Exploding Microwave!

Fontessa was quietly eating her usual meal of a half a bagel and some cream cheese when the microwave exploded. As I puttered in the library , my pasta was warming in our built-in microwave.  I heard a loud "pop," but thought nothing of it since micro-explosions are a part of microwaving.

Anyway, when I caught the scent of  burning electronics, I dashed into the kitchen. Fontessa followed me with her eyes while continuing to eat calmly as thick black smoke poured from the microwave, polluting the kitchen. Alarmed , I debated what to do, not wanting to ignite or electrocute myself. The circuit breaker snapped as I whisked the fire extinguisher into position. The smoke stopped instantaneously. I popped open the door and retrieved my pasta (which was in pretty good shape!) and inspected the kichen thoroughly.

After all this excitement, Fontessa calmly asked me what had happened, feigning concern when I frantically related my panic. Later, whenTF came home from the gym, he explained to her what I was not able to relate. Fontessa was shocked. I had wondered if smoke filled kitchens were so commonplace in Moscow as to be mundane. However,  she related that she  thought that I had simply burned my pasta. Heh. Lotta smoke fer some pasta!

Old Mesilla

Went to old Mesilla today with Fontessa to pick up goodies for her friends in Moscow. I found some cool stuff for Cthulumas presents plus more non-denominational holiday cards that I will never send out to add to my collection. Oddly enough, at one of those tacky touristy places that host rows of personalized license plates and coffee mugs, I discovered some little doggie footprint sticker with the name "Misty" on them. I reckon that they will find a comfortable spot right next to my unused holiday cards.

Hip-hip Hooray!

Today was my final appointment with Dr. Rubble. Only a few minutes passed in a waiting room inexplicably full of rambunctious children before his nurse ushered me to an exam room. Out of the blue, she told me that she thought I resembled a Hollywood actress, but she couldn’t recall which one. I secretly hoped she wasn’t thinking of Melanie Griffith.

I scribbled in my journal until Dr. Rubble entered and I popped open my blouse for the moment of truth. Ahem. I am pleased to announce that my incision scar has healed and that I will not need any “revisions” (cosmetic procedures)! Yay! I’m tossing out the q-tip box in celebration.

Dr. Rubble chatted amiably with me (perhaps he’ll even visit my blog!), gave me a topical prescription to “mature” my scar, dictated relevant notes into his recorder and warmly shook hands with me. I think it’s hard for a doctor to balance being both professional and personable. Dr. Rubble has it down pat. What a swell guy.

Afterward, I raced home since I forgot the family paycheck and my shopping list. I left an hour later since I couldn’t resist chatting with Momfiend and playing with Babyfiend. I dropped off a toasted Philly cheese steak for my poor starving father and met Tennisfiend at Big Pushy Bastard Tire Center to have a flat fixed. TF treated me to a surprisingly delicious oven-fired (translate: charred black on the bottom) pizza with a Black Forest cheesecake chaser. I continued errands until my bosom was ready to burst (I’m still breastfeeding.)

After taking care of “Mommy Business” I handed Tyoma over to his Russian Grandma and gobbled a snack while watching last night’s Metalocalypse. I just love that show! Right now TF is grilling shashlik while I enjoy a half a glass of red wine. What a great day!

Back to Normal

Today is the first day that I’ve felt normal in about two months. Since I’m a goof who didn’t manage her privacy settings properly, here’s a summary of what’s been going on:

1. We had our baby boy August 21. Here’s a picture as proof:



2. For the next several weeks I struggled with mastitis and thrush, thrush, thrush.*
3. Tennisfiend’s Mom came to visit us from Russia.
4. I went in for surgery for an abscess on my left breast that developed over a weekend.
5. I have overcome a good deal of squeamishness.


* Thrush is a yeast infection of the breast that nursing moms often get after a course of antibiotics.

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!