Vices, anyone?

So I'm have a bit of heartburn (sound familiar, Julie?) and have to go on a two week trial without most things I love: red wine (on occasion), tomatoes, pizza, spices (bye bye Indian food and Ethiopian food), chocolate, coffee. And quickly, I'm all out of vices. We eat really healthy and I exercise. I don't smoke. I can't be a sexaholic 'cause there's just not enough hours or privacy in my life, and I don't think I have the attention span to do those Sudoku things. The only type of shopping I enjoy these days is online, and not much of that. So, I'm asking you, dear readers, to suggest a vice. Oh, and be forewarned, after these first two weeks of "weaning" and the next two weeks of cold turkey, I'm going to be a bitch on wheels.

Knitting? What do you do if you get stressed at work, go on a knitting break instead of a coffee break?

Gardening? Kind of hard to do in the winter in the Midwest.

Cooking? I love to cook, but have to eliminate tomatoes and balsamic--what's the point? Although I do think I could get into some nice cream sauces.......

Anywhoo, it's up to you guys. Truly. I'm open to suggestions.

Being a doctor is so glamorous!--Warning, grossness

Dan (aka Doogie Howser-- he tires of the joke, but can't you see the resemblance?) and I have a little game we like to play called, "Who had the worse day?" We often commute from work together and have a bit of alone time in the car before we get home. Last week, he might have had one of the worst days of all time.

Dan was on service at the hospital. He was leading a team of residents, interns (a fancy word for first year residents) and students. He was on rounds and was in a patient's room with his team and perhaps a nurse or two. This is where he is supposed to look all smarty pants and stuff (and he is normally, quite brilliant. Who else do you know who got a perfect score on his medical boards? It's enough to make me vomit, and I hate vomit). So his patient is trying to leave against medical advice, and has given the nurses and staff a hard time, but Dan needs to get him to stay for his (the patient's) own good. Things get heated between Dan and the patient, Dan loses his cool and shouts, "Sir, you cannot leave the hospital! You have a life threatening PENIS! . . . infection."

Well, not exactly. But the guy actually had flesh eating bacteria of Big Jim and the Twins. The urologists had saved the twig, but sadly one of the berries was gone. The other berry wasn't looking too hot either, ergo the IV antibiotics, etc. He had meat, but only one sad looking potato (sorry, I just couldn't help myself).

Don't believe me? It's called Fournier's Gangrene. For those who can stand some gore, here's a picture of a man with the condition- and it is gross. You are warned. This flesh eating bacteria of the private bits can happen to women, but most often affects men. Coincidence? I think not.

I asked Dan how common this condition was, and he's saved a few swords from this very fate. He's also saved countless others from various STDs and infections. In fact, he has clinic hours on Fridays, the last appointments for the week, and he tells me that often that day is STD clinic. People looking to get some antibiotics so they can get it on over the weekend. Yikes! And they say being a doctor is glamorous.

The Wait is Getting to Me!!

So we are stuck on the waiting list. According to my agency, we should anticipate a 12 month wait. We are just beginning our 11th month of waiting. So close, you say! Almost there! But no. I had envisioned THIS Christmas with the new baby. I thought we would be traveling now. I thought and was told that the wait would be 5-7 months. Therein lies the frustration. Intellectually, I know that these things are unpredictable. And intellectually I don't want to be one of those potential adoptive parents from the West waving their money and demanding a child at any cost. I don't want to contribute to non-ethical adoptions. But my heart just wants my damn baby. It is not rational, but it is real and very,very raw.

Not to mention the excruciating limbo of not knowing. Girl or boy? 3 months or 12 months? Single infant or twins? For a planner, this is hell. I can't DO anything in the wait. Can't paint a room, can't buy clothes. I don't want to take too many vacation days in case my maternity leave is imminent, but if we're not going to travel until, say June, I'm going to at least need a mental health day here and there.

I've intentionally left some things to do after referral but before travel, like immunizations. I know I will need something to do in those 3+ months between referral and travel and I just can't imagine going into a travel clinic now and saying "Hey, I'm traveling to Ethiopia." When? "I have no freaking clue. Sometime in the next 6-9 months." I'm pretty sure they'll look at me like I'm a lunatic.

So if I look a little crazed, or get teary eyed, please understand. And to those pregnant women out there, don't take my angry, jealous looks personally. I'm envious of your timeline and excuse for ice cream consumption.

My Town Takes Charge!

I live in a VERY liberal suburb of a big city in the Midwest. Let's call it Oakey Oaks. Think Birkenstocks, Dansko clogs and Keens, tote bags at the grocery store, and organic everything. It is a place where every Saturday at the Farmers Market (since 2000, I think) there is a petition to impeach Bush. Every Thursday, rain, shine, or snow, a group of protesters gather near the train stop and the expressway to promote peace. Their signs say "Honk for Peace" and most cars do. We have a huge recycling program, and I saw only one McCain yard sign in the past two years. My town is truly racially integrated and has been since the 60's. I think we have the greatest concentration of smart cars and VW beetles per capita than most of America. We are a nuclear free zone, and have the signs to prove it.

So when I got to the end of the ballot, there were some interesting referendums. First, our town is attempting to single handedly end the war in Iraq. Yep. The referendum was for the pursuit to use all means necessary to limit federal military spending in Iraq and Afghanistan to bringing the troops home. Not sure what this means in the larger political arena, but interesting. The second was a referendum to phase out nuclear power, replacing it with wind and solar energy. Seriously. And not just in Oakey Oaks, but the entire state. The third was a referendum requiring all contractors and subcontractors who do work for our town and businesses receiving funds from our town to pay a living wage to their employees, indexed to inflation, with health benefits and time off. Hmmm, and people say Americans don't embrace socialism.

No word yet on the success or failure of these referendums, but I give our citizens props for being engaged and interested. If you'll excuse me, I need to go figure out how to get some solar panels for my roof.

We're going to discuss this now?

So for the past several years, I have committed to working out on a regular basis. I hate it. It's not fun. But I do it for my health and for my girls, and frankly to combat the jiggles on my body. I try desperately to make it look fun, so my girls will enjoy working out.

They opened a gym in my building, and I've tried to add one more workout to my week. It sucks. It's like being in high school again, getting dressed in a locker room, showers, the whole shebang. Being the plump one, struggling to put a sport bra on (or off) giant hooters without throwing out my back while simultaneously trying to keep a towel tied around my hips. A teeny tiny workout towel. What is up with that anyway??

It is so much effort for what often feels like not too great results. I was afraid to measure myself in the beginning, and I'm not a weigh-er, so all of my results are subjectively judged. This usually entails me asking Dan whether he can see any difference. He usually replies all smartassy, "your heart looks great."

I've been asking him every week into my new routine, " It's working, right?" And each time, a smartassy response. Until Sunday.

Sunday was the day we planted our tulip bulbs, covered them with compost, chicken wire and mulch. Take that squirrelly bastards! I'm considering sprinkling them with cayenne pepper, too.

So I'm covered in mulch and compost, in a old, holey outfit, sweaty, shoveling "mature" compost out of the composter. Those who work with compost know that when it is ready to use, the compost smells and looks like crap. So basically I'm covered in crap and bending over, and Dan chooses that moment to be all, "Hey, I think your a$$ is looking good."

"We're going to discuss this NOW, Captain Romance? When I'm covered in manure? Can you put that compliment on hold until I can shower? Does the compost make my butt look smaller?

Ahh...the bliss of married life.

A three hour tour....a three hour tour

So yesterday, the girls and I decided to go to Costco. Normally while not a pleasant trip, it is not usually so bad. I try to avoid prime time hours on Saturday, when the samples bring folks out in droves. But...we left late, and that was my first mistake. Doodle insisted on getting a snack first. Snacks were a piece of cheese pizza bigger than Doodle's head, a huge hot dog for Moo, and a churro. Oh, and a Diet Coke for me, and a pink lemonade for the girls. I was balancing all of this and the twelve bags I brought with me (yes, I'm on of THOSE people). And then, it happened, the churro fell to the floor. The horror! Thankfully, it landed mostly on the paper, and I'm ashamed to say I ripped off the piece that touched the floor and fed the rest to the girls. I was desperate, people, and there was a loooong line at the snack counter.

So after a snack, things were fairly smooth, we found a great rice cooker, and there was very little whining in the toy aisle, of course the very nice and thoughtful Costco folks had constructed a giant dollhouse display.....so helpful of them!

And then we hit the part where they start the samples. Is is really necessary to line up 7 deep to try the Irish butter spread on a piece of baguette, really? Especially when you can get a delicious churro for $1 at the snack counter? Ugh.

So I weave my way through the madness, and by this time the cart weighs about 150 pounds (two girls, 1 at 30-some pounds, and another at almost 35 pounds, Diet Coke, organic chicken, sun dried tomatoes, onions, one Tinkerbell movie bribe, one sticker book bribe, three bottles of wine, baby carrots, pellegrino, Parmesan cheese, brussel sprouts, rice cooker, a lone crab leg--hey, I have a 4 year old with a serious crab habit--don't judge) and there are three women all in a row stopped in the main aisle, talking and counting money. Really, are you just gonna sit there and chat? I started getting hostile. I entertained thoughts of accidentally ramming them on purpose with the cart. Finally, I was helped by an angry mob trying desperately to get to the sample of the chocolate mousse.

A few more stops and we get to the lines. Oh, the lines. And I almost felt sorry for the man in front of us. He and the wife were in their mid to late 70's and the only thing they had in their cart was a case of Ensure and a pair of house shoes. On one hand, I had sympathy for them. On the other, they were clearly retired. Must they go to Costco on the weekend??? Wouldn't it just be easier to go during the week during the day when it is slow? Was it really an Ensure emergency? A fun outing? "Hmmm, I'm bored honey, let's go to the Costco. I need some new slippers, and we could get some of those vanilla Ensure shakes." "Great idea hon, they have samples today."

And the card I tried to use was de-magnetized. Shoot me now!

So we make it, everything is loaded in the minivan, the kids are strapped in their car seats and I hear, "Mom, I really have to go the bathroom." Holy hell. So we get out of the car seats, walk the two miles back to the Costco, and some 7 year old has taken the handicapped stall. That meant I stood in the door way of the tiny stall to help the girls, totally on display. "Mom, I think there's poop on the floor." "Don't touch anything." "Mom, I don't have to go. Only Moo had to go." "Try anyway." "Mommy is going potty and do not move because I need to see your feet right at the door of the potty to be sure no one takes you." "What lesson did we learn today ladies? Yes, that's right, if you have to go potty, tell Mommy before we leave the Costco." This brought down the house in the ladies' room, let me tell you.

On the way home, there was an accident on the expressway. I had counted on two sleeping girls in a junk food coma, but somehow they were wide awake for the hour it took us to get home (normally a 25 minute trip). "Mom, we want to go home." "Mom, why aren't we moving?" "Mom, what accident?" "Mom, Doodle won't share the sticker book." "Mom, can we hear Brick House again?" And on and on and on. You get the picture.

To add insult to injury, as soon as we got home, Doodle fell asleep on the floor while playing with her sticker book. I poured myself a glass of wine. Oh, and I forgot the orange juice.

Shout out to Uncle Aaron!

Literally, a shout out. In the photo, Doodle is pointing to a wind up ghost that cool Uncle Aaron sent. See, Uncle Aaron sends the best gifts. This time, it was a cute bag filled with stickers, wind-up toys, those little things that grow in water, chocolate and pop rocks.

It was the girls' first opportunity to try pop rocks and Doodle says, "They were bouncing on my tongue. They were wobbly. Yea!" A rousing endorsement if I ever heard one. So thank you to Uncle Aaron, more photos are in the slideshow. Don't tell Nama, but the girls liked your gifts better than hers.

Oh, and I'd like to give you some anonymity, but the only nickname the girls could come up with was "peanut jar head." LMK if you think of something better.

And, for those of you who asked, yes, Moo Bear was Darth Vader again for Halloween this year (second year in a row). She spent most of the evening humming Darth Vader's theme music. Nothing like seeing a petite 4 year old girl with crazy curly hair channel the dark lord. We are so in trouble.