Sorry I haven’t written in a while. We’ve been hanging out with family, baking, and house hunting. I even started up with yoga again, which has done absolute wonders for my mood. I have felt incredible lately and I have TobyJoe to thank for breaking the inertia. Speaking of The Bean, I feel as though I’ve been paying so much attention to Emory or myself, that I have all but ignored TobyJoe. My new year’s resolution (if I were to actually make one) is to keep the people I love in higher regard. I owe Bean so much, so very much. He’s the first love of my life. Emory is the second. I have Toby to thank for giving me the second. I have Emory to thank for reminding me of the importance of relaxation.

I’m probably not going to get a chance to write much before Wednesday or Thursday. I had plans to write a “year in review” type of post, but it’s just not going to happen. There’s just too much going on right now. I do want to take a few minutes to thank everyone for sticking around (you poor souls). Thank you so much for being there for me this year. 2007 held some of the greatest moments of my life. It also held some of the most painful and life-altering. During the dark times, many of your voices helped me more than I can possibly say. I can’t thank you all enough. I wish I knew the words to let you know just how grateful I am. Thank you. I love you, man! (And I ain’t even been drinking.)

I will write more after the holiday, I promise. In the meantime, check out some of TobyJoe’s new pictures. He’s shooting film again and I couldn’t be more proud. Here’s a shot he took of me on vacation last year. I don’t even hate it! And here’s an absolute favorite of mine featuring my dad and my Pumpkin Pie.

Thank you all so very much. Here’s to you and yours.

xoxxo

We went to look at houses last Saturday. What a disappointment. I am appalled by how some people keep their homes, or don’t keep their homes. And I’m not talking a mess here and there (which is also a bit shocking considering they are trying to sell it during what I hear is a buyer’s market.) I’m talking about upkeep, filth, etc. We saw one house (the one I was most excited about from the pictures) that had pools of dog piss throughout the kitchen. I’m not sure what I felt worse about; the fact that someone cared so little for their house or so little for their dog. The poor dog barked crazily from a cage in the basement the entire time we were there.

And the walls were crumbling, the ceiling too. The rooms were filthy. The rugs were covered in stains. I can’t even begin to tell you how beat up and ugly this house was. It’s a shame.

We saw four in total. One of them I didn’t even want to go into. It was a flip and I left wanting to call the person who “flipped” it and verbally tear them up. Who in their right mind would assume anyone would want to buy a house like that? The work was shoddy. The floors which were laid over top of some other monstrosity and didn’t meet up to the walls. I pictured dirt and grime collecting in the crevices within one week of living there. The walls were fake wood paneling. This house was a perfect backdrop for where bad things happen to small children.

We looked at another house that could have been nice if the people living there cared at all. The rugs were stained, the walls were painted dark colors and not done well at all. The husband (a-stay-at-home) is an artist, a jack of all trades. In the 15 minutes we were there, he told us he was a writer, a painter, a musician, a writer of poetry, a sculptor and the house reflected his focus in life.

We saw one house that had potential. It’s nearing foreclosure. Right now it’s in something called a short sale. If things work out the way the potential buyer wants, the house could be had for 100 grand less than what it’s worth. But it hinges on everything working out just so. The woman who currently owns the house has to write a letter stating why she’s unable to pay for the house; it’s basically a letter begging the bank to go easy on her. So, if a buyer is willing to pay a certain amount, the bank may agree to sell it and avoid foreclosure. But the woman living there has zero incentive to write the letter because her credit is already ruined. You see, she slept with the guy she and her husband hired to fix up the basement. Her husband found out and left her. The house was in her name because her husband’s credit was so bad at the time they bought the house. She’s a single mother and can’t afford it alone. Her credit is destroyed. She is renting. So, if we offered her some cash, I bet she’d write that letter but it’s all so messy and who knows if the bank will agree to a short sale. It’s a mess. It’s about as messy as this paragraph.

We’re discouraged. If the houses are nice, the schools are awful and/or the neighborhood borders a ghetto. When there’s a check cashing place and a liquor store equipped with shopping carts within 5 blocks of the neighborhood, I lose interest. If the houses are nice and the schools are good, the taxes are 11 thousand dollars a year. Tack on 500 extra tax dollars a month onto an already high mortgage and we’re suddenly unable to afford that neighborhood.

I’m not sure what we’re going to do. I guess we’ll keep looking. We’re opening up our scope a bit further to include Upstate New York as well as Connecticut. At the rate we’re going, we’ll end up in Eastern, PA (near the Quaker schools! yea!) and TobyJoe will have to commute two plus hours to and from work.

This is an example of my ideal house and terrain.

Too bad it’s in the middle of Virginia and the nearest job is almost two hours away.

Maybe I’m cynical. Maybe it’s my hyperthyroidism. Maybe I’m right. But I am not sure how the middle class can afford to live near New York City and send their children to a decent school at the same time. I have to be missing something. There must be something I’m missing.

^{(I couldn’t let a Tuesday go by without a Murray.)}

Look at this kid.

He’s my sunshine.

I visited the specialist yesterday. I picked up my blood results beforehand from my primary care physician. The levels meant absolutely nothing to me. For example, I had no idea a low something-or-other equalled an overactive thyroid. My laymen guess would have been high equals high but lo and behold, those zany medical people have to confuse us normal folk with their fancy medical terms. Or something.

I began by apologizing. I was supposed to have one more blood test before visiting the specialist. My primary care doctor assumed he had time to do so since he didn’t think that I would get an appointment with the endocrinologist until after the holidays. That wasn’t the case due to a last minute cancelation. So I ended up visiting the endocrinologist before having that blood work done, hence the apologies. He interrupted me after a bit and said, “Well, Michele, say no more, clearly there’s a problem here. This isn’t normal at all.” Someone, other than myself, has finally decided I’m a Crazy Nut!

I had half a mind to have him write it down as such.

He did some testing which consisted of having me look in certain directions, show him my legs, my hands, my eyes. He also made me swallow a lot. He asked me a lot of questions about my behavior and my sleep patterns, my pain and my pregnancy. He prescribed to me some temporary medication in order to keep my manic behavior at a minimum. (Toby thanks him. This morning I woke up and didn’t immediately put him to work cleaning the house.)

The good news is, this could all be due to postpartum. (Just as many of you suggested here and via email.) He said that some women experience this after pregnancy and that it does sometime work itself out by 6 months. So, I may be coming down off crazy. The unsettling news is, if it is due to postpartum, that doesn’t explain the last six years to TobyJoe and, well, the last 10 to me. The doctor is going to run a few more tests to figure out if this is permanent or if it’ll work itself out over time.

The next step is to have a snapshot done of my thyroid, which is scheduled for the beginning of January. My thyroid stimulating hormone levels are low enough that he’s worried about my heart palpitations and my heart rate, hence the drug I was prescribed. It’s only purpose is to keep my heart from exploding. And I do feel calmer today. I haven’t had any sudden jolts or spasms and my heart feels pretty even. I even slept finally. (Usually, I wake up every other hour and have trouble falling back to sleep.)

The bad news (which I have come to terms with) is that I am no longer able to supply breast milk for Emory. But since my supply tanked from an already low supply, it’s not a huge change or surprise. He’s doing well. He’s strong, healthy, and I gave him almost five months worth of milk. I asked the doctor if hyperthyroidism could be responsible for my very low milk supply (10 oz now, 23 at my highest) and he said yes. Granted, things could have been different had Emory and I worked on a latch, but for whatever reason, we never got that worked out. Maybe my supply was too low and he became frustrated. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough (although I tried all the time back then and I continued trying up until about two weeks ago). I realize I have talked about this a lot (too much). I even said it’d be the last time I talked about it a hundred times before now. It’s hard to let go. Plus, I have received dozens and dozens of email (a beautiful one just yesterday) from mothers who have run into problems breastfeeding. Many have met nothing but nastiness from other women. A fact that will never stop shocking me. I can’t figure out why women do this to other women. I am reminded of a paragraph from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

“Most women had the one thing in common: they had great pain when they gave birth to their children. This should make a bond that held them all together; it should make them love and protect each other against the man-world. But is was not so. It seemed like their great birth pains shrank their hearts and their souls. They stuck together for only one thing: to trample on some other woman… whether it was by throwing stones or by mean gossip. It was the only kind of loyalty they seemed to have.”

Now, even I think that’s a little harsh, but you get the point.

I (what pumpers call) “hung up the horns” last night and I started to cry a little bit. I turned to TobyJoe and said, “If it’s this hard for me to put a pump away, it must be really difficult to wean a child.” (Breastfeeding mamas, you have my sympathies.)

I’ll know more in January. And I’m trying not to think about the possibility of having my thyroid irradiated because the thought of being away from Emory (and EVERYBODY) for several days makes me want to break down and cry in place. Right now. So, in the meantime, I’m going to smooch my baby boy, take care of myself, be nice to my husband and eat as much crap as I want. I fell off my diet due to this ravenous appetite and have managed to stay at 148. (I wonder… if I stay away from entire chocolate cakes, would I actually lose weight from all of this?)

This is so boring, these medical posts. So, I’ll leave you with this adorable picture of my two boys.

Thanks, y’all for dealing with my crap. xoxxo

Sometimes I realize that I write about something and then I never, ever come back to it. So, if you’ve been following along (poor thing), you may suddenly ask yourself, “Wonder what ever happened to that parking ticket?” Well, today’s post is going to put an end to some of those cliffhangers.

OUR LANDLORD WOES

I am happy to report that our landlord woes have come to an end. After a not so pleasant email correspondence (one with us in the right) we won. It ended with a sweet-as-can-be phone call. Here’s the short story. We agreed to a three month out two years ago. (We’ve been here for four years. We’re awesome tenants. I mean that.) The clause was written into our lease just incase we made an offer on a house. Well, this year, out of the blue, our landlord said they didn’t want to give us that option (but didn’t tell us they removed it) and that we’d either have to sign an year lease or get out. We don’t want to sign a year lease because this is going to be the year we buy a house. There was some back and forth, some really bad logic on their part (not wanting to find tenants more than once a year, and in the winter, which, unless Al Gore’s projections are right, will be the case always since our lease is up on December 4th.) We pointed out their bad logic. (This is getting too long.) Nutshell: We were right. They agreed to it. They told us we have been awesome and they simply don’t wish to lose us.

Good news all around. Plus, we’re going to be homeowners by this time next year or I’m going to move in with you.

MY UNFAIR PARKING TICKET

Remember this? I got a $65.00 parking ticket accusing me of a being a dealer selling our ‘75 Volvo. They were wrong. I was right. I contested the ticket. It’s been 3 months. On Friday of last week, I got a letter stating that the judge agreed with me. I do not have to pay the ticket. (I did have to pay the one I got while giving birth, however, for an expired registration even though I had it registered but failed to put the ticket on the windshield. Ah well.) So that’s taken care of. And the Volvo has since been donated to Autism Speaks of New York City. (I miss her.)

THE HOUSE HUNT

Looks like we’re going to settle in New Jersey. We’re looking at houses this Saturday. Yay! I can’t wait to have a yard, a hose, and a floor that touches the ground.

THYROID STUFF. ANOTHER AHA! MOMENT

(This is an oldie but a goodie!)

I wrote about my shins turning themselves inside out back in 2004. We were in San Francisco at the time. The itchy, bumpy mess has happened since then a few times, usually when I’m under a lot of stress or I’m depressed. It flared up even worse right after Emory was born. I complained about it nonstop to my mother and TobyJoe. Well, check this out. (From the Grave’s Disease page Mayo Clinic Web site.)

Graves’ dermopathy

An uncommon sign of Graves’ disease is reddening and swelling of the skin, often on your shins and on the top of your feet, called Graves’ dermopathy.

Have you ever seen Chasing Amy? Remember when Banky is at the bar with Holden and he has that moment of clarity when he realizes it’s actually a lesbian bar and that Holden’s new crush is batting for the other team? Well, that’s been what I’ve been doing the last couple of days. I’m going back in time and realizing that a lot of symptoms I have had could be related to Grave’s Disease (or high thyroid levels). I have asked four doctors through the years about the skin problem on my shins. (Most recently, I talked to my dermatologist about it, the same woman who discovered the basal cell carcinoma.) Not one doctor has suggested testing for Grave’s. I have complained about heart problems (mainly palpitations and my heart rate fluctuation) and not one of them has checked my thyroid levels. (I even had a stress test done in 2005 to check out my heart.)

Crazier? The doctor who finally did test my thyroid levels actually asked me, during our first ever meeting in 2005, if I have Grave’s disease because, “your eyes are kind of buggy.” (I wrote about that meeting here but for some reason I can’t find it. My mother left a comment reassuring me that my eyes were lovely. That’s all I remember.)

What I’m saying, Internet, is this diagnosis could possibly change everything for the better. I’m manic with the possibility that I might not have to continue living the way I’ve been living for so long, which is to say erratically unhappy and happy, confused, lonely, and sometimes filled with doom. I don’t use this site to write about the dark moments. I did during my postpartum, but even then I held back. I’m hard to live with. On Monday, whenever the doctor called to say my thyroid levels were high, a moment of clarity swept over me.

On Monday I realized that I’ve been at the lesbian bar all this time. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

So, today I have a meeting with a endocrinologist. I am not sure what that entails, but I do hope he can make sense of all of this for me. Perhaps he can make me understand myself a little better. I’m not saying I do have Grave’s Disease, but something is askew and now I’ll get a chance to figure out what and why.

And maybe then I’ll learn how to feel normal again even though I’m not even sure what normal is.

THE WRAP UP

I suppose that’s it. If I’ve missed something, please let me know. If you’ve had some unanswered question, if I’ve left cliffhangers, let me know. I am not a fan of cliffhangers.

Whenever we first got Murray, he used to spend a lot of time standing on my belly. It worked out really well, because he grew as my belly grew. Every time I’d leave the house the moment I returned I’d say, “Murray! Want some scritches? Scritches?” (Pronounced Sker-etches.) He’d always meow from the depths of somewhere and come running.

After he’d position himself just so, I’d run my fingernails up and down both sides of his body. He’d lean in every now and again for a forehead kiss. His eyes would squeeze shut from all the love and sometimes, if I got him just right, he’d drool on me.

These daily meetings became something I really looked forward to. I used to say, “What are we going to do once my belly is gone? I’m going to have to drink a lot of beer to maintain this!” (Whenever I was in labor, I yearned for this such meeting.)

Now Murray is bigger and my belly is much smaller and all the beer in the world couldn’t get me to the size I was whenever I was pregnant. But Murray is determined to keep this going, as am I. I still yell, “Murray, want some SCRITCHES?” and he continues to crawl aboard. And he still drools on me. Now I bend my knees and put my feet up on the coffee table and he sits with his butt up against my thighs. And this works out well. He’s able to reach my face and I’m able to scratch his sides.

We’re a team, he and I.

Lately, I have felt kind of bad for Murray because most all of my time is spent holding or playing with Emory so whenever Murray decides it’s time to climb aboard, I’m not usually able to accommodate him. So, about a month ago, I made a deal with Murray and TobyJoe. Murray would get at least two SCRITCH meetings per day no matter what. This has worked. I try and do one in the morning before TobyJoe goes to work and one at night whenever he gets home. If that doesn’t work, I try and squeeze one in while Emory naps. And if that doesn’t work Murray squeezes himself in while I’m on the computer.

“Murray? Want some scritches? SCRITCHES?”

See? Here he comes.

I got my blood work results back today. My thyroid levels are elevated. They are elevated enough that my doctor is concerned. I need to visit an endocrinologist as soon as possible.

This explains so much. I have almost every symptom related to hyperthyroidism except for maybe the rapid weight loss. (Although, I did lose 35 pounds in 3 months.) I am manic. I do have a ravenous appetite. I have trouble sleeping. My muscles ache or don’t feel like working at all. (I think I may be confusing joint pain with muscle pain. We’re going to find out at my next visit.) I am winded walking up stairs. I get depressed too often and easily. The checklist is full of yeses. This explains so much, so very much.

But I’m worried about my future. I have no idea what this means or what drugs I may have to take. I have no idea if I can continue supplying breast milk for Emory. Knowing helps but knowing what to do is the next step and I’m worried about that.

In other news, Emory had another vaccination today. He barely even cried. This might be getting easier. We’ll find out whenever he wakes up from his long nap.

Also! I am proud to report that starting today, I will be writing three times a week for MamaPop. (You may have noticed the banner in the sidebar.) I’m really excited about this even though I am kind of autistic when it comes to celebrities. (I’m not even sure if that means what I want it to mean.) But I think I can hang with the rest of ‘em. I know stuff about other things. Anyway, please check out my first post! It’s about McDonald’s. Y’all know how I feel about McDonald’s.

Being away from Emory was much harder than I imagined. I know that sentence made some people roll their eyes. Before I had Emory, I would have rolled my eyes so much so they probably would have fallen out. But it’s true. I had no idea how hard it would be to be away from him. I was away from him from 8:30 AM Friday morning until about 3:30 PM on Saturday and in that short time, I counted the minutes until I’d get to hold him again.

How do woman leave for longer periods? I’ve watched a few reality TV shows in my time, mainly Top Chef (which I adore). I watched a marathon of The Biggest Loser on Bravo last year while TobyJoe was away and I was one month pregnant. On both shows, at least once, a contestant had a break down, lamenting about how much they missed their children. I thought they were exaggerating at the time, making it up for the TV people. Now I get it.

And so, today, on this gloomy Sunday as my baby sleeps soundly next to my glowing monitor, I have a question. This one goes out to all the mothers and fathers out there. Have you ever left your babies behind before? If so, for how long? How old were they at the time? Was it hard? For those without kids, do you remember being left behind by your parents so they could win big in Vegas or sip cocktails in the Bahamas? Was it hard? Did you forget who they were when they got home?

Because that’s my biggest fear, that one day I’ll return home and Emory will look at me through confused eyes. I’ll arrive home again and he will no longer greet me with that great big smile.

I love my son. I love him more than words can possibly say. Remember that as I continue with the bitching and moaning.

Months ago, we planned on going to Boston for the Barbarian Group holiday party. My parents were planning to drive to New York from Southern Jersey and watch the little man. We reserved a hotel room and train tickets. Up until today, my biggest complaint was that I haven’t had time to get my eyebrows waxed, my nails done, and a dress purchased. TobyJoe left this morning on the 8 AM train. I was planning on leaving tomorrow on the 10 AM train.

Well, the Northeast is currently getting blasted by snow, sleet, and rain. It’s not pretty out there. And I hear Boston is currently taking it up the ass without any lube.

When I was 22, I took a train to NYC from State College to visit friends. It was the great snowstorm of 96 (I think that was the year). Long, long story short, I got stuck on a train in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. My parents (bless their sweet hearts) decided to relieve me of having to spend the night with two strangers in a hotel room. They decided to drive to Harrisburg from State College. They got 5 miles up the road and were hit from behind by a truck and pushed into the path of an oncoming snowplow. My father picked glass out of his hair and face for days to come.

I almost killed my parents. Luckily, they survived. But I still shudder when I think about the alternative. This is precisely why I will not allow them to drive to NYC just so I can go to a holiday party. (And if they do threaten to drive here, I’ll flat out refuse to go to Boston. I’ll lock them out as well. And keep them from Emory. Take that, mom and dad.)

But, MAN! am I ever saddened by this! And I want to kick the weather’s ass. We’re going to have to reschedule something because I need some time away from the baby. I know that once I’m away I’ll complain that I miss him, but I think that I need to miss him. Perhaps we’ll schedule something right around our anniversary on January 3rd (after we get kicked out of our apartment of course).

So, for the next 48 hours, it’s Emory and me alone at home during a snowstorm. I will now commence with overeating leftover birthday cake. I plan on putting on all 6 pounds I lost last month.

It’s a good thing I didn’t buy a dress.

Edited to add: My parents called from the turnpike. They are exiting to get to the Holland Tunnel. They didn’t call first, they drove against my wishes. Now I feel like a whiney bitch and a heartless one since they will arrive and all our doors will be locked.

Edited by Dad: We’re here and she let us in. Now we have full custody of Emory in an effort to keep him away from the crazy woman. We think she will head to Boston after all to spend some quality time with the Bean.

(Seriously, is it just awful up north or what?)

I have written about this before. I’ll probably never stop. This is why we can’t blindly trust our government or major pharmaceutical companies.

“Dougherty could not immediately say whether the contamination seen at the factory involves a virus or bacteria. She said if someone were vaccinated with a contaminated shot, “There is a risk they could develop an infection.” But she did not provide more details”

Thanks for the reassurance there, Dougherty. Thanks for clearing that up. The vagueness can mean one of two things, and both are troubling. Either they don’t know what the “infection” is or they think we’re too stupid to handle the truth. I want to know everything they know. Let me then make an informed decision. We’re not children, but these are our children they’re talking about.

I’m not against vaccines but I’m troubled by the fact that there aren’t perfect measures in place to make sure there are no contaminations, or weird additives. And I find it appalling that any state would make vaccinations mandatory especially if they don’t offer textbook explanations for any problems or side-effects that do arise. It’s no wonder why so many parents are wary of injecting their children with up to 23 shots by age two. Safety is something that needs to be worked out before suggesting it be mandatory.

I lied about surprises. I planned a party for TobyJoe. It was held at a local tapas restaurant here in Brooklyn. I made a cake and at around 6:30, Emory and I packed everything into the car and headed out for an evening with friends. It was 100% awesome. It would have been 150% awesome had TobyJoe not shown up before everyone else. Guests were to arrive at 7 PM. TobyJoe arrived at 7:01. There were five of us there, five out of the 17 guests who would show up over the next couple of minutes. But none of that mattered because our friends are outstanding. I could not be more pleased with the people in my life. I am so unbelievably lucky. I feel so plump today, so grateful.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to take any pictures because the spot on my body that once held a camera was reserved for our four month old baby boy. Emory was so good. He just sat there and smiled and then he fell asleep in my arms. I could not put him in the stroller without him waking up and wildly kicking his feet until I picked him up again. Emory is a very social baby. He has to be facing out when in the Bjorn. He doesn’t like to lie back in the stroller. A wrap (such as the Moby wrap) will not do. He has to be able to see everyone. (Incidentally, we have one unused Moby wrap if anyone wants it.)

He quickly became the life of the party even though it was meant to be for his father. Our beloved friend, Jen, took the only picture there is featuring all three of us.

I needed last night. I really did. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks for me. And we discovered about two hours ago, it’s about to get even crazier. We might be out of a place to live because our landlord has decided to pull some crap that I still can’t get my head around. I’m actually unable to even write about it just yet. It’s too annoying, too heartless. It has us scrambling, looking at houses in upstate NY and NJ. I can’t think of a better way to spend our holiday. Bastards.

My health has been wacky as well. I visited my primary care doctor on Monday to discuss a few things. I have had some pretty serious joint pain. It began when I was 39 weeks pregnant. It’s gotten worse over the last couple of months. I have trouble lifting Emory, especially now that he’s getting bigger. It’s worse when I’m stationary, like when I first get up. My hands ache. My feet have trouble holding me up. I hobble to his bedroom and then I struggle to lift him. And my hips feel like they’re grinding one another at the bone. It’s not pleasant. And I’m worried that I am inheriting my mother (and grandmother’s) rheumatoid arthritis. The doctor drew blood. He’s checking for everything from Lyme Disease to thyroid problems, from rheumatoid all the way to Hepatitis A through Z. I am crossing my fingers I don’t have arthritis already.

My hair is starting to fall out. I heard that this would happen if I continued supplying breast milk. It’s happening. At the rate it’s falling out, I’m going to be bald by my 34th birthday in January.

The MOHs procedure is done and, yes, I am cancer free. But the stitches have caused me a great deal of frustration. It seems the internal stitches, the ones meant to dissolve on their own, did not. I spent almost a week watching a tiny white thread poke out of my skin. I would pull on it, and it wouldn’t give. I’d then cut it with scissors. Now, most people, most normal people, would have gone back to the doctor. Not me! I am a moron. I’m waiting until my face explodes. Contrary to how it appears in the photo I posted on Friday, my MOHs surgery has not healed as well as it should have. It hasn’t healed entirely at all.

I sound like I’m whining. I assure you, I am relatively happy these days. I could not have asked for a better baby.

I have the most amazing friends. I wish them days, years, decades full of happiness. My family is truly wonderful. And my husband is fantastic even if he does ruin surprise parties by not playing by the rules.

I’m happy. Now, if only we could find a safe place to live near the city, equipped with a pottery studio, a yoga studio, and a Quaker school. Help me get there, sweet life. Willya?

I’m sorry I can’t use up today’s post on Murray entirely, Internet. But I will include a picture and this video of Murray’s butt.

Today is TobyJoe’s birthday. He turns 30. THIRTEE. He’s finally old man river. I turned 30 almost four years ago. I am almost dead. OK, that’s not true, but my body is currently telling me otherwise. Anyway, The Bean is 30. Happy Birthday, Bean.

This is what Toby looked like 15 years ago:

This is how he looks now:

Today will be much like every other day only today will have cake (and some overflow cupcakes) because I made a cake yesterday evening. The cake (along with several cupcakes) was made right under Toby’s nose. It was supposed to be a surprise birthday cake, one baked today, but I have learned that surprises are impossible when you have a baby because there’s no one to watch the (very needy) baby while the other is baking the cake. It’s also impossible to make a surprise anything with Murray around because Murray will find it, rip the tinfoil off and try and eat it even though chocolate is sometimes poisonous to cats. It’s impossible to have surprises with a baby and a Murray in the house, unless you consider cake ransack a surprise or a poopie diaper.

We aren’t going out for a romantic meal because we don’t have anyone to watch the baby. But that’s OK, because we would much rather have the baby than a romantic meal. Plus, a romantic meal is how we ended up with the baby. And there won’t be any presents because all the extra money we’re making is going into the baby’s college fund. It’s what I like to call our “401 Kid”. We’re putting as much money as possible into the kid’s education so when we’re old and immobile, in 7 years, he’ll be able to take care of us. He’s allowed to specialize in whatever he wants, except for law. I tell Emory all the time, “Mommy doesn’t like lawyers. If you want to go to law school, I will take your money and give it to Murray the cat.” And TobyJoe always says, “That’s a surefire way to make him become a lawyer.” And I laugh.

Anyway, it’s TobyJoe’s 30th birthday. Happy birthday, Bean.

P.S. You are the awesome.

TobyJoe and I got up early this morning and drove to Whole Foods at Union Square. We brought the Bjorn and the baby and did some early morning shopping. The city is so nice in the morning. No one is out (except for maybe the people still drunk from the night before) and the stores are empty. Even the street vendors are still at home wrapping up their dreams.

We shopped. And Emory did really well. A lot of ladies came over to see him. One really adorable woman stopped us to talk about how cute he is. She called him Pumpkin Head, which made me laugh because I call him My Pumpkin Pie all the time. There’s something pumpkin-like about Emory.

We spent a small fortune, double the rent I used to spend per month while living in State College. We grabbed our bags and headed back to the car. We got everything in. I turned around to ask Toby something. (He sits in back with Emory.) It was at that very moment TobyJoe noticed my eye, my big red bloody eye.

It’s a subconjunctival hemorrhage, bleeding in the eye that happens if the eye is hit or scratched. I didn’t get hit. (It’s the opposite eye from the one I smacked running into a car door.) Nothing scratched it. I would have known. That leads me to believe it’s from a third cause: high blood pressure.

Of course, now that I’m all worked up, I’m having a slight panic attack, which causes shortness of breath, dizziness, and tingling, which are all telltale signs of high blood pressure. You see the dilemma?

I have always has stellar blood pressure up until I was 41 weeks pregnant. What the hell is going on? First it was the basal cell carcinoma, which led to the MOHs surgery. Then I got hit in the face with a car door. And now this? I look like a monster.

Edited to add: I just took a bath and was thinking about stuff about things. Pregnancy is the only thing I can think of that causes all sorts of weird (and negative) side-effects yet is still positive. Like, your hair may fall out (a common problem for breastfeeding mothers), your skin may sag, you may find new skin tags, moles, or (in my case) cancer cells. Pregnancy can ruin your eyesight even (another discovery I had recently). There’s joint pain, weight gain, hemorrhoids, stretch marks; the side effects are endless.

I was just thinking about everything that has changed since having Emory, all the physical oddities I’m still discovering, some of which are really painful and life-altering. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

They are the greatest side-effects ever.

I started writing my labor recovery post. It’s going to take some time. While I’m working on that, I figured it’d be nice if I posted some pictures I took this morning.

Emory is always happiest in the morning.

Tucker the Orangemani terrorist

The Hobo Nest (More about this here)

Last night’s carnage. Someone left the homemade bread out on the counter.

Gratuitous self-portrait

Ornamental gift from my brother.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

Happy Friday everyone else!

I don’t read magazines all that often but when I do it’s usually in bed and I’m usually on my back. I noticed something the other night as I was reading an article in Wired magazine about India’s skeleton trade. I noticed that unless you’re in the middle of the magazine, it’s hard to read using one hand. And I usually fold my magazine in on itself in order to read it using one hand. In the front of the magazine, the left hand side of the spread gets cut off when the magazine is folded over.

I am forced to turn the magazine at weird angles in order to read the type at the gutter.

It’s a small design pet peeve of mine.

When you get to the back of the magazine, the same thing happens in reverse order. It’s easy to read the left hand side of the page whenever the magazine is folded back on itself. But whenever you get to the right hand side of the spread, you’re forced to either open the magazine entirely or do the same weird motion.

Think of how many minutes I could save every day if the magazine designer took this phenomenon into consideration. Think of how much more pleasurable my reading experience would be if the gutter was thought about depending on where you are in the magazine. Perhaps the designer could extend artwork to include the gutter. Perhaps they could vary the width of the column closest to the gutter depending on where you are in the magazine. White space never hurt anyone. As my design professor used to say, “It’s not a problem, it’s an opportunity.”

And then sometimes decisions made by a graphic designer or marketing team just confuse me. Remember this logo?

I originally saw it on its side. Like this:

Some folks thought it was just me, while others agreed. The point is, enough people saw a penis to warrant a second look and maybe a third, fourth and fifth.

People should have to pay for good graphic design but more often than not it’s an afterthought. If more people thought about graphic design over at Baxter Healthcare Corp., three babies might still be alive today and Dennis Quaid might not be suing them.

Obviously, the Heparin bottle design (or lack thereof) is a bigger deal than a logo that may or may not look like a penis even if said logo includes the tagline “Sharing God’s Gifts.” And it’s a much bigger deal compared to whether or not I have to move my magazine around in order to read it. But my point is (and always has been) that graphic design is a lot more important than people choose to admit.

Am I right? Or am I right.

I originally posted this on Sunday night. It was up for about 2 hours before I had a minor freak out and took it down. I freaked out because I worried that people who may not have heard about it otherwise would find out about it because of me. I wouldn’t rate this blog PG by any means, but posting a fetish video isn’t something I want on my resume, especially now that I’m a mother. I’m a lot more overprotective and sensitive now that I’m a mother.

A few days have gone by since I deleted the original post. In that time I have watched a few more of the reaction videos on YouTube, including one starring John Mayer and a cup of ice cream. Opie and Anthony have been showing it to their comedian friends and filming their reactions. The one with Adam Ferrara is pretty awesome.

The reaction videos are a sight to be seen. I really mean that. Some of them had TobyJoe and me laughing out loud. I think it’s awesome that people have taken something so downright disturbing and turned it into something creative and funny. In the future, whenever someone brings up the Brazilian fetish video, I won’t think about two girls doing disgusting things with feces; I’ll think about the hilarity that ensued instead.

I fear this has become the longest caveat ever. But I think it proves how conflicted I am. And I think I’ve pretty much rewritten the original post with more paranoia this time.

In the name of creativity, I have decided to resubmit the post from Sunday.

Please note: I am writing this today NOT to pique anyone’s interest. Though the subject at hand sparked a bit of curiosity at first, I took the sage advice of friends and family and held strong.

My purpose today is to warn those who haven’t yet seen and/or heard about the newest gross-out meme to follow my lead. Those whose friends are of the type that cajole and trick and hack at resolve should heed this warning: Do not succumb to a moment of weakness, lest you wish for a time machine.

On Friday, TobyJoe came home and said, “You hear about the new [insert website term I am not going to say for fear that folks will look it up] sweeping the Internet?”

“No.” I replied. “But if it’s anything like [insert website term I am not going to say for fear that folks will look it up], I don’t want to know about it. I still can’t shake that image from my head.”

“It’s so bad Ryan won’t let anyone say the name. Andy had to sign it to me from across the loft.” TobyJoe made a number two using two fingers and mouthed a word and then held up one finger and then made a gesture like he was drinking. “Apparently it’s very disturbing. I haven’t watched it.”

“Do I want to know about this? Does it show animal cruelty?” I asked.

“No, but it shows two girls eating poop and then vomiting in each other’s mouth.”

“Oh holy crap! Gross. But I could handle that, I bet.” I bragged. “I can’t believe you didn’t watch it”

“No way. But I did watch the reaction videos.”

And that’s how it started. That’s how I became obsessed with a video I will purposefully never watch.

I have watched countless reaction videos which are downright genius. Here are a couple of my favorites. And this is the video that made TobyJoe decide not to watch it.

I find the whole phenomenon fantastic. I think the reason I find it so completely amazing is that this particular trend takes everything that is so very wrong with Internet and inspires some of the things that are so right. The reaction videos (a trend all its own, the reaction video) are consistent enough to bring to mind clinical psychological studies and the results are just as fascinating. The reaction videos restore a little faith in humanity. They suggest that while there is a lot of ugly out there, there’s a whole hell of a lot more awesome.

That’s why I have decided to take the road less traveled and not watch the original video. I want to live in the world with a lot more awesome.

The cats used to sleep with us. Now we have to close the doors at night so they don’t walk all over the baby. One of our four legged roommates can’t seem to figure out that the baby is alive. It just so happens that he’s the smallest of the three cats which is a good thing because whenever he does walk on the baby the baby doesn’t even flinch. It’s quite the opposite, actually. One morning I woke up to find Emory laughing because Murray had a paw against Emory’s side. (Before you call the ACS, we don’t actually let the cat walk all over the baby.) Unfortunately, Murray is starting to put on weight, which means we’re going to have to keep an closer eye on him whenever he’s near Emory. It also means I’m going to have to put him on a diet. And I hate that idea because living with Murray is like living an episode Fear Factor. Only he doesn’t do it to show off his enormous, fake tits. He eats everything just for fun.

Now we shut the folding doors that separate the living area with the bedrooms, a decision Murray is not very pleased with. And he lets us know about it each and every night repeatedly. It starts whenever we first close the doors. And I generally give in if we’re still reading or watching TV. I let him in just to prove that he’s not missing anything. Eventually, he either gets bored or we have to toss him out. But the cries do not stop. The cries return at least twice during the night and they come on strong at 5 AM. The cries are much more desperate at 5 AM.

Murray has always visited me at 5 AM. When he was a kitten and we first brought him home, he’d climb into bed and curl up on my ear or around my neck. One night, I had a dream I was having my teeth drilled and I haven’t ever even had my teeth drilled. I woke up to find Murray asleep and purring loudly against the right hand side of my face. I miss him a lot. But it has to be done.

A few days ago, we were sleeping soundly. At around 4 AM, Emory woke up and wanted something to eat. I fed him and changed him and we were asleep again by 4:30. At 5 AM Murray started. He cried and cried. I guess he wondered where we had gone. They were up a minute ago, where have they gone? Why have they locked me out again? He continued to cry and we continued to ignore him. This went on for roughly 15 minutes.

“MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!”

Silence.

SCRATCH. SCRATCH. DOOR HEADBUTT. SCRATCH. DOOR HEADBUTT.

“MEOW! MEOW!”

DOOR HEADBUTT

“MEOW!”

DOOR HEADBUTT. DOOR HEADBUTT.

“MEEEOWOOOWWW!!”

Silence.

At some point he realized that a simple MEOW wasn’t going to work and so he moved on to a more abrasive tactic.

This is what the tactic sounded like. (Click below.)

Murray is probably the only creature capable of making me laugh at 5 AM. And of course throwing the monkey against our door a few times not only woke me up, it brought him numerous early morning scritches as well.