at least as alive as the vulgar!

My Heart, by Frank O'Hara

I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says
"That's not like Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.

A friend of mine sent me this poem many months ago, and I was just roaming through my old email and found it again. I'm so glad I did. She thought the poem and I would be simpatico and we are. I would hire it to be one of my small spokesmen.

Having a baby is helping me wriggle free of...something good to be free of...um:

*the tendency to judge myself by my artistic output/lack thereof

*always turning my head from side to side to see where my peer horses are in the race that we aren't actually running anyway

(Anything racetrack-y is an optical illusion that I fall for over and over again, the same way I'm fooled every night by my dreams and I think a very young John Lennon really is offering me $16,000 to buy my house.)

*the stupid wish for my life to look cool, have a particular flavor about it

*the idea that my life will end up worthy or unworthy as a result of anything other than what my goddamn heart did during its stint

I want to always be shaking off whatever Frank's shaking off in that poem there, and then some.

Brrrrrrrr!

edit: My old and dear friend Kris has a little boy, Linus, and she looks like she's doing some of the very wriggling free that I aspire to do. Look at you go, lady.

dahmoo doray

Everything good is coming and I can barely take it.

Thanksgiving is fine, but I always just want to leap over it and stuff Nat King Cole's Christmas album into the cd player. Anally, anally, each year I make a little production of putting his version of "The Christmas Song" on, for it must be the first bit of Christmas music I hear in my house. This has been in place since I was about ten years old. My family bore with me, and even got a little fond of this quirk. I think if I missed a year, I might spin out into some sort of gently tragic obsessive-compulsive fugue state, where I'm replaying over and over in my mind the horrid usurper carol that took its place.

I make myself wait until December to inaugurate the Christmas music, but I've never had a blog before, so I felt that there was no law about my styling out the ol' blog in holiday wear a little early.

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO OVERSTATE HOW MUCH I LOVE CHRISTMAS.

Yes.

ALSO.

Tonight, we had Thanksgiving with my cousins. This was a vegetarian nutloaf-y affair, with grace said in Latin and an impromptu cello/recorder concert given by my little cousin Irena and her mom -- they were totally excited and totally out of tune and we all just gaped and grinned and applauded like crazy. After Dave and I came home, we were watching a story on CNN about some woman who gave birth to quadruplets, and when one particular shot came on of the mom holding one of them, I burst into tears.

It's real. We're really having a real baby. A lot of the time this all feels still like an abstraction, and I have a few glimmers of what is going to happen here. But something about seeing that baby tonight just drove it home for a second, deeper than it had been driven before, and I just broke out into joyful Peanuts-style flying-out tears.

Our poor child is screwed next Christmas. Finn is going to be so severely elfed-out he may never forgive us. Dressed like a little candy cane one day, a reindeer the next, a gingersnap the next, and so on. Believe it. For I do not jest. Two motherfucking great tastes that taste great together, a baby and Christmas. Goddamn. Good DAY, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY.

merci keetos grazie danke arigato

a brief mania, or, enter the snowman

Yesterday, Dave and I went to a bookstore, and I spent a lot of time in the children's section looking for potential baby books for Finn. I picked a couple of books that were about how much various animal parents love their animal babies, and so, human baby, you can extrapolate that your parents love you a crazy lot, too.

Then I picked this book called "Snowmen at Night", which is all about snowmen at night sliding out to the park and playing baseball and drinking cold cocoa and basically living it up. The illustrations are really bright and charming, and it looked like something a tiny person would think were very funny. (Can't wait to find out what sort of sense of humor little Finn will have. Oh, man. Until he gets old enough to be active on the comedy front, I'm going to be projecting a lu-lu sense of humor on to him.)



Look, I loved reading that snowman book myself. It looked great, and the snowmen looked so cute. And without realizing it, I developed a brief case of snowman fever. I didn't know I had it until Dave and I were leaving the store, and I kept halting by anything snowman-related. Dave finally said, "Hey, there, Snowman-Crazy..." and I had a flash of clarity that in fact I was hypnotized by anything snowman, and I found this hilarious to the point of doubling over.

But, truly, I urge you to consider the snowman afresh. Let yourself be seduced by the round simplicity and benevolence of the snowman. Become as a child again before his gentle, folksy sphericalness.

the future owner of these shoes...

...is named Finn Stanley John Rowley.

oh, garçon...

There's no clever way to deliver this news. Or, there is, but I'm too flabbergasted to find it. Or, there is, but who needs it?!

We found out this morning that we're having a

********BOY!*********

We can't believe it!


*actual photo from the ultrasound. Amazing, yes?!

We were sure we were having a girl. We were like:

"Oh, I'm having strong girl feelings."
"Oh, me, too."
"Yeah, me, too."
"Yeah, I just keep defaulting to a girl."
"I'm pretty sure it is a girl."
"If it's a boy, it's great!"
"Sure, it's great! Of course!"
"But, really....I just keep seeing a girl."
"I know. Me, too. A little girl!"
"A little girl!"

Suckers!

We had an ultrasound this morning - a week or so earlier than we had planned, but we'd gotten a slightly abnormal result on our blood test last week (scary, bummer, bad moment) so we needed to check it out post-haste. The ultrasound came out good - the little man is looking healthy, he's a good size

AND HE'S A BOY.

We're thrilled! The minute his boyness was revealed to us, it was like, girl, what girl, girls are for girls!

And he was shimmying around like a nutball in there. His arms were just wicketa-wocketa-wicketa-wocketa all over the joint, like one of those boxing nuns or kangaroos. We couldn't believe what we were seeing. And when they told us he was a boy, we couldn't have been more surprised if they'd told us he was a hammerhead shark.

The little man!

Please vote for the best name:

Voldemort
Darth
Panther
Mohandas
Frodo
Bilbo
Gandalf
Mandalf
Judo
Balls
Chauncey
Batman
Penis

Dave and I were going back and forth about names today. We have a couple of names on the table, but we were so surprised to get this news today that we thought it might be nice to open out the field a little. But then we tried it, opening out the field.

Let me put it this way. If Dave's taste in boy's names and my taste in boy's names were explained in terms of high school teams, his taste would tend toward names you might find on the wrestling team, and mine would tend toward names you might find on the debate team.

I'd float something out there, and he'd shake his head or grimace. Then he'd float something out there and I'd suppress a shudder. Then we remembered that the names we'd had on the table were the names we were able to agree on in the first place. We're close to a decision, now, and we're feeling good.



Welcome, Little Man Rowley!! We love the living shitboxes out of you!

edit: We've pretty much landed on a name now, but we're going to let it sink in a little before we reveal it. I'll just say that this guy can wrestle and debate.

'nother edit: Dave and I were just sitting around chatting about our son, and Dave said, "Have you met my son, ______? Allow me to introduce himself!" Allow me to introduce himself....I can't take it. I keep suddenly giggling about it.

trials of the pregnant dryer spaceman

Princess Sputnik, by Mark Ryden.

Much is happening. My center of gravity is shifting forward. When I get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I sway and tilt and grab for doors and sink edges. This makes me nervous. I'm only four and some months along. What will happen when the addition nears completion? Will I need to find a new way to walk? Will I need to tip backwards a little?

When I was in college, there were two oddball guys who had opposite walks. One wore a little red pair of shorts all the time, and walked very fast with his head and torso tipped forward leading the way. This is the song we wrote for him:

Buh nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh I live in Ly-mon*
Buh nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh I got my red shorts on
Buh nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh Don't look for me I'm gone
Buh nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh Goin' to class
Buh nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh Got to get there fast
Buh nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh HEADFIRSTFEETLAST!

*a dorm called Lyman, but for the purposes of this song it's pronounced Ly-monh, or however you spell it when you're sort of droppping the 'n' except for that Frenchy open-mouthed nasal hint of it. Also, "on" and "gone" are sung with that same French ghost 'n'.

Then there was another guy who took a lot of drugs and had a bit of a white guy 'fro going on. When he walked, he tipped a little backwards, like he was walking down a hill that wasn't there. It was always fun to imagine the opening strains of "Purple Haze" when he strolled by.

Bownh-Nownh Bownh-Nownh Bownh-Nownh Bownh-Nownh
BeeerneeerneeeerNEER, Beeerneeerneeerneeer........

The first walk I described could kill the baby later on, so I must be sure never to accidentally do it. And it looks like I might have to cultivate the second one! When you see me walk by, feel free to go all Purple Haze on me in your minds.

Yesterday, pregnancy brought me the pleasure of something I'd never experienced before: coughing, puking and peeing my pants all at the same time. So, that's done. I can cross that off. Let's consider that a fucking fait accompli, and never revisit it again.

Yesterday was also our first meeting with the other midwife at the birth center, Felice. I am in love. She's funny and warm and spicy. We had to take some blood, which I hate, and is impossible to do with my practically veinless arms. We got some out of my hand, and then she called the lab to find out what the minimum amount was for this series of tests. I fell in love with her when she was talking to the lab person, and she said, "Yes, but that's not really true. I know that's not the real minimum. I want to know the real minimum." She stood up for my hand! I nearly made out with her on the spot.

In two weeks we'll get a fancy fetal scan ultrasound. And if the fates are with us, we'll get to find out which flavor baby we have. Holy mama. Oh, mama. Canna wait. Dying to know who we've got.

In non-pregnancy related news, Dave and I went to go see Ellie Parker yesterday. Don't do it. Don't do it. We walked out after forty of the longest minutes ever. Forty Jupiter minutes. Here's Naomi Watts eating a blue ice cream cone. For five Jupiter minutes. Here's Naomi Watts bopping her head back and forth in her car on her way to an audition. Five more Jupiter minutes. My head did the involuntary shaking-back-and-forth thing, which is always the Fourth Horseman of the Entertainment Apocalypse for me. Dave and I agreed that if we were given the choice of staying for all of Ellie Parker or walking back in to the last Woody Allen movie we walked out of, we would have walked back in to the Woody Allen. Harsh toke.

you ain't got no alibi, maternity pants

What's happening is this: I have suddenly begun to show. I was at a record store day before yesterday and idly put my hands on the upper part of my belly. And it felt not like squishy regular belly, but taut, drumlike, baby-packing.

I was startled, and then delighted, and then apologetic towards my child because the record store was playing very loud, very scary music. Until I felt the taut drumminess of my belly I had forgotten that I was concealing a person underneath my sweater - a person who may have musical tastes, which may have been being trod upon. Also, who knows how far along the ears are? The ears could have been like, you know what? No. We're not going to get any more developed. No. Screw you.

And then yesterday, I ran into a pants issue. Other than my sweatpants, and one other miscellaneous stretchy pair of nice pants, I'm coming up empty with pants that fit. I put on a pair of jeans and then wore them unzipped with the button and buttonhole connected by a string, like some sort of trashy, retarded Ellie May Clampett. Let it be known, of course, that my shirt was LONG. But you carry yourself differently when you know you have something scandalously pitiful going on at your waistband.

I understand now that it's time. But I don't want it to be time. I don't want it to be time for these:



And it can never be time for these:




And even though these are good from the elastic down, and nobody would see the elastic part, the elastic part depresses me. Tell me it doesn't depress you:



And those comparatively cute corduroy maternity pants cost $185, to which I say Stop That.

What I want to spend my money on is this:



Shut up, I like them.

great balls of fire!

Yesterday I got to revisit an excellent joke with my friend Stephen. And, if you have access to a piano, you can play, too! You don't have to know how to play piano, either. It's better if you don't, actually.

You are going to play Great Balls of Fire just like Jerry Lee Lewis, only better.


This picture of Dennis Quaid as Jerry Lee Lewis gives you an idea of
the sort of spirit I want you to bring to this thing. Plus he is so very hot.

Everybody knows the rhythm of the song, right? And everybody knows how to put their finger on the right side of the keyboard and drag it down to the left to make that trill that's like, SHOWMANSHIP!!

boom boom boom BOOM
You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain
boom boom boom BOOM
Too much love drive a man insane
boom boom boom BOOM
You broke my will
boom boom boom BOOM
But what a thrill
boom boom boom
Goodness Gracious Great Balls of Fire
BOOM BOOM BOOM Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow(trill)

Kiss me baby
boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba

boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba

WooOOO!
boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba

Feels GOOD!
boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba

Hold me baby
boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba boom-ba
BOOM I wanna love you like a lover should
boom boom boom BOOM You're fine
boom boom boom BOOM So kind
boom boom boom
Want to tell this world that you're
BOOM.................BOOM
MINE MINE MINE MINE!
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

So, every time where there's a "boom", just bang on the piano with both hands in any old place in any old position. Just do it in rhythm! You don't even need to make piano hands if you don't want to - you can let your hands be like big dead meat pads.

Dernk darnk doink DONK You shake my nerves.....

Bonk Deenk Donk GERNK Too much love......

Blunk Conk Doonk MERNK You broke my will...

BLAMP FLOMP BRRMMP Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeowwww!

And sell it! Sing it out! Go nuts! When you say "Feels good!" let there be NO DOUBT that it feels good! Look surprised and delighted all the time at how good at piano you are! And when you do that trill, give your audience a look that's like, oh yeah, here it COMES, MAMA.

You can pretty much stop after "Want to tell this world that you're mine mine mine mine". You will have been awesome enough for long enough. Everyone will have had time to be impressed.

mr., mrs. and small frankenstein

00000This person times this person00000

000000000000equals0000000000000

000000THIS PERSON000000

I've been apprised about the birds and the bees, but you've got to be kidding me. Can you see that there's a nose? There's a hand? A thigh? Even a brain that you can sort of see?

It's the Halloweeniest.

And it's also Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, my birthday* and the FOURTH OF JULY. This baby business is every holiday but Columbus Day rolled into one.

*an unrecognized international holiday. This will change.

Happy Halloween, you everybodies.

really nice

Last night I dreamed that Dave and I were on an old ferry, standing by a bar. Dave was stroking the face of some pretty young girl, and then

I got punched in the face by a ghost.

Nice.

learning to love you more

First of all, my old ob-gyn is FIRED.

We're on the relieved end of a week full of worry, but let me tell you, we had it bad. I'm not going to go into the whole story because everything is fine now, but on Monday night we basically feared that our baby had died. BAD NIGHT.

And the receptionist you rode in on, Doctor Suckball. And the receptionist you rode in on.

Tuesday morning we found ourselves another caregiver, somebody fan-fucking-tastic who put just about all of our fears to rest. She's a fabulous midwife, and the birth center is like this beautiful soft pink cave. Everybody who works there is warm and groovy.

And yesterday we had an ultrasound and the baby is doing great!! As soon as I get to a scanner, I'll scan in the little baby's profile. Woo-hoo! Our child has a head! And feet and legs and arms and hands and a beating heart! Our child is three inches long! There be a button nose! It's amazing. It's totally a living person in there.

********************************



We celebrated by going to see the unbelievably good movie that we're nearly the last on earth to see, Miranda July's Me and You and Everyone We Know. See it, see it. It makes you be alive better. It's so shocking and tender and hilarious and sublime. And it did that rare thing of ending right at the second that you will it to end, right boom at the perfect moment where it couldn't get any better. What I wish is that I could wake up every morning in the movie theater, watching that movie on the big screen, and then magically find myself back in bed ready to get up and have my day. I would be a better person, a person who sees and feels more acutely.

Here is a delightful Miranda July website, Learning to Love You More, which is chock full of sweet assignments you can complete and send in to have posted on the site. It's a joy to browse. I've never done one, but I would really like to. Tell me if you do.

don't wear a bag over your head or punch the paparazzi

Tomorrow we go for our first ultrasound.

This is what I want to see:



This is what we probably will see:



Who are you, mystery baby?? Are you real? Let's bring it for the camera, little Rowley. Practice your clear face. Practice visibility. Just for now, be more like Paris Hilton, less like Sean Penn. And then later, reverse that.

By which I don't mean, be born a man in a woman's body. It's a stressful way to go.

By which I don't mean that I was a woman born in a man's body.

Just say cheese is all I'm saying.

you don't have to be rich - just smart!

The IKEA Cycle: Tiny Domestic Dramas

This is the show I'm in. It just opened on Monday, and it will be running through November 9th. Follow the link, have a look, and if you live in or near Seattle, come and see it!

I mean:

a. It's FREE.
b. You need something from IKEA, admit it. You need candles. You need a lamp. Two birds with one stone, compadres.
c. It's good! This is a great cast, working with a great script.
d. You can buy the set.

It's 13 scenes that you can collect like baseball cards. Three a night. Mondays and Wednesdays. There's a dance scene on the couches! Come see the unsuspecting shoppers freak out and wonder what the hell is going on.

This is a review from the Seattle Times.

Here concludes my plug.

what the mammary pain is like

It's like I have tiny gunmen stationed inside my breasts, and every now and then, with no provocation, they fire out into the world.

the superbowl of australia!

Kalloo Kallay! Wooop Wooop Wooop! Boing Boing Boing Boing Boing! Zeee-oooo Zeee-oooo Zeee-oooo! Coooo-WEEE!

G'day, Mates!! It's a ripper of a day at the home of Mr. Hatrabbit!

FAIR DINKUM, MATES.

Dave's Fay-vo-rite Rugby League team, the team he's followed since he was a boy of 6, have made it to the Grand Final!

Go, Wests Tigers!



When Dave was 6 years old, he played on a tiny little rugby league football team. His team had powder blue jerseys. Fair enough, okay, whatever. But one day, they played against a team that had BLACK and ORANGE jerseys. They were Tigers. Dave looked across the field and knew that this was his destiny. He was not meant to be some kind of wispy powder blue pawn. Dave was meant to be a kick-ass, snarly, awesome TIGER.

Dave became a manic little fan of the Balmain Tigers. His parents took him to a sporting goods store to get him a Tigers jersey, but they only had a very large one. His dad floated out the idea that they order one in his size and come back for it, but the small Tiger was having none of it, so they bought him this enormous jersey that fit him like a dress. Dave wore that Tigers dress with pride.

Two years before, the then Balmain Tigers had won the Grand Final. 1969. That's the last time the Tigers took the Final. They went to the Grand Final in 1989 and 1990, but they lost both times.

The Tigers have almost always been the underdogs. Dave loves them because even when they're losing, they play their guts out until the clock runs out. But this year, they're on fire! They've got a new coach, Tim Sheens, who took his old Canberra team to the Grand Finals 4 or 5 times - one of them in 1990, where they beat the Tigers in extra time. And they've got a player called Benji Marshall, a young guy who looks like he's going to shape up into one of the best players the game's ever seen. Dave's been following the Tigers from over here, and the news has just kept getting better and better.



The Hatrabbit has been feeling some bursts of homesickness, and it's a goddamn shame that he can't be in Australia for this historic Tiger time. But we've got cable, and the game's going to be televised over here; and we've got Tivo, so we won't have to watch it in the middle of the night; and we're going to invite some friends over and make some meat pies and watch the game and make a DAY of it.

Sunday, October 2nd. Telstra Stadium. The Wests Tigers vs. The North Queensland Powder Blue Pawns. (Cowboys if you want to be all technical about it.)

Feel you THERE.

the pastry police

Feeling much better today!

Yesterday, I hit a wall after walking into the lobby of a building downtown and then suddenly lurching over to throw up in a big fake potted plant. A man in the lobby gave me a look that said to me, "Noon, and you're drunk already? Don't get on the elevator with me, hobo."



But the hormones seem to be making their descent into comfortable territory, and today I feel like...900,000 bucks! (I don't want to exaggerate, here.) I woke up very excited to find myself not drooling, and got up and did a dance around the living room, and then Dave and I headed out to give a whirl to eating lunch at my favorite restaurant. It was a miracle, I tell you. I was feeling like, I can eat anything! We drove to the restaurant and I was practically singing in anticipation. But then we walked into the restaurant and it was packed with people, all of whom had different foods in front of them, creating a dense, troubling medley of aromas that knocked me offa my cloud.

So we went to the grocery store, and I decided that I wanted to bring home a little variety of pastries. Metropolitan Market has a fine little selection: brioches, different kinds of perfect croissants, tarts, doughnuts, cinnamon rolls. I loaded up my little box and was digging in my purse to get a pen to write the prices on the top, when an old man wheeled up to me.

Old Man (in a low voice, leaning in close): What are you doing?

Me (thinking he's being conspiratorial and fun): Getting some pastries!

Old Man (suspicious): Getting some pastries?

Me: (blink, blink)

Old Man: Getting them or BUYING them?

Me (getting it, and irritated): .........BUYING THEM.

Old Man: Okay, then.

Wow. Wow, old pastry fart. Way to patrol the aisle. I think he thought I was stuffing pastries into my purse, rather than getting a writing implement. For the rest of our stay in the store, every now and then I erupted in one of those whiny baby mocking mutters, "...getting them or buying them...."

Doo dee doo dee DOO dee doo.

Now that I'm more fit and more fiddley, I am ON IT in regards to The Icebox, Part Three. I'm working on it right now. I thank you for your patience!

And thanks for your kind comments and concern about the morning sickness freakshow. Much appreciated.

job opening

Are you psychic? Like, highly psychic? Mind-bogglingly, super-specifically psychic? And also, are you presciently psychic? Do you know what’s coming down the pike an hour or two from now?

Can you cook?

Can you live on no dollars a month?

Can you also do magic?




If you answered yes to ALL of the above questions, then I have a job for you, and you can start right now.

I am in desperate need of a psychic personal chef/magician. Pregnancy has turned me into an ultra-finicky, super-volatile-of-tastebud wreck.

Yes, more pregnancy food talk. Yes, yes. I’ve spent the better part of both yesterday and today on a shameful, Britney-Spears-inspired pregnancy diet of chocolate milk and puffy Cheetos.

Here’s what I need: I need this magical “employee” to constantly divine what is going to be palatable to my confused tongue, and I need this “employee” to get it ready for me before I need it. I also need the “employee” to be able too – and this is key – MAKE THE FOOD BE ABLE TO TURN ON A DIME AND CHANGE FORM IN FRONT OF ME SPONTANEOUSLY WHENEVER NECESSARY.

The cooks at the restaurant we went to for breakfast this morning, they did not have this skill. I ordered oatmeal, as it seemed like the safest, kindest item on the menu. It arrived looking kind. The first taste or two were kind. I looked away for a moment, and when I looked back, the oatmeal had changed. But this is the thing. It did not change FORM. It didn’t change from oatmeal to something else. It changed from benevolent oatmeal to malevolent oatmeal.

See, that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m looking for a situation in which, if I have some oatmeal in front of me that’s gotten off to a good start, and I look away and my mouth changes, and then I look back, I won’t see bad oatmeal there. I’ll see a bowl of strawberries and cream! Or pasta with garbanzo beans! Or whatever else the altruistic psychic chef magician has divined that I will need.

In the morning, I’ll wake up, and A.P.C.M. will have read my mind in my sleep. A.P.C.M. will be standing there by my bed with – who knew?- a Belgian waffle with peaches! I will eat a little of it, and when the mechanisms of my mouth begin to wobble, I will suddenly be eating – just what I needed!- a cheddar and jalapeno scone. This will continue all day long, and these combinations of food will provide my body with every nutrient it could possibly need, pre-empting the necessity to take my enormous dogsgusting Russian-roulette-game-of-potential-nausea-inducing PRENATAL VITAMIN.

I seek you, Dream Weaver. Come to me now.

in place of the other

Um.

Came back from Orcas Island tonight, after going to my ex-boyfriend's wedding. Wrote a long, long entry about it. It was a retrospective and a big benediction. It took me almost two hours to write it. Eight Kleenexes.

And Blogger ate it. It disappeared.

It was not meant to be.

Be at peace with it, Tina. Be at peace. Be at peace.

And congratulations to the newlyweds. Two beautiful souls, totally meant to be together.

I had fears about the wedding, none of which came to pass. It was a sweet and magical night.

I guess I'm not supposed to say more.

bean update, or really, plum update

Loyal, charming reader Eve has requested a baby update. Just for her I will provide one!

As far as I know, all is well with the little senator. The doctor says that I'm doing very well -- even told me, "You take very good care of yourself!" to which I was like, really? -- but it'll be a month or so before we can listen in on the little heartbeat and find out more about What Goes On with the wee messiah.

I haven't posted about it because I am in a very tedious state of constant hunger and queasiness, burping and gagging all over the shop. It's all, what will I eat next? No, no, no, no, no, maybe, YUCK, lemme try it, YUCK, wait, maybe, allright, here's something. Here's something I can eat. Eat. Eat. Wait. Quease. Repeat. I'm buh-ored with it! The inside of my mind looks like this:

katrinakatrinabushbarbarabushcheese?nokatrinakatrinathecaffertyfilericepudding?mmphloudobbsisanassholemichaelbrownhorsesbagel?yeahthat'lldoitkatrinaihope

Plus, I gotta lose that ob-gyn. It was a trial situation, she's my mom's gynecologist, and she's a nice enough lady, I suppose. But nope. Not a love connection. She has a very thick Chinese accent so I can't always understand what she's saying, she barks orders, and she's kind of dismissive. She's not relaxing. She's out. I can only imagine her barking an order at me during the birth process. I would WIG OUT on her. I would schedule a fistfight for a later date.

This has been the Bean Report.

edit: Do you realize that this is my FIFTH POST TODAY? I've gone berserk.

we ignored bumbershoot, and now we're PAYING for it

No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!!!!

We screwed up!! We screwed UP!! Arrrrgh....

Those minstrels in the grass are the HI-LARIOUS New Zealand comedy folk duo

Flight of the Conchords

and they were here in Seattle last weekend during Bumbershoot, our big arts festival.

We didn't know!!

Man, when I was in Australia with Dave, there was a stand-up show on television that we relied on, and Flight of the Conchords was on all the time. They were never one drop less than brilliant. And I don't like musical parody as a form AT. ALL. Their homage to Bowie...NO, sir. It can't have been that hilarious. And yet it was.

It was.

And they were here. When is that going to happen again? Maybe NEVER.

Thank you, Flight of the Conchords, for sneaking in and out of town and giving us a new, different kind of pain to feel these days. It aches. Arrgh.