Hormonal Rage: Stupid TV, Stupid Reporters, Stupid Sensationalism BOYCOTT

Despite my resistance, I can feel it happening. It's as innate as the whole "nesting" phenomenon (another blog entry). It's every stereotype of the old woman chasing the kids from her yard with a broom, the cantankerous geezer complaining about his phone bill, the raucous teenager smoking cigs in the bathroom at school, all rolled into one. I am becoming that woman. That hormonal mother hen, that PTA-lovin, soccer mom, fist pumpin cliche. But it makes me mad and it stresses me out, so what all this means is that I'm boycotting network news.

Last Friday, after boogying down to Dance Friday (starts at 6:55 a.m. on NBC Chicago if you haven't seen it - a MUST), Matt Lauer filled my television to tell me about how everyone is outraged about the U.S. intervention in Libya because they haven't heard the president's plan for the mission. (Fair enough, I guess, because we all knew that when Bush sent planes into Iraq, the objective was ousting Sadam to protect our oil supplies, not pull those WMDs as he'd suggested). Then Lauer went on to Japan, highlighting how there MIGHT be an imminent meltdown in reactor #3. MIGHT BE. 

Hey Matt, where did you go to journalism school? MIGHT BE a meltdown? Well, tomorrow, someone MIGHT BE trying to blow up a prominent U.S. landmark. Tomorrow, I MIGHT BE getting a giant banana split from DQ. Only in the weather forecast is "MIGHT BE" acceptable. Try reporting the news - what has actually HAPPENED. Quit freaking me out. I have enough to worry about bringing this little face into the world rather than you contributing supposition to the mix. You know Matt Lauer... tomorrow I MIGHT BE turning on the radio instead. 

Ruffles and Flowers and Skirting!

This was the inspiration. Gorgeous and feminine, it was almost like you could just scratch that bed skirt and smell the spring. But like everything toward which I seemingly gravitate, it was absolutely exorbitantly priced at a mere $585 for the set. And I would have a hard time selling the hubs on a skirt that cost more than the actual crib. So I was left to alternative means. Namely, using that wonderful sewing machine he'd purchased for me last Christmas.

Common, nesting Nelly, let's see whatcha got.

We scoured Chicago for appropriate fabric. The man was a trooper... he probably knows the inside of Hancock Fabrics better than any other straight guy in the city. I had visions of this print in my head and probably have no less than 50 shots in my camera of "potential" designs. But it wasn't it.

Then we went to Columbus. And he saw it. "What about this?" he asked.

It was it. He'd found THE fabric. And for under $10/yd. Six yards of fabric, a road trip back to Chicago and one weekend later, we have BG's bed skirt COMPLETE! I love it because it's a little more whimsy than the Bella Notte print, has some serious hot pink splashes that we'll be able to play with, and best of all, was selected by her daddy! She could use a little ironing and light to do it justice, but for a first effort, we're psyched!

Gibran on Children

My little brother selected a Gibran poem as a reading during our wedding and I just loved it. I think it's only appropriate to share his wisdom on children here.

On Children 

Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Rug Envy

I really, really, really want this rug for the nursery... I just can't tell mom that it's more than the cost of BGs crib, car seat, stroller and wardrobe combined. The first item for her dowery, right? Damn you Anthropologie.

Ideas for a more cost effective alternative, anyone?

Designers Don't Do Bellies

The scene: Interior Design Show 2011

The location: Toronto, ON

When I read the article in the Toronto Star billing the opening night party as the "hottest" event in Toronto, I knew I was in trouble. Granted it was on a trade show floor in the middle of the city's financial district; sure, it was Thursday and no truly "hot" event takes place on a Thursday; and did I mention it took place on a trade show floor? Anyway, I knew I was in for an interesting evening before I even stepped into the hall.

It'd already been a long day by the time we arrived - around 8 p.m. I'd taken a 7:30 a.m. flight that morning, traveled out to a job site and karate chopped through a dozed emails, so needless to say when I began sipping that cran & 7, I could have easily sucked down a bottle of vodka.

At the base of the escalator, a line wrapped around the 1st level floor, closely resembling nightmarish scenes from the airport during the holidays. Except the people in this queue were donned in crisp Italian shirts, thigh-high boots and mini skirts rather than bulky winter wear.

"Oh my GOD!" said a guy in a striped pink and purple shirt to his scantily clad female counterpart. "Can you even BELIEVE Marco wore that vest again this year?"

We managed to circumvent any further painful conversations in the line and found an alternative entrance into the techno-pumping party. Passing countless flutes of champagne, stations serving raw oysters and more thick-framed eye glasses than I could count, we finally made our way to the booth. The fancy booth that one second place for superior design. At the trade show. Don't forget, it is a TRADE SHOW.

The minute I shed my protective garb, it began. I could just hear Tim Gund shouting "designers" in the back of my head as I watched the eyes start at eye level and work their way down. When their eyes once again met mine, it wasn't the warm, generous smile you normally receive from strangers, but more of a faint wince. Some might as well have been shouting "breeder!" Others clearly disappointed by my comfortable shoe selection for the evening, and a fist punch to the few random mothers who gave that reassuring nod as they passed.

Remember you pretentious a*holes, you're at a TRADE SHOW. Anyway, the evening passed quickly and I was fortunate enough to only have to spend a few hours the next day on my feet at the show. I love my clients, I love Toronto and it was LAST work trip (via airplane) so all in all, it was a great experience. Plus, I found a new lamp for BG's room! :) HA!

He Tried to Give Me a MINIVAN.

There's something about that aura women get when they're pregnant. That radiant, healthy glow that follows them around, disguising the fact that they haven't been able to sleep for days, their backs feel like they could give out at any time and that the only place they really feel like hanging out at is an Old Town Buffet.

That being said, Tuesday morning was a fiasco. A business meeting in Cincinnati required an early start to the day, shoving myself and child into a skirt suit that made us both fight for breath - quite a departure from the relaxing jeans we're accustomed to sporting. That, coupled with an early morning flight and a pair of panty hose from hell, and we're off to the motherland.

Upon arriving in Port Columbus, we made our way over to the car rental place. Rentals were strangely hard to come by on this random Tuesday in January, so I'd secured an SUV--the only decent available option. The attendant calls next and I give him my name to retrieve the reservation. He types in the information and looks back at me.

"We have a mini van available, ma'am."

A MINI VAN. Oh HELL no he DIDN'T just ask me if I wanted a mini van. Mister, I'm six months pregnant. Do you see any snot-nosed brats running around me yet? Is there spit up anywhere on my suit? Even bags under my eyes? I don't think so.

It took every bit of phat girl restraint inside me not to go off on this poor, naive little guy. He didn't know any better. He didn't realize his words were like shotgun bullets coming at me in several pieces from one direction. Obviously not a father, obviously not thinking, let it go, phat girl, let it go.

"I just can't do that yet, sir."

He laughed. I breathed. He pushed some more buttons.

"Would a Lincoln work better for you?"

"Yes. Yes, it does."

We've Gotta Get WHAT?

They sit you down at the nice desk with a cute little old lady who you're convinced will be handing over cookies before too long. She asks you the normal questions and gets almost teary when she starts talking about the "gift" you've been given and what an exciting time it is in your lives. She obviously has blocked out the memories of sleepless nights, incessant heartburn and persistent nausea. We smile and nod politely.

The Hubs asks for a beer. I want the gun. Let's get this party started, hunny.

Excited to begin the quest and start giving form to our new life, we make our way to the stroller and car seat section. With price tags ranging from $400 to $1k on the three and four-wheeled varieties, visions of those romantic dinners out and impromptu 3-day trips become increasingly faint, kind of like Michael J. Fox's family in the picture he references throughout Back to the Future.

Our "personal shopper" joins us with another expecting couple who seem to be as clueless as us. Face filled with holes from random piercings around his lips, nose and ears, he begins telling us what we'll "need." This includes THREE different car seats by the time the kid is 8. THREE. However, the hubs astutely discerned that we'll be able to skip one of these units if we can get BG (baby girl) to 20 lbs by the time she's one - so of course we're on a course to fatten her like fois gras before she's even born.

Then there are the strollers. You can get "jogging" strollers and "snap and goes," upright Stokke strollers and the lesser recommended Graco strollers. Regardless, he advises getting two of these bad boys too - one for the car, one for city cruising. We're stuck in this section for two hours before we can even progress to the next section. I start feeling nauseous. The hubs really wants a beer.

Then there's the baby entertainment centers. Shocking they don't come equipped with wide screen plasmas at this point, but these are undoubtedly right around the corner. This little pod will likely send your kid to outer space if you put enough quarters in it.

So we made it. We ingested enough information to require a three-hour nap at the end of the trip, and we may have emerged with a mere five items on our registry after four hours in the store, but we made it. We made it right to the restaurant down the street where the hubs shed a few tears in his beer and we consumed every bite of the most expensive items on the menu. With dessert.