Christmas Due Date

Today is my due date but the only thing

that arrived was a fab new pair of Uggs,

and I'm totally fine with that.  At this point,

Bebe needs to hold off for at least 12 more hours

so I can traipse around the house in my new boots,

eat some leftovers when my appetite returns, play 

laser tag with Pinks, and perhaps get in one more 

nights' sleep before I never sleep again.

Happy Christmas, readers.

39 weeks, 3 days

Maternity leave bites,

at least this part of it does.

I can't really go anywhere because

we only have one car and if I

go into labor somewhere out there,

Matt will have no way to get to me.

Therefore, I'm housebound and 

if you've seen The Shining, you 

know what that can lead to.

Months ago when I thought of 

this time, I imagined it would 

feel like a winter summertime.

I realized quickly that what makes 

those 8 weeks off from work

so fabulous is contact with an entire

 community of people who share in that 

time; there's no point in texting anyone

because they are all in the classroom.

I've tried going for walks but I'm

not having much luck waddling for fitness;

my lungs just aren't cooperating these days.

I've frequented Target and even lowered 

myself to the Newport Mall but why spend

money when you're not making any?

(I can't believe it's been a good 8 months 

since I've purchased anything cute and

at least 6 since I've worn anything fashionable). 

On the bright side, this past week has given me 

ample time to cook; my husband has been well

fed whereas by the time I'm done preparing 

the meal, I've completely lost my appetite. 

The smell of cooked food makes me ill but

if this loss continues, I'll make a huge 

effort, despite my exhaustion, to

continue cooking everyday:

I

will

lose

every

pound 

of 

this 

fat suit.

I feel like I'm waiting for Godot.

The Electric Lecky Returns

For those of you who lived through the

Electric Lecky Era with me, you know

my history of becoming caretaker to an elderly 

person I'm a). not related to and b). barely know.

For two years I managed the Electric Lecky's bills,

medication, and sore feet (i.e. feet covered in sores)

while at the same time serving as her chauffeur.

During that time period, I rented the apartment 

above the E.L. and thus had to sneak in and out

of my own front door to avoid the vacant death glare

cast from her cataract covered eyes as she stood

as still as Death behind her adjacent screen door.

When my roommate had to "go away" for a while,

I had to add lying about his whereabouts to my

Lecky repertoire; needless to say, he spent a lot

of time "babysitting his nieces and nephew" that winter.

I knew the end was near for the Electric Lecky when

I found her standing in a dark corner of her even darker

dwelling, begging for the Lord to come and take her;

when she died a few months later in the bedroom below me,

I was the one standing in a corner, my friend Cat having 

forced me to go and pay my final respects while she

dripped drops of morphine down the Electric Lecky's throat.

Needless to say, that was one of the most horrific 

moments of what was then, a pretty abysmal life.

When the E.L. was carted out of the house, I must

admit that I caught my first breath of fresh air in years

and vowed to never again get suckered into caring

for someone other than family and close friends.

Well, today the Electric Lecky returned in the

form of JSA, the crippled old man who lives upstairs.

I'm not going to sugar coat it - JSA has been a pain in the 

ass since we moved in here.  On day 1, he lectured us on 

how to recycle and separate our garbage properly 

and when our friends moved in next door to him, 

they called the cops on him within 36 hours.

However, it was a peaceful summer and fall because 

JSA was missing; we didn't know where he had gone

and frankly, we didn't inquire.  Last month, we found 

out that he had been ill and in hospital but was returning.

What's worse than the E.L.'s behind-the-screen death glare? 

Turning the corner onto our street and spying J.S.A.

hobbling in front of you, dragging his too short leg behind.

Since his return, we've been fortunate to only hear him. 

Unfortunately, that came to an end today when I bumped

into him in the vestibule on my return from the laundry room 

and he told me that he has bone marrow cancer and is 

most certainly living out his last days and could I please

go get him some Tropicana orange juice with extra pulp

and a pack of Windmill biscuits that he's been unable to find?

Ugh.

The Electric Lecky may be back but I refuse to become her patsy.

I'm having a baby in a few days and I don't have the

mental wherewithal to deal with her latest incarnation.

That may sound cruel but dammit, I've done my time - 

I'll get the darn juice but that's where I draw the line!

Maternity Leave

Yesterday was my first day of maternity 

leave and it wasn't what I had expected.

I've barely gone 9 weeks without working 

since I was 14 years old; the thought of 

not leaving the house to go to work for

9 months is almost preposterous. 

During the months I spent looking forward

to maternity leave, I dumbassedly assumed that a feeling

of calm and tranquility would accompany my

time off; instead, I feel anxious and overwhelmed.

My fears are many, some of the most pressing are:

1). that after severely cutting back on it, caffeine

has become my enemy and now produces anxiety;

2). that I'm going to run out of quarters and be hard 

pressed to do laundry (despite going to the bank 

yesterday and stockpiling a $100.00 worth);

3). that Pinkerton is going to be jealous of the baby 

and start pissing all over the flat (in that case, the

baby will have to go and live at Strachan's house);

4). that I'm going to live out the rest of my years 

as a fat girl with really bad hair and stubby nails;

5). that I'm never going to figure out better words 

to use in place of all of the words one puts into

regular rotation upon becoming a parent 

(i.e. mommy, mom, and all bathroom terms);

Those are just a few of my fears; I would add

more but my daily dose of anxiety just kicked in (even

though I swapped my cup of half-caf for a mug

of decaffeinated tea) so I must go text Strachan.

The End and The Beginning...

Yesterday was my last day of school:

I'm officially on maternity leave and I'm exhausted.

When I was younger, I enjoyed attention but as I 

get older, I am not comfortable with all eyes on me -

with the exception of while I'm teaching, of course -

so I took a deep breath and faced the day, one period at a time.

My students were adorable: they threw makeshift parties

(the most successful was complete with one 

Oreo Cookie creme pie for 28 kids but no plates or utensils), 

gifted me with thoughtful presents (my favorite being an 

unwrapped box from four sophomore boys containing a scarf, 

a pair of gloves, and five crumbled one dollar bills), and begged 

me not to go (for at least two more months, because that is 

how long, they feel, Bebe can comfortably stay in "da womb").

My co-workers were ridiculously sweet and helpful: 

the girls showered me with attention (and kept me company 

while I gathered my stuff from my classrooms) and the boys

all stopped by at the end of the day to carry all of my gifts,

books, folders, files, and bags of random items like emergency

flip flops to my car (after the girls ordered them to do so, 

of course).  My boss gave me a big hug and words of

encouragement, along with the sweetest gift for my little girl.

And then it was just me and my best friend left alone on the hall. 

The two of us pretended like it was any other day and not

the day that began a new phase in our relationship: nine months 

of long distance friendship (she lives an hour south of me and, 

well, I live in Hoboken.  Asking someone to enter or exit this 

town is like asking someone to sacrifice their sanity and 

perhaps a little bit of their soul as well); it takes getting

together to a whole new level of arranging.

So while we moved all of the comforts of my room to hers

next door (my ridiculous leather Lane desk chair, Bose 

speakers, collages of Virginia Woolf and Charleston House

post cards, and my mood lighting lamp), we made small 

talk and gossiped as if we would see each other come 

Monday, knowing full well that we won't.

But I'm not worried because I have a secret weapon

on order that will insure that our friendship will

survive this test of time and distance and I am

100% sure that it's a ringer: there's no way she can resist it.

All the effort it will take on my part is one text message

and I guarantee she'll hop directly in the car, fight the

traffic, pay the tolls, and brave the Pulaski Skyway Bridge

to get to me as soon as she can.  What is it?

Need you ask?  

(If so, see the above photo for a clue)

This is my 200th post here at LaPointe of It All;

I hope you've enjoyed the show so far.  

Stay tuned in the New Year as I take this blog in a new direction:

Baby in a 1 Bedroom: Parenting in a Paragraph or Less.

I promise it will be entertaining, 

even for those of you who aren't parents.

Remember, I might be having a baby but

I'm still trying to live out my teenage dreams.

The Most Disgusting Sentence of All Time

"More frequent and intense Braxton Hicks 

contractions signal pre-labor, 

during which your cervix ripens 

and the stage is set for true labor."

And after reading that, I'm going to go vomit.

Score!

Since finding out I was pregnant, I've bemoaned having a one bedroom flat because it means a). I don't have a nursery and  b). our storage options are severely limited.  To save space, we opted for the "urban" or "apartment" sized Bloom Alma crib (which I found on Craigslist for a fraction of its retail price) and decided to forego a changing table (we have plenty of flat surfaces to use instead).  As for a glider rocker, well, I'll just have to rock back and forth on the couch during feedings.

Making those decisions wasn't easy (I wanted to enjoy decorating a nursery like other moms-to-be) but they paled in comparison to the time I've spent stressing out over storage space: our basement unit is HUGE by Hoboken standards, almost every piece of furniture has a duel storage purpose and Matt custom fitted all of our closets to maximize space and yet there still wasn't adequate room to house everything Bebe.

Until today.

Today started out in search of a dresser that could double as a media stand but turned into this:

(Image courtesy of Crate and Barrel)

Oh yes, having a one bedroom has finally paid off!  How?  Well, not decorating/purchasing nursery furniture means that we could purchase a real piece of furniture that has a MASSIVE amount of storage - one that will not only last us the rest of our lives but will, no doubt, look fab in Bebe's home someday.  

I mean seriously - if I had the choice of inheriting a crib, changing table, and glider rocker or this majestic piece, that decision would be a no brainer!

And the best part - it was on sale PLUS an additional 15% off!

Question

If I have never wanted to stand separated from my peers and if my husband has never, ever, ever wanted to be set apart from his peers, and if we both are willing to splash out for the latest cute trends, then are the chances that our daughter will not ever, ever, ever, ever wear an gray old lady wig and ill fitting military style jacket to school pretty much 100% ?

Dear lord, I hope so.

A Room of One's Own

Last school year, Virginia Woolf would have been proud: I had a room of one's own.  Yep, by some stroke of luck, I had my own classroom - one that I didn't share with anyone, which is a rarity in a high school that graduates 800 students a year.

It meant that I had a lot of time to think, to write, to grade, to plan, and, well, just to be. I was, I believe, a better teacher, a better (and more frequent) writer, and more organized because of that private space.  During my plan periods, I didn't need to hurry up and gather my things so that the incoming teacher could get her lesson started; instead, I could sit there and debrief the lesson I had just taught, make adjustments, and then move on.

This year, I am a (wo)man with no land.  I have no home.  I  teach 1st and 12th periods in what was, for 6 or 7 years, "my" classroom; it now belongs to a lovely newly tenured teacher who is in there for her entire day.  Then, I move to in and out of another classroom that belongs to a teacher more senior than me (I'm 5th in seniority on my hall, out of 16); sharing that space is difficult for us both but somehow, we manage, although it usually means that she stays 5 minutes into my class to gather her things and I am carting binders, books, bags, and yes, even technology back and forth from room to room.

When I'm not teaching, I'm trying to usurp space somewhere else: the English office, my best friend Laura's classroom, the computer lab... wherever there is space.  And there usually is space but unfortunately, that space rarely comes with a computer.

That's a huge problem for me because I rely heavily on technology in the classroom and need to be prepared to show StarWars Macbeth at a moment's notice or to download an episode of  This American Life.

But today I struck gold, which is why I'm writing this at 8:34 am: Laura's class is in the computer lab and so I'm situated at her desk, replete with keyboard and monitor, like a kid in a candy shop.

Virginia did say it best:

"a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction..."

And I agree.

If I plan to add to my 200 page novel and eventually arrive at its conclusion, I need a room of one's own and I know I'll have one soon, although there will be a baby close by...

Now, as for the money part, well, that's where I'm screwed. 

If it's not one thing, it's another...

I Am Thankful...

... that I can still fit into some of my pre-preggo sweaters because they are the only thing hiding my preggo back fat from a world view.

A Girl's Gotta Eat

The baby is coming...

and I'm trying to get ready for her arrival.  I spent last night researching formula and emailing friends for advice; today, I went online and sourced a few options to see how much it will cost and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Amazon not only has good prices but also offers free shipping.

I've been reading about how expensive formula is but I must say that it's not as pricey as as what I had anticipated; when people say something is costly, my mind immediately jumps to the worst case scenario (which means that I've been assuming the cost would be upward to $200 a week when in actuality, it will probably be more like $150 a month - a cost that seems, to me, reasonable to keep a human alive).

Yes, people say that "breast is best" but honestly, at this point, I just don't think it's for me.  To be brutally honest, the tought kind of repulses me.

There, I've said it; go ahead, judge me all you want but that's how I feel.  I wish I didn't feel this way but I do and that's that.

I've done a lot of research on the subject: I've read articles, spoke to moms, made observations, etc. but I'm not going to pin my choice on any of them (although I will say that living in one of the most polluted, toxic places in the US has played into my decision - the studies revealing the levels of environmental toxins showing up in breast milk are quite alarming).

I just know for sure that I'm not comfortable with the idea.

That may change; who knows, perhaps my maternal instincts will take over and in a few weeks, I'll post a retraction...

'tis the season to spend money...

Let's face it, the holidays are draining - emotionally and financially - so why not make them less so by doing your shopping before Thanksgiving and spending wisely?

My friend Whitney is a jewelry artist who makes every piece by hand.  It's a true labor of love; I've watched her craft pieces and believe me, I would throw my hands up and run screaming from the room if faced with such an exacting task.

Which is why Whitney is an artist and I am not.

You can check out her designs here and I encourage you to do so because I feel it's important to support local artisans; so much of our money leaves our country and unfortunately, it doesn't go into the hands that actually produce the products.  Supporting local and regional artisans by purchasing their crafts is just one way to insure that the Arts stay alive.

For Sale

Feel free to spread the word!

79MonroeStreet.blogspot.com

Guilty Favorites

My guilty pleasures lately are the following:

Katy Perry's song Teenage Dream

The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills

Kristen Hannah novels

Cheap ice cream

The snooze button

Trailers for Burlesque


Realtor.com

Following SIF's relationship with Mr. Fix It

Spending copious amounts of time on FB while Matt is out living life

Anticipating the new HARRY POTTER !!!!

Organizing baby clothes according to size while putting off figuring out how to keep a baby alive

Listening to Tawni O'Dell's novel Fragile Beasts each morning while commuting

Counting the teaching days until maternity leave begins (19.5)

FInally....

... it's time for the big kitchen reveal! Yes, we finally
finished the kitchen this past weekend and
when I say we, I mean Matt.

Here's a quick look at it before:

And here is the new and improved kitchen:

It's tough to get good pics due to the tricky angles 

and my lack of a wide angle lens but believe me, it's rad.

My husband did every bit of the work himself except 

for the countertop installation (which he could have done, 

considering it involves little more than marble slabs and glue); 

he rocks. Who would believe he's a banker?

If you like the kitchen, perhaps you'll want it for

your own... if so, just let us know because our

condo goes on the market this week.

Yes, you read that correctly: we are selling our home 

and yes, it is going on the market 7 weeks before my 

due date and no, we are not insane and no, I don't

know where we are going to live and no, 

I'm not bothered.

As my friend Sean Manseau said to me years ago,

"Have you ever personally known anyone who has 

died from exposure to the elements?"

I didn't think so;

neither will we.

Dear God,

Dear God,

My due date is in approx. 8 weeks and so I was wondering if you've decided on what type of soul you're going to bestow upon my child.

It must get rather taxing, having to make this decision for literally half a million babies a day, so I thought I would help you with your decision making process: if you could pull Bebe's soul from the same batch you pulled Taylor Swift's from, I would greatly appreciate it.

So would her father.

Thanks for your time and consideration,

Me

31 Weeks

I'm having a baby soon.

We live in 700 square feet.  I don't have a nursery, or even a walk in closet that I can shove a crib into.  The kitchen still isn't finished.  The carpeting in the bedroom and living room is disgusting.  Our condo association just hit us up for $1000.00.  The real estate market SUCKS.  I am bleeding money and about to lose my salary.  I know nothing about labor and delivery.  I know NOTHING about babies.  I've never been interested in babies.  I don't know if I even like babies.

And I'm having a baby soon.

Hunka, Hunka Burning Love

My daughter is a little shawty, burning fire on the dance floor these days, and that dance floor just happens to be my separated abdomen.  Perhaps she's celebrating 30 weeks of in utero living.

From what I gather, thinner women suffer from this condition - and I'm not using the word suffer lightly.  The ridiculous pain in my side when I sit has progressed to a ridiculous pain in my side and back, in addition to a burning upper abdomen, when I sit, stand, or recline.

Woohoo! Lucky me.

Other than that, I appear to be having a "perfect pregnancy".

If this is perfect, then I hope my delivery is beyond...

Dear Bebe

Dear Bebe,

I'm reading a book by Anne Lamott called Imperfect Birds and I would be lying if I didn't say that I'm already dreading your teenage years.

I have no doubt that we'll have a good relationship, one that is friendly without being friends and has boundaries but no true limits.  I'm the true Nick Carraway - I have the capacity to reserve judgment until I'm full to bursting - and don't worry, you'll have a lot of freedom to grow, experience, mess up, eventually get it right.  I'll probably surprise you, and a lot of my friends and family, with my quasi-hippiesque approach to child rearing and the only times you'll hear any complaints about your grades or career ambitions is if they are coming from your own mouth.

So please, do me a huge favor and don't get hooked on drugs.  Say no to illegal/illicit/over the counter/under the counter/top shelf/bottom shelf/for human consumption/for animal consumption/natural/chemical/organic/synthetic drugs of all kinds.

Please.

And when I approach you head on with a direct question, don't lie to me. Trust me - the only time I'll go ballistic is if I discover that you're lying to my face (except if they are harmless white lies that make me feel thin or pretty).

I won't be mad because of the back story or the content of your lies, it's the balls out deception that will put me over the edge.

When you're old enough to be interested in reading full length novels, I'll give you a copy of Imperfect Birds and you can read it for yourself and then do everything in your being not to become Rosie and turn me into pathetic Elizabeth.

That's all for today,

Ciao, Bella.

Posting

When I sit down to blog, I start by reading through my blog roll and taking a few moments to comment on posts that strike me that particular day.

Sometimes those responses require a lot of thought and attention to language and thus, in turn, consume a lot of my blog energy.

Today was one of those days.

Foreshadowing

When I was really small, probably around the age of 3 or 4, my father left the house early one Saturday morning to go hunting.  On the kitchen counter, he left a note for my mother that read something along the lines of this:

"Dear Ann,

I'm heading to the cabin to go hunting.  I'll be back later this afternoon or early this evening; would you like to have dinner tonight?

Love,  Butch

Ps. Do you think Allison needs drugs?"

From those words, I'm sure you can infer that I was, as they liked to call it back in the 70's before the onset of labels such as ADHD, hyperactive.

Therefore, I'm asking all of you to pray that Bebe inherits my fantastic skin and Matty's calm, controlled, logical demeanor.  If it's the other way around, we're in for a world of hurt.

Not that he doesn't have great skin - I mean, he is Greek - but mine is really smooth and by far my best feature...

Blah, Blah, Blah

I haven't been blogging much lately.

My back pain is destroying my spirit; it's soul killing and frankly, I don't have much to say.  A friend recommended acupuncture and I'm going to give it a try but I've been so busy commuting 2 hours a day, working 8 hours a day, tutoring after school, cleaning, cooking, grocery shopping, etc. that I haven't had a second to do anything other than complain.  I'm going to call tomorrow and make an appointment.

I hate to complain even though it comes so easily to me.  Isn't this supposed to be a wonderful, happy time?  I have friends who would kill to be in my position; I know girls who are desperate to be pregnant and I feel selfish and horrid for going on about my discomfort.  Please know that I'm not complaining about having a baby; I'm beyond excited to meet my little girl.

But I'm also terrified.  I NEVER expected pregnancy to be so draining, so uncomfortable, so, well, all encompassing.  I thought I would remain me, just pregnant in addition.

I haven't felt like myself for months now and it's really beginning to wear me down.  I had an allergy attack at school yesterday that was the worst one of my life and today I'm dealing with the after effects: a raw nose, sore eyes, chapped lips and a headache.  During that attack, I honestly felt that I was under attack, that an enemy had sensed my weak defenses and decided it was the perfect time to take advantage.  Let's hope that enemy only won a battle and not the entire war or I'm screwed.

I want to feel like myself again and I am not sure when that's going to happen; I have a fairly good idea that it's not going to happen anytime soon because in a few months, my life as I've known it will be gone forever.

I hope I like the person I'll become.

GET OUT!

... from under my ribcage! Please, Bebe... PLEASE!!

The Pain of It All

My back has turned its back on me and I'm in a tremendous amount of pain.

Unless I'm standing or lying down, the pain on my right side is unbearable and no amount of Tylenol puts it at ease. This is only my 7th month; if this pain continues, I don't know if I will.

That thought is terrifying.

The only time I feel normal is when I'm walking, which is why instead of relaxing after breakfast and watching the Ryder with Matty and Duncan, I chose to walk the trail around Eagles Mere Lake this morning; I was quite impressed with how quickly and nimbly I made it around.  It was a gorgeous morning in The Endless Mountains and it was exhilarating to be alone in nature with a view of the water.

Tomorrow morning at an ungodly hour, I'll be commuting on the Turnpike instead of communing with nature.  I just don't think that's how God meant for us to live our lives.

Pain, pain, go away; don't come again another day.

Banking da Cord

To bank or not to bank...

Cord blood, that is the question.

It makes all the sense in the world: bank your baby's cord blood and if needed someday, use it to cure her.  It's as simple as that... or is it?

When I first heard of it, I immediately planned on doing it - why wouldn't I?  Who wouldn't want to bank the potential to save their child?

Then I found out the cost and I nearly gave birth... to bankruptcy.

Here in New Jersey it costs upwards to $3000.00 for the initial fee and then an additional annual charge for storage.

Three grand is a small price to pay to save your child however it's a HUGE cost to pay up front when your family is about to cut its income in half and increase its expenses significantly.

We are going to look into it, despite the cost, and I hope we'll be able to work it out but I'm wondering if any of you have chosen to bank.  Any additional information would be much appreciated!

The West Calls

I want to move out west, perhaps Idaho or Utah.

Last fall, Matty and I hopped a plane to Boise and spent a long weekend with my aunt and uncle at their fabulous home.

We woke up each morning to cinnamon flavored coffee

delivered direct to our suite via dumbwaiter:

Toured wineries and enjoyed the 

beauty of the Idahoan countryside:

Fell in love with the beauty of mountain lakes:

Wore fur without fear of paint splatters:

And found the coolest road in the universe:

This morning, fall arrived in Hoboken and with it, the strong urge to pack up our life here and move it out West where it belongs.  Not only can we get more bang for our buck in the Boise real estate market, but downtown Boise is also home to several adorable coffee shops, a massive Anthropologie, a North Face flagship store, many overpriced fancy restaurants that aren't overpriced at all compared to Hoboken, and oh, to keep Matty more than happy 5 months a year, there's this little ole football team that plays its games on a blue field which just happens to be his second favorite college team, after Rutgers, of course.

But most importantly, I think our chances of raising a happy, fresh faced kid would increase exponentially if we did so amongst potatoes and under the open sky.

I've chosen a few homes; all I need you to do now is to send me large sums of money so I can purchase it on the DL.  Yes, I recognize that Matt would need to commute to Denver to get to his company's closest office but hey, once I secure a home for us and it's bought and paid for, he'll have to agree to the move.  

Or, well, I suppose he could go to work at another bank.  Heck, I'm sure the cost of living is so low in Idaho that he could work as a teller and still support us in the manner to which we are accustomed... right?

And then you can all come visit us here!

Awake

It's 3:23 am and I've been awake for an hour.

This isn't good, considering that in less than three hours I will be at the wheel barreling down the turnpike toward a day to be spent on my feet performing in front of a captive audience of teenagers.

Teaching British Literature to 16 and 17 year olds is physically and mentally exhausting; want to know what it's like?  Well, it's kind of like trying to sell fruitcake at a springtime bake sale: not only is it out of season, but most buyers aren't mature enough to acknowledge and appreciate its tradition in season, let alone select it when placed alongside a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies or heck, even a store bought Tastycake.

The fruitcake market relies on a very particular consumer, one who is not the average baked goods buyer but instead one who seeks a taste of nostalgia in every bite.  Try as one might to convince buyers to take a chance and bite into its glazed fruited exterior (by claiming, perhaps, that it was baked by a renown fruitcaker or by relying on a flashy presentation or even by projecting an authentic love of fruitcake) is pretty much setting oneself up for bake sale suicide.

At best, sales are going to be slow, if at all; the majority will be pity sales - ones in which the purchaser buys in to the salesperson only to dump the product in the trash once out of sight.

Successful teaching requires not only mastery and passion in terms of content but also the same in terms of sales.

And that sales-teacher needs to be bright eyed and bushy tailed.

And on that note, I'm heading back to bed.  It's 3:56 now and my alarm is set to sound in an hour and fifteen minutes.  Cross fingers that my eyes close without effort and I get at least another 45 sleep filled moments before it's time to get up and make the fruitcake.

**Weekend Update**

Matty came home from work last night to find me curled up in a ball on the couch, bemoaning my outcast state.  He immediately knew what was on my mind and tried to make me feel better by saying that all the girls were asleep in London and therefore I wasn't missing out on anything.

I looked at the clock and laughed; it was 5:30 pm EST/10:30 pm London time.  Asleep?  Yeah, right - not my girls.  As a matter of fact, I had just finished texting with Karen and Abs and Gmailing with Yol while they were at dinner; I told him nice try but he would have to do better than that.

And so he did.

He sat down on the couch and told me that in just a few months, when springtime rolled around and Bebe was out in the world, he would send me abroad for a girls weekend and gladly stay with the baby or I could take her with me.

I have the world's greatest husband and yes, I'm going to take him up on that offer... especially after the text message I woke up to this morning from Abs, saying that she that she had some news and "was on the water for the girls weekend".

At first, I thought that meant that the girls were out rowing or boating on the Thames (Abs was huge into rowing for a while) instead of shopping (shocking!) so I fired off a quick text asking which they were doing.  Her return text began with an LOL and continued to say that what she meant was that she was off the wine.

That's when my mind began to spin... I fired back, asking for what reason and this is what she returned:

"the same reason as you!"

Abs is pregnant!!!! 

I burst into happy tears and screamed for Matt to come back to the bedroom.  He was super excited, too, and told Bebe that she was going to have a Scottish bff, just like her mom.  That began a long series of texts back and forth across the pond (to the tune of 25 cents each - incoming and outgoing) between me and all of the girls until we exhausted our pointer fingers and thumbs.

It meant the world to me that the girls "kept in text" with me all weekend without knowing how much I needed it.  They don't read my blog often or if ever (Karen tries to keep up but Abs and Heather and Yol are not Internet addicted like I am and prefer conversations in real time ) so it's not like they read yesterday's post and were prompted to show me extra extra attention this weekend.

I can't believe that Abs and I are going to have babies together; because our group friendship began when most of us were single gals and our thoughts were far from babies, I was so nervous about being the first. Having a partner in motherhood is the best news I could have received this weekend.

Hmm, Abs and I are 5 months apart in our pregnancies... now, if the rest of the girls could just follow suit, beginning with Yol and Lindsay, then Karen, and then Heather... well, that would be just about perfect!

Rebirth

Right now, four of my dearest friends are gathered in Richmond Upon Thames.  It's 9 o' clock in the evening and I'm sure they are gathered at Abbie's local, enjoying a fantastic pub dinner and a few bottles of Sauvignon Blanc.

Abbie's husband, Jamie, is no doubt due to pop in any minute now to join the three Scottish lasses and the lovely South African for a pint (and to try his best to keep them under control so that the next time he goes in for a drink, he won't receive another report from the bar keep that his wife  "needs to kept under control...").

Up until now, I've managed to hop the pond and be the fifth wheel on these girly weekends.  I've flown to London, Glasgow and Edinburgh to spend just a few days (or hours!) in the company of my friends and likewise, they've joined me for mad NYC shopping weekends, beach days, and cabin retreats.  What can I say? We're a package deal.

Until now.

Tomorrow morning they'll recap their night out over tea and porridge at Giraffe but there will be a coffee missing amongst those four teas.

A coffee and me.

As you know, I'm 26 weeks pregnant but it's not the pregnancy itself that kept me joining my girls, it's the expense.

With a baby on the way, we're trying really hard to watch our finances.  When Karen first emailed us all to say she would be in from Abu Dhabi on business in London, I immediately went to Kayak and checked ticket prices, telling myself that if it was under $500, I would convince Matty that I needed to go.

But the price wasn't under $500.  It was no where close; the cheapest ticket was $900 and even I couldn't justify that at this time, particularly not when we spent a ridiculous amount on our summer tickets to Scotland.

So here I am on the couch watching Oprah while my girls catch up on one another's lives: Karen's recent trip to Portugal; the status of the offer Abs and Jamie made on their dream home; Heather's rising career at the Royal Bank of Scotland; the opening of Yolandie's bistro and her upcoming move back to SA.

And I'm miserable.

I miss them so much; there's nothing, NOTHING that compares to the moments I've shared with these girls.  I don't know what it is, but there is just something special about our friendship that when I am in their company, I feel whole.

I'm trying hard to keep my sadness and jealousy in check but considering how hormonal I am, it's not easy because this is the first time that it's really hitting me: I'm having a baby and my life is about to change exponentially and I'm not quite sure I'm ready for that change.

I'll get there, I know, but it won't be this weekend.

I guess Bebe's birth will have to be my rebirth because at that point, I'll have no other option...

Pregnancy Dos and Don'ts

It's quite simple, really.

If you attempt to follow every suggestion from friends, doctors, websites, lists, cautionary tales,  blah, blah, blah while you're pregnant, you'll go insane.

Therefore, my advice to you is this: there are choices that you make that involve a level of risk and there are ones that you make that produce results.

In terms of actions involving a risk, such as eating lunch meat or drinking too much caffeine, I believe those are choices each pregnant gal must make on her own, in terms of what is best for her health and sanity.

In terms of actions that produce unavoidable results, I warn you to heed the advice of others in these situations because I didn't and now I am suffering the consequences.

Yes, I chose to go against the warnings of many and now I'm stuck with the result; I should have listened to those who have come before me because they know best: I cut off my hair and I HATE it.

It was an impulsive, hormonal decision that my stylist warned me not to make but I went under the shears anyway and now I must spend the next 6 months to a year waiting for the return of my former self.

I like long haired Ali; she's the anti-bridezilla who got married on that gorgeous day last August.  Short haired Ali, um, well, I'm not so keen on her: so far, she's bitchy and mean, doesn't know how to take a compliment, and lashes out at the sweetest folk to hide her own insecurities.

Honestly, ladies, when you're pregnant, go ahead and eat as much sushi as you want (from reputable joints).  Go on and enjoy an occasional glass of red wine to de-stress at the end of a long week.  Eat that non-organic (but low spray) apple.

Take risks, but for goodness sake, don't take off your hair!

Can't hurt, WILL help...

Dear Bebe,

Someday, you'll grow up and get married.

I hope that happens before I die because let's face it, I'm not exactly a spring chicken (if you decide to wait until you're my age to get married, the chances of me being present significantly decrease, which is why I won't be too opposed to you marrying at a younger age, as long as you're over 21, employed, and have lived with the dude for at least a year).

But I digress.

The reason I'm writing to you today is to offer some important advice for you to keep in mind when choosing your future husband; it's simple and direct, so here it is:

marry a man with a beach house.

I'm trying my best to get us out of New Jersey but right now, the future looks bleak in terms of escaping this drain-your-soul-and-bank-account state so the chances of your mom and dad ever buying a beach house is slim to none.

You see, kitten, here in NJ there are only two ways to own a beach house: luck strikes and you win the lotto (either literally or figuratively in terms of career compensation) or your parents (or in your case, your grandparents) bought a beach house back in the day when they were affordable.

Your mom and dad have no luck nor do they have parents who own beach houses, therefore you're probably never going to spend your summers luxuriating in the sun and sand at the Jersey Shore (or Cape Cod, or The Hamptons, Nantucket, Block Island, the Outer Banks, Virginia Beach... you get the picture).

But all hope is not lost; there is a way we can all enjoy our time in the sun.

There are plenty of people who own beach houses here in NJ; all you must do is find the son of one of those people and reel him in.

That's not too much to ask, is it?  I guarantee it will only enhance your love... and my life.

xx
Me

Ps. Your father is not a big fan of Long Island, so perhaps look into the LBI available bachelors first...

On Holiday

The first four days of school are behind me; it helped that two were completed last week so I only had to face two this week.  Now, thanks to my Jewish friends (Happy New Year!), I am home until Monday and the weather is beautiful.

I'm watching Mamma Mia for the 23942394 time and getting ready to walk for fitness; I may need to take an allergy pill because although the weather is fantastically gorgeous, it's also full of allergens.  I'm also getting my hair cut today and it's making me totally antsy because I currently hate my hair.  I had it cut to a bob this past July instead of doing what I really wanted to do: get a perm, so that I would have long, Sarah Jessica Parker Sex in the City hair, but everyone shrieked and moaned at the idea and instead of listening to my self (who is usually the one who knows best), I chose to follow the advice of others and now I hate what I see in the mirror.

I'm going to try and remedy it today by going ultra-Posh Spice and I'm praying it won't be a disaster.

Cross fingers, friends.  Nothing ruins a good holiday like bad hair.

A Year Later...

A year and a week ago, Matty and I were married here,

at Armadale Castle ruin on the Isle of Skye.

We did it our way, blending the traditional and contemporary.

I got ready surrounded by my girlfriends and together, 

we walked to meet the groom before the ceremony.

My bridesmaids and I slipped away from the group 

and behold, I found my groom.

We married underneath this arch, while friends 

watched and the champagne flowed.

Matty was really happy that day, can't ya tell?

These three men are my family on Skye,

my godfather Duncan, his best friend John, 

and my best friend from the island, James.

They drove all the way to Inverness to get

kilted out for the big event; a big surprise!

We had the best day of all time, no joke.

I mean, who wouldn't with our love and that hair?

That night, I couldn't bring myself to take 

off my fabulous frock; I hope I get to 

wear it again some day: baby weight, be gone!

Nothing to end the day like an old school Myspace shot!

Here it is, just a year later, and we're getting ready for 

another big event, which unlike our wedding, wasn't 

as, um, carefully timed or expertly planned,

however we're pretty confident that it will turn

out just as magnificent as that magical day on Skye.

Happy Anniversary to us (a week late and a dollar short) !!

She's Alive!

Matty just felt Bebe move for the first time - this moment, Friday, September 3rd, 9:10 pm.

Stress

I do not handle stress well.

When faced with a stressful situation, some people grow quiet and broody; they tend to retreat within themselves and sometimes, they appear to be so calm that it's hard to tell they are stressed.

I am not one of those people.

No, in addition to the internal struggle, my stress also manifests outwardly and is easily identifiable on sight and as I get older, it's not getting any easier to manage.  I've dealt poorly with stress my entire life; I can remember a teenager who locked herself out of the house moments before she was to receive an important phone call (from a boy, no doubt).  Instead of facing facts, that girl grew anxious and nervous and a panic began to swell within her chest.  Within moments, she was pounding her fists against the side of the house, freaking out because she felt out of control and couldn't deal with the situation rationally.

Moments like that continued to occur throughout my teendom and young adult years until finally, I  realized how freakish I must appear to others and began to make, with much effort, an effort to contain most of the outward physical manifestations of my stress.

Now instead of beating my fists against the wall, I beat up myself internally until my eyes well with tears and my flight instinct kicks in.  Today was one of those days.

Why is it that I'm so good at advising others on how to deal with stress yet I can barely deal with it myself?  Logically I know that (as my Grammy Schell used to say) "it will all come out in the wash" yet when I'm in the moment, I feel like a stained shirt stuck in the spin cycle.

The moment I'm stressed out, I cry and just want to retreat to my bed.  When those around me are stressed out, I really lose it; that fostered guilt is just too much for me to take.

I've tried different methods of stress management, to little or no avail but I'm not giving up; I have a baby on the way and she is, I'm sure, going to cause me A LOT of stress in the upcoming years so I'm determined to find a way to calm my inner demons.

Hmm,  perhaps a move to Skye is in order...

Fire or Ice

Fire and Ice SOME say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice,         5 I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. - Robert Frost Today was my first day B2S and this poem ran through my head the entire day. Perhaps it was the oppression of a 102 degree classroom; perhaps it was the cold sweat for fear of the upcoming unknown. Let's hope that fire and ice play a minimal role this year and that the climate remains comfortable from start to finish. Let's hope.

B2S

It's here.

Tomorrow I go back to school and I'm not mentally prepared - at all.

I woke up today with horrific allergies,  probably the worst attack I've had in my adult life: my eyes are swollen shut, my nose has inflated to twice its size, my head is pounding, I'm having trouble breathing properly and I'm starting to break out in welts.  I'm a mess.

The allergy medication I took has done nothing to relieve my suffering so I'm trying to be proactive by eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in hopes that my extreme case of allergies might ward off or cancel out a future peanut allergy for Bebe - how do you like that logic, eh?

 I think it's time for a nap - who am I?

Learn to Like It

Dear Bebe,

I can't believe I'm about to say this, but learn to enjoy watching televised sports.

Your dad will help with this, don't worry; he's already looking forward to turning you into a Cowboys/Mets/Rangers/Rutgers/PGA/World Cup fan and he's even put in a few requests for little co-ordinating outfits for you so he can dress you for each event accordingly.

Your dad and I were both big athletes back in the day but the difference is that I only played sports - I never watched them,  much like your grandfather, Butchie, who was, apparently, a big stud back in the day on the field.  Butchie and I bonded over episodes of This Old House and while watching our favorite 1983 classic, Strange Brew, whereas your father and his father spent their weekends watching whatever sport was in season.  I think this is what lead to our present preferences.

Well, and the fact that he's a boy and I'm a girl and boys watch sports and well, most girls don't.

But there are exceptions, such as your gorgeous Greek auntie Christina F.  Now, Christina and I have argued this point a million times and I've expressed my dislike of her love for sports. She actually enjoys watching them.  Seriously - she goes out of her way to turn on a Jets game... what girl does that?

Apparently, beautiful ones like her.

And I must admit, I think it makes her life a bit easier than mine and will make her life A LOT easier once she is married because the thing is, all boys like sports (ok, there are a few exceptions but they are VERY few and far between - even scrawny, tight t-shirt wearing hipsters in bands over in Brooklyn like sports).

What boys don't like are girls who whine about their husband's sports viewing or who banish the hubs to the bedroom every Sunday afternoon.  And Monday evening. And during baseball season, every evening.

So, do yourself a favor and learn to enjoy watching sports.  I'll fix you a little treat to nibble on and pass your father an ice cold Sprite and then I'll take your father's wallet and go shopping.

Because no matter how much I think you should learn to enjoy watching sports, I never will.

Love,

Me

Prolong the Inevitable

Dear Bebe,

Someday, unless you're really lucky and find a cash cow to finance your lifestyle (and hopefully that of your parents), you'll be forced to enter a life of servitude, commonly known as the work force.

I suggest that you put this off for as long as possible or avoid it entirely.

There are several ways of doing so: remain a student for as long as possible (a scholarship student, mind you, or one with a stipend), find work on an organic co-operative farm that affords you room and board in exchange for slopping pigs and singing kumbaya, or hopefully, find a way to turn what you love to do into a lucrative money maker that only requires you to put forth limited, spontaneous efforts.

Your father and I have discussed this at length and both agree that as long as you are happy and healthy, we will support your endeavors, with some expectations: you refrain from posing for amateur photographers (mass market trade publications are fine, if tastefully done) and if asked by your grandparents, you ARE a Republican.

Enjoy your life,

Love, me

Advice to Bebe

I'm thinking of re-directing my blog focus and using this forum as an ongoing letter of advice to my future daughter.

Here is my first bit:

Dear Bebe,

When backpacking through Europe with your girlfriends (which you are free to do once you graduate high school), abstain from arguing with Czech taxi drivers over the fare.  Specifically, after the driver spits in your face, refrain from kicking the side panel of his sedan because a). he could pull a gun on you, stuff you in the trunk, and sell you to the sex trade or more importantly b). you risk scuffing the toe of your pretty stiletto and damaging your pedicure, not to mention you'll no doubt limp for the rest of the evening.

Cute boys do not like girls who limp or have ugly feet, nor do they marry ones who spent years in forced servitude.

Love,

Me

Alba Gu Brath, Part I

Good morning, Tobermory.

This was the third stop on our Scottish adventure

and the setting of Lynsey's wedding.  We arrived on 

the Tuesday before the Friday ceremony and quickly

fell in with new friends.  On Wednesday morning,

we hiked the muddiest trail I've ever been on to a 

lighthouse, where we met up with the groom's sister,

brother-in-law, and niece and nephew. 

Leave it to the Swiss to hike a rainy path 

with a 4 year old and 18 month old!

Our days on Mull were spent laughing and

lunching in muddy boots at posh cafes, such as 

this one (that also has a not-so-posh pub attached!)

Some chose to go whale watching while others 

stayed on dry ground for fear of heaving.

On Friday, we cleaned up for the wedding and 

witnessed a memorable ceremony at the village parish;

the Scottish/Swiss ceremony was a success, 

much like the couple itself!

Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Zingg

I drove us to the reception at Glengorm Castle 

in Karen's brother's Land Rover and that was

an adventure on those single track roads!  

Upon arrival, we were met with

flutes of champagne (BeBe thoroughly enjoyed hers)

and a host of kilts and traditional Swiss costumes.

Spending time with my best friends was amazing, 

even though I couldn't enjoy myself in true Ali fashion.

The party really took off when Skerryvore took the stage

and even I braved the heaving dance floor for a few turns;

if you're familiar with Ceilidh dancing, you'll 

understand why I was a bit apprehensive to join in -

the last thing BeBe needs is to be turned into a milkshake!

This picture doesn't even look like us. Pregnancy is affecting us both!

The party raged on until the wee hours of the morn,

but Matty and I were sensible (and sober) so we drove 

back to the inn around 11pm so we could get a good sleep

in order to make the ferry to Oban bright and early.  Karen, 

however, danced the night away and was still fresh faced

at 6 in the morning despite her 4 am bedtime!  Well, almost...

Goodbye, Tobermory! We'll see you again one day, we hope!

Tomorrow, we go over the sea to Skye!