No, she can't actually stand up on her own. She just wishes she could. I also have this terrific picture of her and Lucas holding hands in the playpen. Kids these days, they just grow up too fast.
In other news, I got a day job, as an assignment editor for the real estate section. I will also be writing regularly for a new real estate section we're adding to Sunday Business. Go read it. You know you want to know what PMI means. I will be hiring freelancer for photos, if anyone is interested in the work. That means you, Josh.
And because life isn't hectic enough, we're selling the D.C. house and moving to the 'burbs, like all the other yuppies once they have kids. Most likely Falls Church. They have all these cool, well-built 1950s Cape Cods on quarter-acre lots, and you can walk to Metro. (And Katie. Very important to be able to walk to Katie.) I consider it my duty to buy one of these houses and not tear it down to build a McMansion that crowds out every inch of the grass.
I was due sometime between Wednesday and Saturday, depending on whose system you use for such things. I am inclined to believe Saturday, but still. Saturday was my last day at work, so now I have LOTS of time to sit at home and ponder whether the contraction I just had was a "real" one or another step in several weeks of "prelabor." I swim every day. I walk the dog a lot. I just spent a half an hour reorganizing Rini's Fuzzi Bunz collection.
My mother calls me several times a day to "check on me." If I don't answer, she panics and calls me again, and again. I know she's excited, but sometimes I really am just taking a nap. Or walking the dog. Which is to say, not in active labor.
Know what else doesn't help? Being told you don't "look" 9 months pregnant by random people at the pool, in the office or when you're just trying to buy Christmas presents at Target. I suppose they mean this as a compliment, but I walk away wondering if this means I will be pregnant for 2 more months. I know that's not going to happen, but that doesn't stop the thought from running through my mind.
Only one person knows when this kiddo is really coming out, and she ain't talking.
... is selling off a bunch of his artwork for absurdly low prices.
I hope he forgives me for posting this e-mail to Killoggs.
i need to raise some money to pay my ticket.
bossier police caught me pretending i was in 4 fast 4 furious.
it's gonna cost me like 200 and something dollars! and i don't have 200 and something dollars.
so i'm selling a bunch of my art. cheap. i mean cheap, people.
please, help me out. shop around. i know you'll find something you like maybe.
2 tbps butter or olive oil
1/2 medium onion, chopped
1/2 large bell pepper, chopped
1 can of diced tomatoes
Pinch of cayenne
Pinch of thyme
Pinch of oregano
1/2 cup flour
1 pound of calf liver, thinly sliced
Salt to taste
Ground pepper to taste
In a large saucepan, heat the butter or oil. Add the onion and bell pepper. Saute until soft. Add the cayenne, thyme, and oregano. Mix, and push to the edges of the pan.
Dredge the liver slices through the flour and toss into the center of the pan. Sear for about 2 minutes, watching closely. (It cooks really quickly.) Mix back in the softened vegatables and spices. Add the can of tomatoes. Stir, and simmer for a couple of minutes. Add the salt and pepper.
Serve over rice.
Before I was pregnant, I hadn't eaten calf liver since I was a child. Now I eat it about once a week. It tastes a lot better than those prenatal iron supplements.
I need to get my hand on some bottles of RC Cola by next weekend. A case or two. As a backup, I can order them online, but I'd prefer to be able to pick them up within an hour's drive of D.C. Any ideas?
11/2 cups flour
1/4 cup cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
11 tablespoons (1 stick plus 3 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus additional for the baking sheet
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon strong coffee
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 ounces white chocolate, melted
1/4 cup (about 2 ounces) finely crushed peppermint candy
Instructions:
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Butter 2 baking sheets.
Combine the flour, cocoa powder and salt. Set aside.
Beat the butter, sugar, dissolved coffee and vanilla until blended and smooth, about 1 minute. Add the flour mixture, mixing until the flour is incorporated and the dough holds together.
Divide the dough in half and shape each portion into a smooth ball. Place 1 piece of dough between 2 large pieces of wax paper and roll it out to slightly less than 1/4 inch thick. Remove the top piece of wax paper. Using a 2 1/2-inch star cutter, cut out cookies. Slide a thin metal spatula under each cookie to loosen it and place the cookies about 1 inch apart on the prepared baking sheets.
Bake the cookies, 1 sheet at a time until the tops feel firm and look dull rather than shiny, about 15 minutes. Cool the cookies on the baking sheet for 5 minutes, then transfer them to a wire rack to cool. Repeat with the second piece of dough and then press all of the dough scraps together to form a smooth ball. Repeat the rolling and cutting process.
For the icing, dip a fork in the melted white chocolate and drizzle it randomly and generously over the tops of the cooled cookies. Immediately sprinkle with crushed peppermint candy. Let the cookies sit until the chocolate is firm.
If any of y'all want to make the drive to the Outer Banks, that's where the party is. We've rented a big beach house for the week, and there will be celebrity guests, including MEREDITH and JULIE. A one-night only appearance by ANGELE is also rumored.
The first one to pass out Thursday night gets their bikini top frozen or hermit crabs in their shorts.
Michelle Singletary, the Post's personal finance column, often relates anecdotes about lessons her grandmother, Big Mama, taught her.
In her most recent column, she shares this story:
“Shell, when you get to work, march your behind up to the payroll department and sign up for a credit union account,” Big Mama said sternly. “Make sure before you get your hands on a single penny of your paycheck that you put some money away in that account. And don’t touch it unless you absolutely have to. Do this one thing and for the rest of your life you will always have a piece of money.”
This reminded me of a similar conversation I had with my grandmother when I was 16. One morning over breakfast, out of nowhere, she says to me: "Here's the thing, Mary. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. And if other people don't like it, they can fuck off and die."
My grandmother rarely curses. I didn't say a word. We went back to eating breakfast. I have to say, in retrospect, that's the best advice anyone ever gave me. Any time I get mired down into the bullshit that seems an inavoidable part of adult life, I remember that bit of advice. It solves a lot of problems. Instantly.
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It's in Baltimore this year, on April 11. Maybe I could stroke The Donald's hair.
4 cups of frozen fruit (strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, raspberries or peaches)
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup water
2 tbs red wine vinegar
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp vanilla
dash of cayenne
1 cinnamon stick
Mix all ingredients in a large pot and bring just to a boil. Turn down the heat and let simmer for about 15 minutes.
Serve warm or cold over pancakes, French toast, or ice cream. It's also quite yummy mixed into plain yogurt.
Any of you ever stay at a job waaaaay longer than you should have? Like, they totally took you for granted, but you just couldn't bring yourself to leave. You kept thinking you could fix it somehow?
Reading Kara and Ben's posts reminded me of a few things ... like how lucky I am to have such great friends. I mean, a lessor person might feel insecure when surrounded by such beauty and greatness. But not me! Of course, it helps a lot that I am talented in my own right. And honestly, it's like our strengths just complement each other. For instance, Ben's drawings just get that much funnier when paired with my writing. In the same way, when I write about Kara, I can convey how beautiful she is better than any photos ever could.
Knowing these guys has been really wonderful for my journalism career, which is obviously destined for greatness. And even that is just a stepping stone. By the time I am 40, my novels will surely be on the New York Times bestseller list and a key part of the curriculum of every college literature class. Would-be-intellectual teenagers will be naming their pets after me. I'll know I've made it when my picture is on the cover of People.
People who criticize Condoleezza Rice as being a yes-girl for President Bush have clearly lost their minds.
Rice is running the national security/foreign relations show, and she has been for a long time. To get where she is today, she would have to be pretty much the most brilliant, conniving, hard-headed, badass woman on the planet. She might kiss Karl Rove on the cheek at the inauguration, but the whole time she is thinking ... Yeah, I could throw your chubby, white ass down on the ground and put you in a headlock in a split second. And she could. Why would she work her way to such a powerful position just to say, "OK, boss, whatever you say! We'll have fajitas for lunch, then we'll invade Iraq!" She could be out in the private sector, actually making money.
Do I agree with Rice's international policies? Hell no. But to think that she's the parrot--and not the captain--here is to make a very grave mistake (and perhaps reveal your latent racism/sexism). Do these people really think *Dubya* comes up with this stuff? Rice gets more done during the president's naps than he does all day.
Jimmy joined the army ‘cause he had no place to go
There ain’t nobody hirin’
‘round here since all the jobs went
down to Mexico
Reckoned that he’d learn himself a trade maybe see the world
Move to the city someday and marry a black haired girl
Somebody somewhere had another plan
Now he’s got a rifle in his hand
Rollin’ into Baghdad wonderin’ how he got this far
Just another poor boy off to fight a rich man’s war
Bobby had an eagle and a flag tattooed on his arm
Red white and blue to the bone when he landed in Kandahar
Left behind a pretty young wife and a baby girl
A stack of overdue bills and went off to save the world
Been a year now and he’s still there
Chasin’ ghosts in the thin dry air
Meanwhile back at home the finance company took his car
Just another poor boy off to fight a rich man’s war
When will we ever learn
When will we ever see
We stand up and take our turn
And keep tellin’ ourselves we’re free
Ali was the second son of a second son
Grew up in Gaza throwing bottles and rocks when the tanks would come
Ain’t nothin’ else to do around here just a game children play
Somethin’ ‘bout livin’ in fear all your life makes you hard that way
He answered when he got the call
Wrapped himself in death and praised Allah
A fat man in a new Mercedes drove him to the door
Just another poor boy off to fight a rich man’s war
Did any of you ever read the original Garrett Hardin essay? It was assigned in one of my wetland management classes at LSU.
The notion applies as well to kitchens in group houses as well as it does to common grazing land.
The state of the kitchen is the thing that causes the most tension in the house. OK, it causes me the most anguish, but since it is my house, my kitchen, and my dishes involved, that's all that matters here. (!)
For about a week, it was just me and one other housemate here. We had a few communal meals, but for the most part fended for ourselves. The dishes were pretty much always done right away, and the kitchen stayed relatively clean without much effort, it seemed. And no bickering or resentment about it.
Then, housemate #2 returns. I am back to waking up every day to other people's slimy cereal bowls, crusty soup pots and greasy Rubbermaid. Has housemate #1 suddenly forgotten how to wash dishes? Is housemate #2 more of a slob than I remember? The last time it was just me and housemate #2 in the house, I recall a similar good showing in the housekeeping department. It's not like either of these folks are fundamentally thoughtless people. Nor am I, for that matter, or our third housemate, who is still away.
So what changed? Accountability. When there are just two people in the house, you know exactly who made a particular mess. More people in the house means more potential chances for someone else (you secretly hope) to get sick of the mess--or need to use the sink or a particular pot--before you and clean it up. You leave pots of cooked food out on the stove, justifying it as "Housemate X will put it away after he or she eats." At the end of the day, even if Housemate X never came home, it's still sitting there. (Let's me honest here: The real motivation was to avoid cleaning up.) If one person has left a mess, you figure ... what does it matter to add another dish to the pile. Eventually, someone breaks down and does the dishes--and isn't very happy about it. At a certain point, the whole operation falls apart and the person who is always stuck washing the dishes decides this arrangement isn't worth the cost savings derived from the common sharing of living space and chooses to live alone. It's much more expensive, but also a lot less work. The "overexploiters" (in Hardin's terms) must also now find other living arrangements, at much greater expense. Thus, freeloading in this manner comes at short-term benefit, but serious long-term cost. And yet, so many perfectly smart, decent, sane people cannot stop doing it. Perhaps as Hardin puts it, "[N]atural selection favors the forces of psychological denial."
If working on the business desk of The Post made me a socialist, it appears that group house life has turned me into a full-fledged defender of private property again.
After a few days of news avoidance, I caught up on all the stories about the tsunami. I made it through all sorts of technical stories about the initial earthquake, requests for humanitarian aid, the tough time the rescue workers are having, and so on.
Then, pictures of dead kids. I burst into tears.
I have no emotional tolerance for this stuff anymore.
About the same time employers started telling workers to “think out of the box,” some of them began pulling questions out of their asses.
I am writing this thing for washingtonpost.com about job interviews, but I can't actually include that line for obvious reasons. But I like it, so I share it with Killoggs.
What's the dumbest question you've ever been asked in a job interview?
