I hate braggarts.

I hate braggarts...

Therefore, weeding through this flood of resumes and cover letters is really getting to me. I might accidentally dismiss someone for having "flawless" project management skills, when really, I want someone with flawless project management skills. I kind of want to yell through the computer "OH MY GOD STOP TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF AND HOW GREAT YOU ARE," even though I fully asked them to.

And statistically, if these candidates are a representative sample of society, and 100% of these candidates have "Excellent interpersonal skills," I should be having a much easier time changing lanes on the freeway or trying to get answers from my health insurance. Liars.

Arrrrr.

Arrrr.

My favorite part about San Francisco this weekend: the handwritten chalk sign out front of 826 Valencia that read "Definitely one of the top five pirate stores I've been to recently."

Thick as a brick.

Thick as a brick.

So, we've lived in this house for 1.33bar years now, and I just noticed that the bricks on the exterior of the chimney and the bricks on the porch columns are completely different. Let's review. They have completely different colors. They have completely different overall appearances. The chimney is a bright, orange-y red, and the columns are maroon. The chimney bricks are completely worn down and look about 80 years old. The columns are shiny and smooth with perfect sharp corners. In other words, they look sparkling and new. GOD.

I'd like to interject right now to tell you that I melt into a fit of giggles every time I say/think the word GOD in all caps like that. This is because Sasha once told me that when her niece was 2 or so, she had closed the door to her room and got all quiet. After a while, her mama asked her what she was doing in there, as mamas are wont to do when children close doors all sinisterly like that. The niece sassily responded: "I'm playing with my dolls. [slight pause]. GOD." Seriously. I'm not condoning this sort of attitude in youngsters, nor taking the lord's name in vain, nor giggling about it, but COME ON. That story is golden. Okay, where was I. Bricks. Yes, here's a picture.



Part of me wonders, if the column bricks truly are newer, who put the bricks on the columns, why, and what's underneath? And maybe it's a veneer! Our house! Faux! Frankly, I never really liked the brick columns all that much. What I really mean is I absolutely adore everything about my sweet and charming house. Anyway, I'm not about to go chipping away at the shiny new bricks/veneer to see what's underneath, only to have some 90 year old woman walk by and say she's always loved the brick columns on this house, ever since she was a little girl growing up in the 'hood when it was just built with original bricks on the columns that aren't new veneers at all. (Yes, this has sort of happened with the dead yard. Sweet old woman: "I always loved the yard on this house." Sweet old man: "Me too. She [previous owner] used to spend hours out here working on the garden." Julia: "um, I don't.")

And yes, I'm posting about house stuff on this blog instead of the house blog. Actually, I think I'll just duplicate the post there too. I really don't know who I was kidding making a house blog, assuming I'd have enough Interesting Content to sustain not one, but two blogs. But I like the fact that the house blog geeks can read the house blog posts, and then the normal (!) readers over here can also read about our dinky little projects/obvious brick observations. Especially because any improvements made in the next few months (FEW! MONTHS! Shit.) will all be baby related and you all want to see that, don't you? And I can't just do away with the house blog, because you need like 90% of your posts to be renovation-related to keep a coveted spot on the House Blogs list. And we all know that I don't have that kind of work ethic, renovating or blogging. So, I'm just going to duplicate the house-related posts on here. Goodness knows I need the content here. I recommend if any of you misguided souls happen to have RSS subscriptions to the house blog AND here, you should just cancel the house blog unless you like me repeating myself.

This post is like my worst writing ever. GOD.

Not-so built for motherhood.

Not-so built for motherhood.

For the longest time, I have absolutely loved to hear stories about those "natural" mothers. I don't mean hippie-natural - I mean the women who are totally built for motherhood. "I loved every minute of being pregnant. It was so easy," I'd hear people say, and dreamily wish I could fast forward and be pregnant and saying the exact same thing. Or, "childbirth was so amazing. I would do it again in a heartbeat." That's actually more common, and a lot of mothers say that it didn't matter how tough, complicated, or scary the birth was - they'd still do it all over again. The idea of being built for childbearing, though, is there. I adore the idea that there are some women who grow and birth children so easily that they should just keep having babies until they run out of beds in the house. Going through pregnancy and childbirth so breezily means these women are undeniably intended to be mothers. It's a lovely wistful vision of motherhood.

And, you can easily extrapolate it to say that some women are better than others. Or, some women really should run far, far away from all the sex lest they get pregnant. Sure, it's a pretty little dream of natural mothers, but it's totally at someone else's expense.

It turns out, one of those someone elses is me.

Don't worry, I'm feeling the little wriggler squirm right now. But getting here and staying here has been and is so far from the walk in the park I imagined, and that I thought that I witnessed other mothers going through. In the grand scheme of infertility, we got knocked up pretty quickly. Definitely below the average. But month after month after month of disappointment laid a steady foundation of doubting my body and feeling betrayed by biology. Once that seed has been planted, no amount of pink lines on a pregnancy test can take that away. But once upon a time, we finally got pregnant. That's when it started to hurt. My belly, my ligaments, my birth canal, my head, my breasts, everything hurt. It all started to creak and get ready for action. It got to the point where I had to stop running and all activity whatsoever because the pain was so bad. Then, enter morning sickness. And by morning, I of course mean ALL DAY LONG AND ALL NIGHT LONG. Gradually, as time progressed and I entered my second trimester, the nausea stopped having anything to do with being hungry. Whether or not I felt sick was indiscriminate to whether or not I had food in my stomach, and mostly, I'd feel worse after eating. And the pain, it's still there. I barely have a belly and I have to frequenty lie down to either dispell the nausea or relax my tummy. Some days, I feel like my uterus is completely strained all day long.

I am not the pregnant woman I imagined I'd be, the epitome of perfect motherly glow. Pregnancy is really hard on me physically. Really hard. But even right now, exhausted, sore, scared, and nauseous, I have no doubt that one day I'll look a future mother in the eye and tell her, "I loved every minute of being pregnant. Every last minute."

20 weeks.

20 weeks.

Yesterday, I passed the all-important "halfway" point in pregnancy: 20 weeks. 5 months! That's an awful long time. We're also more than halfway there, because of the convoluted counting system that nobody can agree on.


20 weeks + 1 day

Speaking of agreeing, Erik and I have currently stepped up our discussions (ha!) on naming now that we know(ish) that it's a boy. I love Oliver, he, well, doesn't. He also doesn't like anything else I suggest, but rarely offers up viable alternatives. And he also doesn't give me a good reason for not liking Oliver and other names like Jack. I told him to just tell me that an Oliver stole his high school sweetheart so that I would stop nagging him about it. Some viable alternatives are Henry and Graham, both of which were my contributions. Unfortunately, I like names that have sweet nicknames associated with them, unlike Graham. Like Olly. Le sigh! Olly! Or maybe it's spelled Ollie. The Y makes it seem less girly. He'd be so darling and creative and good at soccer. Maybe he'd be in a British indie band.

My main gripe with Henry is that it's all of a sudden the new John. Everyone is calling their kid Henry today. Although nobody is giving their Henries the nicknames Harry or Hank. They're missing out, I tell you.

My dad's name is William, and he went by Billy as a little blond-haired, scraggy English kid. We have documented proof in a little book about the history of our village. Billy! That's golden. However, Erik's cousin with the same last name called their firstborn William, so that's sort of taken. It's not like when your friends steal your favorite name, because this William would have the same last name. No need to confuse holiday gatherings with the relatives.

Or maybe we're just throwing these names out to absorb everyone's Well-Intentioned Feedback, and then we'll throw you all a curveball with something like Blaine or Logan when the baby's born. Although Logan is kind of a viable alternative, what with Wolverine being Erik's favorite X-men character and all.

Whatever we end up calling him, the baby is a squirmy little thing right now, which makes me really happy. And also, he is growing, which makes me even happier. All of a sudden, on Friday, my belly popped out and is now huge and always in the way. Grow little peanut, grow!

Home and dry.

Home and dry.

My coworker Michele is home. HOME! She is, obviously, doing much better after her harrowing experience in critical ICU. Now we just sort of wait-and-see some more, and hope for no more scares. She's still in the window of monitoring the stem cell transplant to see if it fully grafts (it is grafting right now!) and doesn't cause any graft vs. host problems. I can't wait to see her again.

I know this is wishful thinking, but I hope she never again has to see the inside of a hospital. Ever.

Sleep, sleep, sleep, little seed.

Sleep, sleep, sleep, little seed.

Tonight, I was reading to my belly from my copy of "Hymns and Prayers For Children," which was printed in 1956 and is positively falling apart. On the inside of the front cover, it has the little "This book belongs to:" part, with my sister's name "age 7" and my name, "age 5." (Note: I was not 5 years old in 1956.) However, my name and age had been crossed out with some vicious pencil scribble. That greedy wench.

Anyway, I found the following and choked up a little, especially since our sweet little boy is due Easter day:

Sleep, sleep, sleep, little seed,
Sleep through the winter long.
Wake, wake, wake in the spring,
Wake with the bluebird's song.

Sleep, sleep, sleep, little seed,
Hidden from sight away.
Wake, wake, waken and grow,
Waken for Easter Day.

Oh boy.

Oh boy.

More on this later, but we had an ultrasound today and it's a wee lad in there! We are pretty stuck on boys' names, but at least we can narrow the arguing down to one gender now.

He likes tucking his knees up to his face, and we also saw the sweetest little yawn. Le sigh!

Two things currently wasting my time.

Two things currently wasting my time:

1. Puking. Lots of it. Screw you everyone who said it would go away at 12 weeks. At 12 weeks, I was barely getting started. Yesterday I threw up three times, or more accurately stated, I had three "sessions." This, in turn, makes me scared to eat. This, in turn, makes me scared that mama's precious little parasite may not be able to leech everything out of me that it needs. Then, inspired by fear, I either try to eat something ghastly and pukey, like vegetables or at the very least, open the vitamin jar, and then I start throwing up again. Shampoo, rinse, repeat.

2. This game: http://shygypsy.com/farm/p.cgi. Holy god. You and your social life will hate me if you click through.

Remember remember the 5th of November.

Remember remember the 5th of November.

When I was a kid, the whole school used to make a huge ordeal out of the late-October, early-November creation of a Guy Fawkes dummy. We used regular-sized clothng and stuffed it with straw. I'm pretty sure it involved paper mache for the head, but I would have to verify with my parents. Then, on the night of November 5th, otherwise known as "bonfire night," we would build a giant bonfire (usually the dads would do this), set off fireworks from the school yard, eat toffee apples, and burn our homemade Guy Fawkes on top of the undiscerning bonfire.

Wholesome.

Only recently did I realize that Guy Fawkes was a) barely a cog in a much greater plot - he was just the guy with the gunpowder and the ability to set it off underneath Parliament during the 1605 State Opening, and b) persecuted for his religion. Treason is treason, don't get me wrong (and don't give them another reason to filter my blog at work), but I'm only now learning more about the Catholic "recusants," and a little part of me is ashamed for our childish celebration of this man's execution (which notably wasn't done atop a bonfire). I don't know if what they were doing was treason or revolution, good or bad. Bonfire night is always a really cherished memory from my childhood, but I just get the feeling that I was misled a little bit. I had no idea it had to do with religion.

The nursery rhyme traditionally sung ("Remember, remember the 5th of November...") ends with a really classy fantasy about the Pope's violent death. Way to raise your kids, England. But I did really like the toffee apples.

Sisters.

Sisters.

Tonight was girls' night. It had been a while for this particular group of girls as a whole, but everyone made it out, and we picked right up where we left off a few months back. We're all in somewhat different stages of our lives, so the conversation managed to cover it all from dating to toddlers. We fixated quite a bit on relationships, and someone noted that the best part of this is that we're all really close friends with each others' husbands or boyfriends (well, with one teeny exception which NEEDS TO CHANGE damn it). I think that makes us all so tightly knit. And at one point, sweet Karen and I both noted that we're both the other's oldest friend. A moment after we hit that point in the conversation, I realized how much more important it was than it sounded. And even now, it feels even still more important. I met Karen my first year in high school, after two years of living in America. It's so bizarre to think of everything we got each other through.

I have a sister. She's just under two years older than me, and we never fight or anything. It's just that we're not close - it can feel like acquaintances sometimes - but we always have fun when we're together. Tonight, I realized that is totally okay. These girls tonight are my sisters, just as much as Gillian is my sister. Just for different reasons.

Also, there was vegan chocolate cake. It was indeed a swoonful evening.

1905.

1905.


USGS marker (Nevada Falls, Yosemite.)

This is one of my favorite pictures that I have scanned in. By far the best part is the date: 1905. I love being out in places like that and imagining those people figuring out where the trails should go or using their best math to figure out elevation. Sometimes I imagine them all travelling through, west-bound, laying trails or roads as they go and after the 150th night in a tent, someone's kid whining and asking what was wrong with Virginia.

Former coworker Craig once told me a story about how he was hiking with some guy we both knew, and eventually, the conversation turned to poop. As it is wont to do after 7+ hours of relieving oneself in the backcountry. Craig was complaining about how much hassle it is to poop while hiking, what with all the digging and burying and what have you, and if you're not female and used to it, all the squatting and packing-up of the toilet paper. The other guy just sort of scoffed and said, "oh, it's easy. I just poop with the stream running by. It feels good."

As ridiculous as that is, in 1905 everyone probably pooped in the waterfall.

Best laid plans.

Best laid plans.

Today, I'm 18 weeks pregnant. For normal people not engulved in the world of pregnancy, or world-must-revolve-around-us-not-the-judeo-christian-calendar Intel "work weeks" or something, that's four and a half months. In two weeks, we'll be officially half-way there. I haven't really put our plans for birth into words yet, just sort of here and there descriptions and sending the link of the birth center to friends warning them to not look at the photo gallery when coworkers are walking by.

We've done all of our prenatal care at the birth center, the only place in southern California that does water births. It just happens to be a mile away and sweetly decorated. It's a free-standing birth center, not connected to any hospitals but still only a few blocks away from several big ones. It also doesn't have doctors (except for advisory obstetricians or something). The staff is entirely female, made up of certified nurse midwives, nurses, etc. So lovely they are. Each of the 3-4 birthing rooms have huge tubs, although one is much smaller than the rest so let's hope we don't get stuck with that one.

The plan is to labor outside of the birth center as long as possible, although $10 says this includes several trips and emergency calls to the midwife. Once we get to the birth center, we'll eventually get in a tub (well, that "we" will depend on a) how skeeved Erik is, and b) how comfortably we all fit in the tub) and finish laboring and birthing in the tub. The theory is twofold. First, laboring in the water should relax me and ease the pain and pressure. No drugs, no fetal monitors, etc. Second, the switch from womb to world, what with all the squeezing and gasping for air and flailing, can't be too peaceful for a little beeb. The water provides a little gentler of a transition. Right now, even at 18 weeks, the baby has lungs, it just doesn't use them until faced with air.

After birth, I honestly have no idea when they'll make us get out of the water, but the baby will come straight to mama's arms and cuddle for a while and try nursing. The baby won't leave our side. Like, ever. I guess they don't cut the cord until it stops pulsing, but BELIEVE ME, that is the last of anything new-age related that will involve the placenta. There will be no salting or frying up with a little garlic.

Anyway, these are nothing but hopes and plans. We'll know a little more after our next ultrasound, but if there are any complications, the birth center likely won't let us deliver there. My biggest worry is that if that were to be the case, I would struggle with feelings of disappointment or mourning for the birth I wanted. Really, regardless of how or where it happens, it doesn't matter. I can't wait. I can't wait to give birth, and I can't wait to have a child.

Fighter.

Fighter.

This afternoon, my friend Michele was transferred to the critical ICU and induced into a coma. Her lungs are 75% filled with fluid. As one of Michele's best friends found me to tell me the news, she looked at me and asked me, "She'll be fine, right? She'll beat this?" And for the first time, neither of us could chin-up and pretend we were just waiting it out anymore. It has always just felt like we had to sit still and be strong while she did her time with treatment, and then we'd have Normal Michele back again. I think it's the first time I've honestly been scared.

Later on, as thousands of illuminated balloons lit up the night around the racetrack, red balloons for people coming out in support, white balloons for survivors, and gold balloons for those who had lost a family member, I found myself completely overwhelmed. Standing alone at the edge of the track next to the standard-issue cover band, I broke down because I wanted Michele to be there. I missed her so much. I didn't even miss having her hang out with me - I just wanted to see her from across the way completely in her element and loving it.

It's not as simple as wanting her to hurry up and heal - I just want this to have not happened.

Cheating, Leis, et al.

Cheating, Leis, et al.

I'm cheating a little bit with my daily post, because it's almost 1 am and I technically haven't posted for Friday yet. So, I'm going to manually change the date. Ethics be damned! We just got home from a lovely evening with our lovely friends at the newish Lei Lounge in University Heights, home of the notably cheap sweet potato fries, laden with delicious vitamins for the baby and even more delicious run-on sentences. We reserved a cabanna for the group, which made our waiter/server actually a cabanna boy. Icing on the cake.

These people, who revolve mostly around my friendship with Kate and Tom, are so fantastic. I'd say about 75% of them are Peace Corps vets, but don't worry. They don't dress like it. Just every so often someone will drop a story about freezing cold trains in Russia or vultures in Cuba and you're reminded of what they've done. It's really subtle, which makes it all the more fantastic to me. Side note: poop on the Peace Corps for not taking non-citizens, not that I probably would have had the balls to do it. But it's a good excuse.

Regardless. My point is that I totally posted today and today is still Friday in my world. I get full credit. Even when I had a good rhythm going with regular posting, when have I ever posted on weekends?! Maybe going way back to that one post-bachelorette party post, but that was a distinct exception. I will get through this month.

Hairdryer.

Hairdryer.

The other night, I dreamt that I was showing my sister my almost-popped belly button. Actually, in the dream it had completely popped out, and was the size of a giant appendage. So, of course, my sister goes digging amongst the belly button appendage, and pulls out a full-size, foldable hairdryer with a cord, missing the little plug part at the end. You know, that one inch plug would be just TOO MUCH plastic in my belly button.

We look down at my restored innie, and she says, "see, that's why your belly button was sticking out."

Daily.

Daily.

In the spirit of someone else (maybe I heard about it from the superhero, I can't remember), I'm going to post daily to this blog. For at least a month. I really don't have a good excuse for not posting in over a month, so what better way to discipline myself than to commit to posting every day. Well, my work's server classifies my blog as "weapons," so that's part of it. I'm being pulled in a thousand directions these days, but really, blogging is not a chore. It's not something I have to do. I do it because it makes me a better person to thumb through my own thoughts and weave them into real words. The daily post could almost be meditative.

Right now, my friend Michele is in the hospital, recovering from a bone marrow transplant. And I don't even think recovering is the right word for this fragile place. It's like a purgatory. Everything sucks for her, and we have no idea if it's even going to work. We have no idea if it will heal her or kill her.

I try to blame work sometimes for being a source of stress/time-suck in my life, but I can't help it. I can't sit at home and rest when there is still cancer out there to be cured. I can't just do nothing while Michele wants to rip out each tube stuck on her or in her. I sometimes laugh at myself and tell myself to wake up, it's not like I'm the one peering at cells through a microscope solving it all or making the treatments suck less. I just sit in a yellow office where I let plants die and papers pile up. But the truth is, I do know that I'm making a difference. I feel like I could list how much money I've raised, through the many amazing volunteers, that has gone directly towards making things suck less for people like Michele. And I guess I won't ever stop this work until it stops sucking completely.

There is a lot to be done.

Just under two years ago, Michele was diagnosed with stage 3B Hodgkin's lymphoma. The difference between stage 3B and stage 4 is that stage 3B doesn't require a bone marrow transplant. She was lucky. In June of this year, Michele had her 18 month check-up, and was happy and healthy. The summer swept past us, and soon it was September. We were all pulled into the conference room one Wednesday. Michele is in the hospital. She has leukemia. We were all struck by so much at once. Sadness, fear, and confusion. Wait, I thought she had lymphoma? Maybe he said it wrong right now. How can she be sick? Again? But it was leukemia. For someone her age, the treatment for her kind of lymphoma has a somewhat rare side effect of secondary cancers. The leukemia was that secondary cancer.

It breaks my heart that what saved Michele's life the first go around has put her right back where she started, only this time it just seems harder. It wasn't a question of whether she'd require a bone marrow transplant, just who and how soon. I can't even begin to imagine the loneliness and abandonment you'd feel going through cancer, much less if it happens to you twice. I can't wrap my brain around it.

The amazing part is that she is still our beautiful Michele. She wrote "I am healing" in sharpie on the chemotherapy port jutting from her chest, which makes me overflow with love and hope for her. She arranges all of the cards and posters in perfect zen-like symmetry. She says things like, "this room has better energy than the last one." About HOSPITAL ROOMS. She's not just a fighter, she is graceful. And you don't just want her to beat this, you absolutely need her to.

Right now, she's in ICU. She's battling complications from all the treatments, including problems with her oxygen. I don't even understand everything that's going on I do understand, though, that there is a lot more work to be done, and a lot more Micheles out there strugging in ways I can't comprehend. I dedicate this November of daily posts, daily meditations, to Michele. You can do it, my sweet little thing. You can do it.

10 years and we've hardly changed.

10 years and we've hardly changed.

Last night was my high school 10 year reunion. I'd first like to point out that NO WAY can I possibly be in my late twenties. It was in a decent hotel far from the suburban soccer mom and retirement community mecca of Rancho Bernardo, which definitely helped it feel less lame.

If there's one person who has managed to solidly keep in touch with almost everyone in our extended network, it's my friend Ali. Ali was my boyfriend's best friend, and then Ali and I went to college together. I was very happy to have Ali and our other long lost friend, Leah, around last night to show up together. It was unbelievable to see everyone again. I can't even describe it. For the most part, it seemed like we all just picked up where we left off, and then someone would mention their two year old and it would blow me away.

There were people I rarely talked to back then that absolutely clicked with me last night. And of course, there were people who never gave me the time of day in high school who continued to never give me the time of day. One of whom was wearing Formal Shorts, so I felt better.

Around midnight, after everyone had been standing around outside, and this one guy who once had a bet that he could get an erection first in class (and won) had streaked through the crowd wearing underpants and a bronco mask, we decided to head elsewhere to continue. Most of us dropped the spouses off at home or the hotel, and by the time I showed up to Rachel's house it was exactly as I hoped it would be. We were all just sitting around, thumbing through the yearbook and the reunion-provided "bio book" and, you know, judging people.

It was interesting to see Nick again. I thought it would be awkward, and it kind of was for a while at the actual reunion, with his Won't Make Eye Contact girlfriend, but once we were at Rachel's house, things were just so comfortable again. I actually felt a tiny little twinge of melancholy, missing him a little bit. And then we started telling stories of our brightest and not-as-bright moments in school, many of them revolving around Nick publicly humiliating me. It was equal parts hilarious and ah-yes-it-really-DID-suck.

Outside of realizing that whatever hard feelings Nick and I may have towards each other are long forgotten or well repressed, the highlight of the night was reconnecting with people who still live in town. I'm really excited to add Leah and Kelly to my little local tribe. I can't believe I forgot how much of a gem Leah was. We were friends long before the junior/senior year group, dating way back to either 8th or 9th grade. Senior year and that following summer, we were at Eric's house almost every night and every other weekend or so during college, when the UCLA crowd would shuttle themselves back to the insane hospitality of Eric's family and the remarkable tolerance of Eric's girlfriend Kelly. Unfortunately, many of us lost touch with him, but the legacy lives on. Last night, it felt like we were back at our little hub house again, with the boys in the driveway pretending to play basketball and the girls upstairs in Eric's bedroom singing along to Billy Joel and Carole King records we found. Except this time we had spouses and new girlfriends sitting around, which was kind of fun, kind of awkward. Until we tucked the spouses in and continued on our own. Erik was, I should add, a star companion, but wasn't about to stay out until 3 am with us.

Overall, I don't really see myself seeing many of the other people for another 10 years, and that's kind of cool. I know you're all probably really impressed that I got this far without talking about the baby, but sorry. This morning, I was thinking about our 20 year reunion a little bit, and wondering if it would really be as scary as it once seemed. Not really. By then, the baby will barely be 10, and that's still a youngish kid. I think that helps my Fear Of Aging. And while I've completely blown the blog-without-mentioning-the-baby pipe dream, I was so, so thankful that I was showing by last night. At least this way, I was just barely on the good side of the "is she pregnant? or just fat?" line. It didn't really matter, though, because Ali had told everyone ahead of time anyway. I swear, the guy must have a phone tree.

Good times, man. Good times.

Just let me lie down a minute.

Just let me lie down a minute.

I'm still pregnant. Very much so. In fact, we were able to see the little tiny thing waving its little tiny limbs at us on Thursday. But more importantly, I'm not at work and I'm eating a giant bowl of mashed potatoes. Only mashed potatoes.

At least I was able to make them myself. Poor Erik has been taking care of all of us, non-stop, because I usually can't even open the fridge door without puking. But the good news is that I've managed to not lose much weight (only 1 lb), although coupled with the fact that I have ceased almost all athletic activity, I have probably just lost my years-of-hard-work muscle tone and like they always tell the non-skinny active people, hey, muscle weighs more than fat, you know. So it looks like the barfing and the low-impact lying down aerobics I've been doing are cancelling each other out. And I should probably eat more mashed potatoes.

So, onto this lying down thing. It's pretty much the only thing I want to do. Early on in the first trimester, it helped relieve the vicious round ligament pain as the uterus prepped itself to stretch. But I gradually realized how good it felt, and how it seriously lessened the nausea. I now require frequent lie-downs throughout the day. Before and after eating. Before and after barfing. Before and after sleeping. And so on.

I can't describe the feeling of seeing the little walnut with its beating heart and, eventually, it's flailing little arms and wiggling feet. Apparently, the legs are each 5 mm long right now. Swoon! So tiny. Also, when we were looking at the ultrasound, I was lying down. So that was good.

I'm 11 weeks along and well into the first phase of nesting. I'm going to call this phase the, "shit, how can we possibly bring a child into this mess?" nesting phase. I always thought that new parents must have an physiological switch that sends them into constant and automatic organization and cleanliness, and I still believe it. I just organized my closet, for crying out loud, a task that has never been done before in my life.

Alright, it's lie down time now.

Little blastocyst, how quickly you grow!

Little blastocyst, how quickly you grow!

I've been wrestling with how to write this on here for a really long time. Many super witty ideas and/or segues have long been forgotten, so it looks like I'm just going to boringly spell it out: I'm pregnant.

As much as I wanted to write "I'm knocked up" there, I didn't. Look at my self-restraint! However, I'm also completely incapable of typing "pregnant." I just did it again, and had to backspace it. Every single time, I write "pregnany." It's such an awesome word. And it can't be pronounced "preg-NAN-ny," because there's only one n. So it's more of a "preg-na-NEE," or a "preg-NAY-nee." However you say it, I'm it.

The baby will be seven weeks cooked tomorrow, which includes the free two weeks you get for the first half of your cycle. If it weren't for the brutal nausea (I'm beginning a boycot of the term "morning sickness," because it's all day and all night, non-stop), I'd be thoroughly unconvinced that I'm pregnant. I even had some "scant" (tm, midwife) spotting Saturday morning, which sent me into a serious downward spiral. I thought that was it. It-it. Luckily, it was only scant and totally normal.

Currently, here are the stats: we have a little embryo who keeps trying to convince me she's a girl, but I know better and am sure it's just because of the marketing of all the cute baby girl outfits. I'm due mid-April. According to other people, I'm not showing, but I feel like I am. I stick out a bit (it's probably pure bloat) and my pants totally do not fit. I read to my belly every night. I have to stop certain things halfway through, because I want the baby to love the world and want to join us. Did you know that the majority of American fiction has depressing parts? I am going to stick to children's books and fluffy poetry.

In other news, I just discovered Veronica Mars. I know, I'm a bit late, but there's no love lost. In fact, last night's episode was even kind of bizarre, what with the rave lighting in the school science room and counselor's office, but I'm still completely hooked. Once we're done netflixing the Freaks and Geeks DVDs (I had almost forgotten how funny that show was), I'm going to have to catch up on my backlog. Ideal for when lying down is the only thing that keeps me on the good side of the barf line.

Now that the cat is out of the bag, I'm more likely to post more often. No empty promises, though. Hee.

Bullets of Defect.

Bullets of Defect.

This afternoon, in the Animal Rights Thrift Store (no, I'm serious), I picked up an old-looking hardback copy of Marcel Proust's Remembrance Of Things Past, Volume I. It was a buck, and Proust is one of those authors that I feel I'm supposed to know. I also liked the pretty cloth-bound cover and the fact that it has the old translation title. Tonight, I looked inside, and the first page peers up at me and sheepishly announces that it is not Volume I. It is, in fact, Volume III. It's not like I wouldn't have bought the cheap book had I known from the get go that it wouldn't get me started from the beginning of the Remembrance Of Things Past/In Search Of Lost Time series, but I still felt a little cheated. Then I thought that it was kind of neat.

THEN, I started thumbing through the pages and quickly found the pages saying "Swan" something or other which is, I'm pretty sure, something from Volume I. I worked backwards towards the start and eventually found that up until page 18, I do have Volume III. Then, page 18 starts up with page 18 of Volume I. Awesome. Stop looking at me, SWAN.

If anyone would like to tell me what happens in the first 18 pages of Volume I, I'll buy you a latte.

Speaking of defects, temperature charting and an indisputable internet message board diagnosis show that I have what they call "luteal phase defect." Hah. Go on, google it. If your luteal phase (the time between ovulation and the start of your next cycle) is less than 10 or 11 days, it's considered defective. Mine is 6-7. A short LP does not provide enough lutenizing hormone or progesterone to create a happy home for implantation of a fertilized egg. Blah blah blah, I can't get pregnant like this. Some sources use the word "impossible." However, this is super common and easily fixable with a range of things from red raspberry leaf tea to super vitamin B6 doses to prescription medications like Clomid. Unfortunately, we had just gotten ourselves used to the idea that we would go to no "great lengths" to grow biological offspring, and now here we have known solutions waiting for us to use. Drugs and medicine, as a general rule, make me feel un-okay. We're not going to draw the X="great lengths" line yet, but at this point, I just can't envision myself taking meds for this. I'm going to try the slightly more holistic approach first to see if my temperature charts display a lengthened luteal phase this month. Hey baby, nice luteum.

The only red raspberry leaf tea they had at Henry's/Wild Oats was called "Pregnancy Tea." I clenched my teeth together and avoided eye contact with the checker as she rang me up, knowing that if she saw the tea and said something like, "oooh, congratulations," I would die a little on the inside.

Today I'm going to meet my old coworkers for lunch for Craig's birthday, and there'll be newer friends there, i.e., hiking and distance running Brian and the Other Tech Writer. I know I dug my own grave and all, but feeling replaced and/or replaceable is one of my spiritual gifts. I'm very good at it.

I promise a defect-free post within 24 hours.

Wail.

Wail.

I've spent the latter half of June and so far, all of July, hunting for a just-right copy of Kerouac's The Dharma Bums. Why? It's hard to say. I think I fell a little head over heels for Amy's description of the Matterhorn Peak subplot during our brief, brief time wedged between campfire smoke and the crisp Yosemite night sky, stars popping out at us while we both secretly nursed the same something, something between awe and disappointment at the hand the Southern Sierras had dealt us for that trip.

But lately I've also been a little bit obsessed with Allen Ginsberg again. I go through phases with the man. The newest phase came from watching the Scorsese documentary on Bob Dylan who can't really carry a tune and was completely in Ginsberg's inner circle. I got caught up again watching him talking about Bob, watching this awkward man who looked more like my second or third or first-once-removed cousin Lawrence (the Very English Old Man-looking relative in all of our wedding pictures) than someone who could write "who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism / and subsequently presented themselves on the / granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads / and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy," which totally reminds me to tell you guys about the economy-sized tub of potato salad I found abandoned on our front steps a few weeks ago. Anyway, to me, thinking about Ginsberg equals being obsessed with Ginsberg. And Ginsberg=Kerouac, which equals I will not pay $14.95 at a chain bookstore for The Dharma Bums. As I told my friend Katie the other day as I tried to remember the names of long-lost indie bookstores: "It's not what Jack would have wanted."

Honestly, he probably wouldn't give a shit. But as I'm quickly realizing, it really doesn't take much to punt me into an emotional crisis/quest for authenticity combo. Entering our fifth month of no-babies-yet, it feels like it's getting even easier to default to crisis-mode. Maybe I just need something to cling to; the best minds of my generation destroyed not by madness but by something a little more apathetic and passive. Something voyeuristic and reality TVish and other people doing the living for you ish. I'm struggling to bring new life into a world in which I can't even convince myself I should be bringing new life and the best support I can find are internet message boards with little emoticon smileys with angel wings for all of their dead fetuses and diligent maps of their cervical position to basal body temperature ratios. To say I'm lost isn't really an understatement, it's just the wrong word.

A boy who gave me my copy of On The Road got the big Sal Paradise quote wrong, reminding me in chicken scratch on the second page that "life is precious and every moment holy," when it really should be the life being holy and the moments being precious. I told Erik on the phone that even though he went out of his way to Barnes and Noble before meeting up with all of us for dinner, he really shouldn't buy the book for me there because it's not right. It's not precious.

So with me clinging away, today we began a tour of San Diego's Bookstores/Holders Of The Moments Precious. At 5:30 pm as we craned our necks to catch a glimpse of Wahrenbrock's Book House on Broadway downtown, the apparent "book-lover's dream with multiple storeys," the bespectacled, amusingly 90s-era-Ginsberg/Cousin Lawrence looking clerk turned the sign in the window to "Closed." Precious. Next on the list was the smattering of used book stores in Hillcrest. We hit the darling 5th Avenue Books, Bountiful Books, and even Bluestocking Books & Bindery (le sigh!) across the street. The quest took a more ridiculous turn after we finally found three crisp copies in 5th Avenue and I realized that I couldn't make this work with a brand new $14.95 copy. Jack doesn't need the money. It had to be used.

We turned back towards North Park, looked in Footnote Books on University (no luck, but the clerk was totally playing dice with his friend), and then tried what we thought was Book Tree in Normal Heights. Regardless, they were closed. One more failed inquiry, Upstart Crow Bookstore & Coffeehouse (not as cute as it sounds nestled in the midst of Tourist Hell Seaport Village) and we called it a night.

I don't care if someone wrote intelligent-at-the-time comments and interpretations in the border in purple glitter pen (please please please don't ever thumb through my copy of my Collegiate Favorite, Cynthia Kadohata's In The Heart Of The Valley Of Love. Just don't), or if pages are held together with tape; I will buy the first used copy I get my hands on. By now, I probably would have finished the copy Erik was going to buy me a few days ago. But Barnes & Noble did not deserve my completely fabricated quest, my mocked-up Matterhorn Peak.

If I can't create little nuggets of meaning in my life, then I probably don't belong in the sweet-smelling used-book stores. Grammatically only, that's a tidy little conditional statement. It's comical that the nugget of meaning I created was to place myself amongst those precious bookshelves.

I readily admit that things like this are self-perpetuating cycles, and damn it, I like it. I need it.

There's nothing that the sun rising above the valley can't fix

There's nothing that the sun rising above the valley can't fix.

Well, Half Dome didn't happen for me. I was "strongly advised" not to do it, and to spend the free time with the rest of the group. Seriously, though, how awesome is my job when these are my Major Management Issues? Oh no, they're going to make me explore Yosemite with people I've grown to love over the last few months! Those evil horrible bosses!

That said, I did get assigned to a rather slow and easy hike. I was a trail sweep, which is the trail guide for the back end of the group. You don't have to be a First Responder or have all of the backcountry/rock-climbing/mountaineering skills. You also don't get paid. Regardless, I fully loved my experience as a guide. Hiking above the Valley in the early morning sunlight was almost religious.



Speaking of guides, I'm going to give my official shout out to the Southern Yosemite Mountain Guides. These people are phenomenal. Our guide, Joel, was a riot and knew absolutely everything about the park. He was also significantly Jack-Black-ish, minus the tummy. And if Joel didn't know anything (i.e., "What's with all the hot scantily clad college students?"), he would do everything in his power to find out and ensure our group had a full experience of our surroundings. We also had a very diverse group of abilities and personalities, but guiding (and sweeping!) such a group was relatively easy with Joel's leadership.

I also spent the evening after the hike with the rest of the guides, listening to their tales of crazy past clients and now know that Jagermeister is the quintessential ultra-light backpacking stand-in for beer. Our campfire turned into white rabbit-y smoke as I realized that I absolutely adored and not-so-secretly envied a bunch of people I would probably never see again.

My second favorite Southern Yosemite Mountain Guide, Albert, listened attentively to me lamenting about my missed Half Dome opportunity at 3:45 am on Saturday morning. I told him that I would be back up there in a matter of weeks and knock Half Dome off my list once and for all. He responded with a lovely "meh," and told me to skip Half Dome. He suggested Cloud's Rest instead, a higher, prettier, longer, and less-populated climb. In short: better. Sign me up, baby.

There are many (many, many) digital pictures in flickr now. Click:



I'm quickly realizing that everyone who visits Yosemite takes that same damn picture, but that hardly fades my love for it. SLR film camera pictures coming soon. JUST YOU WAIT.

In a nutshell, the whole experience was unbelievable, and the best part was that it was just another day in the office. Swoon. I am still so beamingly proud of my team. I told them I loved them many times, mostly even while sober. Those people are amazing. The small group of 9 fundraising participants raised almost $40,000 in a few months, and each one of them tackled Half Dome. Our team finished the hike in about 2-3 hours UNDER what the other groups had been doing. Hell yes.

Alright kids. I'm very tired and still almost fully packed, but tonight we're going to try to crash the sold-out Radiohead show as soon as I'm done with this little glass of Port. Priorities, man. Priorities.

Disappointment Valley

Disappointment Valley.

I'm leaving for Yosemite in a few days. Last week, exactly a week before we leave, I found out that my trip there would be nothing like what I had expected, trained for, and planned. I would not be hiking Half Dome with everybody else. I'd have to do something much more important to the people planning the whole shebang, but painfully less important to me.

I'm not a big "looking out for number one" type of person. In fact, for the most part, I'm annoyingly the opposite and too much of a pleaser. I think this stems from a solid mixture of genuine concern for the well-being of others and genuine concern for what they think of me. But just this once! I just wanted to do it! Half Dome!

I gradually got over the disappointment of not being able to climb Half Dome. I figured it would be nice to duck up there with the sweet husband one weekend and do it together, but I know that he wouldn't be able to do the 18 mile approach in one day; we'd have to take the shorter route. Every time I try to drag him along one of my sounded-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time long distance treks, he usually has a near-death experience or just absolutely hates me as the estimated finishing time begins to double. The man takes his time. The man does not take well to being rushed. And me? I'm a complete spaz and can't handle being slow very much. Sure, it's always more fun having these adventures with Erik, so I usually deal with the consequences. Near-death experiences, however, ought to be avoided.

Enter Sharon.

Sharon came into my life about 8 months ago. She is a very, very fast runner and has done a couple of Ironmans and Boston marathons. However, she is also sick and completely addicted to exercise. So much so, that she would run 2 minutes-per-mile slower than her normal pace just to run with someone else. This works out very well for me. I run as fast as I possibly can, for as long as I possibly can, and she skips along next to me breathing like I do when I'm lying down, casually mentioning how she also ran that morning. We hike together every weekend and often a few times in the week, as well. We tack on a run every so often, too. Sharon definitely meets my need for speed, and it's also completely non-competitive. If I were exercising with someone my own pace, I'd constantly be fixated on whether or not the other person would get faster, better, stronger, and no longer want to run with me. Sharon is already those things, and she still wants to run with me. It's like finally being able to unclench my psyche after 15 years of serious group/partner running. It totally doesn't matter how I perform, just that I'm doing it. Sharon is maybe 10 years older than me, but has the energy of a toddler who never needs a nap and only eats energy gels.

"What time is the leader meeting on Friday?" Sharon asked, referring to the free-day we have in Yosemite before the leadership meeting that afternoon.
"2 pm." I actually didn't say any bad words during this conversation, but the "Fucking 2 pm" interjection has become such a fixture in my communication with Sharon.


We arrive at Yosemite Thursday afternoon, and have most of the day on Friday to ourselves. If you're a fundraising participant, you have the whole freaking day. I knew what Sharon was thinking.

"We can do it. Can someone else go to the meeting for us?" she asked.
"By 2 pm?! Aren't they allowing everyone else 12-14 hours to do it on Saturday?"

I think we might still try it, though. We would have to wake up at 3 am, and we might need to run some of the flatter parts after the climb out of the valley. I would also need to make sure nobody hated us for ditching the rest of the team on the free day. Either way, Sharon has my back. Every time I tell the other team members that we're mostly kidding about sneaking off and doing Half Dome on our free day, Sharon pipes in. "No we're not!"

And I'm scared. I have to say, I was doing a very good job of repressing my fears about the Famed Cable Climb at the top of the Hike Dome trail. I was actually scared out of my mind. I hear all of these horror stories about people panicking and absolutely freezing on the cables, unable to move up or down. Worse than perhaps your life hanging in the balance here above a few thousand feet of air as you're nestled between rickety wooden steps and rusty, creaky cables, is the fact that hundreds of park visitors are standing there waiting for you to get the fuck out of their way. Re-read paragraph 2 in this post. Rinse, repeat, condition.

The instant the coordinators told me I wouldn't be doing it and they're very sorry and what have you, I was experiencing a mix of emotions, mostly disappointment, anger, and annoyance. But somewhere under the surface, itching to get out, was this little sigh of relief that I wouldn't have to test myself, that I wouldn't have to know that I couldn't handle the cable climb. And now Sharon, as wonderful as she is (willing to do the 18 mile trek twice in 48 hours all for me) is going to make me face that.

Deep down inside, I'm looking for an easy way out. And it is really easy. There are many very credible excuses to keep me from attempting Half Dome, including but not limited to general concern for my career. But I have to say, after writing all of this shit out, I honestly don't think I can pass it up. Because I will know exactly why I'm passing it up. All I'll have to do is open my blog and weed through the thousands of recent posts (hah) and be absolutely certain that I'm just a chicken and a pushover.

It's test time, Julia. Eat a good breakfast. Sharpen your #2 pencils. At 3 in the morning as our headlamps cast a pretty LED glow across the Yosemite valley, it's on.

What the hell.

What the hell.

Might as well post, eh?

I finally left my old job, took a team to hike in the Grand Canyon, and started a new job working for a wee non-profit cancer research organization. And by "wee," I mean, "not wee at all." I'd give you all more details, but you know stalkers these days.

I'm still hiking a lot. We're gearing up to tackle Half Dome in Yosemite next month. It's going to be an 18 ish mile hike, and there's some sort of cable ladder thing on the rock. Each person I talk to about it seems to have a different vibe. One person will tell me it's the freakiest and most difficult thing they've ever done, and had to do 100 push-ups a day and overcome their fear of heights, etc. And another person will say that it's completely easy and I should stop talking to people like that and, most of all, stop asking questions because I'm freaking everyone else out. So in short, I've decided that there must be two different cable ladder things. I'm hoping I get the one that works with only 12 push-ups a day, because that's all I'm getting.

Not really involving push-ups, but most definitely involving remarkable feats of humankind, we spent the morning worshipping in our new building at church. A long time ago (3-4 years), in a church far, far away (10 minutes), we started thinking about a new building. We would call it a "Mission Center," and we would do really great things with it. And we would be finished by June. Of 2005. Saying that construction was delayed would be an understatement. And it wasn't even completely finished this morning. But the youth took over and we put on a pretty great service. Great, great times.

In other news, I'm currently in a short phase that I'm kind of getting used to, for better or for worse. I like to call it the "drink alcohol and caffeine while you still can," or "like there's no tomorrow," or "like you won't be able to for 9 months after this" phase, which is, I'm guessing, probably not the best approach to preparing myself to go without it for an extended period. But it's yet another month of not making a baby, and yet another month of waiting. People in various internet message boards refer to the time between ovulation and either a period or a positive pregnancy test as the "2 weeks wait," because frankly, that's all you can do. And in that 2 weeks wait, you really should lay off the sauce. But the one-to-two weeks before that 2 weeks wait are up for grabs. I'm trying to be positive about it and enjoy every frothy sip of my delicious and sinful lattes, but it's hard to really accept why you can't just get pregnant the first time you try. I feel broken.

For the time being, at least I can cheer myself up with lattes, port, and laughing about all that money and grief wasted on extensive, bullet-proof birth control over the years.

And with that, I totally promise to write more frequenty than once a month. You can hold me to that.

Goto: the rest of your life.

Goto: the rest of your life.

Today is my last day at work. Fare thee well, poorly-lit cubicle. Fare thee well, Adobe Framemaker. Fare thee well, stock options. No really, screw you for making our taxes 800 times more complicated. Fare thee well, job that I hate.

In general, I am actually very charmed by this place. I fiercly love most of my coworkers, and I have made some dear, lasting friendships here. It'll be so nice to just be friends with them, and not, as Jackie so insightfully mentioned, have to spend "10 hours a day 5 feet from them." She always has good snacks, though, so if you need to have someone 5 feet from you that often, make sure they have good snacks.

But most importantly, I'm ready to move on. We had a bit of a reproduction issue recently where we actually decided we wanted to have a baby and start a family, like now. God knows why this struck us at a time of major change, but Erik has a real job now and for the longest, longest time, that's what we had been waiting for. So we went for it. And it didn't happen. In fact, things got pretty complicated and I was scared and sad. Even though I only had a few weeks, even days left at this place, I still think the stress and overall void of authenticity was really affecting my body and my will.

Tomorrow, I'm heading out to Arizona to take a hiking team in and out of the Grand Canyon. Then, after just over a week of Woman Of Leisure-ness, (pronouced very londonly, like "lezshuh"), I'll start a shiny new job doing program coordination work for a non-profit. And I'm going to have every Monday off, when I can just meander around the neighborhood while everyone else is at work and sit at cafes and maybe hang out with the old man up the street with the gigantic pet pot-bellied pig.

Hopefully, in the fall I'll be off to a teaching program, but we actually might put that off. I'm going to look into whether all of my pre-requisites and test results will last for another year, and instead maybe we'll try some more for babies and do the school thing next year, when they're wee. This is a lot of information for you all to use against me :-). But most importantly, may I never step foot in a cubicle again.

Anyway, I'm going to wrap up the, like, 800 projects on my desk as best as I can, and then take down all of my flare. Then it's happy hour time. I can't wait.

This? This is a good day.

Create.

Create.

I am feeling remorse for my creative negligence over the last few months (into years). It's my Blue Period, notably lacking the accompanying masterpiece artwork. I used to write all the time: blogs, bad poetry, etc. I'd write stories and pretend to start novels only to get sidetracked when I couldn't make the characters as cool and important as I thought they should be. I'd write songs and I'd play them for other people, and even though the lyrics were generally void of talent and originality, I was still creating something, and offering it to the universe.

Perhaps I turned too far inward and got selfish. Or maybe I just made a general wrong turn amidst my overarching state of pity about my job and career, and maybe felt a little bit pathetic about being artsy. But whatever the cause, my outlet, my saving grace, became running and being in nature. But what did this offer the world? It just helped me out and left some muddy footprints along rainy trails. Granted, due to this release I may have let go of any fantasies about breaking some coworkers' necks. So that's good.

Last night, on the way down Kwaay Paay Peak with a new friend, we talked about his daughter's behavior problems. I heard myself talking about the importance of creativity and the actual tangible representation of her secret self. I heard myself and I believed myself. But as we navigated down the tricky steep part of the mountain, I felt a strange guilt creeping across me. I felt inauthentic. I felt meaningless. I felt like I'm failing to do the good things for the world that I'm capable of. Quails fluttered out of the sage brush and with them my pride.

Sure, there can be a big gap between creating something and offering something good, something helpful to the world. But there's an even bigger gap if I'm creating nothing.

Maybe I'll throw some paint on a canvas. Maybe I'll go to open mic nights again. Or, most likely, perhaps I'll just start posting more of these crappy introspective blog posts. Hell, at least it's not a bulleted list again.

Joel's boss.

Joel's boss-san.

Carpool, ex-work-boyfriend Joel has a very motherly boss. However, she markedly does not come off as the type to really mother people. In fact, I'm pretty sure Joel is the only one who is treated this way by her, which of course, completely warms my heart.

Every so often, he'll be on a conference call with her and some customers, and she will shoot him an email demanding that he add a "-san" to the end of the Japanese names to show respect and admiration, or something. Also, she will often send "good job Joel" emails out, CCing Joel's peers and other managers. Joel's peers generally then tease him for getting praise from "mom."

She sits far across the floor from him, right by me, which means that Joel's visits to my cube usually involve him carrying Drawings and Bits of Machinery. Joel will be the first one to admit that these are mere props to look important and busy. Instant A-game. I am completely within earshot of her frequent cackly laugh outbursts, the same cackle we used to slightly mock, but that was before I knew she mothered Joel. She is also the other main user of the famous female locker room, and we run into each other there often. It's always kind of awkward, because we never really talk outside of near-nakedness in the locker room. I don't work on any of her projects, so to her, I feel like I'm nothing more than the reason that Joel can't stay late and work more, and then all of a sudden we're taking off our clothes.

It's kind of hot when I put it that way.

She has some sort of eastern European accent, is the highest ranking female in engineering, would wear scruffy boys' clothes every day if we didn't have dress codes, snuck off and got married without anybody really noticing, and totally gets shit done at work. I think she's one of the most effective managers I've ever witnessed, even though she can seem like a frantic ball of stress. This post is my giant "good job Joel's boss-san" shout out to her.

Also, please note that an effective Joel Torture Method is, when walking past her office on the way home, to casually mention: "I saw her naked today."

I should have changed that stupid lock.

I should have changed that stupid lock.

I'm back. Dudes, you should make haste to forgive me. Here's why: a bulleted list.

I quit my job.

Do you know what a pound of gummy bears looks like? Make a circle with an approximate diameter of 4 inches. Hold it up to your belly. Imagine that your belly is full of that much sugary goodness. Don't try to run.

Speaking of "don't try to run," I've officially postponed training for a marathon until later in the spring/early summer. We currently have two hike teams going, and are logging 30 miles on foot a weekend. I don't have time to squeeze in any weekend long runs, even if I could muster up the energy.

We've done fuck all on our house lately. Big household news includes things like, hey, we vacuumed! Hey, we mowed the lawn! Hey, it's trash day! Hence the lackluster house blog performance.

Erik got a new job, but not until three days after I gave notice. Since November, our plan was that I would quit as soon as Erik got a more permanent job. Finally, we just decided to let go. God was just waiting for us to do the faith thing, I guess.

We got an internet quota at work. NOTE: THIS IS NOT WHY I QUIT, contrary to what you all think of me. Mostly because the quota is completely useless. We have time limits on only the most specific things, pretty much limited to web mail, and are completely restricted from ridiculous items such as flickr and the "best of" section on craigslist. I can piss away the entire day on wikipedia or blogger, however. IT guys, if you're reading this, you ought to change that. Please wait 3 weeks, though.

I QUIT MY JOB.

No, I don't have anything else lined up. Yet. That's actually part of my evil scheme. I cannot describe how good it feels when people ask, "Where are you going?" and I just sort of shrug. A shrug? says a thousand words.

I got stung by a bee on the top of a mountain yesterday. Turns out I'm not allergic to bee stings, so I didn't die. The bee, it sacrificed itself all for naught.

Speaking of, a quick Cumbrian Dialect lesson: "naught" is pronounced "now't." And when an old friend bumps into you in the street and asks you what you are doing, you just say: "now't much." Don't even use your tongue on the 't at the end. Swallow it. Erik's mother, before she met me, alluded to Erik that she was nervous to share a meal with me since I'm English and therefore are prim and proper with excellent manners. Poor misguided woman. I am from West Cumbria. How much primness is in me? That's right: Naught.

Thanks for taking me back, sweet readers. It's been a little treacherous these last few weeks what with all the work badness and quittingness. More Julia stories soon.

Skool.

Skool.

This afternoon, I turned in my application to a teaching program.

I passed the CBEST. I got in touch with a long lost favorite professor while rounding up some shiny letters of recommendation. I spent 30 hours in a high school classroom. I have effectively taught semicolon usage to my favorite work boyfriends over burritos at lunch. I even somehow got clearance from the state of California to cultivate the Youth Of America. I've finished up two pre-requisite education courses and am almost done with the third.

I also, notably, do not have tuberculosis.

The only thing I have left to do is spew absolutely every morsel of knowledge ever possible about English, literature, language arts, drama, journalism, writing, and history onto four standardized subject equivalency tests next Saturday.

And then? We wait. And keep writing user manuals. [whispering: maybe I will blog more]. And maybe I'll retake some of those subject tests.

But holy god, I'm actually going through with it. I'm finally taking steps to do what I want to do with my life. Hot damn, she said. Hot damn!

Locker Room.

Locker Room.

I work with oh, about 700 other people. And of those 700, there are a core group of us who either go running or cycling at lunch. One item of note is that they're all men, with the exception of three of us (two walkers and julia). And the three ladies generally don't happen to exercise at the same time on the same day, thus making the locker room experience quite pleasant, quiet, and solitary, and, ergo, quite unlike the men's room.

Last week, I ran with New Work Boyfriend Who Is Probably Too Fast For Me and headed into the women's locker room. I saw one of the other regulars, let's call her Laura Ann, because that's her real name, sitting reading a book. In her street clothes. In the locker room. Right next to where I wanted to shower. I made a little joke, asking her if she was in here for the peace and quiet, because I promise you, I thought she really wasn't and was instead just waiting for her friend to get there so they could do their little aerobics class or whatever it is. She's all, "yeah."

I hear my running buddy walk into the men's room next door (did I mention that we can hear, albeit somewhat muffled, EVERY WORD THEY SAY) say, "oh yeah, I just ran with Julia [...he trails off/Laura Ann starts talking and ruining it]" and I tried to again jest with Laura Ann about how I like to eavesdrop their conversations. She's all, "[blank stare]".

I try to listen again, to no avail because there are too many voices in the next room, so I ask her what she's reading. She shows me the cover, the very paperback cover, of "Dark Symphony."

I've always had a sense with Laura Ann that we're both sort of on the same wit plane. We seem to get each other. But I, astoundingly, seem to tend a little towards oversharing, and nobody can really get onboard that plane with me. All of this crosses my mind as I process the fact that I'm getting ready to strip down and hit the showers and she's sitting there reading Dark Symphony. I assure myself that it's more of a more-power-to-her thing for not being ashamed of it, because everybody likes the soft-core or sci-fi, don't they? Come to think of it, I'm not sure which of the two genres "Dark Symphony" might be. I, of course, ask. Laura Ann then, THANK ALL THAT IS HOLY, laughs with me, because there's nothing more uncomfortable than being naked with someone who doesn't think you're funny. It's a romance novel, by the way, but she's been known to read both. By the way.

So I finally sort of make the universal gesture for "okay, I'm going to shower now, while you sit here and read Dark Symphony," and quickly take care said showering, and patter back into the main locker area. WHERE LAURA ANN IS STILL SITTING AND READING.

I finally start to feel uncomfortable. Not because of the naked vs. Dark Symphony thing, but because whenever Laura Ann is done with her workout, she'll shower in 2 minutes, quickly slip into her flowy bohemian outfits, flick her hair back, glance in the mirror at her glowing fresh face, shrug as if to say, "all done!" and skip on out of the locker room. I'm pretty sure she doesn't even need deodorant. And now I was going to have to parade all of my potions and salves in front of her while she sat back and relaxed.

Halfway through the potion and salve process, Laura Ann lets out a belly laugh. "They finally found the chef," she explains. The chef, you see, has been missing for days. Days! And they (the gorgeous female protagonist and sexy throbbing-loined male detective) just found him! In the laundry shoot! Wrapped in an ivory linen tablecloth! No, he's dead!

Yes, I asked.

And before long, I finish up and head out. The men's locker room is still bustling mumbledly through the walls, and Laura Ann is still thumbing through Dark Symphony. And at that moment, I absolutely adored my office.

Orange County, Kenya.

Orange County, Kenya.

Last night, I read in this month's issue of Runner's World magazine that Tate Donovan (TV's Jimmy Cooper!) listened to African drum music while training for a marathon, pretending he was a Kenyan runner.

I am so trying this.

Selective Amnesia

Selective Amnesia.

How quickly I forget about the 18,000,000 sweat-drenched emergency public restroom stops on the 20 mile training run. I have decided to sign up for a marathon again. Maybe my dad will sign up with me and run his second marathon 20 years later. That would be ridiculously great. You heard it here first. Actually, it's highly unlikely.

Race day last year, my parents were waiting at mile 17 or so cheering me on and not taking pictures with their unresponsive camera. I like to think I was moving so fast that I beat their shutter speed, but that would be a rotten lie. I digress. My dad commented afterwards that being out there in the race environment almost, just almost made him want to do it again. Keep in mind that this is a man who runs 40 miles a week every week with sweet Sammy the dog and doesn't realize the fantastic mileage unless you specifically ask him if he ran 5 miles that day, and yesterday, and the day before, etc... But he's getting on in years, and he just had a hunch that if he were to train for a marathon, it might very well be the end of his running career. I'm the type of person who gets excited just reading my mileage log, so to think of someone who runs 40 miles a week without noticing is just insane. Relatively, I don't have all that much banking on running (hah, I say that now...), but for my dad, it's huge and automatic for him in the same way as breathing or putting vinegar on chips/fries.

Maybe I can get my dad to be on my team when I do the Wild Miles Relay one year (anyone else? dibs not it on the 13+ mile all uphill leg), but for now I think I'm on my own for the marathon.

And alone I will feel. Having done Marathon Number One with the ubiquitous Team In Training (do it!), it's going to be overwhelmingly difficult to forge my way on my own this time. If anyone wants to run with me for a little bit even, such as pacing me for a few miles on my long runs, I'll be your best friend forever and ever amen and will always share my goo packets.

Who knows, maybe this time I'll be more forthcoming about all the ills of marathon training, such as my second toenail or what I un-affectionately refer to as Runner's Poop. Lucky internet. Poor toenails and butt.

Family Values.

Family Values.



The only message these family member car stickers properly convey to me is that I shouldn't get behind you because you probably drive like a moron, too.

Tools.

Tools.

Last night, my dear old friend Karen and I led the women of our church youth group in a "straight edge" discussion on sex. They've been talking about drugs and alcohol for the last few weeks, and culminated their oh-so punk-rock unit last night with a very frank discussion about sex. And their parents were there.

Actually, only one of the middle school moms came in for just a few minutes of our talk WHICH WAS COMPLETELY AWKWARD, but they did have designated time to group off with their families and lay out any expectations the parents have for the youth, and, most importantly, vice versa.

Karen and I have known each other since back when we were wee virgins, and of course, back when we were wee not-virgins, which put an interesting spin on the preparation and the dialogue with the girls. We wanted to ultimately express to them that pre-marital (or pre-ready-for-it) sex is a fucker of a decision to have to make in the first place for teenagers, even more of a fucker of a decision because they're Christian, and even more of a fucker because they're female. And we used 100% clean language! Impressive. Although at one point, I told them that some of the ideas we were giving them for resistance were "tools, for like, your sex toolbox," which rallied some nervous laughter.

We also wanted to assure them was that God will always love them, and they should never feel separated from that love or from their church family because of what they choose with this. It's a delicate balance, because you don't want to give them a free pass for sex, but feeling marginal in the body of Christ was by far the toughest thing I dealt with as a teenager. I feel it's more important for them to be educated and equipped to handle this. And also to make sure that their toolbox is chock full of sex tools.

God help me if they told their parents that Julia taught them about some good sex tools.

'Tis not a Plague.

'Tis not a Plague.

This morning marks my fifth morning of being dead tired. Same with Erik. And it's my fault. Since Friday night, I've had this constant and random cough. It's with me all day, but seems so much worse at night. I'm not exaggerating about it being constant, LET ME TELL YOU. You're lucky you're being typed to, and not getting the maybe-one-word-per-cough conversations most of my in-person acquaintances are enduring. At night, I can't even get the words out. My throat doesn't tickle (except after coughing for an entire night straight) nor does the cough actually produce anything, or feel like it needs to produce something. It's just air being forced out from my lungs. Or something.

Last night in particular, I thought I had The Black Plague. Erik thought I had pneumonia. The second he said something, I figured we should probably call the nurse's hotline through our primary care provider and find out what they say. At the very least, if the nurse hotline tells us to go the ER, we won't be charged up the butt for going to the ER for a non-emergency; it's on record. The nice lady kindly suggested I take some cough syrup. Anyway, she helped me rule out the Plague, and then made an appointment for this morning with my doctor.

The doctor helped explain why my non-productive cough got worse at night. Basically, as you go to sleep, your biorhythms signal that less cortizol (maybe not the right word; I was trying to act smart and not ask stupid questions) be sent to your lungs, because it's needed less as you sleep, or something. Cortizol keeps things nice and uninflamed. And if you don't have it, your lungs get unhappy, and there's wheezing and asthma-ing and coughing. It's totally not because of what the REGISTERED NURSE said on the hotline: that when you lie down, more phlegm falls down your throat. Dude. That's the kind of thing my mother would say, alongside things like going out with wet hair makes you catch a cold and wearing socks at night makes you go blind*.

Anyway, I'm just happy I don't have The Consumption.


__________
* I'm pretty sure mine was the only mother who used the socks/blindness one.

Sundance, oh six.

Sundance, oh six.

Guess where I went this weekend.



More later. I currently do not have a voice and can only cough in morse code. I can't even sleep for all the morse code.

I blame the altitude, a fledgeling pre-existing coldish thing, and cross country skiing. Oh, and belting out Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" at the top of my lungs (WITH EVERYONE ELSE, shut up!) while probably dancing on a chair. I didn't even know I knew that song.

Unlearned.

Unlearned.

Despite the fact that if after you've given your teeth a solid brushing and maybe even a good rinse with mouthwash, you then decide to floss, and it is painfully obvious that brushing and mouthwashing make absolutely no difference in the amount of crud between your teeth, I still don't think I'll ever be one of those Regular Flossers. Like my husband. He leaves the unsightly container of floss out on our prettily arranged counter in the bathroom in hopes that I might catch on and start flossing daily. But I just put it away and rinse more vigorously. I'll never learn.

Despite the fact that scraping day-old oatmeal remnants off the inside of my mug in the work sink always leads me to curse and tell myself that never again will I let oatmeal sit in my mug, I still wait. The stuff rinses off so easily when it's fresh! But every hour pushes that stuff closer to glue than food. Two days later? Mortar. There are a few communal sponges in the breakroom, but holy god, they are gross. Sometimes I see them sitting in the sink, in a pool of their own bacteria sponge juice. So not only am I left with oat-based cement glued to the inside of my cup, I'm also stuck cleaning it with a wet paper towel. Regardless, I will never.learn.

Vero.

Gelato Vero.

This post is no more than a shout out to the one and only Matt Grace and his crushingly beautiful wife Sarah. I'm sitting in the famed Gelato Vero cafe, home of our rendezvous (post-Guiness) so many moons ago.

Come back, dude. The soy lattes are still pretty genius here. And they have free wireless. And there might be a med school or two around here. Cheers.

Back to school. Or: Memories of More Socially Inept Youthdom.

Back to school. Or: Memories of More Socially Inept Youthdom.

Let's just tag this as another installation of my Chronicles of Socially Inept Youth series, because it's been a while.

I went to my first day of classroom observation on Tuesday (amazing! more later!). I spent most of the day with my old AP English teacher (who I adored back then, and still do), and a few classes with my freshman humanities teacher (who I hated back then, as follows).

One delightful day in 1992, after a particularly harrowing and rainy experience in 2nd period Marching Band bringing the little golf cart with three trailers in series holding a plethora of stationary percussion instruments back from the football field to the band room, I was a little late to 3rd period humanities. I rushed to the classroom with no real concept of how late I was. I don't think I ever really looked at the clock and figured out how late I was, either, but I'm thinking it was pretty inexcusable.

I got my first and only detention that day. This is no problem. I totally deserved it.

However, what I also got was the worst public mocking ever to be bestowed upon me so far. The teacher stopped class halfway through, and asked me, IN FRONT OF EVERYONE:

"Julia, as a child back in England, did it rain a lot?"

I hesitated and told him that of course, you moron, it rains in England. It came out like this, though: "yes."

He then asked, "So, do you remember liking the rain?"

I might have said, "What the fuck does this have to do with Hamlet or whatever we're reading?" which also came out as "yes."

Then: "Did you also like to play in puddles? In the mud?"

I paused, thinking of what he could possibly be getting at with this question. I answered, "sort of."

Then, he gave me the smarmiest look I've ever beheld and gestured towards my feet. "I see you brought that habit to America with you. Please get out of my classroom and clean off your shoes."

I'm totally not making this up. Rather than leave a note for the cleaning crew to vacuum up the carpet or what have you, he decided to deride a sweet* and innocent** freshman girl about having mud on her shoes on a rainy day. I couldn't even tell you what books we read that year in his class, but I have been able to perfectly recite that conversation by memory ever since. I got up and left the class and just wandered around the halls for the rest of the class.

I contemplated reminding him of my strongest memory of his teaching style this week as I shadowed him, but figured I was probably the only one in the whole class who remembered that incident. And also, I kind of noticed that not much had changed, as he mocked a freshman for falling asleep in his class. Yes, we know we shouldn't have muddy shoes or fall asleep in class, but come on. There's a basic mandate for any interpersonal communication, not just teaching: praise in public, criticize individually, and mock behind their backs or on the internet.

But hey, I will never enter a room without wiping my shoes now. I am scarred.

________________
*allegedly
**actually, at this point, this was still true. I was probably more accurately described as "ridiculously naive," though.

Direction

Direction.

I will be buying one of these:



Admit it: so will you. You can't pass on something like that. There's nothing remotely practical about it, because it would probably be easier to loop one of those tiny pocket compasses to the strap of my 2 litre camelbak than to (1) bring a daypack big enough to hold the nalgene, and then (2) stop moving to (3) take off the pack, (4) unzip it, and (5) get out the bottle to (6) check the compass. All those extra steps, however, are not going to stop me wanting it and ultimately creating scenarios for me to use/need a nalgene bottle lid compass.

This weekend marked the real start of my work as an assistant coach for a new adventure-sport-plus-fundraising program for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It's called Hike For Discovery and if it's being offered at a location near you, sign up ASAP. There are only 20 or 30 something chapters in the country offering it this year (the first year after the pilot program last year), and each of those chapters will only accept about 35 participants. We'll be hiking down the Grand Canyon, and we don't want to, like, erode the place.

I hiked with my head coach and her darling dog yesterday afternoon (before delving into 100 pages of reading my health education for teachers textbook: more later). It was sort of a feeler hike for how we'd work and hike together (I totally had my A-game on; this woman is about to run her second Boston Marathon, so I didn't want to be the slow or pant-y one), but also to test out a trail neither of us had done before. We did the San Pasqual Mountains south peaks, which was fantastic. The trail was narrow enough to feel legit, and spiked pretty quickly to help spread all the participants out early. The trail rolled through a stream-y valley for a while, which had ACTUAL GREEN GRASS and moss growing wild. This blew my mind. A few minutes later we had climbed back to the standard southern California plant life and sense of normalcy.

The program officially starts in a few weeks, but we have a few more mountains to test in the meantime. The informational meetings begin in a few days, which will be the first time that we meet the five volunteer mentors. And the meeting on Wednesday will be at REI, which is conveniently where I can buy my nalgene compass. I love it when a plan comes together. *evil laughter*.

Balls deep.

Balls deep.

Breaking news: I'm going back to school. Like, right now. I'm applying to a single subject teaching credential program and knocking off some pre-requisites.

When I used to try to think about my dream job, someone Sarah and I ran into one day at Balboa Park comes to mind. He teaches english and writing and is the cross country coach at her old school. Perfection! I just couldn't shake it. (I would also be an advisor to the ecology club or what have you and maybe, like one of my old science teachers, would specify that they could be late to class if they had teenager "issues" they needed to take care of. And I'll be damned if I'm not each and every student's favorite teacher who is also feared and respected. Riiight.)

I can't even begin to explain the joy/elation/relief/fright/standardized-test-fear/overwhelmedness/etc I'm feeling about finally figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. This has been a very, very long time coming and I'm not about to dilly dally anymore. I'm going balls-deep. (I said balls-deep within earshot of my work boyfriends the other day, and I may never live it down. I would quote an after-midnight drunken new year's eve text message from John mocking my usage of the phrase but it's really not for mixed company.)

There are at least two standardized tests in my very near future. Perhaps three. Tests, I hate you.

In other news: please see flickr for some recent house/food/party carnage pictures. The kitchen will stay like that, without upper cabinet doors, at least until Erik puts them on himself without any help or complaining privilidges. I love the open display. And those hinges are little bitches.

Now that I've figured this whole future thing out, I have absolutely zero patience for my current job, which has strangely increased my productivity and decreased Time Spent Crying In Cubicle. However, it's also slightly increased Time Spent Missappropriating In Cubicle. C'est la vie. Balls deep!