I Want to Be All Professional and Stuff

But I've decided I'll have to settle for updating however and whenever both the spare time and the motivation to write collide in my life. If there's one consistent thing about me, it's that I am inconsistent. It drives me batty, and I bet it drives the rest of you even battier. Is that a word?

I mean, how many projects have I started on here? Let's see . . .

1. Eat and buy products sourced only within 200 miles of my location. Status: Failed. Reason: The parasite rendered me incapable of anything but laying on the couch and whining. Mark had no interest in procuring locally, and it fell to him to keep us fed, clothed, and at least one step above misery. He's done a great job, so I have no complaints about our continued global shopping habits. Now that I'm feeling better, maybe we can try again.
2. The Why I Choose Homebirth series. Status: Failed. Reason: I'm a chicken, and I'm afraid I won't do the argument justice. But I haven't squeezed him out yet, so maybe it's not failed. Maybe just on hold.
3. The Julia-isms: posting one bizarre thing Julia said everyday. Status: Failed. Reason: Julia moved out.
4. The 30 Days meme. Status: Failed. Reason: I tell myself the topics are boring.
5. I'm sure there's something else, but I want to write, not scour my old posts for evidence of my failure. 

I plan to complete the Homebirth series no matter what. I really need to take a bit of time to organize my thoughts and decide a coherent approach, and that will help a lot. Every time I think about it, I think of a new order in which to present the material, and each time the new order seems like it's more compelling than the previous one. You know what would be really compelling? Actually writing something down. Yeah. Now there's a thought.

Meanwhile, here's where we all are:
Mark:
My dear, sweet husband is doing well. I still want to scalp him from time to time, especially when he starts hovering over Burgundy. I know my stuff when it comes to parenting. And I know my child better than he can ever hope to, but he insists on micro-managing and cross-examining me about Burgundy's progress in school, and it drives me crazy.

Having said that, in every other area, we're doing great. He's even been [slowly] working on the garage, and yesterday he mentioned cleaning off his desk. He's perfectly happy with our steady diet of rice, beans and pizza with the occasional Julia Child-inspired gourmet meal whipped up when I don't feel like I've been trampled and pooped on by a giant dog.

We're one week from the end of the 2010 fiscal year, and his job in FY 2011 (starting October 1) still isn't solid. The good news is that the rumor mill holds that the task order will be signed, it's just a matter of time. In other good news, his new company has excellent benefits. His new insurance actually covers maternity medical at 100% with no co-pay.

His book-selling business is going well. He's subscribed to an online service that manages his inventory and sales for him, and he currently has books listed on 15 or so sites. Last month he sold over $1,200 in books, and he was able to reinvest over 80% of that in the business. At first I groused because I thought the profit (some $900) should have been put in savings. The more I considered it, though, the more at peace I am with his decisions. First, if my hobbies paid for themselves as well as his clearly does, we'd be rolling in it, and second, if we consider this a legitimate business, he should be reinvesting most of his capital early on. Of course, he's done it all debt-free and from the ground up.

And starting in mid-September, his book business is contributing a small amount every week to our emergency savings account. He's as tickled as a little boy bringing a bouquet of wildflowers to his mom, and I am just as happy for him.

Me:
I'm 27 weeks pregnant, and The Parasite is now 2.5 pounds and about 16 inches from head to toe. All curled up, my little man supposedly takes the space of a head of cauliflower. And if a head of cauliflower shoved up my hoo-ha doesn't make you giggle, I can't help you in the humor department.

My weight gain has been very slow. I think I'm still under 210, for a total gain of about 14 pounds in 27 weeks. Given my obesity prior to pregnancy, I'm very comfortable with the slow gain. Most people, upon learning I'm "only" 6.5 months, blurt out, "Are you sure you're not having twins?" So I'm pretty sure (she says with an exasperated eyeroll) that the Parasite is getting everything he needs.

I, too, have a week of employment remaining. I'm told that the budget for the next fiscal year's task order funds me through December, which is really great news. The only problem is the minor question of Congressional inaction. Our task order depends on a chain reaction of bureaucratic activity: Congress must pass a continuing resolution (CR); the CR must fund Constellation, which in turn must fund MOP sufficient to justify the task order on which I work. MOP then must decide to fund our task order, and if all that happens in the next seven days, I have a job on 10/1. If not, well, that's why we have unemployment insurance.

A small rant: Thank you Congress. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your dithering on the NASA budget. [Profanity redacted] you bunch of [profanity redacted]ing imbeciles, how difficult is it, really, to say, "Huh, dur, ya know what, uh, NASA oughta be funded, ah-yup," and pass a darn continuing resolution? For the love of Pete, the House and Senate versions aren't that far apart. Our Illustrious President said he would sign it. Get it together and pass something! WHARGARBL!

Burgundy:
I hate band season, and I hate sending my daughter off to high school every day. I don't mind most of the challenges. It's good for her to face authority figures who drive her nuts. It's good for her to figure out how to deal with bullies and how to face her own temptations down. However, I hate that she comes home from school so upset with listening to cursing and swearing all afternoon on the marching band field. I hate that her teachers don't have the time (and some not even the inclination) to help Burgundy really learn instead of asking her to regurgitate facts.

Having said that, it's going well for her over all. As it happens, Burgundy lettered last year, her first year in high school. She did not letter in writing, debate, or band as we might have expected. After all, she wants to major in English and Music. She lettered in Science Fair. Yes, science fair.

She started pre-Calculus this year, a Senior-level class in which she is the only Sophomore and definitely the youngest person. She has two Seniors paying her $10/hour for tutoring after school. We don't know what to do for math in the next two years. The only two non-remedial math courses at the school that she hasn't taken are AP Calculus and AP Statistics, and the counselor said she won't be ready for AP Calculus if she hasn't taken pre-AP Pre-Calculus, but there's no non-AP Calculus course offered. She could take AP Statistics, but I hate for her to leave the Calculus track for a year to head in a completely different direction. We might have her take AP Cal over the summer at Rice.

She's very excited about her little brother, and she chose our nursery theme: Monkeys. The picture here is a piece of wall art we registered for, but those are the general colors for the nursery; we love them.

Soren (Disclaimer: The dog said he had something to share, but I can't be held responsible for his frippery. He is, after all, a dog.):

WOOF! WOOF WOOF! AAAAAHRUUUUUUGGH, woof.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! I am so excited because I am a dog and my eyes are big and OH MY GOD HAVE YOU SEEN MY TAIL IT'S  HUGE AND WITH IT I DOMINATE ALL THINGS!

My lady, she taught me a new trick! It has to do with the puffy air thing and the drool! She says it is, "Stop breathing!" and then she makes the hand motion, and I close my mouth and do not let any of the air out, and when I feel all blown up and my tail is sticking out because it is full of air, then my lady says, "Good boy, free!" and then I can let the air out, and I puff and pant and do the thing that is blowing slobber all over the big puffy soft thing that my lady calls the couch and she yells, "Gross! Get away from me! Ew, GO AWAY!" and then I use my tail to dominate the room while I turn around and walk away!

And the man! The man is so NICE! But he doesn't know how to do the thing where I stop breathing. Because that is only for my lady to tell me to do! And the man gives me food and makes me stand on my back legs and he tells me, "LEFT PAW!" and "RIGHT PAW!"

And yesterday, my lady took me to the dog park! And it was fun, and there were other dogs there! And some of them wanted to do the thing that is hop up on my giant, dominant tail and hump me to prove they are more dominant than my dominant tail, but I did not let them! I said, "WOOF!" And also I am very big and my lady says "One hundred pounds" and talks to the invisible man about me and calls him, "Christ," because he knows I am big too and that's why the other dogs can't hump my tail! And then I found a dog that was very small; my lady said that dog should have gone to the little dog park! And I tried to hump her face to show her how special I am, but my lady yelled at me and called me a BAD DOG, and it made me sad.

And then she put me in the car, and she made me put my head out the window because she does not like it when I drool on her shoulder, but I left lots of drool on the door and also some of the stuff that she says is snot on the car seat.

I'm so glad my lady loves me! Peanut butter!
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Well. I guess we can all see why Soren does not have a regular spot on this blog. I'm so sorry to have exposed you all to his sordid, canine mind.

Dog Barf

Mark got himself in trouble a couple of weeks ago.

I tried a new recipe: pasta with arugula and parsley cream sauce.

Now I like arugula in salads, so I thought, "Hey, why not be adventurous?" I am a fool.

First, in accordance with the recipe, I went outside and picked a handful of Mark's arugula. Now the recipe called for a bunch, so I felt that with only 5 or so leaves, I was really skimping. It also called for four sprigs of parsley, so I dutifully picked those as well.

Back inside, I washed and dried each leaf, then chopped them up fine and put them in the blender. I put in a cup of my precious homemade sour cream and another 1/3 cup of goat and feta cheeses and pureed it all together for a nice, springy, Easter green sauce. I have to admit: it smelled funny, but I decided to trust my sense of adventure. "It smells woodsy and earthy," I told myself.

I boiled the pasta, thinking, "Oh boy, this is going to be gourmet." (Note to self: If you start having delusions of gourmet about a given dish, it might be best just to throw it out preemptively.) I drained the pasta and sprayed it with cold water. One of my nicest serving bowls appeared perfect to showcase this spring green pasta wizardry: two-tone cornflower and sky blue, and set the table. Congratulated myself on getting adventurous in the kitchen, on feeding healthful food to my family, and on using the food in our garden. I poured the "earthy" sauce onto the pasta and mixed it together in that beautiful blue bowl.

Burgundy came into the kitchen; I speared a piece of pasta and said, "Taste it!" with a big grin. Burgundy grinned back; she's learned to trust my cooking. After all, how many times have I said, "I know! It sounds awful, but just try it." Without trusting me, she'd never have had buttermilk pie. Zucchini bread. Peanut butter and honey.  I held the fork between us, smiling happily, flush with the accomplishment of a new dish, fresh from our yard and my labors. She sniffed the fusilli and immediately, involuntarily assumed her Careful Face. "I know," I said. "It smells funny; just try it."

Ever the obedient child, Burgundy opened her mouth and gingerly took the fusilli from the fork. Her eyes widened, her head tilted to one side, then the other. The Careful Face prevented me from determining whether these were signs of surprised delight or surprised disgust. I decided to walk the line: "It's not bad, is it?" She shook her head and swallowed. "See? It's maybe not something I'd make again; I mean, it's not delicious, but it's a passable meal." Her sweet smile and affirmative nod, eyes still wide, should have told me everything. Unfortunately, I lay in the grips of my own inflated ego. I ate another piece myself and waggled my eyebrows. Burgundy excused herself to do algebra. Another clue.

About that time, Mark came home from work. Sauntered in, smiling innocently, and kissed my cheek. "What's for dinner?" I grinned and told him about my awesome arugula-sour cream-goat-cheese-and-feta pasta. "Arugula?" he said timidly?

"Yeah, smell!" I said, and thrust the bowl under his nose. He inhaled deeply, recoiled sharply, and didn't even try to hide his disgust. Count on Mark for honesty. "I know, It smells funny, but it really tastes okay, honest!" Unfortunately, Mark trusts me in the kitchen as much as Burgundy does, and I still suffered under my delusions of culinary grandeur. "Here, try it," I said, holding out another lone noodle on the end of the fork. He looked at me, looked at the fork.

"Um." He looked back at me and sniffed the concoction again. "Well, there's always Casa Ole." Casa Ole is our go-to crap food. Everything is smothered in cheese, lard, and corn syrup. It's awful and awesome and a threat and fun. He leaned forward, took the fusilli between his teeth, and pulled it into his mouth. I waited; he chewed. Swallowed. "Hmm," he said, looking at my hopeful face, "uh, how about Casa Ole tonight?"

I admitted defeat. Suddenly I knew the dish really was that bad, and I had tormented my child and my own stomach in hopes of its salvation. Burgundy, who'd come back in to watch Mark taste it, heaved a long sigh of relief and punctuated it with, "Oh thank God." I suppressed a self-conscious giggle, and we all prepared to leave.

I know. If you're still reading, you're wondering why Mark would be in trouble. Well, honestly, at that point he wasn't. He simply told the truth, and I know the food really was that bad. It's what happened next that really has him in the doghouse.

While Burgundy got ready to leave, I looked at the bowl full of expensive sour cream and cheeses and pasta and said, "God I hate for this to go to waste."

Mark nodded and said, "Mm, yeah. Cost a lot?"

"Just the cheeses and sour cream, but yeah." We both looked mournfully at dinner's lost cause. "I bet the dog would eat it."

Mark looked at me a fraction of a second too long, and then said, "Uh, do you really think he'll want that?" He placed just a little too much emphasis on 'want that'.

"Only one way to find out," I said, and I place the bowl on the floor. Soren immediately began inhaling the green, smelly pasta without even a hint of hesitation. I turned to Mark in triumph. "See? Not a total waste."

Mark looked from me to the dog, who paused to hork a fusilli spiral out of his lungs and transfer it to his stomach. Soren looked up at us warily, as if we might try to take this miracle of deliciousness from him. He bent his head back to the bowl, now half empty.

"Maybe," Mark said, not weighing his words, not considering the punishment he would earn or his impending immortality on this blog, "Maybe we should put him outside on the patio in case he barfs it all up."