Lately, my middle name is Rip Van Winkle. I am sleeping ALL THE TIME. If I wasn’t pregnant I’d swear I was narcoleptic. Of course, I’m not complaining, I haven’t had any morning sickness and I can’t say I mind getting some ZZZs. But I just feel so darn lazy. I find that there are days when I go to bed in the same pajamas I’ve worn all day. I guess the up side is that I’m not doing as much laundry.
I’ve been using our bed as my command center. I conduct 99% of my business from under the duvet. Typing my column? In bed. Checking email? In bed. Painting my nails? In bed. Talking on the phone? In bed. If I didn’t have to pee 20 times per day I’d probably never leave (and even then, I’ve considered Depends, but decided that would be a new low). Ollie’s my little mini-sloth, in the morning he gets out of his crib to only want to hop into bed with me for storybook time. I keep a stash of cereal on my nightstand, so really, there’s no reason to leave until it’s time for lunch.
I’m sure the fact that I’m totally off of all caffeine has something to do with my sudden round-the-clock exhaustion too, but I think the majority of it is due to just a good old fashioned bun in the oven. Making another person is hard work — even if that person is no bigger than a lentil bean.
Ah, here's Ollie in our bed brushing his teeth on a pile of books. Even if he grows up to be lazy like his mother, at least I know he'll be literate with no cavities.
I’m writing tonight’s post from my desk at work. The hour is 3:32 am, which for a deadline night, isn’t half bad. My colleague Kelly Fisher is currently drawing some banana stationary for me to write my post on, because her brain, like mine, is mush after 12 hours of editing, and all she can do is engage in child-friendly activities.
I hate deadline nights. I feel like an endentured writing servant. And why after three weeks of people being able to send me edits, does the world wait till now to moan and groan about things? Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Luckily, there are a few things that keep me sane, like food. We luckily got hold of the company card around 8 pm and ordered enough sushi from Banana Leaves to feed an army of sumo wrestlers or really strung out editors. I in fact inhaled two entire dragon rolls and some edamamae for good measure. I mean, why not have my stomach resemble the bottom of the ocean? Banana Leaves is this really amazing Thai/Japanese resto near Dupont Circle conveniently located between a strip club, the former Real World DC house, and a bar where the Russian mob tipples. It’s one of our favorite lunch spots, and to avoid gorging ourselves on pizza tonight, we called in the raw fish splendor of Banana Leaves to take us into the wee hours.
So now it’s just Kelly Fisher, Amie and I trying to put a magazine together without going mentally insane. We already uploaded porn by accident. But we caught it. Fewf! Back to the races.
Washington Life's lovely and talented Associate Editor, Kelly Fisher. Also known as blog guinea pig, muse, and my common law wife. Oh, and that is three people's food. Kelly eats like a bird (ostrich), really!
After a really hectic 12 hour work day spent slinging out copy at the speed of sound and cursing the world for not understanding the word deadline, I came home to an absolutely lovely letter from the child I sponsor through Children’s International. Well actually it was from her mother since she is three, and “too young to write” (my heart kind of melted when I read that).
When I say I sponsor a child, it is actually my very thoughtful ex-boyfriend Zach who gave me the sponsorship as a present, and to my surprise, it is really one of the most meaningful gifts I have ever received. In all honesty, I’ve never really been a kid person. I mean, I like them of course, but I always thought I would be fine with or without kids. And at 29, I still don’t feel that “must have babies” sentiment yet. But as my friends, like Stacey, have started to have babies, I realized that they’re pretty interesting.
Just the other day when I was at Stacey’s, her son Ollie expertly put my JP Tod’s purse on his shoulder, made some very convincing mock calls on my cell phone, and fed me some macaroni with his little paw. What a fun and generous child! I’m beginning to see the intrigue in watching a person grow. It’s fun with my sponsored child Francisca too.
Being that she lives in Chile, I was worried after the recent earthquake, but Children’s International, figuring all us yanks would be in a tizzy, immediately sent me a letter assuring me that Francisca and her family were okay. Feewf! Francisca’s family also writes to tell me about the fun she has chasing around her cat or how she excels in art class, and frankly I’m starting to feel very invested in her future. I’m pretty convinced that I’m sponsoring Chile’s future president. All this for a kid I have never even met. Ah, the power of hand written letters.
This past weekend Craig and I randomly decided we should motorcylce through South America in the near future. He is currently obsessed with buying a motorcycle again, since in Nebraska they start riding them at 11. He used to do wheelies on Grandma Brown’s farm before he could tie his shoes. So maybe I will be able to hop down to Chile some time and meet Franny to thank her for her letters and for being a kid who helped me realize that those little rugrats aren’t so bad after all.
I think Franny may be the next Mary Cassatt. Look at that precise use of color. Seems rather advanced for a four-year-old.
It’s almost April which means it’s practically May which means Memorial Day is right around the corner, so essentially, it’s pretty much summer! Summer is my (and probably everyone else’s) favorite season. I can’t wait. I don’t know about you, but our summers always book up so fast that we’re busy every weekend and before we know it, it’s September and the leaves are starting to fall.
At least last summer ended with a bang. We took a trip with some of our closest friends to the beach. We rented a 12 bedroom house right on the ocean (for a steal since it was post-labor day). Not to say we trashed the place, we were very respectful, but with five babies?! Now I realize why shows like 20/20 always tell you to remove the bedspread in hotels. But honestly, semen is the least of your worries. Within 12 hours of staying at the house, Ollie not only barfed, pissed, and took a massive dump on our bed’s coverlet, but also tracked in dog crap from the beach (yeah — I know, who lets their dog shit on the beach?) all over our pillows. Not that this is unusual, but multiply it times five kids and you can imagine the chaos — and filth.
The odd thing is, I think everyone would like to do another trip again this year, but with new pregnancies and jobs and weddings, etc. etc. etc., I’m not sure we’ll be able to coordinate. We planned the last trip almost a year in advance, so we’d probably have to have booked already. But maybe it’s better this way, we have more time to plan and research a new spot for 2011 — which seems SOOOO far away. And by the time we go, I’m sure there will be enough children to justify renting an entire compound!
Uncle Grey during breakfast duty on the porch with a few of the babes. We thought it'd be easy to just feed them outside and then hose down the deck until we realized food in the hot sun = lots of bugs. Oops.
Since Grey and I are trying to sell our house, our new best friends are the folks at the Automated Showing Service. We talk to them on the phone at least a couple times per day whenever they call us to let us know when a Realtor wants to bring clients by our house for a showing. Most of the time, they give us at least an hour’s notice, so we have time to wipe the bacon grease and smeared crap from the walls so as to make the place presentable.
We realized how much we appreciate this service today when a rogue Realtor just decided “swing by” with a couple without calling ahead for permission. All of a sudden our front door busts open and a wrinkled old lady (the Realtor) and her clients (a husband and a wife) walk in to find Grey, Ollie, and I playing Wrestlemania IV on the living room carpet.
Though I was just happy to be wearing a bra and makeup, Grey became immediately nervous and agitated. All of a sudden he started bumbling and stuttering his words and out of nowhere, announced, “Oh, um, hi. I was just watching a big yellow cat chase a squirrel in our back yard. ” He said this verbatim. They looked at him like he was retarded. The wife actually said, “Oooh, that’s fascinating, dear” as if she was patronizing some dim-witted child. Of course, this made me start laughing uncontrollably, which just added to our overall air of insanity.
Something tells me they won’t be placing any bids. Oh well, next time!
A glass of champagne, three martinis, a goblet of wine, and two gin and tonics. Yup, that’s what I consumed last night. For a gal who usually imbibes two drinks a week, that may be viewed as a slight binge. But it was Artini! The one night a year where you can pound down 12 different martinis in a posh museum and it’s totally okay. Encouraged even.
I’ve been on the Steering Committee of the Corcoran Museum’s young donor group for a couple years now, and one of the most entertaining things we do is throw a big shindig called Artini. Mixologists around the city compete to make the artiest most delectable martini in town and then we dress up and chug them all for four hours. It’s a genius idea.
As I’ve had some Artini nights where I ended up minus a zillion brain cells, I decided to properly prep for this one, which meant eating like a linebacker. Luckily I had just come off my insanely long run a few hours before so I was totally okay eating enough food for a family of five before heading over to the event. And thank god I did. Because all of a sudden, I had a new found appetite for gin. Who knew what a delightful beverage it is.
Luckily, it’s all in the name of a good cause. Sure, while at work today I was kind of cursing the gods of distilled grain, but getting sloshed among the masterpieces with good company and seven pounds of body shimmer on was certainly worth the hangover!
-
My friend and fellow committee member Lauren after we had sampled a few too many artinis for our own good.
-
The gals who always dazzle in vintage frocks - my friends Kristin, Chandler, and Rachel.
I just showered sitting down. And Craig had to wash and dry my hair. After running for 3 hours and 45 minutes, I don’t really feel like I can stand, but I do feel ready for my marathon on April 17th. This was one of the best runs of my life – great weather, sunshine, and like last week, Craig biked next to me the entire time. This was of course at his own expense because at one point we got in a little spat and I threw my ipod on the ground and attempted to shove him off his bike. Luckily, he outweighs me by a good 75 pounds, so it was like being shoved by a squirrel, but still. The fact that he kept on biking with me after that, well that is just good old Midwestern values. Plus, he had my gatorade strapped to his butt.
At about mile 20, I noticed a sign that said that the path I was running on, the Capital Crescent Trail, was part of the rails-to-trails system. This means that it was a railroad track and is now a trail. But that’s not how I thought of it when I saw the sign. I figured that if I kept running far enough, I would come to a train station and be able to hop on and choo-choo my way down the East Coast.
I actually knew that the trail used to be a railroad track, because when I was growing up, the tracks were still up and they were a very popular spot for a little adolescent pot smoking. There is still a really cool old brick train tunnel, which was where teenagers gathered and drank really cheap beer and smoked until their eyes crossed – or so I heard…
But now it’s a really amazing trail, almost flat with mile markers and water fountains. So perfect for a just short of a marathon run like today. The Rails-to-Trails non-profit is trying to make more of these asphalt bad boys all over the country, and I’m all about it. Helps us city folk remember what birds sound like.
The Dalecarlia Tunnel is now one of my favorite spaces to run through. It's still really eerie, even when mom's with pink jogging strollers are running past you.
On Saturday evening we celebrated my friend Kris’ birthday by going out for Mexican. This was great for me because one of my favorite meals of all time is fish tacos. With beer and a lime. Pacifico to be precise. Of course I stuck to non-alcoholic lime coolers and since Kris is pregnant too, the wildest thing about our night was the spicy guacamole.
We hit up our local favorite, Taqueria Poblano. It’s one of the few restaurants in the area for which I have the menu memorized. Not only do they have great fish and shrimp tacos, but they serve Cholula hot sauce — which I could literally guzzle. Usually, between Grey and I we drain every last drop of the table’s bottle and then the hostess always asks us if we want to try to the “house hot sauce” which I swear is laced with some sort of hallucinogenic. Last time I had some I thought there were garden gnomes swimming in my margarita. Not that I’m complaining…
I also love the wait staff uniform: mullets and acid washed jeans. Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t remind me of San Diego, but it does always give me a pang of homesickness for my native Pennsylvania. Ahhhh…home sweet home.
The only thing better than a good fish taco may be Grey's expression in this picture. I guess that's what giant sombreros will do to a guy.
Even at six weeks pregnant, I am already concerned I may split my pants at any moment. All of a sudden, my regular clothes are looking as if they are painted on. I’m afraid that one wrong move picking Ollie up at the playground or tying my shoe may cause a “riiiiiiip!” that sets my ass on display for the world.
However, luckily, just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I have to invest hundreds of dollars in mu-mus and elastic waistband pants to fit my growing booty and belly. My friend Ingrid, who just had a baby in October, was nice enough to bequeath me with tons of maternity clothes so come Thanksgiving when the baby is due and I’m the size of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria — at least I’ll still be wearing cute outfits.
With three babies currently under our collective belts, Ingrid and I have amassed an incredible amount of maternity clothes. We combined both our collections for one enormous stockpile of mother-to-be wear. There’s maternity swimsuits, sun dresses, formal wear, and business suits to make large bellied women all over the world drool. Now the boxes just keep getting passed back and forth as if we’re playing a game of knocked-up hot potato. This time, I’m it.
Since I happen to work for a lifestyle magazine, I find it totally acceptable to troll online shopping sites at work. My colleague Kelly Fisher and I spent a good part of the winter deciding on our spring look (we share all personal space at work since we plug away in a closet so it’s totally acceptable that we share a spring look.) We agreed upon boho chic. One of the items of clothing behind my new aspirations to go boho were my brown boots from Madewell. Bought this winter, I lived in the things. I decided they made every single item of clothing cooler. Pyjamas looking grim? Throw on the brown boots and they’re centerfold worthy. Cocktail dress looking too hoity-toity? The Madewell boots will make it hip. Where I used to happily wear stilettos to power walk, my floppy, worn in brown boots replaced them this year.
When my brother was little, he used to religiously wear a knit wool hat. Even in the summer. He thought it made him invisible. When he pulled it over his eyes and couldn’t see anyone, he thought that meant people couldn’t see him either. He has come a long way. But I think his little obsessive safety clothing mentality might have been passed down to me. My boots are like my damn spit covered teddy bear that I can’t leave home without. They just make everything better. Plus, I can wear ugly socks and forego a pedicure.
That’s why when I was at the mall the other day and saw, not one, but two pairs on sale, marked down by $240 in my size, I had to buy them both. Even the sales girl thought I was insane. But when I’m tap dancing in my trusty Madewells when I’m 85, she’ll understand. Three’s a charm!
Boots for life! I figure these three pairs can get me through the next 70 years or so.
While we work in a dark little room perfect for mischievous trolls or prisoners, Kelly and I pull photos like this one to inspire our spring wardrobes and dream about what the sun feels like.
![[del.icio.us]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/delicious.png)
![[Digg]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/digg.png)
![[Facebook]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/facebook.png)
![[Google]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/google.png)
![[LinkedIn]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/linkedin.png)
![[Technorati]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/technorati.png)
![[Twitter]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/twitter.png)
![[Yahoo!]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/yahoo.png)
![[Email]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/email.png)
-
-
