the pieces of my life

Why doesn’t Blogger’s spell-check recognize “blogger” as a word?

I received a phone call this afternoon from Adam. “I just want you to know,” he said, “that Eugenia brought her baby to class, and it just made me realize how excited I am to be a parent, and I can’t wait to have this baby with you,” to which, of course, the only reply I could think of was, “How drunk are you?” “Not that much,” he said. That’s what I thought. Last day of classes for HBSers is not all that different from last day of classes for high school seniors.

Apparently they spent their day drinking and reflecting on the past year. I have to say, the HBS reputation may be for arrogance and greed, but really, I haven’t seen so much of that. Self-congratulatory is more like it. Every event is a chance to celebrate the joy that is them, with songs and speeches and loud cheers. I’ll admit, I’ve grown fond of Adam’s section, although he asked me tonight if I felt like I was part of the section and the answer is a definite “no.” It’s been tough going getting to know them. I remember back to the beginning of the year when 99 percent of them would give me no more than a cursory “hello” and a once-over when they realized I wasn’t a student. I know that some of you out there reading this are just preparing to enter b-school and my warning to you guys would be be nice to the partners. You never know when one of them will be a blogger who will write nasty things about you.

Would I have done it again, had I the choice? Probably, but I would have come more prepared. Has it been fun? Sure. I’ve gotten more material from these guys this past year, and there’s still the Newport Ball and all of next year to come. Am I going to keep asking myself questions? Yeah, because Adam’s already passed out so there’s no one else for me to have a conversation with.

I am absolutely hurting, I want to go back to Seattle for Tatonka 2003 so badly. As the reigning female champion and the queen of all trash talking, I belong at that contest. But it’s a friggin’ midweek contest and I need every vacation day I can get for Brown Brown. What’s a wing eater to do? Must ponder this….

I went scrapbooking tonight with the partners. And I had fun. But then Carly saved me a seat (as I sat down she whispered to me, “I got us seats far away from the CWITs,” so it’s not just me, people!) and kept giving me helpful hints. This scrapbooking thing goes hand-in-hand with the urge to purge. I’m determined to take the piles of photos and mementos from our wedding and put them in something that can actually be seen rather than shoving them all in an old Amazon box where everything is a great big jumble. Speaking of that jumble, you Jews out there, what the heck did you do with the leftover yarmulkes from your wedding? I can’t bear the idea of throwing them out, but do I really need twenty lavender (yes, lavender! oh, shut up) kippahs? Anyway, I have to say, some of the women at that group scare me, and I just can’t ooh and ahh at the ways that you can conserve papers and make elaborate layouts. And I will shoot myself if this woman is a reader of this blog, and I apologize in advance, but it has to be said: Does anyone really need two scrapbooks about her cats? In my world, even one is excessive, but two? Two is right out. And the dedication of some of these women is intense! Looking at their books–wow! Sends me running back to the Amazon box full of crap. But any excuse to hang out with Carly and Stef is a good one and I found it immensely satisfying to file away my memories. Carly’s a great help and she doesn’t seem to mind that I scrapbook the way I paint (you know–fast. Just get it up and move on). I feel kind of silly when I’m doing it, but it was a fun night.

Steffanie and Carly brought me up to speed on what’s going on with the Partner’s steering committee, and I’m just kicking myself for not joining. I could work magic with this group. Or at least make a lot of noise. I am so good with the noise. Anyway, they mentioned that for next year’s orientation they were thinking about having cute T-shirts with capped sleeves that read “Section P” in glitter (and Carly, I am so sorry I embarrassed you when I said, “That would be cool if only it stood for ‘Pussy Power.’ This is why I’ll never qualify for CWITdom. No tact on my part). Must…keep…comments…to…self. Ah, if only I ruled the world. Or at least HBS.

But no binge. Doesn’t that take away all the fun? No, no, not me. Actually, I stayed home from work today, because I have a nasty cold and when you can’t take Nyquil (thanks, Brown Brown), the coughing won’t stop for you to sleep (first person to tell me it’s just preparation for having a baby gets kneed). But watching daytime TV makes my mind turn to mush, so I sat there with boxes of papers that have piled up over the years. I have three boxes just of photos, most of which are either duplicates or really blurry. Out those went. I have letters from people who I barely remember. Gone. Keeping them just makes me sad, remembering all those people I was close to that are no longer in my life. A couple of have passed away. Most have just drifted from my sight. Some of the names were jolts, people who haven’t even crossed my mind in almost a decade. I feel this need, though, to pare down, to get all this stuff in order before the baby comes and I have a new pile of photos and papers to deal with. Ridding myself of these things–which I held onto just for the sake of holding onto–feels almost purifying. But not purifying enough to clear the phlegm from my chest.

My closet has become a land mine, with hidden bombs and pitfalls. I put on an item of clothing that fit me just last week, and suddenly there’s a huge gap between the buttons. Shirts that fit snuggly before now barely cover my belly. And then there’s our morning routine. “How does this look?” I’ll ask, trying on my fifth top. Adam will look me over and say, “Um… It’s…okay.” Back to the closet. He’ll say, “Try on that red shirt.” So on it goes and he’ll look and say, “That’s fine,” but when I go to the only full-length mirror in the house downstairs in the guest room, I’ll see an outfit tight enough that I wouldn’t wear it to a bar, never mind the office. Why the problem you ask? Why not wear all the cute maternity clothes I bought? Because it’s freakin’ May and the weather is currently in the 40s. I’ve spent many years in the Northeast. I know May weather. It’s not 47 degrees. It’s lower 60s. Sometimes 70s. It’s sunshine and sun showers. Northeast May is not chilly. Seattle weather is. Today’s high in Seattle is 58. Here, it’s 55.

Our mornings tend to follow a similar pattern, right down to our morning banter. I get up about a little more than an hour after Adam, who gets up at 5:15. I weigh myself with a loud groan. Adam bounces in (I mean this literally–he’s hyper and alert in the mornings) and acts like a goofball while I prepare to shower. Generally, this is where we have our inane conversations of the day, which are frequently more of a monologue by whichever of us is more awake (this morning it was me: I started babbling about the signifying monkey. I don’t know why, but Adam used the word “signifying” [not in the literary sense], and it sent me off on a tangent about how I had studied the signifying monkey in grad school and had I known Adam at the time we would have found that amusing–Adam’s a big fan of monkeys–but I was dating a boy who wasn’t very funny, so there was no humor in my study of the signifying monkey). After my shower I try, on average, six outfits on to see what will fit and what I will be warm in without panty hose (I loathe panty hose). This is the torturous part of the morning, and invariably Adam will say, “Who is going to drive me insane?” and I say, “You? Who’s driving me insane?” to which he’ll respond, “Do you think I like this?” And it ends with the inevitable, “You are the one who put this parasite into my body so you will deal with it!” Dressing now takes me almost a half hour. Then I head to my computer to check e-mail and occasionally blog, and he cuts up carrots for me to take in my lunch. Off to school for him and off to work for me.

Do you feel like you know us that much better now?

This was Brown Brown’s first sober trip to New Orleans (give me a break–I didn’t know I was pregnant when we were there last December). Even without the alcohol, New Orleans kicked my butt. The late nights, the overeating, the heat–oh, the glorious heat! Highlights of the trip were Jazz Fest itself (saw Los Lobos, Jimmie Vaughn, The Funky Meters, LL Cool J, The Holmes Brothers, and few other assorted acts that I didn’t know, including time in the amazing Gospel Tent), the Neville Brothers at Tipitina’s (Michael hooked four of us up with passes to the sold out show–the Brothers first time at Tips in eight years), breakfast at Elizabeth’s (where I discovered the magic that is callas–rice beignets–and drunken bananas–which is like bananas foster without the ice cream) with Daniella and her new fiance John, just walking around Magazine Street, and of course, hanging with the gang. I was going to write a long entry about each day and who I saw and what I did, but really, so much of my time was spent doing things that just don’t translate well to the page (how many times can I mention how wonderful the sun felt and how sticky Bourbon Street is and how much fun it is to spend time with my Seattle friends?). Friday was marred by a touch of sunstroke (those mister tents–tents that spray a mist of water–were heavenly but too far from the stages to simply camp out in, although I considered it anyway). The odd thing about the trip is that I didn’t miss the alcohol–I found the heat stroke gave me a similar feeling to a hangover, so it was just like every other N.O. trip. Granted, it wasn’t the exactly the same. We were a larger group this year, which made it easier to often split up into smaller gangs, which was fun because more of us got to do exactly what we wanted (Sandra finally got to take her plantation tour). This trip–where six of the seven of us are either married or in committed relationships–felt different from the trips in year’s past where only one or two of the gang had beaux. Made for a tamer time all around, although it could also be that we’re just older than we were on our first trip four years ago. Then again, it couldn’t get more wild than the last time we were all down–for Jen’s bachelorette party–and I don’t think any of us have it in us to repeat that adventure.

But it was phenomenal to go and to see the KAG again. As I said to one of them, “I love going to Jazz Fest. I love being at Jazz Fest. And I love going home from Jazz Fest.” Good thing we only do it one weekend a year.

I’m going out of town for a few days, so I’d really like to leave you with something profound. Of course, nothing profound is coming to mind. I’m heading tomorrow, straight from the office, to the airport where I shall be whisked away to that magic land known as “Eat Until You Puke” (formerly known as “Drink Until You Puke,” however, Brown Brown has insisted upon a name change). The trip to New Orleans could not be more fortuitously planned: just today I went to the doctor’s and learned that I gained twelve–yup, count ’em twelve–pounds in the last six weeks. Which is bogus. According to my scale it’s only been about eight in the past bunch o’ weeks. Which just goes to show me that I have to schedule these appointments for 8 a.m. and I can’t eat before I go. After lunch visits aren’t working for me. But, since the doctor said that I am still well within my healthy weight gain (I’ve actually only gained fifteen pounds since the very beginning, so everything is groovy), I plan on not worrying and having that second order of beignets, thank you very much.

Now, stop reading if you are my parents: The doctor measured my uterus (and interestingly, used a paper tape measure. I wouldn’t have thought those things needed to be disposable), and I commented, “I’m going to keep that belly ring till the bitter end.” She replied, “It actually looks okay.” I said, “I had a friend who just had a baby and her belly button never went outie.” She replied, “Oh, it’s that’s not the problem. It’s that the skin between the holes gets stretched out so the holes enlarge and the ring gets closer to the surface.” Blech. I thought I only had to worry about outies. I’m loathe to take the belly ring out, because it’s the third most permanent thing I’ve ever done in my life (the second most permanent thing is my marriage. There’s a tie for the top spot of most permanent things: Brown Brown and my tattoo), and I’ve had it for ten years now, which is pretty much as long as I’ve ever had anything. It was my last gasp of New York life before becoming a West Coaster. (I told you two to stop reading! But you didn’t pay attention did you, and now you’re grossed out all over again that I have a belly ring. Well, too bad.)

Now I need to go and obsess about what I’ve forgotten to pack. It’s usually socks, but since I’ve already got those, it’s going to be something else this time. Something bigger and better. And tomorrow I can go to work and obsess that my 1,500-word article is at 3,000 words and it still doesn’t have a lead. And at 6:10 p.m., I’m going to get on a plane, and I will be done obsessing. Till next week!

Whooo hooo! I am so there. And it’s actually a sunny day to enjoy it.

I struggle and struggle and struggle, but just can’t come up with a lead to the article I’m working on. I’m never at a loss for words. So why the problem now? Ugh, frustration.