Happy Birthday Patricia

Ewbliette you are the epitome a best friend! I couldn't have made it through my pregnancy without you!

Top Ten Reasons Why You Are The Best Friend Ever:

1. You’re super generous. You pick up the neatest little gifts, “just because.” Funky souvenirs, cool rocks, comfy t-shirts, yummy candy, trashy mags, squooshy pillows—you’re the best!
2. You’re always reliable. Whether I needed you to stop by the store to buy my hubby bananas or to take my early morning “I think I’m having my baby!” phone calls, you were always available.
3. You’ve got the sturdiest vocal cords. Thousands of years from now, aliens in distant galaxies will be receiving soundwaves of you (loudly!) coaching me: “One, two, three, PUSH! Four, five, six, PUSH! Seven, eight, nine, PUSH! Ten. Cleansing breath…”
4. You give the best pedicures. When my belly was too big for me to bend over and paint my toenails, you rescued me with your first class fancy pedicures and reflexology sessions.
5. You’re quick thinking. When I almost collapsed at the hospital with shooting leg pains, you whisked that computer chair under my butt in an instant. The ride to the bathroom was fun, too…
6. You’re tough as nails. I’ve sent a number of frantic and panicked phone calls your way—you handled each and every one of them with aplomb, including the “My feet are fantastically swollen, I must be dying!” incident that took you away from your work duties.
7. You’re super thoughtful. I remember you calling me make sure I was okay before you treated yourself to a beer. I also thought it was really kind of you to drive me around aimlessly in your air conditioned car during the hottest days of summer.
8. You are an awesome note-taker. Kudos to you for the copious notes you took during our childbirth classes and doctor’s appointments. You saved my sanity when all I heard was the bad stuff!
9. You’re hilarious! Two words: “camel toenails.”
10. You’re a good listener. Thank you for putting up with my manias and endless ramblings, whether or not I’m pregnant. You always take the time to hear me out and offer sensitive support or a much needed reality check.

Have A Happy Birthday!

Thanksgiving

Mom's Turkey

This year Tennisfiend and I hosted Thanksgiving, despite my minimal participation. Momfiend did the hardest work, roasting a delicious free-range turkey with all the trimmings to perfection.  Fontessa made fassol (Russian green beans) and yams, while Tennisfiend whipped up mashed potatoes. I supervised the baking of pies, set the table, poured (and drank!) the wine. Happy to be with the family on a food oriented holiday, Misty feasted on mashed potatoes and turkey.

We all had a wonderful time, despite the language barrier.  Dad reads and writes Russian quite well, but is sometimes flummoxed in rapid conversations. On the other hand, I can barely read Russian and my grammar is marginal, yet I yammer endlessly and somehow manage to make myself understood. My mom, apparently, can read minds, so she doesn't need a translator at all.

Bangs!

Being a new mother put me in the mood for a new hairstyle, but I didn’t want to inadvertently convert myself into a soccer mom. So, I went to my stylist Rodeyo and suggested a slightly different hairstyle. He said “Lets do BANGS!” I gasped and almost fell out of his cushy salon chair. What was I to do?!

To help you understand my dilemma, the chronicle of my struggle with bangs follows:

4 ½ years old: I decide I want bangs. I chop off the hair above my forehead, continuing several inches backward to a length of ½ inch, giving myself a spectacularly unlovely reverse-Mohawk.

10 years old: The pretty new girl at school has bangs. I tell my mom I want bangs too. She says bangs are for little girls. I’m too big for bangs. I give my self an unattractive but salvageable hair cut that evening.

15 years old:  The night before a trip to Disneyland with my bff, Jean, we color each other’s hair and give each other bangs. My hair color and bangs look fabulous; Jean is rushed to her mother’s stylist at 8:00 p.m. for emergency reconstruction.

High School : I wear bangs and bleach my hair white throughout high school. In college I decide that bangs are unflattering and give them up entirely (I still bleach the crap out of my hair).

The Melanie Griffith Incident:  Several years ago, I go for a shoulder length cut with bangs. TF spends the next two months pointing out bang-less hairstyles on TV and in magazines, casually mentioning how becoming they would be on me. The real killer is an assessment from my bff, Susan. She tells me that my new hair makes me seem “mature” adding, “You look just like Melanie Griffith.” AAUUUGGGHHH! Needless to say, I swore off bangs for good—until today!

Another Week of Sleep

 I spent the week battling with a mild but draining case of the stomach flu. Sometimes I wonder if the usual contagins we pass around don't have an emotional component. I have not been myself. I've felt depressed, irritable and inexplicably stir crazy.

My weekly highlight was a brief shopping trip to the organic food market with Tennisfiend. Despite my love for exotic snack food and unlovely but healthy vegetables, I still felt bummed. Bleagh.

I Might Need Cosmetic Surgery

Went back to see Dr. Rubble, who informed me that my infection had cleared, but that my inscision needs to remain open to heal and prevent re-infection. He also reminded me to q-tip my wound, but shot me a look that suggested that  he knew I'd avoid q-tipping at all costs.

He discussed the possibility of me having an  unlovely scar on my left breast that might need revision (aka a cosmetic procedure), but that we'd worry about that after I have healed. Yep. I will definitely need it. I feel rather depressed and self conscious over the whole thing. Not that a nude photo shoot or Girls Gone Wild appearence is on my to-do list. But man, I don't want to look like a Fangoria centerfold either....

Sleep Week

I spent most of this week either asleep, attached to the breast pump, or reluctantly making my shower quota. I’ve barely q-tipped my wound, I’m just too much of a squeamish pussy in too much pain. It’s unbelievable how tired I’ve been. Initially, I thought the pain meds I was prescribed were wiping me out, but I quit taking them during the day (using ibuprofen instead) and I’m still exhausted! Whew, who knew growing a few square inches of new tissue could be so tiring?!

Thanks to both grandmas for helping care for Tyoma, it would have been crazy hard without them. Well, back to sleep!