Leaving Yosemite

Originally uploaded by sprbert
This is my second attempt at blogging a photo through Flickr. The first time, the photo was way too big. I hope it works. I might just dislike that it's not the same as my other posts and delete it due to my OCD need for symmetry. If you're reading this now, I've overcome my issues, for the time being.

So, the blog post is really more of a test than anything else, but I do want to mention that I'm so glad to be living in California. I generally love the weather, the proximity to wonderful state and national parks, and the laid back attitude. But, mostly, today I'm noticing that it snowed in my native Midwest, and I'm planning to take a little stroll in Golden Gate Park to celebrate not having to wear moon boots ever again.

But, I'm sure I have a diagnosable anxiety disorder. Doing what I do for a living, I can spot that kind of thing a mile away.

First, a warning. If you a) are currently pregnant or b) don't want to hear about tragedy in general, you might want to stop reading this post now.

In my last entry, I alluded to the fact that I'm fearful about certain aspects of this baby-having business. First, there's the whole unknown factor. But, truthfully, I'm not that concerned about how it will all unfold. I'm trying not to hang on tightly to any one scenario of birthing my baby. Back when I was in the Peace Corps, I became good at having few expectations in a situation. You want to take a bus to the capital? Be prepared to wait for six hours because the bus driver's neighbor let his goats get out of their cage earlier that day, and the driver had to help corral them before leaving town. Life happens. I waited. After a while, I learned to expect and enjoy life's little detours.

Second on the list of often quoted fears about birth is the anticipated pain. Here's the thing about pain, though... humans don't remember it very well. I have no concept of how much pain is a lot of pain, and therefore, I'll save that particular fear for the moment in which I'm screaming for an epidural. No, seriously, though, I do expect it to be painful. It's supposed to hurt to shove a human being out of your guts. I can't say I'm prepared for the experience, what with never having experienced it before, but I'm optimistic that I can handle it however I choose to manage it. And I trust in my husband to know my quirks and to manage the hospital staff, as needed.

So, that leaves the Big Third Fear. This is the one that wakes me up at 2:00AM. It's the one that gives me those photo flashback moments that terrify and paralyze me. It's something I wish I didn't know. Something I wish I had never experienced, but that made me more appreciative of life, overall. And I have no idea how to manage the anxiety and intrusive thoughts it gives me during these last weeks of pregnancy.

Back when I was in high school, I got hooked on Vietnam movies, both fiction and documentary. There was something about the tragedy that spoke to my deepest heart and made me so intensely sad. I had never experienced death in my life, personally, and the thought of so many families losing someone they loved took my breath away. And it became an obsession of sorts... focusing on other people's suffering. Just wishing there was something I could do to make the sadness stop for everyone involved. It just occurred to me that maybe that's partly why I have the job that I do now.

In any case, I eventually moved out of that phase and into my Save the World phase, which was made up of much of the same fascinations with hardships of others. It's been a long time since I felt that deeply for someone else's pain. I have training now to turn off that kind of personal involvement and emotion. And usually, it works for me. Most of the time.

As I near my due date, I feel my baby boy wiggle in my belly, and I fall more and more in love with him and the idea of holding him and watching him grow. It is now that I find myself mired in a memory of tragedy that refuses to be shut off.

In early 2006, my friends awaited the birth of their much-longed-for baby girl. We threw a baby shower and the atmosphere was all excitement and celebration. Exactly one week later, I got an early morning call on my way to the gym. She had had the baby, there was some distress, but things were being managed. Several minutes later, I received another call. The long-awaited baby girl had passed away just hours after being born. There had been no indication of any problems, and everyone was in shock.

I turned the car around and headed to the hospital. Once there, I stood awkwardly in the labor and delivery room with my friends and their baby who would never grow up. I was silent as I stared at her. A dead baby. Nobody knew why; it just was. And here are the memories burned into my mind... mother holding infant and sobbing as though her own life would end, father crying while talking to relatives on the phone during what should be a joyful moment, the wrong-ness of how still she lay, those little toes and the tiny pink hat they had put on her head. The images haunt me as I get close to giving birth to my own baby at the very same hospital.

Those next months were heart-wrenching, and I was very sad for my friends, during that time. But now, feeling my own baby inside me, and knowing that my friend must have felt similar wiggles and kicks, and had such love and expectations for her own baby... it leaves me stunned into renewed sadness for all of them.

And there is no erasing that experience... the knowledge that, even though all the baby books say, "No matter what type of birth experience you have, you can be sure you'll be taking home a wonderful new addition to your family," it just might not happen. I find myself wandering around the house, imagining my friends coming in and taking down the baby gear we've been excitedly setting up... so that we don't have to endure doing that ourselves.

And I catch myself doing this. This is the diagnosable part. I know that odds are in our favor. But, I'm feeling superstitious and scared... and I just want my baby to be healthy and okay. I want to bring him home with his little sleeper and hat and carseat and blanket. And I want to snuggle him and feed him and watch him grow.

There's so much in me for him. I can't bear to imagine an alternate scenario... and yet, some days, it's on an endless loop in my head, which I can't seem to control.

I've had the Conjunction Junction School House Rock song stuck in my head for several days now. Mostly because whenever I have a lot of Braxton-Hicks contractions in a row, I start singing, "Contraction Jackson, what's your faction?" I know it makes no sense, but it's stuck there, so I go with it.

I've been having a lot of contractions every afternoon for about a week. Yesterday, I started having them pretty much all day long, about 3-10 minutes apart. Today, they hurt a little more. And the poor Baby is in there all intermittently wiggling around and scared into stillness. What the heck? Go Time already? I was just getting the hang of these hiccups.

My last day of work is supposed to be October 16, but we'll see if I make it that long. I've been on my rear end at home since 11:30 this morning, when I returned after a failed attempt to go to work with every-3-minute contractions. Lesson learned.

I'm hoping this all just means I'll have a really strong uterus when the time comes.

I'm getting all excited to meet him. And I'm a bit fearful about the whole baby-having experience for several reasons that I'll go into in another blog entry. It's a little too much emotional stuff for this particular time of day.

Today, we had a small scare. We ended up at my OB's office, and were sent for a third trimester ultrasound to check on the placenta. Apparently, everything looked okay. And, as a bonus, we got this neato 3D photo of Baby!

My fetus already has his daddy's nose!

I cannot believe this is my body. I feel the same inside!

(As a note: This is mostly for my own emotional masturbation, and I do understand that it's likely very, very boring to most. Please feel free to skip this entry, if you can't stand to hear people whine.)

Despite what a do for a living, I have plenty of my own deep seated issues. Today, two major ones are in play... and I am about to sound like a whiny pre-teen in front of the whole internet.

Today, I had brunch with a friend who is also pregnant. And, who also reads this blog. So, Dear S, please know that all of the following Emotional Garbage I am about to express has only entirely to do with me and my above mentioned issues. You are radiant and wonderful and a joy to spend time with. I honestly really value that we're having this experience together. In addition to the sheer neato-ness of having such a good friend so close and going through similar feelings, it clearly also helps me (and the internet) evaluate my hang ups.

I have two major hang ups (though if you ask my husband, he might come up with a few more). In my opinion, my hang ups are these: 1) anything to do with my looks, 2) anything to do with not being capable or strong. Both were triggered by my outing today.

First, a detailed description of my issues because you can't fight an enemy you can't see.

Hang Up #1: My Looks

Let's face it, in a society where Angelina can be pregnant and only gain about 10 pounds while still wearing fabulous designer dresses to the Academy Awards... and people thinks that's a good thing, instead of asking why she would put her baby in danger like that... well, how am I supposed to feel, really? But, this issue is much deeper than just hormones or pregnancy. This is something I've had my whole life. Am I thin enough? Am I cute enough? Do the boys like me? If they don't, what can I do to make myself prettier? (Not smarter, mind you... prettier.) It sounds so silly, and when I step back and pretend I'm listening to someone else, I seriously want to slap me across the face and tell myself to get over it. But... well, it's just not that easy.

I've examined this and, I assume because it's too close to home, I just can't figure out what the heck is the road block in getting over this particular issue. I mean, I certainly value my intelligence, my sense of humor, my other talents. Thing is, I don't value them as much as I imagine other people value my looks. Oh dear god, now I sound like every other woman I've ever heard complain about this. And it's painful... being in this place where I know I'm feeling something totally irrational that I completely don't respect or ascribe to in theory. And yet... here I am.

Sure, I wish I had been brought up to believe that my value is deeper than my physical appearance. And, to give my parents credit, they did try. The thing is, who would you believe? Fashion challenged old(er) people or Entertainment Tonight and Seventeen Magazine? I believe the messages that we give to girls in our society are reprehensible, and frankly, I'm relieved to be having a boy (which comes with separate issues, but ones with which I feel more capable of dealing logically.)

Hang Up #2: My Ability and Strength

Having been born with my foot tangled in my own umbilical cord and, therefore, bent the wrong way, I feel like I was often given the message that I wasn't strong enough or capable of doing the things other kids did. Perhaps, it was just implied; I know children pick up on their surroundings. But, I totally bought this line of thinking, and despite the fact that my foot was totally fixed by the age of three, I remember knowing deep within myself, that I absolutely could not become a track star, a figure skater, or a professional dancer. I was incapable of being any type of athlete. Too weak, too different, too broken because of my foot. I don't think anyone ever said, "You can't do that." I just knew it was true.

Years later, after moving to the Bay Area, I became quite a hot commodity in the swing dance scene, much to my surprise. I could dance, and out here, nobody knew my secret... that I was truly incapable of greatness because of my foot. I had fooled everyone.

Around the same time, I had a friend who wanted to take me rock climbing. I had been lifting some weights to avoid a family legacy of osteoporosis, and thought climbing sounded like a fun way to build muscles. I was terrified and not at all graceful, when I started out. And then, suddenly, after months of attempting to climb more difficult grades, something clicked and I got it. I mean I really got it. And I was, objectively, measurably good at it!

During that period of time, I complained to my chiropractor that I seemed to always have some pain or another I needed him to fix. And he said the nicest thing I had ever heard to that day, "Well, that's pretty normal. You're an athlete." An athlete! Damn straight.

So, I have a knee jerk reaction (ask my husband and his sore shins about it) when someone even sort of, kind of, almost implies that I can do something. Or, when I imagine it's true in my own twisted head space.

So then, the reason these issues were invoked by the power of this casual outing with my friend? You see, my friend is in her 17th week of pregnancy. She's lovely and sweet and not at all sickened by the smell of coffee (which I still am sometimes). She's also only gained about 3-5 pounds, so far, is wearing all of her pregnancy clothes, and looks fantastic. And I remember that at 17 weeks, I had gained over 20 pounds already and was wearing maternity pants. And, people at work kept telling me how huge I was. (Don't ever tell a pregnant woman she looks huge. It's just not nice. She knows it, already.)

I'm pretty sure the giant weight gain was mostly because I was so totally sick that I dropped going to the gym (a before pregnancy daily routine) and started eating only graham crackers or anything else that would make me feel like I didn't want to hurl 24/7. (Joke's on me, since I sort of still feel like tossing my cookies much of the time.)

So you see... now, at nearly 30 weeks pregnant, I have gained a total of 37 pounds, already over the upper end of "normal" on the weight continuum. And I still have 10 weeks to go to reach full term. At a pound more per week, that puts me solidly in the "holy crap what have I done to my body" category. I'm already disgusted by my own thighs and the amount of cellulite that's hitched a ride on my once-muscular ass. And then, I'm disgusted at my attitude because, honestly, a healthy baby is way more important to me than the shape of my ass. And yet, those thoughts tumble around in my possibly poisoned by People Magazine mind.

Which leads me to being capable. No matter how silly it sounds when I say it out loud to my husband or to you, internet, I can't help but feel as though I'm failing at pregnancy. Like I'm doing it all wrong. I'm constantly sick, I gained too much weight, and I never had the second trimester honeymoon that everyone talks about. And though I know everyone's pregnancy is different, I feel like I can't, and I hate that word.

So, thank you, internet. I do feel better having taken a better look at all that. And thank you, S, for facilitating my introspection. Everyone should look inside at the weirdness they carry around, once in a while.

Today, I brought a hardboiled egg with me to work. When I went to get it from the fridge, it had one single impact point on it, which had cracked in a circular fashion.

For some reason, this reminded me of a task we did in 10th grade health class. All of students were paired into heterosexual couple partnerships (I now wonder which of my classmates felt judged or different because of that) and given an egg. Not hardboiled, though. A raw egg. (This likely sounds familiar to many of you, as I think it's a pretty well practiced health class lesson in the USA.) Each couple was told that they were the "parents" of this egg, and needed to protect it for one week. If the egg broke, both members of the partnership failed the assignment.

Each team was to set up an elaborate schedule of which partner would take care of the egg during which hours. Who took it home at night, who brought it to gym class, when the handoff would occur, and in which hallway. Perhaps, to an adult, this seems like a good way to teach responsibility to a teenager during the sex education portion of health class. Looking back, I see some flaws.

Flaw #1: First, I didn't choose this partner as I would choose someone with whom I would be caring for a baby. I don't remember who my partner was, but I remember being dismayed when his name was read off. Also, it's incredibly awkward as a 15 year old to be put into a partnership with a boy in your class. A lot of "ooooo"s and "ooohhhhh"s were heard during the assigning. And, at 15, I was not one of the girls that the boys were secretly crossing their fingers about, and I was painfully aware.

Flaw #2: Most of the boys in the class were either 14 or 15 years old. Seriously, make a schedule of who takes care of a raw egg that we're pretending is a baby? That sounds like a sissy game of playing house, to me. The boys were much more interested in the making of the egg baby than the possibility of caring for it. I have to imagine that the lesson was totally lost on most, if not all, of them. And, I have to imagine, on some of the girls, as well, as proven by the fact that several of them ended up going to a continuation school due to "unfortunate circumstances".

Flaw #3: The assignment, perhaps because of the teenage boys' involvement, really became "who can design the most impact proof encasement for the egg". This, in turn, led to competitions after lunch where the boys (generally unannounced to the girl in the partnership) would take the eggs out to the back stairwell at the school (the highest spot possible from which to test an egg's "impact proof" container) and drop the styrofoam or bubble wrap or cardboard container containing the hapless egg... usually to its certain demise. And, therefore, failing both themselves and their blissfully unaware partners.

This last one I only know about because my partner, What's His Name, did exactly that.

And, I find myself, 20 years after 10th grade health class, thanking my lucky stars that I did not marry that boy... mostly because he's probably working at McDonald's because goodness knows, he made a sucky engineer.

I never really want to call my doctor when I have questions or concerns... even seemingly important concerns. I feel like a hypochondriac. Being that this is the first time I've been pregnant, I never quite know what's normal and what's gone horribly wrong. Yesterday was a perfect example of that.

My adorable cousin and her polite boyfriend were visiting, so we took them to Napa. We had a lovely picnic in the 90+ degree heat, but I felt fine sitting on the ground in the shade of a tree. They shared a bottle of wine, and I drank my little fizzy grapefruit juice (a treat, since I generally just have water). Peachy, fabulous, superfun time!

Then, I stood up. Shazam! Knives stabbing me in the gut. What the heck was that? Wait. It's not gone. It was like someone took a 5" rusty nail and jammed it into that soft space below my sternum and jaggled it back and forth under my ribcage... for the next three hours. Well, that can't be right.

So, when we got home, I looked this strange new pain up online. Let me say right here that if I am a hypochondriac, I blame the internet. Seriously. Nobody ever just gets a little sick on the internet and all symptoms could potentially lead to death. The internet told me that any upper abdomen pain could be a sign of preeclampsia. I had no other symptoms, though, so I wrote that one off. (Pats self on back for not overreacting.) The other thing it said about abdominal pain was that if it doesn't get better, to seek medical treatment immediately. Damnit.

We called the on-call nurse at my practitioner's office, who said I should get checked out. Twenty-five minutes later, I was checked in at OB emergency reception and wearing a hospital gown and a spandex girdle. They monitored the baby's heartbeat and my contractions for about 45 minutes. Apparently, the rusty nail pain I felt (it had faded significantly at that point, making me feel like even more of a hypochondriac) was not contractions because the nurse pointed out that I was having quite a few, which I didn't feel at all.

This created a new issue, now unrelated to the pain. I was having "on the borderline" too many contractions. So, the nurse unplugged the monitor, slung the cords around the back of my neck like a Versace scarf, and told me to pee in a cup. Gown a-flappin', I went into the bathroom to comply. Peeing in a cup while your stomach hurts and your wrapped in electrical cords and stuffed into an elastic girdle is much more difficult than you might imagine. I'll spare you the details.

And the verdict? I was dehydrated, causing too many contractions. Cervix? Happily, still closed. Pain? No idea. Likely, it was what I first assumed before the internet got me all screwed up. My abdominal muscles just under my ribs are stretching like a hot air balloon to accommodate baby. Nobody ever mentioned this to me. There's all this stuff online and in friends' stories regarding "round ligament pain", but that's generally low in the abdomen.

Well, now I know... and I'm glad because the rusty nail is back today.

The good news is, it wasn't an unpleasant experience (except for the cervix check, which is never a cause for celebration). Two great things came out of it.

1) We got a little preview of what it will be like in a few months to show up when we're actually having a baby. The nurse was nice, the doctor was fast to arrive, and the facilities are clean and quiet.

2) While on the fetal monitor, the baby got the hiccups, which was adorable because he would bump the monitor with his little spasms, making it sound like he was testing a microphone at a party. Without hiccups: thumpa-thumpa-thumpa-thumpa. With hiccups: thumpa-thumpa-TAP-thumpa-thumpa-TAP-thumpa-thumpa-TAP.

3) (Okay, there are three things.) Without me even knowing, Bryan had packed me extra socks, underwear, and a t-shirt... just in case, reminding me that I have the best one and he loves me. *swoon*

Now, perhaps, it's the pregnancy hormones, but I feel totally offended by the comments made on this page of The San Francisco Chronicle's site, sfgate.com.

I'm speechless at the sheer hatred, animosity, and sometimes violence, being expressed toward these pregnant women and they're lovely bellies! Where does something like that come from? Seriously, how do you dis a pregnant woman for putting a photo of her beautiful, life-creating form in a gallery dedicated to said photos? And, why are those people looking at that gallery if they find such topics so disgusting? Furthermore, why doesn't The Chronicle do anything about the inappropriate comments?

To me, these negative, hate-spreading, ignorant people embody all that is wrong with our country. Pregnant bellies as "target practice"? Target practice?! Not to mention the seeming consensus that photos of pregnant women are lewd and should only be displayed in private albums, if at all. Closed-minded, puritanical prudes.

I'm ready to move. I'll tell you that, right now.

Today, we put up some foam circles that Bryan painted. They're our baby's decorations!

This past weekend, Bryan painted the baby's room (formerly, his office).

Before

During

After

We tried going with no-VOC emissions paint, but unfortunately, to cover that dark orange, we needed a good primer. So far, no-VOC primers are only made to go directly onto drywall. So, listen up natural paint companies, I have a market for you. We did manage to get a paint/primer in one combo thing, which worked both economically and labor-wise (especially important since the VOCs kept me out of the room).

I was just checking out our recent ultrasound photos again, and came to a shocking conclusion. I'm pretty sure our baby is a superhero.

Well, I'm finding myself nearly halfway done with this pregnancy before I even really came to terms with the fact that I'm actually making a person. Here's the history, so far.

Week 1: I hope I'm pregnant.

Week 2: Maybe I'm not pregnant. Let's go wine tasting and get all tipsy!

Week 3: What's that cramping feeling? I'm tired and grouchy. I guess my period is coming again this month.

Week 4: Wait. What's this? Positive pregnancy test? I'm pregnant!

Week 5: No symptoms so far. And my boobs look great! Being pregnant is easy!

Week 6: Bleh. Nothing sounds good. I feel a little queasy.

Week 7-12: Please don't even mention food again and bring me my bucket. I'll be napping if you need me.

Week 8: Confirmed and with a heartbeat!

Week 13: Holy crap! That's what's going on in there?! And this was on my birthday. What a wonderful gift to see the little person wiggling in there!

Week 14: Isn't this morning (all the time) sickness supposed to let up? Maybe I should stop taking this supplemental iron? Could it be making me sick?

Week 15: Bryan's sister visited! Super fun, but I was tired and out of shape from not going to the gym for nearly three months. Some short walks around the neighborhood and through the park, but nothing like what I was used to before this whole adventure.

Week 16: We went to Seattle! I sure did feel tired while we're at the Folk Festival. I had to go home early and lie around on the couch napping and drinking a lot of water. I'm finding out all sorts of interesting things about what my body now needs.

Week 17: Was that movement? Maybe? Not sure. Hm... jury's out. My OB said I've gained 20 pounds! Some of that must be my heavy lunch! No?

Week 18: Definite movement every few days! Little flicks under my bellybutton. And more so if I drink some juice and hold really still. Baby loves sugar. Bryan is excited to be able to feel the baby in the future. And I'm back to the gym. Thank goodness. Feeling better already about the exercise I'm getting.

Week 19: Last ultrasound, unless my provider has some more concerns. A boy is confirmed! I know because I saw the male parts on the screen. The genetic testing all looks great. Looks like the little one is in the 80+ percentile on most measurements... including his head. Ouch.

Here's his little smiling face at week 19.

I now understand why they call it that. In just five weeks, the small person in my guts has gone from this:

8 weeks

to this:

13 weeks

It's mind blowing! And, also gives me a concrete reason to continue to choke down food, despite the fact that I'm still feeling nauseous at 13 weeks and 1 day pregnant. The little one is worth it.

My brother just sent me a link to this article.

I'm baffled and saddened that the people in this story think they're doing something "altruistic," a word used by one of the interviewees. His definition of the word is sorely out of line with my idea of what altruism means.

I think the part that most makes me slap my forehead in dismay is this:

"Abernethy said he will continue to watch the cameras because he feels like he's part of an altruistic group of volunteers. Friends tease him about watching the site, he said. But he sees it as no worse than any other form of quick entertainment -- and maybe he can be of some help in the process. 'It's no different than watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns," he said. "It's just something to do.'""

Quick entertainment? It seems these bordercam watchers have lost sight of the fact that the people crossing the border are... well, people. I hardly agree that watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns is as benign as changing the course of someone's life. A life that might be deeply difficult due to issues of poverty, political problems, and disease. My feeling is that the bordercam watchers haven't taken the time to understand the issues on the other side of the fence.

That said, I'm not all for a completely open door policy because a system like that would likely overtax resources which we are already struggling to provide for some US citizens. However, I don't think watching for "the bad guys" (who could very well be a poor woman with her three young children) crossing the border is really something to be proud of.

Here are my suggestions to those bordercam people who want to help out. Some "altruistic" ideas, if you will. A good first step would be lobbying for our leaders to assist the Mexican government in building a more effective infrastructure, therefore, diminishing or even eliminating the causes of illegal immigration. Show that you believe in a policy that will help would-be immigrants make a living wage, live in healthy surroundings, and have a fair shake at building a future in their own country. We do that in countries where we want something they have. Why not for our own neighbors?

Also, for people like Abernethy, in the story, I have an even better idea. Rather than watching Everybody Loves BorderCam, go to an actual country from which the US receives a large amount of immigrants. Experience life the way its people do. Learn to really appreciate what it is that these people are seeking and why. Give yourself the opportunity to remember how wonderful it was to be able to rely upon clean water from the tap in your US home, around the clock every day. Then, help someone in that other country to live a healthier, more satisfying life. That Mr. Abernethy, is something in which to have pride.

And just to note, I also think we should continue providing amnesty for those who need it. It's a belief on which we built the country originally. And Mr. Abernethy ought to be a little less short sighted when looking at himself. Unless he's a Native American, his people once crossed our border looking for a better life, too.

Two stories in today's news caught my eye. The first is a local piece about an overhaul of one of the giant downtown mall/theater complexes, The Metreon.

When I moved to San Francisco in early 2000, the Metreon had just been built. It was big and dark and full of neon guts. The Metreon was built by Sony, who seemed to want to capitalize on all of the Internet Millionaire Buzz that was happening around the Bay Area. High tech, high prices, high energy.

Cut to 2009. With Bay Area housing prices stalled at best, falling in most places, and many people losing their jobs, the Metreon has become a monolithic eyesore, a memory of, not so much a better time, but a more self-absorbed one.

The article talks about the Westfield Group's recent purchase and planned remodel of the building. While I don't advocate spending on unnecessary projects during tough times, the Westfield people seem to be doing okay... financially speaking. Therefore, I'm all for the upgrade! More open spaces, more light, more community area for lounging and connecting to friends.

The reason this story really hit home, though, was because I remember when The Metreon was the place to be, all new and shiny. Thing is, I never really saw the draw. I didn't like the neon or the darkness, especially since Yerba Buena park was right there. It always seemed a bit of a sin against nature to close the people off from the sunlight into a dark, albeit technologically neat, cave. So, a decade later, they will start construction on The Metreon as I envisioned it. I should really write these things down when I think of them.

The second story is that of the Barbie doll's 50th anniversary. There are many new articles online about Barbie's 50th birthday bash. While I did play with Barbie's as a child, and very much enjoyed the imaginative play her world helped me create, I do still see a flaw in the whole concept.

The main reason for my insistence on ruining Barbie's party is that I don't and won't ever look like Barbie. Some people go to great lengths to reinvent themselves into a living Barbie, by way of some extreme decision making (don't get my started on psychoanalyzing this one).

For myself in the matter of Media Blitz + Larger Than Average Rear End = Twelve Year Old With Battered Self-Esteem, I remember the exact moment in which I held my Barbie up while facing the mirror. We looked nothing alike. And in that moment, I had the crushing realization that my breasts, burgeoning though they were, would never look like Barbie's. At the time, it was heart-breaking. She was who I thought I would grow up to be. An all American Girl, fun-loving and successful. And, I assumed, these things were all based upon her natural, beachy good looks. (Remember, I was 12 years old; this was a logical conclusion for me.)

So, I remain torn on the celebration of an icon's 50th. She's a real bitch with a bad attitude, but I can't seem to shun her because of the fun times we shared several decades ago. A toxic friendship from my past of which I'm reminded every 10 years or so.

There's no good excuse for not having written for so long. Except that I've had nothing of real interest to say. No witty observations. No big travel stories. So, here are some recent photos, so that you know I'm still here... making an effort.

Wine Tasting Last Weekend in the Pouring Rain

Golden Gate Bridge Stop in the Pouring Rain

Visiting the Missle Museum (Bryan Looks Good in a Hardhat)

Parents' 40th Anniversary Party That We Threw

I'll see if I can come up with some other good stuff soon.

1. Amalfi, Italy

2. Amesbury, England

3. Arthurs Pass, New Zealand

4. Atlanta, GA

5. Austin, TX

6. Badlands, SD

7. Bergen, Norway

8. Birmingham, AL

9. Boulder, CO

10. Carmel, CA

11. Cheyenne, WY

12. Chicago, IL

13. Christchurch, New Zealand

14. Clearlake, CA

15. Cleveland, OH

16. Copenhagen, Denmark

17. Denver, CO

18. Depoe Bay, OR

19. Duluth, MN

20. Florence, Italy

21. Fort Collins, CO

22. Fort Lauderdale, FL

23. Gatlinburg, TN

24. Geneva, IL

25. Genoa, Italy

26. Grand Portage, MN

27. Honolulu, HI

28. Kaneohe, HI

29. Kansas City, MO

30. Kapaa, HI

31. Kekaha, HI

32. Keystone, SD

33. Kilauea, HI

34. Kissimmee, FL

35. La Fortuna, Costa Rica

36. Laie, HI

37. Lake Tahoe, CA

38. Las Vegas, NV

39. Lihue, HI

40. London, England

41. Longmont, CO

42. Los Angeles, CA

43. Lucca, Italy

44. Madison, WI

45. Malmo, Sweden

46. Mammoth Lakes, CA

47. Manuel Antonio National Park, Costa Rica

48. Memphis, TN

49. Miami, FL

50. Miami Beach, FL

51. Milan, Italy

52. Milwaukee, WI

53. Minneapolis, MN

54. Monterey, CA

55. Napa, CA

56. Naples, Italy

57. Nashville, TN

58. Nelson, New Zealand

59. New Orleans, LA

60. Nogales, Mexico

61. Orlando, FL

62. Oslo, Norway

63. Owego, NY

64. Paris, France

65. Philadelphia, PA

66. Phoenix, AZ

67. Pisa, Italy

68. Poipu, HI

69. Pompeii, Italy

70. Portofino, Italy

71. Princeville, HI

72. Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic

73. Puerto Quepos, Costa Rica

74. Punta Cana, Dominican Republic

75. Reno, NV

76. Rochester, NY

77. Rome, Italy

78. Rotorua, New Zealand

79. San Diego, CA

80. San Francisco, CA

81. San Jose, CA

82. San Jose, Costa Rica

83. San Juan, Puerto Rico

84. Santa Barbara, CA

85. Santa Monica, CA

86. Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic

87. Seattle, WA

88. Sedona, AZ

89. Sonoma, CA

90. Stockholm, Sweden

91. Superior, WI

92. Tampa, FL

93. Tucson, AZ

94. Turrialba, Costa Rica

95. Waialua, HI

96. Washington DC

97. Wellington, New Zealand

98. Winnipeg, Manitoba

99. Wisconsin Dells, WI

100. Yosemite, CA

I don't make New Year's Resolutions. They're just not for me. It implies that I'm wrong in what I have or haven't been doing - as if I am, in someway, already flawed and need to promise to fix myself.

Boo. Bad attitude right out of the gate.

Also, I think making a long list of things to accomplish each year is really just setting myself up for failure. And the list would likely get longer as time passes because the longer the list, the more remains left undone each year.

There are things I do, and would like to continue doing, which I feel are the most important things. It's a short list of five items. If I try to add more than five, it can get messy and stressful, which is exactly what I'm trying to avoid in my life by remembering to do these five things.

So, this is my resolution solution for myself.

Bert's All The Time Resolutions List

1) Be nice to people.

2) Try new things.

3) Stay active.

4) Stay informed.

5) Laugh a lot.

Easy to remember, and covers most of the ideals by which I'd like to live my life. That said, it's not rigid. Depending on the day, I might add something like "eat more ice cream".

After all, life is to be enjoyed.

"How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." - Annie Dillard

...who accidentally dresses alike.

I got dressed and left the house before Bryan even woke up this morning. When I got home, he was wearing this.

We had some good times this past month. Here are the highlights.

We had some friends over to play poker. Doug, the man shown here with the cards, won all of our money.

Bryan made a fantastic Thankgiving dinner. The only thing I did was steam the green beans (a little too much, actually).

We ate like kings that day.

And then, I put up our Christmas tree for this year. Last year, we bought a living tree in a pot, so as not to waste natural resources. Well, we didnt' have anywhere to plant it, so it ended up dying, anyway. This year, we will recycle our tree.

I judge my relative worth as a human being by the ads that Google puts in that right hand column next to my emails.

Google has software (or one really bored guy) that searches the main topics of your emails and puts appropriate ads next to them, so that you might be enticed into clicking on something of interest.

Some of my favorites from recent emails are:

* Cat Video - takes your cat on a virtual walk

* Banquet Rooms at CoCo's

* Hannah Montana's IQ = 122

* Play Fish Tycoon

* Drunken Unicorn Tickets

* Free Chuck-E-Cheese

The best is the last one. I have to wonder, is this, like, as in "Free Tibet"? Is he being held somewhere against his will? Will Amnesty International become involved?

Yesterday was a huge pain in my ass, but has restored my faith in the health care system.. for now. Here's a breakdown.

1:00pm

I arrived at the gym and began working out on the elliptical machine. I was feeling exhilarated due to several previous days of inactivity. Then... ouch! For the past two months, I've had a bit of pain in my chest, now and then. I had been assuming it was a pulled muscle and ignoring it. Stupid muscle, messing up my workout.

2:00pm

I called the doc to make an appointment in the next few weeks, just to check in. Well, it turns out, when you say shortness of breath and chest pain, the doctor's office really moves fast! So, they fit me into a 2:30pm appointment. This is the same office that couldn't schedule me with primary care until "three months from now" on other occasions. I've learned a valuable lesson about presentation.

3:00pm

Both resident and supervisor said it was likely nothing, but wanted to be sure. They sent me in a wheelchair to the emergency room for an EKG. Apparently, the wheelchair is part of their legal requirements. I noticed that being in a wheelchair made me feel sicker than I had before. People on the sidewalk stared as the nurse bumped me across the street to the hospital.

4:00pm

Originally, I had hoped to get home in time to watch Oprah. Bummer.

5:00pm

Still waiting. I amused myself by watching shows I had downloaded to my iPod for my recent travel.

6:00pm

I was called in to an actual patient room and asked to don a stylish hospital gown. A very nice resident came in and gave me apple juice since, at that point, it had been nearly 7 hours since I'd eaten anything. They offered me graham crackers, but I declined. Surely, I would be headed home soon for some real dinner. I also got some free stickers applied to my chest and side for the EKG. They were not shaped like unicorns, however.

7:00pm

My iPod died. The sweetheart of a nurse had come in to move me to another room a while back, and I was now I was sharing a room with a woman from Tonga and her family members. They spoke in staccato speech to one another. I amused myself by imagining what they were talking about. I was given a call button (my very first ever) and left alone. I noticed I had no phone service, so the nurse assisted me in making a call to my husband from a hospital phone. I left him a message.

8:00pm

The same nurse took copious amounts of my blood for cardiac tests. faint The doctor wanted me on a heart monitor. More stickers, but still nothing with sparkles or glitter. I spent about 10 minutes amusing myself by holding my breath and trying to manipulate the numbers and spikes on the screen while I waited for my chest x-ray.

9:00pm

Time for my chest x-ray! I got wheeled into x-ray on my gurney. Again, people staring. This time because I was the best dressed in my style-y hospital robe and workout pants.

9:15pm

I left another message for my husband. I was nearly falling down out of hunger. The nurse saw me drooping and offered me the holy grail of hospital food, a sandwich bag! Hooray! I got dressed and happily ate my turkey sandwich, washing it down with a little carton of milk. Mm. It was the best sandwich in the entire world.

9:30pm

I got news that everything looked good. Seems as though it's acid reflux or some such stomach issue. I'm in tip-top cardiac shape. They didn't even follow it with the caveat "for someone your age". Discharge papers!

I guess it wasn't so bad, after all. I mean, honestly, I got to lie down and relax all afternoon and evening, which, I suppose is a bonus.

I got a haircut.

It is the shortest my hair has been since this haircut given to me by my mother in 1977.

Hopefully, my current 'do is easier to pull off than my earlier short hair look.

In San Francisco, recreation can get pretty expensive pretty quickly. Since we've been saving for a house, we've been cutting back on the money we spend to go out and have fun.

Fortunately, I discovered Yelp.com, a site dedicated to reviewing local restaurants and shops. A very nice idea, but here's the kicker - if a member writes enough reviews, and is witty and informative, they make that member an Elite Member. And this is good because they invite the Elite Members to a free party each month. Free food, booze, and the ability to chat with others who are beautiful and popular. I feel like I've finally succeeded at high school!

If you want to see my reviews, you can search for me on Yelp with my email address.

Beautiful and Popular

We've been checking out real estate. Knowing full well that we can't afford to buy a cute, little 3-bedroom home in San Francisco (for the average price of nearly $1 million), we've been looking into different cities.

It seems that wherever we want to live, someone has discovered it first. It's been very daunting. I find myself pouting and thinking that all I want is a smallish, 3-bedroom place with a cute kitchen in which to make blueberry pie for my husband and future children.

We were especially discouraged today, after perusing Redfin, a site that shows real estate listings with photos, as well as price drops. Yes, prices have come down significantly in many areas. Unfortunately, this being our first home, we have no equity on which to rest our lofty home-buying goals. It seems we will be relegated to a crappy, 80s-style 2-bedroom condo in our town of choice. Unless, that is, prices fall by more than $100K by next year.

But, as I was saying, today we had ourselves worked up, until Bryan asked me if we were poor. It's a perfectly valid question, given that we have tried to live as frugally as we can, but still can't seem to save enough for a starter home in any decent area.

When he asked that, I remembered my Peace Corps experience. I said, "No, we're not," and I found an internet tool that proves it.

Global Rich List

I found this tool at The Wall Street Journal website. The article from which I got it is also interesting.

We are in the less-than-1% richest range for global richness. We are richer than more than 99% of the world's population!

So, I feel better about a crappy, 80s-tastic condo than I did earlier today. Sometimes, I forget to be grateful for what I have.

My husband just said these words to me:

"I can't wait to vacuum!"

Seriously, this is the best day ever. He bought a Dyson vacuum on woot.com, and he is so excited. You can understand why it's my new favorite website.

Granted, he did treat the vacuum as though it was a lightsaber when he first took it from the box, so perhaps there is a bit more going on here than just an instinct for cleanliness.

It works super well! Woot for the new vacuum!

Since the end of May, I've been struggling with a back injury, which has had me staying away from the gym, hiking, and… well, sitting. My chiropractor called it early on, saying it was a disc injury.

My primary care, on the other hand, decided it was a muscle and told me to call if it got worse. Well, it got worse and I called two weeks later to schedule a follow up, and to get an MRI referral to find out the extent of the damage.

The administration in the office is far beyond what I would call disorganized. I've been mad at them for over a month. They continue call my defunct home phone to make appointments, despite me giving them my cell phone number on four separate occasions. (Finally, I had one of the admins remove my home phone number from the database entirely.) And, they keep scheduling me on days when I say I absolutely cannot make it.

Is this opposite day?!

I finally got in to see the doc, who said it's a disc injury. Something I’ve known since May 30. Late to the party, but at least she showed up. She wrote me three referrals.

1) MRI

2) Physical Therapy

3) Spine Orthopedist

I felt relieved, and went home to make all of my appointments. Well, today, the spine doc still does't have the referral from my primary care that was supposedly faxed last Wednesday to her office. Even better, I received a letter from my insurance that says they won't cover an MRI unless it's ordered by an orthopedist.

And here's the funny part that makes me want to pull out my hair and wander the street babbling to myself... the orthopedist won't see me without an MRI.

It's like a Mobius strip straight out of hell.

What's really annoying is I'm not even sure to whom I should direct my increasing ire. Private insurance for being yet another failing American invention? Or, the primary care clinic for being so lame in the first place?

Meanwhile, my left foot keeps tingling. That can't be good.

Bryan and I have been frequenting the local farmers' market for the past month or so.

The progression to where we are now in our grocery buying adventure has been a gradual one. We began with the standard trip to Safeway, a large, west coast grocery chain. Then, somehow, we learned of the evils of high fructose corn syrup, and began looking for it in the ingredients of all of our food. It seems, nearly every food carried by regular grocery chains contains this sinister ingredient. From yogurt to bread, check it out.

Enter large chain organic grocery store, WholeFoods. Having previously avoided this behemoth due to its often exorbitant pricing, we did some cost comparisons. Most of the Safeways have an organic section, which sells many of the same foods found at WholeFoods. However, when we crunched the numbers, we realized that Safeway was gouging people who wanted to to eat healthy foods with whole grains and no poison in them. This seemed wrong... and expensive. So, we changed our regular grocery store to WholeFoods. During this time, Bryan was reading "An Omnivore's Dilemma", as well. So we began looking for organic animal products, including organic milk, free range chicken and eggs, and grass-fed beef.

We definitely pay more for the humane and organic versions of these products, but we feel good because we're not only helping the individual animals, but also the environment, by reducing the antibiotics and other unnatural things that are often added to these foods.

We were pretty happy with our weekly trips to WholeFoods and occasional trips to the city's co-op market to buy our organic goods. However, while the staples at WholeFoods are more reasonably priced than their counterparts at Safeway, we found that buying organic produce was putting us in the poor house. Grapes from Chile, peaches from Alabama, apples from New Zealand... That much travel costs a lot for a small piece of fruit, both in dollars and in pollution. Hmm.

We began to consider the farmers' market as a possible alternative. Hallelujah! We found that we could buy a pound of peaches for $1.50 per pound. Contrast that with the $2.99 per pound we paid at WholeFoods. And the produce at the farmers' market is local. None of it travels from other countries, or even other states. As an added bonus, much of it is labeled organic, even by rigid California standards.

So, Bryan and I are enjoying the lower cost and, quite frankly, better taste of local foods produced by small farms. And, in a world of growing pollution and environmental problems, our consciences are pretty clear, with an occasional splurge on bananas from afar.

For most of the late 1990s, I lived in a small, Dominican village working with together with local people to create sustainable development practices in the community. I took bucket baths with stored rain water that I kept in large containers behind my little cinderblock home. I went to christenings, weddings, and funerals with my neighbors. I suffered from Dengue Fever and giardia, neither of which I recommend.

Presently, I work with extremely poor people, many of whom are homeless and have serious illnesses. I help them navigate the struggles in their daily lives and, for the most part, I enjoy my work.

I do not consider myself to be culturally insensitive or closed-minded about personal differences.

That said, I never want to be showering at the gym and hear someone hawking up a loogie and spitting it out in the shower stall next to mine. Ever.

The gym I frequent is full of people who are very culturally different than me. And, while I can appreciate that their customs are diverse and not always going to match mine, I do not want to step in someone else's phlegm in the shower.

Ew.

That's really all I have to say about it. No witty tie-together at the end. Just... stop spitting in the showers at the gym, please. Yuck.

A HISTORY OF FAVORITES

by Bert

Childhood

Food: fresh fruit

Beverage: lemonade

Activity: playing outside

Teenhood

Food: Cheetos

Beverage: Coca-Cola

Activity: writing morose poetry

Young Adulthood

Food: macaroni and cheese

Beverage: wine - all of it

Activity: dancing until 1:00am

Present

Food: fresh fruit

Beverage: lemonade

Activity: playing outside

We went to Kaua'i for a wedding! It was fabulous. Here is a photo journal of some of the events. I took over 700 photos, but managed to whittle them down a bit. You can see the rest of the ones that made the cut by clicking here.

We were thrilled to arrive in Hawaii.

Puka Dog - as seen on No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain.

I injured my back and went to the ER. Just because I'm old, so don't ask.

The Hyatt salt water lagoon is lovely.

Luau Mai Tais (Bryan had five).

Bryan snorkeled.

Then, he joined a boy band.

Wailua Falls is taller than Niagara Falls.

Hiking in the rainforest takes muscles.

Waimea Canyon. Bryan said those boats were Magnum PI chasing a drug runner.

We took a catamaran to the Na Pali Coast.

Neither of us got sea sick.

Then, we went to the wedding in our fabulous wedding get-ups.

Woo! Happily ever after.

And I got my dance on at the reception with Elan.

Bryan took me out of town for my birthday last weekend! We went to the Tallman Hotel in Lake County, an 1890s building restored to its previous glory, but with fun new amenities.

We stayed in a cute casita behind the main building. Bryan booked it because it had a Japanese soaking tub on the back patio. (We don't have a usable bathtub at our apartment, and he knew I missed submerging myself.)

We went wine tasting in a limo at four lovely vineyards near Clear Lake.

One of them even had pirates!

Later, a giant cake was delivered to us after dinner! We're not sure why they thought we needed to feed 30 people since it was clearly just the two of us!

Then, we came back to go to my old roommate's wedding. It was cold in Berkeley, but still a lovely end to a wonderful weekend.

Here's the happy couple.

And here's to love!

Click here for more photos of the birthday weekend and ex-roommate wedding fun.

This morning, this article was called to my attention.

I'm giddy like a schoolgirl because someone has finally taken notice of what I've sensed all along... Dr. Phil is a hack. I feel vindicated because I've always thought that:

1) Verbal abuse is not therapeutic.

2) Though a Texas accent makes him charming in a homegrown way, it does not necessarily make him an expert.

3) He has already broken several ethical codes and has moved into legal territory, of late, including practicing without a license (which was revoked nearly two decades ago).

4) But most importantly, lasting change is only made when a person recognizes, on his or her own over a period of self-discovery and learning, that there is a problem... not when he or she is assaulted by a crazy man on national television.

This morning, I was at the gym. My iPod blasting and my brow sweating, I stretched my hamstrings and brought the funk to 24 Hour Fitness.

Suddenly, there was a tap on my shoulder. I looked around. Nobody. I continued stretching. Another tap. I looked again, and this time spotted a very small woman speaking silently up at me.

I held up my finger in the "one moment please" gesture as I wrestled to shut off my my iPod.

Me: Yes?

Small woman: (English was not her first language) How you get that butt?

Me: Pardon me?

Small woman: How you get that butt? (she gestures to her butt, then mine) I like and want to make that butt.

A-hem. I'm sorry; I don't do that in the gym. Then, it dawned on me that she was asking me how to make her butt as large and round as my own. A-ha!

I showed her some exercises I do that work those muscles. She, in turn, showed me, once again, her flat butt. I smiled and nodded. So did she. I smiled again. She stood there, staring and smiling, until eventually, I went back to stretching, and she wandered away.

It's a weird little moment in itself, but this is all on top of the fact that a woman at work, also small and foreign in the same way as the above-mentioned woman, keeps patting me on the butt and saying, "Oh, I like your butt! I want to have butt like that!"

I'm not quite sure what to make of this phenomenon. I'm scared to go to Chinatown alone.

Turns out that David Beckham is a Dreamy McDreamerson.

Another hottie that flew under my radar until I saw Leatherheads. He's so great that even Bryan has a man crush on him.

I have got to pay more attention.

That said, I'll keep my own dreamboat, thanks.

I just read an article about the average commute time in America. In itself, it was shocking and appalling. I miss the America where people walked down the street to work at the corner store, law office, postal counter, or other local job. I say that like I knew a time when that existed, but I guess what I mean is that I miss the idea of it from the books I've read.

Anyway, another shocking statistic in the article was:

"San Francisco... the average cost of a home was $1.45 million in 2007." Well, let me just write you a check for that $300,000 down payment. Again, I am forced to ask myself, just who are the people buying these homes, and how are they doing it without jumbo mortgage loans? Well, I can tell who it's not... me. I'm not rich, but I'm certainly not poor, either. Which, I suppose, puts me solidly in the middle class, which, media tells me, has been priced out of all of the three bedroom homes anywhere near any city on the east or west coast.

I'm not really stunned, but more... let's call it miffed. I'm miffed at the silly housing market and economic state of the USA.

I just read an article that I found particularly uplifting. I wanted to pass it on and encourage people to use their services.

And where would I be if I had stuck around?

Frankly, I don't expect anyone to be interested in this except me, but it needs to get written or it will stay stuck in the corner of my mind, like a splinter, until it gets infected.

(The caveat is that I'm still friends with some of these ex-boyfriends, which is fun because I don't have to date them, anymore.)

Boyfriend #1 (The Uppity): He was going to St. Paul Academy, a private high school for the rich kids. His divorced mother, who I can only assume took her ex for everything he had, lived just off of Summit Avenue in a grand, turn-of-the century home. And their lives were all that this implies. Had I stuck around, I assume I would be rich, uppity, and perhaps running a charity for poor children or abandoned puppies.

Boyfriend #2 (The Druggy): High school dropout. Currently, deceased. So, I would be widowed. Likely living in a trailer or a tent by a river somewhere with several fatherless children.

Boyfriend #3 (The Druggy II): Same as above, but still alive, as far as I know. I'd likely be frustrated, cheated upon, and spreading from having had four children. I would also be thinking about finally attending college.

Boyfriend #4 (The Nice Boy): Too nice, in fact. I became disinterested at all of his not-cheating and not-drinking himself to death. If I hadn't broken his heart when I left for college, I'd likely be teaching elementary school in Minnesota while he worked at his office job. We'd live in a modest townhome and have a 9 year old and a 7 year old.

Boyfriend #5 (The Drunken Frat Boy): His antics freshman year kept me feeling resentful and confused, so I'd likely be over-eating to squelch my hatred of him, by now. Possibly divorced, probably with children, and trying to support us on a teacher's salary.

Boyfriend #6 (See Boyfriend #8): College boyfriend... later revisited.

Boyfriend #7 (The Dominican): His home country was my Peace Corps assignment. He spoke English and was younger than me. I'd likely be living in Minnesota, teaching, and possibly have some lovely mixed-raced children, whom I would spend my time defending in the sleepy, mostly white suburbs. Or, we would live in a sweet Caribbean home in an upscale Dominican neighborhood, while I worked for USAID. I'd be missing my family.

Boyfriend #8 (The Goof Off): We met and dated in college when his goofing off was cute and age-appropriate. His motorcycle really won me over. But, after I had seen some of the world, it all seemed less charming. I'd likely be miserable, living in a tour bus, traveling the country swing dancing, while trying to write my memoir. I don't think I'd have had any children with him, given he was so much like a child in so many ways.

Boyfriend #9 (The Outdoorsman): Quiet, humble, honest. I'd likely be camping in the Sierra Nevada, or working in a fire tower somewhere. I would not have likely gone back to school, and would still be saddled with only a teaching degree. Therefore, I would have been recently laid off of work, since San Francisco cut the budget. I'd be nowhere near having children because of the nomadic lifestyle Outdoorsman led.

Boyfriend #10 (The Accidental Boyfriend): He danced with the Oakland ballet before I met him, but had been mostly club dancing and showing off his tattoos when we began hanging out. I'd likely be a lesbian stripper if we'd stayed together... because it seems like those are the people with whom he rolls.

Boyfriend #11 (The Rich): We traveled and had a blast, but couldn't find our communication groove. If I had stayed with him, we'd likely be in much of the same place we ended, fighting about his ex-girlfriend. Luckily, the break-up brought us both some important insights about ourselves.

Boyfriend #12 (The Cowboy): A two-stepping, heart-breaking, old-school man of the west. I can't imagine a world in which this would have lasted longer than several months, since we were destined to be just good friends right from the start.

Boyfriend #13 (The Dangerous): What the hell was I thinking? He was in the middle of a divorce. Enough said.

Holy crap, that's a lot of boyfriends. Keep in mind that it was over the span of nearly two decades. And, that I'm a slut.

Boyfriend #14 (The Keeper): Finally! The one for whom I was meant! I had to go all the way to a different state to find him, but it was so worth it. Kind, intelligent, sexy. We have fun and we can communicate. Despite his lack of tattoos, motorcycles, and alcoholism, he is a winning combination of fantastic qualities. I married this one. *sigh of relief*

This weekend, Bryan and I went to Tahoe City to snowshoe, chill out, and spend some time with old friends. Here are some photos... more to come on my photopages.

The Nut with Goggles

Bryan Shoveling the Icy Driveway

Snowshoeing

Lake Tahoe, North Side

Bryan Hiking Near Emerald Bay

The other day, I was at the gym, the only venue in which I watch local news. They force gym-goers into it, really, facing all of the machines toward the giant televisions with the closed captioning running along the bottom of the screen. Iraq war, stock market crashing, murder rate, traffic back up on I-5...

This particular day, I saw something that convinced me, for certain, that our modern society, as we know it, is on its way to a steep down turn and eventually crash.

Doggy diet drugs. No, it's not an SNL skit, though it bears an eerie resemblance to one. The story was aired on ABC news at 6am. I wasted a good portion of the rest of my day feeling baffled by these dog owners who are giving their dogs too much food, not enough exercise, and then trying to fix it as they fix their own issues - with a miracle drug, which allows them to maintain their exact lifestyles, changing nothing, dodging the bullet of inconvenience. Did anyone else notice that the only fit-looking person in the clip was the vet who remained dubious about using weight loss drugs on dogs? Fat people have fat pets. If a person doesn't eat healthy and get enough exercise to maintain a healthy weight, why would they ensure their pets would? Or, their children, for that matter.

This from a woman who ate ice cream for dinner. At least I'm not feeding it to my dog and then making him suck down some SlimFast.

Over the holidays, I asked my mother to teach me how to knit. Now, I'm knitting my very first scarf. Unfortunately, without my mother nearby to fix my mistakes, so far it's a very wavy scarf with holes in it that goes from thick to thin back to thick again. And that's only in the 6" of scarf I've completed.

I'm thinking about starting a business of badly made scarves. People could give them as gifts, and say they made them. Very believable. Good brownie points. The only thing is, I'd have to charge $2000 per scarf because it's will take me months to complete one. Still, perhaps there's a market...

As long as I'm on a sickness jag, for some reason, I'll tell the story of my only life-threatening Peace Corps illness.

In March of 1998, I was feeling a little sickish in the belly. I was used to it by this point. I had been in the country for a year, and I knew the drill. Boiled carrots and potatoes and dry bread washed down with the local version of 7-Up for several days generally did the trick. Those little parasites didn't stand a chance with my Peace Corps nurse prescribed diet.

Not so this time. I hadn't eaten much of anything for three days, and I still felt constantly nauseous. What the hell? My neighbors were starting to worry, but I put them off. Perhaps they thought I was pregnant. Or just really delicate. Likely both.

One stifling Caribbean morning around that time, I was sitting around with my friend, Javier. We were chatting in my living room, sitting on my plastic lawn chair furniture, when suddenly, I knew I was going to hurl at any moment. Abruptly, I stood up, knocked over my chair, grabbed him by the arm, and shoved him toward my front door without explanation. No one else was going to be present if I was going to toss my cookies. He was understandably confused. This was hardly the way to promote world peace and international togetherness… but I had to keep my mouth closed in order to keep my cookies in, so no explanation was given at the time.

I ran to my toilet that never flushed because I rarely had running water. I couldn’t make it to the outhouse out back, but I did consider it a better option… what with the no flushing and all. I consoled myself with the fact that I would likely just dry heave, having not eaten for several days.

And then… I puked bluish-green toilet cleaner-looking stuff.

Honest to god. Because of what the Peace Corps nurse later realized was a 103 degree temperature, I was delirious. Staring at the bluish-green liquid in the toilet, I was convinced that I had just harfed an organ. Stumbling to my bed, I clawed at the mosquito net, untucking it just enough to crawl under and pass out.

Several minutes later, I awoke, drenched in sweat, to a pounding on my door. It was Javier’s mother. She had come to cuidarme. I dragged myself across my room, into the living room, and opened the front door while she was in mid-pound. She stood there with her arm raised and looked surprised. Her pounding gesture turned into a genuflect as she prayed for my soul.

Apparently, I didn’t look well.

The next thing I knew, I was on the next bus to the capital to see the Peace Corps nurse. For the next three hours, I sat crammed into a public bus, surrounded by chickens and old women with less than a dozen teeth between them. I was oblivious, still convinced that I had puked my spleen into my non-flushing toilet. My only hope was that the nurse would understand and get someone to go fetch it so she could put it back in.

The bus dropped me off about a mile from my destination. Too tired to look for a public taxi, and too stupefied to call anyone else, I stumbled along toward the Peace Corps office. It was the hottest part of the afternoon by now. My meandering pace was slowed further by my high fever and my heavy bag, which Javier’s mom had packed, perhaps thinking they would send me back to the USA for this one.

When I arrived at the Peace Corps office, the receptionist took one look at my sallow face and dashed off to find the nurse. I sat in a chair in the entryway, trying to get a little breeze from the window.

The nurse appeared out of nowhere. The next thing I knew, I was on my way to the local hospital to have a blood test. NOOOOO!

I. Hate. Blood. Tests.

They make me faint. Especially when I have a fever of 103, and the air outside is, at least, that hot. And to top it off, they sent me by myself. I sat in the taxi alone and began to wonder how I would tell my parents that I would soon die of severe spleen anomalies.

It was later discovered that I had Dengue Fever . Unfortunately, Dengue Fever doesn’t show up in blood samples for almost a week after symptoms begin to occur. Therefore, the nurse sent me to get my blood drawn every day for five days. I decided to forgo the expensive taxi and walked the 1.5 miles to the hospital each day to get my (shudder) blood drawn.

My white blood cell count kept dropping. Finally, the nurse threatened my platelets with hospitalization if they did not came back up in numbers very quickly. This was one hell of a threat. To understand the dire nature of this threat you must know what the best hospital in the Dominican Republic is like. Picture the loudest, grimiest subway you’ve seen in the USA. Now, add some I.V. bags, a few sweaty doctors with paunchy bellies hanging out from under their lab coats, and cockroaches.

My platelets were listening.

The next day, I woke up with the weirdest rash all over my torso, and my eyes hurt when I moved them in their sockets. I was sure this was the last hurrah. I was about to die.

As it turns out, it was a sign that I was getting better. I stayed in the capital for several more days, just to be sure I wasn’t going to harf up any more organs.

Then, I was back at my site, celebrating my 24th birthday, 15 pounds lighter than I had been a few weeks before. For about a month after this adventure, I was listless and tired. And I spent that whole time fielding calls and letters from my parents, who had read about Dengue Fever online, and thought perhaps it might be time for me to return to Minnesota, a land where mosquitoes are merely annoying, not deadly.

I stuck it out. And I learned something. It turns out, bile is bluish-green. Who knew?

During my Peace Corps group's three month training period in the Dominican Republic, we took a trip to the city of Nagua on the north coast of the island. The purpose of the trip was to see part of our project, an Educational Resource Center, in action. Each member of the group was assigned a host family with whom he or she would stay for the week.

I had been in the country for just over a month, living in the capital city of Santo Domingo in a small barrio called Los Alcarrizos. Although it was close to the Peace Corps training center, it was not one of the most wealthy Dominican barrios. In fact often, in the morning when I would walk to my scheduled trainings, I would step over used drug needles and pass by dead dogs lying in the street. My host family in the capital, however, had a very solid cinder block house with a cold-water shower and, more importantly, a working toilet. It also had actual doors between rooms. Both of these features were rarities in Los Alcarrizos homes. Although it was not a palace by American standards, it was quite nice for a Dominican barrio casa. To add to my good fortune, I shared the space with one extremely tidy woman and her only slightly boy-crazy teenage daughter. I had no idea how good I had it.

Up in Nagua, the family to which I was assigned, had a small house with three rooms, a livingroom/kitchen and two bedrooms, which were divided from one another only by gauzy curtains. There were six people living there: two parents and four boys of varying teenage years. During my stay, they all slept the smaller room and let me have the parents' big double bed all to myself. Though there wasn't much privacy due to the lack of doors, I felt honored.

During our initial dinner of boiled green bananas and squeaky goat cheese, I glanced around the tiny house, searching in vain for something that might resemble an indoor bathroom. I was later introduced to the out house, a creaky wooden structure, full of gaps and rusty nails, plopped in the middle of a concrete backyard. And, as if it weren't bad enough that four teenage boys with terrible aim already shared this out house, I was informed that my hosts shared the facility with the two neighboring houses, as well. The stench was unearthly.

The Outhouse

I was instructed quite firmly that I should never use the outhouse after dark because it was very dangerous. I imagined comic book-type muggers trying to steal something from me while I stood there in my jammies, rubbing my eyes sleepily. When I posed this as a possible scenario, I was further instructed that the real danger was from the giant 12" poisonous millipedes... and various other tropically-big crawlies of the night.

Now, I don't mind bugs, but when they can kill a small child with venomous jaws, I try to steer clear. I certainly didn't want to bare my ass around anything that can paralyze an adult's entire arm with one little nip of the skin. So, I aimed to comply with the rule.

However, this left me wondering... where would I pee in the middle of the night if I was not allowed to exit into the backyard minefield of deadly arthropods? I have a notoriously small bladder, and could not bear the thought of lying awake from 4am until sunrise, pinching my legs together in a desperate attempt not to wet my hosts' bed. My unspoken question was answered when, just before bed, the lady of the house handed me a basinilla. It looked like a slightly oversized, plastic coffee cup. I stared at it blankly. She explained its use in rapid Spanish. I tilted my head, eyebrows furrowed, confused. She took it back from me, put it between her legs and mimed as though she was urinating. A-ha! Got it. "Muchas gracias", I said sweetly. I was almost as horrified by the thought of peeing in a coffee cup as I was of the giant nighttime critters waiting just outside, ready to attack.

Wishing I hadn't had that last glass of jugo de melón with dinner, I crawled under the mosquito net and into the bed. Exhausted from an entire day of speaking Spanglish with my new friends, I quickly fell asleep. Late that night, I woke up, bladder full of pee, heart full of dread. I squinted at my little light-up clock. 3:14am. In an interesting twist, it was April 29, my birthday... and I was born at 3:13am. Happy freakin' birthday to me. Time to pee in a coffee cup.

I untucked my mosquito net and crawled out of bed quietly, so as not to wake my nearby neighbors. I took the small, plastic cup into the corner where I was sure I couldn't be seen through the gauzy curtain, which separated me from four teenage boys and their sleeping parents. I found some toilet paper in the half-light of the moon and dropped my drawers. Okay. Ready, aim, fire.

Suddenly, I felt the warm trickle of my own urine on my right foot. Oh shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Stop peeing! I aimed again, this time with the cup a little closer. Success.. but only after soaking myself. The measly amount of toilet paper I had located was soaked and shredded in no time as I made a futile attempt to mop up the mess I'd made.

Sighing deeply, I dragged my still-damp foot across the back of my left leg in an effort to spread the moisture out a bit so it would dry more quickly. I slinked back under the mosquito net, damp and embarrassed, a coffee cup of urine and toilet paper at the foot of my bed.

Then, I giggled a little bit. I had just turned 23 years old and celebrated by peeing on myself. Welcome to the Peace Corps.

Recently, I was scanning in all of my Peace Corps photos. The edges are getting worn and faded; it seemed like time to make them all digital for safe keeping.

I sent a link to these photos to a Dominican friend of mine. He was surprised at how young my little muchacho(a) friends all looked in the pictures. He told me that the little boy wearing purple in photo 147Kids.jpg was just drafted to play major league baseball on the east coast. I thought to myself - that's impossible... he's only 12 years old!

It's hard to feel myself getting older, but it's even harder when those I love get older, also. The photo in question... of Muñe, whom we called Paqueco, was taken in 1997... eight years ago! He's a big grown up man now, no longer a child of 12 who comes over and shows me lizards he's found in my back yard in exchange for banana bread and some time with the crayons. He'll be wearing expensive athletic shoes instead of his childhood chancletas, the Dominican version of flip-flops.

I wonder if his feet will still be happy. I wish him the best. I miss my babies. As always, in their physical absence, but mostly in this new added dimension... the loss of them as eternally 12 years old in my mind.

Originally, I put the following post on my everyday blog, but it also seemed to fit here.

Last week, I went back to my old Peace Corps village in the Dominican Republic.

I hadn't been there since September of 2001, when I went with my father to visit my former adoptive Dominican family. My father and I had spent a few days having fun, and then several more trying to get back to the U.S.A. after September 11. Needless to say, it was a stressful trip.

This time I traveled alone. I spent two days in the capital city and four in my old village of Castillo, which means "Castle" in Spanish. I have never seen any castle there, however.

The Dominican Republic is an interesting place. It's a small country with a very diverse population. It's possible to see a person who looks like he's straight from West Africa shining shoes or a blond-haired, blue-eyed business woman. They're all Dominicans. The mixture of the Spanish settlers with the African slaves they brought over, as well as the native people whom they exploited when they "discovered" the island, makes for a very heterogeneous gene pool. Every once in a while, a wild card shows up. Two very dark-skinned farmers in the countryside have a blond baby. It's fascinating. What is bothersome about this curious natural phenomenon, is that this differing of Dominican skin color is often used to divide classes, much as it is all over the world.

Cousins

It is also a very Catholic country, although, I've met some Evangelicals and even saw a Mormon church in Santo Domingo.

At the Local Catholic Church

In the capital city, Santo Domingo, I stayed in the Pension, a hostel for foreigners, where I used to stay as Peace Corps volunteer. I decided to take one step up from my days as a Peace Corps volunteer and got a private room with its own attached bathroom. There was, however, no air conditioning, and the lows at night hovered in the high 80s.

Pension

Most of the Americans who visit the Dominican Republic on vacation stay in places like the Hotel Melia on the malecon, or waterfront. It's no wonder that the Dominicans I meet don't understand that not all Americans are filthy rich.

Hotel Melia

I spent some time taking photos of the sites I had seen several times before.

Mr. Genocide, Himself

His House

Duarte, Sanchez, & Mella - The Founders of the Country

Spanish-Style buildings

And I found something that made me very happy. Recently, I wrote a blog entry about how hard it is to find jeans to fit my big bootay. Found some! Check out the curves on these babies! (Incidentally, I didn't buy them. It was just too hot to fathom trying to get my sweaty self into those tight jeans.)

Bootaaaay Jeans

In Castillo, I stayed with my adoptive Dominican mother, Reyna. Back in 1997, she took me in when she noticed my clothes were never quite clean (washing jeans by hand is difficult), and I was losing weight rapidly (I can't cook).

Reyna Cooking

It was strange being there again because although everything was much different after four years, it felt like I had never left. It was exactly the same and totally different all at once. The Dominican Republic will always be like a home to me. After spending over two years struggling to accustom myself to such a different culture, place, and climate, I know I won't ever be a wholehearted gringa ever again. The culture, both the good and bad, have been incorporated into the way I view the world around me. I can just turn that part of my heart and mind back on when I arrive, and it feels as though I never left.

The weirdest thing was that even though it felt as if I had never left, all of the tiny muchachos I used to school in my house were now great big grown-ups. Some even have children of their own.

And Reyna's son, my ex-boyfriend, Javier, has a wife and a two-year-old daughter, Layna. He named her after me... my middle name is Lynn.

Layna

The best part is, he's a great father.

Layna With Her Daddy

We took a trip to the beach in a nearby town one day. I don't go in the water ever since that time I almost drown in 1997. Javier pulled me out just in time. I still visit the beach, though, because the ocean is so lovely to look at, listen to, and smell.

Beach In Nagua

It was an incredible week. I ate rice and beans. I chatted with neighbors about he evils of government and the price of chickens.

Chickens

And one of my favorites... I took bucket baths by lamplight. There is no running water, so water is stored in large, ten gallon buckets. There is electicity, but it goes off around 4:00pm and doesn't return until morning, so all evening activities are done in the dark. On the upside, this makes for excellent viewing of the stars. When an entire island goes dark in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, it feels like you can see the end of the universe.

Also, with no electricity, something incredible happens. With no television to distract them, people talk to one another, while children play made up games outside in the sun. There is no Play Station, no Saturday afternoon movies on HBO. Just the yellow leaves fluttering down from the old amapola tree. The one who catches the most leaves wins!

It's such an amazing feeling to be able to fit in to a world so different from the one in which I usually live. To be comfortable chatting in Spanish with the tour guides in the capital about the tourists they're leading around, as if I weren't a foreigner, myself. To be loved and accepted by my neighbors as an honorary Dominican, granted a slightly strange one. It is such an honor to be included by such wonderful people.

Neighbor Children Dancing

To see more photos, click on the following links.

Santo Domingo and Castillo

One of the funniest things (in retrospect) that a Dominican ever said to me was, "¿Cómo vas a alimentar un bebe con los senos tan pequeños?" How will you feed a baby with such small breasts?

It's right up there with, ¡Qué gorda estás!" You are so fat! This is meant as a compliment in Dominican culture, but to a neurotic American in her early 20s, who has recently come from a culture of Elle McPherson and Madonna, it was quite an afront.

My first experience with sickness in the Dominican Republic came during my second month in the country. The entire group of Peace Corps volunteers-in-training were visiting Nagua, a town on the north coast of the island.

My host family for the week was a well-meaning group of five lovely people, but they had little training in the ways of the sensitive American stomach. The most common way that foreigners get stomach issues in the Dominican Republic is through the water. Drinking water is easy to monitor, but there are many insidious ways in which tiny water-born yuckies find their way into our stomachs. For example, when Dominicans cook rice, they don't measure. They just throw in more rice or more water as needed. Unfortunately, when more water is thrown in, it doesn't always boil long enough to kill the bacteria. And wa-la: Puke City.

The day after my 23rd birthday, I woke up to the familiar sounds of roosters crowing, bachata music playing, and children yelling to one another outside my window. Was I mistaken, or was it hotter than usual? I tried to get up and begin my day, but my limbs were all weighted down by the heaviest cotton sheet I had ever encountered. I was soaked in sweat and my head was full of concrete. Bleh.

After what seemed like an eternity, my host mother came in to check to see if I was awake so she could walk me to my training class that day. She took one look at my sallow skin and groggy gaze, and she panicked. They had entrusted her with a fragile American and she had broken the poor thing. She disappeared. Shortly after, she reappeared with a cold wet rag and some small white pills, which, in my stupor, I took without asking questions. All the while, she babbled on in Spanish, which I was too sick to comprehend. Then, she disappeared again.

The next time I woke up, it could have been five minutes later or five hours later. It was still scorching hot in my sun-filled room, and I was still drenched. My head hurt and my stomach was beginning to follow suit. I felt as though I'd been kicked by a mule (the Dominican equivalent of being hit by a bus).

Then, there was a commotion outside. I heard voices approaching and people shouting greetings to one another. And then they were in my room. I struggled to focus my eyes, which were now made of that wavy glass they use for bathroom shower stalls. It was my host mother with a man dressed all in black. He came over and sat on my bed as she rattled on in rapid Spanish. I wasn't' sure who she was talking to or what she was saying. I wished they would let me sleep in peace. The strange man put his hand on my damp forehead and began chanting something.

It was then that I remembered that, although the majority of the people in the Dominican Republic practice Catholicism, my host mother was what her neighbors referred to as una Evangelica, an Evangelical. They all snickered and rolled their eyes when they said it. Through the fog of my fever, I barely grasped what this meant at the moment. I did manage to figure out that he must be some sort of holy man, summoned by my host mother to pray for my large intestine.

His prayers continued for quite some time. His hand on my forehead annoyed me at first, but faded into the background, as did his rhythmic nonsense words, and I fell back to sleep.

Suddenly, he removed his hand and his chanting became much louder. I opened my eyes just as he raised his hand and his face toward the ceiling. I wondered if he was casting a spell on me, and if the next time I woke up, I would be some sort of amphibian.

Then, I watched in mild confusion as he turned back to look at me. He centered his hand several inches above my forehead. His chanting had reached a feverish pitch and he seemed lost in some kind of trance. And all at once, he slammed his hand down square in he middle of my forehead. THWAP! Shocked, I blinked at him a few times in the silence the ensued.

My host mother was sobbing somewhere behind him. He turned, stood, and walked out. My host mother followed. Everything was as it had been, roosters, bachata music, and children yelling. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he had been a fever-induced figment of my imagination.

Incidentally, whatever he did, must have worked. To this day, I rarely get the stomach flu.