They are here!

Logan Francis and Cyrus Page Alt made their debut December 3rd. And it's a good thing they did, as my ankles were beginning to swell and I was becoming dehydrated. Logan came into the world first and I heard one of the nurses remark incredously, "He's a chunky one!" I was relieved and happy about the first fat joke about my son. Cyrus came two minutes later screaming his head off, so between tears I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

We are home now and walking around like zombies. I will endeavor to update you, faithful readers, on every feeding, burp and diaper change....perhaps not the latter...

We're going in

Had my weekly baby doc appointment with Dr. Personality, who advised that we need to deliver soon due to the fact that I am "puffy." How I wanted to bear hug him for not referring to me as a majorly swollen cow. Earlier in the week I expressed to J that my ankles were swelling, which he dismissed. Either he was lying to keep my mood in check or he likes the cankle look.

So that's where we are, kids. Mama Alt will spit out Cut and Paste in a few days. How surreal. Did I mention they are also about 7 lbs EACH? How I have hauled them around for nine months and not fallen flat on my face is a credible scientific mystery.

Will write when I can! So looking forward to sipping a small, chilled glass of white wine.

Don't start with me.

Officially an iPad owner

It was bound to happen. Technology finally caught up to me, the last female Luddite.

Actually, I have the most amazing and thoughtful spouse. After seeing me struggle and cuss out my six year old MacBook, J secretly ordered me the iPad 2. It arrived today and he took great delight in my shock and awe response. Although truth be known, I was a bit intimidated at having to learn a whole new system. J is über patient and sat through my questions (some of them repeated several times) without batting an eye.

And here I am now, posting for you beautiful people! Think of how much more productive I will be! (ALthough I can stream movies via Netflix on this sucker, so maybe not so productive in the beginning...)

thanks for nothing

Friday was my last day in the office before commencing maternity leave. I'd been working from home the last two months, but by no means had I vanished from office life. I still dialed into conference calls, edited documents, chaired meetings and gossiped.

So I was rather perplexed when, at 4 p.m., I realized I hadn't received any kind of parting sentiments from my boss or my staff. My boss is not the most emotional or thoughtful person. I accept this. However, we have worked together for 10 years and I was about to leave for six months to give birth to twins. Couldn't he call to say, I dunno, good luck with that?

And my team couldn't buy a little card from the company gift shop and sign it?

I thought about this as I rode down the elevator. Admittedly, I am not social butterfly, but I show up when duty calls. I buy cards for staff milestones, attend lame office parties for their birthdays, give regularly to the X-mas fund for needy families. Am I actually the department pariah and just never knew it?

That night I received an email from my boss (in response to an email I sent to the department saying thanks and catch you later). It read: "Good luck and please keep us posted."

He responded to an email I sent, he didn't even send his own message! I was floored. J thinks I shouldn't bother telling anyone at work when the babies are born. I have mixed feelings - there are some people I would definitely want to share our good news with - but the level of indifference from my supervisor and my staff has given me pause.

Faithful readers, please sound off. (And you can mail me a congratulations card, if you really want).

and now, a few words about my ass

So the thing is, I have hemorrhoids.

Shhhhh. Stop laughing. You've probably had them at one time in your life.

The issue is, I cannot go to the pharmacy and purchase medication to treat said hemorrhoids. It's a pride kind of thing. You see, a few years ago, while pregnant with Bubba, I developed the same condition. I realized pretty quickly I needed some kind of treatment vs hoping everything would just vanish. So I drove, fearless, to the local CVS and picked out an extra large box of Prep H, ready to do butt battle. Stood in line with my head held high, not worried what anyone thought.

Except, right before it was my turn to have my items scanned, there was a shift change.

The overweight Latina cashier, who I figured would be sensitive to my plight, was replaced by a young, extremely good looking guy. Toned, too. I looked around, starting to panic, but no other lines were open.

Shit!!! It was now my turn to pay. "How are you?" the stud asked brightly. "Okay. Good," I said, my eyes focused on my feet as I placed the box of Preparation H and some chewing gum on the counter. He seemed to pause for a second - maybe to hold the box up so the rest of the shoppers could see it? - and finally rang it up. "You have a nice day," he instructed.

I ducked out of there as beads of sweat were starting to form on my upper lip. Just my effing luck. Admitting to a hot guy that my ass has issues.

So now, I cannot risk the chance of the same situation and humiliation occuring again. I called my mom this week and asked her to bring a box of Prep H to my house, covered in a brown bag. "What the hell is wrong with you that you can't go to the store?" she demanded. Followed by, "You know, if you don't get them under control, they will grow and explode. Then you will have REAL problems."

Occasionally I see photos in magazines of pregnant celebrities, and am forced tothink about their ass. They are probably suffering from the same ailment that I have. Who buys their stuff for them? I can't see Natalie Portman or Jessica Alba standing in line at Walgreens with a tube of rectal cream in their hand.

So we will commence treatment tonight and hopefully this will all pass, as they say.

Or my mother will have a lot of 'splaining to do about her repeated trips to the pharmacy.

all I need is love

Faithful readers will recall that Bubba has adjusted extremely well to preschool. True, he only goes twice a week for three hours a day, but that's about all his mama could handle. When he's away at school, I look out the window in my bedroom/home office and wonder how much fun he's having without me.

Clearly a lot. Ever since he started school, I've become That Downer Lady. I go to pick him up and he looks at me with disdain, even, dare I say, repulsion. I am not the mommy he calls for in the morning or that he jumps up to hug, but That Lady who is taking him away from his friends and locking him in the car, against his will. I look around the room and all the other three year olds run gleefully into their parents' arms, shrieking and yelling, "MOMMY! MOMMY!," as if they've been apart for ten years.

WTH?

I appreciate and value Bubba's independence but I could use a little PDA. While he's ignoring me, I fantasize that the next time I pick him up, he will throw down his truck, race across the room and fling himself (gently, of course) onto my midsection. I will carry him outside while he smothers me with kisses and clings fervently to my neck, softly declaring, "Woman, you are the only one for me."

Then reality sinks in. I walk into his classroom, squat down awkwardly, whisper, "Magnus, time to go," and try to get him to hold my hand. The first day of school he burst into tears when I did this. The second day he shook his head vigorously and clenched his fists. The third day he screamed, "Nooooooo!" so loudly that I suspect the other parents thought I was not his guardian but some fat lady who was trying to kidnap him.

Today he just sighed but he did slip his little mitt into mine, then turned to say good-bye to his teacher. A huge wave of relief washed over me. We walked out to the car laughing and having a merry old time. Just like the other families! I was enthralled.

Then it happened. As soon as I opened the door for him to climb into his car seat, something snapped. He stopped and then let out a series of wails that could be heard in Texas.

Well, I can always dream.

our first b-day party with food allergies

Over the weekend we attended a birthday party for one of Magnus's preschool friends. (Side note: he's been in school only three and half weeks and we've fielded two b-day invitations already. Is this normal?)

As mentioned previously, Bubba is highly allergic to peanuts and has a moderate egg allergy, so I had a small pit in my (large) stomach as we arrived, knowing we would have to monitor pretty much everything he put in his mouth. Importantly (and sadly), we needed him to steer clear of the birthday cake, since we couldn't confirm that there was no cross-contamination with peanut products. See how this sucks?

Bubba handled it pretty well, I must say. When it came time to cut the cake, we pulled him aside and delicately explained that the cake would give him a stomach ache. He frowned and his mouth started to curve down. It occurred to me in that moment that I should have baked and brought him something that was safe to eat - hadn't I read that in every freaking food allergy blog, after all? For a second I thought I might tear up, as no parent wants their kid to feel left out. Thankfully one of Bubba's friends came up and they took off for the slide, so a full meltdown (him and I) was averted.

I decided, after much reflection when Bubba was diagnosed, that I would take his food allergies in stride. How he deals with it when he's older is going to hinge primarily on how J and I deal with it. Yet I can't seem to shake this lingering sadness. We are fortunate that Bubba is a healthy child; we can prevent a bad reaction from happening by being cautious and empowering him to do the same. But I wish with every cell in my body that he didn't have these allergies and could enjoy food freely, the way everyone else does.

My friend Kim gave me some much needed perspective today. Her six year old son wears glasses, the only kid in his class to do so. "Everyone is different," she explained to him after he complained that no one else had eye problems. "Some kids are thin. Some have freckles. Some have red hair. You have glasses. Not everyone is the same. That's what makes everyone special."

She's right, of course. Hopefully I can take her cue and encourage Bubba when he feels alienated. You are meant to stand out, I will tell him.

And goddamnit, why am I craving toffee-covered peanuts right now??

what to make of polygamy

Last week, before I started working from home, I was having a conversation with a colleague who was irate about a TV show that features a polygamous family. "It's disgusting, they should all be thrown in jail," she declared. "It's immoral to have more than one spouse!"

I considered this while waddling to the bathroom for my 67th pee break. I personally don't know any polygamous families. I know I probably wouldn't be very good in a polygamous relationship - too many birthdays to remember, plus I'm ultra competitive and would spend a lot of time trying to outshine the other wives. But is polygamy a threat to our society? I really don't know.

People like to hold up traditional marriage as the ultimate social model, and while I happen to be very happily married, I know that the institution is not faring well in terms of success. Mucho divorces, or people not marrying at all. So what if some guy takes four wives and breeds a ton of kids? What do I care, as long as he's not hurting them or me? Who is to say that this lifestyle is dangerous and undermining America?

Faithful readers, married or otherwise, please sound off.

28 weeks

We are 28 weeks pregnant today. It feels more like 28 years.

Cut and Paste, as they are affectionately known, have entered into a pact to see who can kick the ever loving crap out of me. Initially they reserved their antics for the morning. I'd be sitting at my desk and feel a little twinge on one side, then a little twinge on the other side. Those were the good days. Now they roll, squirm and punch like two fly-weights embroiled in a death match. In the evenings, after we put Bubba to bed, I sit on the sofa and we watch in fascination and horror as my stomach bulges and the skin twists, kind of like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" before the priests exorcised the demon.

I know I shouldn't complain. The babies are on track in terms of size and weight, no serious health issues, and it took us almost a year and half to conceive them. I should be grateful and shut the hell up.

But whining feels so good.

bubba's first ear infection

Until recently I thought Magnus was a bit of Super Toddler, having avoided the dreaded ear infections that seemed to plague his friends and tranform their parents into bitter, sleep-deprived zombies.

That all changed at 1:25 this morning, when he called to me from sleep. Normally he's a sound sleeper so I knew something was amiss. I retucked him into bed and lay next to him. He snuggled into my neck and started itching his left ear, slowly at first. Then more aggressively. Then constantly.

"Do you have an itchy?" I asked, like a moron. (It was 1:30 AM, after all.)

"I have a boo boo," he corrected me, tugging more incessantly on the ear, which I could see even in the dark was turning bright red.

I scooped him up and laid him on my shoulder, hoping that walking around in a circle a few times would bring him some relief. About five minutes later, I was huffing and puffing and calling for J. Who ordered me back to bed after reminding me I am pregnant (somehow I'd forgotten) and that I should be resting.

Alas, there was no rest for the Alt household, as Magnus alternately wailed, cried, laughed and wailed until six a.m. He never went back to sleep and never let go of J. I think I slept for about an hour, roused by the fussing and the fact that my Breathe Right nasal strip was about to fall off.

We were able to get him to the doctor right at 9. She took one look inside Bubba's ear and declared, "Yes, it's infected, and bulging." Bulging? "Only one ear," she confirmed, which I guess was good news. She wrote us a prescription for antibiotics, told us eventually there would be some bursting (bursting?) and sent us on our way. And thus began the Longest Day Ever. I'm working from home now and it was J's work from home day as well, so a tag team approach was agreed upon. When Bubba wasn't wailing and trying to pull his ear off, he attached himself to me like a barnacle. As soon as I found a comfortable spot on the sofa to sit with him, he would jerk upright and wail for J. Who held him until he fell asleep, then awakened, then screamed for me.

I called my mother to solicit advice. Surely she must have some Mexican Mother Trick that would instantly calm my fussy toddler. Plus, my younger brother had been plagued by ear infections as an infant, so this was something she knew something about.

"No, mija, you really can't do anything. Wait til the antibiotics set in," she said.

Chingada.

Around five p.m., Magnus woke from a three hour nap on J. He looked sad and pitiful. But the whining was starting to dissipate. He sat in my lap and I read him a few stories. Around 8 p.m., he was eating Jell-o and carrots (don't ask), laughing at Yo Gabba Gabba and having himself a merry old ear infection time.

He woke this morning as if nothing had happened. I dosed him with some kiddie motrin to keep the pain at bay and observed him. He was his normal happy, demanding self. It's amazing, really, how resilient these critters are.

So while yours truly is bummed that he was felled by a common childhood ailment, I take comfort in the fact that it was confined to one ear, healed super quickly, and that I can probably score six hours of sleep tonight.

If the nasal strip stays on.

random thoughts, 3 a.m.

1. Whoever invented the Breathe Right strip should get some kind of Nobel prize

2. A protein bar at 3:15 a.m. is more delicious than eating it during the day

3. Why is everyone down on Obama? He never promised us a magic bullet that would fix the economy

4. Cake. Cake. Cake sounds good.

peanuts, shellfish and eggs, oh my

I finally bit the bullet and took Magnus to get allergy tested. For a year I've had a sneaking suspicion that he is allergic to nuts and shellfish. On the two occasions that he came into contact with shrimp, small red welts developed on his chin and upper lip. Not a great look. He also had a small taste of peanut butter while visitng my parents and promptly threw up on their rug. Definitely not a great look.

The allergist suggested that we do blood work vs the skin prick test, based on the reactions I described. Drawing blood from the arm of a three year old is no easy task, but we managed to get it done and I'm pretty sure there won't be long-term damage.

While the lab was analyzing the results, we proceeded to take our annual end-of-summer vacation to Coronado Island. We visited Legoland, watched the dolphins at Sea World and ate far too many sweets at Disneyland. I was sitting on a bench in Frontierland consuming said sweet when I noticed a message on my cell phone. "This is Dr. XXX's office. We have some important information from Magnus's tests that we need to share with you immediately."

I threw up a bit in my mouth while dialing the office. The receptionist put me right through. Dr. XXX came on the line in her thick German accent and said, "Magnus is allergic to several foods. Definitely eggs. He also has a severe allergy to peanuts and shellfish. I am going to order you a prescription for an Epi-Pen. You need to have zis close by at all times. You vill have to exert extreme caution moving forward as zis allergy can sometimes be a life-sreatening condition."

I felt my heart break into little pieces and scatter into the wind. No peanut butter sandwich, ever? No shrimp tempura? An Epi-Pen? Would my darling son be relegated to wearing an unsightly medic bracelet and eating at the no-nuts table by himself at school?

After we put Mags to bed that night I broke down to J. I had food allergies as a kid, as did J, but was it feasible we could produce a child with a severe peanut allergy, the type that could cause anaphylactic shock? Didn't thousands of people die every year from accidentally ingesting something that contained the enemy peanut? What about the girl that kissed her boyfriend, who had just consumed a peanut butter sandwich, and died two hours later?

The ride home to LA was horrible as a series of doomsday scenarios filled my brain. What if the Epi Pen expired and Mags had an episode? What if some asshole bully at school tries to force feed Mags a nut? (Note to self: need to enroll him in self defense classes early).

The small but rationale side of my brain decided to make an appearance and told the neurotic side of my brain to piss off, what I really needed to do was research. I should become more informed, first-hand, about the reality of food allergies. So I went to the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis (FAAN) website, read medical journals, perused the CDC Web site and visited probably 100 web sites dedicated to food allergies. What I found made me nuts.

The FAAN, a lobbying group, says 150-200 people die annually as a result of a food allergy. This statistic is also touted in news articles and on numerous food allergy websites. But according to the CDC, only 11 people die annually. Food allergy deaths are recorded and reported by the CDC, not any other organization. So how did the 150-200 number come about?

The math is a little fuzzy but apparently FAAN cites a 1999 journal study about anaphylaxis among residents in Olmstead County. Olmstead County? Yeah, apparently, there are few to zero epidemiological studies available on this topic. Interestingly, if you dig further into the study, none of the 133 county residents who had reported allergic reactions actually died from a food allergy.

What about the infamous story about the peanut butter kiss of death? According to reporter Meredith Broussard, one of the few journalists who is actually investigating food allergy stats and not simply parroting them, the girl, who suffered from asthma, had been smoking at a party previously. She died, not as a result of trace amounts of the peanut butter sandwich her boyfriend had consumed, but as the result of an asthma attack. Apparently few media outlets reported on the coroner's findings but most of them ran with the story of how an innocent kiss could kill a person with a food allergy.

I'm not under any illusions that our life, moving forward, won't be challenging. We have to read food labels, talk to Magnus's teachers and friends about protecting him, and carry an Epi-Pen for events when food is served...so basically, everything. I accept that. I won't accept the culture of fear and paranoia that tells me not to even open a bag of peanuts around him, when there is simply no scientific evidence that this sort of measure actually does any good. I've ranted on this blog about being too neurotic, the last thing I want is to turn Bubba into a fearful hypochondriac.

Anyone have experience with food allergies and care to sound off?

spending the night with the GOP

Whelp, I did it. You'll be proud, faithful readers. I sat through 20 minutes of last night's GOP debate, and no barfing. I think the party should nominate Herman Cain - the man dressed better, talked better, and he used to run Godfather's Pizza, after all.

It was interesting to watch the crowd respond to some of the baseless crap the candidates were spewing. I can't remember who starting bitching about Obamacare and how its unconstitutional. A white guy, I think. Anyway, his comments were met with furious applause. Please. Health care is commerce. Congress has the right to regulate commerce. And it can do so by whatever means it feels is necessary. How is that unconstitutional? Heck, even a conservative law professor who was solicitor general under Reagan thinks its constitutional.

At some point Michele Bachmann started pontificating and J pointed out how she looked like one of the animated characters from that cartoon Team America, at which point I started laughing and needed to pee. That proved an opportune time to switch channels and watch something more interesting, like an Iron Chef episode we'd already seen 20 times.

Let's see how this mudslinging love fest unfolds.

i so proud

Yesterday we had our first playdate at Magnus's preschool. I was actually excited to go, having put aside my issues about meeting other moms and having those awful platonic conversations about sippy cups and bowel movements.

Magnus did REALLY well, detaching himself from J almost immediately and flinging himself onto the small jungle gym. He proudly pointed to his name tag and declared, "I'm Magnus Alt" to anyone who would listen. At one point I turned around and he was sitting in the middle of the seasaw, grinning, surrounded by five little blonde girls.

Yep, I think he's adjusting just fine.

At the end of the playdate his teacher came up to me and said, "Magnus has the most amazing vocabulary! He is so eloquent for three. It's rare." I did the bashful curtsy while seriously fighting the urge to say, "Fuck yea, he's eloquent! Who you think you talkin to?"

We left the school hand-in-hand, me jabbering on and on to J about how brilliant our child was. "She complimented him after only ONE hour. Did she signal out any other kids? I didn't see her do that. Maybe she did, but she talked to us FIRST. He's gifted, I think."

"Of course he is," J said, although I couldn't tell if he was being sincere or agreeable, since I'm five months pregnant and majorly hormonal.

We will return to preschool today and I'm thinking I can sneak in some astronomy lessons on the ride over, just to give Mags the extra edge.

Not that I'm competitive, or anything.

i can hear you!!

I'm on the phone but I can hear you outside my office, talking like I'm not even there.

"This is Roya. She oversees public affairs. She's actually pregnant with twins."

"Really? You can't even tell."

Snarky laugh. "Actually, she's small to begin with. But about three weeks ago, BOOM! She just popped. You can't see it behind the desk, but wait til she stands up."

"Eeeuw, really?"

"She's going to get much bigger. I think she's only five months now, but just wait."

Gaggle of laughter ensues.

I can't turn around fast enough to give them both the stink eye, so I'll just continue eating my bagel, talking on the phone and reveling in my girth.

we need a vacation from you

Dear Boss,

I hope this note finds you well. Just wanted you to know, since I am sure you are thinking about it, that everything is fine. There are no crises threatening to derail our nearly 100-year old institution. Employees are showing up to work and even staying until late afternoon. Work is being completed on time and we are diligently handling all questions/requests in your absence.

So why the need to check email and call every day from your family vacation in Hawaii? Do you have any idea how ANNOYING and UNNECESSARY that is? Do you realize you are creating more work by forcing us to respond to you, plus also handle your work? You went on vacation last year and did the same thing, and the same thing before that. If I were your wife, I would have divorced you by now. You said you were going on vacation. Stay on vacation. Our team needs a vacation from you, too.

Love,
R

oh brother(s)

We had an ultrasound today and I couldn't bear the suspense anymore. While Dr. T (who J and I lovingly call Dr. Personality in honor of his penchant for not speaking) stared at the monitor, I blurted out, "Will we know the sex today?"

"Sure," he said. Then he continued to stare at the screen, make some notes and generally ignore me. After a few minutes he wiped my midsection and said, "Everything is good."

"So do we know?" I asked him, mildly hyper.

"We don't know," he replied. "But I know."

OMG, really? "So, Dr. T, what do you know?"

"What do you want?" he said.

Oh, we're playing that game. Okay. "A boy and a girl would be nice," I replied.

He shook his head. "This is out of the question."

Wha, what?? "Uh...is it...two girls?" I said, feeling my hands start to sweat. I'm a feminist and all but raising two girls, especially two teenage girls, might make me join the Taliban.

"Do you want two girls?"

I get what I want in this scenario? Well, well. "My husband wants a basketball team," I replied, "so two boys would be nice."

"Okay," he said, pretending to look down a list. "The preference is boy and girl, two boys, and last preference is two girls."

"Right!"

He nodded and said, "Your husband will have a basketball team. See you in two weeks."

"Are you KIDDING? TWO boys?"

"I'm not kidding. Make sure you get your glucose screen next week." And with that, Dr. Personality shook my hand and vacated the room.

There you have it. Cut and Paste, their working names, are two boys. I will share a house with four dudes. Magnus will have two little brothers to play with or beat up. I won't know the experience of raising a daughter. But I'm okay. I'm more than okay. I'm a mamma to three BOYS!

how much regressing is good?

Last week I had the great fortune of meeting Dr. Murad (THAT Dr. Murad, of the famed Murad skin care line). Our company is doing a cause marketing partnership with Murad in support of women's cancers research. The meeting was designed to immerse our team in the Murad philosophy of inclusive health.

But I digress.

Dr. Murad was kind enough to give us a tour of Murad's sprawling complex, show us his office and laboratory spaces, feed us fruit and then talk to us about his world view. All good until he discussed children and how we could all benefit from being more child-like.

Uhhhhhhhhh.....

I've heard this argument before but I decided to give it more consideration after our meeting. I fully believe that most adults are consumed by the mundane realities of life: the mortgage, car insurance, office politics, job stresses, etc. We don't laugh as much as we could or take the time to find pleasure in small things.

However, I am at a loss as to how I could become more child-like while still earning a living, raising a family and keeping my husband attracted to me. Baby talk is completely out of the question. I suppose I could stop cooking dinner and when Magnus and J look to me with hunger in their eyes, I could point to the backyard and yell, "Slide!" Or, when my boss gives me my budget and asks why I'm spending money on certain things, I could place my hand beneath my armpit and emit fart noises. Something along those lines?

I do try to make an effort as much as possible to reflect on the many positives of my life and find humor instead of looking at the negative, but that's as far as I can go without completely regressing and soiling my pants. I wonder, is Dr. Murad, who runs a multimillion dollar empire, really child-like in his views? I can't imagine the pressures of product development, research, marketing, fulfillment and customer service allowing for him to be whimsical, open and trusting.

But perhaps I'm just a battered, cynical old soul who is beyond help?

amy w

Spent yesterday replaying some of my favorite Amy Winehouse tracks. If I could drink I would toast her with a good red wine, so instead I will highlight some of my favorite lyrics.

He walks away, the sun goes down
He takes the day but I'm gone
And in your way and in this blue shade
My tears dry on their own.

So we are history, your shadow covers me
The sky above, a blaze.

I wish I could sing no regrets and no emotional debts
'Cause as we kiss goodbye the sun sets
So we are history, the shadow covers me
The sky above, a blaze only lovers see.

staving off the inevitable

Since I developed gestational diabetes while pregnant with Mags, it can only be a matter of time before I am told to cut out sugar, refined grains - and generally anything that's fun to eat - and to start pricking myself with a needle four times a day. Of course I should be cutting out the bad stuff anyway (in addition to counting how many calories I am ingesting daily, which sounds like NO FUN and WORK to me), but since I am now perpetually hungry, congested and emotional, I am going to eat whatever the frick I want until I am told otherwise.

Don't get me wrong, I still abide by the federal law that mandates five servings of fruits or veggies a day. It's just the stuff in between. Like the small plate of Cheetos (okay, three plates) that I inhaled yesterday. Normally I don't eat chips and the like but something about that overly processed cheese sensation was calling me. Or today. Two scoops of pistachio ice cream, right on the heels of a bag of organic carrots. Mmm, that's fusion.

I estimate I have about a month of fairly unrestricted eating before the hammer falls. Why not celebrate that time with pie, tortillas and more pie?

Oh, pie.

enough with the peanut gallery

Is there a sign on my head that says: "Comments About My Twins Welcome?" I didn't think so.

Since I officially pooched last week and can no longer hide my rapidly expanding midsection, I've been hit with all manner of comments from family, friends and strangers alike. Some of them very nice and positive. Like, "I always wanted to be a twin." "How fun it will be to shop." Or, "You should probably grow your hair out."

But some of the feedback has not been as nice. Like the guy I work with who recoiled in horror and said, "Twins?? I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy! And you have another kid already?" Or the woman at the pharmacy who said, "My sister had twins. At least she is young and can keep up with them."

People probably have preconceived notions about twins and they are just projecting. This is what I tell myself.

Today I was relieved to actually talk to a woman who has 18 month old twin boys. We were having a phone conversation but by the end, I was ready to jump through the phone line and French kiss her. She listened to my questions about co-sleeping, nursing pillows and spit up. She assured me that I would eventually leave the house and be able to bathe. No judgement, no pitying tone of voice. Where'd she been all my first trimester?

This afternoon I will attend a large department meeting and am bracing for the comments when I stand in the dessert line. (Because I will, probably several times.) I'm working on some retorts:

- Fuck off.
- I'm hormonal. Fuck off.
- I'm hormonal. (Dabs at imaginary tears). Can't you just fuck off?

You like?

why?

There is a NEW Smurfs movie coming out.

I thought those annoying blue bastards were history years ago. Who thought that redubbing their voices and putting them in a new film would make them appealing? Who LIKES these a-holes??

another rabbit bites the dust

I can't keep it from you anymore. The deceit, the evasiveness...its become too much to bear. I swore from day one I'd be honest with you, faithful readers. You deserve that, and so much more.

What am I talking about?

Oh, I'm pregnant! Ha ha! Today's ultrasound confirmed it. But wait, there's MORE! As in more than one baby. Uh huh. Yours truly is 12 weeks and 3 days pregnant with twins.

I'll let you chew on that for a second while I get up and pee.

...I'm back! How do you feel? Shock? Yeah, me too. Hasn't sunk in yet, the reality that at the end of the year I will have three kids, two of them newborn, and that we have to put all of them through college. Wow. Who knew? I don't even have IVF to thank for this surprise turn of events. Nope. One round of Clomid, combined with six months of acupuncture, and WHAM! Instant high-risk pregnancy.

Will write more soon. Must lie down, maybe eat a rack of lamb. They take a lot out of you, twinsies.

Start thinking of names, will you?

dinner with sybil

"Magnus, it's time to eat dinner."

"I don't want eat dee-nuh."

"Okay, but it's dinner time. Mommy and Daddy are going to eat. You can sit with us or go play in your room."

"I DONT WANT EAT DEE-NUH!!"

"I heard you the first time. So I will repeat: you can sit and have dinner with us or go play in your room."

Child pouts and slowly exits the kitchen, reiterating once more that he has no desire to ingest a meal. Parents pause for a moment and then sit down at the dining room table. They begin to eat and enjoy a pleasant conversation. Two minutes later, the peaceful environment is shattered by a series of ear-splitting shrieks.

Father stands up as the child re-enters the dining area, weeping and looking betrayed.

"I WANT DEE-NUH!!"

Sigh.

i need a chill pill

I'm happy to say that Magnus, J and I are doing well now. This was not the case a month ago, when Magnus had to go to the hospital, I was stricken by the stomach flu and J passed out at an event in New York and had to be taken by ambulance to the ER.

Did I mention these unfortunate incidents took place within days of each other? Yep. We live on the edge, us three.

The upside is that nobody is permanently damaged. J basically had the same GI issue that I did, jumped on a plane and got dehydrated, which caused him to faint. Fixable. I was back on my feet within 24 hours after my bug hit. And Magnus was hospitalized for the same issue (respiratory synnctial virus, or RSV) last year. We knew he needed breathing treatments and some steroids. After a day in the hospital, he was just fine. And he's been fine since.

So why do I feel consumed - nay, nearly paralyzed - with worry?

It's not a pleasant sensation. I'll be doing something mundane, like washing the dishes, and Magnus will let out a small cough. My heart catches and sinks. Do I grab the inhaler? His respiratory issues often come on suddenly, without warning. Do I get ahead of the situation and give him drugs that he might not need? Make him lie down? Is he doomed to a life of wheezing, since his pediatrician can't tell yet if he actually has asthma?

Over the weekend J said he was tired. I felt the same anxiety start to creep up. Maybe the ER docs missed something when they examined him and he has a congenital heart issue. He assured me he was fine but I still found the need to lay my head on his chest and listen for an irregular heart beat. (I did this twice).

I feel you shaking your head at my insanity. I am shaking my noggin too. Who IS this crazy person? When did she lose total grip on reality? I've always considered my parents to be a bit irrational and neurotic. And there's the apple, there's the tree, it hasn't fallen far at all, folks. I'm every bit as wacky as they are.

I am hopeful, however, that this is a temporary situation, brought on by my sudden surge in hormones. That I will return to a more tranquil life, beset by love and serenity, with an occasional appearance by Bambi. It's not possible for someone to remain in a suspended state of paranoia, is it?

Or am I the special, chosen one???

this week's obsession: mandatory sterilization

I think I've hit my breaking point, people.

About a year and a half ago, the Times ran an investigative report on Child Protective Services and the failings of the system. The story carried a sidebar of photos of various kids who died after being removed from foster care and placed back with their biological parents.

This week, the paper carried another story about a two-year-old who died after she was taken from foster care and placed with her 35-year-old mother, who by the way has EIGHT other kids in foster care. A family friend wrote to the judge overseeing the case to express serious misgivings about moving the toddler back with her biological family, but for whatever reason, the little girl was allowed to stay. From what I know about CPS, the ultimate goal is to reunify children with their real parents. A month after moving back with her family, the girl was dead.

An investigation is ongoing but it emerged that the mother is now pregnant with her tenth child.

Not a typo: her tenth kid.

Years ago I read a book called "War Against the Weak," which chronicled the eugenics movement in the U.S. The aim was to eliminate the poor, minorities and anyone with a perceived disability. Nasty stuff. Compulsory sterilization of poor women and those determined to be sexually promiscuous was a big part of the philosophy. I've always cringed upon hearing the phrase, as it dredges up a horrible part of this country's past and has a not-so-casual acquaintance with Nazi Germany principles.

Much to my liberal chagrin, however, I see no problem with stopping a woman like this from breeding. All of her kids are in foster care, so she's clearly incapable of actually providing for them. Think of the heartache she's created for her kids: they've been shuttled from various caregivers all of their lives. They've probably never known real love and security. What kind of legacy is that to leave another human being?

I would have no qualm about someone inserting an implant into this woman's arm and preventing her from bringing more unwanted children into the world. I'm not singling her out because she's poor or morally degenerate; I am only going on the facts, which is that she had one dead child and eight others who are at the mercy of CPS.

Oh, if I only ruled the world. One day.

sorry baby

I ran over Jason's foot while backing out of the driveway this morning. It started very innocently. I put the car in reverse, turned up the radio and hit the gas. Admittedly, I should have looked over my shoulder, as I would have seen him standing right next to the car and braked in time. I didn't. He was non too happy and unleashed a chain of expletives while hopping up and down on his good leg. Thankfully, there were no broken bones, just a flattened and sad looking toe. It could have been worse, I was repeating this to him while begging for forgiveness, but he kept swearing and demanding to know why I didn't even look.

Truthfully, I was preoccupied with my thoughts. The deep kind. Like, should I change the radio station? What should we have for dinner tonight? What's with the new strain of ecoli in Europe? You can see how this would cloud a person's thinking and judgement.

J called me later and apologized for cursing and agreed to stay married to me. I took that as a good sign. Bodily injury, while normally bad, can sometimes bring two people closer.

the female conundrum

This fall, Magnus will start pre-school. Just two days a week for a few hours, to start. If he likes it and doesn't bite the other students, we will gradually increase his days. I'm excited but also sad, as I know kindergarten, driver's permit and his wedding are just around the corner.

I made a pledge that once he started school, I would quit my job and become a stay-at-home mama. I can't say why but I feel compelled to be there as he starts interacting with others and possibly picking up their bad habits. We also hope a second kid will come early next year, so even more reason to don sweat pants and hang around the condo full-time.

But then what? What will Royita do for the rest of her life as the kiddies get older and more independent? I've worked my whole life, since I was 17 anyway. Being a stay-at-home mom is not something I ever thought about. What will happen to my identity? My skills? What kind of job can I hope to return to if I take myself out of the market for the next 5-8 years? Will I be fulfilled or turn into my neighbor, a full-time mamma who makes homemade popsicles and dog food because, well, she can?

My mother was an at-home mother until my brother and I were in junior high. She loves working and confided that doesn't ever want to retire, even though she's at the age now where she could. I solicited her advice on my stay-at-home dilemma. "You will be so busy interacting with teachers and other parents, you will have your days full of things to do," she advised. Interacting with other parents? Egads. What if they are neurotic or don't drink? I'm supposed to socialize with them? "You worry too much," my mother responded. "Look at you. You haven't even quit your job and you are already drowning."

I retreated, sufficiently insulted. It occured to me that perhaps I should be more analytical about my conundrum. I thought about all the stay at home moms I know. Five of them. Then I counted all the working moms. Twenty six. Eeeeeesh!

"You will love staying at home," my sister-in-law confided. She used to work, got laid off and now stays home full time with her three kids. "You'll be so slammed with homework, their activities, you won't even miss your job or who you used to be." Is she right?

My dilemma won't be easily or quickly solved, I've concluded. I know what my short-term path is, which is being there for the kiddies in those critical first years. The long-term path is a big winding road with a question mark at the end. It's not about the destination but the journey, isn't that what everyone says? What if both of them suck?

Then again, if I stay home, I will be fully caught up on the all the "Real Housewives" episodes...

cool tricks

I fell asleep at my desk with my head held perfectly straight.

Neat!

keep it simple, people

I've just returned from a business lunch on the Westside. I love me some business lunches because I can test out a new place and order the French-influenced entree that's at least $40, both on someone else's dime.

This place was nice and airy and the service was excellent. Halfway through our appetizers, nature called. I stood up and was soon overcome by the crushing anxiety of finding the bathroom.

Some Tinseltown eateries like to hide the bathroom and make you meander up and down the aisles until the water boy, who speaks no English, takes pity on you and points to some closet near the back parking lot. I lucked out this time and was able to find the loo but was met with another challenge. Two large, floor to ceiling doors, both cobalt blue. I stood staring at one, then the other, desperately trying to make out which was the girlie door. Finally, I was able to see a tiny circle in the center of each door: one had a "W," the second had a "M." Who was the fancy pants who approved this design and concept?

I hate Applebees and other chain restaurants but they win big points by having easy-to-find and clearly marked restrooms. As I exited the loo, an older man was standing in front of the doors looking desperately sad. I nodded to the "M" door and he remarked, "What bullshit!"

At least dessert was good.

this week I am craving

1. Thousand Island dressing
2. Orange sherbert
3. Ding Dongs


Clearly I am nostalgic for my junior high days.

animal cruelty sucks

Like any sap, I am easily overcome by commercials featuring photos of abused and injured animals. Who are these maniacs who torture and hurt defenseless dogs and cats? They must be annihilated, and with pain. Then it occured to me, during a commercial this weekend for the Humane Society that touts animal abuse prevention, that stopping these attacks in advance is probably impossible.

Society is made up of normal people, semi-normal people and psychos. The latter often start their career in homicide by abusing animals. Jeffrey Dahmer is a great example, and his immediately family were helpless to prevent his attacks. Unless an organization has a psycho GPS tracking system, how can they identify these folks and stop them before they light Spot on fire? Tragically, we become aware of these abuses only after they have taken place.

J thought perhaps I was reading too much into the commercial and that prevention was a buzz word to get people to donate money. I am not so sure. Don't get me wrong, I support any organization that defends abused animals. I am just not convinced that you can stop it before it happens.

okay, fine

I am going to watch this season's Real Housewives of New Jersey. I am sorry, I cannot help myself.

ohhhh!

I was felled by food poisoning over the weekend. After feeling odd and clammy for an hour, I rushed to the loo and fell to my knees. As I lifted the toilet lid and braced myself for what was about to happen, I realized that I hadn't thrown up in about 15 years. For a moment I thought I might not remember how. After the first gag, however, my body seemed to know what to do.

And it did it for several hours.

This disgusting incident reaffirms my long-held belief that the center of the body is not the heart or the mind. It is the stomach. If your stomach is off, it doesn't matter if you've achieved inner peace. You're screwed.

enough with the royals

I might be mistaken, but the U.S. won its independence from Britain quite a few years ago. You'd never know it based on all the hoopla about the impending royal wedding. NBC News, for example, is sending a team of reporters to England a week before to capture every minute leading up to nuptials. Every day, there are stories with insipid details about who is designing the cake, why William won't wear a wedding band and where he plans to sleep the night before he gets married (his dad's, if you must know).

In the words of our former masters, bloody hell!!

Americans like polls, so let me take one. If William weren't marrying Kate Middleton and doing whole the cake/gown wedding thing, would you give two cents about these people? What has he done that is so awe-inspiring that people are willing to set their alarm clocks and rise at three a.m. to watch him take a trip down the aisle? Don't tell me people love the royal family so much that they want to be there to witness this right of passage. There's no way. The Queen, Fergie, Prince Charles, Princess Margaret, the whole Windsor lot, are a group of entitled monarchs that most people don't relate to. They do little for England and nothing for the world. They are only public figures because of the absurdity that is inherited monarchy.

Yet Americans are eating up every second of this crazy pageantry. At the office, I inadvertently offended someone by declaring, when asked, that only mindless idiots would be watching the wedding. I remember being eight or something and my mother waking me up early to watch the wedding of Prince Charles and Princess Diana. I didn't understand the hoopla and the actual event had no impact on my life, other than making me extra tired for the rest of the day.

Personally I think William and Kate should buck the whole system, elope to Haiti, work for six months with locals to rebuild the country, and then release a Tweet with photos. I could get behind that.

oh my hell, what's up with my formatting?

Why is everything running together, with no breaks between paragraphs? What an eyesore. Goddamned Blogger.

wanted: eight hours of sleep

I can't say enough about my three year old son. He's gorgeous (green/hazel eyes framed by long, thick lashes), thoughtful ("No pee pee in bed, Mommy") and loves vegetables. His tantrums are fleeting and infrequent and he comes to an immediate stop any time he sees a car. There's virtually nothing to complain about. Except the sleep. Oh my hell, the sleep. My beautiful and well-behaved Bubba cannot seem to sleep past 5:30 a.m. When he was a newbie, it was all par for the course. I wasn't working so I grabbed a cat nap when I could and kept on going. When it was time to sleep train, I upped my coffee intake and stumbled around like a zombie for several weeks. You keep telling yourself it's a process and soon, very soon, you will return to the old days, the glorious days of eight hours of peaceful, uniterrupted sleep. Not so much. You can put Bubba down at seven thirty, or at ten, and he wakes up without fail at 5:30. When I meet other parents, I am compelled to ask them about their kids' sleeping patterns. Do they skip the naps and the kid sleeps longer? Do they put Benadryl or other drugs in their sippy cups? Some fool told me that all I had to do was skip the nap and Bubba would sleep for 12 hours straight. It seemed reasonable enough, but Bubba wasn't having any of it. Not only was he super-irritated when I finally put him down, he rose even earlier, 5:15, the next day. (I need to find the parent who told me that shit and shoot her.) Even though I've cut back my hours at work, I'm still a working mama, and mama needs more sleep. I've decided to start bringing Bubba into our bed when he wakes and just lay with him until a more decent hour (say 6:15). So far it's working. He looks up at the ceiling and rattles off his favorite foods, or tries to pull of my socks. Occasionally he will roll over to J and pop him playfully in the nose (pretty funny). This actually isn't so bad. I'm still tired but I'm not officially up, and I get some cuddle time with little Bubba. I'd love eight hours of sleep but for now, this will do just fine.

is gavin rossdale happy being gavin rossdale?

Click on any entertainment web site and inevitably you will see a picture of Gwen Stefani, her two cute kiddies and her attractive, former rock star husband. He is usually carting one of the kids or hauling a diaper bag. Years ago, he sold out stadiums, traveled the world and signed autographs for adoring fans. Is he happy now, sitting on a park bench in the Valley, slathering sunscreen on the two wee ones while his wife films commercials, coordinates runway shows and is generally more popular and relevant? Not many men would be comfortable surrendering their fame and fortune to their better half and be resigned to a life of play dates and Gymboree. Unless they are Gavin Rossdale?

can't decide on james franco

Faithful readers, perhaps you can weigh in. The actor James Franco is talented, handsome and pretty prolific - he takes photos and is earning a masters in creative writing at an Ivy League university, or something like that. He's been in some crazy good movies, like 127 Hours and Milk. Yet whenever he flashes that squinty smile, I find myself squirming. Is he too cheesy? Too sanctimonious? Too smug? Maybe all three. Can't decide. Is he super gifted and the rest of us are just embarrased by his accomplishments, or is he taking his roles in Howl and James Dean too seriously? Thoughts, please.

not to give sarah palin additional PR...

But I must respond to her idiotic comment about funding and the economy, undoing my personal pledge to not give this woman any more exposure than she deserves. I know, I know.

Palin recently described the National Endowment for the Arts as a huge waste of tax dollars during the current economic climate. I hope the 5+ million people who are employed in the nonprofit arts and culture industry take no offense. And, shoot, should we blithely ignore the millions and millions of dollars in economic activity that the arts generates?

Heavens to Betsy, she's a dumb ass.

the allure of renee zellwegger

J and I spent Saturday night watching "Case 39," a pseudo-horror flick starring Renee Zellwegger. It occured to me as the movie concluded that Renee has had her fair share of romances with high-profile, and mostly attractive, men. George Clooney had a very public crush on her. That was followed by a relationship with Jim Carrey. Then Jack White of the White Stripes. And Bradley Cooper, who, let's face it, is not a great actor but very easy on the eyes. And we can't forgot Kenny Chesney, the gay country singer. A gay guy married her!!

I asked J casually if he thought Ms. Z was attractive. "Not at all," he said.

Today at work, I asked a couple of male colleagues if they considered her hot. "NO WAY!" was the uniform response.

Okay, so, she must have a vivacious personality, right?

"She seems dull, probably obsessed with working out and not eating," said D.

So how do all these men fall for her? What could it be?

"Her vagina is bedazzled," D said, deadpan.

I thought about it and couldn't come up with a better response. Renee's vagina is bedazzled.

Let's go with that for now.

where the hell is ronald reagan?

I seriously feel like we've been transported back to the 80s and the reign of Ronnie R.

There are hearings about Muslim terrorists underway. States are stripping away public employees' right to collective bargaining (already passed in Wisconsin, with similar efforts taking place in Iowa and Pennsylvania, financed by those titans of right-wing causes, the Koch brothers. But no tax cuts for businesses, purportedly...) And Republicans are all up in arms about Planned Parenthood and funding for national public radio.

Sadly, I think Magnus and Magnus's children will have to endure the same tired debates from these idiotic neo-cons.

Are they planning to re-release "Red Dawn," too?

J rocks my world

Came home last night to a full box of Cadbury Creme Eggs. Does it get any better? Seriously?

who is the girl next door?

For many years, I have come across the phrase "the girl next door." This has been used to describe up-and-coming actresses, models and felons ("We are shocked by her homicidal rampage. She seemed like the typical girl next door!"). But who is this mythical creature, this girl next door?

The girl next door to me, growing up, was an overweight loudmouth who once tried to seduce a boy I was dating. She lured him into my bedroom, not noticing I was right outside the door. She pulled her shirt down to reveal her cleavage and laid suggestively on the bed, which then broke under her weight. I almost wet my pants from laughing.

When I had my first apartment, down the street from where OJ stabbed his wife, the girl next door was a 24-year-old Lebanese immigrant. She smelled of turmeric and rarely left the house. Not exactly the movie-star type.

My next residence, a townhouse, had a 75+ year old woman living next door. We had to pick her up from the hospital after she tumbled down a flight of stairs.

Does anyone actually live next to the quintessential girl next door, which based on popular culture we can only presume to be petite, blonde, Christian and a virgin? Who is this bitch?

why old school cookbooks rock

We just returned from a trip to see J's bro in San Francisco. My sister-in-law is an avid collector of cookbooks, particularly cookbooks from the 30s and 40s. What a trip to flip through some of those old-school recipes! Not only is the typeface super-cool, but the subheads are hilarious. For example:

Walnut Loaf Bread
By Mrs. James Pincher
Ideal for brunch after church, or as a tasty treat for dinner party guests.

It's also interesting to see what ingredients were essential (salt pork, anyone?) and what were the trendy dishes at the time. It seems you couldn't go wrong fusing various elements into a gelatinous mold (I must have seen 40 recipes for jelly molds), or using mincemeat.

The best cookbooks had sidebars with tips on being the consummate wife. In addition to making the dishes outlined in the book, the proper housewife should also don a "fancy dress" and meet her husband at the door with a dry martini when he returned from work. Love it!!

Obviously I didn't return home with any new recipe ideas and I'm not longing to return to the 40s anytime soon, but there was something oddly sweet about flipping through the aged pages, reading someone's hand-written notes in the columns and being transported to a more innocent time.

Ina Garten's recipes are probably better, but her cookbooks don't rock like the oldies.

no, i don't think you're sexy

Who are these broads who have mated with Rod Stewart? I just read that he's had his ninth child. The accompanying photo in the story showed him pointing to his wife or girlfriend's belly and holding his thumb up. Besides looking like a dufus, he is REALLY unattractive. So who thought he was sexy in the first place? He's the same guy who implored women to let him know if they found him sexy and wanted his body, right? I just found a photo of him 30 years ago and he was less wrinkled, but not any more good looking.

Money, it's gotta be the money.

mysteries of the universe

1. Why is Kim Kardashian at every award show? As far as I can tell, she is neither a singer, nor a producer, nor an actor.

2. Real Housewives of (city) franchise: I think enough is enough. True, I got hooked on the Jersey and New York shows, but silicone and Botox can only carry a series so far. Do we need a Miami installation, really?

3. Justin Bieber. A documentary on this ass clown? Please!!!!

4. Yet another rom com with Jennifer Aniston. The fact that her new film topped the box office charts, followed by the Bieber film (see above) truly shows how our culture is imploding.

oh my gawd

Another Natalie Portman movie?? As if Black Swann and No Strings Attached weren't enough?

say it ain't so, meg and jack

I guess all good things must come to an end.

After being excited to hear that Meg and Jack White were heading into the studio to record the next White Stripes album, I was brought crashing down to Earth by news that the band is breaking up and will no longer record or perform live.

I've thought about what I should write in tribute but everything seems contrived or just a rehash of what others have already said. And I just can't have that, now can I?

So, to one of my favorite bands, thank you for revitalizing rock, for making amazing music, and for doing it with integrity and a sense of purpose. You will be sorely, sorely missed.

the ploy to make work interesting

I've been with my company for nearly nine years. This is the longest job I've ever had. It must mean that I'm officially a hard-working, responsible adult.

Not so much.

As anyone who is familiar with longterm employment knows, the job thing eventually becomes predictable. You figure out your supervisor's nuances and what makes them tick. You learn how to master your tasks, maybe try a few new things, but leaving adequate time to update Facebook, check your horoscope and book your summer travel.

A fellow colleague of mine, GC, has been with the company for 12 years. She's seen much more drama than I have and regularly regales me with stories about the lunatics who used to work here. One person, who felt threatened by his boss, would come to work wearing a Mexican wrestling mask. A temp employee showed up for her first day with a parrot. Another employee, overwhelmed by too much work, walked downstairs to the cafeteria and curled into a fetal position under a table.

I've bonded with GC because our office has gradually evolved from a place inhabited by crazy but amusing characters to a super-corporate, lifeless environment. No more funny chain emails, or passing notes in meetings, or sneaking vodka into the office party. Everyone eats at their desks, makes pie charts and says "strategy" and "brand strategy" whenever possible.

I can't take it. In my 20s I was one of those people, but I've been here a while, am a few pounds heavier and upholding the coporate line is a little bit like dying.

GC is much older than I am and I'm sure people are puzzled about why we pal around. In a nutshell, I would rather go to lunch with her and talk about life than sit with people who are consumed by calories, org charts and Web site visits.

GC and I tease each other incessantly and loudly. I come into the office around 8:30 and she bellows, "About time!" At meetings, I tell people that GC is old and they should talk loudly so she can hear them.

One day, one of the newbies heard us and went to her boss to complain that "Roya and GC fight constantly." GC was called in by her boss who said we should tone it down.

Tone it down so a coordinator who fills in Excel columns can feel comfortable? I think not.

Today we had an agency come in do a demonstration of a social media service. These folks were in their mid 20s, wearing very cool sunglasses and flaunting their "uvpms." About halfway through the meeting, GC came in to deliver a tray of sandwiches. I leaned over to their manager and said GC was a special needs employee but a really good worker. He nodded sympathetically and when she turned to leave the room, he said loudly, "THANK YOU FOR BRINGING US LUNCH! THAT WAS A VERY NICE THING TO DO!"

She gave him a puzzled look and I waved to her. "Okay, GC. THANK YOU. You can go back to your desk and sharpen the pencils."

Maybe one day I'll look back on this and gasp at how immature I was. But for now, messing with people's impressions is the only way to exist in an environment that despite filled with people, is utterly lifeless.

ever wonder...

Who comes up with Mafia nicknames? I just read the partial list of mobsters arrested in New York and their monikers include Bobby Glasses, Johnny Cash and Jack the Whack. My favorite? Vinny Carwash.

don't like ricky gervais? you can suck it.

I am shaking my noggin over the uproar about Ricky Gervais at this year's Golden Globes. Give me a fake awards show break. To everyone who is complaining: do you REALLY prefer to watch Billy Crystal or Whoopi Goldberg?

Gervais is audacious, brilliant and personally makes me laugh harder than probably any other comedian. Since when did the Hollywood Foreign Press and Scientology become sacred cows that no one can poke fun at? And is Charlie Sheen such a national treasure that we forbid anyone from making a joke about him?

To quote the LA Weekly, which penned a nice story in defense of Gervais: "Ricky Gervais Rules - Hollywood, Take The Stick Out of Your Ass."

back in the saddle again

After some back and forth with various gynecologists about my fibroid (and guess what? i actually don't have one...more on that later), I am now focused and ready to proceed with babymaking. The doc tells me my levels are good, uterus is perfect, so get to it.

(Insert porn/bass line here...)

Today's campus seminar:

"The role of spermine oxidase in enterotoxigenic bacteroides fragilis-induced colon tumorigenesis."

Who's with me??

Zsa Zsa, blah blah

What's with the incessant news coverage about Zsa Zsa Gabor's leg being amputated? The woman is 93, has been in poor health for several years, and I'm sorry, is she even a public figure anymore? Sheesh!