Eric, meet everyone

We spent Thanksgiving in Chicago, splitting the time equally between my mother, my father, and sleep.

Thanksgiving day we spent the first portion of the day at my father's place where Eric got to meet the more than 20 friends and neighbors who came over to celebrate. The highlights of this celebration were wasabi deviled eggs and working on a devilish jigsaw puzzle.

Mid-afternoon we headed up to spend the rest of Thanksgiving overeating with my mother's family. Here again, my husband Eric* was introduced to the extended clan for the first time. My grandfather toasted to us the newlyweds and Eric got to play the Wii with my brother and young cousins in the "no girls allowed" basement man cave. I spent most of the evening babysitting the pumpkin pies. They needed a lot of looking after.

Saturday night my mother hosted a party of long-time friends and Eric got to meet yet another 20 or so of the people who have been part of my life since I was born. I think they all found him to be an extremely sensitive man, due largely to the fact that the cat allergies triggered by my father's cat were still raging, causing the occasional tear to slide down his cheek.


*Yep, still sounds weird.

Harvest bounty

After longer than I think it usually takes to grow cherry tomatoes, this week we harvested a generous handful of red and yellow cherry tomatoes from the Aerogarden. Thanks Aerogarden! They were delicious.

On handwashing: the sequel

I'd like to report that as soon as I got my H1N1 vaccine, I backed away from the slippery precipice of manic germophobia and can happily report no ill effects, at least so far.

And today, further vindication. The BBC reported results from new scientific studies that prove what I have long asserted as undisputable fact: dirty children are healthier children.*

I do admit to being somewhat more conscious than I used to be: for example, after spending an hour checking out and sitting in at least 25 different sample chairs in Macy's on Saturday, I did hesitate as went to reach for a handful of almonds in my purse. H1N1 vaccine notwithstanding, it just didn't seem smart to thrust my potentially germy hand into the bag of almonds and then put them in my mouth.

So instead, I held the bag up over my face and attempted to gracefully pour just a few almonds into my mouth. Eric quickly distanced himself from this public spectacle. But we were both facing dangerously low blood sugar and so a few minutes later he took the bag, found a private corner and poured some almonds into his mouth as well.

Later, when we got to dinner, we both thoroughly washed our hands before sitting down to eat.


*Extra bonus of reading this article is seeing the word "mollycoddled" used.

Perfect cure for a long week

Mid-afternoon on Friday Eric and I discovered that it was a great idea for us to go to the Sharks game that night in San Jose.*

So we did. Eric had driven to work because he had to chaperone a new piece of equipment for his lab and it worked out perfectly for me to ride Caltrain down to Palo Alto so we could drive the rest of the way together from there.

It has been long enough since I have been to a hockey game (almost two years?) that going to this one was unbelieveably exciting to me. It was a total thrill just to be there - and we got to see a great game. One highlight was when Dany Heatly scored three goals, which is a hat trick. As soon as the goal light for the third goal lit up a shower of hats began to cascade down onto the ice. This stopped play for a few minutes while men with shovels attempted to clear the hats from the ice. It was glorious.

This is them picking up all the hats. So many hats! What do they do with them? I don't know. Maybe they give them to needy children?

I texted my brother Andrew that we were in the Shark tank and he left me a voicemail the next day saying he had checked out the game and "was glad to see it looked like we'd gotten a couple of good fights." Apparently, this is a site he checks daily to stay up to date on this sort of critical info. I can't believe I didn't know about this incredible resource.

Overall, I think the thing I was most surprised by is how solid the Sharks fans were. I had this idea that they were some kind of suburbanized half-assed overly-family-friendly "soft" hockey fans - nothing like the Chicago hockey fans I was raised with.

How wrong I was! Well, mostly. The crowd represented with a huge showing of teal jerseys, and every Sharks power play elicited a sea of arms waving in chomping motions. Good show San Jose! That said, I didn't hear any no foul language and there were no fights in the stands, so they still have a ways to go to get to Chicago standards.

I can't wait to go again! They play the Blackhawks in January and it is on the calendar.


*By some cruel stroke of fate, the Bay Area's hockey and soccer teams both play in San Jose rather than a place that it easy for people like us to go see them on a regular basis, like San Francisco.

Is it the weekend yet?

I have had many, many meetings this week. A couple of days I have literally had meetings or phone calls from first thing in the morning until late in the afternoon back to back with no breaks. This forced me to do things like bribe colleagues to bring me food and water in the conference room and leave my phone muted while I hurriedly dashed to the bathroom to pee.*

If I had an assistant who was in charge of my calendar, that person would have been fired for what they did to my schedule this week.

Sadly, I have only myself to blame. I'm not firing myself but I am instituting new rules starting next week.


*Turns out I can do it in under two minutes - and that even includes washing my hands!

We were just riffing

Last night was one of our highly anticipated symphony nights and the SF Symphony was performing the Brandenburg concertos. They were wonderful (though admittedly not as transcendent as the Mahler pieces we saw last time). I played some of this music on the violin in a previous life which made it especially neat to hear it performed.

One fun aspect of these pieces is that there is a spot for some harpsichord improvisation. Yes, really. Surely this is not an opportunity that many harpsichordists get very often. The fact that Eric hates harpsichord music just made it that much more fun.

Walking to the car after the show, Eric and I debriefed the concert, and in particular the harpsichord solos.

"He totally wailed on that harpsichord," Eric observed.

"Yeah," I agreed, "he tore that harpsichord into three pieces."

"Was he bad?" asked the tall dark-haired woman walking in front of us, turning around to look at us.

"We have no idea," I clarified. "I'm sure he was great," I added because I felt bad that she thought we had been critiquing him when really we were just entertaining ourselves with funny language.

It's in my head

I heard this Soul Asylum song in Bed, Bath and Beyond on Sunday when Eric and I purchased our robes.* It has been in my head ever since, and I am concerned about the potential detrimental effects on both my well-being and that of my unborn child.

I suppose I was particularly vulnerable to it having at one point owned the CD and known all the words to the song. In case you missed that stage in your development, here are the lyrics.

Runaway Train
Call you up in the middle of the night
Like a firefly without a light
You were there like a slow torch burning**
I was a key that could use a little turning***

So tired that I couldn't even sleep
So many secrets I couldn't keep
Promised myself I wouldn't weep
One more promise I couldn't keep

It seems no one can help me now
I'm in too deep
There's no way out
This time I have really led myself astray

CHORUS
Runaway train never going back
Wrong way on a one way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here no there

Can you help me remember how to smile
Make it somehow all seem worthwhile
How on earth did I get so jaded
Life's mystery seems so faded****

I can go where no one else can go
I know what no one else knows*****
Here I am just drownin' in the rain
With a ticket for a runaway train

Everything is cut and dry
Day and night, earth and sky
Somehow I just don't believe it

CHORUS

Bought a ticket for a runaway train
Like a madman laughin' at the rain******
Little out of touch, little insane
Just easier than dealing with the pain

Runaway train never comin' back
Runaway train tearin' up the track
Runaway train burnin' in my veins
Runaway but it always seems the same*******


*They're glorious and mine has made me late for work every day this week. Somehow having it on makes me care less about being a productive member of society. It is entirely consistent with what I expected but it is nonetheless very powerful.
**In my head, I was singing "blow torch burning"; slightly different connotation.
***What does that mean?
****Oh, to be in high school again.
*****What does this mean?
******This I understand.
*******This is actually a major insight.

One way to meet the neighbors

Last night my attempt to broil up some omega-3 rich Dover sole for dinner caused an inadvertent test of the smoke alarms in our new apartment. Not just the one in the kitchen - all 5 in our apartment.*

So we did what people quickly going both insane and deaf naturally do: run around the house flinging open doors and windows while trying to keep our ears covered and get the alarms to stop shrieking at us.

We looked up from the melee at one point to see that we had company: there was a stranger standing in our kitchen, having come through the back door.

"Everything alright?" he asked casually.

"No fire, just a dirty broiler," I explained.

"Ah, yeah. I just wanted to make sure we weren't burning down."

"I'm Ellie," I said, after a pause.

"Oh, I'm Brian, I live upstairs with my roommate Nate."

Eric came and introduced himself and they made neighborly chit chat about the girls who live on the first floor and how long Brian and Nate have lived here. At this point the fish, snap peas and garlic bread, all of which I had timed perfectly to be ready at the same exact moment, were all ready.

No one likes their Dover sole cold, least of all me, so I plated it up, we bid farewell to Brian and promised to avoid making such a racket again soon.

We didn't mention that we are expecting a boy shrieking machine at the end of March. Mental note: keep the back door locked.


*Yes, 5 smoke alarms. It's big, but it's not that big. Here's to extreme caution.

Paper or obese feminized boy children?

Troubling information abounds on the impact that plastics in our environment are having on the human body. Fair warning - this is a bad news blog.

An extremely troubling article in Newsweek recently showed how plastic chemicals may be related to obesity.

Then just today, an article on the BBC website relayed some additional surprising information. First, there's a Journal of Andrology.* Second, boys who play with Barbies are more likely to play with Barbies due to the feminizing impact of phthalates (found in many, many, many things we are all exposed to every single day, in particular vinyl flooring and plastic shower curtains).

The really really bad news is that these plasticizers are totally ubiquitous. Not only are they in plastic (obviously) but the chemicals in this family are often used as fabric treatments on furniture and clothing and as protective film on glass and metal containers. Europe, being extremely European, banned phthalates in toys but not in other everyday items so they are still fairly ubiquitous there as well unless maybe you live and work in a toy store.

I'm trying not to be totally defeated by this information but it falls into my least favorite category of threats which is at the uncomfortable intersection of "real and relevant to me" and "very little I can meaningfully do about it."

Now I am going to sing a quiet happy song la la la la la la la.


*Really? Is there a Journal of Left-handedness?

Bridge: burned

I broke up with my therapist yesterday. It was one of the more difficult conversations I have had to have with someone in a while, not counting my attempts to update our address through the automated voice response systems at Comcast, Chase Bank and PG&E.

I had tried to break up with her last week and it didn't stick, so I found myself back there again this week to make it abundantly clear that this would be my last session.

She wanted to really understand my decision and what was driving it. This led to an exchange that was sort of like watching a hockey team warm up the goalie: shot after shot after shot, and me in the crease doing my best to deflect.

I made it clear that I didn't think I was "done" with therapy - I just didn't want to do anymore of it with her right now. Nonetheless, she saw ample reason to question the wisdom of my decision. And her inside knowledge of, you know, all my vulnerable spots, insecurities and weaknesses made her assault especially potent.

"In my experience pregnancy can bring up a lot of issues around your own relationship with your mother..."

"Do you really think it wise to discontinue our work together during this incredibly tumultuous and challenging time in your life?"

"Aren't you interested in exploring {insert major life issue} further?"

And my favorite: "You know, as I see it you're really just getting started."

At the end of the 50 minutes I left and will not go back. On my way out the door, her parting words were "My door's always open! Call any time!"

Unlikely.

Halfway to somewhere

As of Monday this week, Belvedere is officially half-baked. 20 weeks ago he began, and 20 weeks from now, give or take, he will be, well, fully cooked.*

As far as we know, he is developing well. The ultrasound pictures revealed all the right things in the right places and we are choosing to forget the creepy 3D ultrasound pictures that make him look like a very small old man.

I haven't gotten too much advice on my pregnancy so far but I have gotten a few tips from our friend Nelson, often on the potentially serious consequences of poor diet during pregnancy:

"If you eat too much high fructose corn syrup then will it turn out to be a Republican?"

"The only risk of drinking a glass of wine while you're pregnant is that the baby will turn out to be kind of French."


*It's a boy! I may not have mentioned that yet. Yay! Name suggestions are welcome.

The space heaters in the closet should have been a clue

We're getting settling into our new place and into a new cold hard reality: it's cold.*

I guess we shouldn't be surprised: it is much bigger, has higher ceilings, and was built in 1906.

It is, nonetheless, a brutal new world

We are adapting but it isn't pretty. I've taken to wearing several bulky layers and, when available, a hood. Eric wears a hat indoors all the time now. I think it might actually be colder in the apartment than it is outside.

But I fear the worst is yet to come. We may have to become "robe and slipper" people.

You know - slovenly, smelling of stale coffee and bad breath, and always scratching something.**

At least it isn't haunted. That we know of. Yet.


*When I told my brother "We love our new apartment, there's just one thing we're having a hard time with" his response was "It's haunted?"
**No offense to any robe and slipper people out there.

Further warning signs of adulthood

In what might be a sign of adulthood, or what might just be a sign of being really disorganized my whole life, I fulfilled a long-time dream this past weekend: I got a proper jewelry box.

Previous jewelry organization methods generally involved plastic baggies, small pouches, and a bunch of small colored boxes. Actually looking through my jewelry to see what might be a good choice that day was so challenging and time-consuming that I basically just started wearing the same two pairs of earrings, rotating from one to the other in the interest of variety.

In going through my "jewelry collection" to organize it into my new box, I unearthed all manner of items I had no idea I actually possessed including not one but two stopped Swatch watches, one of which was missing the face altogether, some plastic jewelry that was literally disintegrating and was sticky to the touch in a way that was impossible to get off of my fingers with soap, and one of what used to be a pair of earrings shaped like a tiny naked woman in "dancer's pose." Wonder why I stopped wearing those.

Having set up the new jewelry box feels like a major life upgrade. I am now ready to dazzle the world with my new, well, actually old, jewelry.

The Connecticut Show

This has been the first week that the Connecticut Show is on the air (or, more accurately, the first week that we are getting to watch it). For a start, it is much more family friendly than the Clementina Show.

The Connecticut Show mostly features the #22 bus. This is apparently one of the more regular buses and it runs every 7-8 minutes from 5am until 1am, and only slightly less frequently during those off hours.

It is an electric bus which gets power through cables above the street, to which it connects with these big pincer-looking things.

From our bedroom, buses slowing down to a stop sound a lot like when Obi Wan Kenobi* disables the Death Star's tractor beam. Buses pulling away sound like that but in reverse.

A few nights in, Eric had a dream in which he was looking at a wall with two numbers like big counters on it. The number on the left was 308, and this was the number of buses that had already gone by. On the right, the number was 3041 and this was the number of buses still remaining to go by that night. I sort of feel like that says it all.

Other than that, and the whistle from the Caltrain, all is quiet and we are not yet finding that boring.


*Yes, I had to look up how to spell that.

Farewell Clementina Show

As of November 1, The Clementina Show is no longer being broadcast on a channel that we receive. It isn't off the air, we just don't get to watch it anymore.

I wish there were a word that expressed the feeling of no longer experiencing something horrible that you don't really miss, exactly, but still feel an unexpected affection for. This is the word I would use to describe how I feel about moving off of Clementina St.

True to form, The Clementina Show season finale was impressive. The night before we moved out, on our way to dinner we walked past a woman wearing a tiara who was squatting and peeing through her pants onto the sidewalk.

For our farewell dinner we went to check out a new fancy sausage place called "Show Dogs" that had just opened up two blocks from our Clementina joint. While we were paying for our fancy dogs, urine-reeking tiara lady showed up to "trick or treat," but instead of grabbing a Starburst from the proffered bucket she reached over the bucket, into the tip jar and grabbed a wad of bills. When the woman behind the counter protested, the woman paused, smiled dementedly, put a single dollar back in and then ran out of the restaurant.*

The next morning, as we left to get the truck for our move, we noticed some fresh human poo and other goodies on our sidewalk. There were also some people doing some form of hard drugs in a car parked across the street.

We had no second thoughts about our move.


*When we left, Eric dropped a few bucks in the tip jar, saying "Don't let the trick-or-treaters get it!"