When You Marry

(Okay, first. Yes. I know I've been rather scan-happy lately. I'd apologize, except that it's actually been refreshing and more than a little necessary to take the occasional break from the Truman-Show-ness of all-super-personal-blogging, all-the-damn-time. Plus, the scanner is actually in the one room we've bothered to fully baby-proof, despite Ezra's non-stop campaign of destruction and doom and what did you put in your mouth, no, seriously, what did you just put in your mouth, oh my God, get it out, it's kitty litter, ohmygodgetitout.)

So. This book. Oh my god, you guys.

I've actually had this book in my possession for over a decade now -- it was a not-so-subtly-snarky wedding present from my older brother who most emphatically disagreed with my decision to marry young. I forgive him, because this book is fantastic. Like what-would-you-save-if-your-house-was-on-fire fantastic. Even back then, I knew it belonged on the Internet, although I had no idea at the time how the Internet worked outside of my personalized Yahoo! home page. Like, maybe I could re-type passage up in Notepad and copy the illustrations in Paint? And post them to a message board? In hindsight, I should have. I could have been Mahir!

And so I've been meaning to get around to scanning some of my favorite pages ever since I started this here dumblog, but...God, what a task! Every page is my favorite! I defy you to find a single page in this book that is not either hilariously old-fashioned or outright patently offensive. Reading it is a form of Stockholm Syndrome -- by the end you no longer have any grasp on what is right or wrong about any of it. It's that fucking good.

(Well! Let's not build up expectations too high there, or anything, Amy. You jackass.)

Anyway. I've finally decided to just bite the bullet and start scanning, uploading choice selections here and there, probably one new batch a week. I'll let you know when new pages are available. Today I present a nice decent chunk from the first five of the book's 15 chapters. (What You Bring To Marriage, Are You In Love?, Dating, Becoming Involved and Getting Engaged.) (And yes, there is a chapter called Where Babies Come From. I'm saving that one for Sweeps.)

Okay! Enough talking! Allow me to present When You Marry: Love, 1962 American High School Style.

Available In Blue, Pink & Just Country

You know, we hear a lot about the toll motherhood can take on our careers. Maternity leave, sleep deprivation, wildly adjusted priorities, the havoc that a closed daycare or chronic ear infections can wreak on our attendance and dependability, and of course, there's often months and years spent out of the workplace altogether. 

So with that in mind, I think it's important to celebrate the instances where having a baby -- or hell, having ANY level of familiarity with babies and their development and various non-negotiable-by-law safety standards -- could actually make you better at your job.

Like, say, if you're doing some basic Photoshop work for a baby store circular.

(Dear Buy Buy Baby: I am available for all your cut-and-pasting, fact-checking, copy-editing, quality-assurance-ing, pointing-and-laughing needs. Reasonable rates, fast turnaround. Call me!)

Like Apples & Watermelons

This weekend, Noah formed a deep emotional attachment to a watermelon. He does this, from time to time. Becomes entranced with a food object and carries it around the house, having drawn-out imaginary conversations with a can of black beans or declaring his unending love for a hard-boiled egg. It's a love that transcends mere taste, of course, because he will never, ever actually EAT any of these foods. I mean, gross. And also, are you some kind of monster? Why don't you just fricassee the damn dog, while you're at it.

Usually, we just wait the infatuation out, as long as we're talking non-perishables. (I put my foot down once and sent his slice of American cheese off to live in the refrigerator where it could run and play with the rabbits and lunch meat.) But this time we really, really wanted that watermelon.

I mean. EZRA really, really wanted that watermelon. Your brother did it, Noah! Your brother KILLED YOUR WATERMELON.

 

And then he ate its flesh while you flailed on the floor in helpless fury.

And your parents photographed the flesh-eating, declaring it all kinds of adorable. Your family is MESSED UP, I know.

***
It was a tough weekend, all jokes aside. Ceiba is throwing up again and we don't know why. Noah is giving back some of the gains he made this summer, which at least reinforces our decision and determination to send him to The Preschool (yes, it is going to cost more than we originally thought, because he needs more individual therapy that we thought, but at least THAT we can go to war with our insurance about, and is something that isn't set in stone for the entire school year.) After having discussions with the actual school directors, I no longer feel like we're getting the hard sell, but rather have met people who GET IT, who GET HIM, and who are going to move heaven and earth to help him. We have an appointment with a new developmental pede and the knowledge that it's always worst at times like these, right before a plan gets set into action, right when we're pinning our hopes on something just around the corner, trying to hold on through a service-less freefall, bruising like peaches along the way.

I re-read Noah's very first county evaluation -- he wasn't even TWO, for Christ's sake -- while photocopying it for The Preschool and remembered how it all started with a few little words, just not quite enough words, and how terrifying it all seemed back then, even though I had no idea that we were just at the tip of the gateway iceberg. I had no idea what we were in for. I probably still don't.

***
Noah likes to stall at bedtime. Of course he does. He runs through a standard litany of tactics -- a drink of water, potty, he's unplugged his nightlight or dropped something under the bed -- but he always ends the night with the same last request. "I need a cuddle!' he announces from the top of the stairs. "Hey! I need a cuddle! Come on, let's cuddle!" And downstairs we groan, because it's late, because the couch is so comfortable, because True Blood just started. And then one of us obliges -- of course we do -- and goes upstairs for a cuddle. He puts his arms around my neck and requests a song, or whispers a secret, or just curls up closely for awhile before drifting off to sleep, and every night I am reminded of why I wanted children in the first place, all over again.

***

By Sunday Noah had forgotten about the watermelon. Jason took him to the grocery store, and this time, it was an apple. Oh, look at this wonderful apple! It's the greatest apple I've ever seen! The fruit was so bruised and beaten and over-handled by the time they made it to the register that the cashier double-checked that Jason was sure that he really wanted that dented-up apple, that he didn't want to put it back and get another one. Jason opened his mouth to explain, but then he laughed and simply said yes, it was okay, it was exactly the one that we wanted.

The Rise & Fall of the Boob Civilization

AND THEN, on top of everything else, the baby weaned.

It's been a long time coming. It's been a long time happening. It ended this morning, officially, when I finally realized that it is time to stop trying for that Last Chance Nursing Session, Come On, Really? You're Really Done Here? No, You're Not, Take It. TAAAAKE IT.

Yes, it is time to stop doing that. Better now than in kindergarten, when it just gets hella awkward.

The weaning started with a biting phase. A biting phase that started the day he sprouted fangs teeth and ended, oh, THIS MORNING. The biting was unlike anything the books and websites described, and there was no solution offered that ever worked, other than yank 'em off and glare at him tiredly. (My favorite "solution" that I read about involved wagging your finger and sternly saying "No biting!," which never failed to make the little sociopath crack the hell up.) During the worst of it, I got so sick of being bitten -- and bitten HARD -- and so tired of spending every nursing moment clenched up in anticipation of the biting, with my fingers poised for a rapid de-latching that I started giving him a bottle of formula mid-day, just so I could have a break, relax and uncurl my toes. I tried pumping to replace the feeding but found that after the early months of being a veritable milk machine, I could not produce a single drop via the pump.

One bottle eventually turned into two bottles. His appetite for solids ramped up to a level I could not believe. He was slow-ish to sit up and roll over and crawl but when it came to anything food or eating-related he was an off-the-charts prodigy. Fruits, vegetables, meats, finger foods, real foods, sippy cups. He loved it all, and he wanted more. He ate and ate and ate and nursing slowly became relegated to a comfort-only thing. In the morning, before naps, before bed. Sometimes he'd still demand a bottle afterward. My period came back. My supply plummeted, he bit me and pull away in frustration, he was distracted and twisty and kicked me in the c-section scar and I would lie in bed nursing while he stood up, sticking his butt in the air, as if he hoped to walk off with my boob to someplace more interesting. I knew that if I simply stopped offering, he would not notice.

And yet, I could not, would not wean him. I don't know why. I was talking to some other mothers this weekend -- some still nursing, others who had weaned -- about how I knew Ezra was weaning but I couldn't seem to stop trying to get him to nurse one more time, just a little bit, in hopes that it was just a phase. I told them about the biting and the flailing and I saw the looks on their faces and I finally had one of those moments where a hologram of myself floated out of my body to slap me across the face and say ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELF?

And then I went home and tried to nurse him before bed once again.

Perhaps it's because I believed the websites that went on and on about how "highly unusual" it is for a baby to wean before 12 months, and oh, THIS: "when a mother says that her baby self-weaned before a year, there is a chance that she interpreted a normal developmental stage (perhaps combined with her own wishes) as baby's wish to wean." I'll tell you what, this sentence made me vaguely stabby while I was still nursing, and it's not looking any better to me now. You lying liar! You tell lies to make yourself feel better! You lie to cover up your -- gasp! -- OWN WISHES!

My wishes were to nurse for at least a year. At least. Probably longer. Though if you asked me I'd say that I wanted to nurse according to Ezra's wishes, until he didn't want to nurse anymore, within reason. It simply never occurred to me that his wishes could or would be different than mine. Oh, self.

And so I told myself that Ezra wasn't weaning, that the biting was a phase, the distraction was a phase, and all I had to do was hang on for just a little while longer, we could get back to enjoying breastfeeding again. Like we used to. Since I wasn't so sure I enjoyed it now.

I debated leaving him home during BlogHer. To just wean him then and be done with it. But then the thought of coming home and having him turn towards me expectantly and having nothing to give HURT MY SOUL and I packed him up and carted him (and a package of formula) to Chicago.

I debated it again, over our anniversary. And I still couldn't do it and dutifully returned to the hotel room several times a day to pump.

I came home with completely empty breastmilk containers and a baby who did not turn towards me expectantly. I pulled him into our rocking chair and he settled into my arms and sighed and...sucked his thumb. And fell asleep.

That probably should have been it, but I just couldn't...stop. I could occasionally get him to latch for a few minutes and I could hear him swallow and I would think that oh! No! I better stick with it! Just in case! We can do this! We can make it to a year! Two more months, dude. Give me two more months and a nice solid round number and then you can have all the Red Bulls and Coke Zero you want, I swear.

It finally dawned on me a few days ago that Ezra is not just weaning from me. He is weaning from bottles. Also a "highly unusual" thing for a baby under 12 months to do. But he's just not that into them. A few ounces here and there and then he wants to crawl away, leave multiple ounces of liquid money behind to fester in a bottle kicked under the couch. This has possibly unnerved me even more, because kid: I know you have the appetite of a five-year-old and the palate of a 35-year-old, but you still have the nutritional needs of a 10-month-old and YOU NEED YOUR MILKS. Baby cannot live by turkey-sausage-with-kale fettuccine alone! Your...brain! It needs the...DHA and...uh...ARA and whatever!

A few months ago he'd only take a bottle if I wasn't in the house. Now he'll drink formula out of a sippy cup with his meals, and take a bottle only when he's tired. He wants to walk and explore more than anything in the world, and he doesn't want to nurse. He will, if I insist, but I need to stop insisting, to stop waiting for him to make it even MORE CLEAR that he is done, and just accept that he is done.

So. Okay. I will change my Twitter picture and pack away the nursing bras that I haven't worn in ages anyway and the pump that doesn't work for me anymore and I will talk about breastfeeding in the past tense. I am not a nursing mother anymore.

***

When we moved from the city to the suburbs, I was sad. But I didn't miss the three flights of stairs to our condo and the one bathroom and the tiny kitchen and the roaches and the horrible old windows and the street parking and the tickets and the terrible supermarket that never had anything fresh and how you had to drive 20 minutes to get to a gas station that charged less than $5 a gallon.

But the worst moment was at the DMV, when they asked for my DC license back so they could issue me my new one, my non-DC, boring old giant nondescript state one. A state that I felt no connection to, while that DC license was more than an ID. It was an identity. My identity as a city person. In that moment, it didn't matter about all the less-than-awesome things I no longer had to deal with. My life in the city became glorious and idealized, the best years of my life, a time I still look back on and rhapsodize about how perfect it was and how much I miss it.

***

Dear Ezra,

Thank you for 10 of the most perfect, healing, powerful and lovely months I've ever known. I will always cherish them, and you.

Love,
MamawhoissoembarrassingOMG

Hat Trick

He was wearing a hat.

I didn't recognize him at first. He doesn't wear hats, you see. We have one winter hat that he will wear without excessive protest -- a stupidly expensive handmade-in-Peru tiger hat that he picked out himself two years ago at Whole Foods, and I was so gobsmacked at the sight of my child willingly wearing a hat that I bought it despite blanching at the price tag and the thought of the two dozen comparable hats we already owned.

So I was gobsmacked again, because of a hat. A handmade sun visor, covered in stickers.

"He's wearing a hat." I said, stupidly, to one of the camp's many grad student volunteers.

"Isn't it so cute?" she gushed. "He was a little worried about the glue at first, but then he was fine!"

I stared at her and blinked. "You mean he actually made it? Himself?"

She stared back. "Yes?"

"His preschool teacher used to do his art projects for him. For awhile, anyway. After Christmas she stopped pretending. And he doesn't wear hats."

"Well," she said, thinking hard, "he still really doesn't like glitter."

Then she chased after him for one last big bear hug. "I'll miss you, Noah," I heard her murmur. "Thank you for letting me play with you."

She came back to my side and took a deep breath. "I'll be back next summer. I love this place."

***

The word was out at camp: they all knew we were considering applying to The Preschool. I listened to them talk up the Saturday group to another mother before it was my turn.

It will be perfect. He's a perfect fit. This, plus the district morning program? Oh my God, it will be perfect. I talked to the director myself. Perfect. Perfect.

Stop saying that, I thought, but did not say.

I stammered that we were still only considering it, that we only found out the day before that it was even an option, and that we still weren't sure, given the cost and the fact that Noah would be in school ALL DAY, EVERY DAY.

"He still takes a nap," I explained. "I'm worried it's going to be too much for him. His behavior really disintegrates when he gets worn out. We won't have time for playdates, for his typical friends."

What followed was an earnest -- if slightly predictable -- speech about the importance of early intervention, about this critical age and stage and how we just need to wallop him with therapy and structure and a rich sensory diet and nip it in the bud now to save ourselves years of costly tuition later.

"Most kids there do both programs and are just fine," said one of the camp OTs. The other one nodded.

Oh, you did not just say "MOST KIDS," I thought. Oh, no you did NOT.

"At the minimum, we'll do the Saturday group," I said, sort of hoping they'd lay off a bit if they knew we were planning to pay them money anyway. "Plus some one-on-one therapy."

"You should really do The Preschool," they both agreed.

Both of them work for the Outpatient Division, by the way. As in, they do not ever set foot in The Preschool.

***

Last night I crept into Noah's room and sat on his bed, watching him sleep, curled up with his favorite stuffed toy. I pushed his summer shaggy hair across his forehead and made a mental note to get him a haircut before the back-to-school madness this year. And shoes. Crap, he needs closed-toe shoes. Last year we waited too long and nobody had his size. I think his jacket will still fit, and some of his pants. We can layer longer t-shirts under some of the 3T long-sleeved shirts from last year, if his belly shows, since they still look practically brand-new. I smiled a little. One of the benefits of a cautious, mess-hating little boy: He is extremely easy on clothing.

That circled me back to the topic at hand. My chest and stomach twisted in anxiety while I replayed the day's comments and emails -- the good, the bad, the contradictory. The happy stories from parents who did, the sad ones from parents who didn't. The overwhelming use of the word regret. Would we regret not sending him? Should we send him simply because we're afraid of regretting something?  I felt the familiar sense of indignation that I get when something I write is misunderstood, even by a very few people, even when it was completely the fault of imprecise writing. A decent roof and working garbage disposal and non-dog-pee-stained carpet ARE important, I bratted, if you have to put your house on the market in the hurry and hope to get full price.

I finally stopped the futile process of trying to compose the perfect comment that would explain everything to an invisible audience of strangers and stared hard at Noah, trying to will the right answer into existence. I pulled him into my arms and held him as tightly as I dared, as if his neural pathways would communicate with me. This! This is what we need! Give it to us!

When that didn't work, I prayed. Then I went to bed and shook Jason awake.

"Quick. What does your gut say?"

He knew exactly what I was talking about. "I don't know. I go back and forth. You?"

I thought for a second. "I think we're getting the hard sell. I think they smelled the blood of nervous parents in the water, and I don't like it."

He nodded. I went on.

"But I still think we should send him."

***

And so we will.

He was, after all, wearing a hat.

PS. The PayPal button is staying down. I admit I was a little tempted to put it up again, but Jason feels very strongly that...no. Just...no. Thank you, so much, those of you who offered to help. There are others who need that help more. For us, the offer is enough.

Pennies From Heaven's Couch Cushions

Apologies for not posting anything yesterday. And apologies for that apology, because I bet you didn't even notice and quite possibly your life continued on just fine despite my lack of posting. Regardless, I had an excuse: Terminal Brain Fog.

For example, I spent most of the day writing and rewriting the same 9-word sentence. Over and over again. Nine words and then BLAMMO, headfirst into writer's block and some weird wrastling with the Passive Voice and then some Dangling Modifiers were all, "you wanna go at it? let's go at it. bitch."

And then I spent -- no lie -- 20 solid minutes ransacking my bathroom top to bottom because I could not find my tinted moisturizer.

Here's a hint as to how THAT went:

 

(Dear Microsoft: MS Paint Goggles. Could totally be your iPod. My gift to you.)

The real problem is that right now, the Biggest Thing going on -- exactly the sort of Big Thing I've come to depend on this blog community to help me ramble through and work out and get advice on -- is also one of those Very Difficult To Write About Things, because my intentions could very easily be misunderstood. Because it's tangentially about money. Stupid, tacky money.

Basically...would you, my fellow special-needs parents or anyone who has ever loved the spit out of a special-needs kid, ever knowingly get in over your head financially to pay for something, if you thought it was the best something for your child?

Noah's OT camp is officially over now. We saw HUGE improvements in these short seven weeks. Huge, noticeable improvements. We also saw just how much work there is left to be done, and the glaring gaps in his IEP. Stuff that the school district is just not concerned about, but of course, we are. So I naturally started inquiring about supplemental services provided by the agency that ran the camp. There were, thankfully, quite a few options. We were close to settling on a Saturday morning group plus maybe some one-on-one OT -- completely disregarding the agency's preschool because it was in the afternoon, which is when we were told Noah would attend the public school.

And then on Thursday we received his official classroom assignment. Surprise! It's in the morning.

By Friday, the last day of camp, we had an observation with the private preschool set up and an application in our hands and a spot tentatively reserved -- the last spot, of course, WHAT ARE THE ODDS -- because the occupational therapists who worked with him this summer told the preschool director that Noah absolutely needed that spot, that it would be the perfect, perfect place for him. Eight kids total, half of which attend district programs in the morning, over half of the graduates from last year are moving back into the mainstream this fall. Speech therapy, occupational therapy, parent support and counseling, customized treatment plans.

By Friday night, Jason and I were absolutely sick with misery, because of the numbers. The school is expensive. I mean, of course it is. It is more than twice what we budgeted for, back when we planned to send Noah to Montessori. (Oh! Funny story! We talked to them awhile back about whether they had many kids who also attended <name of the district's special needs preschool program> and kids with SPD/SID and they were all, "Hmm? We've never heard of any of that stuff!" and we were all, "Okay, thanks, bye!")

(Is that funny? Probably more like rage-inducing. I sometimes get those two mixed up.)

I mean, we're okay. We're really, probably, more than okay.  Especially when you go by the "new okay." The "recession okay." We did get nailed pretty hard this year with medical bills because our insurance company is a jackhole, and taxes because we suck at math, and a ton of house-related crap because being a grown-up is just one big endless sucking jackhole. And just when we feel like we've dug our way out and can treat ourselves to nice things like Macbooks and fancy tinted moisturizers and a hotel room for our anniversary, our dog up and eats fucking fertilizer for lunch.

(Aaaaaand this is why I mentioned "intentions." Because I seriously -- oh my God -- do not want it to sound like I'm hinting around for money. I'm not. And I know it's easy to judge someone's finances from the sidelines [u could afford to stay home with ur baybee if u stopped buying bronzer selfish whoor!]. [VARIATION: how dare u complain don't u no how blessed u are i don't even have cheekbones for bronzer selfish whooooor!] And  now I'm tempted to delete this entry all together. Maybe I still will. Stay tuned, alternative publishing universe!)

(But then I think...well, what if someone out there is looking at a gigantic pile of money RIGHT THIS SECOND and wishing there was a Deserving Child to give it to, like an orphan being raised by a blacksmith, who dreams of college and betterment and Estella Havisham! Or maybe the son of a blogger, who dreams of choo-choo trains and grilled cheese and Olivia the Pig. Who am I to stand in the way of their good deed? What if, in the absence of a Deserving Child, they spend it all on hookers and grape jelly?)

(But THEN I think that the orphan is probably way more Deserving, honestly, and really, if you have a pile of money that you really don't know what to do with it's better to look for reputable charities than random orphans who can end up being totally fucking ungrateful.)

ANYWAY. We just don't know what the right choice is here. We're mostly afraid of making the WRONG choice. So we go over it again and again, and the voicemails from the school are piling up, asking if we've mailed in the application yet. If we use the last bit of money we have in our savings, plus maybe some money back from refinancing our mortgage...if we cut back on all sorts of things (hello! goodbye, Sephora!)...if we put some of it on the credit card...if we apply for financial aid... But of course, we have to commit to the school and pay deposits and half the tuition BEFORE the financial aid decision would be finalized, and then I think about our roof and the sound the garbage disposal keeps making and we need to replace the basement carpet (EDITED TO ADD: These were stupid examples. Stupid! Of course I'm not going to keep him out of the school because fucking carpet. I was trying to illustrate that there would simply be no money left for unexpected emergencies but neglected to list anything resembling an actual, you know, EMERGENCY. Sorry.) I worry we'd be spending all year a mere hair's breadth away from financial disaster. I worry about paying for a whole other year of preschool NEXT year. And then Ezra's school the year after THAT. I worry that our original, cheaper plan would really be enough and I am almost annoyed by this stupid dangling carrot.

But then.

What if? What if we do? What if we don't?

Livernotwurst

And all.

Is right.

With the world.

Once again.

(Dumb dog.)

(Welcome home, Mitten.)

The Deadly Garden

Ah, the eternal blogging conundrum: tell the story NOW, or tell it WELL. You cannot do both, what with the lack of sleep and excess of brain matter slowly leaking out of your adrenaline-sapped skull, and death is not an option, though continuing to send out short hysterical ampersand-filled updates on Twitter is.

(Wait, let me first tell you how much it bothers me when I have to sacrifice proper AP Style to make something fit on Twitter. SO MUCH, is how much it bothers me.)

What the hell, let's try "NOW." Sloppy storytelling, ahoy!

So while none of this will be any great revelation to anyone who reads me on Twitter...

(Wait, is that right? Do you "read" Twitter? I should say "follows me on Twitter," right? That just sounds kind of creepy and invasive and OMG LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU! IT'S...THE INTERNET! AAAAEEEEIII!)

Sorry. Right. Anyway. My dog kind of almost died this week. Of liver failure! Do you know what the primary symptom of possible liver failure in dogs is? Vomiting! You know, because they never just vomit all the time for any other reason, like maybe they ate too many paper towels. Oh, heavens no.

I think I mentioned back...uh, awhile ago (gestures lazily at the archives) that Ceiba had a Day o' Mystery Puking. Just one day. Puking. Everywhere. Everything. And then right around the time when I started to think that MAYBE I should start thinking about finding my shoes and her leash and ehhhhhh driving to the emergency vet (because it was on a Sunday. it is ALWAYS on a Sunday. my pets need some schooling about honoring Our Lord's Day.), she stopped puking. And started eating and drinking water and running around and generally being a spastic pain in the ass. And thus, I declared her HEALED! and I'm pretty sure my brown shoes are still under the couch somewhere.

But this week it became increasingly clear that she was not healed, but was perhaps getting sicker. I pulled her food and the cat's food (AKA the food Ceiba actually eats) and offered her some matzo (don't laugh, matzo will fix your shit up right in no time, Bubbe-style) and made a vet appointment and then proceeded to spend the entire evening diagnosing her with stomach cancer, emailing Samantha frighteningly detailed descriptions of dog poop, and once again pondering the location of my shoes. I mean, I left the house that day, right? I was wearing shoes? God, I hope I was wearing shoes.

I decided against the emergency vet, as I knew they'd examine her, admit her, promise to keep her comfortable and fluid-packed, and give her an x-ray...the next morning. And that x-ray would cost three times as much as the x-ray we'd get at the regular vet...the next morning. And we know this first-hand, from previous middle-of-the-night leg-breaking experience. (2005. October-ish. You...look for it. I'm tired.) Plus...it was SO TOTALLY STOMACH CANCER. What is the poooooint, she's already done for, woe, WOE!

ANYWAY, OH MY GOD, GET TO THE POINT, STOP NARRATING MINUTIAE THAT NOBODY CARES ABOUT. I took her (and one precious little turd in a Ziploc baggie) to the vet and blah blah x-ray and bloodwork and holy fucking elevated liver enzymes.

("Did she look yellow?" you are probably asking. "No," I say. "She looked...reddish. Kinda furry. Also, I didn't really check.")

So Jason and I both turned to Dr. Google and started our House M.D. spin-off as we each tried to find out what it all meant and I basically kept looking up "liver cancer" while Jason looked up slightly more USEFUL things, like toxins that could damage a dog's liver and suddenly he was all, "EUREKA! Go check the ingredients on the bags of fertilizer downstairs!" And I was all, "I am downstairs. I don't see any bags of fertilizer." And he was all, "I meant the basement." And I was all, "Then you should have SAID the basement, God."

A couple weeks ago Jason started fertilizing all the tomato plants in our container garden on the back deck. We have both shooed Ceiba away from the plants multiple times since then, generally assuming she was hanging around them for nefarious Digging Purposes. Turns out she was eating the goddamn fancy specialized fertilizer, which in addition to SUPER TASTY THINGS like chicken feces and ground-up bones, also contained cocoa meal and copper. Both of which are ridiculously toxic to dogs. But hey! Our tomatoes are to DIE FOR.

I called the vet in a panic to let him know about our breakthrough -- assuming, of course, that they were probably mere seconds away from initiating the exact wrong treatment for the toxicity that would have disastrous effects, or at least cost us ANOTHER $800 -- but when the receptionist answered and did that thing where they said something like, "Hello, Animal Hospital, is this an emergency?" I went on auto-pilot and said, "No."

And then I said, "Wait. Shit. Yes! It IS! It IS an emergency! I HAVE ANSWERS! LISTEN TO MEEEE."

And then a whole lot of boring stuff happened and the next thing I knew I was typing this exact sentence here.

Ceiba is still at the hospital, getting her system flushed. Also hoping to squeeze in a pedicure and maybe some eyebrow waxing. Today's bloodwork showed that her liver levels are continuing to climb, but she SEEMS better. Bright-eyed, wiggly-stump-tailed, and she managed to eat some kibble and keep it down. So the vet is hopeful that the bloodwork is a lagging indicator and that her liver IS repairing itself and not failing. If her levels start going back down, we can bring her home. If they keep going up, I. Well. I will HURT THINGS. TOMATO PLANT THINGS.

Not a day goes by when I don't get thoroughly annoyed by that dog and/or threaten to skin her into a mitten. The mail slides through the slot and she loses her goddamn mind and barks and wakes up the baby and yap yap yap and SERIOUSLY. A MITTEN. OR HALF OF AN EARMUFF.

But now the mail comes and I brace myself for the racket and it doesn't come and it's not as peaceful as I thought. It's sad. I keep staring underneath Ezra's highchair after meals in complete and utter bafflement, because what the FUCK is up with that mess? What's with all this food? Who's going to clean that up? That's disgusting.

I miss the little batty-eared jackass. I hope she comes home soon and well.

Microwavery

So...I'm always like, "Damn, Lileks, why don't you update the Gallery of Regrettable Food anymore?" And then I pick up some stupid old book at a used bookstore for a couple dollars and I'm like, "I should scan some of these pages and recipes and put them on the Internet! With hilarious commentary! Yes, that is exactly what I should do!"

And then FOUR HUNDRED MILLION HOURS LATER I realize exactly why Lileks doesn't update the Gallery of Regrettable Food anymore. This shit is a pain in the ass. Also, the Gallery of Regrettable Food will always, always be funnier.

Anyway, I picked up this stupid old book this weekend and scanned some of the pages. At first glance, it's your typical Old Dated Cookbook, where the presence of tomatoes instantly means the recipe is called "Colorful Something-Something," where the inclusion of three atoms' worth of chili powder means it's "Mexican Something-Something," and "Oriental Something-Something" is code for soy sauce. But the gimmick -- and you gotta have a gimmick -- is that absolutely everything, from the Bacon Poles to the Maxi-Burgers to the Wiener Bean Pot, has been made in the microwave. Also known as the Greatest Innovation In Modern Cooking Known To Man.

So kick your stove to the curb and flush your pots and pans down the toilet and get ready from some super-groovy MICROWAVERY.

(Click to enter the gallery.)

Staycation

Jason and I spent our anniversary weekend in a hotel. A hotel 20 minutes away from our house. A hotel 20 minutes away from our children.

(The first time you read "20 minutes" you were probably all, "awww," and smiled ruefully about This Fucking Economy. Then you read the second "20 minutes" and were all, "boom chicka wah wah.")

(Go on! Admit it! You smiled ruefully! You also read this website while wearing a floor-length silk dressing gown and ermine-trimmed bedroom slippers. DO NOT DESTROY MY ILLUSIONS, IMAGINARY AUDIENCE.)

(NOTE: I had to Google "ermine" to make sure that I was not making words up again. I do that sometimes. Amazingly, "ermine" is an animal that is indeed used to trim faaaahncy bedroom slippers. Even more amazingly, this is one of the first image results:

 

THAT's how I'm going to picture you in my head from now on. Unibrow and all.)

Anyway.

What was I talking about?

Oh! Our hotel room had a gigantic jacuzzi tub. Boom chicka wah wah, the end, except for the part where weoverslept and almost missed our dinner reservation. At 9 o'clock at night. That's what happens when you fall asleep at 6 o'clock. You cannot take us anywhere. We are so lame, and our pet ermine isn't even paper-trained.

(Pretty much the greatest thing ever coming tomorrow, thanks to a $2 sidewalk sale at a bookstore around the corner from our hotel. And by "greatest thing ever" you know I totally mean "the 1970s were fucked up, you guys.")