now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

…I’m chesty and disjointed. I am not, however, blonde nor do I have a peversely nipped in waist. My mind is everywhere today, so instead of one coherent entry, y’all get paragraph long blasts. Sorry.

So there IS a food underground here, and it’s scary. We went to 40 Sardines Friday, taking Matilda in our ongoing effort to prove to her the area does not suck. The manager recognized, greeted, informed us we’d just missed Tim the Wine Guy and his wife, and then started hauling us through the wine list. One hell of an evening ensued, capped by the chef coming over to thank us profusely and ask how they stack up against our favorites in Chicago, and the manager wanting to see our new car. I walk into the wine store this morning, and Tim says, “Hear I missed you by 15 minues at 40 the other night. And the Lad is doin the drinkin for two, will drink anything unusual and good, and Ryan the manager said his voice gets higher when he’s sauced.” Um. Oh. Kay. Yeah well. Apparently, we’re memorable. Our ordering habits are strange, and we are the only people who don’t order Pinot Grigio (they sold out of PG on Saturday. For the love of pete, people….) Ryan slipped us his card, I’m getting him Giles number, it’s all good. Remind me to never be loud in a restaurant here, lest word get out I’m a mouthy cheese snob.

In other news, I am clearly coming out of the first trimester funk. I don’t rip the Lad’s hands off if he touches me, and I’m hungry. Hunger coupled with queasiness is a fascinating combination. By which I mean ‘guaranteed to drive me rip roaring insane’. And I’m getting weird ass food cravings. We were driving to Larrytown and all of a sudden I wanted Mexican. Mexican in vast quantities. Which I would have happily obliged, except I am deathly allergic to peppers and so Mexican is a cuisine verboten to me. And no, don’t bother writing to tell me that Mexican is a beautiful and varied cuisine, full of delicate and delicious flavors and not overrun with peppers and I’m being close minded to just say no to an entire region of cooking. I live in friggen Kansas, where ‘Mexican’ equals ‘X food product with salsa dumped on top’. Moral of the story? Snarklet is approximately 15 years ahead of the game and hates me and wants me dead, which I suppose means when Snarklet actually is 15 I’ll have pleasant conversations with it in which it subtly begs for money and freaks out about being an adult on me.

Why am i so braindead? The 5 hours spent on the phone client wrangling today? The lack of a full cup of coffee? Pregnancy brain? (As a side note, I had my first total pregnancy i can’t do this core meltdown this weekend on the lad, in J Jill of all places- how’s that for style points? Among the floppy sage-hued clothes and artsy chunky jewelry I lost it about how there’s no point in my buying anything and I want my body back and I’m going to be pregnant and not look it forever [yes i know that will come back to bite me on the prodigious ass] and I hate this because everything I ever did to relax is verboten for at least the first trimester and in most cases, the whole pregnancy [eat fancy cheese, drink wine, hot whirlpool baths, massage. Fab!]. The lad took it well. And then bought me a sweater at J Crew. Smart man.) I know! I can blame it on the fumes! Our house is addled with fumes, it smells like the talking Clorox Bleach bottles hit taco hell and are now being fartastic in my family room. We got new furniture, finally, after waiting 10 weeks, and it is big and squishy and you sit on it and your brain turns off and you trail off mid-sentence wonderful, but we had them fabric treat it to prevent stains, and my god does it reek. And then it released a miasma all over the house, that I could taste and that made my throat itch. Snarklet’s first contact high, I’m so proud.

So, I doubt we’ll ever completely replace our beloved Giles the Cheese Dude (or, for those of you who prefer to be yuppie about it, our Fromagier). Some people have ‘their butcher’, some have ‘their baker’. When we lived in Chicago, we had Our Cheese Guy, and my god, we worshipped him. Giles ran the biggest artisinal cheese distributorship in Chicago, supplying all of the trendy, expensive, fancy chic restaurants with jawdroppinginly good cheese. Goat cheese from a flock of 13 goats total in Indiana? He had it. The Gruyere Surchoix, aged 14 months, from Roth Kase, and praised in Wine Spectator? Wheels of it. Cowgirl Creamery? The whole line. Rare cheeses one reads about in expensive magazines, he had them all, plus some larger production things, and strictly north american. Giles, when he wasn’t busy being a watcher in addition to dairy duties, would turn up at our apartment with about $200 worth of cheese and a couple of bottles of wine, and we’d shoot the shit for hours.

Yesterday, though, I met a new cheese dude. I met a new cheese dude who, coupled with my knowledge of Giles, convinces me that All Cheese Dudes Dropped A Fuckload of Acid in the 70s. And who now is the proud owner of the strangest conversation the wench has had, ever title. There’s a cheese store called The Better Cheddar, with one store on the MO side and one on the KS side, and we’d gone to the KS side once before. We had a lovely convo with the woman there, and even though I’d not been in there in 2 months, she recognized me yesterday, right off the bat. For once, I had a cheese question- i needed to know if the new dutch blue gouda was raw milk or pasteruized, since raw milk is verboten for me right now. She didn’t know, and went to call The Cheese Dude who should have been at the other store- alas, he wasn’t, but he potentially was on his way to the KS store. Sure enough, 15 min later, he showed up. She blathered the question at him and introduced me, and he peered at me intently with amber-green eyes.

CheeseDude: “You have eaten at 40 Sardines, yes? I have heard of you. I was told to look for you.”
Me: “Um. By Tim the Liquor guy?”
CD: “No, by others.” (gestures to the enormo case of cheese). “What do you like?”
Me: (thinking, okay, I live in a strange city where rumours of new foodies pass on the wind between the suppliers and restauranteurs. Oh.Kay.) And so began a rapid fire round of me naming a cheese, him countering, eventually working it’s way into a Lightning Round Death Match of Dairy, where he would ask what my favorite blah de blah type was, and if my choice met with his approval, he’d launch another question at me. It was like dealing with a cheese savant.

Finally, satisfied at my cheese knowledge, he pronounced, “You are wise in the ways of cheese.” And then, turning to the woman, he said, “She is strong with cheese knowledge, she will do.” And off he went into the back. I’m sorry, did I just impress with my cheese fu? Was I supposed to take on the Karate Kid Crane Stance, balancing a wedge of organic 5 year cheddar on my knee and grapeleaf wrapped goat cheese on my hands, ready to flip them violently at someone wielding velveeta?

As I was paying, he reappeared at my elbow, suddenly demanding- as if he’d just recalled the entire basis for the question- “You object to the raw milk cheese?” No you wacky skinny scary ass strange sentance construction man, I just can’t eat it cause I’m pregnant. Upon being reassured that I just adore raw milk cheese but can’t eat it thanks to Oby Gyn instructions, he nodded, and began to melt off into the back again. “Come back when your pregnancy is past, and we will share of the raw milk cheese with you.” Sure thing, Miyagi-san, I’ll see you in April for a festival of unpasteurized goat milk, and you can bet I’ll read up beforehand.

Let me say the following, since I’m so ranty you’d think I hate everyone and everything:

1. I am thrilled we’re pregnant.
2. I adore working from home and the phat life of a consultant.

And now, back to our regular Statler and Waldorf like commentary. I’m loving being a consultant. The intersection of pregnancy and consultancy is an interesting one, as people keep wanting to hire me for 2 year projects and I’m thinking ‘I’ll be awol for a bit, heh’. I’ve also noticed a strange karmic interplay: Another ridiculously annoying and painful pregnancy complication, 2 hours later get a phonecall offering me a contract on a cool project at ridiculously high pay. Hrm. I’m loving the professionalism of being doubled over with back cramps from my second kidney infection, while discussing per cap revenue streams. Not.

Meanwhile, fall hath arrived, and so have my peonies, 3 freakin weeks early, and our soil is pure clay, and so here I am, lovely kidney infection and all, stripping sod and tilling soil while the lad shows Matilda around campus as she’s in for an invited talk prepatory to us nefariously getting her a job down here, muahahaha! Oi. And Mom is back from France, and patiently talking me through how to do this as she tries to get back on some semblance of a normal sleep schedule. Which is hilarious and fabulous, because she’s so wacked out with exhaustion and jetlag that our conversation this morning went something along the lines of this:

Me: “So we bought a green ash but we can cancel the order, to fill in the gaping hole where the evil tree was. Can you look up the toxicity profile for me on that?”
Mom: “Green ashes are nice. Did I tell you about lunch with the Princess at her chateau?”
Me: “France still has titles? The hell?”
Mom: “Yes. And she has a lovely snuggly dog. The loveliest snuggliest dog ever. Just the cutest wootest thing, eees such a big luffmonster”
Me: “Uh, Mom, you’re scaring me.”
Mom: “And he would never ever eat a Green Ash, would he, the big snugglebeastie, no no no.”
Me: “Mom, the dog you’re talking cute to is 8,000 miles away.”
Mom: “What dog? We were talking about your padmore green ash. Honestly, you have pregnancy brain.”

On the pregnancy front, it’s officially a fetus. I officially have under a month to go before I’m out of first trimester. We are telling more people. Eventually we’ll just rent a goddamn billboard along I-70. A few folks at the Lad’s office know, largely because things are so paranoid and grapeviney there that whispers were running high that the Lad was accused of having a secret meeting with the new interim dean when in fact he was watching a blob with a heartbeat. I now have my second kidney infection and have been diagnosed with a particularly severe form of pregnancy related allergic rhinitis, because you know, my allergies just weren’t bad enough beforehand. Invest in kimberly clark, people, I’m burning through a box of tissues a day. Meanwhile, we are beginning to get the well meaning but pressure laden questions re: our childrearing plans. Breast or bottle? Cloth or disposable? Low fume emission paint for the nursery? Organic cotton burp cloths? A baby sling made from renewable resource harvested hand hammered to appropriate softness tree bark? Jogging stroller? SUV to carry the babyseat? Jaysus people, let’s have it get to the point of having a mouth and an ass before I worry about what I’m putting in one end and how I’m swaddling the other.

And now, off to do yard work, before I realize what utter stupidity this is. I cannot wait to attempt to plant 200 bulbs in this crap. Not.

Quack, and the fetus says badumbadumbadumbadumbadum about 179 times per minute.

Yes, time for that ritual of pregnancy, the first ultrasound, wherein the world’s Least Pleasurable Dildo is shoved up your hoohah and then torqued around to get a better look. Look ma, a cervix. Look mah, a thumb sized tadpole. With a little pitterpattering heart, awwwww. And limb buds! And a gargantuan head! We were probably 2 of the few people this poor tech has ever had who understand what we were looking at, so of course we started swapping stories of The Worst Anomaly We’d Ever Seen, cementing in the minds of the staff at my Oby Gyns that we are, in fact, a pair of Freaks who are Going to Hell.

So I’ve been sucking hard at the scrawlathon. And by sucking hard I mean ‘havent done shit’. But, incarceration speaks to me, perhaps because I’m realizing how very much trouble I could be in if the snarklet takes after me. I’ve been hauled off during protests on Daly Plaza, but never been in serious breakin the law! breakin the law! kind of trouble. But oh, did I exploit the ‘a smart kid wouldn’t misbehave, oh no!’ belief in high school. Among the highlights, with my reprobate friends:

-Helping to take apart the principal’s car and reassemble it in his office.
-Setting alarm clocks in each locker and scrambling the lock overrides by pouring sugar in them.
-Carpeting the floor of the principal’s office with thousands of dixiecups taped together and half filled with water. Good luck removing just one.
-Glad wrapping a dunkin donuts with people still inside
-Oreoing the asshole shop teacher’s brand new pickup truck. That creamy filling? Great for taking the finish layer off of paint.

And that? Pales in comparison to The Lad. God help us.

On the tree front! Resolved! We showed the wife the actual, bona fide survey pins. She realized the tree was on our side. We showed her our long term plan for the back yard. We showed her the core rot visible in the stump. Trala, all is well. And we nattered with her, and with some of the other neighbors, as I’ve essentially been a queasy hermit for 5 weeks and have seen no one. Today we were very good suburbanites.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nothing like procreation to make you confront your own mortality. Suddenly the flagrant, wanton ways of buying DVDs and CDs and books and just going for long weekends on a whim and dropping $100 on concert tickets with wild abandon go out the window, and you find yourself hiring a tax accountant, writing wills, buying life insurance, and essentially turning into that freakish black-socks-with-sandals tragically unhip shorts hoisted to armpits fishing hat wearing freakazoid fogey you swore, as your father pranced about in that getup, you would never ever become. And this would be how the Good Humour Pee Van wound up in our driveway this morning.

Yes indeedy, the pee van.

It seems that these days, you need to go through a battery of medical tests to even get life insurance, but because the Lad and I are young and healthy and don’t smoke and, say, shoot heroin, we don’t have to go to the doc for a slew of EEGs and EKGs and scans and crap, they just need to do blood and urine. And god forbid we be inconvenienced by having to get our suburban asses to the doc for this, noooo, we were informed that the draw would come to us. And so last night, we had to set the alarm for bright and early, cause the Pee Van was coming at 9 am today. The Lad and I were- and still are- confused and consternated by this concept, and had no idea what to expect. A winnebago with a couple of those recliner thingies like when you give blood? The most strangely rigged out good humour truck ever? Would a chipper little white van blaring tinny bell music pull into our driveway? We were disappointed. No music, it was more like the Pee Hatchback, and a male phlebotemist came in and drew our blood at the kitchen table and had a cheery little debate with the Lad about evolution, somehow managing to espouse that Darwin is crap yet of course genes evolve. The Lad, in one of the most remarkably displays of self restraint I’ve ever seen from him, did not rise to the bait, and instead decided discretion is the better part of valor when debating with someone who could, in a fit of pique, decide to taint your blood or urine and report you to the cops.

And so in 2 or 3 weeks time we’ll have life insurance. Next on the list of adult responsibilities: regular flossing and increasing our fiber. Shoot me now.

Hoop de Hoo, the tree saga continues. Plus, the LA lowdown.

So the Lad, as I mentioned yesterday, called NeighborWife to talk about the tree yesterday. As soon as she was talkin to a man, she backed down- suddenly the tree was split between the property, suddenly she assented to apologies much more readily (not like she put the screws to me, but as I apologized hysterically it took her a damn long time to say, ‘what’s done is done, let’s figure out what trees are on which side so this doesn’t happen again.’), blah blah blah. We’ll be getting together tomorrow- and I will graciously have a pot of coffee and a loaf of blueberry bread just waiting for them. When the lad got home yesterday, we went and looked at the survey stakes.

The tree was on our side. If not entirely, then more than 80%, which by law means it was our tree. Neener. Neeener. Neeeeeeener. I cannot wait to see where they claim the freakin stakes are- I’m willing to bet they point at old wooden stakes which were planting markers, and not the offficial metal survey stakes. Yes, the fence is inset approximate 15 inches onto their propety, but guess what, the Damn Evil Tree was inset 24 inches onto our side from the fence, which is a difference of 9 inches for you math wizards out there, so nyah nyah, our tree. Assuming we’re looking at it right. Which, admittedly, is a big assumption. Meantime, we’ll be submitting our 6-year yard plan to the architectural review committee of the subdivision to be on the very very safe side, once the plan is complete. Hoop. De. Hoo. (And today I get to pull pics of all the trees and bushes mom specified on the plan to dazzle the neighbors with. And as a particular haha, it turns out these neighbors accosted the neighbor to the immediate west of us and demanded they take down two trees on our westerly neighbors side of the fence because they were a hazard. Seems they never want to pay for tree removal, and want them out at will. Grrrr.) Hilariously, amidst all this hoohah yesterday, I got a chipper little email from White Flower Farm informing me that their half of my fall bulb and peony order has shipped! I sure as blazes won’t be tucking my 100 thalia and mount hood narcissus bulbs along the back freakin fenceline, that’s for sure. I won’t be doing crap-all along the fenceline. I won’t even put flats of pansies or impatients there. (Okay. I wouldn’t put flats of hot pink impatients anywhere. Because just as I eschew cheap cheese and embrace the boutique goat frommage, I’m a plant snob too. For some inexplicable reason, I have an unnatural hatred for those flowers. And if you’re a member of the Hot Pink Impatients Gardening Club, don’t bother writing me.)

Yes, I’m fully back in suburbia after 2.5 fantabulous (eh) days in LA. The clients are happy. The projects are very very cool. I could score more work out of this on other projects, which would rock. There’s something very wonderful about having people much more established in the industry than you be very grateful to you for your contribution. It’s warm and fuzzy. (Course, the mercenary consultant in me is bucking to know when the project gets funded damnit and thus income will roll on in a reasonable fashion). LA, as always, sucks ass greatly- the smog, the silicone, the rousing shallowness- but the industry I’m in and the little realm I occupy is usually protected from much of the fakery in meetings like this. In fact, the majority of meetings I was in are usually fundamentally cracked free-wheeling pools of craziness. Take the 5 or 10 most flamboyant, funny, intelligent people you know, stuff them in a room, give them a tanker full of caffeine, and say, “So, uh, given X topic, what cool ass shit would you want to do?” Is it any wonder you get lovely phrases like ‘Facilitated Erection Experience’ out of meetings like that? We were talking about an interactive about architecture and ancient building methods! No really!

I love my job.

(Yes, I’m horribly horribly behind on the Scrawl-a-thon. I’ll write on a few topics tomorrow. I swear.)

There are moments of home ownership which are cosmically bad, and, years hence, cosmically funny. Like the day my parents were told the swimming pool and surrounding patio in Florida were at risk of detaching from the house and sliding down into the canal. Like the day the Lad’s parents came to their new house to find the previous owner had ordered a fence and had it installed after he sold the house. Like the day we had a giant, broken, half-rotted, dangerous tree in our backyard removed, that was actually on the neighbor’s property!

Whoopsie.

See, the neighbors behind us have this fence. And on our side of the fence are many large, lovely trees. And several spectacularly crappy ones left over from when the treeline was a farm line. And by ’spectacularly crappy’ I mean ‘evil tree so hazardous that the Director of Plant Production and the Chief Horticulturist for the Chicago Botanic Gardens, one of the most respected bg’s in the country, looked at the photos of it and screamed hysterically like a 14 year old girl with a bigass zit the night of her first big date, “Get rid of it! Make it go away!” here’s a taste. I dare you to click on the ‘thorns’ link and not leap back in your seat. Our lovely version of this was thickly girdled with those thorns beginning 3 feet off of the ground and going all the way up- the thorns had never been stripped- plus the crown of the tree was broken in two places thanks to last year’s ice storm and had allowed the core of the tree to begin to rot. The tree is thoroughly on our side of the fence line, except today- after giving the neighbor the heads up we were getting the tree looked at and it might have to come down, out of courtsey since several of the limbs spread onto ‘their property’- they inform us that the tree was on their side, the fence is were it is cause the property line bisects some of the trees, then when the Lad talked to them they said well, the tree wasn’t all on their side, it was bisected between the property, so we should have gotten their okay before removing it. I went hysterical apologizing to them, until I’d finally slavered enough that the wife said, “Okay, no more of that now, we’ll go over the survey lines with you”, and now we have to slap a new tree in there pronto tonto, and also get a stake survey to the tune of $350 so this doesn’t happen again.

Some day I will laugh about this. I just don’t know when.

So I’m of two (exhausted) minds as I write this: revulsion at self and self-righteous bitchyass ranting. So you, the gentle reader, get ranting. I’m too tired for the self loathing.

I have- shockingly- never had a pedicure. Nope. And given that I run about barefoot or in clogs or in tevas, my feet looked like I was some granola eatin hippie freak. Here in Johnson County, where the restaurants are split into pedicure and non pedicure sections, I felt a wee smidge out of place, but no bother. But next week I have a business trip, one where I will be going for chichi dinners in Beverly Hills, and Hobbitfeet just won’t do. So off I went to my salon and spa.

Just my luck to end up sitting next to Perky McBlonde, who apparently is an uber regular, showing pics of her not yet 7 weeks old child, and her pedicurist was asking her about the delivery. I’m not of a mood to hear about delays in getting an epidural, or 20 hours of labor, or induction, or how fucking much having your water broken hurts (much less precisely why it hurts- thank you for the demonstration of the size of the plastic doohickey they use and how dialated your cervix was at the time, madam). But the real kick in the pants was when she stood up to leave. So help me, the woman was a size 4. Tight black shirt, tight crop khakis. And she spawned less than 7 weeks ago! The pedicurists all marvelled, telling her how good she looks.

And Perky McBlonde snits, “I still have 15 pounds to go.”

Yes. Pre-pregnancy she was a size 0.

I don’t think I’ve been a size 0 since Ricky Martin was in Menudo.

My body is not my own. (Yeah, I know, newsflash) And this entry will speak to the female readers out there; if I even have a male reader, I apologize in advance. I’m afraid the LJ is descending into a baby obsessed pit of madness, for which I apologize, but between the neverending nausea and the upcoming rant, it’s really consuming my brain- what little of my brain remains. (And yes. I know what date it is. And right now I’m too angry at my jingoistic new hometown and tired and sad and fixedly not turning on the tv to talk about it. Hindsight will be good. Maybe tomorrow)

I’m turning into Charo. Or Dolly Parton, Anna Nicole Smith, what have you. My bra size went up- I shit you not- 2 cup sizes in 3 days. 3 days!! The girls are gi-freakin-normous. I have a business meeting in LA next week and I have jack all to wear that won’t make me look like the covershot of ‘Top Heavy Tarts’. I am wandering the house in a selection of microfiber stretch pants or jeans and bigass men’s oxfords from the gap. Meanwhile, because I can’t really eat much before 7 pm at night, and even then I can’t really pack it in like a horse at the feedbag, I’m getting between one half to three-fourths of the daily caloric load I ought to be, so my jeans are sagging on my hips and ass (fortunately, I have a most prodigious set of hips and ass and pudge for the snarklet to feed off of), so I look like some deranged suburbanite pretty-fly-for-a-white-guy homey. Yet, with an oxford. It’s like I’m Boyz II Men, yet very fucking obviously female. If the breasts continue to grow at this rate, they will occlude my breathing, if not by crushing my chest then by blocking my nose and mouth. The lad stares at them in bed, fascinated- it’s like his wildest dream come true!- yet tormented because he’s at fault and is reminded of this. Daily. “I’m sorry you can’t eat.” “Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault- wait a minute! Yes it is!”

And of course, I’m terrfied of flying to LA next week. I’m a bad flier to begin with. What if something happens? What if I hurl on the plane? In the meeting? Won’t that be professional. “Well that’s an interesting profit profile you have there, but have you taken into account the fact that the market can only bear bllllllllurgh.” What if the schmooze-o-riffic dinner meetings are held at the Sushi-n-Vodka Palace, where tonight’s special is Brie and Crack? What if the 40 min connection in Denver isn’t enough for me to race my ass from one plane to another?

What if while I’m there the bodacious tatas breach the DD/D cup size and enter hitherto undreamt of sections of the alphabet, while I’m in a meeting, popping buttons left and right. “And as you can see by my man-eatin cachongas, I’m an expert in my field. Please hire me.”

So I have a new voice recognition software package. It’s kind of tricky and trippy- God help you if you sneeze, or belch. Heaven knows what English word it will spit out for your bodily functions.

So there’s a thread on three-way action about trading spaces, and one of Saturday’s episodes featured a house with structural challenges. It prompted fahrvergnugen to refer to the Cambodian Whorehouse. The C W was the first house the lad and I looked at. This was no fault of ours; we had strictly instructed Stan the real estate agent we wanted no fixer-uppers, a good kitchen, and a good neighborhood. Stan took this to mean a ‘great crumbling ark of a house featuring at least 7 different decor styles, staircases flagrantly against code, structural problems so bad the house had a distinct cant, and a cosmically ooky feeling’. The people selling the house had- in a great show of misguided enthusiam- written the story of the house on a tearsheet out front, telling how it had been built at the turn of the century, split into living quarters during WWII, and by 1989 bought by a Cambodian gentleman who converted the basement into ‘living quarters’ for the ‘many female relatives’ he ‘brought over to work’, including firepits in the basement for their convenience. He was forced to sell due to ‘code violations’. The woman who bought is had, the paper trumpted, worked to restore the house to its former glory. Its former glory apparently included a bright yellow and chinoserie kitchen, a ti-leaf butler’s pantry, a leopard print bathroom, a mardi-gras bathroom featuring no door, just a curtain made of shiny bead necklaces, and don’t get me started on the bedrooms. We didn’t check the basement, despite Stan’s entreaties to, we didn’t have to. The floorboards were so split we could see down into it from upstairs.

I’d love to see Doug from Trading Spaces take on that beast.