The Biggest Danger of Pregnancy

I subscribe, of course, to a number of pregnancy e-mails and visit sites that tell me all sorts of informative things about my fetus such as, "March 31: Early toenail development." But today, I got the doozy of all e-mails from Baby Center that went through the normal list of "Do vaginal infections during pregnancy need treatment?" and "Find out what your baby's doing right now" only to scroll down and be hit with "How can I protect myself and my unborn child against bioterrorist threats?" This is what I need to be worrying about now? I need to know that Anthrax is okay (penicillin is not dangerous to a fetus) but small pox a definite no-no? Gee thanks. I'll add that to my list of things to obsess about.

Saturday Musings

It's Peter's birthday. And he's being grumpy about it. Give the birthday bunny a break, and have a good birthday.

Yesterday we were released from work early because of the fine work our department has done. So with the beautiful weather and the 3:30 quitting time, I headed to a nursery to pick up something for the yard. I never got around to planting bulbs last fall so our garden is nonexistent. After being told by many people that planting now is futile (it may be 68 degrees today, but it's supposed to snow on Tuesday), I went to Mahoney's to find out if there was anything I could plant. The woman working there was a no-nonsense sort of woman who reluctantly admitted that I could plant some of the hardier perennials now as well as the bulbs that had been forced (such as the daffodils). "But really," she kept saying, "you just want to be planning out where you want to put things now. Make a design. You should prepare the land now--mulch it, fertilize it, prepare your beds--so you're all ready to plant in a month or two." Um, excuse me? Design? Mulch? Fertilize? Beds? I figure I'll use the same planting method I've always used--dig a whole in the ground, stick something in, and hope it lives. Always worked before.

Adam and I decided to go to the movies today. The Hours and Chicago are playing in Lexington. Old School is playing at Fresh Pond. I let Adam pick what we saw. I bet you're struggling to figure out what he picked. Sigh.

After the movie, we went to Toys R Us, because I needed a teddy bear for reasons I shall not yet disclose (and it's not for the baby. Well, not directly). I felt bad for the salesman, a grown man, who I heard say with a straight face to someone looking for a toy, "Just head down to the end of Animal Alley and take a left." We quickly found the teddy bear but decided to wander a bit. It's alarming how much we'll have to get (although we're buying nothing just yet. I figure we have a few more months before I'll feel okay by baby gear). Adam pointed out that many of the strollers looked like off-road vehicles. We did get a little stuck in the Imaginarium section, trying out the toys. I remember the days when a globe was just a round map. Now it's an "interactive learning tool." Adam stared with rapt glee at the Home Depot toy section. Remind me to never send him in there by himself. Who knows what he'll walk out with. For himself, I mean.

A Night Out

Well, I finally made it out of the house and managed to stay up past 9 p.m. I think I may be turning a corner. After work, Hannah and I went to Johnny D's in Somerville before going to a reading where our coworker Midge was reading her Improper Bostonian short-story-contest winner. Her reading was great, although the others were a bit of a mixed bag. I think the whole thing would have been better had it been a shorter reading--too many readers made for a long night. I had one of those ridiculous moments where if you saw it in a movie you'd think, "That's too stupid to really happen," when I went to look at my watch, not even paying attention to the fact that I had a cup of orange juice in my hand, which splattered everywhere as I turned my wrist (and the cup) to see the time. Luckily, the cup was pretty much empty. After the event, I met Shannon at the Cambridgeport Saloon, but I got there just as her crowd was breaking up, so I didn't stay for very long.

Adam's out tonight at a boy's night for his section. Now, before you think anything sexist is going on, the girl's are having their night too. I know because they very kindly invited the wives and girlfriends of their male sectionmates. (I'm willing to bet anyone reading this ten bucks that it never occurred to the boys to invite the male partners of their female sectionmates.) Had I not had the reading I had promised to go to, I may have actually gone. However, I did notice a slight inequality in the events planned. The girl's were having a "girl's night in" with wine, DVDs, girly things. And the boys? Could they do anything sensible like that? No, they're going to a $50 a plate dinner at the Capital Grille and that doesn't include drinks. As our bank account is, as it is always wont to do at the end of the month, dwindling, we watch what we spend until my payday. However, that didn't stop Adam from requiring $100 for a single night out. On a Wednesday. For no good reason other than apparently some of his classmates have money to burn. What is it with boys that they can't just enjoy their own company, that there must always be large amounts of money spent or copious amounts of entertainment (c'mon, when was the last time that you saw guys get together to just "hang out" that didn't involve a. a bar, b. Nintendo or c. a sporting event). Can you picture all the cool HBS boys just getting together to gab and watch a flick at someone's house? Me neither.

Pregnancy Rants (Just for the Hell of It)

~I'm not sure how interested all the folks back home are in the pregnancy updates (I can see Eugene and Sang's eyes glazing over), so I'll try to label them so they can skip these sections. It's only fair. I skip all the sport sections in Eugene's blog.
~Last Friday at the doctor's office we heard (as opposed to see) the heartbeat for the first time (yes, you can see a heartbeat. It's a pulsating white blip on an ultrasound). The baby is indeed still there and his/her heart is beating at 150 bpms. The average is 120 to 160 bpms, so I said to Adam, "Would you look at that? Our baby is already above average. S/he is gifted!" And he said, "Either that or just spastic. Maybe you should cut down on the sugar."
~Doc said we could do our ultrasound at our next appointment or schedule it separately. I said, "If we do it separately then that's twice the reassurance that I am indeed still pregnant, isn't it?" She understood me. (She said it's common. Women are reassured and then two weeks after their doctor's appointments, they're convinced again that they aren't really pregnant.) Adam laughed at me, thinking I was kidding, and then called me crazy when I went ahead and made two separate appointments. Although, it does mean we get to find out the sex two weeks earlier (and of course, we want to know).
~How is it possible I've only gained four pounds (three by the doctor's scale, which I think is due to the fact that I wore jeans to the earlier appointments. Now, I can't button those jeans up, so I'm wearing light stretchy pants, which weigh less than the jeans). My tummy is making its presence known in a most uncomfortable way. I don't look pregnant at all--I just look like I've drank a lot of beer in my life.
~Clothing is annoying. None of my old clothes fit, and I'm not big enough yet for maternity clothes. Yuckola. And why does no one make none control-top tights or panty hose anymore? When did they decide that all women want to be tightly constricted around the waist?

Ode to Motorhead

Those who know me and my animal-disliking ways well may be surprised to know that I once owned a cat. While I think it's kind of obnoxious to put your own creative writing in a blog, I'm going to quote from an essay I wrote many years back (published awhile back in Under the Sun) about my cat Motorhead because it's easier than writing about her from scratch (get it, scratch? well, you will after reading this):

Apparently, no one told the mice that the landlord was trying to make the building a little nicer, and they began coming in droves, hiding in the closet, at the head of my futon, in back of the non-working fireplace. At the base of our building was a small storefront from which the smell of reefer and Jamaican food always floated. Often times, a tall black man with a multi-colored crocheted hat sat outside, keeping an eye on the street. We always said hello, but I never entered that tiny storefront, unsure of whether there really was a restaurant operating inside or not. But the roaches and mice took the scent, and the moment the temperature began to dip below forty, up they’d skitter, to the warmth and comfort of my home. So when the friend of a friend begged me to take his cat, I did. I should have known that no one is that desperate to get rid of an animal without good reason. This cat was psychotic. Why her name, Motorhead, didn’t give me the clue, I don’t know. I guess I was just desperate to get rid of the mice. My mother remains convinced to this day that the only reason I got the cat was because she’s deathly allergic to them. This, of course, wasn’t true. That was just an added bonus.

I will say, Motorhead did her job. An underweight, solid black cat, she’d lunge for the rodents with none of the gracefulness attributed to her kind. She’d tease them, batting them between her paws like a tennis ball, nudging them with her tiny nose, tossing them playfully into the air until those mice finally croaked from a heart attack. Then, when she ran out of mice, she’d go for legs, feet, hair, or whatever she could find. I’d lie in bed at night, listening to the couple next door fighting or the sounds of my roommate Flower and her boyfriend Alex making love as Motorhead carefully shredded my calves.

Motorhead was previously owned by some guys I knew in film school. My roommate and I suspected that the guys had fed Motorhead a lot of drugs. It was pretty obvious when she was having an acid flashback. At first I had to keep a squirt bottle in my loft bed, because at night, she'd start to claw the screen trying to get out, so I'd squeeze a little water on her. When she became more determined after a while, I'd end up just pouring a glass of water on top of her. I have lots of Motorhead stories, mostly involving dead and almost-dead mice and me hiding in my loft bed, waiting for the Tweedle Twirp to let herself into my apartment to rescue me from the dead rodents. I would try to coo, "Good cat, good cat," but it always came out as a maniacal shriek as I shifted the loft ladder around so as to keep the cat from climbing it. There were also the bird incidents and the squirrel incident, among others. Let's just say this cat had energy to spare.

When I left New York for Seattle, I traveled for three months across the country in the tiny Mazda RX-7 that had belonged to my father but that he had given me because he was afraid if left to my own devices that I'd buy something that would break down in the middle of nowhere. With no place to live in Seattle and three months of hostels, cheap motels, and a tent ahead of me, I knew I couldn't bring Motorhead with me, so I gave her to my then-boyfriend Ken, who at the time was moving from New York to North Carolina. Ken kept Motorhead for many years until a girlfriend (many years after we broke up) fell in love with Motorhead. Ken called me one day and asked if Cathy could keep the cat. I said fine, and I joked with my friends that I was such a '90s gal that my cat was now living with my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend and I was cool with it. Cathy doted on Motorhead, and Ken would periodically send me pictures. She had grown fat and content and she now sat on people's laps and purred. I was always sorry I hadn't taken her with me, but what are you going to do.

Anyway, Motorhead recently began to have kidney problems, and she was put to sleep this morning. I hope there are lots of mice where ever you are, Moo.

No War Here

For those who come here and wonder why I don't discuss the serious stuff, it's because I'm getting it everywhere else, so I see no need to blog about it here. I follow the New York Times coverage and I read the BBC's War Diaries and I get more than my share in other blogs and on the news. I assume the same of you. You don't come here for my political opinions. You come here for my snarky attitude. Which you shall get. In abundance.

The Rules Haven't Changed

Just because I'm pregnant, it doesn't mean that when I say, "Gee, I'm gaining weight," that the correct answer is ever, "Yeah, I know."

Peepalicious!

He may have bad politics, but he's still the best husband ever. Look what I found waiting for me when I got home:

My very own Peeps ration book! So I get to enjoy my Peeps without the "oh, why did you let me eat the entire box?" feeling! Wow, Peeps and no stomach ache. Who woulda thunk it possible? Although, I do hope he hid those Peeps really, really well. If I find them, the ration book is going out the window.

Someone Reads What I Write

At work (I know, I know, I'm not writing about work, but I have to mention this), I recieved a press release for a film-in-progress being shown at BU's School of Education. They discuss the filmmaker's credits, and it says, "Her past works include A Jumpin' Night in the Garden of Eden and Umm Kulthum: A Voice Like Egypt (narrated by Omar Sharif), which Amazon.com refers to as a 'beautifully styled documentary.'" (This part is printed in bold.) Which, I will give you, it is. But I just find it so bizarre, because who do you think wrote that Amazon.com review?

Don't Mess with a Hungry Jenny

Bread and Circus is a local grocery store owned by Whole Foods, which of course means that it is filled with expensive yet wholesome foods. So we can call it a lapse due to pregnancy brain, because I told Adam that on my way home, I'd stop by Bread and Circus and grab something for dinner. I walked into the grocery store thinking, "Sucker! I'm hungry and I'm pregnant and I'm going to clean this store out!" I could just see Adam's face as I walked in with the four bags of junk food I was going to buy. Mmmmm. Double Stuf Oreos. Peeps. Nutella. Of course, this is a Whole Foods Market. No Oreos, no peeps, no nutella. The closest I could get was those stupid fruit-sweetened cookies that won't come close to making me happy. I came home with nothing but a bag of cheese and olives. It was a sad day in my life. You can be sure I won't be going to Bread and Circus again.

The Weekend Wrap Up

Warm weather has begun at last. The weekend was decidedly springlike, although it has nothing on today, when at lunch, it was a whopping 58 degrees, which of course felt downright hot. Large patches of brown dirt are now finally making their way through the piles of snow in our front yard, making for tempting mud puddles. I had to strip off my tights midday because I was sweatin' (and, of course, because they cut off all circulation because of my ever-expanding tummy, but that doesn't sound nearly as pleasant, does it). But you didn't come here to read about the weather, did you? So here are the highlights from my weekend:
~Breakfast on Saturday at Renee's Cafe with Adam's brother Jon and his maybe-she-is, maybe-she-isn't girlfriend. Classic moment came when pointing out Jon's odd t-shirt, I asked if his mother had bought for him. "No way!" he said. "Not only is she not allowed to buy my clothes, but she's barely allowed to do my laundry anymore." I bet his mother lives in fear for the day he won't let her do his wash. It's a heart-wrenching moment. Did I mention that Jon just turned 27?
~Adam will be moving his office into the basement. The basement windows need some sort of curtains so prying eyes won't just peer down and see a lonely computer those fifteen minutes a day when Adam is not compulsively checking his e-mail. Adam agrees curtains are needed. I now have the sewing skills: I shall make the curtains. "Shall I just pick out the fabric?" I ask. "No," he barks. (Okay, not exactly a bark. More like the snip of a disgruntled husband.) "Okay, so we'll go to Joann Fabrics and you'll pick something out." "I don' wanna go." "Then I'll pick them out." "No!"

Later that day in the parking lot of the fabric store, Adam does not want to enter. "We'll just get blinds," Adam says. Except that these windows are twenty-eight inches tall. "We don't need custom blinds. We'll just put in normal blinds and just not unroll them all the way." Except that there's nowhere to put the blinds on the outside of the windows (the top abuts the ceiling). "We'll put them on the inside," which of course leaves plenty of room for daylight. And we're already at the fabric store. "Don't tell anyone I'm doing this," Adam says. Of course not, honey. "Hurry up," he says. "We're in and out fast as we can."

Inside the store, Adam doesn't do much better as I hold up bolts of fabric for him. "Do you like these?" "No." "Do you like these?" "No." "Do you like these?" "No." Finally I send him off to pick out fabric himself. "I don't know what to get." There is an unmistakable whine in his voice. He finally picks a heavy canvas that I point out won't let in a shred of light. He finally agrees on a calico. At this point, he's hopping from foot to foot anxious to get out of there. But I'm not done. Finally, frustrated, I send him to Starbucks and tell him to come back for me in fifteen minutes. You've never seen this boy move so fast. Of course, after fifteen minutes, I'm roaming the store killing time, waiting for his return. Finally I give up and go to pay and he enters. He asks, "What's taking you so long?" "I've been waiting for you." "Oh, I was waiting outside." God forbid he be seen in the store twice. You would think I sent him to the store for a pregnancy test or tampons (which, I should mention, I have done and he's managed quite well). I swear, the entire experience was straight out of Blondie comic strip. (Hey, you can make your own Blondie comic strip.)

By the way, for those tracking my Martha tendencies, I got everything I need and I'll report back on whether I actually successfully made the curtains or not. Because there really is not a top window sill, we'll have to put it up in a makeshift hooks kind of manner. I'll take pictures when I'm done so you can see what I mean.
~A Sports Night marathon. Every time I attempted to get up to clean my office closet out, I found my butt squarely glued to the couch. So Adam and I had a few major Sports Night binge sessions in which we finished the series. That was a great series. Sigh.
~And I did, in fact, finally clean out my closet. Didn't quite finish, but I have a better idea where things are. Of course, a few things in our house are still MIA from the move. I will find them one of these days soon!

Hungry Hungry Hippo

I pack enough food to take with me to work to feed three normal size adult males. It is 1:38 p.m. on Friday. And I have eaten every last piece of food I brought. All of it. And I'm looking for more. It's not a pretty sight, so if you see me, stay far away, unless you come with offerings of sustenance. Otherwise, I just might bite the hand that doesn't feed me.

Random Thoughts

~Since yesterday was such a glorious day, with weather warm enough (almost 50!) to go for a fro-yo run (mmm, chocolate frozen yogurt with marshmallow fluff mixed in) and for bits of actual pieces of brown dead grass to be seen poking through the layer of gray snow on our lawn, I'm being punished today. A lovely dance of snow is appearing outside my window. It's such a flurry that it appears to be snowing up instead of down. Dance, pretty snow, dance! And then go away and never ever come back.
~I'm not sure why I find this so amusing, but I gave in this morning after standing in front of my closet shrieking, "Arrrggg! Not one f'ing thing fits me anymore!" Which isn't exactly true as I have a couple of elastic-waisted skirts, but as I've already worn them this week, those were out. So, given how much I absolutely detest clothes shopping (if there's a more tedious chore out there, I'm not sure what it is), I popped online to see what I could find. And what was that? Not one, not two, but three maternity wedding gowns for sale at Amazon's apparel store. Has anyone bought a maternity wedding dress online (eBay excepted)? Maybe I should pick up one of those suckers for the spring black tie ball I need to attend with Adam.
~This is the funniest baby site ever created. Of course, it's made me completely change my mind about having a child, but as Adam keeps pointing out, it's a little late for that. (Seriously, I do want this child, however, that's not going to stop me from being absolutely furious over the so-called partial-birth abortion ban that was passed in the Senate. Everyone, go make a donation to Naral now!)
~I work in a professional office. Not a dorm. So why is it grown women can't go to the bathroom in a clean and neat way. Our work bathroom is disgusting.
~I have done more interviews this week than ever before. So far this week I've inteviewed eleven people and I have three more that are being done tonight. Nobody call me this week. I don't want to talk to anyone. That includes you.
~Dance, pretty snow, dance!

Stick It to Me, Tax Man

Ah, the torture of getting one's taxes done. I suppose it's less torture than doing them oneself, however, still not a pleasant experience. Adam and I figured it would be a quick in and out. We'd drop off our forms, give him a few facts, and then be on our way. In fact, I distinctly remember saying to Adam, "This shouldn't take more than an hour, so let's eat afterward," to which he wholeheartedly agreed. Well, almost two and half hours later (I hadn't realized that taxes were a group project), the poor baby is screaming inside of me (yes, screaming. Vocal cords developed last Thursday. And yes, it was last Thursday so didn't give me the same crap Adam does about "approximate dates" and "everyone's different." My baby developed vocal cords last Thursday right on schedule, thank you very much!), crying from hunger. The tax guy seems good, but he's easily distracted on any tangent, and Adam keeps wanting to send him on more. "Yeah, the tuition at HBS is pretty high." "Oh," taxman says, leaning back a bit, you know, away from the computer, "when I was in business school, this was back in the '70s, mind you..." And off he went. I kept doing that discreet hit/squeeze under the table to get Adam to shut up so the guy would finish up and I could eat! Of course, the tax man wasn't on my best side, because after asking us, "Who should be the main tax payer?" Adam, knowing I have certain control issues (I know, you're surprised by this), said, "Jenny," to which I enthusiastically concurred. But even with that, Adam was put down as tax payer and I was put down as--gag--spouse! Spouse! Do I look like a spouse to you? I don't think so. This guy better be saving us a buttload of money after starving the baby and calling me a spouse. Sheesh.

A CWIT with Good Musical Taste, Thank You

So Amazon has this feature, Share the Love, whereby it will send a list of the books/music/videos you've bought to your friends and offer them a 10 percent discount on those items. Which is cool. I've bought things off of other people's Share the Love. However, it only displays the top three items apparently in your order so all of my friends now think I'm a flaming CWIT, because they got a mail from me saying I had bought Baby Bargains, Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year (and no I don't know if it's a boy--this was recommended by a friend), and Home Landscaping: Northeast Region, so everyone assumed that the hormones are turning me into a Stepford suburban housewife, who cares desperately whether or not the squirrels are going to get at her tulip bulbs. Well, actually, I do care about tulip bulbs, so maybe that was a bad example. But I'm a very cool Stepford suburban housewife-potentially-to-be and folks would know that if they saw the rest of my order and noticed I also purchased The Eminem Show (with the explicit lyrics, thank you very much) and Paris Combo's Living Room. Does that sound CWIT to you? I think not. Your apology has been accepted.

Can't Have It Both Ways

Adam is having issues with the whole "my child" thing. Apparently he thinks I should be referring to it as "our child." And yet, when I'm not feeling well, and he says, "I'm sorry," he isn't fond of the answer, "You damn well should be sorry, because this whole thing is your fault because you were the jerk who injected me with this parasitic creature that is sucking the very lifeblood from me!" In those moments, he seems to be willing to distance himself from the whole thing. Well, until he can take over the headaches, the queasiness, the constant sleepiness, and the ever-present bloating and aches, then it's going to be my child.

Terras Irradient

The Tweedle Twirp has come up with an excellent compromise. Since my child will be a violet and Adam's child will yearn "to feel that early morning crunch of snow and see the fog rising off of the Connecticut river, the Tweedle Twirp suggested her own violet alma mater complete with crunching snow and a stone's throw to the Connecticut river (and no Republicans. They actually give you a blood test before they'll accept you to insure that there's no trace of GOP in there). Everyone can be happy. Although, even if we're not all happy, does it really matter? As if Adam could have his own child. Hah!

Weekend's Almost Here...

Adam's out of town, the house is clean (and still will be when I get home from work), I've got a weekend full of plans with girlfriends, Martha's Baby magazine is out, our order of three boxes of Girl Scout cookies just came in and we were just dismissed from work because March was such a good month for us (never mind that we got out at three yesterday because the university closed because of the snow storm). It's gonna be a good weekend!

Today's Top Stories

I think a minimum age should be imposed on newscasters. I'm so sick of the young earnest kids relaying the news with the "appropriate" facial gestures and the I'm-being-serious tone of voice. These guys all took acting 101 and quit there. You'll never see someone older making those ridiculous eyebrow moves and the frowny face only to switch to the smiley face two seconds later. Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw deliver the news. They don't emote it.

This morning I made the mistake of turning on the TV while I ate my Raisin Bran. I have plenty of time in the morning, but it never feels like it because I glue myself to the computer and answer e-mail or blog (like right now). But this morning, I'm feeling a little queasy and headachy (which I've been feeling for the past three months, but have been unable to mention before), so I decided to relax this morning. Of course, I forgot that you can't relax to the morning news. First of all, CNN gives me a headache with all the fuss on the screen. I don't care what the weather is in Vancouver (does anyone ever stick around long enough to get the weather in his or her own city?) and I find myself staring at that ridiculous crawl in an odd daze, unable to hear what the newscaster is saying. Not that that's bad. As I've mentioned before, I can't handle the news these days (can you say hormonal weepies?). Why I thought CNN would be a good way to start my day, I don't know. I got enough of a taste of bombings and confrontations on my local NPR station. It's all enough to make me go running back to my computer.

And You Thought the CWITs Were Bad

So, for the past six months I've been resisting the domination of the CWITs. (And Seattle folks, that's pronounced see-wits. And for those with short-term memories, it stands for Corporate Wives-in-Training.) I haven't had a manicure, a wax, or an Ann Taylor shopping spree. I speak with derision of Hah-vahd and those who attend (and yes, to their faces. Believe me, all of Adam's sectionmates are used to me by now). I've been rude, crude, and generally unpleasant to be around. I have fought. And I was winning. Until now. Yes, I am succumbing to the siren call of the CWITs. Where others have resisted, I have fallen prey. I am not only embracing a CWIT lifestyle, I shall be moving beyond it. I will be taking my wifely duties to the next level.

The MAMs. It's true. I've skipped CWITness in its entirety and am moving directly to the next tier. Do not pass Saks, do not collect alimony. Go straight to the Mommies and Me. Adam and I are breeding. What does this mean for you, dear reader (I'm suddenly channeling Jane Austen)? There will rants about how an over-educated professional woman may not be able to afford to continue working because childcare is ridiculously expensive (and won't that be exciting for you, dear reader, if I become a stay-at-home CWIT MAM). There will be reports of the battle for Baby Hah-vahd's soul (if you think Adam's Republican ways are going to influence my child, you've got another think coming! This baby will be violet, thank you very much, without a dash of green or crimson). You will still have the same sarcastic, bitter me, only with more random raging hormonal outbursts. If you think it's a joy for you, imagine what life is like for Adam right now. I'll try to steer clear of the medical crap (although it may slip through) and focus on the joys of being a Hah-vahd mother as I try to keep my alter CWIT ego, Jennifer, at bay. Baby Hah-vahd is due September 10. It's going to be quite a ride, folks.

The Call of the Bike Path

I know. Who goes to Seattle in February for the weather? Well, apparently, I do. Two out of the four days were as sunny as sunny gets. The other days were typical Seattle winter rain, with none of the biting cold we're having out here. Yet sunny days in February take their toll on the city. Coming in from the airport, brown lawn after brown lawn rolled by. This is peak green season for the town. Even the cherry trees were already blossomed and dying.

The trip was great fun although I packed too much into such a short time. Every single moment was filled. From coffee to lunch to drinks to more drinks to dinner on Friday left me a zombie. The wedding was beautiful, although going to the reception at the Edgewater without Adam was a tad lonely (the site of our own nuptials). And the wedding reception was designed entirely to torture me. A huge table of oysters and the most glorious looking martinis tempted me all night, but I could just look on longingly. Sigh. Martinis and oysters are my weakness.

What's hardest about being back in Seattle is the reminder of how inactive I've become. Barring my friends, what I miss most about Seattle is how it just lures you outdoors. Even the rainy days. On Sunday morning, JulieP, Sandra, and I went walking in the rain around Green Lake, and, as always, it was packed. Bikes beckon you. The town is so perfect for riding. The pathways call you to go for a quick run. Everyone is out and about all year long (although, obviously, more so in summer). Boston isn't outdoorsy in the same way. True, I've seen diehard bicyclists pedaling through the snow, but obviously outdoor entertainment is more of a challenge than most people are up to in the winter here. But last August I didn't see folks outside in the same quantities as back west. The town isn't laid out in the same way (wide bicycle lanes, bike paths everywhere, lots of scenic routes within the city such as Myrtle Edwards Park, Discovery Park, Golden Gardens, Green Lake, among others). Along the Charles River in Boston you'll get a fair crowd, especially on Sundays in summer when Memorial Drive is closed to cars. But it can't compete. Before anyone bitches that there is an outdoor culture in Boston, let me say, that's fine. But until you've been to Seattle, don't tell me that it can even begin to compare. I had the overwhelming urge to hop on a bike and take off while I was in Seattle. Never mind that I didn't have a bike there (ah, I miss my celeste blue 27-speed Bianchi Eros speed machine. Oh, I still have it. It just hasn't seen daylight in a long time).