week, he announced, "Oregon isn't really big on Indian place names." Really? You are sitting in a town and a county with an Indian place name. I don't have to go ten miles to come up with a dozen more. Where shall we start? Multmomah, Willamette, Clackamas, Scappoose, Clatskanie, Clatsop, Ecola, Nehalem, Kilchis, Neah-kah-nie, Netarts, Nestucca, Klamath. Shall I go on? Enh, check a map. I'm tired of this game.

Today's pronouncement:  "I don't think there's a million dollars in this county." You, sir, are an idiot. Yes, there are a lot of blue-collar, working-class families in this rural county.  There are also 75 miles of coastline. And a handful of  large company headquarters.

So, yes, blowhard.  It is well past time for you to fact-check your mouth. I need you to shut up. Like, yesterday.

Songs I Like Better My Way, Vol. III

(with apologies to Toys R Us)

I don’t wanna be here,
I’m a misplaced heiress.
I want a million toys that should be mine that I can play with.
I don’t wanna be here,
I’m a misplaced heiress.
Give me the best and all the rest, no need to feel embarrassed.
From homes to planes to video games,
It’s the best fantasy there is (gee whiz)!
I don't wanna be here and maybe if I weren’t,
I wouldn't feel so completely burnt.
(More stress, more woes, oh noez!)
I wanna be an heiress for realz!

Long Time, No Blog

Oh, hi. Um, ya know, life. Busy. Tired. Post every fleeting thought on Facebook or Twitter, so nothing left for here.  I would never have thought that I'd ever be without something to say, but...

Went to homeland for Christmas.  Time with family was very, very nice, but didn't sleep well while there and came back exhausted.  Flights were so awful and we were treated with such contempt by staff that not only do I never want to fly United again, but I never want to fly again.  I'd take the train, but it would take all of my vacation time just to get there.  Another notch in the pro column for moving back closer to family.

Saw Book of Mormon last night and enjoyed it immensely.  Will be singing and posting lyrics for weeks.  I'd apologize, but I'm not sorry.

This is the world's most boring post ever in the history of the universe ever.  Essentially, it's a placeholder so I can pretend like I still write a few paragraphs every now and then.  Oh, look!  Four paragraphs!  That'll do.  Current delusion accepted.  Carry on.

No Chikin, No Cry

I would not normally wade into such a fray, but since I publicly proclaimed my love for Chik-fil-A previously, I now feel obligated to publicly withdraw it. Done. The day I put a chicken sandwich before the rights of my fellow citizens is the day you can revoke my humanity card. I still have a soul, so I'm gonna pass on the sandwich.

It Finally Happened

Characters
Jason and Tami, a married couple, she has slight ADD tendencies

Setting
The present, driving along a country lane

Act 1, Scene 1

Tami: Why would you suggest a word when I had al-- Oh! <pointing> There's a chicken!
 

The End

The Grass Is Always Greener

We do not know the first thing about gardening or landscape maintenance or any of that water-it, trim-it, prune-it kind of stuff. And yet, we keep buying houses (ok, so this is only the second one and yes, technically I bought the first one before we ever even met, but hey, he knew what he was marrying into, so yes, we keep buying houses) with these elaborate yards and we haven't got a flipping clue what to do with them. So, like any pair of reasonable, rational adults would, we just ignore them and hope they go away.

However, now that Hooch is getting on up there in months and the weather's starting to improve--we may even be able to expect one nice day per month now--it would be nice to take him outside to play without having to leave home to do it. With that in mind, we set out today to pull up about seven years' worth (not an exaggeration) of overgrown ivy. Well, that sucked. After yanking and pulling and heaving and getting dirt in my eyes, mouth, and other assorted places where I'd just as soon not have dirt, not to mention grunting like I haven't grunted since my futile attempt at birthing my child, it finally began to look like we were getting somewhere. As I paused to assess our progress, I sneezed. And pissed myself. And that concludes my yard maintenance contributions.

Pillow Talk

So, thanks for dropping by, sleep. Sure you can't stay the night?

No, no, that's ok. I understand. That's not the kind of relationship we have anymore. It's just, ya know, every now and then, at times like these—in the dead of the night—I wish it were.

Oh, never mind me. Ha ha! Crazy talk, just a passing fancy.

So anyway, drop by any night you feel like it, you're always welcome. We know how to have a good time together, don't we?

Yeah.

Ok, see ya around. Or not. Whatever.

Call me!

Save the Frenchies!

The French Bulldog Rescue Network (don't scroll down on their homepage if you don't want to see distressing "before" pics of some of the mistreated and neglected dogs they have taken in), a wonderful, wonderful organization (from whom we adopted our beloved Milo) desperately needs your help. If you are able to assist them at all, please make a donation to their fundraising campaign at their ChipIn site or on the widget below. Please help if you can. Every Frenchie deserves some kissin' and a little tender, lovin' care.

But Enough About Me, What Do *You* Think Of Me?

My all-time top three compliments ever received, in the order in which they were bestowed:

1. "You look like an angel in that sweater." [beat, cocks head to side] "But really you're the devil."  (By my dear friend upon my entering the room wearing her favorite {obs-viously} cream-colored, cowl-necked sweater. She spoke spontaneously and then remembered who she was dealing with.)

2. "You're a gay man in a woman's body." (By another dear friend--who happens to *be* a gay man, so high praise indeed--upon his observation that I watch an inordinate amount of Bravo, listen to showtunes in the car, and exhibit a lot of other superficial stereotypical behaviors. Shut up, I don't care, I'm claiming it anyway.)

3. "The bigger a freak someone is, the more you accept them." (By my MTF transgender sibling upon coming out to me. Important note: NOT MY WORDS. I would never use the f-word in this situation.)

Lesson for you to take away from this: I'm kinda awesome.

Informal You

Conversation with customer service rep over phone:

Rep: Thank you, Ms. Tal--, Ms. Ta--

Me: [gives correct pronunciation] It's much easier than it looks.

Rep: Oh, ok. Thank you, Ms. Ta-- Can I call you Tami?

How to Sleep Like a Baby

Fuss until someone comes and picks you up and then lets you sleep on top of him/her for an hour. When someone puts you in your bed, sleep just long enough to give that person a false sense of security. Then, repeatedly pull your pacifier out and cry until someone puts it back in. When said someone tires of this game and literally bangs his/her head against the crib rail, s/he will likely pick you up and put you in his/her bed, despite the fact that the "rules" say s/he probably shouldn't. Next, stare wide-eyed at the ceiling while the local canine goes guano-psychotic because you're in her bed. Eventually, drift back off to sleep and let your pacifier slip peacefully out, this time without reaction. Someone will then be so charmed that s/he will post your picture on the interwebz and forgive all. Except for that bit where s/he tells mean stories about you.

I Think I'm Funny

Me: I tagged your aunt in that photo. I hope she isn't offended by the poop joke.

J: I don't think she will be. She doesn't like it when 14-year-olds drop an f-bomb, though.

Me: I'll remember that the next time I'm 14.

Our Birth Story

So, um, yeah, I had a baby. Here's how the birth went down. In short, it sucked.

At my 39-week appointment, it was decided that we would induce that week due to my continued blood pressure issues and the fact that I now had protein in my urine. The plan was to begin the process on Wednesday night through the use of a cervical ripening agent and then to begin labor with Pitocin on Thursday morning, with a birth on Thursday or possibly Friday. As such, we checked into the hospital Wednesday night and the doctor inserted the first dose, then the nurses took over from there. I had to rest in bed for two hours after each dose, then was given an hour to be up and about before being given the next dose. I generally chose to spend as much of each of those hour reprieves in the Jacuzzi tub as was possible.

When Thursday morning arrived, they checked my cervix and determined that it had not begun dilating at all, so we decided to do one more dose of the ripening agent and then to start the Pitocin at 1:00 pm, which meant I wouldn’t be able to move around much—only within the room and only in positions that allowed the baby to be monitored. After that, everything becomes pretty much a blur for me. I was on the Pitocin all afternoon and into the evening with no dilation, but in a great deal of pain. When the nursing shift change happened around 6:00 pm, the day nurse said that I would be at a full dosage in an hour or two. An hour into that I asked the night nurse about that and she seemed skeptical about that time frame, telling me that full dosage was 30, and I was only at 18 at 8:00 pm. While I thought I could go another hour, there was no way I could go on for an undetermined amount of time, especially when no progress was being made. I insisted that we shut the Pitocin off. The nurse checked with the doctor and the new plan was that we would again try the ripening agent overnight and try the Pitocin again in the morning if progress had been made or to at that time consider a C-section.

Once the Pitocin was off, I climbed back into the Jacuzzi; only this time, the magic tub did not work. I continued to have agonizingly strong contractions that made it very difficult for me to walk back to my room after I got out of the tub. Observing this, the nurse decided to check me, because the contractions should have stopped when the Pitocin was stopped. This time, there was progress—I had gone from 1 cm to 5 cm in no time flat. Body had decided on a new plan and labor was proceeding. Once I heard that I was above 4, I immediately asked for an epidural. I had already asked for Stadol before she checked me because I desperately needed something to take the edge off and knew that this would have passed through my body by the time the baby was born (my main concern being that I wanted to breastfeed immediately and didn’t want the baby to be sleepy). They went ahead and gave me the Stadol right away because it would take a little while to call in the anesthesiologist and for him to do all the preparations necessary. It helped a little, but basically it served to make me really dopey. It didn’t do much toward pain relief at all. Once I had the epidural, though, I was much more comfortable and after the “booster” epidural, I was as happy as a clam and could no longer feel the contractions though I could still see them on the monitor.

At about 7:30 the next morning, it was determined that I had fully dilated and could begin pushing. The doctor was with me for the first few pushes and she checked the strength of the pushes and the progress that the baby was making through the pelvis. I continued pushing with everything I had for about an hour and when the doc checked back in, the baby had made very little progress downward. We decided at this point to go ahead with the c-section since the baby should have been further descended based on the strength of the pushes and the time that I had been doing them.

Once surgery began, it took some doing to get the baby out—he was stuck firmly in my pelvis and it took two nurses to help the doctor dislodge him. He also had the umbilical cord wound twice around his neck tightly. He wasn’t breathing well and his heart rate was depressed. They immediately whisked him over and began working on him, but we didn’t really know what was going on. They got him on oxygen and by the time they got a heart rate, he was above 60, so they didn’t have to do compressions. His inital Apgar was 3. Once they had him stabilized enough to move him, they wheeled him up by my head and I got to see him for just a minute before they took him up to the nursery and continued working on him in J’s presence. He was so dehydrated that they couldn’t get a vein to give him fluids and ended up having to go in through the umbilical cord.

It was six hours after the birth before I got to hold him for the first time or see him for more than that brief moment in the OR. The doctor told me later that if we had tried to continue pushing for another hour, then we very well might have lost him. I’m very glad that I didn’t know much of this at the time that it was happening and even more thankful that we have a healthy and happy baby that we were able to take home on his 4th day.

He is three months old now and doing great. Just this morning, he discovered a new toy while I was changing his diaper. And so it begins.

Nothing Like a Northwest Beach

I just need to put this somewhere so I can show it to someone. Ta-da!!

Goin' Crackers

I just had a long, thoughtful conversation with J regarding the relative merits of various kinds of crackers. And because I am a caring and considerate altruist, I will now share the outcome of that deeply philosophical discussion.

Triscuits:
Consensus reached. Not a cracker at all. Shredded Wheat masquerading as a cracker. Not good for dipping. Flavor is too strong (and nasty, imnsho) and overpowers whatever you pair it with.

Wheat Thins:
No consensus reached.

• I feel they are a good snack cracker with a nice flavor, but they are bad for dipping, because they are too small and too flimsy. They cannot hold any substantial weight and certainly not enough weight to support the amount of dip I like to heap upon a cracker.
• J supports Wheat Thins in any role and will choose them no matter what dip, topping, crudités, or whatnot may be planned for the pairing.

Saltines:
No consensus reached. It got ugly, in fact. I may or may not have pulled over to the side of road and attempted to order him out of the car, then refused to drive on until he admitted that my assessment was correct and that there were no takebacks. Maturity is overrated.

• I maintain that saltines are your basic, run-of-the-mill, average, ordinary cracker. It pairs well with its cheese equivalent of your basic block of medium cheddar. And to make it perfection, add some sweet gherkins. In fact, I had this combo for dinner.
• J rudely and arrogantly maligns the saltine and claims it is sub-par and far below the level of all other crackers. He claims that he *might* be able to accept them with peanut butter. Whatever.

Ok, so we didn't get very far. The conversation devolved pretty quickly once we hit the saltines impasse. Rest assured, though, that I will be sure to post results as they develop in any further cracker conversations. It's important that you have all the valuable decision-making tools at your disposal in time for your next snacking opportunity. See? I am such an altruist.

Random Photos from the Long Weekend

Oh, hai. Has it been five months already? Hunh. I'd explain, but eh.

Anyhoo, my parents are wrapping up their week-long visit and I took some pictures over the weekend that I quite like. So here they are. Enjoy. Or don't. I don't control you. More's the pity.

Golden Arches


Forest for the Stump


Holding Steady


Wind-Up


Peep Show


Hoffstadt Creek Bridge (2340 ft. long, 600 ft. tall)


Sredrig


Demarcation (Looking ENE from Elk Rock at the North Fork Toutle River)


Scoured at Thirty (Looking WNW from Elk Rock at North Fork Toutle River and Castle Rock Lake)


Another Tack


Storyteller

Songs I Like Better My Way, Vol. II

"O Tannenbaum"
Apologies to Germans everywhere

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,
You will burn so delightfully.
On Memorial Day when you're nice and dry,
The inferno will burn brightly.
The conflagration will be swell,
The flames will be like those in hell.
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,
You will burn so delightfully.