A whole new (dirtier?) world

The other day I was browsing the online store at the website for the La Leche League (these are the breastfeeding people). I had spent some time reading their materials and checking them out, and then I saw that they had a store... so I went there.

While looking around, I saw that one of the items they're selling is this thing (not this exact one; this one is from Amazon, and costs $10 less than the one the La Leche League is selling).

I was surprised, because I've seen this item before, but didn't realize that it was something that someone manufactures and sells. The one I saw, in person, at the Target in Belmont Shore, looked handmade and quilt-y - I thought the kid's overprotective grandma had made it for him. I remember taking a look at him, and then at his mom, and see, when I saw it, I thought, "Wow, this lady must be rich and crazy." Don't get me wrong, I thought it was adorable, but I also thought, Why would you need something like this?

And they're not cheap: the ones at the La Leche website go for about $45.

Now that I am going to be a mom in less than four months myself, I'm thinking about this stupid product again. And, also, my own probably unfair judging of other people. I really need to stop doing that.

(The other day, on a friend's Facebook page, I made a stupid, silly comment about tuba choirs - yes, such a thing exists - and some dude called me "snobby." Hey, maybe I am: I think it's the prerogative of all piccolo players to be a little disdainful of the TUBA section. I mean, come on. Though if this guy had known me in high school he would've realized that I am physically incapable of being a snob. Anybody looking at the clothes I wore could figure that out for themselves. But that and this are two different things... I think. Now I'm just confused, trying to figure this one out for myself. Because this shopping cart cover thing doesn't just represent making a decision about placing my baby in a shopping cart unprotected from germs, it kind of represents whether or not I'm going to be a good mom, and if I'm going to know what to do with all the millions of other decisions I'm going to have to make.)

Yesterday I had a little email discussion with my friend Andrea. She thinks it's a great idea, and I kind of agree... but I kind of don't. She has a lot of good ideas about baby care that I haven't even thought about yet (she doesn't have a baby either, I think she just in general approaches life with more advanced planning than I am capable of), so her reasoning was totally logical and makes sense: people, all kinds of people, put their dirty diapered babies in those shopping carts. Who knows if those kids are infectious or what? The carts are exposed to the elements, your dirty purse, birds, leaking meat containers, all kinds of biohazards, not to mention the slobbery little monsters intended to ride in them. Why would anyone want to put their baby in someone else's filth? She didn't say it exactly like that, but I think that's what she meant. And you know, I agree with that. Like I said, it totally makes sense. I haven't made up my mind yet either. I suspect that when the baby comes I will be changing my mind about a lot of things, and I accept that that's going to happen (but, hear me now: there will be no fucking minivans in my future, and I mean it). I think the problem I was having is that I associated this product with rich people, or the type of person who exits the bathroom using a paper towel so as to not touch the dirty bathroom door. And that kind of brings us back to the tuba thing. I just don't get it. I mean, it makes sense, kind of, but what about all the other dirty doors and surfaces you're going to touch? Life's dirty, people, get over it. I refuse to believe that it's a dirtier world today than it was 30-odd years ago.

But what the hell do I know? If I get one as a gift, am I going to refuse to use it? Nope; that thing looks comfy.

Me me!

Haven't done one of these in a while. Sometimes they're fun. We'll see if now is one of those times. Got this one from the same place as usual. Click on the title of this post if you're interested.

1. What time did you get up this morning?
I got up to pee at 2:30, 3:30, and 4:30, but I didn't actually get out of bed until 5:20 a.m.

2. How do you like your steak?
Medium rare. Pink, but not cold. And I very rarely eat steak.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Dude, I don't even know. Iron Man 2?

4. What is your favorite TV show?
Parenthood. But I totally miss "The West Wing."

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
Closer to Culver City/Santa Monica/Venice.

6. What did you have for breakfast?
Crackers, an orange, and an apple.

7. What is your favorite cuisine?
Mexican.

8. What foods do you dislike?
Olives. Japanese pears. Swap meet churros.

9. Favorite place to eat?
Enrique's, La Casita Mexicana.

10. Favorite dressing?
Green goddess, creamy cucumber, Thousand Island

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive?
2004 Honda Accord

12. What are your favorite clothes?
Floppy, worn in comfy jeans, a black v-neck sweater or turtleneck.

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance?
Hawaii, France, Greece, Italy...

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full?
Usually half full.

15. Where would you want to retire?
Why would I want to move from wherever I'm living when I get to that point?

16. Favorite time of day?
Quitting time?

No, seriously: favorite time of day: that time in the fall when we were in high school marching band, on a Friday night, lined up in the parking lot waiting to march out through the school campus and it wasn't dark yet and some kid named Doyle was warming up to perform "The Star Spangled Banner" with us. That is my favorite time of day.

17. Where were you born?
St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica.

18. What is your favorite sport to watch?
None, really, though I do get very invested in the Olympics.

19. Who do you think will not tag you back?
No one will tag me back because I don’t plan on tagging anyone. Tagging is so 2004.

20. Person you expect to tag you back first?
See #19

21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this?
Yeah, whatever. Do it if you want to but I'm not gonna beg.

22. Bird watcher?
No, but when I drove to Wyoming from Utah with my friend Patty to go to our friend Rachel's wedding, Patty got very angry with me because I wouldn't let her take some unmarked road to go chasing after a spectacular bird she saw because I was afraid we'd (a) get lost (b) miss our plane and (c) get killed. She loves telling that story.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Not really either. I think I only like staying up late because going to bed at night sometimes feels like death to me. What? Too depressing?

24. Do you have any pets?
Yes! Franny, a fat black & white kitty with crooked facial markings and a big belly, and Dora, a scaredy cat black kitty with tiny feet and a swirly pig tail.

25. Any new and exciting news you’d like to share?
Hey, man, I'm having a baby!

26. What did you want to be when you were little?
I don't know, probably a teacher, or a race car driver.

27. What is your best childhood memory?
Hmmm. Lots of them. I was just reminding my brother the other day of how, the night before my first day of school (kindergarten?) he sat me down at the kitchen table and made me learn how to write (print) my name, because he said all kids should know that.

28. Are you a cat or dog person?
Right now I'm a cat person but I love dogs too!

29. Are you married?
Yes, 12 years this past April!

30. Always wear your seat belt?
Oh, yeah.

31. Been in a car accident?
Just minor ones.

32. Any pet peeves?
My co-workers who clip their nails at their desks. I'm sure there are others but right now that one stands out the most.

33. Favorite pizza toppings?
Mushrooms, sausage, pineapple, fresh tomatoes.

34. Favorite flower?
You know, I really don't have a favorite flower. Is that weird?

35. Favorite ice cream?
Chocolate Malted Crunch, of course.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant?
Fatburger

37. How many times did you fail your driver’s test?
Okay, listen. I was a very immature driver. It took three tries.

38. From whom did you get your last email?
My friend Andrea.

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
Crate & Barrel, J. Crew, Zappos

40. Do anything spontaneous lately?
Not really.

41. Like your job?
I like my boss, and most of my co-workers, but occasionally I get bored. Oops, maybe I shouldn't have admitted that.

42. Broccoli?
Sure.

43. What was your favorite vacation?
Trip to NY with my brother, and to Chicago with Patrick.

44. Last person you went out to dinner with?
Patrick!

45. What are you listening to right now?
Patrick is watching Countdown with Keith Olbermann.

46. What is your favorite color?
I like red, and blue, and orange, and green...

47. How many tattoos do you have?
Zero.

48. How many are you tagging for this quiz?
Hey! None!

49. What time did you finish this quiz?
9:00 p.m.

50. Coffee drinker?
Not now, but I like it once in awhile, with lots of real milk and sugar.

Ay caramba, dude!

So it's pretty much week 24 over here in baby-making land. I say "pretty much" because I've been counting the weeks as starting on Friday, so technically this is week 23, day 3. I'm not exactly sure why I started doing that. Oh, duh, it's because my due date is a Friday. See? LOGIC.

I've had a few pre-natal appointments, and my first ultrasound was a few weeks ago (though, and this is curious, I had an appointment right after that, but nobody at Kaiser thought to tell me that "Oh, the baby's development and placenta and organs all looked great on the ultrasound" until the very last appointment, which was... last Friday. Of course, I assumed that everything was fine - because otherwise they would've said something, no? - but this might be a sign of some quickly departing naivete on my part. I've been measured and weighed and the baby has been listened to, and hey, you know what? I seem to be growing a perfectly fine kid in there.

Believe me, I'm just as shocked and relieved as you are.

Last week I changed my appointment, which had originally been on Wednesday, to Friday, so I wouldn't have to use any work time to go, and I couldn't get the same midwife/nurse practitioner ladies I had before. Without naming names, the original midwife/nurse practitioner was much better, even though these appointments basically only consist of me urinating in a cup (messy, gosh, you'd think I'd be better at that by now), getting weighed, and having the doctor or whoever listen to the baby. This is the first time Patrick's schedule has allowed him to come to one of these routine appointments (he's been there for the major ones) so while he got to see the underwater view at the ultrasound, he's never heard the heart beat like that before. He thought that was pretty cool. And he agrees: the baby sounds like a teeny tiny very hungry washing machine(c). Well, I haven't copyrighted it yet, but I should, don't you think?

Anyway, though it means I'll probably have to use time off to go to my appointments (because I don't think the midwife/nurse practitioner I liked is available on Fridays, my day off), I think I'm going to go back to her from now on. There's not really much I can say about just what it was that I didn't like about the new lady, except that she was younger and more brusque than the other one. Oh, and she seemed to be under the impression that I had experienced some early contractions, which I have not, and even though I told her, nope, that's not a problem I'm having, she asked me again as if I could possibly have been mistaken.

No. I think I would remember that.

I scheduled a bunch of pre-natal classes for me and Patrick, including one on breastfeeding, and of course the Lamaze classes. I've pretty much done my best to avoid thinking about the day of actual delivery, but I guess it's time to start... oh, but the class doesn't start until next month, so I have some time still. Oh, and this week I scheduled my 3 hour glucose test, so I have that to look forward to.

I think I mentioned somewhere that we bought some baby furniture last week - crib, mattress, and dresser/changing table. The stuff is cute. The dresser is actually on order, but that's okay, because the room is, though mostly empty, not ready. Patrick emptied it of most of the things that were in there (except the closet, because now where the hell are we going to put our coats? My house has too few closets!), and started scraping the paint and patching the holes. We need to make a decision on wall color (I'm going for neutral, he seems to want an actual color on the walls), window coverings, and I need to go shopping with my parents for a glider or arm chair. We bought two braided rugs from JC Penney yesterday (one for the living room). The one for the baby's room is blue, and I hope I didn't make a mistake in choosing it without having anything else purchased. But they were having a sale, and our sweet neighbors (who work at JC Penney) gave us a coupon to use for an extra discount (1 day only!)... so it had to be done fast.

Today I finally made a decision about the car seat and stroller I want, though I could be easily swayed at this point if anybody cares to write in with their own suggestions. I just went with Consumer Reports' recommendation. And I'm starting to look at things (like bathtubs and rectal thermometers!) online, at Amazon and other baby-related sites, and to think about how I want the baby's room to look and function. Oh, and where I'm going to put all the crap in that closet. Seriously, it's a major issue.

Anyway, that's all the excitement going on in regards to that topic. We're still working on a name.

I'm sure this is fascinating reading, here. Other than the baby stuff, I've been at the theater, on the couch, and at work (possibly in that order). Really, my couch is very comfortable. Take my word for it.

Rockabye Baby!

The store where we bought the baby furniture was also selling (and playing) these CDs. Very cool.

New Wave Wednesday (and Thursday)

The last couple of days, I've been having a bit of a new wave revolution on my iPod. I don't have a ton of stuff (and this must be rectified) but what I do have has been on pretty much constantly since yesterday morning. What does this mean, exactly? Well, I won't list every song or artist I listened to, but three of them (Siouxsie and the Banshees, Lene Lovich, and Felony) were topping the list of favorites. Oh, wait, make that four: I was also enjoying all the Missing Persons songs on my iPod, though I always laugh at the backup singing. Oh, damn, make it five: and Bow Wow Wow, of course - "Do You Wanna Hold Me" is perfect poppy bliss. While listening this morning on the drive to work, I considered the idea that if I'm going to pursue this habit of listening to this kind of music, I need to apply more (read: some) eyeliner in the mornings.

Patrick suggested I add "Human Sexual Response" to my list of bands but while I agree they're a good example of New Wave, I just don't like their music.

(Aside: before our discussion of New Wave, we watched a video a friend loaned us on babies and forming an early attachment, and it was so sweet and powerful! Also the little babies on the video were all super cute. One of the moms interviewed mentioned how when she puts her baby to sleep, she plays "white noise" for the baby to listen to. Apparently this woman is under the impression that white noise helps her daughter sleep. We'd never heard of this idea, and so I looked it up this morning. I found that WebMD disagrees, and even states that white noise can delay a baby's development. However, last night, we wondered if, lacking any white noise, we might substitute Sonic Youth? Have there been any studies on the effects of No Wave on children? Finally, my last note on this topic, at the store where we purchased the crib and dresser over the weekend, they were playing these CDs that are baby-fied versions of real bands, like the Who, the Stones, and Radiohead. Totally silly, and, excuse me, RAD. I need that Radiohead one.)

Then this morning, KROQ played Nirvana's cover of Meat Puppet's "Lake of Fire," which is not in any way shape or form "New Wave," and it was revealed that none of Patrick's Meat Puppets CDs are on my iPod, and now the CDs themselves are missing. This is bad news, but, of course, nothing like being trapped in a mine for 69 days. Patrick and I also wondered if Curt Kirkwood made a lot of money when Nirvana did that cover. We hope so. We also hope if Cris got any of the money, that he didn't shoot it into his arm.

Last night I had a long complicated dream that started with me finding a black and white kitten (more black than white) with different colored eyes (one green, one blue) in my sister's closet and after my mother emphatically stated that the kitty couldn't live in their house, I left him with my brother Dan, who was going to set up a bed and get some food. I had to leave because I had to go pick up my friend Sarah for something we were going to do, which was never explained. I took off on my co-worker's commuter bike that looks a little like this (I don't remember which model he got, he just showed it to me yesterday; all I remember is that it's a Trek and cost less than $400) and drove around a neighborhood that was part Culver City (Sunkist Park area) and part semi-familiar dream location. I ended up at a liquor store that looked suspiciously like the Duck Pond in Culver City, where I left my bike outside and went in buy something. There were two pro cyclists there in their full on pro cycling gear, with these giant bikes, and they laughed at me because, well, a pregnant woman on a bike is pretty funny looking.

I left the Duck Pond and realized that I had to pick Sarah up, which I couldn't really do on a bicycle made for one, so I rushed back home, where for some reason I found myself on the following streets of Culver City: Farragut Drive (east of Overland), Selmaraine Drive (where a kid I knew since kindergarten lived, but I haven't seen since high school), Higuera Street, and all the streets behind El Marino Elementary School.

Anyway, then I woke up, surprisingly well-rested in spite of having a bit of a trial in falling asleep the night before, with my own black and white kitty (pretty even distribution of white v. black) curled up on my arm, sniffing my nose. Now why do you think she does that?

Oh, crap

And I forgot: the babyproofing of the house.

Stuff. Stuff!

This morning I woke up at 4:15 and realized that I still have no idea which will be the right:

• car seat
• stroller
• glider
• diapers
• Boppy (what the hell is a Boppy? But everyone says I need it!)
• night light
• crib toys
• breast pump (oh, dear; please, please, please, I am not ready to discuss breast pumps)
• nursing bras
• stretch mark lotion
• baby monitor
• moses basket
• bassinet
• laundry detergent
• baby bathtub
• preventative measure for keeping kitties out of the baby's crib/moses basket/bassinet
• all the many other items (rectal thermometer? articles of clothing?) that if I continue to think about I will have a full-on panic attack and NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR THIS.

Oh, man, all the things we need to buy for the baby who will be coming to live with us in early February! and unlike most house guests, this one will be staying with us for at least 18 years and will be bringing NOTHING OF HIS OWN WITH HIM.

(In 12 years of marriage we have had exactly two house guests, both guitarists, both interested only in a warm cozy place to sleep and to perhaps treat us to dinner in exchange for the privilege of sleeping with our cats on an air mattress, while on their way someplace else. Both were delightful. Both stayed less than two days.)

At 4:15 a.m. when I woke up in the pitch black morning, I sat there (well, technically I was lying down) in bed for awhile mulling over the various reference materials I have at my fingertips to look at for ideas about these and all the millions of other things we need, and then my poor little brain exploded, and I got up to do what I always do when that happens, the only possible repair for exploded brain syndrome, and that is: I went into the kitchen, turned on NPR, and did the dishes.

The other day, last month, I visited a friend of mine who has a beautifully remodeled home, and she showed me the closet she had had installed in the living room specifically for her daughter's "crap." And she said, "you know, kids have a lot of stuff!" At the time I (secretly) scoffed, because I thought, on my stupid uninformed high horse (get that horse some reading material!), oh my god, is that what having a child is about? Buying them STUFF?" and maybe not, but there is definitely some stuff that is absolutely required, and my teeny tiny unremodeled, could still be 1944, house, is nowhere big enough or in possession of nearly enough closet space for this KID who is coming to stay with us. FOREVER. And all his stuff has to go somewhere.

Patrick used his day off today to clear the room of all the stuff I was supposed to go through and throw away/file/put away and I have a feeling he took all that stuff and put it in a big pile in the middle of the garage floor. The idea is that I will drag a chair out there and my iPod and go through it with an eye for detail and organization and you know, organize it. Yep. That's the idea. Probably what will happen is, it will be shoved into plastic bins and hidden away in the dark recesses of the garage, never to be seen again.

That's okay, though, because he's the one who will have to paint and prime and patch holes and paint the inside of the closet (why is it, if you neglect to specifically ask a man to paint a closet, he just flat out won't do it?).

See, there's no hurry (four more months to go!) but there kind of is, because I suck at making decisions (we bought the crib and dresser yesterday but still need to pick wall colors and bedding and all that other stuff) and left to my own devices I might not ever figure out what I want in there, at all, and my baby will end up in a lime green room to match the lime green bathroom, and NOBODY WANTS THAT.

And all this talk about painting gets my eyes to looking around the rest of the house and things that need to be updated and sanded, primed and repainted, but Patrick doesn't really want to do that and wouldn't it just be easier to move?

It would.

I will calm down eventually but today is not that day.

What's that noise?

My hearing has apparently also been affected by this pregnancy (along with my feet, which pretty much all the time feel like two giant throbbing pieces of meat), or maybe it's just my common sense, because twice now I have thought I was going crazy based on something I heard.

One morning I started my car and after hearing an unusual noise, totally panicked. I thought, "Oh my god, why does my car sound like a lawnmower?" I turned the car off, and discovered that what I was hearing was an actual lawnmower. My neighbor was mowing his lawn.

Then one night I was getting ready to leave work, and I started my car, and I thought, "Whoa, what's that scraping noise?" I sat and listened and grew panicky, and then I looked around: the scraping noise was the sound of the hundred year old man who works in my building pushing his walker over to his beat up 1969 VW Beetle*.

And yesterday, limping down Santa Monica Blvd. to the theater, I kept thinking I heard someone calling my name. I wasn't walking fast enough to outpace anyone, and I kept checking behind me, but nope, nobody. Oh, well.

*Totally guessing on the year. It's either brown or rust-colored, and the back seat appears to be full of newspapers. Still, this guy shows up to work every day and leaves at the same time I do, and I hope when I'm a hundred years old I'm still doing something on a daily basis like that, though I would like that thing I'm doing to not be... going to work.

Sliding scale of importance

Last night while Patrick and I were sitting in the Cerritos Center for Performing Arts, waiting for the concert to begin (you can read all about our experience at the concert here), we had a little bit of a discussion that was kind of illuminating to us both.

I was telling him about all the things that I can't stop thinking about in regards to this little baby I've been growing, all the anxiety that seems to come on me every once in awhile all at once. I said, "We are going to be responsible for this little baby! We have to make sure he gets into college, that he gets good grades, that he's responsible, that he's polite, that he learns to drive, that he's smart, and interesting, that he has clean clothes and a clean, comfortable place to sleep, that we keep him clean, that he has food, that he has lunch."

And it was this last item that seemed the most poignant to me, the one most easily visualized. I don't know how to explain it - we sat there in the auditorium and kind of laughed at how crazy it is to try to enumerate all the millions of things we're going to have to do that we've never done before for the rest of our lives. Even though people do it all the time (thank God!) it's so overwhelming sometimes. And maybe I got a little crazy gleam in my eye that made me look like I was about to cry, or crack up. This feeling reminds me of that old Anne Lamott story about her brother who had to write a story about birds and felt overwhelmed by the sheer incredible volume of all the different types of birds, and their dad told him to just get started and go "bird by bird." He may have said, "bird by bird, buddy," but I'm pretty sure I'm imagining Anne's dad as a member of the Glass family, and that would be inaccurate.

You all (by "you all" I am referring of course to the 5 people who regularly read this blog) have assured me that we can do this, and that Patrick and I will figure it out and I'm sure we will, I just have to get a better handle on thinking about it, because I mean, yeah, we will figure it out because we have to: the alternative is unthinkable! I have approximately 18 weeks in which to do so.

On the other hand, it's probably all just related to having what someone referred to as "pregnancy brain." Could be. I currently cannot remember the name of that place that makes the cute little arrangements of fruit that you can have delivered and I've been trying to remember it all day.

In the meantime, flute choir for me tonight, and I am very much looking forward to it. I hope the little one enjoys the music: I wonder what it will sound like to him?

From the list of "questions I never thought I'd ask myself"

"I wonder if I have the song "Home by the Sea" by Genesis on my iPod?"

The answer is "No." I only own Abacab. Looking at the track listing for the "Genesis" album, I can see why: those are some seriously hardcore soft rock songs. "Taking It All Too Hard" would be nice background music for, oh, I don't know, slowly bleeding to death.

Still. The fact that I wondered bothered me. On the other hand, what a fun song. Oh, I'm confused today.

Also, disturbingly, I have developed a fascination with Bruce Springsteen, a musician I used to hate. I used to mock my friends for liking him (Pauly, I'm lookin' at you). But I think I mentioned somewhere (here? Facebook?) that the song "Growin' Up" was used on the soundtrack for a pretty good, only moderately sappy Lifetime movie starring Elisabeth Shue and (dreamy) Dermot Mulroney called "Gracie," and when I heard it, a light in my brain went on. A friggin' LIGHT in my BRAIN. I saw the light, people, and the fact of the matter is, Bruce isn't so bad. So, Pauly, who you should know almost always forgives and forgets, agreed to burn me a CD.

"Born to Run" is excellent.

Yes, I realize I'm late for this train, but whatever. Aside from real admiration for Max Weinberg, Patrick remains staunchly not a fan of Bruce Springsteen and he was not pleased with this news (he got in my car the other day, and the radio was on. The song playing was some piece of crap by, I think, Blink 182, and he asked "Oh, so you're listening to Bruce still, huh"), but as he doesn't like lots of the music I like (and vice versa!) I'm not too worried about it. Still, if it becomes an issue, I can always blame the baby.

Hormones, you know.

(Happy birthday Bruce! You don't look a day over 45!)

Live blogging the DWTS results show?

7:57 p.m. No idea if this will be a success but I thought I'd give live blogging a shot. This idea will be complicated by the fact that I'm making dinner (rice and some kind of yummy Indian dish that comes in a little bag that I just have to microwave. I know it doesn't sound appetizing but it really is). My rice is simmering now, it has about 13 more minutes to go. I only hope the commercials and my dinner are well-matched.

7:58 p.m. Man am I hungry.

8:00 p.m. Jesus that theme song is cheesy. But Jennifer Grey sure lucked out with her partner, didn't she. Check it out, it's that dude who hosts this show. He's telling us what to expect. Wait, is this a two hour show again? What?

I'm not impressed with Audrina Patridge. For one thing, who the hell is she? And why is she dancing again? I thought this was the results show? I"m confused. Is it that she can't do a full split or does she want it to look like? I remember from last night it looked the same way. I do like her yellow outfit but not her wacked out hairdo.

Oh, okay, I'm stupid. I get it now. They're showing last night's show again? Oh, highlights. OK, then.

Hey, that means I get to eat.

See you in a bit.

8:58 p.m. Hey, you know what? I ate my dinner, which was delicioius, went away and watched a "Chopped" rerun, fooled around on Facebook for awhile, and now I could care less about live blogging. That's the way things go, sometimes. Right now I'd rather go have a cookie for dessert, and relax.

Enjoy the results show. I voted for Margaret Cho and Jennifer Grey.

She thinks she missed the train to Mars, she's watching Dancing with the Stars*

Last year I started watching "Dancing with the Stars" because my mother likes it and it's one of the few television shows she likes that I can stomach (I will never, ever, ever, watch "Big Brother"). I also like, sometimes, "The Biggest Loser." It's good for us to watch the same shows, because she likes to talk about what she watches, and I die a little every time she wants to talk about "Big Brother" or (shudder) "Big Brother After Dark."

Anyway, that's my official reason for watching this silly 21st century version of Battle of the Network Stars in feathers and heels, and I'm sticking with it. And it's turned out that the show is pretty fun and entertaining, and there, I'm not defending myself anymore, I just like watching it.

Last night's season opener was two hours long, and after ten hours of work, a 45 minute commute home, and a trip to the grocery store with Patrick, the perfect thing to end up watching on the couch with my feet up. I was really excited to see Jennifer Grey after all these years, especially because I understand that she's 50 years old now. She does not look 50. She looks gorgeous and like a "movie star," as the DWTS people kept referring to her. She danced beautifully and I think even Patrick (who was pretending to be checking out eBay and Craigslist drum and music equipment ads) got a little teary-eyed when she talked about Patrick Swayze.

I've read a few reviews this morning of the show in the LA Times, Dallas Morning News, and Washington Post, and I have to say, I think those reviewers are all pretty jaded and kind of mean: none of them liked Margaret Cho's totally entertaining and fun (and funny) take on the Viennese Waltz, which I think is kind of sad. She really put her own personality on the dance floor and demonstrated enough dance ability that you know in the future weeks she'll do very well. Instead the judges and the reviewers dinged her for having a sense of humor, something they might want to look into. Exclamations about Audrina Patridge (I've always thought her last name was "Patridge;" I have no idea why I should know who she is) being a "show pony" do not demonstrate possession of a sense of humor. Double entendres about the song Bristol "Teen Advocate" Palin danced to do not demonstrate possession of a sense of humor. This is not a serious dance competition, and it's the people who take it so seriously (Nicole Scherzinger and, it looks like, Brandy) who bore and annoy me. Yes, I think the celebrities should be able to dance - they get enough training that showing some ability shouldn't be too difficult and those who can't cut it should be sent home. But these are not dancers, and to expect perfection or 100% adherence to some sort of dance school technique is silly.

I voted for Bolton.

According to a poll on the Washington Post website, 61% of the people who voted think Margaret Cho should go home. Really? Before stiff and dull Michael Bolton? Stiff and crazy David Hasselhoff? Stiff and clueless Bristol Palin?

I refuse to comment on that dude "The Situation."

*On purpose mis-quote of the lyrics to the song "Stars" by 90s "space rock" (?) band Hum from their album "You'd Prefer an Astronaut."

If I ruled the world?

On my way to work this morning, when a big ol' truck tried, for some unknown reason, to keep me from merging from the 105 onto the 710, I remembered something I had read a long time ago about a proposed route dedicated to trucks, intended to clear the road for non-commercial drivers. I don't know what kind of reality that is, but I also was thinking about how it could also be a good idea to have a time period during which they were banned (6 a.m. to 9 a.m.; 5 p.m. to 7 p.m.) from the highways. I'm sure this would anger the dudes who drive the trucks. I don't know, I'm not smart enough or rich enough to study this (and I'm sure it's been done or thought of) for the economical or community impact but it seems like a good idea to me. I know California has zero money to do anything and I'm really not thinking much further beyond my own selfish inclination to wish for a better personal commute, but... damn I hate those trucks.

It's also true that my brain this morning was a little bit scrambled because I was out very late last night at rehearsal for "Paradise Park," the next show at City Garage (opens this Friday!). They had their photo session and that always runs late and then of course we ran the whole show as we've been doing and there were some issues that required us to stop, so by the time we hit the very complicated but fun (and funny) curtain call around 11:15, my thought processes had slowed down to the point where I was surprised I could even do what I needed to do. I think I was screwing up light cue 102.2 when Charles, who was talking me via the little headphones we wear, may have called me "baby."

I didn't take it personally or even react to it at the time but later, it made me laugh.

It's funny, because he watches the show out in the house with Frederique, and the view from out there is so radically different (to my eyes) that sometimes I wonder just what the hell I'm supposed to be looking at. I mean, they have a full view of the action, and not only that, but they have their own vision of what's supposed to be on stage and I've only seen the show like 5 times by this point. And my brain doesn't always grasp the big picture quickly enough. It's what makes the night when Charles takes over the booth and I get to sit in the audience and watch the show like a normal person so magical. For instance, I really have no idea what's going on over there on stage right because I literally have to stand next to the wall and crane my head to see it. Still, I'm having fun and he's, I think, happy with what I'm doing and understands that sometimes it gets complicated and sometimes I get flustered, but most of the time I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing when I'm supposed to be doing it. What happens a lot is, if I make a mistake and he's talking to me about adjusting the last cue but the action on stage is continuing, and our conversation makes me late for the next light cue, and then trying to notate what he just told me while following what's still going on makes me wonder if I don't have some form of ADD. I mean, there's no reason I shouldn't be able to follow... two things at once. And then instead of being relaxed I get a little tense and paranoid about screwing up? I know I can do it, it's not the issue, and he's being nice, but I wonder about me sometimes. Still, I'm excited about this show. I think it's going to be really good. And I have one more tech rehearsal before opening night.

I could write more about that but I just walked in the door 10 minutes ago and I'm dead tired and I have a package to open from Gap Maternity so I'm going to leave it here.

I know I haven't blogged much lately but besides being in rehearsal for the past week and being pregnant there's really not much going on. The baby continues to grow. My co-workers have all noticed (except for one sweet woman who claimed I didn't look fat to her and had to be told) and figured it out. My mom is getting very excited. We checked out a daycare we hope to be able to send the baby to once I go back to work. We're narrowing down the names.And now? Now I'm going to bed. See you later.

Not your mother's YA fiction

So it's true that when, more than 10 years ago, I read my first Harry Potter book (expecting to hate it because everyone loved it; in my late 20s I was a bit of a smartass), and subsequently all the rest of the books in the series, those stories, though a little simple at times and certainly not the most well-written books for teens I've ever read, I found myself a little emotionally involved, I was hardly surprised. I mean, Harry is a very, very likable character, and J.K. Rowling can certainly manipulate emotions with the best of them.

(Speaking of not very well written, please see the above paragraph.)

But still, I didn't think the actual writing was all that great (though I am saying that Rowling possessed the ability to make me cry), even if the stories were compelling and the characters a lot of fun.

This is all to say that this weekend I finished reading "Mockingjay," another book for kids and/or teens (so-called "young adults"), the latest Suzanne Collins novel. Many of her characters are not "a lot of fun." There is very little fun, which is probably appropriate to the story, but I read it more with an increasing feeling of dread than with any kind of real pleasure. I don't need fun to enjoy a book, but let me be clear: I did not enjoy this book. At some point pretty early on, I only wanted to see how she ended it. I read the other two novels in the trilogy and loved them, all the while wondering if they were appropriate for my 12-year old niece. When I finished the third one, the only thought in my head was "Hell no is this appropriate for my niece."

Now, I'm sure other 12 year olds will read the books and be fine, but for me personally, someone well beyond the "young adult" appellation, this book was a nightmare.

It made me think of the Robert Cormier novels I read in junior high (or maybe even late in elementary school), which were psychological and murky and great. In contrast, the Mockingjay novel had so much blood, gore, violence, betrayal and "insanity" (I guess, Collins' lame sort of PTSD) and plotting and scheming untrustworthy adults that I'm pretty sure I would seriously dissuade anyone under the age of 19 from reading it without parental guidance first. (Suzanne Collins will be glad to know I no longer work in bookstores.)

I also was disappointed in the way Katniss's relationships with Peeta and Gale were handled - she built it up to be such a wonderful love story, a tangled up situation that felt very real (and, I guess I shouldn't say, familiar) and then in the final book, it felt like she just wasn't interested in that part anymore. It became just a bunch of words on the page. I didn't need it, except to know what happened at the end.

Now, this might just be me: the Huffington Post has a collection of reviews of the book, all of them good (though most of them use some version of the word "brutal" in their descriptors. So. If you want your kid reading a book that's brutal, hey, go ahead, encourage them to read this book). Still, what do I know? All I have to say is, in the end, I was very disappointed.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/08/24/mockingjay-review-roundup_n_692467.html

Yesterday (no, not the Paul McCartney tune)

Yesterday I heard my baby's heartbeat again. While it's true that even before going into the exam room I was already feeling a little emotional (actually, I was thinking about my mom, and wondering when we're going to hear from the doctor about her CT scan results; yes, I have called him and left messages but I guess he's busy. I will try again today), so when my doctor (OK, she's actually the mid-wife, and I love her) lubed up her little belly listener and almost instantly found the baby's heartbeat, I pretty much also instantly started to cry.

My mid-wife (her name is Lucy) told me that everything sounds great and the heartbeat is nice and strong, and that I look fine (I've been wondering), so I felt a hundred times better when I walked out than when I walked in.

As I wrote on Facebook yesterday, this whole thing is awesome and exciting and amazing and I can't believe I have a child inside of me. How do people do this? It's totally... insane. Patrick has a co-worker who (lovingly...?) referred to her baby (before it was born) as "The Parasite." I keep thinking of my baby as an alien baby. I hopefully will be able to refine this mental image tomorrow, when we have the ultrasound that tells us, among other things, if our baby will be a boy or a girl (or Europan). I have no preference but would like to remind you of the dream I had where I had a boy (and also that John Larroquette was parking cars). Really, I'm fine either way.

It know it's cliche to say so but it really is a miracle. My body is making a person. Tell me that's not straight out of science fiction. Anyway, after all the blubbering, I described the sound of the baby's heartbeat (also on FB) to Patrick as "a teeny tiny very hungry washing machine." As a drummer (and we recently re-watched the movie "Contact") he totally understood that comparison. My vocal demonstration brought it home. Jodie Foster would also understand the reference, being a mother herself. Ooh, I finally have something in common with Jodie Foster! Oh, and also Kate Gosselin. OK, well, whatever, forget that.

After the doctor's appointment, I ended up running a bunch of errands, which included a visit to the Apple store in the Cerritos Mall to see what they could tell me about a goofy problem I'm having with my iPhone: I no longer see the cute little red ball with a number in it when I get a voicemail message. This has apparently been going on for three weeks (the 21 messages in my inbox confirmed this). I could see that someone had called me, but without the other little red dot, I assumed they hadn't left a message. No, it really didn't alarm me that 21 people had called me and just hung up: I really don't like leaving messages, either. And often I will just call someone later if I see that they called. It wasn't really a problem except for one call from Carolyn Nussbaum in reference to my headjoint that I had considered having her sell for me at the flute convention (which was two weeks ago). Oops, she probably thinks I'm a flake, which is a shame, because she is a nice person who remembers me (which I think is amazing) and an excellent businesswoman and you should check out her online shop.

Anyway, the other night at home I looked up a few things to see if I could fix it myself, got some advice from a couple of tech savvy friends and my brother who had the same problem, did a restore, and called myself from the house phone about 5 times in a row. I left the same message each time: "Message message message message." My phone registered the call, accepted the message, but continues to refuse to tell me about it. I may have to start calling it "HAL."

So anyway, I went to Cerritos to the Apple Store where an... interestingly bearded young man told me that I needed to see an Apple Genius, and that his store's soonest appointment wasn't until Monday. Then he helpfully suggested that I go to either the Brea or South Coast Plaza stores, which both had appointments available today. Brea had an earlier appointment time available (and I hate the 405 north in the late afternoon from South Coast... it's worse between there and home than it is between home and west LA), so I grabbed it. Also, I was not appropriately attired for the South Coast Plaza (my fur is at the cleaners; the only labels I was wearing were Gap and Haviana).

I've never been to the Brea Mall, but it was just a short 18 miles away (on three freeways). The Apple guy booked my appointment using his iPad and made sure I found the directions on my (incredibly slow) iPhone map application before I left, and after a quick look at the shoes in the Nine West window, I was on my way.

I was a bit early, and luckily there was a Borders on the way, so I stopped in for a copy of Arthur C. Clarke's 2010 (I just re-read 2001 a couple of weeks ago; I read both books probably 20 years ago. Maybe more). While I was pulling into the parking lot, I happened to have KUSC (91.5 FM) on the radio.

Now, it's rare that I choose to listen to classical music. My familiarity with classical music is pretty limited to what I've played (and often I don't remember these by title) and a few pieces that have caught my attention over the years. Yes, this is a shame, as I am a musician. Fine. Bad me. If I were in a rock band, maybe, maybe I'd have an excuse. The truth is that I like what I like and I'm usually in the mood for other things. Once in awhile (usually when shuttling my mom home from chemotherapy, though those listening moments are marred by the fact that we're usually talking or thinking quietly to ourselves... or my mom is criticizing my driving) I do listen. And once in awhile I am struck dumb by the beauty of the music.

While sitting in the parking lot, I heard a performance of Rimsky-Korsakov's "Capriccio Espagnol," and it was gorgeous. I found out later that this piece is famous and something I should know already but whatever, I didn't. I fell in love. I'm sure in flute choir we've played arrangements of other examples of Rimsky-Korsakov's music and if I consulted our member Michael, who keeps detailed reports on what we played, when, I could find out (and I'm telling you, there's a story that I'm sure you would truly enjoy), but that's not the point. This piece (I'm not sure who performed it... ah, a look at KUSC's playlist says it was the Rotterdam Orchestra. Whoever the flutists were - they were excellent. Those flutes were as sharp as knives, and I'm not talking about being in tune) just knocked me out. So sitting in the super hot Borders Brea parking lot, I learned something and heard a beautiful piece of music, and later, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

When I got to the Brea Mall and to the Apple store, I was about 20 minutes early, so I updated my Twitter and Facebook statuses (shut up, I don't care what the plural of "status" is) with snarky comments about the fact that these people are called "Genius." Here's a sample:

"The area of the Apple store where they ask you to wait for your Genius is full of the least interesting products these people sell. Somebody buy me an iPad."

"I wonder if my Genius will be as smart as Stephen Hawking? Come on, let's do some time traveling today!"

"My Apple Genius is late. He or she better bring the time machine. Also, why does it smell like French fries in here?"

My Genius (who was only a few minutes late) turned out to be another young guy with curious facial hair (and gorgeous blue or blue-green eyes). He was actually unfamiliar with the issue I was having (which surprised me), and we joked about the "Genius" appellation (which he said "sets us up to fail"). I thought his attitude about being a Genius was pretty cool (self-deprecation is always attractive to me), and I made him laugh with a time machine comment (yeah, I know Apple has a thing called "Time Machine" but I was talking about actual time travel, and he seemed to get it). He went away and ran some sort of diagnostic test on my phone, came back and quizzed me about what I had done to remedy the problem, and then, in the midst of suggesting I do another restore (!), he apparently changed his mind and announced that because my phone is still under warranty (but just barely), he would get me a replacement phone.

Unfortunately that store didn't have my phone in stock (and I didn't think to enquire about the chances of upgrading to the new one), so I'll have to trek all the way back out to Brea in a few days to pick it up, but still, all in all, I was pretty well satisfied.

I subsequently posted: "My Genius is getting me a new phone. Better than time travel."

And this time, it was.

When I got home I purchased on iTunes a recording of Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade" and "Capriccio Espagnol" (performed, I think by the London Philharmonic), dragged one of the butterfly chairs out into the front yard under the tree, and curled up with 2010, a totally silly book that in my opinion, doesn't live up to, at all, 2001. I put the Rimsky-Korsakov on the stereo, turned it up nice and loud (the mailman loved it), and hung out, read, watched the cars go by, and tried to stay cool. For once I think I succeeded.

A little shocked at how ugly people are

I just went to pick up a sandwich at my local Subway, and witnessed two people, one after the other, berate a Hispanic woman behind the counter who's name tag clearly said "TRAINEE" because she didn't speak very good English.

The first person, a white lady, left because the woman misunderstood her instructions (two sandwiches at a time can be tricky for anybody), which was to put spinach on one sandwich, and olives on the other. I'm not exactly sure what went wrong but I think there was one too many conflicting instruction. She made comments to the effect of "why can't you understand me?" Maybe because you were telling her two things at once? That woman left in a huff. "I'm just going to go," is what she said. Wow, lady, if getting a sandwich is so traumatic, perhaps you should just stay home. The man who followed her made a comment to me about the woman being rude, but then when the same woman was making his sandwich, and he kept asking for "more meat" (probably figuring the woman wouldn't know enough to charge him extra for double meat), and she looked confused, he also questioned her ability to understand him. "Don't you speak English?" and "I can understand why that other woman left."

It's the "Don't you speak English" comment that pissed me off. Maybe she was just perplexed by your hectoring behavior, you asshole. 

Meanwhile, another trainee made my sandwich perfectly, and was ringing me up while the man was getting upset. Another worker (someone from the back, who spoke English and Spanish; I think she was out there mopping the floor) told the man that the woman making his sandwich understood him but that she was new, and then he freaked out and started asking for the manager. Another worker who was more experienced was polite with him and handled it from this point on in an acceptable manner, but I just wanted to get out of there. The whole thing was extremely ugly.

I smiled and thanked the other trainee but I didn't say anything about what these people said. I was polite, but I wish I'd told that man to calm the fuck down. It's just a sandwich.

Hero worship!

Tonight I started telling someone what Patrick looked like when we met. I was telling her about his band, Suffering Luna, and how I love that he's playing the drums again so much, and that I'm wondering when he's going to get his superhero drummer's calves back.

When we met, Patrick was probably wearing a black Saint Vitus t-shirt. He had long hair, a funny little goatee, 1980s style men's glasses. He was probably wearing black sweat pants that were by no means baggy (but not too tight either; we still own these sweat pants). He had on slip on Japanese shoes (which I lovingly refer to as his "old man wino shoes"). He had killer calves. Lance Armstrong calves. Double bass drummer calves.

This is sort of what he looked like (that's him on the left, silly!) but his hair was longer.

On the other hand, when we met, I was a skinny kid with unruly hair, giant glasses, baggy clothes, and a boyfriend. I had had a couple of other boyfriends but I was not, hmmm, shall we say, knowledgeable about my body, or clothes, or style. I had no idea. Maybe I still don't. My only goal with my body was to cover it up with the biggest clothes I could find. So I did.

Anyway, the boyfriend situation sorted itself out and a few years and some other stuff had to pass until I was ready for Patrick, but eventually I got it right.

Wasn't he cute? Still is.

More dreams

Last night I dreamed about John Larroquette.

He was the parking lot attendant of the hospital, where I had gone to pick up my baby ("Here's your baby, Mrs. Palma!" "Thanks! Bye!"). Apparently my brain isn't ready to contemplate actual childbirth and instead has turned it into a transaction not unlike picking up a reserved book at the library. What's that you say? They don't just hand you a baby? Hmmm. Just so you know, the baby in my dream was a boy. And extremely well behaved. Larroquette was dressed all in black, and he helped me put the baby in the car seat. The parking lot was a maze - I recently went to the Grove shopping center, and it was a bit like that, only much worse.

The rest of the dream I've pretty much forgotten, though I do remember at one point yelling at Patrick to pick up his clothes and put them in the hamper.

Please note that while Patrick does, from time to time, neglect to put his clothes in the hamper, I rarely, if ever, yell at him about it.

A dream, textiles, and Anne Rice?

Last night's dream was pretty tame, compared to the Craig Ferguson/Paula Poundstone lovefest I had going on the night before.

The only notable thing is that my dream last night was filled with beautiful textiles - designs by Marimekko (I got a Crate & Barrel catalog yesterday and fell in love with this) and bedding made of Liberty of London and Pucci patterns and wild paisley and plaids. At one point my brother Dan was standing over a giant pile of beautiful shirts (he always has gorgeous shirts, which I lust after), and offered me a bright pink button down shirt with thin white stripes, which I of course greedily snapped up in a heartbeat. Oh, and there was a point in the dream where I was helping my sister sort out flatware - beautiful gold forks and spoons and knives. The rest of the dream wasn't worth recounting for you.

Last night on my way home from work, I caught the tail end of an NPR interview with Anne Rice about her exit from Christianity, which she apparently announced via Facebook. As a teenager working at the library, I remember the exact moment when I pulled "Interview with the Vampire" off the shelf, not knowing anything about it, and devoured it and all the other books she wrote. Over the years I stopped loving her quite as much - the books became tedious and boring to me, and I gradually quite reading them, but still, the thrill of reading "Interview" for the first time as a 14 year old was pretty cool, and I thank her for giving me that.

I have to admit too, that when the stupid "Twilight" books and movies came out, I wondered if the kids reading (and watching) those lame vampires were aware that another vampire named Lestat once held everyone's interest and was way cooler than anything Stephanie Meyer could come up with (and let's face it, without even trying, Lestat could kick Edward's butt. Louis could kick Edward's butt). I mean, Lestat was in a rock band. (I'm being sarcastic here. I can't remember the name of Lestat's band... "Satan's Night Out"?... and have no desire to look it up, but wow, the parts in the books that dealt with music always made me laugh.)

When she became a Christian, I remember my mom pointed it out to me but by that point I was totally uninterested in her and definitely had no desire to read her books about Jesus.

That's just me.

Anyway, I was a little curious about her decision to leave Christianity (but she's keeping Jesus!), and her decision to make that decision public, so today I did a little reading (there's really not much). As usual, the comments are a lot more fun than the actual articles. A lot of people seem to be judging her (and mocking her for using Facebook) for this or for seeming like she's just looking for publicity (one comment on an article was, "Will this sell more books?"), but I don't know, I kind of like her a little more now for it. Sure, she's kind of a freak, but at least she's occasionally interesting. I like people who admit they don't know everything, especially about religion. To me that's just more engaging. It's something I've been working on for years. I'm not going to follow Anne or anybody - I'll work it out myself - but it's still interesting.

My dream about comedians, my mom, and how beauty is on the inside

I wasn't going to blog about this because lately I've been writing a lot about my stupid dreams and I suspect that's pretty dull for everyone to read about. But seriously, this one (come on, just read it) was rad. Maybe it's just hormones, I don't know. They've been fun dreams for me, anyway.

So in last night's dream, I'm not me. Instead, I am... Paula Poundstone. It's sometime in the 80s. I know I'm her because I'm dressed like her, I look like her, I'm funny like her... I'm definitely not me. Paula is hanging out with Craig Ferguson, who, I'm just guessing, was probably totally adorable in the 80s. Paula's not looking too bad herself. She's kind of dressed like a preppy - I've seen some of her old comedy specials. I like her look; I like a woman who wears a tie. She has a friend, a blond woman who thinks Craig is interested in her. I don't even know if Paula Poundstone and Craig Ferguson knew each other in the 80s. I guess I think they'd make a cute couple. For some reason the blond woman starts dressing like Paula (in the dream, they, or should I say "we," both are wearing khaki pants, a baby-blue button down shirt, and a cream colored sweater vest. Possibly Bass penny loafers are involved, but I never saw the feet. Nerd alert!), maybe because she (the blond woman) knows that Craig's really more interested in Paula and by dressing like her she hopes to... wow him with her blondness? I don't know, I'm not sure I can analyze the psychological processes of some dream woman I don't know and have never seen before. My brain may have created her, but her inner life, if there is one, is her own.

Paula and her friend are hanging out at Craig Ferguson's apartment, which is kind of small, but neat and happy-looking. He has a lot of travel posters on the walls, which are painted blue. There are lots of plants and white furniture. It's kind of girly. He also has a roommate, a brown-haired dude who seems kind of like one of those guys you see down at Venice Beach, showing off their muscles in those little shorts. Surprisingly, luckily, whatever, the blond and the dude end up liking each other, leaving Paula and Craig alone.

This is where it gets all goofy.

Craig and Paula are flirting, and though I know that Paula Poundstone has talked about not being a sexual person, who knows what her past is like? Anyway, they're having fun, and I'll let your imagination fill in the blanks. This part of the dream doesn't last very long, okay, so no, I'm not having sex dreams about Paula Poundstone. But then, Craig says to Paula, hang on a minute. If you and I are going to have a relationship, you need to know something.

She's all, "Okay... what?" (Really, I made her a genius and a goddess in my dream!)

And he says, "This is not my real apartment."

He walks over to a closet door, and opens it. Instead of a closet, the door opens into a whole other apartment, exactly like this one, but furnished in darker, richer colors. It's quiet, and shaded from the sunlight. I really liked that second apartment, and it felt masculine and comfortable and totally different from the first apartment, which was full of sun and light.

Then I woke up.

Later, when I went back to sleep, I dreamed about my mom and dad. My mom looked like she did in all those photos my dad took of her in the late 60s - she had short, high, black hair, and tight skin with a perfect creamy complexion and dramatic black eyebrows. She was wearing a dress in a bold pattern but with a simple cut. My mom has always been a little heavy - you can see my dad thought she was a queen, because she always looked so beautiful in the pictures he took. He posed her on one of those covered patio swings or sitting on the bed, and the black and white photos reduced everything to her dark hair and light skin. But in the dream, I was me, my age now, looking like me, now, not how a me would've dressed in the 60s, and she's talking to me about my dad, a little sad, but I don't remember what she said.

...

On Friday, we were coming home from her chemotherapy appointment, and she was talking about missing her hair. Her hair has always been short, but she's tired of being bald. I told her, "It's how you are on the inside, Mom," something she probably said to me when I was a kid and hated my clothes or my looks or my own bad hair or whatever. We were making the turn from Jefferson onto Sepulveda right before we turn again onto Sawtelle (an interesting intersection; I remember absentmindedly running a red light once while driving Drew's car and he, understandably, FREAKED OUT. Needless to say I pay more attention these days), and we were both crying. By the time we got home, just a few blocks from there, we were both fine, and had moved on to other topics. Because of her chemotherapy, and because I'm just a ball of emotions these days anyway, we both cry pretty easily these days.

What all this has to do with anything, well, who knows. Like I said, it's probably pregnancy hormones.