365 degrees, Going Once

Sometimes when I don't write for awhile, I find it even harder to write. Because time has passed and things have happened and my mind is filled with things to say and details to fill you in on. I think about breaking them down into bullet points i.e.

* Moved into new house
* We love it.
* The cats love it.
* Went on a trip to AZ
* It was fun.
* I'm like six months pregnant.
* I'm huge.
* I still feel kinda hot though.
* Brother moves in with us in about a week.
* I'm excited and kinda scared too.
* I love change.
* I hate change.

But I thought I disliked diary posts, even though that's what we're all really here for. And sometimes I think if you just detail your life, people find that more interesting than being all creative and write-y.

I don't think I'm leaving here. This blog. But I do find myself wondering what I'm doing here. What am I trying to accomplish. If anything. Maybe I am leaving. Let me think.

I recently passed my year-o-blogging mark, my 365 degrees, and I don't think I'm doing what I came here to do. I mean, I did do it. But I am looking for something else. I have a different idea of what to do. And I'm wondering if I should just leave this here. And move on to my other thing. It's blogging. But it's not blogging like this. It's more like career blogging. Which seems more practical. More useful. And a pet project of mine. I don't see the use in this anymore. Is this like a blogging crisis or something...idk. I've learned a lot here though. We'll see...

I'm not ready to leave this yet, but I needed to tell it how I felt.

The Late Late Show

I'm writing this now as Dave sleeps, the washer machine whirs, the cats look on questioningly, and the twinkle lights in the tree are the only muted yellow light in the living room. I'm not sure why I'm here now. I guess I can't sleep.

I'm thinking about San Diego. It's been a year now. A year here and not there. In Phoenix. It's been only a year and I know already that I won't ever be moving back there. Although I miss odd things like crazy...our fave pizza place, the ceiling of our old apartment, the summer heat like an oven, the azure blue pools, the clean uncracked streets, the proximity of my father.

But you know when you just know right? You just know...
And we already know. Why? No idea. Do you believe in fate? Destiny? Pre-destination? A guiding light, hand, power, force, god perhaps? I do.

I didn't have a very religious upbringing (thank god ;-)), but I do believe in God. For lack of a better word. That relationship I have with that mystery force is Real to me. Comforting. I shovel prayer into it so we get closer. I Believe. In Love. In Goodness. In Grace. In Truth.

But sometimes after the Small Things lull me, like putting my hands together before sleeping, I contemplate the Big Things...like 'What's it all about? Where are we going?' And while I feel like I know it's going to be o.k...I have to say that, The Truth Is, on the specifics...

i don't know  
you don't know  
we don't know.

Hey There Change-y Pants

I love moving because it feels like you're moving...

You know, like life itself is propelling forward; the very substance of your surroundings morphs. Things are changing. Change is tangible.

I love change, maybe that's why I'd label myself a progressive. I always think things could be better. Even if they're good now, why not strive for Totally Awesome? Conservatism seems to hinge on the very notion that, hey everything's ok, leave it alone you big changer change-y pants. Why you always gotta reach for the sky, can't you be happy with What Is?

Why? Because most of the time, What Is is pretty good, but there's a few tweaks that will prolly make it better. And I Believe. We Should. Make It Better. Always.

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My brother is moving here to San Diego, did I tell you that? In a matter of weeks, my younger brother, who now resides in Minnesota with our mother, will be setting up shop in our hilly town, living in a nice corner room in our house for an indeterminent amount of time. I can't tell you how ecstatic that makes me.

I feel so removed. I feel so cut off, limbs like arms beyond my reach. I miss my family. I miss the life that will never be: me baby-sitting my niece on warm Saturday afternoons--her arms reaching for me as I enter through doors. The me that would pick out paint colors for the nursery with my mother. The me that would help my sis with summer garage sales. I mourn for all that.

But one memory I won't cry for now is the me that sees my son reach out for his uncle on any given Wednesday. The me that drinks cold beers with my brother at the table on a Saturday night, while he whips me at another game of cards. The me that knows I'm not completely alone here.

I think that my brother will stay a very long time here in this cool coastal town. And I think we will too. That makes me happy. These roots extend like arms around our hearts.

Little Paper Hearts

I am so avoiding what I have to do right now. I need to be knee-deep in my closet, curled up on the floor, going through boxes I haven't gone through in a year. I need to look at every little picture and note in them and say, "oh how cute, i remember that." And then I need to re-pack it again. Box it up. Move it to the next place. And then, not look at it at all until the next time we move. These little sentiments are so important right?

Sometimes I imagine my children going through my memory boxes of poems and old love letters, little torn and faded envelopes of a past life lived. A life that they will never know of me. A me that they will never see. I imagine them being surprised, maybe even a little guilty for not knowing these little parts of a person they will come to know as mom, Mom, MOMMM!!!!

Then I think of my own mother and her lives she lived before us. Who was she really? I imagine her laughing, beautiful as ever, gliding across stages in her dance leotards. I imagine men loved her and I imagine she enjoyed their attention without effort, being adored came natural to her. But this is the mother I've imagined. In truth, I will never know her as the her before me. What dreams will my children conjure up?

Then, I imagine I've died abruptly and Dave has to sift through my old memories. I'm embarrassed with this. I start to throw away things that cheapen my love for him, like when I claimed to love others before him. What did I know of love then, before I married you my love? I burn these adolescent poems. I imagine as we gather up homes against the backdrop of our new family, with each move, I'll throw away more and more of these cheap little paper hearts. Leaving room only for my one true beating, breathing heart....You.

Moving Blahs and Hurrahs

So we are moving in about two weeks. We rented a house nearby the we love love love. It took us atleast three months to find this house rental. Who knew that the house rental market in San Diego was so fierce? We lost a few houses due to not applying within days of its posting. So we learned to be vigilante. I would be seeing houses within hours of them posting. Other applicants be damned.

Once we found houses to view based on budget range and location, I choose a house based almost solely on intuition. I wait for my insides to go, "Yes, yes, YES...THIS IS IT!  It could be perfect in every way, but if my bells don't go off, I don't move.

Also, Dave and I agreed as a couple that we won't ever try to "convince" the other person to like a house. There were a few I really liked, but Dave wasn't that smitten. The same thing happened vice verse: Dave liked a house or two and I just wasn't feeling it. Conversation over. Next. Until both of us were in agreement (without any nudging on the others part at all), that's when we sign papers. We looked at over 20 houses before deciding on this one. We find that we get the best results when we do that.

In the end though, even with our "system," it's still all a gamble isn't it? Will we like it? Love it? We will be here for at least three years before we start thinking of buying...did we make the right choice? I think so...

Needless to say though, right now I am so excited about it. We've been in San Diego for one full year now, and I can't say that the apartment we live in I'm head-over-heels for. We found this place quickly; we weren't able to use our "system" because of time constraints. And I must say, I've missed our adorable apartment in Phoenix more than once. I am thinking/hoping that this will make us feel more at home here. Better get packing!

Team Blue

IT'S A BOY!!!!  (Did I mention how I knew that? I like sooooo knew that...) 
P.S. My mother, the witch, changed her vote prior to the ultrasound. She knew. Of course she knew. Or. She changed the course of history... that's soooo par for the course.

(My mother used to tell us that our real mother was in a flower pot. On the porch. You see? There's proof--she's even admitted her witchy ways!!!)

Anyway, back to our little boy. My son. My son whose in my belly. He's so real to me now all of the sudden. I visualize him and make dreams for him. I talk to him more. I rub my belly and try to soothe him. I played him Jack Johnson yesterday while I did the dishes. I picked the tunes especially for him--he feels like a kid who might like Jack Johnson.

I feel him now. I mean, literally. He does backflips in there. It is THE coolest thing EVER to feel him bump around in there.

I'm so excited to know now for sure that he's a little boy. These types of things define your family. Now, I know, my first born is a boy. That creates a certain type of dynamic in a family. It shapes things. Futures.

I don't get those peeps that decide not to find out. Like I SERIOUSLY can't wrap my mind around it. They're like, "It will be a surprise." But, I mean, isn't it a surprise when you hear? Whenever you hear it?  I started crying when the ultrasound tech told us. Dave's smile was a smile I have never seen him wear before--the joy of knowing what your family will look like. The knowledge. It was a beautiful, beautiful moment. And then, when we told everyone, the reactions were filled to the brim with excitement.

There's so many uncontrollables/unknowables in labor, in new parenthood. Such as, how will labor feel? Will the baby be healthy? Holy shit, I'm gunna be a mom? How long does labor take? Will I be able to breastfeed right away? How will my partner react? How will our relationship change once the baby is here? My body? My boobs? Omg, What the f**k am I gunna do with a KID?!

The ONE thing you can control, is knowing what gender you might have. You can figure out what color to paint the nursery. You can register for cute clothes and blankets. You can pick a name. You can talk to your baby, BY their name, therefore bonding with them. Knowing the sex takes away one question mark in the big question mark of parenthood.

I've also heard the whole "I'm old-fashioned" argument. Pshh, Lame. Back in the day, they HAD to wait till birth to find out the gender. Reminder: They also didn't have cell phones or toilets Back In The Day. Do you want to pee in a pot too? I didn't think so...

I run into these girls everywhere though, that don't want to know. I nod and smile politely as they explain weakly, "We want it to be a surprise." Ugh, it will. I promise you, whenever you find out, it will be a surprise. There's no reason to wait until labor. Seriously, no GOOD reason to wait until labor. It seems like very unnecessary anticipation. Isn't the miracle of birth exciting enough? You don't get a cookie or a prize for "holding out," ladies.

And I know there's plenty girls reading this who are probably reeling now in defense. They themselves chose the "wait till birth" route as their co-workers and friends and families rallied around them for almost an entire year, with their old wive's tales and their bets and their guesses (which, um, could have been solved with a simple 'yea or nay' from the ultrasound tech).

Others reading this are reeling in defense of their loved ones who have made this decision. And so I semi-apologize for my outspoken passions. Maybe if someone could show me/tell me any other GOOD reason that might make a lick of sense to me. Then, I'll gladly change my tune. Until then, in my head, I'll be shaking my head.

But of course, to each his own...I do still love my girls who have done this (of course I have friends and family who have chosen this, don't we all? Sigh). But while I still love you, I just don't love your behavior ;-)

Here's my 20 week shot. Halfway done!!! As a disclaimer: I do take these shots in the a.m. before any food or anything, so that I show myself in the best light. I also stand nice and tall and fix the lighting in iPhoto. So for all those "I sorta hate you" notes I got on my last post, I want to assure you that if they were taken at night, it would look atleast twice as big as this. I'm just too vain to show you all that...

Today is the day before the day that...

we find out about our little baby--BOY or GIRL? I am just itching with anticipation. So much so, that I want to eat my arm. I want to just tear the flesh clear off with my teeth. Stare at the wall while I chew the rubber and fuggetaboutit.

Oh my gosh that's gross.

I am writing this because I want records. Records that, I, Darcy K---, believe it's a boy. I want to be right about this because I think I have just sick intuition that typically just knows all sorts of fun/interesting/sad things. So--if I'm wrong--my world will probably crumble, cave in on itself. For those of you who know (love?) me, I ain't so good at being wrong. Not my strong suit. So pray for me, that for me, I might be right, so I don't have to reevaluate my entire life. (PLUS, Dave and I super-dig our boy name.)

Let also, the record stand, that my mom and sis kinda swear it's a girl. And that's the only thing that bugs me about this entire thing, because they are like witches or something and have voodoo intuition powers of their own that probably change the course of history to their liking. Or at least to mess with my worldview. Just to mess with my worldview. Because they have a sick sense of humor. Which I tend to like, ok delight in, 'cept when I happen to be the receivee.

To close, I have some pics of 18 week belly. I am now 19 1/2 tho, and since this pic, have "popped," which really means my entire wardrobe is f**king useless. Soon, I'll be 20 weeks, my baby will be half-done, 1/2 ready to meet the world, and you'll see--pregnancy is upon me. For now, here's the last "honeymoon" preggo pic.

San Francisco Snippets

What to say? You are beloved, frenzied, urban, and hip. You make me marvel at humans (look what we've done)...

Your downtown teems with the homeless, the toothless, the piles of stacked concrete and glass, the saturated color, the clipped wind, and the loud sharp ring of those quinnessential cable cars. I was sometimes scared; I was alive in my bones.

We trekked all over that city, holding hands. I loved being with you, having your full attention, your whole being. It was the most fun I've had since our honeymoon--exactly one year ago. We are the best travelers together. (together. we're better. always).

Until the next time, here's some pics from my Pentax Kx DSLR...she loved San Fran as much as we did....

 

  

                  

On this paper heart i pledge...

Dave and I are headed out tomorrow to San Francisco for an extended weekend. It's been one year since we tied the knot. One year since we committed, in advance, to a lifetime together. Of all the eight years we've been together, this year, in my heart, has been the easiest. Not that it was ever hard to love Dave. No, it's always felt like coming home. And yes, the first couple years, we had bumps, growing pains, as we merged. But then the months smoothed into years and I was yours--turned inside-out by our love--and truly, hasn't it always been easy? But this year, yes, has been the best...

I've always been practical I guess, guarding my heart from disaster. Even as our lives braided around each other, a tight knot of friends and family and love. I still kept myself safe. I didn't even realize it--the epiphany coming like a slow dawn this whole year. But I know now: I let go up there on that beautiful day on that beautiful lake. That day. April 18th, 2009. Something shifted in the heart when I said, "I promise to love you forever and ever." The formality of it--the food, the dance, the dress--that was just a bonus. Mostly, I remember pledging myself to you. To us. I'm all in, baby. I'm all in. A complete fall. That commitment has freed me to feel the most profound connection to you. The effect: like a giant ripple, deepening my love for everything.

This love

Cracks my heart open

and pours out my pores.

This love gathers

youmeyoumeyoume

and expands.

Dear heart,

I love that you

ignore the boundaries of the body.

Don't come back.

I'm not afraid. to let you.

Be.

Operation Self-Discipline

So Dave and I are experimenting a bit with our lives. He's working his ass off. And due to the results of his hard work, we were able to free me from my bullshit pursuits (i.e. jobs that get me no nearer my dreams). It's been two months. Let me tell you about it...

I am bird. Taking my creativity into my palms, making it mine day in and day out. Yet. When your days are yours and yours alone, you can't just bask in the sun. You'll rot inside. And so. I've launched Operation Self-Discipline. Some days I win. Some days I fail.

My New Work Life

1) So, each day, I must write. Not blog. Write. For at least one hour.

I am working on a collection of twelve short stories. Fiction. I have almost two done. I think the first one sucks. I am in love with the second. Each day makes me more hopeful. Stronger.

I also take time each day to study writing. I read short stories, break down their structure, highlight and underline. I also read writing advice books--internalizing what sounds right.

2) I am putting paintings up on Etsy. I sold two paintings, just posted a third, almost done with the fourth. When I post it, I'll post pics. That's a promise. I just want my store to be more full when I unveil.

Each day I must also put time into my art. At least an hour. I swear, when my music is on and I have that brush in my hand, I'm so at peace--so in love with the world.

I try to study art daily too. Read the manual for my new DSLR camera. Ugh. So dry.

3) Healthy eating and exercise. See-saw on the healthy eating, but much better than a year ago. I also attend prenatal pilates twice a week. Prenatal yoga hopefully starts next week.

4) Volunteering. I volunteer at least once a week with Voice for Children. I work with a girl in foster care. I "help" her by simply being there. This whole paragraph seems gratutious. But truly, it's important to me to do something NOT for me.

And there it is.

I feel so blessed to have this opportunity to focus on writing and art (let alone health and altruism). It is the actualization of a lifelong dream. The process itself fills me to the brim with gratitude. I believe that dreams are possible. I believe that if you put in the time, you can manifest your goals. I thank God that I have a husband that believes the same thing. And that he believes in me.

On the downside, I'm hella lonely! Not only do we still lack a thick social network here in San Diego, but without work, I'm by myself ALL THE TIME! Due to my preggo situation, I can't even comfort myself with booze.

And so, it's Friday night--I turn to you!

A Pregnant Pause

I can feel spring. She's so light and pretty. She's the color of hot pink. She's flooded the atmosphere. She's always my favorite. I feel light too. Like running. Like air.

It's the same spring. I slip back into my body. The darkness lifts. Why was I ever so silent, moods wrapped like nooses around the insides?

It's a different spring. I have you in my body. In my belly. In my torso.

They say you are three inches long now. They say you can suck your thumb. They say your eyes are becoming your eyes.

Sometimes, I wish I could feel you. You feel so abstract to me. I want to feel something profound. I want to know you.

At other times, I feel like I know everything about you already. And you're you. And I've known you for thousands of years. I've loved you for lifetimes. I've held you so many times. I can't wait to see you again.

I wish that I dreamt of you.

Instead, I dream of cigarettes. Not a week goes by in the astral plane that I don't scramble behind a tin building with my stolen booty and chain smoke. In these nightly flights, I'm even still pregnant. But I'm deviant. I relish each puff. I'm sorry for that, my dear. I may not have control over my mind, but as for my body, I remain smoke-free.

What are you doing today, my love? Do you sense my thoughts, my dreams for you? Does the tap of the keys soothe you?

I am almost fourteen weeks now. I miss wine. I miss an icy cold beer on a hot spring day. I miss long baths. I miss drowning my mornings with caffeine. I miss the me that is leaving. It's impossible to keep her. I think it's o.k. Of course it's o.k. It's more than o.k.

Sleep late, my love, we have a long journey. We're done with the first trimester now. We sigh in relief.

To whoever you might be, I pray that I can help you be Who You Are.

Oh for the Love of Health

I'm trying hard not to think about things like what silly people say about health care reform. That's about as deep as I can go there without screaming. Don't you know? What are they so afraid of?

Wait. I want to tear my face off. When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. Such as 1 + 1 = 2. (I have to start there with people.) I have to tell them that you shouldn't cross the street on a red light. Because it's as basic as that to me. What don't you get?

When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. In my (our) America. I want to lay down my guns when I see you screaming, "I don't want you to save me!" I want to stop fighting, because I think, in the long run, who gives a good goddamn? If you don't care about you, then why should I care about you?

When I see how many people aren't listening. When I see how many people are misinterpreting. When I see how many people are full of fear. When I see how many people are armed with propaganda and lies and untruths. When I see how many people are o.k. with that. Those closed fists. Those closed hearts. I think to myself: America is screwed. Oh my god, we are so screwed...

I don't want to fight for 1+1=2; it shouldn't be so hard. Sure, it passed. For that, I'm grateful. But what happens now? When 1+1=2 is open for debate?

I think then about my children. Where will we go? To protect. From you and you and you there too.

Oh America. You have it so good in so many ways. Why are you so dead-set on f**king it up?

An American Tale

I have lived in three places in my life:

1) Fargo, North Dakota (ages 0-18)
2) Phoenix, Arizona (ages 18-30)
and presently,
3) San Diego, California (almost one year)

Now that I live in San Diego, a third location, it's become harder to explain the past to strangers. In Phoenix it was simple. People would ask, "Where are you from?" And the easy answer would be, "Fargo, North Dakota." I grew up there. I moved from Fargo to Phoenix. Point A to Point B. All understood.

I even earned a little respect. In a weird way, Fargo seems exotic to most people in this part of the country. It's freezing and off-the-beaten path. Most people don't know anyone from North Dakota, so already, you earn some cred. In fact, most people don't know anyone whose even traveled there. The best you get is someone who might have traveled through there. So, people are mildly interested. They might even ask you questions.

Plus, thanks to the Coen brothers Oscar-winning movie "Fargo" circa late 1990's, the town name itself strikes a chord of positive nostalgia that most people easily convolute with their feelings towards me. I damn the day that "Fargo," the movie, fades from national consciousness.

But now that I've moved to San Diego, I've lost some of my geographical mojo. When people hear that you've just moved here, the typical question is, "Where from?" Well, I moved to San Diego from Phoenix.

This answer irritates San Diegans. Phoenicians are not a well-respected group of people here in SoCal. Due to their five-hour-drive proximity to each other, most Phoenicians have been vacationing in San Diego for decades. These "Zoni" tourists crowd their pretty beaches, hotels, and restaurants during the better parts of the year. Phoenicians, understandably fleeing the desert during the 110-degree-plus summer days, treat San Diego like their own personal day spa.

On the flip side, most San Diegans, have also traveled to Phoenix at one time or another during their lives due to something unforeseen, like a cousin's wedding or free tickets to a Coldplay concert. When they return, they don't have much nice to say, cept' Phoenix is flat and dry and hot and beige. They feel towards Phoenicians something like mild pity.

So when I tell them I moved here from Phoenix, they politely nod and mumble, "oh." But what they're really thinking is, "What a surprise. Of course you moved here from Phoenix. I sure wish you hadn't. Sigh. Are there more coming?"

Sensing their disdain, I attempt to thwart their perception by quickly adding: "But I grew up in North Dakota."

But this falls on deaf ears. People can only combine two cities at a time for you, not three. You're like a nomad to them--a rootless gypsy.

When your persona is made up of three parts (part plains, part desert, part coast), people don't have any idea who you are. And that makes them uncomfortable.

In San Diego, it's like my North Dakota roots have disappeared. I can't say I like that. I can still feel the bone chill of winter in my teeth. I can still feel the summer sting of a mosquito on my leg. I have a dry sense of humor that I guarantee you came from the bonfires of my youth.

I'm not from Phoenix. I lived there. For over a decade. And yes, it lives in me too. Those hot desert nights seduce me. That pastel sunset leaks into my dreams.

I empathize with those military kids, who when asked where they're from, they say, "I grew up in a military family. We lived all over." We kind of toss them aside, don't we? We consider them unknowable, rootless. We learn that we've learned nothing about them by asking the question.

But I imagine if we did get to know them, over beers and fries and backyard barbecues, these kids are conglomerates of where they've been. I imagine they have pieces of all over etched in their bones. I imagine they themselves feel parts of themselves in each place they've resided. Just like I do.

I realize that where I've been has something to do with who I am, but I haven't learned how to explain these nuances quickly. Perhaps, like the military kids, I'll one day give up trying to draw out the map for strangers. I left my heart here, here, and there too...

Oh never mind. I'm here now. I'm right here...

A Farewell to Boobs

I've taken to binding my breasts, much like the ancient Chinese practice of foot binding. The purpose of this exercise is to stop their out-of-control growth spurned by my current condition of pregnancy, or in other words 'growing a human being inside of my insides.'

Granted, other than the ambitious growth of my upper lady humps, I've been exceptionally lucky in the arduous task of human growing. In these past 11 weeks, nary a mouthful of vomit has projected itself. My moods are smooth as butter. And my belly only really shows when I eat too much pizza. However, do not envy me. I have not been spared.

Almost immediately after the two pink 'you're preggo' lines crawled into our lives, my boobs blew up. Like balloons. I said them, "Girls, stop it, you're getting ahead of yourselves...you have nine months. No need to rush." They were uninterested in my pleas.

This wouldn't be such a tragedy if I began with smaller breasts, say an A or a B cup. Sure, then I would welcome the increased blood flow to meh jugs. But I am a C cup. And not just any old C cup, a perfect C cup. I LOVE my boobs. I'm not joking. When Dave first saw them years ago, he gasped. If it sounds like I'm bragging, it's because I am. (I will share this: my ass is flat. Feel better?)

I didn't always have them. I earned them through prayer. You see, I was a late bloomer. In sixth grade and all the way through middle school, I was breastless. Skinny and big-toothed. The first time I wore a bra to school, Danny W. grabbed the thin rung of fabric under my shirt and snapped it hard against my back, "Why are YOU wearing a BRA?" Everyone laughed.

Or how bout' when I cried at a birthday party attended by atleast twenty of the coolest kids in 7th grade and Aaron S. taunted loudly, "Hey Darcy, did that board come with your shirt?!" Everyone laughed.

And so I turned my pain to God. I made deals like, "if you give me boobs, I'll be good forever." I was earnest and consistent in my prayers. By the end of ninth grade, God delivered. And they were glorious. Not too big, not too small, proportional, and well-shaped. Even Danny W., my former arch nemesis, eventually commented. He said, nodding in the direction of my chest, "Those sure turned out all right." Instead of punching him, I beamed.

So you can imagine my panic when my perfect C's ballooned into D's during the very early weeks of pregnancy. The fear only multiplied when fellow procreaters warned, "It only gets worse." I almost started crying when one of my best friends told me she got her breasts done after her two babies were born because they quote, "looked like cow udders."

I've even heard stories about out-of-control nipple growth. To calm myself down, I consulted my mother, who has a talent for diffusing my fears: "They go back to normal after pregnancy right mom?!" In this case, she merely shrugged (in other words, your boobs might never be the same hon).

So I've turned vigilante; I've started a war with my changing body, in the hopes that I'll stave off any significant change. I figure this too-small sports bra that I'm wearing as a binding mechanism will cut off the blood supply, and my body will just forget about them. Trick my body into circumventing normal pregnancy breast changes. Hey, it worked for the Chinese--just look at their tiny feet!

Let's face it though, my cleavage is borderline lewd. And worse yet, perhaps it's God's inevitable payback. I mean honestly,I haven't really held up my side of the bargain of the "being good forever" breast exchange. Woes me.

I'm gunna just hope and wish and pray that when it's all over, I get my boobs back. It must happen somewhere, to someone. Right?! (Please tell me if this has happened to you. I need real empirical data girls.)

The worst is when people say, trying to console, "But look what you're getting in exchange? A beautiful baby!"

I say, "Oh shove it! You ain't never seen meh boobs."

Martha, Martha, Martha

I've got domesticity on my mind. The days are just me. Long and lonely and beige. I tap my words into this computer all day, hearing them in my bones, but not aloud. I'm happy. But I'm so silent. Life has never been so still.

As the sun hurdles itself through the sky all day, the light changes. The colors in the living room dull in the evening, and Dave will be home soon. I get up to prepare dinner. It's my favorite part of the day.

Cooking calms me. It's me & me, nodding to music, moving through the yellow light in the kitchen. It's quaint and slow; the sound of chopping vegetables makes me feel purposeful, deliberate.

When Dave and I got married, I broke down near the end and did a wedding registry. I didn't think I wanted one. I thought we had everything we needed, having already lived together for four years. I also thought I was better than such frivolties. I was wrong. On all accounts.

You see, when one buys items for oneself with oneself's own money, certain things are compromised. For example, quality. Why would I buy a $20 cookie pan, when I can purchase one for $3? Also, convenience often trumps as well. Why would I trek to Williams-Sonoma when three Super Targets exist within three square miles of my abode?

Up until the wedding, I had been living in The Now. If I needed to make roasted vegetables, I'd pick up a $5 pan at the grocery store. Did my toaster break? Buy another one--heck they're only 10 bucks! The result? A kitchen full of cheap, mismatched shit.

The Macy's registry changed my life. (p.s. don't register at Target. You would buy yourself anything from Target. Nothing could stop you and you know it. Register a little bit out of your league. Make it special.). Did you know a more expensive pan actually helps cook the food more evenly? Or that a fancy 4-slot toaster makes cooking quicker AND more stylish?

I got china that I'll surely pass onto my children. I got embroidered table runners that will make me the coolest party host EVER. I got a thick cutting board made out of bamboo that I use everyday. And to quell any protests about the impersonality of registries, I do remember who gifted me what and thank them frequently.

But today, I want to tribute Martha Stewart. She's like a cooking inventor or something. Here's three super cool AND super cute tools I got and use frequently. You don't even realize how much you need them until you have them. Get them. Now. I don't work for macy's or anything, but I think these items are only available there. Imagine how cool you'll be...

1)Citrus Press - In her signature Martha blue, this sturdy little number is made of iron or something it's so hefty. Forget hand-squeezing those lemons, just cut em in half, pop it in, a voila--easy peesie.

2) Vegetable Steamer - As cute as it is functional, this old school steamer doesn't plug in. Fill the bottom of a pot with water, put your new steamer in there (it folds open like a flower and closed to fit almost any size), put your broccoli and carrots in there, cover for a bit and voila! Toss your clunky plug-in model in the trash.

3) Over-the-sink Colander - Stop precariously pouring hot water and macaroni into your old plastic colander. You're losing good macaroni! This wire mesh colander is adjusts to fit over your sink, so you can pour within worrying about whether your colander will tip. I even wash veggies in it.