Productivity is Dead! Long Live Procrastination!

Hello, everyone.

I can never see that opener (Hello, everyone.) without hearing it in the deep smooth voice of Karl Haas from the old radio show on WRR in Dallas, Adventures In Good Music. It takes me back to Tuesday evenings, an old beat-up beige Volvo station wagon, Sonic burgers and driving to piano lessons. How I wish the powers-that-be would release a compilation of his shows on mp3 or cd or something!

In other news, we're packing up the baby and leaving for Canada tomorrow. With a nine hour drive ahead of us, I've borrowed a copy of Anna Karenina (30 cds...oh yeah!) from the library and find myself sitting here in front of the laptop instead of working through the million-and-one things I should be doing before we go.

In other news, I'm super excited to see Niagara Falls. This is a business trip first and foremost, but on the way home we're spending one night in Niagara because we can. To celebrate, I'm going to share with you a piece called The Niagara River from my most favoritest poetess, Kay Ryan:

The Niagara River

As though
the river were
a floor, we position
our table and chairs
upon it, eat, and
have conversation.
As it moves along,
we notice—as
calmly as though
dining room paintings
were being replaced—
the changing scenes
along the shore. We
do know, we do
know this is the
Niagara River, but
it is hard to remember
what that means.

And here's a little link to Ms. Ryan reading it: tadaaa!

In other news, can you believe F is going to be one year old on Thursday? I can't. And I can. All at the same time. Her new tricks are as follows: climbing up the stairs, giving me a heart attack, making funny faces on purpose, pulling up on everything, giving me a heart attack, wanting to touch everything that's pretty, giving me a heart attack, being obsessed with the cats, learning lots of sign language but only really using the sign "cat" on repeat, and pretending to read books on her own.

On the plus side I guess since she's officially weaned, she's only eating me out of house and home instead of house and body...

Still Breathing

To all you busy people in the world, I salute you.

After a relatively peace-filled life, I was suddenly confronted with an Impossible List of things to do a couple months back. I'm more than half-way through them now, and despite my ever-increasing number of white hairs, I'm still alive. Obviously.

So here's the quick skinny*:

1. The trip to Turkey was beautiful and amazing as always. The extra special part was seeing Istanbul for a totally packed three days. It blew my mind. If it weren't for my sister constantly at my shoulder imitating Iago the parrot from Disney's Aladdin, I might have forgotten for a minute that any place else in the world existed.

2. A week after we returned home from Turkey, I hosted a sweet sixteen (!) party for HC. No, she didn't get any shiny new keys or even her own reality tv show, but we did invite about 50 kids over to view a drive-in style movie on the lawn. With fireworks. And a fire pit. No one died, and we discovered just exactly how useful Ulrich is at teenage parties. There's something wet-blanketish about ninety pounds of enthusiastic German Shepherd body slamming you whenever you try to cozy up to your girlfriend under the stars. Apparently, he confuses Splendor in the Grass with WrestleMania.

3. A week after that, baby F and I descended on my old stomping grounds, Wide Awake Wylie, Texas to host a shindig in honor of my brother's nuptials. If you're wondering what is a good plan for such a party, traveling alone with a squirmy infant halfway across the US to arrive with only one day to organize food (which you insist on making yourself) and decorations (for a site you've never seen) in a three bedroom house with eleven people sleeping in it IS NOT A GOOD PLAN. The party, of course (of course!) was adorable and delicious. I met lots of cool people. I slept for fourteen solid hours and still didn't feel recovered.

4. A week later I turned 27! I think. Turns out, I don't really know how old I am. When I was in the hospital for F's birth the nurse asked me my age. Twenty-five, I responded. My Mom nodded. Twenty-six, countered P. I was aghast. I'M TWENTY-FIVE!! I insisted. My Mom agreed with me. Turns out, I was twenty six. The two people in the room who were actually *present* at my birth got it wrong. That's why I pay the bills, because clearly I have superior numberating skillzzz.

5. A week after that, R got married! The wedding was beautiful and fun and it was so inspiring to see a couple so in "wuv, twue wuv" that it was just beaming out of their very hair follicles. The best part though was seeing my extended family and getting to catch up with everyone -

• plane tickets: $200

• drinks on 6th street: $30

• discovering that your sister and your uncle, separated by hundreds of miles, and without knowledge of each other's quirks, each invented *the same* stupid looking dance to embarrass their significant others which involves looking like a jellyfish: PRICELESS.

6. And here I am. My garden is overrun with "volunteer" plants, my basement flooded for the sixth time when we got home, and there's no food in the fridge, but I don't care.

I'm just thrilled that I have ten whole days before I host my next party.

*the "quick skinny" sounds like some new diet secret on HSN. Sorry to disappoint. Unless, of course, you're in the position to work out five times a week, breastfeed a baby and run around so much you sometimes forget to feed yourself. In which case, go for it! You'll look just like me! Except probably not quite so haggard and graying and freakishly tall. Other than that, you'll look just like me.

Baby Travels

I'm guessing that F leading the race for Most Traveled Baby On The Planet. At last tally, this baby had been on 21 airplanes by the time she was 8 1/2 months old. She's so savvy, we stand in line at security and she takes her own shoes off.

Ok, her shoes are actually socks made to look like shoes and she takes them off everywhere, but the point is, this girl knows the drill.

That said, I've learned that traveling with a 3 month old is a whole different sack of potatoes than traveling with a 9 month old. At 3 months, she slept. At 9 months, she parties. Hard. She's so squirmy that, short of a few squats, I got a full on Turbo Kick workout on the way home from Guadeloupe last month.

As if that weren't daunting enough she's started teething in the past couple days and LORDY it's a wild ride.

With this in mind as I prepare for our upcoming trip to Turkey, I've begun early to arm myself with possible protection against my little whirling dervish.

1. Boon Baby Squirt Spoon: Gastronomic Genius for Feeding Fledglings.

Felicity has only eaten one jar of store bought baby food in her entire long life, but this sucker looks like it's too travel friendly to pass up. You stuff the squishy handle full of pureed food. When you've identified a local hungry baby, you squeeze the handle which deposits the baby food directly onto the bowl of the spoon. Then, when you're finished, you can put the little cap right back on the spoon and store the rest for later. This process makes the baby feeding much more efficient, but getting the food into the baby's belly and not just all over the rest of the plane is still not guaranteed.

2. Flyebaby For My Baby. Maybe:
Luckily, F is extremely social and views plane rides as one big campaign stop on her way to Empress of the World. While I'm struggling to herd our bags, our other people and F down the length of the plane (we're unerringly in THE LAST row of every flight), she's busy literally shifting from side to side making eye contact with each passenger so she can give them a personalized smile, giggle or wave. You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not.

However, she is the squirmiest baby I've ever met. The above pictured Flyebaby is advertised as a way for Mama and Baby to get some good face time during the flight while Baby rests comfortably in a gently swinging hammock.

Me, I'm just looking forward to those straps! Lockdown will be sweet.

3. Enlisting Solid Help

This will be the fourth trip to Turkey for P and me, but this year we are bringing along some backup. Not only will my sister be joining us, but we're also taking HC out of school for the two weeks we'll be gone. She's great with the baby, but more importantly, she might learn a thing or two about Turkey!

Wish me luck and pass the Baby Benedryl.

Scheduling Is Not My Forte

Wanna know how my summer is going to go? I knew you did.

In less than a week I leave for Turkey for ten days. With a teething infant.

Less than a week after that, I'm throwing an all-out Sweet Sixteen for HC at our house.

A week after that, Felicity and I are flying to Dallas where I'm co-hosting a wedding shower.

Two weeks after that, the whole crew and I are flying to Austin for the wedding.

Two weeks after that I'm hosting a baby shower at my house where I won't know any of the guests except the pregnant honoree.

A week after that we're packing HC off for three weeks at a Shakespeare Conservatory in Oxford, England.

A week after that I'm hosting a fundraiser for P's foundation at my house.

Oh, also, in case I didn't mention in, half my house is being remodeled.

I need a drink.

Happy Mother's Day

Mom.

There are many things I did not inherit from you. My height, for example, totally came from Dad. As did my temper. And my vampire teeth. In certain ways I'm more like Dad than your other kids. That said, I had a disturbing revelation this afternoon on my first official Mother's Day.

(In previous years I enforced a Step-Mother's Day modification, but this year being F's first experience with the Mother's Day situation, I thought we should just stick with the traditional celebration. I'm rainchecking my Step-Mother's day for sometime in November when I'll really need it.)

First of all, it was an awesome day. P and I took the baby to church with us, where she was greatly admired. On the way out, a stranger called out me, "She wins the best baby award!" Nevermind that holding her was like holding a two cats that don't like each other (scratching included). At least she impresses the strangers. That's really what life's all about.

When we got home, HC had prepared my favorite breakfast of ALL TIME: toasted mini-bagels, cream cheese, smoked salmon, capers and diced red onion. P made mimosas the size of the Pacific Ocean and I drank the whole thing. And a half.

Then I even had presents!

They're totally stereotypically Mom presents and I couldn't be happier. HC wrangled F into making little hand- and foot-print decorative stones for my garden! They're so small I'll have to find someplace awesome to put them so they don't just get lost amid the foliage.

Luckily, they're covered in gold glitter glue, and every little bling helps.

The day continued with such lovelinesses, but I digress.

The point is, Mom, I concluded the afternoon by mowing the yard. When I was a teenager, I was SHOCKED and FLABBERGASTED and incredulous and generally alienated when you told me that you "sort of liked" mowing the lawn. Mowing the lawn was the worst.

And yet, this afternoon, with the (admittedly, loud) white noise of the push mower giving my imagination a smooth lake to swim in, and dusk slowly descending on the spring blooms and my blood flowing in satisfactory way...I related.

It was peaceful in its cacophony, creative in its destruction, restful in its exertion. I sort of enjoyed it, my Mother's Day mow.

Does this mean I'm going to start grinding my own wheat and gleaning leftover animals from various farms and streetcorners? Because when it comes to heredity, I'd like to draw the line somewhere.

Aint No Mountain High Enough

...too keep me from packin' for you, babe.

The baby and I are setting off on an epic adventure tomorrow evening. Before that can happen though, I must address the catastrophic laundry situation. On a normal day, the laundry piles are big. Often, quite big. Mostly because it's all the way down stairs and I'm both lazy and forgetful.

I never remember to switch the loads until I step out into the frigid bathroom post-shower and am suddenly faced with the reality of no clean towels.

It's even worse now that I've been avoiding the basement in all its torn-up, mold-farming glory for the sake of my sanity.

Today though, I'm up to the challenge. So far I've divided it up into several piles and I have one observation to make: You know you have a baby girl when you divide your laundry into darks, whites, delicates and pink.

That's right.

I have an entire load of just pink.

Moving On

So the basement flooded.

Big deal.

Who cares, even? HC probably cares because she has to actually make the "living room" live up to its name, but at the same time she's seizing the day and totally taking over A's room while it's going through this vulnerable stage so it all comes out in the wash.

Heh. Wash. You should see the dirt down there.

ANYWAY. The point of this blog is not for me to get rebogged-down in the drama that is my broken house, but instead for me to show you my lemonade.

Not real lemonade, mind you. My darling lemon tree is barely holding on through these winter months. Fake lemonade. For my fake feelings of serenity and acceptance.

The first one is this: I'm repainting in a big, bad way.

The hallway is going to be "iced mint". Yeah, that's right. The new guest room is purple and gold. And HC's room is (by her choosing) going to be light blue and grey. I'll be the first to admit that these color choices could be a mistake of epic proportions, but I'll also be the first to sass-back that I DON'T CARE. It's now or never. My love won't wait. (Kiss me my darling...)