Zzzzzzz

I have really been slacking on this blog writing. You would think I had another human being in my care. Someone to think about besides myself. Oh wait.

Eamon is seven weeks old today, and I can hardly believe how fast the time is going by. I swear every time I pick him up he gets bigger. Then again, that might not just be me. The kid eats every two hours. According to one of our baby books, he is about the size of the average three month old.

We can't really complain much about his sleep habits at night. He sleeps in pretty long stretches for a baby his age, and I get about eight hours of sleep a night, interrupted by one feeding. It's during the day that he seems to think he is six years old already. He is not a good napper, much like I wasn't when I was a kid. (I remember fighting my mom on this more than once.) He'll fall asleep in my arms -- cute, right? -- well, then I think it's okay to set him in his nice, sturdy, Consumer Product Safety Division-approved crib, and he throws up his legs like he's working on his abs, or he throws his arms in the air like a referee in the end zone (I have yet to tire of yelling "touchdown!" when he does this) and he is awake again, wanting to be held.

I know there will come a day very soon when he will be "too big to cuddle" (Raising Arizona) and will want nothing to do with me in public, so I should cherish these days. And I try to. I sometimes cave in and just watch a movie on cable while I hold him, or try to just read a magazine or book one-handed while he sleeps in my lap. But there are days when I need to clean, or do laundry, or just need the freedom to get up to pee, for God's sake. Today, though, he is snoozing (albeit somewhat fitfully) in his bouncy seat in front of the Christmas tree. Every once in awhile he lets out a little sigh. (To add to the picture, you should know "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is playing softly on the iPod.) And it's taking everything in me not to drop what I'm doing and go pick him up.

Awwww.

Note: I just got a new, "fancy" camera but have yet to browse the user guide. This photo was taken on the auto mode. But hopefully there will be more photos on here soon. Also, disregard the array of rattles and gymini parts strewn about the living room floor.

He's here!

Well, he was nine days late, but I'll forgive him. On October 28, we welcomed Eamon Connor into our lives. I know every new parent thinks this, but he literally gets cuter to me every day. He's eating like a champ and, consequently, developing "rubber band wrists" and chubby thighs. He's sleeping as well as we could have hoped -- only waking us once at night most of the time. He's not the best napper during the day, but neither are we, so it's not throwing me off too much. In all, we're really enjoying parenthood thus far. I'm sure it will provide plenty of material for me here.

This is not me at my most photogenic, but is it me, or is that baby smiling at me?

Me, nervous? Nah...

Now that I'm eight days past my due date, I'm finally going to be induced tonight. Most likely I'll deliver sometime tomorrow (God, please, no 24-hour labor + emergency c-section). I was just asked by a neighbor if I'm nervous. I thought back to the last time I remember being really, truly, "I don't want to do this" nervous -- the first time I did a triathlon and the water in Lake Michigan had been deemed risky for swimming. After a series of bad rainstorms, the locks in the Chicago River had reversed its flow, sending waste into Lake Michigan. "Swim at your Own Risk!" signs were posted all over the race expo the day before, and a park district employee we ran into on the lakefront kindly told us he'd seen some "personal items" floating in Monroe Harbor, where we were scheduled to swim the next day.

I remember saying to Brian as we were trying to go to sleep that night, "I really don't want to do this. What if we get sick?" He was like, "Eh, we'll be fine." And dozed off. I did the race, didn't get sick, but will never forget how sick I felt that night just thinking about not only exposure to E-coli, but the idea of swimming, biking and running for 2 hours straight. (I went on to do two more triathlons since and will try for more in the future.)

I was way more nervous that night than I am today, even after hearing and reading countless labor stories over the last month. I say bring on the pain, give me an epidural and let's get this baby out into the world where he belongs. We are more than ready for him!

Let the wild rumpus start!

I've been catching a lot of advertising for the live-action version of one of my favorite children's books, "Where the Wild Things Are." If I weren't so big and uncomfortable, I would go see this movie in the theater. I've read a few favorable reviews, some of which indicate it's more of a movie for adults who loved the book (like me) than it is for kids. I was surprised to find out that my husband had never read the book, nor even heard of it.

I'm now on a mission to make sure "the boy" (as we, for some reason, will call him until we meet him) is exposed to all of what I consider the great kids' books of my childhood. So I went to the bookstore this morning with a gift card one of Brian's coworkers had given us as part of a baby gift and redeemed it for a copy of "WTWTA" and another favorite, "The Giving Tree" by Shel Silverstein. I think it was a good use of the gift card, and I'm looking forward to adding to the collection.

Eventually, when he's reading on his own, I'll introduce him to a solid list like this one I found online, posted, coincidentally, by the op-ed columnist at The New York Times who was the guest on Oprah the day I was in her studio audience: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/05/opinion/05kristof.html

Side note: I just saw this ad for a homemade Halloween costume contest online and am very concerned for the safety of this baby -- is it me, or is she trapped in a box?

Observations on Things Unrelated to Pregnancy

I'm still waiting for any sign of labor, so in between reading non-baby books (just finished "Assassination Vacation" by Sarah Vowell, a great book for history buffs who also love David Sedaris style humor) and staying up on pop culture, I've still managed to have some opinions on the outside world:

Despite not having posted anything to my own Twitter page in weeks (months?), I still get e-mails notifying me that people I have never heard of are now following me. Who are these people? How did they find me? Most importantly, why do they care what I have to "tweet"? There was an article in the Tribune this morning about celebrities having Twitter "feuds" with one another because they post their thoughts before their publicists can filter them. This does not surprise me. Twitter, in my opinion, is all about self-importance, right up the alley of a Spencer Pratt or a Perez Hilton. (At least with a blog, I exercise my writing skills and don't use abbreviations like "r u" instead of "are you.") I started my Twitter page originally so I could stay up on social networking technology while I was trying to find a job. Soon I ran out of things to say so just started sharing interesting news items, but with who? I didn't know 99 percent of my followers, so how do I know what news they want to hear? About two months ago, I signed out and can't remember my password. So be it.

Heidi Klum and Seal had a daughter last Friday. They named her Lou. Not Louise. Not Lucille.

Lou.

I had some success this fall, professionally speaking. I've been doing some volunteer PR work (which I'm trying to train myself to refer to as "pro bono" for when I do start interviewing again) for a local nonprofit, Brickton Art Center. They have a house tour this weekend and next, and I managed to get them into the Tribune's Sunday [lifestyle] section, a brief article and a photo of one of the cooler houses on the tour. I've also got some local papers covering it. I'm told it's the best press they've ever had, especially the Tribune coverage. It's nice for me to have the clippings. Now I just have to figure out how I can start doing this for money and do the work from home a few months from now.

Speaking of being at home, a few weeks ago we got a new mail carrier. She seems like a nice person, but I kind of liked that I knew our last mail carrier, Anita, by name, and as far as mail carriers go, she was good at her job. She put our mail inside the storm door on rainy and snowy days when it wouldn't fit in the mailbox. I felt very "small town" knowing my mail carrier. The other day, I spotted Anita a few blocks from our house and actually gasped, seeing that she was still working in the vicinity. Brian was with me, and he asked, "What?" All I could do was point and say, "That's Anita!" You would have thought I'd caught her at a romantic dinner with one of our married friends, the way I reacted. Just in case you'd thought I no longer had too much time on my hands...now I think I have more time than ever.

Observations on the Last Days of Pregnancy

1. I'm not sure if this counts as "nesting," but I can't stop cooking. I have about $300 or more worth of dinners in our freezer, which normally doesn't contain much more than a frozen pizza and some Dairy Queen ice cream. And maybe a chicken breast or two. Now it's full of containers of various entrees made at one of those "Dinner by Design" places, as well as my own chili, lentil soup (which is way better than it sounds), chocolate chip cookie dough, and soon, lasagna. I have little interest in cleaning, though I did that on Friday as well as I could given my carpal tunnel hands and sausage-like fingers. It's really the cooking that I can't stop doing, it's as if I won't be allowed in the kitchen once we're home with the baby.
2. People keep telling me to stay off my feet this week, and take naps. If I sit or lie down, the circulation in my hands acts up and my hands fall asleep. I also get this 'scrunched up' feeling like the baby doesn't have enough room (evident when his butt gets shoved into my rib cage). If I stand and walk around, my bladder seems to get pinched by the weight of his head and my feet may swell up. If I nap during the day, I have even more difficulty sleeping at night. I cannot win.
3. I've decided I need to read one more novel before I am soon so incoherent from a lack of sleep that I can't even read the newspaper. So far I'm pretty into the new Dave Eggers book (which is more or less a nonfiction account, so not a true novel but reads like one) but that damn baby on the cover of the "Week by Week: Your Baby's First Year" book is staring at me with his wide eyes and round face, reminding me I've only read about week one.
4. I do not understand how people can name their children when they are no more than a few cells in utero. We will likely not decide on a name for this baby until we actually meet him face to face. Somehow I have a feeling a name will pop into our heads that just seems right. (And it won't be Obi Wan, Pee Wee, Kobe or any of the others suggested by our nephews.)

Why do I...?

Watch "Entourage?"
I decided last night that every woman on this show is either crazy or slutty. Or both. And that Jeremy Piven yelling insults at people is just tired. And yet I keep watching. I guess I want to make sure Lloyd makes it as an agent.

Visit people.com?
I really don't give a shit which Kardashian got married/got pregnant/broke up with her pro athlete boyfriend. I also don't want to know what the cast of "Full House" is up to these days. Yet it's bookmarked on my browser and I check it nearly every day because I can skim the headlines and stay up on useless celebrity news.

See Jennifer Aniston movies?
I know, I've complained about her before, and I might not pay to see her movies in the theater, but I have undoubtedly seen everything this bland actress has ever made, with the exception of "The Leprechaun." If it's on cable, I will stop and watch it. And I will say out loud to anyone within earshot, "God, she is ALWAYS the same person - it's Rachel Green all over again!" And then I watch the rest of the movie. I think it's her hair that makes me unable to turn away.

Garbage on Top of Garbage

This morning I decided to run some errands relatively early (okay, 8 a.m. is not early for most working people). When I got back in my car after one stop, I turned the key, and it wouldn't start. It made a bad clicking noise and wouldn't turn over. I suspected it was the battery, which had died about a month ago while I waited in the carryout parking spot at a local restaurant. Anyhoo, I was about four blocks from our usual mechanic, fortunately, so I headed over to the station, hoping the coffee I'd recently drank didn't make for a completely miserable walk.

I got there without peeing my pants and the mechanic showed up just a few minutes later. I told him where my car was and he said, "Okay, I'll give you a ride over there, I'll jump it if I can and we can bring it back here to take a look." We've used this mechanic for miscellaneous repairs for at least six years - since we moved to Park Ridge. He's always given a fair price, is really fast and always pleasant. So I feel a little bad sharing this story. A little.

We walk toward his Saturn station wagon and he says, "Hold on a sec, let me just make sure there's nothing on the seat." I open the passenger door and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THE GARBAGE. I couldn't see the floor mat or the seat. Cigarette packs, soda cans, at least two maps, an atlas, random fast food wrappers and receipts. That was just the floor. The seat had the car lighter, more receipts and random garbage, and at least $300 in loose change. He starts scraping off the seat and says (in a tone that I like to think was jovial), "I just want to make sure there's no razor blades on here." I responded with a nervous laugh and get in. This is what it looked like after he'd "cleaned off" the seat:



So we drive the few blocks to my car and he asks something about my living nearby and can I get home okay and I said, "Yeah, I can just walk home, I'm right off Canfield." It's really about a mile walk but, if given a stop at a bathroom halfway home, I could have handled it. He kindly says, "No, no, that's too far, we can give you a ride home." I say something about needing the exercise and then we start talking about whatever might be wrong with my car. We get there and he gets it started right away and I follow him back to the station, having a newfound appreciation for car washes, vacuum cleaners and the fact that my steering wheel doesn't have a 1/2-inch layer of film on it.

Back at the station, he says, "So, just go in and fill out a ticket, and you can take my car 'cause, well, you're gonna need a car." Had I been a little quicker on my feet, I'd have just called a cab or made up something about borrowing a neighbor's car if I needed to, or having nowhere to go, anything. Instead I said, "Are you sure? I can just walk." I relent, get in the car and delicately turn the key and debate with myself whether it's safe to steer with just my fingertips. I managed to get the seatbelt on without any damage to my clothes, and fortunately it was only a two minute ride home. As soon as I got in the house I washed my hands, changed out of my clothes, showered and promptly found my camera so I could record the spectacle that was the inside of this man's car.

Ten Worst Movies I Actually Paid to See in the Theater

I'm flipping through channels on our "basic cable" TV upstairs and came across VH1's airing of "The Bodyguard." I'm embarrassed to calculate in what year this movie came out, because I'm pretty sure I saw it in the theater. Somehow saying I rented it sounds much less lame. Actually the fact that I've not turned the channel yet is mortifying.


It's lameness got me thinking about other movies I've paid to see. Most were the result of a friend's or boyfriend's interest: "Okay, we'll see Waterworld if you really want to. I thought Dances with Wolves was pretty good..." (For the record, Kevin Costner should have quit at Bull Durham.) So here goes, in no particular order (and yet I felt the need to "countdown"):


10. Coffee and Cigarettes. I read a review of this movie, a series of vignettes directed by Jim Jarmusch, whom I'd never heard of, and you'd have thought it would have changed my life. Unfortunately I just didn't understand or appreciate the dialogue. Two of the three people I went with fell asleep halfway through.

9. She-Devil. In my defense, I walked out of this so-called comedy about 35 minutes into it.

8. Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. A friend's mom offered to drive us, and in 4th grade, we'd do anything for a ride to the mall. Remarkably, one did not have to see the original Breakin' to follow the plot of its sequel.

7. New Jack City. No idea why I was remotely interested in seeing this. I do know it was the first time I experienced how some black audiences enjoy yelling at the movie screen as if Wesley Snipes can hear them.

6. Sex and the City: The Movie. Way too much shrieking and, really, way too much celebration of high-end fashion - the bridal gown montage was beyond irritating. I could write a whole entry about why this movie wasn't necessary. And now there's a sequel in the works! Eeeeeek!

5. Waterworld. At least it prevented me from seeing The Postman.

4. Adventures in Babysitting. Alright, I probably thought it was an okay movie when I was in 7th grade, but I recently came across it on cable and it is not okay. Not at all. The opening credits made me sad for Elisabeth Shue.

3. Con-Air. I don't remember who talked me into seeing this, but I know I've never regained whatever shred of respect I had for Nicholas Cage.

2. Hudson Hawk. I've literally blocked this entire movie from memory.

1. Fresh Horses. Again, don't remember the plot of this one, but I do remember leaving the theater thinking, "Just because a movie stars Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy, doesn't mean it's a John Hughes project." Lesson learned; always consider who wrote and directed it; actors are just there for the paycheck.

I've Become "That Person"

The other day, I pulled into the mall parking lot and noticed two women getting out of the parking spot marked for "Expectant Mothers." These women were not pregnant. They did have two toddlers with them, both in strollers. I had to pee and was a bit irritated. Normally, I don't care where I park and sometimes even appreciate being forced to walk a little extra. On this day, however, I was not in the mood to walk. I ended up leaving a note on their car:

This parking space is for "expectant mothers." Not "people with strollers."
- Expectant (and very crabby) Mother

Okay, so I've become that person who leaves notes on strangers' cars. I should add that I have carpal tunnel in my right hand, so my handwriting looks a bit like that of a serial killer these days.

Also this week, I found myself really, really thirsty for a diet coke. I've tried to avoid artificial sweeteners (even though they've supposedly been deemed "safe" in multiple studies, I still feed guilty) throughout most of my pregnancy. But McDonald's fountain diet coke is just fantastic, and I caved on a small drink.

Okay, so I've become that visibly pregnant woman sucking on a soda. I should add that I was wearing a tank top, which might be considered a little trashy. Don't judge me. It was 80 degrees and sunny, and I was hot.

But the last straw came today. I went to the gym to swim laps at around 11 a.m. More often than not, there is at least one woman in the locker room in a state of undress. Sometimes this woman is elderly, sometimes heavyset. Even if the token naked woman in the locker room were Giselle, I'd still be uncomfortable. So I avert my eyes as usual to avoid any nakedness, swim my laps and come back to the locker room to shower. I wanted to not ride home with a wet suit on under my clothes, so I took my suit off in the shower. Then I wrapped myself up into the towel I'd brought from home, which was part of a set I'd received for - yes, it's this old - high school graduation. It was old, and also, towels made in the early 90s were smaller than towels are today. It didn't cover me quite like a beach towel. This made it difficult to get dressed modestly. An 80+ year old woman happened to be using the locker next to mine - she came around the corner right when I decided it was too much work to try to keep the towel over me and still balance on one foot to put my underwear on.

Oh my god. I've become that naked person in the public locker room.

What to Expect After Talking to Friends and Family About Having a Baby

Like most expectant parents, we've been reading the self-proclaimed "America's pregnancy bible!!", What to Expect When You're Expecting. I've taken most of what's in the book with a grain of salt, because it does seem a little preachy and a bit "alarmist," as one friend described it. They should change the title to What to Fear When You're Expecting.

I'm on the final section, titled, "Labor and Delivery." It should just be titled, "PAIN." I've decided that nothing good can come from my reading this section about cramping, tearing and something known as a "bloody show" that I assume is NOT "Fawlty Towers" or some other British television program. Why the phrase "bloody show?" Are a pack of med students going to parade through the room to see how much I'm bleeding? Is there so much bleeding that it's like a circus performance gone awry?

The book also talks about having a birth plan, which I know of only through books. I haven't asked around yet, but I don't personally know of anyone who wrote out what they wanted or expected to happen during labor and delivery. It's my understanding that what's gonna happen is gonna happen, you can't outline it and distribute copies of it among the nursing staff and expect it to happen. If I were an L&D nurse, I would crinkle that piece of paper into a tiny ball and throw it in the recycle bin.

I'll finish the book, but I won't enjoy it. I think I'd rather be caught off guard by the degree of pain, request an epidural and see how it goes.

I Did Not Peak In High School

Brian and I went to our local high school's football game last night. They are ranked #4 in the Tribune's poll this season, and were playing the #1 team. And it was down the street and cost $3 to get in. And they really are impressive. So, it was a fairly entertaining evening.

After a first trip to the bathroom, where three members of the school's dance team were primping in very short shorts and knee socks pulled way high, however, I started to think back to my high school days. I was a football cheerleader, but not a good one. I was always the one in the formation with my arm at the wrong angle. In addition to being uncoordinated, I also didn't know a thing about football back then and so didn't understand what the cheers meant. Cheers like "Sack! That quarterback! Crash! Through that line!" were lost on me. So was one called 'First and 10." Our captain always had to tell me and a few equally clueless friends of mine when it was time to whip that one out.

Seeing the dance team girls and all the other teenagers mingling, in their well-thought-out clothes and hair, made me grateful for the time I didn't waste back then caring too much about what brand of clothes I had (Guess jeans were cool for awhile, but that died in 9th grade) or how my hair looked. I wasn't a "nerd" necessarily, but I wasn't into sports (the yardstick for cool at my high school) like all my friends. I liked having a part time job more than I missed being able to run cross country. For what it's worth, by graduation, I had a much better CD collection to take with me to college than most of my friends. I knew, thanks to some older siblings, I guess, that there was much more to life after high school. If I was awkward then, or didn't always "get" my friends who were better at makeup and hair than I was, it was okay. I'm not sure if I've reached my peak yet, but I'm sure as hell glad I didn't do it at 16. Yikes.

Quest for a Rocking Chair

The question Brian and I get most these days is, "So, do you have the baby's room all ready?" In short, sort of. We've ordered the crib, the walls are painted, and we found a decent dresser for a good price. Now we are trying to find a rocking chair that will fit in the 9' x 9' room. Basic wooden rocking chairs are evidently not popular anymore. Instead stores are selling a lot of big upholstered chairs that happen to rock. I'd much prefer one of those, as they look really, really comfortable, but they also look really, really big and are more expensive than a standard rocker.

As a last resort, I've checked Craigslist. I'm starting to understand why my favorite stores don't sell wooden rocking chairs. Because wooden rocking chairs remind people of these two women:

Granny Clampett

or...

Mrs. Bates

Are rocking chairs really hillbilly? Or just downright creepy? Judging from what I've found on Craigslist, they can be one of many things:

Historically Scary

This one makes me think of a scary old Confederate wife who was mean to her grandchildren in the 1950s. Isn't this the chair Scarlett O'Hara's father sat in when he was going insane in the middle third of Gone With the Wind?

Crime Scene Scary

Are those streaks of blood? Who would give a chair a distressed finish with red on white other than a sociopath? I do not care to visit this person's home to check out this bloodstained chair in person.

Smelly Scary

I can smell this one from here. Okay, so this isn't wooden, but it is faded, misshapen and looks like someone's Great Aunt Faye put a lot of TV watching years into it, alongside her many cats. Who may or may not have peed on it. This chair's owner wants $120 for it.

Okay, so maybe we don't buy a used rocking chair on Craigslist after all. The charming antique piece I was envisioning is apparently still in someone's grandma's house waiting for her to pass on so her offspring can make a quick 50 bucks off of it. And maybe, if I keep looking, we can find a new wooden chair that won't make me think of the final scenes of Psycho or make me want to tie it to the top of our car for our next road trip.

Walter Cronkite is Rolling Over in His Grave

Despite my promise to myself a few weeks ago -- in the middle of the Michael Jackson Memorial Circus -- to boycott morning news shows, I found myself watching the "Today Show" just now. (Morning radio is sometimes not enough for me, news wise, and sometimes, like the elderly who live alone, I just want some "background noise.")


I think I might have to turn off the TV again. Matt Lauer just did a 3-minute segment on whether or not it was appropriate for Michelle Obama to have worn shorts when she and her family visited the Grand Canyon. Mid-thigh shorts. Not hot pants. Not cutoffs. In Matt's defense, he prefaced the story by acknowledging that it seemed a little crazy, then went on to discuss how much media coverage it received. Gee, Matt, it's too bad you aren't in a position to not feed into this ridiculousness by covering something that actually matters. Then again, he is just the face and voice, not the producer.


Just when I started to talk myself into the idea of the story not being so ridiculous -- "Today" was more focused on the media backlash and public reaction of the shorts being worn than the appropriateness of the shorts, after all -- Matt did a teaser for the next story:


"Up next, Nora the piano-playing cat, a You Tube sensation, will play for us live in the studio!"


And now my TV is off. Even Nora the Cat, pictured here, seems to be asking, "Are you f-ing kidding me?"

Why I don't wear eyeliner

Every few years, I let a department store cosmetics counter employee talk me into letting him or her do my eye makeup. I've only allowed this at certain counters, since the older I get the more settled I get on certain brands. I don't wear much makeup, but I like to think the makeup I do wear is not completely unflattering.

Having worn contacts since I was 12, I have resisted wearing a lot of eye makeup. It's just too messy when my contact gets out of whack and I end up rubbing my eye and smudging everything. But there's another reason. Once, I made the mistake of letting a woman at a MAC counter go to town on my eyes. I came out looking like Alexis Bledel here, who, like me, has dark hair, fair skin and blue eyes. I'm not saying I look like an actress, just that we have the same color combo going on.

Problem is, her eyes are so overpowered by the dark eyeliner that she resembles another figure from the world of entertainment (circa 1948):

Dear God, where are her eyeballs? I may print these images out and keep them in my wallet for the next time a Nordstrom employee tries to tell me my eyes would look so cool with red eyeshadow and about a half-pencil's worth of eyeliner. No, it's not cool, it's frightening.

This is how much free time I have.

I just MadMen'ed myself.

It's also a sign of how excited I am that season three of my favorite show premieres this Sunday, August 16.

John Hughes

A few months ago I posted a time-sucking Facebook poll listing "5 Movies I Could Watch Over and Over." I didn't think about it at the time, but two of the five were written and directed by John Hughes ("Planes, Trains & Automobiles" and "Uncle Buck"). After reading some articles about him in this morning's Tribune, I also learned he wrote the screenplays for "Mr. Mom" and "Vacation" - two movies I will never pass up if I catch them on cable. Hughes was only 59 when he died yesterday, and from what I've read he started to shy away from the business after writing "Curly Sue" in 1992 (can't say that I blame him, though I didn't see the movie) and it flopped. He spent the last part of his life living on a farm in Harvard, Ill., about 30 miles from where I live now (actually the last stop on my commuter train line).

Fortunately, he'll be remembered more for "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and "The Breakfast Club" and all the other movies that spoke to and represented teenagers in the '80s so well. His John Candy and Chevy Chase comedies are absolutely timeless. It's interesting that he quit when he did, maybe realizing he'd already peaked (or, from what I've read, just tired of the Holly wood machine). Regardless, I'm grateful for his movies and their place in my life; I don't know of a director or screenwriter today who would offer so much to young audiences and people who appreciate good comedy.

Random Thoughts

Or: Things that I've been asking myself lately that don't warrant an entire blog entry because they are evidence of the abundance of time I have on my hands lately:

Victoria Beckham is going to be a guest host on American Idol. Did I really need another reason not to watch that show?

Why is Amy Adams' haircut so bad in the upcoming movie Julie & Julia? I've seen photos of the real Julie Powell -- her hair is not that bad.

Why did I agree to let Brian put our 8-foot handrail, awaiting installation, on the floor in the basement in my path to the laundry room? I'm pretty sure I jammed my toe this morning.

Am I just anti-people lately, or was the woman next to me in yoga really mean and annoyingly bossy? We did four different "partner" poses and I really got tired of her telling me what to do.

Why is it so hard for the Chicago Tribune to publish one issue without at least three glaring errors? Today's paper includes a quote that uses "they're" instead of "their." I know they're short staffed these days, but come on...

Why does mediocre actress Jennifer Aniston have a successful career making mediocre movies? I'm sure there are plenty of great, undiscovered actresses out there whose hair is just as well conditioned. Can we have a little variety, please, Hollywood?

Awww...

I stopped over to my neighbor's house today to meet her new dog. Her last dog, who was honestly the nicest dog I'd ever known, was hit by a car just at the beginning of last week. She said the only way she could get over him was to get a new puppy. I brought her some tiny dog treats as a welcome gift and got to hold her (the puppy, not my neighbor) for a bit.

In the afternoon, I stopped by a friend's house to drop return some pants she'd loaned me early in my pregnancy. She has a six-week-old baby who happened to be awake and alert when I stopped by. This baby is so mellow, every time I see him (about once a week or so) he is just making gurgling noises and maybe, at worst, letting out a little gas. Not a big cryer, this kid. I asked how she was sleeping, and she said it was a little better, but that he wanted to be held all the time. I asked if I could hold him if she wanted some hands-free time. She passed him over and I said, "Wow, I got to hold a puppy and a baby in the same day. Not bad."

When did I lose my social skills?

I have always considered myself a sort of female Chandler Bing. I have a knack for making jokes at inappropriate times, or when I'm uncomfortable, like at a wake or funeral, or to people who have no sense of humor. Except I go for the joke so quickly after meeting them that I don't realize what a slim chance I have of making them even smirk, let alone laugh out loud.

On top of this, lately I'm noticing I'm not only making jokes at inappropriate times, but I just say the wrong thing. It could be because I'm unemployed and home all day, not interacting with anyone except maybe our 75-year-old retired neighbor. (I even gave up morning news shows after all the Susan Boyle and Michael Jackson coverage irritated the crap out of me.) It could be because this pregnancy, I'm told, is causing me to lose brain cells. It could be that I'm just getting older and my conversation filter peaked in my late 20s, when I considered myself pretty savvy at conversation and small talk.

The other night, I joined Brian for his grade school reunion (yes, they have these in Chicago, where most grade schools are K-8 and then they "graduate" and go on to any number of public or private high schools). We walk into the party room and are first greeted by two women, one of whom is visibly pregnant. As it turns out, she's due in September. I carefully considered what to ask her that wouldn't be the same old questions I get all the time but decided just to ask how she was feeling. She told us she has gestational diabetes. I know a few people who have had this, and I could have said something like, "It's crazy how common that is." or something else that would make her feel normal. No, not me, instead I practically yell, "Aw, I was so afraid of getting that because of all the food restrictions, that would stink!" Okay, did I have to remind her of how hard it probably is? She replied by kindly explaining that it isn't that bad, and that she has to keep telling herself it's not because of anything she did wrong, etc. Fortunately Brian piped in with some question about managing it, and how it's not full-on diabetes, and it goes away, blah blah. He then segued into an update on their classmate who has diabetes but manages it quite well with a pump, and how amazing the pump technology is compared to giving himself insulin shots every day.

It was very much like a wake we went to this spring, when I started to randomly reminisce to my friend's brother - their dad had passed away - about all the fun we would have when he'd visit us at college. Brian stepped in that time with a somber "I'm very sorry for your loss" that quieted me down. I had evidently forgotten we were in a funeral home. With this pregnant girl, all I could think was how annoyed I would have been if I were her.

I hope this new found social awkwardness, like the nightly leg cramps and the extra 30 pounds, goes away once the baby is here. Otherwise I'll have to leave our son's "art of conversation" lessons to Brian (and maybe I should sit in on some of those). If they don't, I might never work again because I can't make it through a networking event or, God forbid, an interview, without cracking a poorly timed joke.

What are ya drinking?

After nearly a year of unemployment, you would think that nothing I see on the online job boards or the weekly e-mail updates they generate would surprise me. The weekly e-mails are a list of job openings based on my specifications and keywords, so they're usually more or less jobs I might want. Today I opened one from a site that typically has some pretty solid postings specific to my field (some of which I've actually acted on) only to find this listing second from the top:

Bartenders wanted!

My field, I should point out, is not mixing cocktails; though I guess I can see where "public relations" in its purest form would play a part in the day to day of a barkeep. Besides, aren't journalists notorious for their drinking habits? Maybe it would be a good way to network.

Gee, I thought I was doing well...

I'm doing some volunteer PR work for a local arts organization. At today's committee meeting, one of my fellow volunteers whom I hadn't seen in two weeks came in, looked at me and said, "Well, you're looking chunky!"

I stammered something about horizontal stripes not being the best idea for me (I was wearing a maternity T-shirt I'd found on clearance) and the meeting got started.

Side note: This is the same woman who, the first time I met her, shared with me how, when she was pregnant (in the 70s), she swam a MILE A DAY, six days a week, through her whole pregnancy, and the baby practically "slid right out." (Thanks for the visual, person I've just met.) She made a point to add that when she wasn't pregnant, she ran six miles a day, seven days a week. Whatever, lady. I swim two times a week, a half mile each time, and walk the other days, and I think that's a good effort.

It didn't really annoy me until the end of the meeting, when I was walking out to my car and getting hungry. I get really crabby when I'm hungry. I was reminded of some family pictures my mom had taken the last time we were all home, earlier this summer. The photographer just e-mailed us all with the proofs. Five months is probably not the best time in one's pregnancy to have a photo taken - I don't look pregnant in the pictures, I just look bloated. My face is puffy even when I'm at my thinnest, so adding on an extra 10-15 pounds didn't help. (The good news is, there's a really cute photo of my parents among the proofs that I am ordering.)

Frustrated with her stupid comment and the visual of those family pictures in my head, I went to the mall to take advantage of a sale at Banana Republic to get some "casual Friday" shirts for Brian (who shops for himself only in election years). I usually avoid conversation with retail salespeople, but I had a question about a shirt and the sales guy offered to take the stuff I'd found and put it behind the register. Then he asked if I was going to look for anything for myself. I held back the shirts to show him my belly (and, apparently, the rest of my chunky self) and said I thought I'd outgrown their stuff for the time being. He said, "Aw, how far along are you?" I said six months and he said, "Well, you hide it very well!" I'm not even sure if that's good or bad - like, am I so puffy all over that my belly is barely noticeable, or do I not look puffy until you notice my belly? I'm going with the latter. And that lady and her six-days-a-week exercise routine can suck it.

5 Things I Miss

Don't get me wrong, I love being pregnant -- or, rather, the fact that I am pregnant. But I'm finding myself missing a few things, some I hadn't anticipated:

1) Running. Once in awhile on the weekend mornings, I'll join Brian down by the lakefront. While he runs, I walk. I used to run, and hope to be able to do a 10k or perhaps even a half marathon next summer. Something about a long run completed by 9:30 a.m. is really satisfying.

2) Golfing. This was one of those activities I'd sometimes avoid because I was inevitably the only female in every foresome (our female friends and family didn't have the free time I had because they all had kids). And because there's usually a cold beer at the end (sometimes during, depending on when and with whom I golf). Now that I can't do it, I miss it.

3) Water slides. My family met up at a state park in June, the high point of which was a pretty nice water park. I found myself just a little bummed that I couldn't go down the water slides to cool off. The adults who were using them looked like they were having a good time. Of course, I haven't been down one since I was 12, but I remember I enjoyed it.

4) Stella Artois. This is my hot weather drink of choice. Light, refreshing, Belgian. What more could you ask for? So special it has its own glass.

5) Bending over.

Human Chimney

Saturday night, we were driving home from a friend's party when I decided, at 9:30 p.m., that I wanted a chopped salad from one of our neighborhood restaurants. Brian called in the order for me (I was driving) and we swung by to pick it up. I waited in front of the restaurant, parked in the designated carry out spot, while he ran in to get it. The parking spot happened to be right in front of the unofficial smokers' hangout, so I had the pleasure of watching all the tobacco enthusiasts puff away for about 15 minutes.

One middle-aged blonde amazed me with her sense of rhythm and determination to get every last ounce of nicotine out of her Marlboro Light. With her right arm folded across her ribcage and the other holding the cigarette, she functioned much like, what, an oil rig? Her right arm pumped with an almost hypnotic motion. She would inhale, exhale while swinging the left arm and hand down, ash, then swing it back up again for another drag. I watched her for at least twenty seconds, and it lulled me into a comfortable stare. I wondered if someone she was dining or drinking with inside the restaurant didn't know she smoked, because she was sort of leaning up against a wall away from the windows. Either that, or her dinner companions were really impatient and she, despite that, wanted to enjoy every last bit of her smoke. In short, she smoked the crap out of that cigarette.

I hope she found it fulfilling. I found it fascinating and disturbing at the same time.

The accompanying image, by the way, is just an excuse to put a picture of Aaron Eckhart on my blog.

Today I went up to Milwaukee to rifle through my sister's attic and collect some baby hand-me-downs, both gear and clothes. Holy crap did she have stuff to hand down. I left with a trunkful of stuff - shopping bags full of sleepers and boy clothes (thanks, nephew Jack), a Moses basket, seats both bouncy and booster. It was so much more than I expected and will go a long way towards our efforts not to consume too much in the way of baby crap.

After the pilfering, I joined their family at their pool for Jack's fifth birthday party with his preschool friends. I didn't realize until Sheila put me in charge of the gift opening portion that I had never been to a birthday party for a 5 year old before. Sheila left to drop my niece off at her Brownie camp, so I stayed on to help my brother-in-law with the gift opening and cupcake distribution. We announced that it was time for Jack to open presents, and set out a chair next to the gift table for the birthday boy to sit and open his presents. I had assumed (naively) that the guests would sit in their seats and maybe watch for their gift to be open but otherwise would not be interested. I was so wrong.



The kids, one by one, went up to the table and picked up the gift they'd brought. For a second, I thought maybe they'd misunderstood and were going to open up their own gift. Jack started opening one, and every single kid gathered around him - well, "gathered around" is an understatement. They were like the paparazzi swarming Jennifer Aniston, all jockeying for position so Jack would open their present next. With his friends pressed up against him, he would open one, my brother-in-law would grasp for the card before it was lost in the crowd. Sometimes even the gift would get grabbed out of Jack's hands as he looked to see what it was. One kid asked if he could open and play with the giant squirt gun he gave Jack. These kids were like an angry mob, only they weren't angry, they just LOVE presents.





My brother-in-law and I attempted a few times to ask them to "Give Jack some space" or suggest that they all sit down on the towels we'd laid out. They'd step back for a second, then step forward again. Halfway through the chaotic scene, I looked behind me and noticed the table of moms who had stayed for the party, sipping their drinks and most likely laughing at the two of us attempting to maintain order. No interest, however, in helping us with crowd control.

Not Too Shabby After All

I've always considered myself one of those people who is sort of just mediocre, average, okay at a lot of things. I was always a B student. I was never a natural athlete; I run, but I'm not fast. I can take a decent vacation picture, but I'm not good enough to be artistic about photography. When I had a job, I was good at it, but knew there were people my age who'd made it a lot farther in their careers than I had. For awhile there, when it was taking so long to get pregnant, I went through phases when all I could think about was what I was bad at, or how there were so many people around me who were better at the things I wanted to be good at - getting pregnant was just one of them.



Lately, though, I've come to appreciate (more than even I thought I would) the fact that I haven't - knock on wood - had any issues with this gestating thing. I had a little sickness and fatigue in the beginning, but most people do. I haven't gained too much or too little weight; magically, I've gained exactly the recommended amount without obsessing about calories. And I've kept up a respectable but not freakish exercise routine. Every doctor's appointment so far has been uneventful. In short, I seem to be pretty damn good at being pregnant.


Yoga was yet another "sport" I have never been great at. In every class I've taken, the instructor wandered the room while gently calling out instruction, stopping occasionally to correct a student's positioning. That student is always me. I eventually bought a DVD and did my incorrect poses in the privacy of my own home. A friend recommended a prenatal yoga class to me, and I am so glad she did. I went to my first class today and loved it. The instructor was not your typical earth mother type, she was kind of funny and had some good, practical information about leg cramps and other random pregnancy side effects. And when she stopped to correct someone's pose, it wasn't mine!

Toward the end of class, I was feeling really good, and she had us do this hip stretch pose that I used to do after a long run (which I learned from my yoga DVD), so it was second nature to me. The instructor noted that some people might have trouble with this pose because it is a little difficult. When I looked over at the girl next to me, who looked really athletic and with whom I was swapping exercise stories at the start of class, looked at my legs all twisted up and said, "How do you do that? It's so hard!"

I tried to supress my smile as I sputtered something about other poses I struggle with. During the relaxation session that followed, I admitted to myself that while I might not yet have found what I'm great at, I am better than average at a few things, even if one of them is just a single yoga pose. I should remind myself of that a little more often than I do. Everyone should.

One Man's Trash...

I've become a lot more budget conscious since becoming unemployed, not to mention I'm on a new "less is more" kick when it comes to everything to do with our house and what we buy. As my favorite comedian of all time, George Carlin, once said, "a house is just your pile of stuff with a cover on it." He also goes on to say the only reason people move is because they just have "too much stuff - they need a bigger place to store it all." (Okay, some people move because of job transfers, or having another child, or to escape a crime-ridden neighborhood, but in general the "too much stuff" theory works for me, for now.)

Carlin also did a bit once about garage sales that I can't for the life of me find online. His point was that garage sales are basically one person saying, "I do not need all this crap. But I bet if I put it out in front of my house with a price tag on it, someone will pay me for it and take it home with them." Garage sales are just a pile of other people's stuff they don't want anymore.

This past Saturday, I drove by at least eight garage sales. Slowly. Curious to see if they were selling jogger strollers or high quality toys for bargain prices. But something kept me from parking and going into look. One problem was that I only had $4 in cash in my wallet at the time. The other was that I was afraid of getting sucked into all the deals to be had and would walk out with another vase (50 cents!) or a stack of CDs (I love hits of the 80s!) much like the ones I just cleaned out of our den closet. So I kept going, probably missing out on a fabulous deal on someone else's unnecessary crap but perhaps on some fantastic, gently used baby item that would actually be put to good use at our house in the coming year. Maybe I can be talked into becoming the garage sale type. Until then, I'll always hear George Carlin in the back of my mind, telling me I've already got too much stuff.

Child Stars

So Michael Jackson died yesterday. I haven't yet read the paper, but the television and online media are celebrating his music, dissecting his life. Celebrities are commenting (some, like John Mayer, suspiciously - what does John Mayer know?). As a "child of the 80s," I remember when my sister got the Thriller album in the mail from Columbia House (probably one of eight that she bought for JUST A PENNY!). We listened to it again and again. We even dusted off Off the Wall and still found we liked that album, too. I begged my mom to buy me his poster at the drugstore (she wouldn't). I even remember where I was when I heard he'd caught on fire filming that Pepsi commercial. In high school, the Jackson 5's Greatest Hits CD was among the first I bought (again, thank you, Columbia House). In other words, I liked his music.

But then he brought Webster to the Grammys. Adopted a chimp and named it Bubbles. Built Neverland Ranch and befriended Macaulay Culkin. And started his physical transformation. Got a more obvious nose job. Straightened his hair. Recorded Bad. Suddenly I was more entertained by Weird Al Yankovick's parodies of his songs that I was by him. (Okay, I do have a weak spot for "The Way You Make Me Feel.") I stopped listening to Top 40 radio and became more interested in artists' the generation before me liked (Paul Simon, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix). Then grunge music went mainstream and I never looked back on pop music. I lost track of Michael Jackson, except for the occasional news story about him marrying Lisa Marie Presley, or dangling his baby over a balcony in Berlin. Every piece of news I heard about him made me wonder what happened? How did he go from being so cool to being so weird? Why do some celebrities - especially child stars - survive fame and others succumb to it?

He is often quoted as saying he didn't have a childhood. Well, did Jodie Foster, who had her first national ad campaign for Coppertone at age 2, have a childhood? Brooke Shields seems to have turned out alright despite her stage mom managing her career. Justin Timberlake survived Lou Pearlman's creepy ways and, so far, he seems to have come out ahead. Leonardo DiCaprio is not only alright, he's one of the better actors out there today.

But for every Jodie Foster, there's a Lindsay Lohan, or a Tatum O'Neil, or, of course, a Britney Spears. There are Gary Colemans and Dana Platos and the kid who played Bud on "Married With Children." Let's not forget Judy Garland, whose own mother started her on diet pills and Valium when she was, what, 13?

So are the parents to blame? Are some children just stronger than others? Or more chemically balanced? Is it the type of education they get? Notice how many child actresses - Reese Witherspoon, Shields, Foster, Natalie Portman - went to top tier universities. Are they just naturally driven as people and as performers, and some child stars are just driven in the wrong direction? Joe Jackson, it has been said, would have done anything to get his family out of their crappy 2-bedroom home in Gary, Ind. Are the parents of the ones who turned out okay the same parents who weren't so desperate for the money and fame themselves? It seems for every example there's one to counter it. And some stage mom in Texas putting lipstick on her five year old and telling her to suck in her stomach.

Anyway, I bet Mark Sanford is the most grateful politician since Gary Condit to have this trifecta of celebrity deaths overshadow his affair.

If Diet Coke Were Allowed

This would be me today (minus the pedophile glasses):

What irritates me

Things that irritate me lately:

People spitting in public (intentionally, that is).
When the driver in front of me enters the expressway at 45 mph when traffic is moving at 65 or faster. Please press the pedal on the right or we will both die!
Shia LeBeouf's name.
Shia LeBeouf.
Paris Hilton's fame.
Simon Cowell's wardrobe of v-neck T-shirts.
Simon Cowell's hair.
Oh, alright. Simon Cowell.
Romantic comedies.
Chick lit.
The phrase chick lit.
People who feel the need to talk about how much they waste - in time, money, energy - as if it's amusing or impressive. I don't want to know you overpaid for that dress. It doesn't make you cool in my mind, it makes you dumb.
People talking on their cell phones in small public spaces - the el, the Metra, a bathroom stall (that is just gross).
The adorable bunny who is less and less adorable because he keeps eating the flowers I just planted.
People who abuse the system.

Swimmin' with the Oldies

I've managed to keep up my swimming routine these past few weeks and think I've finally figured out the best days to go in order to have the pool to myself. I will now avoid Mondays, as it seems to be a popular day for the senior set. For the first half of my laps, I had a lane to myself. Then suddenly it was like a scene from "Cocoon." Three women in their 70s were in the lane next to me. As I turned around at the end of the lane, wondering if I could learn a flip turn in time to put it into practice before my belly gets in the way, I saw an octogenarian at the other end, waving to me. He wanted to share my lane. I looked over toward the sauna and spied two other men in their early 80s.

I finished my lap, and stopped next to the elderly man in my lane. He said, "Do you mind sharing your lane?" I said, "No, not at all. I can just stay on this half, if that's alright." (Alternatively, if we swam at the same pace, we could swim in a circle formation, sort of following each other.) He said, "Oh, that would be fine. I just hop on one foot."

Huh?

I said, "Oh, okay, well, I'll just try to stay on this side," still not sure what he planned to do. Was he going to just hop in one spot? I started on another lap and on my way back discovered that he indeed hops on one foot all the way down the lane. Unfortunately, he was facing sideways rather than straight down the length of the pool. Equally unfortunate is the fact that I am not so skilled a swimmer that I can breath out of both sides. I put my head down, exhale, and when I come up for air I always come up on my left side. This, of course, meant I had to look right at him, hopping, when I swam past him. Every time.

After the first lap, I noticed he was waving over a white-haired lady friend of his, presumably to join him in our lane for some hopping.

Mercifully, before she could get in the pool, the young guy in the far lane finished when I had about three laps to go, so I let my lane friend know he had the lane to himself and ducked under the ropes.

Today, I had nearly the whole pool to myself. I actually felt bad for the teenage lifeguard because he had no one to monitor but me and my slow-and-steady crawl. I'm grateful that he's there, and I know he's being paid, but the lifeguards that work the indoor lap pool must have drawn the short straw.

On a separate note, I wondered while I was swimming what it feels like for the baby. Is it like being in the swimming pool on a cruise ship?

Baby Boy Healy

We had our 20 week ultrasound this past week and learned we are having a boy! I really thought it was a girl, only because I know so many pregnant friends and family members who are expecting boys already. We truly didn't care either way, we are just elated to be pregnant and with a healthy baby, but it's fun to know now that we do. We're starting to toss around names and can officially refer to the baby as "he" without catching ourselves.

The ultrasound was entertaining. Our tech was an Asian woman named Bridget - and by Asian I mean from an Asian country, not Asian American. I think she was Chinese but I didn't want to generalize. She was not only the first Asian woman I've ever met named Bridget, she was also very perky. When she started the ultrasound she got the baby on screen and said, "Okay, now baby is positioned with the head down." Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out this visual aid, minus the hat:

She held it so the doll's feet were facing me, and its hair was askew, so at first I thought it was a troll doll. That would have creeped me out. But then I realized it was Strawberry Shortcake, a doll I played with quite often as a kid. (In fact, my mom saved this little 3" tall, scented figure and my nieces now play with her when they visit Grandma. Oddly enough, she still smells.) Bridget explained that the baby was facing down at the moment and that it was about that size - I should have asked if the head was as disproportionately large as this doll's, but I was afraid she might say yes.

After several minutes of measurements and showing us all the baby's organs, spine and limbs, she did some prodding and encouraging words of "come on, baby," he finally moved his legs down and we saw his business. It's a boy!

Street Fest Parents

Brian and I worked as volunteer bartenders this past Saturday at a German heritage festival in our old neighborhood. Now that we're expecting our own child, I find myself noticing couples with babies out in public. And then I find myself judging them.

First I saw what was maybe a two month old, out in the sun with no hat on, his bald head and crinkled face exposed and squinting. I wanted to take him from his mom's shoulder and run under the festival tent to the safety of shade.

Then I saw what looked like a caravan of babies in strollers, travel systems and car seats (one infant had been set on the sidewalk in hers), their parents socializing and drinking their steins of imported beer, occasionally rocking them or looking down to make sure their baby wasn't the one that was crying (it was hard to tell over the live music coming from the stage 30 feet away). They were situated, strategically or not, directly behind the porta potties. I suppose it would be more disgusting if they were in front of them, right?

As they day went on, and the nearby Cubs game ended, the festival got more crowded. But the parents and their babies all stayed, continuing to drink in the sun. I assume they went home after 7, the time of my last trip to the bathrooms.

I hope we can be one of those families who isn't tethered to their house just because there's some extra equipment and a small person to bring along. I hope we still get out and enjoy the city. But, I don't know, is a festival whose main attraction is Hofbrau served by the liter really the place for a newborn?

Halfway There Already?

I'm officially 20 weeks pregnant today. Is that really halfway? I feel like my October due date is still so far away.

Halfway sounds like a lot, but in any race I've ever run, the halfway point, while nice to see, only meant that there was more work ahead. When I hit the halfway point in a half marathon I did last year, I thought, "Jesus, I have to run another 10k?!? And then some?!?"

The difference here, though, is that every week I feel less sick. I look more pregnant. I feel the baby moving more. I don't have a spare tire, I have an official bump. This week, we find out if we're having a boy or a girl, so we can look more seriously at names, nursery decor, and baby gear. We can stop accidentally referring to the baby as "it."

Unlike a run, I think the second half of this experience will be more fun than the first.

Sea Cow in the Making

I started swimming laps about nine years ago, when Brian and I signed up for our first sprint distance triathlon. The year prior, I'd taken an adult swim class with a friend who was trying to conquer her fear of the water, so I improved my technique a bit since my days of YMCA swim lessons. But I never thought about swimming for exercise until the triathlon. Then I thought of it in terms of a survival tactic, because as long as I didn't drown in the first leg of the race, I could live to do the bike and run portions.

Now that I'm pregnant, however, I really enjoy being able to swim efficiently. And I have a feeling the bigger I get, the more I will appreciate the weightlessness I get to experience in the water, not to mention it's one form of exercise that doesn't cause me to sweat profusely. Even though by August I will probably look like a manatee in the park district pool, I hope to still swim.

This reminds me of my favorite comedian, Jim Gaffigan, and his jokes about the manatee. http://comedians.comedycentral.com/jim-gaffigan/videos/jim-gaffigan---manatees

Party Parents in the House

Very early Thursday morning (we're talking 4 a.m.), I woke up to what I thought at first was Brian's alarm clock going off, tuned to an annoying pop radio station. After a minute, I realized it was our teenage neighbors and their friends hanging out in their backyard. This family lives two houses down, but on the block north of ours, so their back yard is about fifty feet away from ours. This is not the first time their kids have kept us awake. They evidently have at least two teenage children, and apparently enjoy being the "party house" among their kids' friends.

Two years ago, we first noticed the party scene at this house because they have a pool, and consequently a steady stream of high school kids jumping in and out of it, squealing (really, one girl sounded like a pig being chased), nearly every night of the summer. Mercifully, the parties would die down at 11 p.m. on weeknights. But trying to go to bed before that was futile, even with our windows closed. Then one day around Thanksgiving, we read in the Chicago Tribune that our fun-loving neighbors hosted a party at which 50+ teenagers were cited for underage drinking at their house. Yet the parents got off scot-free because they said they were asleep the whole time the party was going on and didn't know the kids were drinking. Are you kidding me? Come on, people, unless you're using a horse tranquilizer as a sleep aid, I highly doubt you could sleep through the sounds of a basement full of drunk teens. At the same time this story came out, I read about several other stories of parents providing alcohol to their high school aged kids.

As a soon-to-be parent, and a former teen who was by no means perfect, I wonder at what point did some parents start feeling they needed to be "cool" and "fun?" Why do some parents need to be their kids' friends, and not their parents? And what are our neighbors teaching their kids about responsibility and obeying the law? When I was in high school, my dad was already 60 years old, and my mom was in her mid-50s. They were older than my friends' parents, but because they'd already raised seven kids, they were probably wiser. While I felt at the time that they were out of touch (they listened to the classical music station!), I did respect them for the most part. They knew what was up, and though they weren't strict with me, they also weren't stupid. By the end of my senior year, I had shown them that I could hold down a good job and manged to get into a decent school, so they eased up on my curfew and gave me quite a bit of freedom. Never, ever would they have bought me alcohol or hosted a party at our house that allowed drinking.

Anyway, now it seems there are way too many "cool moms and dads" out there who wear their North Face jackets and their Uggs (the moms, not the dads) and look as if they wish they were still 18 and their kids' best friend. I like to think these are people who peaked in high school and are raising their kids to believe that high school is the pinnacle of one's life? I hope not. And I hope they realize that Amy Poehler character in "Mean Girls" was a charicature. http://video.aol.com/video-detail/mean-girls-cool-mom/3013608018

Chicago just keeps getting better, IMHO

I had a really good "Chicago" day today. I spent the first half of the day volunteering at a Chicago 2016 event in Millenium Park. As luck would have it, the weather was incredible - blue skies, 85 degrees, and just enough breeze off the lake to keep me from sweating profusely in my Olympic bid T-shirt. The event celebrated about 150 Chicago Public School students who participated in Conservation Corps, a program of the mayor's office that requires the students to set up environmentally friendly activities in their schools (recycling, composting, encouraging teachers to bike to work, etc.).

Mayor Daley spoke during the program, which seemed to impress the kids. I was impressed that he looked so calm - I'm used to seeing him on TV, red faced and yelling at reporters. I thought it was a nice event, but a fellow volunteer's comment really made me appreciate the day. He said, "Isn't it cool that this whole younger generation will think of recycling and conservation as second nature? It's just a part of their lives." Let's hope so. Someone's got to make up for all the one-gallon plastic milk jugs my family went through in the 70s and 80s. After the program, the kids got lunch from an organic food caterer, which they ate on the lawn of the Pritzker Pavillion, my favorite part of the park, while a concert for senior citizens took place in the theater. It was quite a vast representation of ages and neighborhoods, set to ... Big Band music.

After the event, I crossed the new pedestrian bridge over Monroe Street to check out the new Modern Wing of the Art Institute of Chicago. Because admission is free this week, it was fairly crowded. Okay, it was really crowded. But it's good to know that many people are interested in the museum, and maybe some of them - myself included - will come back again when they have to pay, or buy a membership, or support it in some other way. Like the man who seemed to be following me into every gallery, commenting to his friend on every photograph and painting with great authority. He wore a white linen suit (really) and had a ponytail (really). His companion said nothing in reply to all of his comments on Matisse, Picasso and Dali, and I can only assume it's because any kind of reply would encourage FURTHER COMMENTARY.

Aside from that guy, it was a nice visit.

Celebrity Quote of the Day:

"I have to laugh about this, or else I'll cry."

- Kate Gosselin of John & Kate Plus Eight on her life in supermarket tabloid hell

Funny, that's how I feel about her haircut.

Really, I have a hard time feeling sorry for this woman. When you voluntarily put yourself and your children (and your marriage) on national television, it's pretty clear there's a part of you that wants to be famous. With that, in this day and age, comes tabloid coverage. I mean, come on lady, who'd you expect to cover you, Vanity Fair?

Why are you still famous?

There are people in this world whose undying fame is baffling to me. Pamela Anderson is one. Okay, okay, I know she was actually an "actress" on Baywatch at one point, but what has she done in the last 10+ years besides dress like a 20-year-old on spring break? (Or, at this fundraiser in Venice -- what the f is going on there?)

I've been having really bizarre, senseless dreams since I've been pregnant. I hope to God this image doesn't pop up in one this week.

So I made it through almost a whole season of "The Real Housewives of New York City." Those women were materialistic, catty and somehow able to hold my attention more than the ladies of Orange County and Atlanta. I had a hard time looking away.

Now there's a new bunch of housewives, this time from New Jersey. Dear God, the accents. The collagen. And did I mention the accents? I only watched the preview episode and decided not to invest time in this franchise.

But I can't help but notice that this woman:

bears an uncanny resemblance to this person:

...child actor Jerrod Rushton (he was Billy, the best friend in "Big"). Were they not about 15 years apart in age (Jared Preston would now be 35, according to IMDB), I would swear this is a child actor turned Jersey reality star.

Is it hard to use a porta-potty when pregnant?

There are two music festivals this summer that under ordinary circumstances I would love to go to - Pitchfork Music Festival and Lollapalooza - that offer one day passes. Pitchfork is in July and Lolla is in early August. We got a one-day pass to Pitchfork last year and just went for the afternoon/evening, like four hours, saw four acts and came away with at least one band that I still really enjoy (The Hold Steady). It was a well spent $30, if you ask me. The people watching alone was worth the money. This year the Flaming Lips are playing on Sunday, and they're taking requests, which could be fun.

I'm trying to wait until the last minute to buy tickets, just to see what kind of pregnant woman I will be...the kind that has all sorts of energy and looks great in a sundress, or the kind that is whiny, bloated and hates the heat and crowds. Time will tell, I suppose. Logic tells me to just hold off.

I'm gonna hug him and pet him and call him George!

I ran into my neighbor, Roseanne, yesterday and told her we're expecting. Like most people, she asked how far along I am. I said, "17 weeks."

She looked down at my stomach (which is not exactly bulging, especially since I had a loose T-shirt on) and asked, "Seventeen weeks?! What are you having...a mouse?"

This is one of those exchanges that, if I think of it only in a cartoony sense, it makes me chuckle.