The Lil' Lady

I hosted a baby shower for Leiah and Lillian (in utero) last weekend, and since I didn't have a Halloween party this year, I channeled all my ideas into her shower. I love to plan a party and this was just the fix I needed.

When my mom was pregnant with Leiah, she thought she looked like a little bug running around the screen during an ultrasound. That sort of stuck, and we've called Leiah all sorts of things associated with bug... Buggy, BugWug, Leiah Bug. It was only right to have a lady bug themed party for Leiah's little baby girl.

I started planning like I usually do... with a google image search. There were a lot of red and black party things, but I wanted pink and green for some reason. A few evenings spent perusing the web, a few trips to Target and Michael's, and a few VIP helpers later, and we had a bonafide baby shower!

We decided to make it kid friendly since Ben and Renee were gonna be there, which meant that Kate and Caroline got to come in matching outfits, Iris discovered a hankering for icing, and Leiah's brand new baby niece got to give us a little bit of baby fever.

 

For the game I decided to play Baby Pictionary. It was so funny to watch Ruble try to draw a baby carrier. I think she also had to draw placenta. Ha!

And now we wait until January!

Basically.

I don't like the military. I don't like guns and shooting and killing, and I feel like we should be able to settle our differences with words after all these years of civilization. I know that's totally unrealistic, but, hey, aim high, right?

When Bubba announced that he was joining the Army last spring, I was a little concerned. I was worried he might regret his decision when the order to go to Afghanistan came through. I was selfish and smart and didn't want anything to happen to him. But more than that, I wanted Bubba to be happy. So I decided that if he's happy joining the Army, then I'd support him. Not our troops per se, but Bubba's decision.

A couple of weeks ago he finished basic training and we got to go to Ft. Knox to watch him graduate. Ft. Knox freaks me out. You can feel the rules and the parameters and the protocol and the regimen everywhere you go. It was absolutely one of the most uncomfortable places I've ever been, on par with that one bazaar in Iran when I thought they were leading me to a dungeon to cut my head off.

It wasn't until after the graduation ceremony that I started to settle down. Not settle in, but settle down. It probably helped that I wandered into a crowd of 200+ of the best dressed male specimens I've ever seen.

Those uniforms are magical, even with berets.

Bubba and his buddies (we took a couple extra out since they're way more handsome in groups) were hilarious. They wanted to go to the bookstore and passed around Mack's computer paying bills and checking email and eating up technological freedom.

Apparently they'd been using their leisure time to sit on the floor, so this was like a trip to France to them.

We probably spent two hours at Barnes and Noble. They read magazines and made phone calls... making sure to stand still while talking. Apparently that's an Army mandate: no walking and talking. There's also one that says you can only do it missionary style. 

Bubba and I had been writing letters while he was in basic, and he'd said all he wanted to do was watch a movie and eat wings and pizza. That plan got scrapped since they were given pizza the night before, so instead we went to Ruby Tuesday after coffee and pastries so they could eat steak and chicken. And chili cheese fries. And something called a brookie that made them want to vomit but that they couldn't stop eating.

Everywhere we went they'd put their beret on when we got out of the car, take it off inside the shop, put it back on to go outside, take it back off in the car. On and off, on and off, on and off, all the time. They also opened the doors every time we went somewhere and had actual manners. Which made them even more handsome in their little outfits.

 

Maybe the military's not such a bad thing after all. Not because I approve of wars, but because I'm a huge fan of consideration of others.

Must be basketball season.

Our house is not a nutty sports house (thank god). Yeah, I've watched way more judo videos than I ever really cared to, but I'll take that over segues into sleep starring Sports Center. But when it comes to UK Basketball, I've still got a soft spot.

It's one that was permanently imprinted on my right hand when I was 8 years old and would watch games with my dad who would get so excited and high five me so hard that I'd lose feeling.

With my learned devotion to UK also came a learned disdain for U of L. I used to have a t-shirt of a UK Wildcat pouring out a bowl of cereal made up of other basketball mascots, and the U of L Cardinal was standing at the opening of the box freaking out, knowing he was about to be devoured. I also used to chant, "UK, all the way... U of L, go to hell." Remember, I was 8 at the time, but cussing was allowed so long as it was used to disparage U of L.

During a visit to Heather's earlier today, I discovered that UK fandom still goes hand in hand with U of L hatred. Chase, who is 6, is mastering the art of handwriting with this:

Bonus

My mom and dad used to give me money for my report card, but for some reason, that stopped after I moved out. If I had to guess, I'd say it must have something to do with us making a career out of getting an education.

Those little bonuses were great motivation, so I've adopted a reward system based on the one my parents taught me. 

Last week we had our second exam of the semester. Studying for it was really hard, so I rewarded myself with this.

This week I got my grade... an A. Earning that A was really hard, so I'm rewarding myself with these.

Other rewards I'm considering include a facial, a kitten cat, and a scooter rack. If I've learned anything in my life, it's that being spoiled is freaking amazing.

Best News Ever

I just got the best news ever (hence the title of this post) and it's way too good to let it go by without making it a part of this little in-progress autobiography known as my blog.

This news is so good because a) it was a total surprise, b) it was sprung on me in the most delightful way, and c) everything about it is wonderful. No, Mack and I are not getting married again. Not yet anyway ;)

When I got this news, a smile stretched across my face and has not subsided even though it's been like an hour. In fact, it made me downright giddy, a state of emotional frenzy that alarms Mack but one that I imagine must be like heroin. This news is a miracle of news, it's a testament to the goodness of the universe, it's a karmic reward. It is the best news ever.

I would tell you what it is, but a) it's not my news to tell, b) I sort of like keeping it a secret, and c) what it is isn't the most important thing about this post. What is important is that life just got better, exponentially more perfect, even more full of joy, and it's moments like these that make the moments spent watching an old man's belly get drained of 10 liters of fluid fade away for ever.

Sure, trust me with people's lives.

Nursing school is going great. I got an A on my first exam, am getting Satisfactories on my care plans and assessments, and was allowed to shadow a nurse for the first time ever last week.

If only I didn't fail skills all. the. time.

So far I've had to go to remediation for two skills. Two out of four. Wanna know which two? Temperature taking (with a glass thermometer) and injections.

Wanna know why I failed? Well, I wanted to leave the thermometer in the pooper for 5 minutes when it only needs to be in there for two. And with injections, well, I forgot to put on gloves. Something about touching a blob of pretend flesh on a table top just didn't inspire me to glove up the way a human's greasy abdomen would.

Remediation is pretty painless. The teacher looks at you like, why are you stupid and how is this possibly challenging to you, if you can't do this you shouldn't really be pursuing this career path. And then you redo the skill for her, paying extra attention to emphasize the part you got wrong the first time. You ought to see the way I put on gloves now.

I managed to pass medication administration and doing an all-over physical assessment on the first try, and I plan to redeem myself for being a 50% failure on the next check off. That's right, crutch walking. I'm making you my bitch.

Covered bridges. Yes, that is my idea of adventure.

After Kentucky, I've spent most of my life in Indiana. Weekend visits with my dad, summers spent at Aunt Tina's pool, that time we lived with my grandpa, vacations spent at Aunt Becky's, Fourth of July lawn mower races, that addiction I had to my grandma. Indiana is to be credited with taming my city kid and teaching me humility. It's where I got comfortable with being dirty and fell in love with the smell of basements, where a big wheel and a drainage ditch meant endless entertainment.

While it's got a special place in my heart, Indiana is not at the top of my list of Places to Visit. Unless Heather mentions photographing covered bridges for two years in a row and I finally agree to go with her to the Covered Bridge Festival in Rockville, Ind.

Let's paint a picture of Rockville, Ind., shall we?

Population 2,765, 98.16% of which is white.
Home of the late Morris K. Jessup, UFO conspiracy theorist.
Known as the Covered Bridge Capital of the World.

Rockville is the seat of Parke Co., which has 31 covered bridges. There used to be 52 1/2 (the 1/2 one crossed a county line, and since Indiana is nothing if not fair, they don't claim that whole bridge)... can you imagine the fame of Rockville if those other 21 1/2 were still around? Mayhem.

The "festival" has become pockets of flea markets/giant yard sales hosted by several of the "towns" in Parke Co. Heather and I weren't really interested in funnel cakes or Amish brooms, so we tried to avoid the traffic clusters around the towns and see as many bridges as we could in three hours. We raced along gravel roads, stirring up dust and taking breaks to pee in fields, and managed to explore five bridges in all. To keep it exciting, we took a different pose photo at each one. We are animals.

In case the bridges don't get your blood going, we also stumbled across this old timey cemetery with graves from the 1800s. I had as much fun taking photographs here as I did at the bridges, and if the sun hadn't been on its way down, we could've dilly dallied here for an hour.

After our whirlwind bridge tour, I was all ready to lay down some money and spend the night at the jail inn. But Heather was dead set on camping and there was no vacancy at the jail, so after dinner at the Thirty Six Saloon (one of two restaurants in Rockville), we went to Rockville Lake Park. Heather pitched the tent while I made the fire. I got kicked out of Brownies in the second grade and I don't think Heather's mom would have ever paid for Girls Scouts, but it turns out we are a couple of bonafide outdoorsy types.  We were drinking beer in our camping chairs by a toasty warm fire in under 30 minutes. We even had a little visit from a glowy eyed raccoon.

If I'm having this much fun at something as senior citizen as a Covered Bridge Festival, maybe I should start going to Bingo. Or take up Bridge.

Because it's 96 degrees outside.

Fall is one of the few things about Kentucky that I find redeeming. If there's a crisp breeze in the air, the smell of soggy earth sprouting from the ground, horses racing under a bright blue sky, and a zombie parade on the horizon, I can tolerate the rampant obesity, the slow motion twang, the threats to pedestrians and the Jesus campaigns in  front yards. But when I'm riding my scooter home and the bank says it's 96 fucking degrees outside on Oct. 11th, well, fuck Kentucky.

Luckily, McSweeney's is feeling my rage and I'm going to share this rant of f-bombs inspired by fall. And gourds. And bad attitudes like the one I'm having today.

It's Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers. By Colin Nissan.

I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I'm going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, "Aren't those gourds straining your neck?" And I'm just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, "It's fall, fuckfaces. You're either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you're not."

Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff'rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn't it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they're both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that's upsetting, but I'm not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.

The next thing I'm going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I'm going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it's not summer, it's not winter, and it's not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it's fall, fuckers.

Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you're going to fucking love my house. Just look where you're walking or you'll get KO'd by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you're going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.

For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.

Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!

I'm calling this series Naughty Ruble

Innocent enough.

Then Steve turns away for just a second...

Didn't count on that bubbly being quite so bubbly, did ya Naughty Ruble?

Quick! Need recovery plan!

Whew, leftover napkin. Crisis averted...

...until I hit the dance floor with my white girl finger move. Sorry everyone.

Keeping the Kellys on My List of People I Love and Am Jealous Of

A couple weekends ago I headed to Cinci to squeeze in some Jen time and make sure my boyfriend Milo and my partner in crime Daisy (of Love) were adjusting to their new digs alright.

True to form, Milo ignored me, Daisy (of Love) started trouble, and Jen spoiled me rotten in her very appreciated Martha Stewart way.

 

That minestrone is so good and warm and the color and taste of fall that Jen posted the vegan-adaptable recipe on her blog. She also posted it because she is on the ball at all times and never two weeks behind on putting up her posts. 

Once we got full bellies, we headed up the road to the giant box of efficiency and organization genius known as Ikea. I love that Jen is as excited by miniatures and Swedish space maximization techniques as I am, if for no other reason that it makes that yearning I have for being a professional organizer seem less ridiculous.

We walked through every square inch of that store, and I picked up some canisters, hand towels, and a much-needed (and so far very used) kitchen table and two chairs... all for $100.

I love these little mini-visits with Jen. Life gets to be so freaking chaotic sometimes, but with Jen, it's like you're appreciating the little things every single minute.

No, someone did not diarrhea all over my pedicure.

My friend Leigh, surprise to no one who has met her, is a regular at a salon. She has a 17-step face washing program, spends $100 a pop on facials, custom orders her makeup, has her toenails professionally painted, and, of course, hair treatments galore.

I go to Leigh's salon to buy headbands that her stylist makes and then feel like I don't take care of myself nearly as well as I should. I barely remove my eye makeup after a couple days.

Recently, though, I joined Leigh for a beauty treatment that I'd never heard of before... not because I need my feet to be beautiful (the African bed bugs took care of that for life) but because I am a little bit of a scientist.

Her salon had just invested in some detoxification foot machine called IonCleanse. It's supposed to pull toxins in your body out through the soles of your feet, and since a few years ago I made a promise to always try everything that won't kill me at least once, I decided to try detoxing through my feet.

So, in went my feet, a few sprinkles of salt, and this weird contraption into a foot bath.
Then, they turned it on, and instantly the gross start accumulating in the water. Here's a closer look of the process, and I'm sorry if you're eating... not just because of the water but also because I know those feet are nauseating.
I was awake the entire time and no one, me included, took a crap in that bag. It smelled mildly like cap guns used to smell when you'd "bust a cap" playing cops and robbers, which was a relief considering how it looked. I didn't feel any differently, except I did have a little headache when we started and my headache was gone by the time we were done. Of course, taking 30 minutes to sit and soak my feet anywhere would have probably had the same effect.

You're supposed to compare your foot doodie color to a chart to find out where most of your toxins are and mine were definitely liver flavored. I also had some weird blackish flakes/clumps floating in my water that were allegedly heavy metals that had been drawn out thanks to the ionic charge difference.

My scientist self isn't as interested in research as it is in foot-soaking experiments, so I brought the evidence home to Mr. Wizard Thomas and intrigued him with my story just enough to get him to find answers on the internet. He's the best when it comes to research... and fixing flat tires.

He managed to find these skeptics who are also scientists who found a way to extract toxins from a wire hanger, proving that actually no, those are not toxins coming out of my feet, they are rust pieces from the wire in that little cylinder contraption in the water.

Interestingly, Mack had tried to use a similar technique earlier this year to get rust off of the inside of a motorcycle gas tank. His experience involved a battery and a hanger and what could have been 10 years if he had seen it through to the end. And it wasn't even close to relaxing.

And it IS a girl!!

Which proves I do know everything. Like we all suspected.
I don't know if you'll think this is as cool as I do, but my favorite thing about this ultrasound photo is this sweet baby girl's chin... or no chin, rather. When Ben was a baby, he also lacked a chin. And that meant there was nothing to stop his drool. And that meant he was a delicious drool factory.
I know the 4 month picture irks Leiah to death... that different pose and different bikini just makes her OCD twitchy... but I kinda like it. That swirly month of August needs something to make it stand out and this is a good visual for demonstrating that even when shit falls apart, you can put it all back together (and sometimes make it better) in less than 30 days.

Yea!! Another girl!!

Modern Lines of Communication

Last night, I ran into Laila on Google chat, and about 3 minutes later we were sitting on the chair in the Thomases living room, eating virtual pizza, giving virtual hugs and feeling for a few minutes that we were right there with them.

Laila likes to show us her things (hamster, toys, shirt) and make ugly faces while we chat with her and her mom, which means she is on the cusp of teenagedom even though I still think of her as a kindergartener. She's also become quite the pianist and likes to use our video chats to offer demonstrations of ways that she is better than me.

Last night during dinner, she had us sit on the chair next to her and gave us a little mini recital, and the whole exchange was so nothing like I thought it would be when I was her age, when the phone company released CALL WAITING!!!! and relieved the murderous thoughts Shannon and I were having for one another, that I just had to take a photo of it.

This is why technology is awesome.

TIA

Ghana. West Africa. "We welcome everyone. If you are a pedophile or a sexual deviant, you are not welcome." Women with babies on their backs and baskets on their heads. Red orange dirt roads, pot holes, tro tros so full people exit through windows. Groundnut stew. Two Ghana cedi. Goats napping in the middle of the road. Castles, ruins, slavery. Vibrant wooden canoes that take a village to launch. Villages on stilts. Boat rides through the ominous stillness of a jungle. Lagoons known as maternity wards. Life is strong in Africa. Monkeys at the Dutch-run sanctuary. "The only animal I ever took care of before this was a goldfish." Sweeping garbage into the gutter. Cooking over an open fire, even in the middle of a city. Ideas, Confidence, God Knows Best Bicycle Workshop. Machetes and naked men walking from where to where. Obruni, obruni, obruni! Black Stars and impromptu football games against kids in underwear and flannel shirts. Radio outbursts, rasta versions of Celine Dion, a strange fascination with country music. "If it's not on, it's not in." Coconuts for lunch. Kola nuts. Coffins for sale where you buy your bed. Don't shit about, but if you do happen to shit your pants just take them off and leave them on the side of the road. Inner city cattle drives. Half-finished buildings made of concrete blocks that now have corn growing out of the floors. Cooking lessons with Nana. Star beer. Dan the Pancake Man and his friend Frank the Juice Man. Two hundred year old rainforest trees. A canopy walk through Kakum National Forest, with monkeys jumping around the treetops below. Vic Baboo's Cafe with food so good you don't mind the giant rat passing through the dining room. A laundry debacle that lasted three days. The Unofficial Squirrel Rescue Organization. Universe serendipity and meeting the Las Vegas angels. Nigerian movies featuring demonic possession or domestic violence. Morning wake up calls courtesy of roosters. A feverish night spent in a rank prison cell at Al Hassan hotel. Green oranges, hard boiled eggs, onion crackers, Guiness Malta, Milo. "The future is our middle name." The 3am call to prayer during the 3am walk to the bus station. Navigating the female urinal for the first time. Mud huts, bucket showers, yams and red sauce. Lisa, Ann-Katrine, Oliver, Joke, Capito. Afternoons spent playing cards, drinking Obama water, cleaning wounds. Ozzie in his sweatshirt, no underwear, playing football. A walking safari that was one of the most incredible days of my life. Swimming elephants, baboons, warthogs, tse tse flies, antelope, water bucks, bush bucks, black cobras, walking elephants. Hiking through mint. Iamfinethaaaaankyou. Being serenaded with If You're Happy and You Know It in exchange for bouncy balls and silly bands. Bed bugs. Mack the Magic Man. Drinking beer on the roof, waiting for the Milky Way. Cape Coast, Beyin, Busua, Accra, Kumasi, Tamale, Larabanga, Mole.

Love Tours (part 3 of 3)

The finalish stop on the epic Love Tour of 2010 was northern Indiana for a family reunion. I'd literally been home about a week after Lake Charles when it was time to go again, but this time I had Shannon, Leiah, Renee, Ben and Sacagawea with me. Sacagawea is what we named my mom and dad's minivan last summer when my parents did a Lake-ation tour around Kentucky, and boy did she come through when it came to babies on the road.

We loaded up on road snacks (Doritos for the pregnant lady, beers for Aunt Shan the navigator, goldfish and fruit snacks for the babies) and left after Shan got off work on a Friday. The drive was pretty uneventful thanks to the in-van DVD player, but there were moments of toddler potty training emergencies. When they gotta go, they gotta go, and one time Renee, who'd been seduced by the promise of peeing in the grass at Aunt Tina's house, insisted she get to pee in the grass at the gas station. Luckily it backed up to a corn field, like most things in Indiana, so Auntie Am, Master of Peeing Outside in a Forward Squatting Fashion, helped Renee fulfill her dream of peeing in the grass.

There was also that Wizard of Ozian tornado that threatened us the last 11 miles of the trip, but Shan broke out a beer to cope with the fact that we may have to lay on top of babies in a ditch and everything was fine.

Once we got to Tina & Tony's house, things settled into awesome. I swear there were so many boys there it felt more like a fancy fraternity house than the residence of a middle-aged couple whose kids are grown. But then, really, that's just how Tina & Tony's house has always been -- the place to hang out, lose track of entire seasons, eat good food, and drink beer out of oversized cans.

Our cousins Nate and Tee showed the babies the kitty in the barn and gave the city kids a lesson in feeding sheep. I'm a proud member of the city kids. Then our cousin Andrea, with her due-soon belly, her husband Mitch, and her uber cuties Kennedy and Jaden, came over to hang out too. We crowded into the kitchen over one of Tina's famous veggie pizzas and talked way too much while Renee pushed one of Tina's chihuahuas around in a baby doll stroller.Saturday, after the babies had a nap, we hit the road to Hoover for a Scott family reunion at Uncle Carl & Aunt Bea's pig farm. We used to go swimming in the pond at the back of the farm when we were kids, and you'd have to drive through some of the grossest smells ever and a small creek to get there. They've moved the pigs somewhere downwind (thank god) and moved what used to be the bridge to my Grandma's house over the stream at Carl and Bea's. That's progress, 12 Mile-style.
Ben and Renee seemed to be having a nice time walking through the tall grass and over a bridge to a little island in the middle of the pond, which was drained for some reason. Leiah, Shan and I sat and watched them throw sticks and rocks into the empty hole, and Ben got his chance to pee outside, this time on a tree.

I am such a good influence.
The family reunion was good, although I greeted most of the people with, "Hi, I sort of remember playing with you. I'm Amber, of Greg." Weird for a family reunion, I know, but thanks to Facebook, next time I'll know who these people are. Although thanks to Facebook, they are probably dumbfounded at how they can be related to my Buddhistish Socialistish Unemployedistish ass.

At least the babies were adorable. Babies make everything better. Other people's babies that I am the auntie of, that is.

And I found my long lost foot twin. I always wondered who needed smacked for giving me these Flinstones... turns out it's all Scott.
Spending a couple hours at the pond helped Ben and Renee recalibrate their standards, so by the time we visited Aunt Becky, Uncle Vince and Cousin Isaac that evening, Ben had settled into running around shirtless and falling in the grass and Renee was just fine eating dirty strawberries out of the garden.
Our cousin Ryan came over to drink Miller High Life (it's better than low life, haha!) and introduce us to his fianceish Jessie.
We sat on the patio, cracking up at our hilarious Aunt Becky and trying to fight off the mosquitoes with citronella lamps. In the middle of one particularly painful laugh session, Uncle Vince came to the door from inside and said, "I just want you to know that the children are naked and I had nothing to do with it."

Then Ben in his Toy Story tennis shoes and Renee in nothing but her birthday suit came running out of the house having the time of their lives being crazy deliriously happy naked babies. Too bad they didn't pull that stunt at family reunion...

Becky's house had really felt the brunt of the storm from the day before (corn was blown sideways and trees were down everywhere), so we decided to go back to Tina's house since we weren't sure if they were going to get the power back on at Becky's. By the time we left, it was past 11 pm, we'd visited no less than 100 people and, holy smokes, there is only so much love to go around.

As we were pulling in to Tina's we got a text that Mitch, Andrea's husband, had collapsed at a wedding and was on the way to the hospital. What a panicked, awful night that was. Mitch spent a long time in a coma (he had something aneurysmish) but came out of it and is in therapy now. And Andrea just had her baby, Brogen Wayne, a couple days ago.
Finally, I am up to date! Ish.