Humbled

We had a scare this week that resulted in my scampering out to purchase the symbolic stick on which to pee and, for the first time ever, the resultant "Not Pregnant" verdict gave me such a sigh of relief. If my mother in Cleveland has made it past this sentence without fainting due to my oversharing, she should know that I would have welcomed another child. I just don't know if my baby-bearing equipment has been fully recovered yet. I sort of feel like my whole body is still in the auto repair shop. It's not exactly levitated on bricks or anything. I just feel like we're still waiting for a few parts to come in yet. It's not like I was in an accident, but, at the same time, I know my body will never feel or look the same. I'm doing about 300 crunches every night and I'm just hoping with the part of my brain that still hopes (the rest of it is used for worrying about whether or not Baby Girl will be one of those kids that only goes to the ER for stupid things, like crayons shoved irreversibly up nostrils) that by the end of summer, I won't look so bloated in my jeans. ***

I turned in a first draft of an article I've been working on and my internship editor gave me what is possibly the most treasured criticism I have ever received. He said, "This needs more Kendra in it. I'm needing more Kendratheadverb all over, having fun with this." I suppose that flies at my conceit, but when you've had the multiplicitous job history I've had in which nearly every supervisor has had to corner and me and, in so many words tell me, "Less is more, Kendra," in which I've often had to sit on my hands so as not to type the wrong kind of workplace e-mails, in which I've spent whole weekends in a mounting panic as to whether or not I sent a FedEx correctly and did I remember to check the Saturday delivery box, in which I tried so hard to focus and focus and focus, it's just extremely heartening, after all exhaustive attempts at conformity seemed to fail, to be told you don't have to go back to your cubicle now and play with cookie cutters.

***

Have a splendid holiday weekend, fellow Americans. I'm looking forward to beaching myself on the couch for a few like my pug brother, Stubby:

Riding in Cars with Boys

In just a moment, I will be adding the proverbial Sun-In to the hair of Malibu Barbie. Which is to say that I will not only be confessing to having watched "The Hills," but I will also be quoting it. Vapid say whuh?

I know this show is based on reality, based loosely on a reality that exists in the minds' eyes of the producers of MTV who can position the real-life characters as their pawns, because some stay at home mother like I will be putting away dishes and get sucked in to the unreality of it all. And then get online and blog about how there was a chard of reality in a recent episode, a small chip of real glass that fell from the Malibu Barbie's hair into my hand and I've been carrying it around ever since.

*** The narrator of the show, LC, meets this boy Stephen - with whom she'd had "a thing with" in high school - for dinner. After dinner, he drives her home and she says, Remember in high school? How I'd always tell you I'd need to leave the party to make curfew and I'd say, Okay, we've got 7 minutes, and you always got me home on time?

To which Stephen says, Yeah, but I never drove too crazy, though...I had precious cargo.

BAH!

*** Can you b'lieve? Yeah, I was touched by this, even if it was masterfully scripted, because in all of high school, never EVER was I driven home by a boy who treated me as precious cargo. I think most of the time I was driving my own toochis home in my mom's white marshmallow mini-van to make curfew. The rest of the time, if I was being carted by some stooge, we would spend the ride listening to "Gettin' Jiggy" and pointing out Mustangs, or there would be some asenine conversation about their high school which they worshiped and I would be plagued with the perennial fear that I would be raped in the backseat and left for dead NOT KIDDING.

There was one person who was very special to me just after high school-ish, though, that always made me feel like precious cargo, always listened amusedly to everything I had to say and would always notice when I was starting to nod off narcoleptically and would quickly charge into some story about the novelty of mudflaps with superheroes on them - something like that. We had the beginnings of a thing, the tickle in your nose before you actually sneeze sort of a thing, but I'll always remember how that felt.

*** Someday, some guy will want to drive Baby Girl home and he will have to leave a copy of his driver's license and fingerprints with me before doing so, but, my stars, do I hope he knows how to make her feel like precious cargo. And I hope he knows he's a dead man if he brings her back a second past curfew.

100 Days

Before Sharon Jones sang about it, the Koreans were whoopin' it up about the 100th day. Because back in the day (possibly even before there was a demilitarized zone and even before kimchee was a pizza topping), babies in Korea did not live to see 100 days. And I'm proud to report that Baby Girl surmounted this hurdle on Saturday, although there was no traditional ceremony to chalk the big 1-0-0 on the pavement. We did, however, give her a 100 kisses and take 100 pictures at our friend Webby's wedding, which was a lovely affair indeed. Today has been a splendid Mother's Day, and thanks especially to those who sent thoughtful messages my way. I enjoyed a moment in which Lovey Loverpants was reading the paper, Baby Girl was sitting placidly in her stroller, and I was sipping some Jasmine tea (which was not even what I ordered, so sublime was my happy Mother's Day stupor) and the sun was casting a big old warm net around us sitting on the back patio of a bruncheria in our 'hood and I thought Oh thank you. Thank you thank you thank you, God, for letting me know 101 days of motherhood.

I know Baby Girl looks cute, but, dang if hubs isn't just a muffin here, too, no?

Webby was one of the most Ready brides I've ever seen at the head of the aisle.  Her face appeared as if she was saying, "Game ON!"  (This is an inspiration to the girl who had to ask her sister to sing "Oh Blah Dee Oh Blah Dah Life Goes On" with her before her wedding because she was hyperventilating so bad.)

Webby in her newly minted status as wife, along with her darling groom Haryanto. P.S. I hope they make a baby, because...shoot!

Lovey Lovershoes was paying attention in church.

So wasn't Laura.