All I'm Saying there's a joke in here somewhere

Freya and I are answering the door to trick-or-treaters tonight. (She's dressed as a Baby and I'm a Domestic Goddess.) We just had a Napoleon Dynamite come to the door in his 'fro, Vote for Pedro t-shirt and moon boots.

I said, "Sweet costume. Can you dance?"

And he was all, "Yeah," and did a very creditable step/dig for a couple of seconds. I gave him extra candy.

One of the surprise joys of motherhood is the thrill I get when I can pick a particular excretion out of my daughter's nose or ears. Even the sleep goopy in her eyes is satisfying, though it does lack the thrill of the chase I get from a booger.

Boogers can be tricky. Even armed with saline spray (to moisten up the dry crusties for easier removal) and the nasal aspirator, I have to get that blue bulb into each nostril no less than half a dozen times on the average before I achieve success.

Last night was special, though. I got a clod of earwax out of Freya's ear that had to be the size of a pencil eraser. Can you imagine walking around with that in your outer ear?

It's disgusting, but I am unapologetic: I know it is some kind of primate hold-over from when our matriarchal society still spent a lot of our time in the trees.

Another weekend of hunting season gone by--thank God. Being married to a game warden has its downside, if you can imagine. (Besides the dead animals in the freezer--like an owl, a mountain lion, part of a moose, and a young black bear. Not all at once...just historically speaking.) Matt works roughly 80 hours a week this time of year, and most of those hours occur when people like me are off work. So when I come home from work, he's out. A lot of the time he is gone when I get up and isn't home until after Freya and I are asleep. It gets old. And lonesome.

I try to make plans to hang out with friends on the weekend, but this wasn't the kind of weekend where that really worked out. Freya and I went to a park on Saturday and walked around. This particular city park is very attractive to Canada geese. I was trying to tote up in my head approximately how many goose turds were in the park (3000 geese times six poops per day times the average estimated goose visit of three days with a turnover rate of new geese...well, let's just say the public school system let me down and I was never able to come up with an accurate estimate). A lot of the turds are still stuck to the wheels of the stroller.

In order to see our husband/father, we went to a Fish and Game check station today. Freya was ogled by a bunch of game wardens. Oh, and there was something slightly scary. As a particular vehicle was approaching the check station, the driver was fiddling with something in the seat next to him. Fiddling makes law enforcement people nervous, and Matt's boss cautiously approached the truck. I saw his hand move to rest on his pistol, and I positioned Freya and I behind a couple of trucks. I heard the boss say, "Sir, put it down. Put it down," and I got ready to bolt. Then things calmed down, but sure enough, this guy had a pistol on the seat of the vehicle and was trying to figure out what to do with it when he pulled into the check station. The he tried to hand it to the boss. Sheesh.

Anyway, another weekend down. Two more to go, and then I might get my husband back.

Oh, and I totally forgot about Daylight Savings--did anyone else?

I signed up for MySpace a few weeks ago, mainly in the attempt to stalk former classmates without ponying up any money for stupid Classmates.com. I put up a photo, didn't really write anything in my profile, and just kind of left it alone. Because really, from what I hear on the internet, MySpace is a place where barely literate teenagers go to blog. Right?

Well, now I've been meandering around on it and am feeling a little sad that I only have four friends. To be perfectly honest, I really just have three friends and that Tom guy. I've had other people invite me to be their friend (lots of them, by God, just in case you think I'm a hopeless dork who can't get barely-literate teenagers to hang out on the internet with me), but I haven't accepted invites from anyone I didn't already know.

Anyone else have profiles? I really couldn't begin to tell you how to find my profile to send me an invite, but I'm going by my first name--cool handle, huh? *eye roll*

Updated: here's my profile.

Freya is going through this surge of growth and mental development. In the last couple of weeks I swear she's gained five pounds and several inches in length, plus she's got that other tooth. And she has now learned to pull herself to standing using objects (like the exersaucer, the coffee table, etc.), she started clapping her hands yesterday, she waves bye-bye and she is soooo close to talking.

And she's dropped her evening nap, which makes things a little more difficult. Since we still don't have her dropping off to sleep perfectly at bedtime, I am still nursing her down to sleep. And that's fine, but when she doesn't get her late afternoon nap, she would really like to go to bed at 7:15 p.m., thank you very much. (Which might help explain how I miss updating the blog sometimes. In case you were wondering.)

Every day is just a voyage of discovery. Some days we're just sleepier than others.

Seriously, folks. I'm not sure it gets any cuter than this.

On my way home to feed the baby at lunch, I saw a strange sight: a man standing in a field along a busy road, strumming his guitar. He was in his 50s, I would say, dressed in jeans, an old chambray shirt, and cowboy boots. No hat-- his longish grey hair looked like it maybe hadn't been washed in a while. No one was near him at all and the field was totally empty. An older station wagon was parked in the middle distance and I assumed it was his.

"What the hell?" I thought as I drove past. I went home, fed the baby and myself, and headed back toward work and there he was again. I couldn't take not knowing what he was up to, but didn't want to take a chance that he was some kind of guitar-bludgeoning serial killer with a case against curious female types, and so I didn't stop to ask him. Instead, I dialed a friend on my cell and made her look up the phone number of a local news station for me, and I called them directly. I explained what I was looking at and said I thought it was funny and quirky and would make a good news story. The guy who answered admitted it was indeed funny and quirky, but made no promises.

As soon as I got to the office, I e-mailed my favorite local news website and told them to skedaddle out there, find out what he was up to and report back. I got an e-mail somewhat later that they were trying to round someone up to find out. Still no post though, so I'm guessing they didn't get any results.

I have to wonder what he was up to. Was he working on some plan for world peace involving free random music for all? Was he just seeing how long it took before someone stopped to ask him what he was doing? Or was he, as a coworker suggested, following the muse of Sonny Rollins, a jazz musician who could not find a decent place to practice his saxophone in the building he lived in, and so played his music on New York City's Williamsburg Bridge?

I may never find out.

My weekend pretty much revolved around Miss Freya. Of course, my whole world revolves around her, so the weekend can't be much different, right?

First we went to a couple of consignment sales. Mama loves a bargain. And even if the kids who had this stuff before were vectors of typhus, I saved a TON of money. Gymboree outfits, toys, a maternity belt for a pregnant friend--it was all to be had this weekend.

Then we went to a park and met a new friend from the internet. That was interesting and enjoyable, since the forum is on the "crunchier" side of life--in that attachment parenting is the norm there, and I'm kind of an oddball for not cloth diapering and for vaccinating my baby. It was nice to not feel like I couldn't talk about cosleeping. Then Freya had more portraits done (and I will post one or two when we get them).

After that, I discovered my new favorite store. It's called Grandma's Attic (on Emerald and Garden, for those in the area), and it is owned by an elderly couple who go to garage sales, buy kids toys and refurbish them, then turn around and sell them pretty cheap. Freya is a proud owner of a hippity-hop style inflatable horse, a Fisher Price activity table, and some neat little linky things. I nearly bought her a Little Tykes playhouse, but I figure maybe that'll wait until she can actually walk or something. And can you believe that all that activity was just on Saturday?!

She sprouted her third tooth some time last night. It is her first upper, and is a lateral incisor, so it is off to one side. It is an odd contrast with her other teeth: two lower central incisors. She's going to look a little funny unless the other upper teeth come in fast. I'll bet she could whistle real purty though, if she only knew how.

Matt took Freya and I out to dinner tonight. We went to Joe's Crab Shack. I had my back to the door, and Matt made a comment about a woman coming in who was, "clearly trying to fight Old Man Time." I was pretty sure that was an insult of sorts, but didn't want to crane my neck to see.

Well, she was. As we were leaving, I noted a woman in her 50s with hair dyed jet black at the roots and platinum blonde on the ends. It wasn't more than about a finger-length long all over her head, and it had been swooped up into distinct, spiky clumps with a whole lot of gel and hairspray.

I don't understand these things. Have you seen Kenny Rogers lately? He looks like he's hosting a Tupperware party--in his face.

I don't have anything against hiding your age to some degree, but there's a fine line (no pun intended) between a little Botox/Lady Clairol action and getting your face stretched so tight your eyebrows raise when you sit up.

I just read an article about Google moving its servers to The Dalles, Oregon. The Dalles is a pleasant enough little town, but evidently the appeal to Google is the proximity to lots of cheap power generated by the Columbia River dams nearby.

However, I found the following to be the most interesting (and startling) part of the article:

Consider, for example, that some analysts predict that the insatiable need for air conditioning and other power needs of the massive server farms and the rest of the Internet’s physical infrastructure could eventually consume half of the world’s electrical output.

Let's hope someone figures out a way to harness all the heat the servers generate to at least warm a few houses out there.

Makes me glad I had a girl...

Since Freya was born and my whole world changed, I have turned into a really big GIGANTIC worrier. There hasn't been a day gone by where I haven't visualized horrible, grisly accidents happening to my family. A simple walk around the block can turn into a scene from a Wes Craven movie. In my head, that is.

I know it is because my world has been completely remapped by motherhood. Before, the possibility of bad things happening flitted through my head and moved on. Now they take up residence and compete with one another for brain space. I know it is because I have the charge of protecting this little life, a life that I would give my own for daily, if necessary or possible.

So today as I sat at an intersection about to make a right turn at a red light, my nightmares manifested in the form of a car that I heard coming before I even saw it. On the road I was about to turn onto, a line of vehicles passed through the intersection. This car, an 80s model Ford Mustang, came flying alongside them on the right in the turn-only lane that I might have been merging onto...had I not heard this car coming. I'm guessing he was going between sixty and seventy miles an hour in a thirty-five zone. He passed the five cars in the correct lane on the right, running out of lane on his side and swerving into a parking lot and across the dirt of the roadside before he got around all of them.

Really, he came nowhere close to hitting me. But I was terrified for the might-have-been. And so I turned onto the road, saw him ahead in the distance, and decided to follow him back to his residence with the intent of calling the police department and filing a formal complaint. I saw him turn onto a residential street, and soon found the house the car was parked in front of. A boy was climbing out of the passenger seat, and an adult male was standing in the driveway. He saw me looking, so I rolled my window down and asked if he was the driver of the car. He said, "No, that's my son and he's in the house. What did he do?"

I explained what happened and my intent of reporting him to the police, but then said that I was just going to drop it there and let him deal with it as the boy's father. The father said, "Well, I promise you he'll get worse from me than he'll get from the police, and that car is going to be parked for a long time to come."

I thanked him and left, and as soon as I got home and out of the car, I unstrapped Freya from her child seat and held her as close as she would stand.

I think the only way that I can combat the terrible visions of harm that I have been getting is to address them and do the best I can to keep them from coming true. I know I can't protect her from everything, but I have to try.

Here's my baby in a giant pile of corn.

We went back to the "Maize" today. I found out a couple things about giant labyrinths made of a staple crop:

One, you pretty much don't run out of corny puns while wandering through. You've got your corn-stalkers, the jokes about the corncob up your butt, and everything in between.

Two, about the time you get really good and sick of wandering around in the corn, you realize you are well and truly lost. And that really pisses you off.

But for seven bucks, it was a good way to kill some time. The kids liked it. Freya wasn't sure what to make of all that corn, but at least she didn't shove any of it deeply into her nostril or any other orifii that I am aware of.

I read a very interesting article today about "shopping for the Cure," as in, the cure to breast cancer. You see it everywhere, right? Cosmetics counters, fashion designers, kitchen appliances, cars...and like many of us, you might think, "Hey, I can shop and help cure cancer at the same time!"

But can you?

Think Before You Pink is a very informative site that helps you decide if the merchandise you're thinking of buying is really going to make a noticeable help in the efforts to cure cancer. Instead, it might be a company's way of luring you in with what is called "cause marketing," which is supposed to make you feel like a better person for having bought a product.

Some things you can to do to avoid being taken in include being aware of how much money (or what percentage) of sales a corporation is actually giving to charity. If they don't specify it, or instead say, "A portion of profits..." then you can be sure that they're not really in it for the love. The best advice the article gave was to consider the cost of the item you want to purchase and weigh the pink one against a regular, non-charity-type item. If that pink hammer costs ten bucks and the plain old hammer costs five, why not buy the cheap one and donate the other five dollars directly to a reputable charity? And that way, YOU get the tax write-off instead of some giant conglomorate that writes off fifty times as much money every year as you'll make in a lifetime?

My friend Debbie and I went to a Carol Anderson by Invitation party last night. It is a "high end" clothing line marketed in a fashion similar to that of Mary Kay and Tupperware. You get invited to a party, they show you a bunch of stuff, and then you are expected to buy it. There were some really cute things there, but DAMN, is it ever expensive. My cheap self really wanted a particular sweater, but I couldn't part with the $118 to get it. I can buy six or seven sweaters at CostCo for that much money.

I thought of Jess while I was there, because I tried on something nicknamed "The Big Boob Sweater," more because it emphasizes certain portions of your anatomy than because you are a total dilrod for wearing it. I was all excited, but while trying it on, I discovered I have something Jess recently referred to as muffin top, wherin the baby flab around my middle becomes highly noticable in close-fitting tops because it is all slopping over the top of my jeans. Not cool.

So I spent today wandering purchase-less through the internet. I couldn't find one damn thing to buy, but I did take a brief shine to this shirt. Shop, Jane, Shop!

I have pretty much lost all my pregnancy weight. I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight a couple of months ago. Bully for me, right? Stay with me...

Recently, it has been observed that my jeans were way too loose on me. My father and brother asked in very concerned tones if I had been eating enough, but turned those frowns upside down the other night at dinner when I ate all my dinner, plus all my dad's french fries.

It's the breast-feeding. You evidently burn something like 500 extra calories per day while you do it. And that's all well and good, and lord knows I'm eating enough to make up for it.

And then some. Here's the bitter irony: I just dropped a full size in jeans, and it is all because I'm not working out at all. My weight is rising to 4 lbs. above my prepregnancy weight, and I dropped a size. Lost muscle, people. How disgusting is that? I'm not working out at all. I don't have time to go to the gym. Be sincerely grateful you can't see me in the buff.

I've lost my ass. It's down around my knees. No wonder my pants are loose in that area.

We made plans with my eldest brother and his family to go to the cornfield "Maize" this afternoon. It's one of those labyrinths carved out of standing corn, for those in highly urbanized areas.

Well, Matt, Freya and I were the first to arrive, and we found the place entirely shut down. No people, gates locked. And it is a sunny Sunday afternoon. After a couple of remarks about how un-business-savvy it was, we got ahold of my brother on the cell and decided we'd go to the other cornfield maze in the area (yes, lots of cornfields around here). And we got there, and guess what? Yup. Closed.

Evidently both of them are owned by Mormons, who are notorious for not doing business on Sundays. I thought it was because they had to go to church all day, but my sister-in-law (who was LDS by mistake for a couple of years) said that they aren't supposed to earn money on the Sabbath. Oh. Poor marketing behind that decision.

We ended up going to a city park instead. For free. All this money and no Mormons to give it to...

Dear Freya Marie,

You turned eight months old today! We spent the day helping friends move. Your first little friend has been Beckett, a little boy three weeks younger than you are. He's the son of friends I work with, and the jokes about you and he being boyfriend and girlfriend have been flying since, oh, his birth. I'm sure that's going to drive you nuts here in a few years. You never know, though...you could do worse. He's surely excited to see you. I've never seen a little boy flap his arms hard enough to take off, but Beckett is just about there.

You're *this close* to saying your first word, and it's "Mama." For several months now, you've had an upset cry where you say, "Ahhmeee!" If I were less of a skeptic, I'd have already called that your first word. Today as we were riding in the truck, you very clearly said, "Mama." Had you been looking at me, I'd have called it then. It's just a matter of moments now! You're also getting pretty proficient at "Hi," and "Hey." They're just vocalizations, though. I think.

You sure want to be on the move. You've put so much energy into standing and preparing to walk that you're missing crawling entirely. If we put you on your stomach, you wiggle a little and then you get PISSED. You'll be that kid who walked, then crawled as an afterthought.

You are regularly giving kisses on demand, at least when we demand and you're in the mood. We went out to dinner with your two uncles, grandpa and his fiancee' and Great Uncle Fred the other night and you charmed the socks off everyone by giving them all big kisses as we were leaving. Grandpa told us all we were disinherited and that you were getting everything in his will. At the rate he's going, you'll be lucky to inherit about $12.50.

Everyone started saying at six months, "Oh, it starts getting so fun from here on out!" We were slightly horrified by the concept that we might not have been enjoying you sufficiently before that--though we were. But in a way, they were right. The last couple of months have been a real hoot, since you interact so much with us now.

You're my heart.
Love,
Mommy

I went to my hometown last week for the annual Homecoming football game. I think I was the only one who remembered to come home; the only other classmate of mine who was there actually still lives there. Still, she's the only one I particularly cared to see, so I guess it worked out okay.

I realized that enough time has gone by that not only have all the kids I went to school with (icluding those who were in first grade the year I graduated) had matriculated and gone on to college or prison, but even the tiny babies I once babysat had graduated as well. I'm getting older, internet.

So here's a photo of Freya and me that my friend took at the post-game Tamale Feed. And to any of the Garden Valley High Class of 1992, where the hell were you guys?

Remember the poop truck? And the flies associated with the poop truck?

The poop truck, a month and a half later, has returned! And it is closer now:

Welcome to Poopville. Who wants to come stay in our guest room? That's where this photo was taken from--you can have the finest view of all the latest poop additions!

My older brother is visiting from Albuquerque this week, and a bunch of us met up for dinner tonight. Matt was working, so Freya and I joined my older and younger brothers, my dad and his fiancee', and my Uncle Fred at TGI Friday's for dinner.

On an aside, did you realize TGI Friday's servers are no longer wearing flair? I am bummed.

Anyway, it was an adventure, as usual. My dad is medicated for rage episodes, but sometimes he gets a flare up despite the best efforts of the pharmaceutical industry. Ol' Uncle Fred had barbeque sauce on his face at one point, and my dad said, "Fred, wipe your face. It looks like you had a giant sore just explode on your cheek and it's disgusting to me." Understandably hurt, Uncle Fred replied, "Well, if I disgust you so much maybe I should leave." Dad encouraged him to do so, and then the name-calling really got started, winding up with the two of them realizing that the rest of the table had fallen silent and no one was looking in their direction.

Freya was well behaved, anyway...

Today is the second of October. A number of interesting things happened on this day in my personal history. My friends Tea and Kat are sharing a birthday. My nephew Jordan was born on this day sixteen years ago.

When you are me, it is a day of great joy and jigglyness. For lo, it is also the day that my own personal Jesus, Sting entered the world. I love him so...

Other notable October 2 events (and happy birthday, if it is yours) include:

The beginning of the Texas Revolution (1835)
The comic strip Peanuts was first published (1950)
The birthdays of Mahatma Ghandi (1869), Groucho Marx (1890), Don MacLean (1945), Annie Leibovitz (1949) and the deaths of Samuel Adams (1803), Rock Hudson (1985), and Gene Autry (1998).

(via Wikipedia)

I'd like to direct your attention over to the right-hand margin of the page. See where it says, Skin Me? Click that, then click Pink for October. Done?

Pretty, huh?

But not just pretty. Pretty important, too. Pink for October is an internet movement to draw attention to the fact that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and it also hopes to serve as a fund raiser. In that vein, my personal favorite cancer-awareness charity is The Komen Foundation, the folks who put on the Race for the Cure. They have done a tremendous job in helping increase awareness, and in providing services for women who might not otherwise have access to mammograms and treatment.

There are a few things you can do to help us all mark the month:

One: do a breast self-exam, or nag a woman dear to you about doing them regularly. If you're over forty, get your yearly mammogram scheduled. If breast cancer comes early in your family, like it does in mine, get a mammogram five years prior to the age that your earliest close relative was diagnosed. For example, my older sister was diagnosed at age 34. My calculated age for a first mammogram should have been 29, but I didn't know that. Now that I am breast feeding, I have to wait on a mammogram until Freya is weaned, but you can bet I'll be beating feet in to get it done. Early detection is the key!

Two: donate to the charity of your choice. I know every one of you has a relative or friend who you've lost to cancer, and the fight to cure any form of cancer will make all forms that much more curable.

Three: take some time to do a little research on what breast cancer is, ways to try and prevent it, and ways to help loved ones beat it.

A cure will be found. If not in my lifetime, hopefully in my daughter's.

Huge thanks to Mel for the beautiful skin. You rock, woman!

We got to meet with Jess, her husband Mark, and their daughter, Sydney, today! J&M were in from their home in Seattle, visiting some relatives here in Boise. We met about 14/15 months ago, and at that time, I was a few weeks pregnant, and Jess was actually imperceptibly pregnant. Time flies! Here are the girls now:

Sydney is cute as a bug and so strong!

The girls look like they're having a hair-pulling contest in these next shots, but really they just wanted to pat one another on the head.

And then they decided that each of them wanted the others' toy. Novelty being the spice of life, or something like that.

And here they are being little pals.

Thanks for coming to visit, guys!