I am vindicated

As some of you may recall, I have ... issues ... with germs and illness.

This phobia isn't really in keeping with my personality. In most cases, especially when my job's involved, I can be quite adventurous.

I have flown with a crop duster nicknamed "Crash," gotten my car stuck in a ditch in the city's scariest neighborhood (luckily, a couple of detectives drove by, having just finished interrogating residents about the latest homicide), and traipsed through a patch of woods teeming with water moccasins.

If, however, there ever happened to be an Ebola outbreak in, say, Mississippi, I would run screaming from any editor who tried to send me there.

The same holds true for bird flu. I've already notified everyone in the newsroom that I am perfectly capable of doing my job while holed up in my house with 1,000 cans of tuna and boxes of Saltines.

Hubs has tried to reassure me that if bird flu were to strike, we would head down to rural South Arkansas, far, far away from the germs. (We could live in Grandma Hattie's house, he says, which is ever so conveniently located right smack in the middle of his favorite deer-hunting spot.)

So imagine his consternation when, during our visit to Terlingua Ghost Town in far West Texas, I found a historical marker describing how even this remote area had been hit by the 1918 pandemic.

The marker was here:



I found it while Hubs was taking photos.

We returned from our vacation last night. And guess what was waiting in the stack of mail on our kitchen table?

A handy 14-page booklet from our health insurance providers titled: Preparing for a Pandemic.

Sending something like this to me -- well, imagine a crack addict's reaction if his dealer one day handed him a bundle of freebies.

As I pounced, Hubs groaned.

"Look!" I said gleefully. "My worries have been validated. Even the freaking insurance companies recognize the threat."

The booklet opens with a message from the CEO. After that, it offers lists of instructions:

Comfort food: Buying for a possible pandemic
Family Emergency Health Information Sheet
Caring for those with the flu: Advice from our medical director

I know Hubs will try to destroy it. Or maybe hide it, like he did when the Devil Book of Dire Warnings for Pregnant Women served only to heighten my pregnancy concerns, rather than eliminating them.

That's OK, though. I've already committed the chapter on Shelf-Stable Foods. to memory.

I even have a grocery list.

Beware the wildlife

Behold, the javelina:




A rather comical-looking creature, you might think, with that stout body perched on spindly little legs. I used to giggle when I saw them.

Now I know better.

On April, 30, 2001, the day after Hubs and I wed at Big Bend National Park, we set up camp down by the Rio Grande. A sign, bolted to the picnic table, warned us to leave our tent down during the day in order to avoid javelina invasions. If an encounter could not be avoided: "Do Not Provoke the Javelina!" the sign declared.

Hubs and I cackled.

Until, 30 minutes later, we watched a band of javelinas slice open a tent left standing. Horrified, we watched the resourceful creatures make short work of the tent's contents. They rooted, ravaged and feasted.

Oh, well, we thought smugly. We didn't leave ours up. Things will be fine.

We spent the day hiking. When we returned to the campsite, we saw a German couple circling their devastated tent, clearly puzzled as to what had happened during their absence.

Hubs pulled up next to them. "Javelinas," he offered helpfully, leaning out the window and pointing.

The Germans looked puzzled.

"Javelinas," Hubs repeated. "You know" -- he fluttered his fingers in air piano fashion -- "pigs."

Actually, javelinas are NOT pigs, but I kept silent as Hubs and the Germans continued to waggle their fingers at one another.

I'm not sure that they ever understood. By that evening, they had packed up and left, leaving us as the only tent-campers in the area.

That night, Hubs and I ate a leisurely dinner, toasted our nuptuials and crawled into our sleeping bags. Sometime around midnight, I smelled something ... garbagey.

I heard snuffling. Snorting. And -- was that chewing?

I poked Hubs in the ribs.

"Do you hear that?" I asked.

"Mmmm...no..." he mumbled.

More snorting. And that smell.

Suddenly, my side of the tent bulged inward.

"Aaiiiieeee!" I shrieked, rolling on top of Hubs. "They're coming in!"

Hubs grabbed the keys and started pressing buttons on our pickup's remote. The horn blared. Headlights flashed.

The javelinas scattered.

A half-hour later, they were back.

Snuffling. Snorting, Chewing.

I could hear them surrounding the tent. And then -- another jab at my side.

"Eek!" I screamed.

Just then, something crashed from our picnic table. We would later learn it was our box of cooking utensils. No food. Just silverware.

Hubs leapt to his feet, hair standing wildly on end. He jabbed at the bulge. Then he unzipped the tent and lunged through the opening. There was much shouting and clanging. The horn blared. Headlights flashed on.

I fumbled for my glasses and then peeked outside. My new husband was crouched on top of the picnic table, waving -- was that a spatula or a pair of tongs? -- at the 10 or so javelinas running amok through our campsite.

"Do NOT provoke the javelinas!" I yelled, quoting the picnic-table sign.

"What do you want me to do?!" Hubs yelled back as he brandished his tongs. "Pet them?"

Finally, the javelinas trotted off, reasonably certain that the humans at this particular campsite were totally and hopelessly insane.

Hubs clambered down from the picnic table and picked up the pieces of his dignity.

"I guess they won't be coming back here," he boasted.

Nevertheless, after two more sleepless nights involving more horn-blaring and spatula-waving, we fled.

To a motel.

View from our campsite...

... in the Chisos Basin at Big Bend National Park.



Hubs and I both loved this wildly beautiful, desolate place long before we ever met. So on April 29, 2001, we got married on a trail at Big Bend. This was our backdrop. Gorgeous, no?

We spent our wedding night at the Gage Hotel, then headed back down to the park for several nights of camping. In my next post, I'll describe our scary -- yet amusing -- encounters with the wildlife. For now, however, here are a few photos from this trip:

This is where we usually stay before heading down to the park and then again on our way back to civilization. We're here right now, actually:



In the next photo, you're now in Big Bend, looking across the Rio Grande and down on the Mexican village of Boquillas. For many years, the park service turned a blind eye to the many illegal crossings made by tourists. For a few dollars, a Mexican man would take you across the river. For a few more dollars, another would drive you up to the village in a beat-up truck. Hubs and I spent a wonderful day there in 2001, stuffing ourselves on Mexican food and hanging out in a ramshackle bar, downing beers. After 9/11, however, Homeland Security decreed that this was a dangerous practice and the crossings stopped. Boquillas, already poor, was devastated. Many people left, unable to make a living without the tourists. Each time we come back to Big Bend, Hubs and I check check the former crossing, hoping it has perhaps reopened. But the road down to the river remains gated.



Here's Hubs, standing by the Rio Grande.



And here's me:




We saw these *shudder* everywhere. I don't mind snakes. But spiders, especially hairy ones? Ick.



Still, they're nothing compared to the javelinas. But more on that next time. Right now, there's a Mexican beer calling my name...

Those #%*@#$*%$ morning people

Last night, we stayed here, on our way to here.

Drinks at the White Buffalo Bar, a cozy hotel room (with creaky floors and a creaky bed, which wouldn't have been a problem except our second-floor room was right above the front desk)...

Damn it, Martha, I told you not to give Room No. 9 to any particularly affectionate-looking couples. If they're canoodling, they don't get No. 9!

But she was complaining of a headache when they checked in.

Yeah, well now I have a headache.



Ah yes, good times...

... comfy bed, lovely squooshy pillow, a cool breeze blowing through our open window...

... and then this, at 7 a.m.

Hubs: Hey! It's already 7! We need to get moving! (Yes, he speaks in exclamation points)

Cathy: mmmmphfff

The bed creaks as Hubs climbs out. The floors creak as he rummages for clothes, his glasses, his wallet... finally, the door closes and Cathy resumes drowsing.

Ten minutes later, he's back.

Hubs: Hey! I brought you some coffee!

Cathy: mmmphfff

Hubs: I'll put it right here next to you! Why don't I turn this lamp on?!

Cathy: mmmhphff grrr mmmmphfff

Pause. Hubs lingers.

Cathy: Why don't you go down to the lobby and look at some of those photography books or something. Just go ... wander.

Creak, creak, creak. Door opens and closes. Cathy drifts off.

Five minutes later.

Hubs: I'm back! I read all the signs and brochures! Ready for breakfast?!

Cathy: mmmphffff Coffee's cold. Need more.

Hubs: I'll go get it!

He bounds from the room, creak, creak, creak. Door blessedly closes.

Five minutes later.

Hubs: OK! Here it is!

Cathy: mmmmphfff 'mk

How, how do these people function? How can anyone bound from the bed and morph into freaking Pollyanna at 7 a.m. On vacation.

That's OK. I'll get even. When he crashes in the tent tonight, I'll start my grousing.

"It's cold. I'm cold. Are you cold?"

Nudge, nudge.

"I have to pee. Where's the flashlight?"

Nudge, nudge.

"Did you hear that noise? It sounds like something chewing grass. That! Did you hear it?! Do you think the javelinas are back?!

"Hey, mind if I read for awhile? I'll just use this camping lantern. Will that bother you?"

Click.

Vacation! Alone! Must remember birth control...

You think I jest.

I am the woman who ovulates immediately upon arriving in another city. The plane lands, the car slides to a stop, we unload our bags, and my ovaries leap into action:

"Hey, you — on the right! It's your turn to release the egg! Hurry, they're putting up the tent!"

We made Tootie on a weekend jaunt to New Orleans in 2002. After a night of beers and crawdads, Hubs and I awoke in the guest bedroom of our kind hosts, Dick and Rita.

Yes, Dick and Rita. Are those not the perfect party names? How could you be named Dick and Rita and not want to ply your guests with alcohol and cheese dip all weekend? And really, could Dick and Rita live anywhere other than New Orleans? I think not.

Anyway, the guest bathroom was located between our room and that of our other friends, Jo and Staton. At the time of The Conception, Jo was in the bathroom getting dressed.

Now Hubs and I did briefly debate whether morning s-e-x rightthisveryminute was such a good idea. I mean, what if Jo could hear? But then we heard the roar of the hair dryer, and given that Jo has this incredible, lovely, thick hair, we figured we had time.

And presto! The Toot was on her way, likely soaking up the rum runners I enjoyed that night. (Yes, this caused me great worry later. Helpful hint: Getting pregnant in New Orleans will ensure months of wondering whether you damaged your newly fertilized egg with all that carousing.)

Fast-forward to 2004, when I went to New York City to accept a journalism award. The newspaper was kind enough to send Hubs with me, and we spent four blissful days wandering Manhattan. The awards luncheon was on a Tuesday. Our plane was departing Wednesday. And, after two months of taking my temperature and tracking my cycle, I calculated that I would be ovulating right as the plane soared over the city.

"We have to do it right now," I informed Hubs when he collapsed on the bed, exhausted from his awards luncheon duties. (Those included: Giving his wife pep talks in the hours before she had to stand in front of an intimidating crowd of well-known journalists to give a speech; keeping her wine glass full during said event; and reassuring her afterward that no, she did not sound like a stupid, babbling hick.)

"But I'm so tired," Hubs moaned.

Eventually, he gave in — not because I looked especially seductive in my polka-dotted suit (oh my god, what was i thinking?) — but because he can't stand to pass up that kind of offer, not when it's so rarely made. We had a toddler at the time, remember? The marital bed had become a place strictly for sleeping.

And thus, the E-man was created.

This weekend, we leave for Big Bend National Park. Sans children. Lots of Mexican beer, maybe a little dancing...

Which is why we're stopping at the drugstore on our way out of town.

Pee-worthy

My husband is a deer-hunting redneck sort of guy.

He also has two older kids from a previous marriage.

And these two bits of information are related ... how?

Well ---

Hubs considers himself an expert on certain parenting matters. Because, you know, he's done this before. (italics are his, not mine)

Which is why our toddler son now thinks it's appropriate to pee on trees.

Let me back up:

Countless times, countless, I tell you, Hubs has shared with enraptured audiences the story of how he potty-trained Stepson. (After, that is, he tells the one about how he once washed down Stepson at a car wash when the poor child pooped during a road trip.)

Anyway, the potty training. Let's allow Hubs to use his words:

"I showed him how to pee on a tree in the backyard when I was trying to get him interested in going potty. And it worked. When he had to go, he'd say, 'I need to pee on a tree.' Then he'd go in the backyard and pee on a tree."

And life was good and diaper-free, until the day Stepson decided he needed to pee at a local park. "Next thing I know, he's dropped his pants and is peeing on a tree," Hubs says.

Proudly.

He concludes: "It was a hard habit to break."

So you can imagine my chagrin a few nights ago, when Hubs led my little E-man to a tree in our backyard and urged him to drop his Handy Manny pull-em-up and whip out the pee stick.

"You try to encourage them to be aware of their functions," my spouse explains. "Peeing on a tree is a novel idea. And besides, wherever you go, there's always a tree."

But what, I asked, if people are present? You know, like non-family members. People who might not understand Hubs' peculiar backwoods brand of child rearin'?

"Well, then you have to hope it's a big tree," Hubs says, unperturbed. "Then he can hide behind it while he's going."

I've heard men obtain special joy from taking their biz outside. Is this true?

Hubs contends: "All guys want to do it. We just refrain from it. I think it's because there's no target. We can just spray wherever."

This, dear readers, is what I'm up against. It's why we will soon be blacklisted from social affairs, because, really, who wants their cocktail-sipping guests subjected to the sight of a wee tot washing down the oak tree in their backyard.

And now my daughter wants to pee on trees. My 4-year-old, already-potty-trained daughter.

In fact, she and her brother keep fighting over one particular tree in our backyard because apparently, it's the only one that's pee-worthy.

I should make it clear here that, thus far, neither has actually peed. Daughter has yet to drop her drawers, perhaps because she senses the logistical difficulties. But their interest -- clearly, it has been piqued or they wouldn't be in the backyard selecting trees.

It's only a matter of time... And if, what if?

How to explain this bizarre behavior at the next birthday party, when both my kids suddenly dart to the nearest tree, bickering over who gets which spot as they drop their pants. With my luck, one of them will pick the spot right under the damn pinata.

Or, worse -- *shudder* -- one of them will need to go No. 2.

What fashion idiocy is this?

I want names. Numbers. Embarrassing details I can use for blackmailing purposes.

Who *splutter* is responsible for this?

I refer to this horrible trend.

'Tis the season of ambiguity, it seems. Hark! Who's pregnant? Who's not? Who can tell?

Designers: My lingering post-baby pooch already causes confusion.

Is she? I can't tell. Maybe.


I am not pregnant. Therefore, I do not wish to look pregnant.

What are you people thinking?

Are you perhaps catering to the scrawny actresses with protruding collar bones who think looking pregnant would be ... oh, I don't know ... a novelty?

NOTE TO SKELETAL ACTRESSES: The baby belly is typically accompanied by a baby ass. You do not have an ass. You, therefore, can get away with the tunic — although people are going to assume you're an anorexic whose disease is endangering your pretend baby. Now if I were to don a tunic, my non-pregnant (got that? NOT PREGNANT! I'M NOT PREGNANT!) belly and *ahem* healthy ass would take up so much room and cloth that the tunic would cease to be a tunic. It would instead resemble a clingy half-shirt.

The tunic wasn't meant for the masses. Because if you have even the slightest bit of a tummy, people will assume that a happy little bundle of non-sleeping joy is on the way.

Who wants an implied baby bump when there is no baby?

On the bright side, I'm thinking my maternity shirts — if cleverly described as tunics — might do very well on Ebay.

The Suspicious Spouse

Tonight, as Hubs and I sat on the deck with our glasses of wine, he asked, "So you're unhappy?"

"What?" I asked, emerging from my mellow state.

"I found your notes. The ones about being unhappy."

Huh?

"And who's coming to town?" Hubs asked.

Wha?

He started quoting -- from ... something:

"I miss you ... let's get together ... I'm alone ..."

Those words, they sounded so ... familiar.

"... like a lover ..."

And then I realized -- Hubs must have found my jottings for a recent post, When She Calls, in which I compare depression to an old lover who refuses to disappear.

Problem is, my handwriting's terrible, so Hubs could only make out a few incriminating phrases.

Poor man. He really was a little worried.

Needlessly.

In fact, I howled when I finally figured out what the hell he was blathering on about.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I frequently write down my thoughts, just as soon as they flit through my head. Otherwise, I forget things.

I do this when working on longterm newspaper stories -- ledes, especially.

Many a time, I've awakened at night and grabbed a pen on my nightstand so that I could scrawl a thought before slipping back into sleep. If you were to look in my purse, you'd find scraps of paper with seemingly random phrases written on them.

In this case, I'd written down my musings on notepaper from the newspaper. They were even illustrated, as I'd used that same notebook to draw mermaids, clams and fish for my daughter.

No wonder he thinks I'm a raging lunatic. He's finding "evidence" of adultery complete with badly rendered sketches of Ariel.

Sheesh.

My Proudest Moment

I was eight months pregnant with my first child and o-b-s-e-s-s-e-d with food.

On that fateful, dreary winter evening, Hubs and 11-year-old Stepson went to a nearby fast food restaurant to pick up burgers.

I was very specific:

Cheeseburger with mustard, onions and everything else. All. The. Way. Make that extra onions.

What I got:

Hamburger. No cheese. Mayo instead of mustard. And nary an onion.

"This is not what I wanted," I sobbed. "There's ... no (gasp, choke) ...
cheeeeeese... no onion ... They didn't even give me lettuce ... (sob) or tomato -- oh my God, is this mayonnaise?!"

Now try to picture a crazed, gigantic preggo stuffed into sweatpants and a paint-stained T-shirt. Watch as she grabs a slice of American cheese, slaps it on her burger and shoves it into the microwave, ranting about the uncaring fast-food workers and Hubs' seeming unconcern about her dietary needs.

See how Hubs cowers in the living room? See poor Stepson, crouched over his food at the kitchen table, trying to shrink into his chair as the meltdown gains momentum?

"Don't you understand? I wanted cheese. Mustard. And onions... (gasp, sob) How could they get all of it wrong?"

Crazy woman hauls the hamburger from the microwave and examines it.

"The cheese isn't melting! Our microwave is broken. I am STARVING!"

Hubs ducks into the bedroom.

Crazy woman slams the microwave door.

Stepson looks up fearfully from the table. "Um. Here. You can have mine. It doesn't have any onions or mustard, but there's cheese."

Weeping stepmother accepts the offering, and, after scarfing it down in minutes, finally remembers to thank the traumatized boy.

Eighteen months later, she will wonder why Stepson looks so frightened when she announces her second pregnancy.

His and hers and theirs

The other night, Hubs was doing the usual flipping-between-baseball-games-and-cruising-other-channels thing when we stumbled across a sitcom that I assume is new.

I couldn't tell you what it's called, but the scene unfolding involved a woman telling her husband (boyfriend?) that she couldn't sleep in a bed he bought and shared with a previous girlfriend.

Hubs and I looked at each other and laughed.

"The table," we said in unison.

My spouse came with a lot of baggage — an ex-wife, two kids, the ex-wife's husband, and...

... the material remnants of Hubs' life with the ex.

Some of "their" stuff was already in Hubs' post-divorce house when I moved in.

But then, over the next few years, each time the ex dropped off the kids for the weekend, she brought over more things they'd shared during their marriage.

"I thought you might want this," she would say, proffering various dusty items.

A popcorn bowl.

A tea pitcher.

A lamp.

Mind you, by this time they had been divorced for four years. The ex had already remarried. It's not like she hadn't had time to dispose of all these unwanted items.

"Ugly," I said of the popcorn bowl. (to Hubs, not her)

"Already have one," I said of the pitcher.

"Ick," I said of the lamp.

And finally — "How freaking big is their garage anyway?"

At first it didn't bother me. But of course then I started analyzing and wondered, Is she trying to make a point? And if so, what?

In all likelihood, she probably saw the handoffs as an easy alternative to a garage sale.

Or maybe her new husband didn't want all these marital leftovers in his house either.

Whatever her reasoning, I did NOT want our home to be the dumping ground for all the items she and Hubs once shared.

For one, our small house was already cramped.

Second, I didn't really want to be surrounded by things she and Hubs had picked out together — things that were NOT to my taste or liking.

Not wanting to sound like an insecure, crazy-girl new wife (which, of course, I was), I first used the argument that we had no room for all these things.

And I was trying to be diplomatic, because for all I knew, Hubs was the one who picked out that hideous popcorn bowl.

But then Hubs announced that the ex was bringing over their former dining room table.

And I flipped out.

"NO MORE STUFF!" I ranted, hurling the popcorn bowl and tea pitcher into a garbage can.

It wasn't so much the image of them sitting around the table with their two kids — at the time, I had no children of my own, so yes, the image grated — but their refusal to leave the past behind and let me decorate and outfit my house in my own damn way.

Hubs protested.

"But I always liked that table," he argued.

It sat in the garage for months, collecting dust. Finally, he took it to a flea market.

Now it all seems so silly. At the time, however, when I was trying to establish a new and shared life with this man I had married, I didn't want all this stuff getting in my way. Literally or figuratively.

Lord knows there was enough mental flotsam without adding ex-furniture to the mix.

So while I laughed at the sitcom and the couple's bickering over an ex-spatula —

— secretly, I totally got it.

Britney's fat?!

OK, I must take issue with all the criticism.

Because I'm sorry, but if my post-baby(ies) body looked like hers, I'd wear skimpy outfits too.

And frolic — OK, yes, I know, she wasn't exactly frolicsome, but I would be — across a stage in a sequined bikini-thingy front of thousands.

And skip across a nude — nude! — beach totally, awesomely in love with myself.

My youngest kid is older than her oldest (did that make sense?) and I've got at least 30 pounds on her. (probably more *sigh*)

Good lord. What is wrong with all these nasty, judging people? I would weep in gratitude for a "pooch" like hers.

Who's that sleeping in my bed?

So the evening went something like this --

The E-man once again shuns his new big-boy twin bed, announcing instead his plans to sleep with Tootie in her full-size bed. After a few minutes of giggling, however, Tootie declares that she doesn't want to sleep with her little brother.

"I want to sleep alone," she says.

So Tootie heads to the E-man's room and plops onto his bed.

This upsets the E-man, who wants to sleep with his sister, even though she has made it clear he is NOT welcome.

And the compromise worked out between these two determined little souls?

"Let's sleep in Mommy's bed!" Tootie suggests.

"OK! We sleep in Mommy's bed!" E-man agrees.

I stand, confused and defeated, while my tots, armed with blankies and pillows, accompanied by a small army of stuffed animals, make yet another bed switch that, yes indeedy, plants them squarely in the middle of the marital bed.

But dammit, at least they're finally asleep.

Two hours pass.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask Hubs. "Does this mean one of us gets the dog's bed? Remember, she's been scratching a lot lately. Fleas. Ick."

"You sleep with them in our bed and I'll take either Tootie or E-man's bed," Hubs replies.

"Or we can leave them in our room and each take a kid's bed," I say.

"Leave them in our room -- alone? Have you done gone and lost your mind? The last time we did that, E-man came out wearing tiger stripes across his face and head. Your eyeliner, remember? No, they can't be in there unsupervised," Hubs concluded.

"Hmm... you're right. I don't want my lipstick wiped out again either. But if we try to oust them we'll wake them up. Do you want them awakened at this time of night?"

"OK, let's think this one through."

So we wander around with our pillows, aimlessly, passing one another in the darkened hallway.

On our third -- or maybe fourth -- pass-through, Hubs grabs my arm, waggles his eyebrows and nods toward the E-man's room.

"We could both lay in there," he says, striding across the room and plopping into bed.

"It's a twin," I argue.

"So, we'll be stacked. We would be anyway with what I've got in mind."

"We are not desecrating the toddler's new big-boy bed. I want no part of it."

"Are you sure...?" he asks, patting a two-inch slice of bed suggestively.

"Are you telling me you could have sex in your toddler's big-boy bed, knowing that such actions could lead to the addition of another wee wandering non-slumberer a mere nine months from now? Remember, I may have skipped a pill or two..."

"You mean like -- a third baby?" Hubs splutters.

"Yep," I say, cheerily. "A. Third. Baby. A wailing, up-all-night-baby."

I smile seductively. Show a little leg.

"Um. Goodnight!" he calls. And he pulls the red sheets up firmly to his chin.

This time two years ago ...

... we gathered at the beach for a family reunion.

I revisit that time through photos, laughing again at the memory of my children's startled expressions when they licked their wind-chapped lips and tasted the unexpected tang of salt.

Picture by picture, I go back to that weekend by the ocean.

I cup my daughter's face, brushing away sand from wide brown eyes.

I feel the soft, squishy thighs of my baby. I feel his tiny heart flutter as I hold him up against a darkening sky.

I feel the edges of a broken shell, pressed into my hand by my daughter's eager fingers.

And even amid the shouts of children, the rumble of thunder and the constant roar of the ocean, I feel peace.

Yes, it's a vinyl shirt. With a zipper.

I wore it on an August night. In Arkansas. I nearly suffered a heat stroke.

This kind of fashion faux pas, my friends, occurs when a Texas girl decides to move to the Land of the Hogs and develops a huge crush on a photographer at work.

I'd already indicated my interest by running my foot up and down his leg one night, after a few too many fruity little drinks. My prey was unnerved, however, probably because my then-boyfriend was sitting at the same table.

Yes, I know. But trust me, Former Boyfriend does not deserve your pity.

Anyway, stronger measures were clearly needed.

In August 2000, a group of us decided to go dancing one night at the Electric Cowboy (formerly known as BJ's Star-Studded Honky Tonk, back when Paula Jones was a regular customer). I knew, as soon as I found out the photographer was going, that I had to go shopping.

I am ashamed to admit I bought this rat-ugly shirt because of the zipper. I could choose the degree of cleave depending on how the night was going.

Eight months later, I married the hunted-and-bagged photographer.

How could I possibly throw this shirt away? The sentiment positively dangles from that zipper. It was my most effective/efficient makeout shirt ever and I am loathe to give up the last reminder of my days as a skinny seductress. (please note: the photo above was taken last night, not back then)

ALSO NOTE: I have NOT worn this shirt since that fateful night. I am guilty only of leaving it in the closet.

So. Why would I leave you with this image of me on a Friday?

Because I'm participating in this week's Parent Bloggers' Blog Blast.

Want to share my humiliation? Simply follow the instructions issued by these clearly diabolical people, who are asking moms to review a new book called The Little Black Book of Style. (I'm not one of those moms. I just enjoy sharing the scary contents of my wardrobe.)

Back to the instructions:

Tell us how your style has deteriorated over the years and provide some photographic evidence - a picture of the most hideous item that’s still darkening your closet - and ‘fess up to why it’s still in there!

Winner gets a $250 Coach certificate.

Perhaps I should keep the shirt. A Coach might make it almost hip...

Nah.

When she calls

My depression is like an old lover who refuses to fade into the past.

Years go by. And then she calls.

"I'll be in town," she says. A pause. Her voice drops to a silky whisper. "I've missed you. Let's get together."

I demur.

"It's really not a good time," I tell her.

Or, "My husband wouldn't understand."

But at some point I must agree to meet her. Why else would I find her ensconced in my favorite spot on the couch, curled up cozily, waiting to resume our relationship?

She stays up late, too late. Sometimes, she invites Anxiety to spend the night, and we three huddle on the bed together, fretting and worrying and indulging ourselves in niggling doubts.

Through it all, my husband sleeps, unaware that she is intruding, yet again.

Sometimes we drink together, Depression, Anxiety and me. Not a good idea. Their tolerance is higher than mine.

-------------------------

The therapist leans forward, eyebrows raised.

"I don't understand," she says. "Why did you quit taking your medication?"

I laugh nervously, make a few jokes about the side effects.

"Why do you laugh when we're talking about your sadness?" she asks. "Why must everything be a funny story?"

I stammer, try to explain that it's how I cope, that by turning events into amusing anecdotes, I can sometimes fend off my depression's ardent advances.

Although, admittedly, never for long.

"It's OK to be sad," the therapist says. "It's OK to realize this isn't something you can control."

And tears slide down my cheeks.

-------------------------------

"I don't understand," my husband says.

"Why are you so unhappy? Is it me? Is it our life?"

I try to reassure him.

"She's always been a part of me, long before I met you."

My husband sighs. Really, there's nothing else to say.

-------------------------------

On a gray, rainy February day, I get up, put the coffee on.

I open a cabinet and pull out a mug. I also pull out the bottle of pills.

Will I ever not need these? Will I ever know a life uninterrupted by her long visits?

The coffeemaker hisses and gurgles.

I pour a glass of water and look out the window at the dead, brown grass, at the trash cans waiting to be hauled down the driveway.

And I swallow the pill.

I do love me some nominations

I meant to get this --




-- up earlier today, but those pesky editors of mine have a way of dropping by at the most inopportune times.

If you haven't seen this month's Perfect Post awards, you can head over here or here for the full list.

I nominated Mrs. Chicken for her post, Mea Culpa because -- well, even after reading it several times, I still break out in goosebumps.

One picture, two images

I never expected to have a boy.

I'm the oldest of three girls. My mom is one of three girls. Three of my four cousins on that side of the family are girls.

So when the doctor pointed out a penis in the fall of 2004, I was skeptical.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Look," interrupted Hubs, possessor of the sharp photographer's eyes. "That is definitely a penis.

A boy? I know nothing of boys. What happened to my Tootie's little sister?


My only experience with boys involved my stepson, and at the time, as a novice stepparent, I spent much of my time worrying that I had totally bungled things with him.

And then the E-man arrived, a happy-go-lucky little man who crawled into my lap, wrapped his grubby arms around my neck and said, "I yuv you, Mommy."

Suddenly, I was converted.

Last year, fellow Musing Mama Laurie Aucoin Kaiser wrote an essay about her two boys. It began:

Twelve-year-old boys make me want to cry. Not in that “I know they are making fun of me” way I felt when I was a pubescent girl, but rather as a glimpse into my not-so-distant future.

With their baggy pants and bored glances, their skateboards and their video games, they are the “big boys” my sons seem in awe of.

Boys as young as 9 or 10 sometimes hold this distinction, but it’s the 11- and 12-year-olds on the brink of adolescence who really get to me. I know that in a heartbeat Jacob and Sawyer will be among them.

OK, maybe such hand-wringing is a little premature; my boys haven’t even entered kindergarten yet. Jacob just turned 2 and Sawyer won’t be 4 until the end of May. However, the promise of pending adolescence is out there just waiting to grab my heart, so full of little boy wonder and love, and twist it in two.


By the time Laurie wrote this essay, my stepson had become a teenage boy -- a wild-haired boy who wore baggy pants and appeared permanently attached to a skateboard. So I winced when I read about her fears.

I looked at my toddler and tried to imagine him 10 years later, and ... well, yes. It wrenched my heart too.

Today, Hubs came home with this picture of my stepson and my toddler:



You'd think this image would make me cringe, anticipating the day when my baby man will don baggy jeans and let his hair grow wild like his older brother's...

... anticipating how the memory of his warm breath on my neck and a whispered, "I yuv you," will make me cry.

But when I look at this photo, I go back, not forward --

-- and I remember a long-ago night when we got caught in a frightening storm on the way home from a mountain cabin.

I remember an infant Tootie, strapped in her carseat, screaming.

And I remember turning around and seeing an 11-year-old boy -- the one who would one day wear baggy pants and let his dark, curly hair grow wild -- holding the wailing baby's tiny hand in his.

That is the image that makes me cry.

Miss Julia & the Mystery of Al's Ashes

So this morning I checked my email and found notification that my Blogherads code was available -- and the message was from Yvonne!

Of course, I immediately went all stalkerish and emailed her back, carrying on about how much I've enjoyed her Judy posts, thereby giving her yet another reason to be fearful of new, overly enthusiastic acquaintances.

Anyway, her Judy stories have taken me back to the days of Julia, the most faithful source I've ever had in this profession. Well, except for this one Junior Leaguer, who single-handedly brought down a huge nonprofit agency after it failed to pay the band for the Junior League's biggest fund raiser of the year.

(Warning to any unscrupulous people living in the South: Never. Piss. Off. The. Junior. League.)

Anyway, while Julia was not Junior League material by any stretch, she was ... well .... memorable.

I met Julia while reporting for the Beaumont Enterprise in southeast Texas. Her husband, Al, had once worked at the paper, covering City Hall.

Julia called me every day at 4 p.m. That would be at the height of deadline for a small-town newspaper reporter. Still, I couldn't ignore her, even though she talked FOREVER, because every so often, Julia offered absolutely priceless news tips.

One afternoon, after I had seriously contemplated not picking up, Julia informed me that she had been listening to her police scanner -- which she loved just about as much as the dozens of stray pets she took in --- when she heard that a county commissioner had been blasted off his bulldozer by water from a firehose after he had tried to run over some firefighters.

The firefighters were there to put out a fire that the commissioner started while clearing brush on the job -- despite a county burn ban being place.

Which, it turns out, had been secretly lifted by the county judge, who happened to be a good friend of the bull-dozing commissioner.

And now flames were shooting up past the towering pines and the firemen were pissed.

Of course, I raced out there. (Firefighters! Yum!)

And it was all just as Miss Julia had said. Trees were scorched, neighbors were agog and the commissioner had been taken to the hospital to make sure he wasn't injured.

So you see why it didn't pay to blow off Julia.

Twice a year, for Christmas and her birthday, I dropped by Julia's house with a card or gift. She wouldn't let people in her house, so we'd sit at the foot of her driveway in lawn chairs. Julia always offered a leafy branch of ... some plant or another ... which we would use to swat away the mosquitoes.

The one thing Julia didn't talk about was her marriage to Al, which of course, was what I was dying to hear about.

Newsroom legend had it that Al once caused a security guard to just about pee his pants after finding Al sleeping in a darkened area on the deserted third floor of the newspaper. Supposedly, it was Al's vampirish sleeping position -- hands crossed over his chest -- that spooked the guard. From then on, the guard refused to go up there after hours. He said the prospect of stumbling across Al was just too unnerving.

By the time I met Julia, Al was long dead. Supposedly, the pair had split up before his passing, but when Al fell ill, Julia cared for him, a bit testily, but still...

I remember asking Marie -- the editor's assistant who hailed from Cajun Country and longtime friend of Julia -- about Al and Julia's relationship, but Marie just smiled mysteriously.

"Has Julia ever told you what she did with Al's ashes?" Marie asked.

Again, that cryptic smile.

I begged. I fell at Marie's teensy feet and groveled. I promised to never again make fun of her for that time she took home the leftover margaritas from the newsroom party and arrived at work the next morning with her soft, gray hair dyed a glossy ebony.

But Marie wouldn't budge.

My imagination ran wild. Knowing Julia, she could have done just about anything with her ex-husband's remains. And who knew what Mr. Vampire might have specified in his will?

It became a quest, to find out where those ashes were. By then, my fellow reporters were equally intrigued.

What if Al's ashes were stashed somewhere in the newsroom?

One night, after Marie stood on a chair and tipsily sang along to that well-known David Allan Coe song at a local bar, I took advantage of her condition and asked about the ashes.

She told me. And for the next hour, I was the only person to know what became of Al.

Then I got snockered and by next morning...

... the long-sought revelation had been wiped clean from my brain by alcohol.

No amount of pleading could wrest the information from Marie again.

I have this nagging hint of a memory involving Al and a bag of dog food. But then I tell myself that surely, even given all her eccentricities, Miss Julia wouldn't have gone that far...

I don't think.

You want me at your workplace. Really.

My last post and the recollection of having to tell a new employer I was pregnant brought to mind the many interviews I've had in the 13 years since getting that college degree.

In my 20s, I roamed. Frequently. From age 23 to 29, I worked at four newspapers before heading to Arkansas. I stayed here 5 years, then Hubs and I figured we'd try heading back to our home state of Texas.

Opportunity presented itself in the spring of 2004 in San Antonio.

It was the most memorable job interview ever.

Hubs and I had just wrapped up a week's vacation in Big Bend when we headed to San Antonio to discuss our prospects there.

By late afternoon, I'd met with several editors and reporters. Hubs, meanwhile, was hanging out with photographers and photo editors.

That particular day, a longtime editor happened to be leaving for a new job at a sister newspaper.

So the higher-ups brought in a mariachi band for the festivities.

I stood, swaying in appreciation, in a hallway just off the newsroom.

Suddenly, one member of the ensemble headed in my direction. He was laughing, beckoning.

I looked behind me. I looked around me.

Oh my God, is he coming toward me?

"I don't work here," I mouthed to the young, grinning man as he approached. "No, no!"

But he grabbed my hand and tugged.

Now I have done my share of dancing -- the Chicken Dance, the Macarena, you name it, I've probably attempted it. But only under the influence of alcohol and dim lighting.

Now, here I was, dressed in a a fitted, interview-appropriate skirt and shirt, being hauled in front of the newsroom. Sober. Under fluorescent lighting.

He made me do the twist. In front of prospective employers. He took me all the way down to the floor.

"Hey, man." A photographer nudged Hubs, who had joined the gathering but was too busy talking to pay attention to the mariachi band.

"Isn't that your wife up there?"

Hubs turned, just as my ass was inches from the floor, my hips still swiveling, face flushed with humiliation.

"Oh. Yeah. That's Cathy. You can't take her anywhere."

Sharing secrets. Mine, I mean. Not yours.

The other day, I went to lunch with several girlfriends.

I should have noticed something was up when A. didn't order sushi. But I was too busy blathering about work.

Then, in the midst of discussing her still-new marriage, she said, "Oh, yeah, and I'll be having a baby in February."

Totally nonchalant. Like -- "Oh, yeah, I'll take a diet Coke with that."

Another girlfriend and I paused, forks in mid-air.

"You're pregnant?!" one of us squealed.

"Yeah," A. said, still eating. "I'm 17 weeks."

Seventeen weeks?

She's just now telling people at 17 weeks? (You'd never know she was knocked up, btw, due to an adorable figure and well-chosen concealing clothes. But that's a whole other post, one in which I will describe the inequities of the pregnancy bump. Or ass, in some ((ahem)) cases.)

How did she wait 17 weeks to tell?

With my first pregnancy, I called a girlfriend immediately after I'd peed on the stick. I was at home, still in the bathroom. She was at work.

"Oh my God," I shrieked. "It's positive!"

"Oh my God!" she screamed. "No way!"

(When you yell "Oh my God!" or "No way!" in a newsroom -- well, it tends to attract attention.)

The next several weeks were tortuous. Not just for me, but Hubs as well. After my first appointment, two months into the pregnancy, Hubs bounded into work waving sonogram prints.

The second time around, Hubs and I had just accepted new jobs in San Antonio when the test turned up positive.

Nervously, I called the recruiting editor.

"Um. While you guys were dilly-dallying about making an offer ... well... so were were. Dallying I mean."

Smoooooooth.

Again, I was only a couple of months along.

And A. waits 17 weeks?

I cannot imagine such discretion. Don't get me wrong -- I can keep other people's secrets. Just not my own.

And clearly Hubs is no better. When we were trying to conceive the second time, I informed him just as he was leaving for a night of poker that circumstances were ideal, if you catch my meaning. We had to do the deed RIGHT THAT VERY MINUTE. Because, you know -- the egg was waiting.

Hubs, of course, was late to the game. And rather than offer excuses, he told everyone why.

The guys were impressed. Sex on command. Right before poker. Dude.

And yet -- the pair of us cringe when imagining what the kids say about us at daycare. Because the blabber-mouth gene? It gets passed on.

A post in which I rant not so poetically

Dear Obnoxious Fellow Gym Members:

1.) The gym is not a daycare. Do you think no one notices how you sneak out -- sans children -- five minutes after signing in? Do you think no one notices that your unsupervised kids are running amok?

2.) Your child's roller skate tennis shoes? Do. Not. Belong. On. The. Basketball. Court. Or anywhere else. The senior citizen very nearly plowed down by your kid will attest to this.

3.) If your 8ish-year-old boy is capable of joking about female genitalia, then for the love of God, please recognize that HE IS TOO OLD TO BE HANGING OUT IN THE WOMEN'S LOCKER ROOM.

4.) Your 8ish-year-old boy's penis? DO NOT NEED TO SEE IT. Get him out of the locker room. N-O-W.

5.) Speaking of the locker room -- the whirlpool located there is NOT a baby pool. I sit in the hot tub to relax, NOT to ensure that your 5-year-old doesn't drown.

6.) What part of: CHILDREN UNDER 15 NOT ALLOWED IN WEIGHTS AREA UNLESS SUPERVISED BY AN ADULT do you not understand? The leg press is not a toy. Get your kid off the freaking machine.

To summarize: I go to the gym to get brief break from my kids. I do not want to deal with yours. The gym offers several child-care options. Since you appear unable to control (or even watch) your kids, I suggest you start using those options like everyone else.


Sincerely,

Irate Fellow Gym Member (who also happens to be a parent)

She says. He doesn't.

Tootie comes home with a "behavior report" that says she has been flagrantly disregarding rules -- and her teacher's instructions -- this past week.

My lecture, which started on the way home: We always respect our teachers ... blah...blah...blah...if Ms. S. tells you to do something, you do it ... blah...blah...blah...if Ms. S. tells you to stop doing something, you will listen to her and STOP IT immediately...blah...blah...blah.. Every time we hear from Ms. S., you will be punished at home too ...blah...blah...blah...I want you to go to your room and think about all of this ...blah...blah...blah...Do you understand that this is unacceptable behavior and that it will NOT continue and that every time I get a note you will lose a movie and other privileges? I mean it, this will not continue... blah...blah...blah...

Hubs' lecture: Tootie, you're a sweet little girl. I want you to be a sweet little girl at school too.

*banging head against the coffee table after shooting a nail gun into my left ear and cussing profusely into a pillow*

Loving conversation between husband and premenstrual wife: Part II

Scene: Hubs and cranky wife are reclining in the living room, he on the love seat, she on the couch. Cranky wife glances over at Hubs.

Wife [in an annoyed tone]: Are you asleep?

Hubs: No. I'm just trying to avoid making eye contact. It's safer that way.

------------------------------------

And now ... for you, dear readers, so that you will better understand the ebb and flow of varying temperaments in this house:

I posted this photo last Christmas. It pretty much sums us up.



To the left: Grouchy anti-morning people, one of whom clearly hasn't had her coffee

To the right: Perky, early-rising people (note the bright eyes and ability to smile)

For full effect, click and enlarge. Note the slitted eyes on the left, the playful grins on the right?

You can see how PMS would only ... enhance ... these ... differences...

The timing ... oh, it's perfect!

Janice of Twist & Skewer awarded me this --



-- even as I verbally skewered my spouse all weekend, due to the latest bout of PMS. So can we blame him for snickering when I informed him that I'm "nice" and "thoughtful?"

I think not.

Even so.

It now falls upon me to pass on this designation to five others:

Shelly at This Eclectic Life -- because every time I read her posts, I feel as though I'm sitting on her front porch, sipping lemonade and waving lazily at the passers-by. Such a warm, cozy place. Go. Sit a spell. And...in making sure all my links are indeed linking, I see that Shelly has just received a Nice Matters award -- from someone else. Hmph. Well, she's getting two. Although, really, she probably deserves a dozen.

Nadine at hello world, it's me -- because she is so funny and just darn adorable, and because, like Shelly, she faithfully responds to each person who comments on her blog. And because even though I started reading only recently, I feel like I could drop in uninvited at Nadine's house -- should I ever make it to The Netherlands, that is -- and Nadine would just laugh and offer me a cup of coffee even as she regaled me with the latest hilarious mama-tale, such as how she mixed up skin cream and her toddler's toothpaste.

Colleen over at The Delaney Diaries -- because we are leading parallel lives, and I would like to think (delude myself?) that I am living mine just as graciously as she lives hers, both in Real Life and the blogosphere. This women works from home, while raising a toddler, battling The First Trimester That Doesn't Know Her Time is Up and negotiating cross-country trips to visit her stepkids. And through it all, she's just so ... nice. I marvel. I bow.

Paige at The Avery Lane Experience -- because I am seriously in love with her writing. Oops. Yes. I'm focusing on the niceness. Well, Paige is that too. I look forward to reading her comments on my posts because they're always witty and chatty ... and I'm just sure if I'd only known her in college, we would have been tossing back beers all cozy and chummylike, once the paper had been put to bed. And she offers recipes and foodie news, mainly from The South, which we know ranks supreme in all matters of food, whether you're looking for Cajun or a little soul cooking.

Jessica at Oh, the Joys -- because ... because ... stutter .... stutter ... OMG! Like one of the coolest, most popular bloggers out there strolls by my lunch table and ... oh, wait! OMG, she's stopping. HERE! She's sitting down ... and she said she likes my brand-new Esprit sweater! OMG!!! OK, let me tone down my geekiness and simply say that no matter what blog I visit, OTJ has already been there and left some wry or hilarious comment that I can't possibly top. Now that is nice, my friends, because -- how -- HOW? -- on earth does she find the time to visit everybody? And she doesn't just dash in and out. No, she hangs around and joins the conversation, no small feat when you know she's visited, like, 1,000 blogs already that day? *squashing any further girl-crush-inspired tendencies to gush*

OK, so I'm supposed to be done now, but ... there's still Nell at meanwhile... and Andi at Poot and Cubby and Julie at The Ravin Picture Maven... and ...omg, there's also Mrs. Chicken, have to add her, and ... all these many other funny and gracious women who are much nicer than me, even when it's their "time of the month."

Ohmigod, somebody stop the premenstrual woman from flinging more pink tulips and daisies out into the blogosphere. Remind her that it's time to go back to her natural state of shrewishness. Enough of this scary little Pollyanna scene! Somebody, get that basket of rose petals away from her before she skips on over to the next blog. Please?!

ahem

So now it's your turn to spread the niceness. From personal experience, I can say it would be really nice of you, in keeping with your inherent niceness, I mean, if you were to select a few more of those who are suffering from the monthly blues & bitchiness.

Because ain't nuthin' better than telling your frightened husband that OTHER PEOPLE don't think you're scary at all. No indeed, they think you are NICE!

(Turn and repeat to husband three times every hour and he might forget what you said to him at the pool. About the nose hairs, I mean.)

Can I go home yet?

I am now seeing a physical therapist to help manage these stupid headaches — which I still contend are a part of The Mono, but my doctor disagrees ("I've never heard of mono causing headaches.") even though my Googling clearly proves him incorrect. (got all that?)

So as I was laying on the table —

— We interrupt the following whiny post to declare one bright spot to my week — Mrs. Chicken ever so kindly awarded me this —



— and I must thank her for giving me such shiny bling!

We now resume today's lament:

OK, so —

As I was laying on the table, receiving a heavenly massage from a man named Scott, we started talking about my job as a reporter and then he starting reminiscing about how he used to be a city council member in a community near here.

I froze.

Have I interviewed this person? OMG, no wonder his name sounds familiar. How very awkward.

"Oh. Um ... when were you on the council?" I asked.

"It was a few years ago," he said. "I'm not on it anymore."

The chicken story. Eek. Is this the guy I interviewed when the city council wanted to ban pet chickens? How humiliating. How many bad puns did I put in that story anyway? Did I tell him my maiden name? I bet he doesn't know which reporter I am. Please, given that I'm naked, don't let him recognize me.

"So ... um ... what sorts of issues did you have to deal with during your term?"

Please, please, don't say chickens.


"Oh, well, there was some stuff involving the charter school. But that was about it. I was only on the council for two years."

"So, nothing about .... livestock?"

The therapist laughed, clearly puzzled.

"No. Just the school."

thankyouthankyouthankyou

On returning to the newsroom, I did a quick search through our archives. And no, I did not interview my therapist/former city councilman for the stupid chicken story. Still, his name is naggingly familiar.

I'm getting old. When I first started in this business, I remembered everybody — names, under what circumstances I had interviewed people, whatever happened to so-and-so... Now I'm lucky if I can remember the way home.

Oh, and also?

A city editor just asked me to babysit the police scanners. Have discovered I am deaf. Volume adjustment required. As a result, the scanners are now so loud that other (younger) reporters keep shooting me looks.

Just you wait, sonny. One day, you too will be going to physical therapy and wondering if the person rubbing your back used to be a source. And you too will pray that if anything explodes, you will feel the vibrations because God knows you will never hear the calls go out on the scanner.

On my way to AARP membership. 13 years and counting...

My ob/gyn's office just called. During the conversation, I said "pap smear" so loudly — presumably because of the deafness and, of course, because the scanners are blaring — that the two people in front of me just turned around. How long until I start sharing the intimate details of my digestive ailments with co-workers? Or complaining about my stiff joints and need for more fiber?

I am so glad it's Friday. Am ready to slink home.

Ah, romance...

So a few days ago, the transportation reporter — who sits across the aisle from me in the newsroom — leaned over with a grin.

"Hey, Cathy! Your husband's been asking me about that new four-lane highway that'll run from Small-Town Arkansas to Big-City Arkansas."

He laughed. Evilly.

"You moving?"

I believe I've addressed this before, my husband's fascination with rural living.

He wants to live among the pine trees.

I want to live within 15 minutes of a Target.

You see the problem.

As a former country girl, I know of what I speak: Green Acres ain't the place for me.

But Hubs continues to romanticize himself into some weird Pa Ingalls alternate universe. Trust me, I am NOT Ma material. (If any woman ever was entitled to a life of wine, mood-enhancers and hourly cussing rants, it was Caroline of the Freaking Prairie. Poor soul.)

But I digress. Back to Hubs and his romance with all things rural.

It's difficult to fight fantasy. I tell Hubs the country is ... well ... isolated and lonely and inconvenient, and I might as well be telling a 12-year-old boy that the girlie-mag models he's gawking at are air-brushed and artificially boobed.

Of course, given that I spent many years — oh hell, OK, maybe a good decade — romanticizing men, I do feel a tad hypocritical.

I give you the One-Eyed Cowboy as my most perfect example.

The year was ... geez ... maybe 1996? Or 1995? Whenever. I spent most Saturday nights at a place called Cactus Moon. (Everything you're picturing? Yeah, that. You don't, however, have to visualize the tacky sheer black bodysuit I wore with jeans. Sorry.)

Anyway, I soon became obsessed with this one particular man. He wore a black hat. Wranglers. And a black rakish eye patch.

Oh, how I swooned each time he walked in.

And then, one night, my dear friend Mel (hi, Mel!), drunkenly ordered Pirate Man to dance with me.

Now, don't ask me how I had previously imagined that Pirate Man lost his eye (duel, maybe, over a woman?), but my daydreams certainly never included — a welding accident.

Yes, indeed. As it turned out, my pirate had owned a welding company that went bust (possibly due to an inability to wield the blowtorch?). He couldn't dance. Hell, he couldn't even stand up straight because he couldn't hold his booze either. And he got offended when I didn't recognize his family's name.

(Apparently they were Odessa, Texas, high society or some such thing, so while he didn't lose an eye in a sword fight, he did, at least, lose an inheritance. Heh.)

Harlequin, I owe all my most ridiculous teenage and early-20s fantasies to you.

So there you have it. My Hubs and I are the perfect couple.

He subsists on daydreams involving unpaved roads and roaming deer herds and I ... well ... I must confess to forcing him to don a pair of Wranglers every now and then...

My life on candid camera

Long before I met and married Hubs, long before I became the constant subject of Our Domestic Documentary, I was frequently caught in embarrassing, accidental "poses" by the newspaper photographers with whom I went on assignment.

Cathy sliding down the sandhills in Monahans, holding on for dear life to her Frisbee-shaped sled?

Check.


Cathy mired up to her knees in mud during flooding in Beaumont, Texas?

Check.

Cathy falling into said mud and rolling down a hill?

Check.

And then there was my encounter with Jesse Jackson. Yes, that Jesse Jackson.

In the weeks after James Byrd Jr.'s dragging death in Jasper, Texas, the reverend came to town one day to speak to Mr. Byrd's family and city officials. A press conference was scheduled for later that day.

Minutes before the press conference was to start, TV and print reporters gathered at the appointed place. Usually, my fellow print reporters and I would sit on the ground to avoid being jostled and generally annoyed by overly aggressive television cameramen -- who are often prone to shouting "Get out of the way!" if one blocks their shot.

As per this custom, I dropped to my knees, scribbling furiously in my notebook, as Jesse Jackson stepped outside and headed our way. As I hit the asphalt, two women bystanders behind me gasped. They were there in hopes of meeting Jackson. Unaware of reporting practices, the duo apparently thought that I, too, was a spectator -- a spectator who had just been stricken by a sudden spiritual epiphany. To them, I appeared to be praying.

The media-savvy Jackson saw me drop to the ground, witnessed the women's surprise and headed over. Still writing, I didn't see his approach. So when I felt two hands on my head, I assumed it was an annoying TV cameraman and prepared to respond accordingly. ("Do you mind? Get the hell out of my way!")

You can imagine my surprise when the person touching me started praying. I looked up, and there was Jesse Jackson, who was offering up a mock blessing before the two startled women. He laughed. I stammered.

We shook hands.

All of this was recorded by the print photographers and TV cameramen, all of whom had surged forward, clicking wildly, when they saw Jesse Jackson laying hands on someone in the crowd.

My photographer, after having snapped his own series of shots, including one that showed my shock at seeing Jesse Jackson standing over me, finally informed the other media people that I was one of them, a mere reporter.

Given my experience with photographers, you'd have thought I would be prepared for marriage to one.

I wasn't. Especially when it came to childbirth.

Imagine -- you are wed to a man who lives for action shots, a man accustomed to chronicling every second of a given event.

With my first baby, I had to have an emergency C-section. Apparently, the umbilical cord we shared was freakishly long and had my baby trussed up more tightly than a calf at a Texas rodeo. (If you are pregnant and reading this and fretting, don't. This isn't a common occurrence.)

Throughout the hasty procedure, I could hear Hubs clicking away. Within hours, he had emailed a series of photos to everyone we knew.

My childhood friend, J., called a few days later.

"The pictures were great," she said. "But my parents were a little freaked out when they saw all those shots of your uterus."

Wha...???


I hadn't yet looked through the photos. Clearly, I should have done so immediately.

Um ... honey? You sent out pictures of my uterus? My womb? My sacred vessel?

Then came E-man. With him, I had a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean).

And with him, I discovered that Hubs wasn't nearly finished in his efforts to humiliate. I give you this --





-- as evidence. Yes, I am in labor, as I'm sure you can tell by my grimace.

But why, you might reasonably ask, am I clutching my then-toddler daughter's plastic Halloween trick-or-treating jack'o'lantern?

Because when Hubs called our doula to tell her that we were on our way to the hospital, she advised him to line the seat with towels (in case my water broke) and to take along a container (in case I threw up.)

I stood, doubled over in our driveway, while Hubs meticulously laid down several towels. After I got into the car, he handed me the pumpkin.

"What the hell is this for?" I snapped.

"Suzanne said you might get sick on the way."

Until that moment, I had felt not a single wave of nausea. But behold, the power of suggestion. Within seconds, I was retching. And Hubs was click-click-clicking.

Don't get me wrong. It's wonderful to have all of these moments recorded. But because I am vain, and don't want your lingering image of me to be that of my pregnancy-inflated grimacing face, I offer this --




Me, when I'm not in agony. And, of course, the man rarely seen in any of our family photographs.

A few days after the E-man's birth, Tootie asked indignantly why her jack'o'lantern was in the car. Since she already resented her new little brother, we decided not to tell her Mommy had been dry-heaving into it on the way to have little E-man. And yes, we still have the pumpkin.

Queen of the munchkin babies

This subject has been bandied about in the blogosphere as of late, and, because I have some experience in birthin' itsy-bitsy youngins, I thought I'd weigh in. Heh. (sorry, sorry ... I know.)

The Toot arrived 3 1/2 weeks early. She was 5 pounds 9 ounces.

Eek.

"Oh, I just love dainty babies," the doctor said as he handed her to us.

Even in the midst of the post-birth pain/euphoria, I fixated.

Five pounds? Nine ounces?

'Scuse me, but where's my eight-pounder? Quick, put her back in -- she's not done yet!

Thankfully, I had fabulous girlfriends who, on seeing how the Toot wallowed in her newborn-sized clothes, scurried out to find premie outfits.

Other people weren't so tactful.

"Wow. I was freaked out by how small a regular newborn was," said one visitor. "I don't know what I'd done if ours had been that tiny."

Ouch.

The doctor told us we wouldn't be allowed to leave the hospital if Tootie's weight dropped below 5 pounds. The day we were discharged, she weighed in at 5 pounds, 2 ounces.

And an obsession, along with a baby, was born.

Four times a week, I hauled the Toot into a breastfeeding shop where scales were available. I charted her weight. I made sure she didn't miss a feeding, even if it meant waking her up to shove a boob into her mouth.

So I was a little ... focused. I was the kid's mother. I had every right.

Other people, however -- well, they did not. Still, they commented, often, on Tootie's size.

"She's so small," my MIL said skeptically, holding the Toot up for inspection. "And yellow."

It's called jaundice, lady. Give us a break, will ya? And she's not small. She's dainty. As in pretty.


I justified my weight obsession by telling myself that I was worried about Tootie's health.

Riiiiiight.

In actuality, I had bought into the Big is Better philosophy that makes us think any baby less than the "average" 7 1/2 pounds is inferior. Or frail. Or weak.

And yet.

The Toot shot up the growth charts. She also shot past the other babies with more impressive birth weights.

Ha.

Two years later, the E-man arrived. Nearly two weeks early.

He was only 6 pounds 12 ounces, but, compared to Tootie, I thought he was ginormous.

Until we kept bumping into elderly women who insisted on comparing my cute Lilliputian to their Gulliver-sized grandchildren.

Bragging grandmas? Shut up. I don't want to hear how your 3-month-old grandchild is bigger than my 6-month-old. And get your raggedy-cuticled finger out of my baby's mouth. Trust me, no kid is that hungry, not even my clearly malnourished tot.


Deep breath. Push aside thoughts of old women who engage in size discrimination.

The E-man remains small for his age. But I don't worry. And I'm not force-feeding him icky milkshake drinks. Small babies, big babies ... who gives a shit as long as they're healthy and growing?

Still -- If you happen see a mom with an extra-small baby, for God's sake don't natter on about how much tinier her baby is than yours. Because if she's a first-time mother, chances are she's already freaking out over her child's unexpectedly low birth weight. Spare her your smugness. Don't add to her anxiety.

Besides, judging by my Tootie's progress, birth weight isn't indicative of anything.

It took me several years to get to this point, but I'm there.

Which means if I have a third child, he/she will probably be an exceptionally big-headed baby, weighing in at 10-plus pounds, leaving me with the Grand Canyon of Hooha's.

I'll take mine on the rocks, please...

What would you do ...

... if ---

every time you visited the in-laws, your MIL spent entire days in the kitchen?

Like all day Saturday, preparing dinner for the whole clan.

And then again on Sunday, preparing a second dinner for the whole clan.

Because I'm the only family member (read: female) who's present during these elaborate preparations, I either spend my whole day in the kitchen -- "helping" -- or feeling like a lazy slob if I stay out of her way.

I don't mind cooking. Sometimes, I rather like mucking about in the kitchen, experimenting with new recipes. Most days, however, I would liken my efficiency in the kitchen to that practiced by women -- compared to men -- in the bathroom.

We go in when we have to go. If we don't need to go, we get off the toilet and exit.

Hubs, on the other hand, has read entire novels in the bathroom. He completes crossword puzzles. Contemplates world peace.

Which is we have the same argument every morning.

"Are you done in there yet?"

"Noooooo..."

"OK, either you have to go or you don't. So finish already!"

Which is wanted I wanted to yell on Sunday afternoon as MIL continued to labor in the kitchen. I wanted to wave the --- hey, what sort of kitchen tool am I allegedly using here? -- and yell, "Please, for the love of God, just finish already!!"

She starts puttering right after breakfast. We don't have lunch, because MIL is cooking and we are having a BIG dinner.

By 3 p.m., she's still going, muttering that if BIL and his wife, Perfect Linda, are late again, everything will be cold.

4 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan.

By this time, chances are good she will have given me some task that involves sharp implements. She has clearly forgotten my amusing story about how I sliced off the tip of my finger while using a cheese grater just before a friend's baby shower. (I bled all over the hor'dourves.)

5 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan. (But no blood.)

6 p.m. BIL and Perfect Linda arrive, along with two or three of her kids, BIL's four kids and two of his grandbabies.

Perfect Linda has it made She shows up with with macaroni and dessert -- and two babies -- and MIL fawns all over her.

They're three hours late? No problem.

By this time, I've spent the whole day drifting in and out of the kitchen, trying to decide if I'm of any use whatsoever or just a nuisance.

But back to Perfect Linda.

She's good. Real good. I remain in awe of her ability to deal with the in-laws. (I mean this in a complimentary way.)

For months after Perfect Linda and BIL married, I marveled at her serene demeanor each time they came over to the in-laws.

I mean -- hello?! Six kids and two grandchildren in tow! Is she popping Valium? Did BIL bring her back from Stepford? WTF?

Then I caught her adding bourbon to a fast-food Styrofoam cup she'd brought with her and all became clear.

Why do I admire this tactic?

Well, because MIL doesn't drink. And she doesn't really approve of other people drinking. Especially women.

Still, each night, around 8 p.m., the men -- Hubs, the two BILs and their dad -- mix up bourbon & cokes. Usually, Hubs smuggles me a glass and I sip on it discreetly, hoping MIL will think it's just plain coke.

Once, however, I made the mistake of asking younger BIL to make me a drink.

"You like bourbon?" he asked incredulously. "I don't know any women who drink bourbon."

I found BIL's amazement to be both sexist and expressed too loudly.

I refrained from telling him to use his Inside Voice.

I refrained from mentioning that time I caught Perfect Linda pouring a splash of bourbon -- OK, more like a freaking waterfall -- into the Styrofoam cup.

I refrained from mentioning that Perfect Linda waits til no one's looking and then sneaks sips, looooonng, deeeeeep sips, from older BIL's drink.

Instead, feeling the curious stares of the clan members, I simply nodded.

That's when Hubs chimed in. "Oh, yeah, she makes drinks stronger than I do."

That Hubs lived to make another visit to his mother's house is truly a testament to my self-restraint.

This weekend, after the men made their drinks, I just went and fixed my own. I figured since I'd already spent the whole damn day wandering in and out of the kitchen, no one would notice.

Unless I managed to wound myself with the ice pick.

Earlier in-law post deleted...

... for obvious reasons. But I do have stories from this weekend. Later. After I've recovered from the drive home.

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

In other news, I spent last night baby-hogging an adorable 4-week-old boy.

I wanted to take him home... or maybe make another one of my own.

... until my daughter and son -- functioning on too little sleep and entirely too much sugar -- threw the Mother of all Temper Tantrums, jointly, no less, when I put them to bed. The shrieking!!!! The screaming!!!!!

And any thoughts of tossing out my birth control pills evaporated -- pooooof!

I love my two little stinkers dearly. I do.

But last night I could have labeled and marketed them as 100-percent-effective contraceptives.

24 more hours to go ... I am such a wuss

Well, the cat is no longer around. Not sure what happened and am somewhat afraid to ask as the last time I inquired about a missing pet, I learned that my favorite dog (one that belonged to BIL) had been shot. Something about how it interfered with deer hunting.

I'm a devoted dog person. Not so fond of cats (I don't think they were ever meant to be domesticated and kept as pets) but still... despite the cat's anti-social behavior toward any other living breathing creature, I don't want to know if it, too, met an untimely fate.

I'm now feeling a touch guilty about my previous ranting post.

It's true I dread these visits -- I feel very out of place -- but still... I should probably be more patient.

Or, if all else fails, constantly drunk.

I'm on dial-up ... let's bet on how long it takes for this to post.

My new BFFs ... and no, they're not from BlogHer

We bonded, John and I, over a short-term disability plan.

Then we moved on to accident policies and cancer family coverage.

By the time Hubs discovered us, John and I were engrossed in a comparison of all our various relatives who learned too late the importance of abundant insurance.

"Um ... what exactly are we signing up for here?" Hubs inquired.

Translation: What bizarre disease or worst-case scenario have you fixated on now, you hopeless, neurotic hypochondriac?"

I lovingly slid the glossy brochures across the table. "See? If we get this and this and this and this, I promise to quit nagging you about additional life insurance."

Hubs grimaced.

"What are the rates?" he asked my new bestest friend.

As John began to explain our many options, my dear spouse shot me a look.

Translation: I knew I never should have let you attend an insurance sales pitch unsupervised.

The proposed changes to our plan remain a matter of negotiation. No problem. I have BFF John's phone number and email address. We can resume our morbid imaginings at any time, with or without Hubs' approval. John nods sagely when I describe all my what-ifs. He doesn't mock me. No indeed. He loves my adorable paranoid tendencies.

And of course, the glowing red letters stamped across my forehead: Sell me a policy, baby.

John isn't my only new friend this week.

Yesterday, I met Cindy, a no-nonsense grandmotherly-looking type who strode into a small private room at the gym and asked, "So, what seems to be the problem?"

I told her all about my horrible headaches -- possibly tension (or a brain tumor ... or meningitis ... or encephalitis) -- that have accompanied The Mono.

She nodded sympathetically and asked me for more details. Naturally, since I'm married to a man who snorts when I describe my various ailments, I was ever so happy to oblige.

And then Cindy went to work. She did things to my head, shoulders and back that...

... well, let's just say I want to take Cindy home and install her in my bedroom so that she can pummel me to sleep each night.

I think I love her.

Maybe even more than John.