Happy New Year

On the off chance that the Mayans are correct and this will be the last year of all our lives, we better make it a good one eh?

I don't make resolutions.  I have in the past, and of course I've never completed them.  Run more, exercise at least 3 times a week, lose 10 pounds.  How generic am I?  But I guess if the world is ending I should make resolutions that are important and personal.  So here are my resolutions (not in order of importance).
 
1.  Weight:  There's no extra weight to lose until this second baby comes out...in fact I'll be gaining about 25 pounds soon.  But after that!  Wear the belly bandit for the recommended 8 weeks.  Continuously.  Wean self off of Ben and Jerry's diet.

2.  Hair:  Goodbye to 2 foot locks.  I'll be cutting off at least 8 inches and donating it to Pantene Beautiful Lengths program.  When I mention that I'm thinking of chopping my hair to donate the first response is usually, "Lock of Love!"  However, when I looked up that program I didn't agree with some of its fundamentals, and found the Beautiful Lengths program, which I agree with more.  It will be interesting to see my new look, as I've had my hair ridiculously long for a very long time.  I'll be growing it back, but I have to say I'm not looking forward to the litany of smug "I told you so's" that will inevitably come my way when people see my short 'do.  I've been told since M was born to cut my hair because "that's what you do when you become a mom".  Seriously?  I guess when you become a mom you don't drink Patron either.

3.  Wardrobe:  Fix this.  I've looked like shit for a long time.  I culled my closet so that all the clothes that don't fit/are torn/ripped/look bad/make me feel bad are gone; but what's left are a pair of jeans, a couple of shorts and 3 Target tank tops.  Not a great wardrobe, really.

4.  Self:  I could go on and on about how much I've changed since moving away from Seattle and back to my homeland.  I miss my old self.  I remember when we first moved back, I told my husband that I was surprised because I was now surrounded by people with sour looks on their faces, who never smiled and always looked glum.  I remember looking in the mirror and telling myself I won't become them.  I am now them.  I don't want to be them.  I have a beautiful boy and a child on the way.  I have a wonderful husband who adores me.  I have a great cat who hates everyone.  I don't want to be an asshole anymore.

Other stuff:
5.  Spend more time on this blog.
6.  Spend more time on my dream book.
7.  Clean my house.
8.  Create a beautiful nursery and toddler room for M and baby #2.
9.  Spend more time cultivating friendships.
10.  Try not to let M watch too much TV.
11.  Support husband in his quest for MS.
12.  Be a better mother.
13.  Don't be an asshole.

Will I accomplish my resolutionszxsxwxwzcxecd.  That last part was written by M, which I guess means get off that computer and play with me!  So in an effort to accomplish #12 and #10 simultaneously...post done.

Back...

A year ago...

I went away...for a long time.  I had a baby, had a meltdown, learned how to love and had another meltdown.  I had many, many meltdowns in the past year of my baby's life.

I forgot about this.  I forgot about this blog, where I used to go to write what I needed to write, whenever I needed to write it.  A friend began a blog, which I became a contributor to:  Drink with Aloha.  Go to the "mommy needs a cocktail" posts to find what I've written there.  I might reprint them here, because I like having everything I muse about on one site.

I began a new blog, A Perfect Sip, which was a collection of my recipes and the perfect drink pairings for them.  Then I gave it to my husband, who, along with his friend, began a wine radio show on Hawaii AM radio.  My perfect blog name became their perfect radio podcast name...and that became my life for a little while.  Unfortunately all my past posts are gone...hacked by an evil hacker...recipes, thoughts, musings...gone.  Very sad.  But the site is back up, better than ever, and full of insightful wine podcasts from a Master Sommelier and an Advanced Sommelier.

But this isn't about them.  It's about this.

I missed this.  I forgot about this, forgot about the freedom of writing for myself.  There have been so many times I had something to write about that I couldn't because it didn't fit the genre of the other websites...and I forgot about my beloved Pampers and Patron.  This is what happens when you become a mother - you forget everything except what is in front of you (at least, I do).

I can't remember a damn thing anymore...but I do remember this.  

This.

This makes it all worthwhile, everyday.  Even when he screams for 2 hours straight at 1am, even when I'm so tired I want to gauge my eyes out with a toothpick, even when he bites so hard I bleed...it makes it all worthwhile.  Because he wakes up happy, smiling, and sweet.  Because he big-bear-hugs like the big boy he is.  Because he's the biggest daddy's boy ever, and could spend his life in his daddy's arms and I love watching them.  Because from two funny-looking people came the most beautiful child.  He has his daddy's lips and cheekbones, and my eyes and nose.  But somehow it all works out perfectly.  He stumbles around like a little drunk man, and his first word was "Uh-oh."  He does pull-ups on our oven door.  He tries to give kitty his pacifier, and shares everything with everyone.  He reminded me that I liked sharing my thoughts too.  And then I remembered I had a place to go to share them...and I remembered this.  

And now I'm back.  I'll be seeing you again soon.          

Yuppie + Hippie = Yippie. Welcome to my new Yippie World

As the main grocery consumer in my household, it is a weekly – if not daily – challenge to find the most economic and healthy consumables.  There’s Whole Foods (Whole Paycheck) and the local Farmer’s Market.  While my beloved Farmer’s Market is an affordable foodie’s paradise, they’re lacking in availability and convenience.  After that, there’s always a (generic)grocery store.   

But then, one sunny afternoon, I found the golden fleece of produce:  Perfect, pesticide-free strawberries.  And I bought them, and the guilt began.  I found them at a warehouse superstore.

More from the Yippie...

Tsunami-Not. Or: Mother Nature and Pele have a discussion.

This past Friday night, Chile was rocked with a gimoungous earthquake that devastated the country.  That earthquake sparked a Tsunami warning for the Hawaiian Islands, West Coast of the Continental United States, and Japan.  I'm missing a country in here somewhere that was threatened.  Please forgive me, I was preoccupied with the fact that:

1.  I live in Hawaii
-----and-----
2.  People were freaking out, and by 4:30am my parents were already packing their bags to evacuate because they live in an evacuation zone.   

6am:  I wake up to the sound of the sirens.  Wonder why the sirens are going off, since it's only Saturday, and the siren test day is Monday.  Reality:  Siren sounding was completely lost on me as I figured they had the wrong day and went back to sleep.  

8am:  My house was overrun by parents and 2 dogs while my cat and husband continue to sleep.  (Eff them!  I was woken up at 7am!) 

11am:  My grandmother and brother enter the picture, and my normally calm house was a mess of noise.

12pm:  We watch one little camera pointed at one portion of the Big Island.  This was it!  This was the big one!  OMG this is going to be crazy!

CNN reports:  Tsunami Surges Into Hawaii!  Tsunami Hits the Hawaiian Island Chain  AHHHH!!!!

The Shit That Ruined My Day

Re:  Utah's Newest Bill to Prosecute Women for Having Miscarriages

Hey Utah,

Fuck you. Yes, I say that for every woman who has has a miscarriage. You think it's easy to miscarry a baby - whether the child is wanted or not? Fuck you. It's not. If your body miscarries, it hurts like fucking hell. If your baby dies in your womb without you knowing you have to have an operation to take him out. So fuck you. Take your stupid bill and shove it up your fat asses, because you have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. To threaten to prosecute women for this is ridiculous. What's next, prosecuting women whose children end up having psychological problems? Because they must have done SOMETHING to make them that way? You want to prosecute parents who vaccinate their kids, because Jenny McCarthy says that vaccinations cause autism? You want to prosecute mothers who drink in their first month or two, regardless of the fact that their pregnancy test came back negative - because this happens ALL THE FUCKING TIME? Because pregnancy tests are not infallible! So dear, dear Utah. Please go fuck yourself.

Sincerely,
A pro-choice woman who still mourns the loss of her child, who had to be scraped out of her womb. If you want to prosecute me because I ate a deli sandwich while pregnant (OMG LISTERIA!) you can go fuck yourself.

P.S. This is only directed at the people in Utah who are assholes. The rest of you are cool.

McPregnant WomanVille: aka The Curse of the Oreo McFlurry.

Me (sitting in my car, listening to Taylor Swift sing about boys who don't love her, waiting for my Oreo McFlurry in the drive through line of McDonald's) singing:  "Romeo save me ~ I've been feeling so alone ~ I've been waiting ~ for you but you never call"

                      ---as I pull up to the pay window with my $2.71 for my freaking Oreo McFlurry---

Dude in drive through window:  "OMGCongratulationsAreyouhavingtwinsMysisterishavingtripletsandisshegetting hugeThisissoexciting (dance, dance, dance) WowCongratulations!"

Me (mouth hanging open, staring at this guy who just did a happy dance as he handed me my receipt):  "Huh?"

I looked down, at my tummy, clad in a brown sweater.  I was sitting down.  My seat belt was on.  I'm 5 months along, and I've gained 5 pounds.  I wouldn't have known I was pregnant if I wasn't urgently wanting to pee.  Was my face pregnant?  Was it my inflated boobs?  Or did he actually see the slight swell of my stomach through the drive through window and automatically know I was pregnant?   Because if I were him, I would have thought that I had just drank too many beers the night before.

As I relayed this story to my husband later that night, he started laughing at me.  Not with me, not in agreement with me.  AT me.

Him:  "Let me get this straight.  You were sitting in your car, in the drive through of McPregnantWomanVille, listening to McPregnantWomanMusic, waiting for your McPregnantWomanIceCream thing.  And you WONDER how he knew you were pregnant?  You were the freaking epitome of a McPregnantPerson!"

Me:  "Awesome.  Thanks."

Goodbye Ambivalence

Sometimes it's the smallest thing that makes you fall in and out of love.  Go to an adored restaurant and have horrible service - out of love.  Go to a party and have a phenomenal experience - fall in love.  Try a new drink - fall in love.  Try same drink made by different bartender - out of love.  Love is a Many Splendored - and fickle - thing.

With our little fetus it was ambivalence.  Many people say that women become mothers as soon as they get pregnant - but for me?  I know for me I adore my babies (the current one and the one lost) like crazy - but love?  To quote Mariah Carey, "Love takes time".

I can't believe I just quoted Mariah Carey in reference to my fetus.  But seriously?  I think every once in a while there's a tiny butterfly of coherent thought in her gorgeous mound of hair.  Cause loving my fetus did take more time than originally thought.

The Last Hurrah

Once upon a time there was a guy who loved wine and a girl who loved tequila.  They decided to attend a build-a-baby workshop for two, and were thus gifted with a zygote that turned into a fetus that would (hopefully!) turn into a screaming child that would be a healthy non-asshole.

One day the girl looked at the boy, who was drinking his 3rd glass of wine, and got really, really jealous.
"I want booze."
"Baby, you can't have booze!"
"I KNOW that, but I still want it."
"Poor baby," as he finished his glass and poured himself another.  The girl seethed, and rubbed the rounding belly.
"I need a last hurrah."
"A wha?"
"A Last Hurrah."  The girl got very sly.  "You need one too.  I mean, the baby will be screaming to be fed every 2 hours.  You're not going to get sleep either.  I'm going to pump, so you're going to get to feed the baby every other feeding.  Really.  And if you're not feeding, or going to work, you're going to be doing laundry because we'll be covered in shit and vomit.  I mean, this *is* an equal opportunity fetus."
The boy sobered, then became horrified and slightly green.  He drained the rest of his wine bottle directly into his mouth.  "Oh my god you're right.  Let's go to Vegas." 

The Missing Pieces of Life

About four in the afternoon, my friend and I were at a bar playing with these little plastic toys left in a basket for drunk kids like us. She had set up a wall of fencing with soldiers and cowboys, defending it from my wall of teepees and Indians that pointed their little bows and arrows at the guns. My toy horse was adorned with a hot pink cocktail umbrella. It was Sunday and I was spending it doing what I always did - Bloody Mary's over Brunch, shopping at consignment stores, and happy hour. I loved life as a cocktail waitress, a life of 5am bedtimes and tequila and bar-hopping fun. I loved it, but all this was about to change. With bourbon in hand, I laid out my plans for the future.
"What the hell? Seriously?" My friend almost spit her gin and tonic out of her mouth.
"Yep. We're moving to Hawaii to start a family." I finished my bourbon and ordered two shots of Patron. Shots were a good way for people to absorb information. We cheered silently, clinking our shots before they went down respective gullets.
"Wow. What a decision," she said.
 More, Here...

How To Get Put on the Disneyland Watch List - or - Another Good Reason to Quit Smoking

 I quit smoking on May 8, 2009. I was in Disneyland the week prior, hiding out behind the House of Blues with cigarette in hand, creeping in the bushes, a dirty, filthy smoker. I was defiling Disneyland with lung cancer.
         Disneyland Jail.
[Technically, I was in Downtown Disney but still. It's still Disneyland. Disneyland is Disneyland no matter which part you are in; even if you're drunk and puking, the kind old security guard with the Mickey Mouse name tag will escort you away from the kids and families, lightly chastising but in all ending up like a kindly old grandfather, scolding a misbehaving kid. Like you got lost from your Mommy and need to find her. Except you're 28 and have vomit in your hair.]


      

Merry Christmas!

Goodbye Vodka. Again.

Exactly two months after the discovery of the expiration of our zygote, I found myself staring at a faint blue line. Again.

It was my Grandfather’s birthday, a wonderful man who fought in WWII, sired four children, lived a quiet life as an accountant and wrote dirty novels. He loved dirty jokes, scotch and his family. He had died the year before.

It was also Halloween.  A day of masks, of make-believe, of tall tales.  It was a day meant to be fanciful, easy-going, full of booze and naked women.  And it was the day I learned I was pregnant again.

Goodbye Sobriety.

Four days after my surgery, we found ourselves at a beach house on the water, on a night that a full moon overlooked Koko Head Crater. It was night, we were surrounded with a few of our closest friends, and we were grilling steaks. And we were having a wake.

Was it strange that we were celebrating the short and brilliant life of our baby?

There was a bottle of vodka, two bottles of tequila, one bottle of bourbon, one bottles of wine, and a twenty pack of Bud Light. There were seven people, six steaks, and lots and lots of cookies made from expensive Valhrona chocolate. If a zygote hadn’t just died in my uterus, it would have been an awesome party.

It seemed that we were coping the way my generation did – alcohol. Copious amounts of booze flowed down our gullets. By 2am, the girls and boys had retreated to separate parts of the house. Gossip about ex-boyfriends was interrupted by screams of “I’m an ASSHOLE…Asshole…asshole…I’m an ASSHOLE!” My attempt at videotaping them singing Britney Spears was a failure. We horrified wealthy neighbors who didn’t know who were the obnoxious people that were house sitting a multi-million dollar mansion. We finished all the booze and cookies. We left, and my girlfriend and I watched our men pass out on the ground, finished my 100-proof bourbon and watched the sun rise.

I like to think my zygote would have been pleased.

And then something to make me laugh...

Goodbye Pregnancy

Miscarriage sucks ass. There’s really no getting around that fact. No matter when, no matter how. Whether it happens naturally or you have to go in for a D&C, which I did, it sucks fat ass. There’s no real way to understand the pain of it unless you’ve been there. I used to imagine, when I was pregnant, what I would feel if I were to miscarry. I felt like I was trying to get myself prepared for the worst. In those instances, I’d tear a little and cry some imagined tears, but nothing prepared me for the torrential downpour that erupted out of me every half hour when it really happened to me. If I wasn’t sobbing, there were still huge tears running down my cheeks as I watched the Food Network. I’d stop crying as I watched Forensic Files, only to have the program halt for a Huggies commercial, and I’d start crying all over again. I honestly didn’t know I was that attached to the bitty guy in my belly, but every time I thought of the way we loved it, I’d sob again. There were so many little things we did with love that I didn’t realize until it was gone and we couldn’t do them anymore. I wasn’t prepared for that sorrow.

There were, in fact, a lot of things I wasn’t prepared for about saying goodbye. I wasn’t prepared for the surgery. I wasn’t prepared for the hospital rooms, patients split up by curtains, herded into beds like cattle by overworked nurses. I wasn’t prepared for the questions that I would be asked. I wasn’t prepared to have people assume that I was there for a willing abortion, since the procedure was the same. I wasn’t prepared for the TV in my “room”. And I wasn’t prepared for the nurse.

Goodbye What Was Never Meant To Be

The morning of my first 2nd trimester appointment, I pulled on the maternity skirt my friend had lent me and a shirt that sort of masked the barely there bump of belly. It was amazing how my belly went up and down; poofed out then popped back in as flat as it had been before. I told my husband, as he got dressed, that sometimes it didn’t even seem like I was pregnant.

As I lay on the bed with my legs in the stirrups, he held my hand as we watched and listened to our doctor maneuver an ultrasound wand over my belly. All we heard were crackles and pops, like the cereal. [I could almost imagine those silly little elves pressing their pointy ears against my skin.] She had me turn on the main ultrasound machine, just in case she didn’t have the right spot. We watched her face, her efficient face, normally so business-like and multi-tasking with a purpose, we watched the face that we trusted to give us the straight shit on things get a little quiet and a little less business-like. We watched her eyes, eyes that were normally efficient and quick to dart to her next task, get a little sad and slow. And we listened as she told us that we were having a miscarriage.

Our baby, it seems, had stopped growing sometime between the 8 week ultrasound when we saw the heartbeat, and the time the 12.5 week ultrasound rolled around. Our baby, it seemed, was one of the less than 5% to go away after the heartbeat. Our baby, it seemed, was dead.

Goodbye Polite Society

Pregnancy is a strange anti-filter device for the world. To survive polite society, people usually have some sort of filter on their brain, keeping them from saying everything they think. You may think your boss is a prick, for instance, but that filter keeps you from saying it aloud, and thus succeeds in keeping you gainfully employed. You might think your husband is getting a bit chunky, but you keep it to yourself to make marriage work. You might think your friend is a fucking loser, but you keep it locked deep inside. Without the internal filters keeping our mouths at bay, polite society wouldn’t be so polite at all. It would, in fact, be a pretty unpleasant if interesting place to be.

Goodbye Pretention

No one I knew was ready for parenthood. Not even parents were ready for it. There really should be a class to take, a test to make sure that you stood a chance of teaching a kid the things it should know to take on the world. Anyone less than 75% passing on the test should have to wait until they matured to take another one…determining their viability as parents. Don’t they test the sperm of sperm donors for viability? Aren’t egg donor eggs scrutinized? It only stands to reason they should test the brains of future parents to rule out psychosis.

When we first went in to buy pregnancy tests, we checked out all the different varieties – like all people do. There are the plus signs, the equal signs, the early response, the earlier response, the earliest response. Then there’s the “easy to read” pregnant/not pregnant test that actually spells out whether you are pregnant or not pregnant.

It’s pretty dumb, to be honest. Who needs it to spell out that you might or might not be pregnant? Who can’t tell the difference between a plus sign and a negative sign? The differences are very, very clear, and honestly if you can’t tell them apart there are doubts to your efficiency as future parents. At least, that’s what we thought.

Goodbye Birth Control.

I stopped taking that miraculous drug that had kept me from being pregnant for the last ten years of sexual escapades. The move was made, the deed was done. The screw was out of my husband’s shoulder. We were settling in (badly) to responsible day jobs. The prenatal appointment was over and done with. Our family histories were discussed, my drinking and smoking habits were only slightly fudged, and we were given the ok to go fertilize. I was recommended to act like I was pregnant…i.e. stop drinking. In our world, this was going to be a long, very long procreation process.

With that one doctor’s visit, everything was about to change. It was the life we chose, and we needed to make this breakup real. We needed to cut the tie with our flasks. I needed to say goodbye to my miniskirts. We needed to put away the bottle of Patron, say goodbye to nicotine and hello to prenatal vitamins. We needed to make a complete overhaul of our lives…and we realized the best way to say goodbye was to get it over with quick. Cold Turkey.

Goodbye Life.

Goodbye:
Pert nipples. High Fructose Corn Syrup. Bud light. Tequila. Spontaneous trips. Champagne. Sex anywhere in the house. Sashimi. Sex any time of the day. Clothes that fit. Sex.

Hello:
Pregnancy.

Sometime around my 27th birthday, I decided to break up with my life. It’s not that my life and I weren’t getting along; in fact we got along a bit too well. My liver would crave bourbon, I gave some to it. My lungs asked for nicotine, I obliged. My brain wanted a nap, I passed out.

In truth, my life and I loved each other very, very much.

This love was a honeymoon type of love though; something not destined to last the test of time. It began in college and continued for years, until I became that guy that was headed into his 10th year of college. I was becoming the dude that still lived in the frat house with the freshmen who was mocked endlessly but bought beer and tequila for them and thus remained allowed to sleep in a bunk with the thirty new pledges of the year. I became the old dude who still peed in a communal urinal. My love was pretty pitiful.

Sometime around my 27th birthday, I decided it was time to break up. Let go, so to speak, of the easy relationship it and I had developed over the past 27 years. Separate. Divorce. Say goodbye.