Let's talk about food aversions. They're not as bad as morning sickness, I will grant them that, but when they're persistent, they can still make a hungry lady's life pretty miserable.
My food aversions are not just me disliking food I used to like. I can look at a plate full of perfectly cooked cheesy scrambled eggs, and all I see are the rotting entrails of several cats, topped in shredded maggot. And eating is not just a matter of closing my eyes and choking it down anyway. If something doesn't sound good, my body will reject it, and I'll throw up within fifteen minutes. I don't know what causes this, but it's really, really annoying.
(ETA: I don't ever feel sick unless I eat something that sounds gross. Or sometimes after I take a vitamin. Or if my stomach has been empty for most of the day. So I'm actually not miserable all the time, just hungry.)
It's much more persistent this time around. This is probably why I've only gained a total of five or six pounds, which is fine by me. If I can manage to eat a good protein-rich breakfast right away in the morning with lots of water and take half my vitamins (vitamins on empty stomach = blaaaaarhhhhftz), the days usually goes pretty well, and the aversions aren't so bad. But that's IF I wake up wanting to eat something other than a celery stick and a Cheerio.
Some days it's only healthy food I can eat, which is nice. I stuff myself silly on lettuce and mangoes and chicken breast and feel good about myself at the end of the day. Other days, it's only lettuce. And then I starve all day, but at least I'm not eating something devoid of nutrition. I feel lousy and tired and heartburny, but I console myself that I've had plenty of vitamins A, B and C that day.
And then we have today and yesterday, and the day before that and the day before that. All I want is bad, bad food--the kind that sits in my stomach for three days, encased in a ball of grease and sodium. We don't generally keep that kind of stuff around the house, mainly because I have NO RESTRAINT in the face of bad snack foods. So I've been wasting away on the couch, every cell in my brain fixated intently on beef soft tacos supreme from Taco Bell. Why Taco Bell? I have no idea. I'm not even sure they use bovine flesh in their tacos. I eat it maybe once every six months (and it's always when a strange craving for the stuff takes over out of nowhere... hmmm).
We don't even have a Taco Bell in this town. Yes, that's right, I live in a town that HAS NO TACO BELL.
James went out last night, and at ten o'clock, after a full day in which I ate a piece of toast with peanut butter, a mango, an orange, and six spoonfuls of plain yogurt, my brain finally lit upon the one thing that would make me happy and complete: the Taco Bell. So I called him and asked him if he could pick some up for me on the way home. When he got home with it a few hours later, I think the intensity of my face-stuffing scared him a little.
I was already in bed when he got there. He came upstairs to see if I was still awake, and he neglected to bring the bag of food with him.
Me: Where are my tacos?
Him: Oh, I was just seeing if you were awake first. You want me to bring it up.
Me: YES. PLEASE. NOW.
(I may not have said please.)
And when he came back upstairs, I sat in bed hunched over my two tacos like a starving vulture on the last piece of roadkill in Arizona, and I shoveled them down in about ten seconds.
Usually that takes care of it. My focus narrows to one single food, which I must have before life can go on, and then once I have it, I'm over it. Actually, I'm usually disgusted by it after that (one of my most annoying food aversions: leftovers. No matter how delicious the meal, anything that's spent time in the fridge post-meal becomes a horror of rotting flesh and congealing vegetable matter).
But not Taco Bell. Oh no. I now want MOAR MOAR MOAR of the stuff. Right now, my vision of a perfect meal is a pyramid of soft tacos stacked up to the ceiling.
So what I'd like to know is, what is in the stupid beef soft taco supreme that is so special? Is it a drug? A special chemical? What does my body want out of such a thing? I really wish I could figure it out because this is going to get expensive.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Babies, owls and cheese
I was all excited to post an ultrasound picture here, but our printer/scanner is hooked up to my husband's computer now, and he doesn't have the scanner driver on his computer, so they won't talk to each other, and all I can do is make photocopies of the pictures, which doesn't really help unless I mail them all to you, and that would just be stupid. And expensive. And as much as I like you all, I don't like you that much.
Also, I have coined a new term: FauxD. As in FauxD ultrasound, NOT 4D, because SUCH A THING CANNOT EXIST. That way you all know what I'm talking about, and I do not have to use language I object to.
So, we got some pretty good pictures of 2.0. Now, I realize that FauxD ultrasound images are kind of all smushy and globby looking, but I swear to you this child looks just like Grace. She is already chubby (the ultrasound tech even noted this with some surprise, but I'm not alarmed since I've taken TWO blood glucose tests this time around, and all is normal). And she DEFINITELY has my nose.
She is 5 pounds right now. This is... large. But not DANGERHUGEDANGER like Grace was at this point, even if the ultrasound is underestimating by a pound. If she comes a week early like Grace did, there's a chance I could have a normal-sized baby. That would be awesome.
The doctor I saw Monday was the one who performed my C-section; he's also the one who I had my first prenatal appointment with, the one who seemed the most leery of a VBAC. At this appointment he asked what we were thinking of doing, and I said I didn't want to schedule a C-section. I was expecting some resistance--not pressure, 'cause that's not the way these people roll, which I really like, but slight resistance, like maybe an eye twitch or a certain tone of voice. Instead, he just said, "Okay, sounds good!"
I said, "Oh. Huh. You seemed to be the one least in favor of taking that route at my first appointment."
He said, "I did? That's really weird. I normally try to be as low-intervention as possible." So. I don't know. Maybe when I saw him last he'd recently had a VBAC go awry, and it was fresh in his memory. Whatever the reasons, that relieved the last little bit of apprehension I had about not scheduling a C-section.
Enough about babies. I'm sick of talking about babies.
I almost hit an owl on the way to James's mom's house a few nights ago. We came over for New Year's Eve, and on this dark, icy road into her development, there was this giant bird, just hanging out on top of a hunk of snow. I hit the brakes as hard as I dared. Luckily, it saw us and took off. Once it started flying, we realized just how huge it was. I'm pretty sure it was a great horned owl, but that's based solely on my spotty memory and pictures on the Internet.
Also, in my ten minutes of research I discovered that the barred owl is possibly one of the creepiest-looking birds on earth:
Tell me those soulless pools of darkness don't make you want to pull the covers up over you head.
And finally, I'm kind of obsessed with owls now. Odd.
I did A Bad Thing today.
Whenever I find out someone is pregnant, my first inclination is to be all, "Oh, hey! THIS is what happened to me! And THIS is how it works! And, also, when they tell you not to do THIS, you should know that's totally outdated advice, and it's perfectly safe, don't worry!" And then I realize how obnoxious that is, and I shut my trap and just wait for people to ask me, which almost never happens, but when it does it makes me really happy hint hint hint.
Well. An Facebook friend of mine from church growing up is now with child, and she posted an update about wanting cheese, cheese, more cheeeese! and I started writing a response about how I ate nothing but grilled cheese and quesadillas for months, and with Grace it was nothing but potatoes and pancakes, and blah blah pregnancy is weird. Or something. And then I saw that someone ELSE had written something about soft cheeses being DANGEROUS, with a UK link, and I just HAD to correct that person and say something about how soft cheeses are fine, so long as they're pasteurized, which pretty much all cheeses in the US are, unless you go looking for unpasteurized cheese. And then I hit "Comment" without really thinking about it, and now I kind of feel like a dork.
I HATE being That Guy, the one who has to correct everybody. I was That Guy in elementary school; I was school's biggest dork, constantly picked on, and the only thing I HAD was the fact that I was smarter than all those [redacted], so I was constantly all, "Well, actually, you're WRONG, and here's WHY, and you're DUMBER THAN I AM." As you can imagine, that kind of snottiness really backfires on a nerd. And then the double whammy is that it was That Guy + Unsolicited Pregnancy Advice, and if this seems really stupid to some of you, that's probably because it is, but I am still worked up about it.
Ahem.
I'm going to go eat a whole bunch of cheese now because I just realized I haven't had any in, like, 16 hours.
Also, I have coined a new term: FauxD. As in FauxD ultrasound, NOT 4D, because SUCH A THING CANNOT EXIST. That way you all know what I'm talking about, and I do not have to use language I object to.
So, we got some pretty good pictures of 2.0. Now, I realize that FauxD ultrasound images are kind of all smushy and globby looking, but I swear to you this child looks just like Grace. She is already chubby (the ultrasound tech even noted this with some surprise, but I'm not alarmed since I've taken TWO blood glucose tests this time around, and all is normal). And she DEFINITELY has my nose.
She is 5 pounds right now. This is... large. But not DANGERHUGEDANGER like Grace was at this point, even if the ultrasound is underestimating by a pound. If she comes a week early like Grace did, there's a chance I could have a normal-sized baby. That would be awesome.
The doctor I saw Monday was the one who performed my C-section; he's also the one who I had my first prenatal appointment with, the one who seemed the most leery of a VBAC. At this appointment he asked what we were thinking of doing, and I said I didn't want to schedule a C-section. I was expecting some resistance--not pressure, 'cause that's not the way these people roll, which I really like, but slight resistance, like maybe an eye twitch or a certain tone of voice. Instead, he just said, "Okay, sounds good!"
I said, "Oh. Huh. You seemed to be the one least in favor of taking that route at my first appointment."
He said, "I did? That's really weird. I normally try to be as low-intervention as possible." So. I don't know. Maybe when I saw him last he'd recently had a VBAC go awry, and it was fresh in his memory. Whatever the reasons, that relieved the last little bit of apprehension I had about not scheduling a C-section.
Enough about babies. I'm sick of talking about babies.
I almost hit an owl on the way to James's mom's house a few nights ago. We came over for New Year's Eve, and on this dark, icy road into her development, there was this giant bird, just hanging out on top of a hunk of snow. I hit the brakes as hard as I dared. Luckily, it saw us and took off. Once it started flying, we realized just how huge it was. I'm pretty sure it was a great horned owl, but that's based solely on my spotty memory and pictures on the Internet.
Also, in my ten minutes of research I discovered that the barred owl is possibly one of the creepiest-looking birds on earth:
Tell me those soulless pools of darkness don't make you want to pull the covers up over you head.
And finally, I'm kind of obsessed with owls now. Odd.
I did A Bad Thing today.
Whenever I find out someone is pregnant, my first inclination is to be all, "Oh, hey! THIS is what happened to me! And THIS is how it works! And, also, when they tell you not to do THIS, you should know that's totally outdated advice, and it's perfectly safe, don't worry!" And then I realize how obnoxious that is, and I shut my trap and just wait for people to ask me, which almost never happens, but when it does it makes me really happy hint hint hint.
Well. An Facebook friend of mine from church growing up is now with child, and she posted an update about wanting cheese, cheese, more cheeeese! and I started writing a response about how I ate nothing but grilled cheese and quesadillas for months, and with Grace it was nothing but potatoes and pancakes, and blah blah pregnancy is weird. Or something. And then I saw that someone ELSE had written something about soft cheeses being DANGEROUS, with a UK link, and I just HAD to correct that person and say something about how soft cheeses are fine, so long as they're pasteurized, which pretty much all cheeses in the US are, unless you go looking for unpasteurized cheese. And then I hit "Comment" without really thinking about it, and now I kind of feel like a dork.
I HATE being That Guy, the one who has to correct everybody. I was That Guy in elementary school; I was school's biggest dork, constantly picked on, and the only thing I HAD was the fact that I was smarter than all those [redacted], so I was constantly all, "Well, actually, you're WRONG, and here's WHY, and you're DUMBER THAN I AM." As you can imagine, that kind of snottiness really backfires on a nerd. And then the double whammy is that it was That Guy + Unsolicited Pregnancy Advice, and if this seems really stupid to some of you, that's probably because it is, but I am still worked up about it.
Ahem.
I'm going to go eat a whole bunch of cheese now because I just realized I haven't had any in, like, 16 hours.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Fancy ultrasound! Maybe.
Ultrasound tomorrow! Woo!
2.0 had better cooperate, unlike someone else we know who refused to show her face but was all LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME when it came to the girlie bits.
Last time, I was so excited for the 32-week ultrasound. They do the *4D or 3D or whatever it's called, and you get a nice little DVD of your precious wee squid's little face, blah de blah de blah. Well, The Child decided that day was a good day to hide behind the placenta, so the fancy ultrasound didn't happen. Feh. I'm still excited about this one, but no more than the others. I don't want to get all disappointed again.
(*4D? I do not understand how you can have an ultrasound in four dimensions. I mean, no matter how nice it is, it will always be two-dimensional. At best, it's faux 3D, since yes, the eye can translate a 2D image into three dimensions, but I refuse to believe that a photograph can capture both time and space, or am I missing something here? Do we have new technology?)
Now, I think this baby is smaller. All my clothes fit better now than they did at this time with Grace. And **last I checked, I was way behind on weight gain compared to my first. Finally, my fundal height is measuring normal, and with Grace it was consistently 3-4 cm ahead after about 24 weeks or so.
(**This would be before Christmas, I admit. I have not had the guts to weigh myself since I spent a week at my grandma-in-law's house eating fabulous cookies and all kinds of good comfort food, and then, of course, there was the road food on the way there and back, and the food-you-eat-when-you-are-totally-exhausted-and-get-home-from-a-trip-and-there's-nothing-in-the-refrigerator kind of food, and oh, I do not want to have to worry about 40 pounds of baby weight yet again. Especially if I have another C-section and everything's a struggle for six months anyway.)
But then yesterday I looked at myself sideways in the mirror, and either that mirror is bent in the middle, or somebody was doing a headstand on my spine, like this:
My spine
|
|o>-< <--"somebody"
|
or this baby just got huuuuge. She doesn't seem huge, really. But now I'm starting to think that's just wishful thinking. We kind of find out tomorrow, I guess (only kind of because ultrasounds are not terribly accurate).
Grace was measured at 6.5 pounds by this point. Six. Point. Five. Pounds. I remember getting these weekly emails from What to Expect, and right around the time I got my 32-week ultrasound, they sent me one that said something like, "Your baby is now about 3 pounds!" and then I snorted coffee through my nose onto my laptop screen.
So, here's to Emmeline being a wee little thing. Or at least wee enough that she can exit in the normal way (please oh please oh please).
2.0 had better cooperate, unlike someone else we know who refused to show her face but was all LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME when it came to the girlie bits.
Last time, I was so excited for the 32-week ultrasound. They do the *4D or 3D or whatever it's called, and you get a nice little DVD of your precious wee squid's little face, blah de blah de blah. Well, The Child decided that day was a good day to hide behind the placenta, so the fancy ultrasound didn't happen. Feh. I'm still excited about this one, but no more than the others. I don't want to get all disappointed again.
(*4D? I do not understand how you can have an ultrasound in four dimensions. I mean, no matter how nice it is, it will always be two-dimensional. At best, it's faux 3D, since yes, the eye can translate a 2D image into three dimensions, but I refuse to believe that a photograph can capture both time and space, or am I missing something here? Do we have new technology?)
Now, I think this baby is smaller. All my clothes fit better now than they did at this time with Grace. And **last I checked, I was way behind on weight gain compared to my first. Finally, my fundal height is measuring normal, and with Grace it was consistently 3-4 cm ahead after about 24 weeks or so.
(**This would be before Christmas, I admit. I have not had the guts to weigh myself since I spent a week at my grandma-in-law's house eating fabulous cookies and all kinds of good comfort food, and then, of course, there was the road food on the way there and back, and the food-you-eat-when-you-are-totally-exhausted-and-get-home-from-a-trip-and-there's-nothing-in-the-refrigerator kind of food, and oh, I do not want to have to worry about 40 pounds of baby weight yet again. Especially if I have another C-section and everything's a struggle for six months anyway.)
But then yesterday I looked at myself sideways in the mirror, and either that mirror is bent in the middle, or somebody was doing a headstand on my spine, like this:
My spine
|
|o>-< <--"somebody"
|
or this baby just got huuuuge. She doesn't seem huge, really. But now I'm starting to think that's just wishful thinking. We kind of find out tomorrow, I guess (only kind of because ultrasounds are not terribly accurate).
Grace was measured at 6.5 pounds by this point. Six. Point. Five. Pounds. I remember getting these weekly emails from What to Expect, and right around the time I got my 32-week ultrasound, they sent me one that said something like, "Your baby is now about 3 pounds!" and then I snorted coffee through my nose onto my laptop screen.
So, here's to Emmeline being a wee little thing. Or at least wee enough that she can exit in the normal way (please oh please oh please).
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Christmas, a terrible-but-delicious recipe, etc
(recipe at the bottom)
I really, really like socks. The more insane the better. At Christmas, when everyone opens up their packages of garish atrocities, I cross my fingers that they'll pass them on to me.
This year I only got one pair of socks. Black with red and white candy canes. I was disappointed. I usually get at least three pair. Sigh. James got a three-pack of nice Chaps socks with fuzzy lining around the sole of the foot. I eyed them covetously, but he always needs new socks, and besides, his feet dwarf even my flippers.
So we got all our gifts home, and I threw all the clothes in the wash, and hey! out of the dryer came three pairs of very tightly-knit, very nice, very SMALL (compared to what they were) socks. So I did, after all, get more than one pair of socks for Christmas. Even if I had to accidentally steal them from my husband.
He got a really nice flannel button-down shirt from his mom for Christmas, too. I didn't try to shrink it--I followed the washing instructions and everything--, but I must admit I did hope, just a little bit...
No dice. Stupid well-made shirt didn't even shrink a millimeter.
(but I can still wear it to bed, HAH!)
Other stuff we got:
Me: From my brother- and mother-in-law, a whole bunch of the one and only perfume in the world that doesn't smell like cat butts on me, Chanel Chance. I don't know what's wrong with me, but any other fragrance just turns sour the second it comes into contact with my skin. This Chanel stuff actually smells better on me than it does in the bottle. I wonder what the difference is. I have body sprays and things, but I always spray them on my clothing, never on my skin. Anyway, my brother-in-law retrieved the name of this perfume from somewhere in the back of his head. I ran out years ago, and I don't exactly talk about perfume all day, so I was pretty impressed.
Grace: She had a walking toy that she liked and used, but she got another one (this isn't the exact one she got; I can't find hers, so maybe this is the newer model) for Christmas from Jeremy's aunt. HOLY COWS. The Child is obsessed. She walks around ALL DAY with it, laughing maniacally. It was a great gift.
HOWEVER. It has two different sound settings, presumably one soft and one loud. Hah. Hah. Hah. Soft = I CAN STILL HEAR THAT STUPID MUSIC ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE HOUSE. Loud = I CAN'T HEAR ANYTHING ANYMORE. I don't know what they were thinking, but this toy may make me completely crazy before she finally learns to walk on her own.
Me/Grace/James/Emmeline (even though it was for the girls, James and I were so thrilled with it, it might as well have been for all of us): From my mother-in-law, a Radio flyer wagon (I had an image up here, but Amazon won't let you direct link to their images, so feh).
When we went to Colorado, my sister had one of these, and we took it on one of the outings. Grace loved it, we exclaimed over it, and then I kind of forgot about it. Yeah, it'd be nice to have one, but we are cheapskates. So, when we opened it up, we were ecstatic. This thing is awesome. There are two seat with seat belts and four cup holders. The seats fold down, so you can do all kinds of things with it (like take baby for walk, fold down seats, put down cushy blankets, and voila! a portable crib. It'll be good both for baby/toddler and for when the girls get older. And judging by the beating it took when we put it together, the thing is indestructible.
We got all kinds of good gifts, but those are the ones that stick out the most.
The Child is feeling much better today, but is still really, really clingy. Today I don't really have much to do, but I hope this doesn't last too long. Otherwise we'll be up to our ears in dirty clothes and dishes. That would be smelly.
We had a great time yesterday with our friend. I managed to shower and blow-dry my hair, go grocery shopping with a baby, stop at the bakery, wash three loads of dishes (most of them from cooking), do some laundry, clean a bathroom, pick up the house AND cook dinner all before James even got home from work. All this and I STILL remembered to put pants on. It's a Christmas miracle!
Dinner was delicious, but I can't really take credit for it. For a wedding present, my sister gave me a one-year subscription to Easy Everyday Cooking, and this chicken dish was one of those recipes. Sadly, they are no longer in print. I went to restart my subscription a while ago and couldn't. And then I cried.
This thing is a heart attack in a casserole dish, so I never make it, but it's so easy I think even Grace couldn't screw it up. Even if I fed her a shot of whiskey first.
Chicken Milano (Yes, I'm sure people who know real Italian Cuisine cringe at that title, but I DON'T CARE. It's delicious.)
(I like to brine chicken ahead of time in some salt/sugar water for about an hour, but it's still very juicy and good if you don't do that)
Preheat oven to 350.
Trim, rinse and pat dry chicken. Place one whole stick of butter in a frying pan and set to medium heat (recipe says medium high, but it ALWAYS burns when I do it this way, and I've made this one three different stoves).
While all that delicious butter is melting, roll each chicken breast in small bowl of flour, dip in beaten egg, then roll in bowl of bread crumbs (this part does get messy; I have to keep cleaning off my fingers in between chicken breasts or the egg mixture on my fingers keeps taking off the breading coating from the chicken).
Place chicken breasts in pan o' melted butter, and cook for about ten minutes, turning once. (I take comfort in the fact that about half the butter is still left when I remove the chicken from the pan)
Meanwhile, mix marinara and half and half in casserole dish (I have a 2.5-qt oval Corningware dish that's perfect for this--high sides, just big enough for all the chicken, and not so shallow and wide that all the liquid sits on the bottom while the chicken dries out), holding back about 2 tablespoons.
Mix all three cheese together in a small bowl. Set aside.
When chicken is done, place in casserole dish, cover with cheese, then drizzle remaining sauce over the top of the cheese. Cover and bake for 30 minutes.
Now I need to go get into some leftovers. Bye.
I really, really like socks. The more insane the better. At Christmas, when everyone opens up their packages of garish atrocities, I cross my fingers that they'll pass them on to me.
This year I only got one pair of socks. Black with red and white candy canes. I was disappointed. I usually get at least three pair. Sigh. James got a three-pack of nice Chaps socks with fuzzy lining around the sole of the foot. I eyed them covetously, but he always needs new socks, and besides, his feet dwarf even my flippers.
So we got all our gifts home, and I threw all the clothes in the wash, and hey! out of the dryer came three pairs of very tightly-knit, very nice, very SMALL (compared to what they were) socks. So I did, after all, get more than one pair of socks for Christmas. Even if I had to accidentally steal them from my husband.
He got a really nice flannel button-down shirt from his mom for Christmas, too. I didn't try to shrink it--I followed the washing instructions and everything--, but I must admit I did hope, just a little bit...
No dice. Stupid well-made shirt didn't even shrink a millimeter.
(but I can still wear it to bed, HAH!)
Other stuff we got:
Me: From my brother- and mother-in-law, a whole bunch of the one and only perfume in the world that doesn't smell like cat butts on me, Chanel Chance. I don't know what's wrong with me, but any other fragrance just turns sour the second it comes into contact with my skin. This Chanel stuff actually smells better on me than it does in the bottle. I wonder what the difference is. I have body sprays and things, but I always spray them on my clothing, never on my skin. Anyway, my brother-in-law retrieved the name of this perfume from somewhere in the back of his head. I ran out years ago, and I don't exactly talk about perfume all day, so I was pretty impressed.
Grace: She had a walking toy that she liked and used, but she got another one (this isn't the exact one she got; I can't find hers, so maybe this is the newer model) for Christmas from Jeremy's aunt. HOLY COWS. The Child is obsessed. She walks around ALL DAY with it, laughing maniacally. It was a great gift.
HOWEVER. It has two different sound settings, presumably one soft and one loud. Hah. Hah. Hah. Soft = I CAN STILL HEAR THAT STUPID MUSIC ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE HOUSE. Loud = I CAN'T HEAR ANYTHING ANYMORE. I don't know what they were thinking, but this toy may make me completely crazy before she finally learns to walk on her own.
Me/Grace/James/Emmeline (even though it was for the girls, James and I were so thrilled with it, it might as well have been for all of us): From my mother-in-law, a Radio flyer wagon (I had an image up here, but Amazon won't let you direct link to their images, so feh).
When we went to Colorado, my sister had one of these, and we took it on one of the outings. Grace loved it, we exclaimed over it, and then I kind of forgot about it. Yeah, it'd be nice to have one, but we are cheapskates. So, when we opened it up, we were ecstatic. This thing is awesome. There are two seat with seat belts and four cup holders. The seats fold down, so you can do all kinds of things with it (like take baby for walk, fold down seats, put down cushy blankets, and voila! a portable crib. It'll be good both for baby/toddler and for when the girls get older. And judging by the beating it took when we put it together, the thing is indestructible.
We got all kinds of good gifts, but those are the ones that stick out the most.
The Child is feeling much better today, but is still really, really clingy. Today I don't really have much to do, but I hope this doesn't last too long. Otherwise we'll be up to our ears in dirty clothes and dishes. That would be smelly.
We had a great time yesterday with our friend. I managed to shower and blow-dry my hair, go grocery shopping with a baby, stop at the bakery, wash three loads of dishes (most of them from cooking), do some laundry, clean a bathroom, pick up the house AND cook dinner all before James even got home from work. All this and I STILL remembered to put pants on. It's a Christmas miracle!
Dinner was delicious, but I can't really take credit for it. For a wedding present, my sister gave me a one-year subscription to Easy Everyday Cooking, and this chicken dish was one of those recipes. Sadly, they are no longer in print. I went to restart my subscription a while ago and couldn't. And then I cried.
This thing is a heart attack in a casserole dish, so I never make it, but it's so easy I think even Grace couldn't screw it up. Even if I fed her a shot of whiskey first.
Chicken Milano (Yes, I'm sure people who know real Italian Cuisine cringe at that title, but I DON'T CARE. It's delicious.)
- 24 oz boneless, skinless chicken breasts (the recipe calls for 6 4-oz chicken breasts, but never in my life have I encountered a chicken breast that small, which is probably what I get for buying the cheapest, most hormone-laden chicken I can find that still looks edible)
- 1/2 cup butter (yes, a whole stick of butter)
- Italian bread crumbs
- flour
- 2 eggs, beaten
- 1/2 cup shredded Swiss cheese
- 1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
- 1/4 cup Parmesan cheese
- 1 cup half and half
- 1 cup marinara sauce
(I like to brine chicken ahead of time in some salt/sugar water for about an hour, but it's still very juicy and good if you don't do that)
Preheat oven to 350.
Trim, rinse and pat dry chicken. Place one whole stick of butter in a frying pan and set to medium heat (recipe says medium high, but it ALWAYS burns when I do it this way, and I've made this one three different stoves).
While all that delicious butter is melting, roll each chicken breast in small bowl of flour, dip in beaten egg, then roll in bowl of bread crumbs (this part does get messy; I have to keep cleaning off my fingers in between chicken breasts or the egg mixture on my fingers keeps taking off the breading coating from the chicken).
Place chicken breasts in pan o' melted butter, and cook for about ten minutes, turning once. (I take comfort in the fact that about half the butter is still left when I remove the chicken from the pan)
Meanwhile, mix marinara and half and half in casserole dish (I have a 2.5-qt oval Corningware dish that's perfect for this--high sides, just big enough for all the chicken, and not so shallow and wide that all the liquid sits on the bottom while the chicken dries out), holding back about 2 tablespoons.
Mix all three cheese together in a small bowl. Set aside.
When chicken is done, place in casserole dish, cover with cheese, then drizzle remaining sauce over the top of the cheese. Cover and bake for 30 minutes.
Now I need to go get into some leftovers. Bye.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Go away burglars
Oh, hi there! I am back from Indiana, so you may wish to shelve your plans to rob my house. Not that there's anything particularly valuable here. I think my laptop is probably the best you'll find, and it's three years old.
The trip was pretty uneventful. Nothing insane happened, no near-death experiences. The Child, of course, screamed on the way there and on the way back, but only for about an hour each way. And it never reached Nazgûl Shriek levels. So, distressing and irritating, to be sure, but oh, it could have been worse.
The best part? She slept like a champ the whole time we were there. Well, the second night not so much. We shared a room with her the first two nights. First night, she crashed and slept like the dead for 13 hours. Second night, she was all caught up on sleep, knew we were in there with her, and decided that meant it was party time. So we moved out to the living room floor.
There were lots of card games, and way too much good food (I'm pretty sure I gained at least five pounds), and even more fun. After going to Colorado, I was dreading this trip. But a baby who sleeps makes ALL the difference.
Tomorrow an old college friend is coming for a visit. We haven't seen him since shortly after we were married. He was an usher in our wedding, but then he had to go and move to the other side of the country. It's too bad because he's one of the funnier people I've ever known.
Anyway, I'm excited, but, of course, The Child has chosen this week to go and get sick. I'm not sure what's wrong with her. She's been mildly feverish for a day now and has had a slightly upset stomach for the last three days. Good timing, Grace!
(Of course I'm more concerned for how she feels than I am for the state of our house when our friend gets here tomorrow, but I still wish she could have waited a couple days longer to get sick)
I don't really know what to do with a sick baby, except chase her around with a cup of water all day (when I got her up this morning, she downed about 7 ounces in less than a minute). She needs to eat, of course, but I don't want to feed her too much and upset her stomach. Today she had a small bowl of oatmeal, a yogurt, half a quesadilla (1 quesadilla = 8" tortilla folded in half), a small bowl of applesauce, and some berries. Normally she eats that much just at lunch. She also slept 13 1/2 hours last night and had a 4-hour nap this afternoon. That's the really huge, sparkling, silver lining. That and the super cuddliness. She even wanted ME instead of JAMES at bedtime tonight, which happens once in... well, never, not since she suddenly became ALL DADDY ALL THE TIME a few weeks ago. Is it selfish and awful that I kind of like it when she's sick?
Speaking of All Daddy All the Time, do any of you SAHMs have this, too? I certainly enjoy the break when James gets home from work--she won't have anyone BUT him then--, but I have a little trouble not taking it personally. If she were a little older, I'd understand it. But it just seems weird at such a young age. I feel like I must be doing something wrong.
I got on here because I wanted to write something, anything down, but there's really not much to write about. We had a nice trip, life is boring but good, etc. I'm sure I will think of something more amusing soon enough.
The trip was pretty uneventful. Nothing insane happened, no near-death experiences. The Child, of course, screamed on the way there and on the way back, but only for about an hour each way. And it never reached Nazgûl Shriek levels. So, distressing and irritating, to be sure, but oh, it could have been worse.
The best part? She slept like a champ the whole time we were there. Well, the second night not so much. We shared a room with her the first two nights. First night, she crashed and slept like the dead for 13 hours. Second night, she was all caught up on sleep, knew we were in there with her, and decided that meant it was party time. So we moved out to the living room floor.
There were lots of card games, and way too much good food (I'm pretty sure I gained at least five pounds), and even more fun. After going to Colorado, I was dreading this trip. But a baby who sleeps makes ALL the difference.
Tomorrow an old college friend is coming for a visit. We haven't seen him since shortly after we were married. He was an usher in our wedding, but then he had to go and move to the other side of the country. It's too bad because he's one of the funnier people I've ever known.
Anyway, I'm excited, but, of course, The Child has chosen this week to go and get sick. I'm not sure what's wrong with her. She's been mildly feverish for a day now and has had a slightly upset stomach for the last three days. Good timing, Grace!
(Of course I'm more concerned for how she feels than I am for the state of our house when our friend gets here tomorrow, but I still wish she could have waited a couple days longer to get sick)
I don't really know what to do with a sick baby, except chase her around with a cup of water all day (when I got her up this morning, she downed about 7 ounces in less than a minute). She needs to eat, of course, but I don't want to feed her too much and upset her stomach. Today she had a small bowl of oatmeal, a yogurt, half a quesadilla (1 quesadilla = 8" tortilla folded in half), a small bowl of applesauce, and some berries. Normally she eats that much just at lunch. She also slept 13 1/2 hours last night and had a 4-hour nap this afternoon. That's the really huge, sparkling, silver lining. That and the super cuddliness. She even wanted ME instead of JAMES at bedtime tonight, which happens once in... well, never, not since she suddenly became ALL DADDY ALL THE TIME a few weeks ago. Is it selfish and awful that I kind of like it when she's sick?
Speaking of All Daddy All the Time, do any of you SAHMs have this, too? I certainly enjoy the break when James gets home from work--she won't have anyone BUT him then--, but I have a little trouble not taking it personally. If she were a little older, I'd understand it. But it just seems weird at such a young age. I feel like I must be doing something wrong.
I got on here because I wanted to write something, anything down, but there's really not much to write about. We had a nice trip, life is boring but good, etc. I'm sure I will think of something more amusing soon enough.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Pregnant women are smug
An Italian made this video. What English sounds like to foreigners (American English, specifically):
Wild, right? I keep straining to understand the lyrics, even though I know it's complete gibberish.
(Apparently this has been around for a while.)
This is one of my favorites at the moment. It's probably only funny if you've known someone like this or--horrors!--caught the same tendencies in yourself (I know I have, a little--a very little, of course).
I'm supposed to be packing right now for another fun-filled road trip; instead I'm sitting on the couch in my pajamas fiddling with the Internet. I manage to feel okay about this because at least I'm not sitting on my couch doing lines of coke.
Speaking of which, this baby? 2.0? NEVER STOPS MOVING. I don't know who is giving her the drugs, but it's like she's constantly high. Grace was given to bursts of movement, usually violent but pretty sporadic. This one, on the other hand, makes my stomach look like a bubbling cauldron all day long. If you're not into babies and stuff, it's probably a little creepy. In fact, I'm totally into babies and stuff, and I sometimes find it a little creepy. Any second now Sigourney Weaver will pop out from around a corner and shoot me in the torso before my little passenger can hurtle teeth-first out of my chest cavity.
So, packing. Yes. Last time, I spent a day packing and two days before that planning, and we ended up with way more crap than we ever needed. So, this time I'm going it in the usual manner: pack everything at the last minute, hope it all fits into one suitcase, and just assume we won't forget anything vitally important. I do have some laundry going. And a very short list (I stopped writing things down on it a few hours ago when something shiny flickered in my peripheral vision). There is that.
I really love making lists. In my mind, I'm a list-maker, a really organized person (if only I could stay focused for more than five minutes). And if I stick to them, they really are helpful. Problem is, my house is littered with half-made lists, some of which I can't even understand. Every time I clean around here, I find at least six scraps of paper like these:
-plastic
-tape
-drill bits
-wipe down radiator
-hair dryer
-8:00
-$3
And I stare at it for at least ten minutes before giving up on ever figuring out what Project I'd been working on that day.
There have been a lot of Projects lately. Nesting has been vicious this time around, probably because I'm stuck inside all the time while Wisconsin does its best to kill my soul. These Projects always start around the beginning of The Child's naptime, or when James gets home from work, or when The Child goes to bed. James likes the last kind the best because it means I try to drag him into it. Three nights ago it was clearing out the office closet and giving him boxes to take down toThe Pit of Despair the basement. Two nights ago it was hanging a set of curtains in the living room (really boring tan curtains that don't really match very well, but that's what happens when you have accidental pink and burgundy walls). Last night it was putting up plastic on the windows. We were going to watch a movie, but I had Just This One Thing to Do, and it Will Save Us Money! (on heating), and by the time we sat down to our movie it was 11:00, and I started dozing off about twenty minutes in.
Poor James. I'm either lazy, shiftless housewife who doesn't do anything, or I'm maniacally driven housewife who cannot stop moving, and oh, can you just give me a hand here for just an hour second, please? He was raised by a woman who somehow managed to keep a huge house clean, a cat and two dogs happy, and three men well-fed. Sometimes I wonder what he was thinking marrying me. It must be the hypnotic powers of my Forehead of Doom.
Okay, it is time to pack. For real. I just heard a baby scream, so we may not get a three-hour nap today after all, and it's really hard to pack with an irrational dwarf-like creature bumping around the house behind you on your pant legs.
Maybe if I could convince Pregnant Brain that packing was a Project, it would get done faster.
Wild, right? I keep straining to understand the lyrics, even though I know it's complete gibberish.
(Apparently this has been around for a while.)
This is one of my favorites at the moment. It's probably only funny if you've known someone like this or--horrors!--caught the same tendencies in yourself (I know I have, a little--a very little, of course).
I'm supposed to be packing right now for another fun-filled road trip; instead I'm sitting on the couch in my pajamas fiddling with the Internet. I manage to feel okay about this because at least I'm not sitting on my couch doing lines of coke.
Speaking of which, this baby? 2.0? NEVER STOPS MOVING. I don't know who is giving her the drugs, but it's like she's constantly high. Grace was given to bursts of movement, usually violent but pretty sporadic. This one, on the other hand, makes my stomach look like a bubbling cauldron all day long. If you're not into babies and stuff, it's probably a little creepy. In fact, I'm totally into babies and stuff, and I sometimes find it a little creepy. Any second now Sigourney Weaver will pop out from around a corner and shoot me in the torso before my little passenger can hurtle teeth-first out of my chest cavity.
So, packing. Yes. Last time, I spent a day packing and two days before that planning, and we ended up with way more crap than we ever needed. So, this time I'm going it in the usual manner: pack everything at the last minute, hope it all fits into one suitcase, and just assume we won't forget anything vitally important. I do have some laundry going. And a very short list (I stopped writing things down on it a few hours ago when something shiny flickered in my peripheral vision). There is that.
I really love making lists. In my mind, I'm a list-maker, a really organized person (if only I could stay focused for more than five minutes). And if I stick to them, they really are helpful. Problem is, my house is littered with half-made lists, some of which I can't even understand. Every time I clean around here, I find at least six scraps of paper like these:
-plastic
-tape
-drill bits
-wipe down radiator
-hair dryer
-8:00
-$3
And I stare at it for at least ten minutes before giving up on ever figuring out what Project I'd been working on that day.
There have been a lot of Projects lately. Nesting has been vicious this time around, probably because I'm stuck inside all the time while Wisconsin does its best to kill my soul. These Projects always start around the beginning of The Child's naptime, or when James gets home from work, or when The Child goes to bed. James likes the last kind the best because it means I try to drag him into it. Three nights ago it was clearing out the office closet and giving him boxes to take down to
Poor James. I'm either lazy, shiftless housewife who doesn't do anything, or I'm maniacally driven housewife who cannot stop moving, and oh, can you just give me a hand here for just a
Okay, it is time to pack. For real. I just heard a baby scream, so we may not get a three-hour nap today after all, and it's really hard to pack with an irrational dwarf-like creature bumping around the house behind you on your pant legs.
Maybe if I could convince Pregnant Brain that packing was a Project, it would get done faster.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
My little grease monkey
Enough with the NaNoJoMo and DePhoMo already! I cannot possibly read all these entries, even though I want to. I take one look at my (freshly-trimmed) bookmarks page and am so overwhelmed I just don't read any of them. People, it's exhausting.
(Of course you can do whatever you want with your own blog, but there are people like me who just never read because it's too much.)
The Child has dandruff. This is just super. What does one do about baby dandruff? I don't think it's true dandruff, just dry skin. Apparently she inherited my scaly, dry winter skin. This is not a hydration problem. The Child drinks more water than a crocodile.
Another reason this is super is that she has crazy drool rash. So I have this otherwise-adorable baby whose mouth and cheeks are red and scaly and whose hair is covered in little white flakes. Doesn't that just scream, "AWESOME PARENTING HERE!!!" Vaseline or lanolin on the cheeks has helped. But we can't exactly put Vaseline on her scalp. Well, we could, but she looks greasy enough with it all over her face.
James's work has a yearly wellness seminar. This is the third year. The first year, I was pregnant. The second year, I had recently delivered a baby and was nursing (which meant I still had the baby weight and was still eating like a half-starved hippopotamus). This year, I am very pregnant. None of these conditions is conducive to feeling good about the answers you put down in their questionnaire. I filled mine out a month or two ago, before the magical second coming of Champion Sleeper. Also, I'm still dealing with near-constant food aversions, and my diet consists mainly of whatever I can put in my mouth without gagging. Yesterday, for instance, was two pieces of toast, the end of a summer sausage, and a whole bunch of pasta (at least it was Barilla Plus, which has a good bit of substance).
This has been great for keeping my weight in control, probably not so great for actual health. And don't get me started on exercise. I had to stop swimming because I can no longer breathe while I swim. What's left is walking, and it's so cold here right now I can feel my eyebrows shattering every time I walk outside. Furthermore, when you're pregnant, you're not supposed to make any significant changes to exercise; starting swimming was probably more than my doctor would have recommended (I don't care; I felt REALLY good for a few weeks).
Anyway, this questionnaire is riddled with fun questions like, "How many servings of green vegetables do you eat per day (you disgusting slob)?" "How many hours of sleep do you get each night (you disgusting insomniac)?" "How many hours of vigorous exercise do you get per week (you disgusting slob)?" "Do you plan to start exercising more in the near future (your disgusting slob)?" "Do you plan to start sleeping more in the near future (you disgusting insomniac)?" blah blah blah. Also, they wanted to know my weight, which is actually good for being very pregnant, but of course they don't actually factor pregnancy into these evaluations (even though they ASK if you're pregnant), which is a level of stupidity I can't even comprehend.
And the questions that I could answer with pride, like blood pressure (extremely low, always) and cholesterol (extremely good, always) ask me for specific numbers that I don't know off the top of my head, so I have to answer, "I don't know," which makes me look even more like I don't take care of myself. They need to have a comments section at the end, where I can tell them all these things. I would probably run out of lines.
Or they could have a bunch of questions that almost anyone could answer with pride and scatter them through the entire thing. "Do you like puppies?" "Would you ever harm a kitten?" Things like that. It would relieve the relentless beat-down of the health questions, and I bet people would even answer more honestly.
So, we've lived here for over a year now, and we STILL don't know any of the neighbors. We wave and smile at each other, but I think it'd be nice to have a little more than that, if only so we can ask someone to retrieve our mail and feed the cat when we're gone.
Shirtless Yardwork Neighbor Man and his wife used to be very friendly with us, but since we had them over for dinner LAST DECEMBER, we've hardly seen them at all. I'm still trying to figure that one out. The soup I made was the kind of recipe that only a mentally challenged puppy could screw up. We didn't pick our noses or talk about religion. The ONLY thing I can think of is that we prayed before the meal, but... this is small town Wisconsin, and they've lived here all their lives. That's what people DO, even people who are only nominally Christian. If they're weirded out by that, they must never leave their houses.
The neighbors across the street are friendly. The lady has even wandered over to say hi a few times when Grace and I have been in the front lawn. This is where having a knack for baking would be very handy. I could bake some fun Christmasy things and drop them off at the nearby houses. That's a friendly-but-not-TOO-friendly kind of neighbor thing to do. But I'm just about the worst baker that ever baked. Every time I think, "Oh, well, it's been a while! And you're good at cooking! Just give it another shot," James and I end up gnawing our way through a couple of hockey pucks before giving up to go nurse our poor bleeding *gums back to health.
*Dear Firefox, I am CERTAIN that there is no way you can explain to me how "gums" is not a word.
There's an older lady a few houses away who is VERY sweet, but she's selling her house, so who knows how long she'll be around? And then the lady next door, who plowed out the end of our driveway last week when it was covered in chunk of ice and snow the size of my enlarged torso. We didn't even ask her; she just did it. She's never home, though.
So it's not that these people aren't friendly (except for Shirtless Yardwork Neighbor Man and His Wife; I think there's something weird going on there, can't put my finger on it), it's just that there's this weird resistance to anything more than surface friendliness. James and I were thrilled when we first moved here. No one brought us pie, but everyone was so friendly; we were sure we'd had friends in no time. But... nothing. Not even in cases where we've tried. It's very strange. I almost prefer Madison, where almost everyone was unfriendly, but if they were friendly, you knew they meant it.
A while ago I downloaded a whole bunch of Dean Martin songs on iTunes. I love Dean Martin. His voice makes Frank Sinatra--whom I very much like--sound like a goat in heat.
But he's kind of a sleaze ball. Behold, the lyrics to "100 Years from Today" (which I realize he did not write, but still...):
Hey don't save your kisses - just pass 'em around
You'll find my reason - is logically sound
Who's gonna know that you past them around
A hundred years from today
And why crave a penthouse - that's fit for a queen
You're nearer heaven - on mamma Earth's green
If you had millions - what would they all mean
One hundred years from today
So (Hey) laugh and sing - make love the thing
Be happy while you may
('Cause) There's always one - beneath the sun
Who's bound to make you feel that way
The moon is shining - and that's a (very) good sign
Cling to me closer - say (that) you'll be mine
Remember baby we won't see it shine
A hundred years from today, a hundred years from today
Doesn't that just remind you of someone's dirty uncle?
It does me.
(Of course you can do whatever you want with your own blog, but there are people like me who just never read because it's too much.)
The Child has dandruff. This is just super. What does one do about baby dandruff? I don't think it's true dandruff, just dry skin. Apparently she inherited my scaly, dry winter skin. This is not a hydration problem. The Child drinks more water than a crocodile.
Another reason this is super is that she has crazy drool rash. So I have this otherwise-adorable baby whose mouth and cheeks are red and scaly and whose hair is covered in little white flakes. Doesn't that just scream, "AWESOME PARENTING HERE!!!" Vaseline or lanolin on the cheeks has helped. But we can't exactly put Vaseline on her scalp. Well, we could, but she looks greasy enough with it all over her face.
James's work has a yearly wellness seminar. This is the third year. The first year, I was pregnant. The second year, I had recently delivered a baby and was nursing (which meant I still had the baby weight and was still eating like a half-starved hippopotamus). This year, I am very pregnant. None of these conditions is conducive to feeling good about the answers you put down in their questionnaire. I filled mine out a month or two ago, before the magical second coming of Champion Sleeper. Also, I'm still dealing with near-constant food aversions, and my diet consists mainly of whatever I can put in my mouth without gagging. Yesterday, for instance, was two pieces of toast, the end of a summer sausage, and a whole bunch of pasta (at least it was Barilla Plus, which has a good bit of substance).
This has been great for keeping my weight in control, probably not so great for actual health. And don't get me started on exercise. I had to stop swimming because I can no longer breathe while I swim. What's left is walking, and it's so cold here right now I can feel my eyebrows shattering every time I walk outside. Furthermore, when you're pregnant, you're not supposed to make any significant changes to exercise; starting swimming was probably more than my doctor would have recommended (I don't care; I felt REALLY good for a few weeks).
Anyway, this questionnaire is riddled with fun questions like, "How many servings of green vegetables do you eat per day (you disgusting slob)?" "How many hours of sleep do you get each night (you disgusting insomniac)?" "How many hours of vigorous exercise do you get per week (you disgusting slob)?" "Do you plan to start exercising more in the near future (your disgusting slob)?" "Do you plan to start sleeping more in the near future (you disgusting insomniac)?" blah blah blah. Also, they wanted to know my weight, which is actually good for being very pregnant, but of course they don't actually factor pregnancy into these evaluations (even though they ASK if you're pregnant), which is a level of stupidity I can't even comprehend.
And the questions that I could answer with pride, like blood pressure (extremely low, always) and cholesterol (extremely good, always) ask me for specific numbers that I don't know off the top of my head, so I have to answer, "I don't know," which makes me look even more like I don't take care of myself. They need to have a comments section at the end, where I can tell them all these things. I would probably run out of lines.
Or they could have a bunch of questions that almost anyone could answer with pride and scatter them through the entire thing. "Do you like puppies?" "Would you ever harm a kitten?" Things like that. It would relieve the relentless beat-down of the health questions, and I bet people would even answer more honestly.
So, we've lived here for over a year now, and we STILL don't know any of the neighbors. We wave and smile at each other, but I think it'd be nice to have a little more than that, if only so we can ask someone to retrieve our mail and feed the cat when we're gone.
Shirtless Yardwork Neighbor Man and his wife used to be very friendly with us, but since we had them over for dinner LAST DECEMBER, we've hardly seen them at all. I'm still trying to figure that one out. The soup I made was the kind of recipe that only a mentally challenged puppy could screw up. We didn't pick our noses or talk about religion. The ONLY thing I can think of is that we prayed before the meal, but... this is small town Wisconsin, and they've lived here all their lives. That's what people DO, even people who are only nominally Christian. If they're weirded out by that, they must never leave their houses.
The neighbors across the street are friendly. The lady has even wandered over to say hi a few times when Grace and I have been in the front lawn. This is where having a knack for baking would be very handy. I could bake some fun Christmasy things and drop them off at the nearby houses. That's a friendly-but-not-TOO-friendly kind of neighbor thing to do. But I'm just about the worst baker that ever baked. Every time I think, "Oh, well, it's been a while! And you're good at cooking! Just give it another shot," James and I end up gnawing our way through a couple of hockey pucks before giving up to go nurse our poor bleeding *gums back to health.
*Dear Firefox, I am CERTAIN that there is no way you can explain to me how "gums" is not a word.
There's an older lady a few houses away who is VERY sweet, but she's selling her house, so who knows how long she'll be around? And then the lady next door, who plowed out the end of our driveway last week when it was covered in chunk of ice and snow the size of my enlarged torso. We didn't even ask her; she just did it. She's never home, though.
So it's not that these people aren't friendly (except for Shirtless Yardwork Neighbor Man and His Wife; I think there's something weird going on there, can't put my finger on it), it's just that there's this weird resistance to anything more than surface friendliness. James and I were thrilled when we first moved here. No one brought us pie, but everyone was so friendly; we were sure we'd had friends in no time. But... nothing. Not even in cases where we've tried. It's very strange. I almost prefer Madison, where almost everyone was unfriendly, but if they were friendly, you knew they meant it.
A while ago I downloaded a whole bunch of Dean Martin songs on iTunes. I love Dean Martin. His voice makes Frank Sinatra--whom I very much like--sound like a goat in heat.
But he's kind of a sleaze ball. Behold, the lyrics to "100 Years from Today" (which I realize he did not write, but still...):
Hey don't save your kisses - just pass 'em around
You'll find my reason - is logically sound
Who's gonna know that you past them around
A hundred years from today
And why crave a penthouse - that's fit for a queen
You're nearer heaven - on mamma Earth's green
If you had millions - what would they all mean
One hundred years from today
So (Hey) laugh and sing - make love the thing
Be happy while you may
('Cause) There's always one - beneath the sun
Who's bound to make you feel that way
The moon is shining - and that's a (very) good sign
Cling to me closer - say (that) you'll be mine
Remember baby we won't see it shine
A hundred years from today, a hundred years from today
Doesn't that just remind you of someone's dirty uncle?
It does me.
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