Dog, bebe, and dinner

Max is officially over his Fred Flinstone phase and is back to normal. Of course, back to normal for him is an effervescent hyperness that is endearing only after he's come back from the brink of death. That dog has spunk, I tell you, and is more like a cat with nine lives when you consider the trials and tribulations he's encountered - and survived - in his relatively short time on earth.

Baby seems to be doing well, too. I had my 32 week appointment yesterday and le bebe had a heart rate in the 140s (phew... I always get nervous) and my blood pressure was "excellent" at 110/60. The doctor did confirm my continued observations, however, and that is that I have the strangest looking bump ever: long, oval and totally flat down the front. In terms of keyboard keys, it looks more like this ] instead of this )

Last night was "new recipe" night at our house and, thanks to Giada De Laurentiis and her book, "Everyday Pasta," we had a scrumdiddlyumptious meal (don't be fooled, "new recipe" night is not a regular occurrence at our house. I just so happened to be get inspired) . Well, I thought it was scrumdiddlyumptious. The husband contingent liked it well enough, with the exception of the artichoke hearts. Never mind him, though, since he's a veggie-phobe. And, after nearly 4 years of marriage, I've finally stopped taking offense to him picking vegetables out of dishes that I lovingly prepare and flicking them off to the side in disgust.

If only I could eat Giada's recipes every night and look like her, because her food is delicious. Unfortunately, I would look less like a petite, beautiful Italian woman and more like this:



But I digress. The recipe was fantastic and enough to feed Jon and Kate plus 8 with no problem whatsoever. I will make it again, with a few modifications (namely substituting the frozen artichoke hearts for canned so that I can cut them into smaller pieces with the hope of tricking the husband into eating at least one). Clearly when I make this again, I will be cutting the ingredients down to at least half...

Rigatoni with Sausage, Artichokes, and Asparagus
3/4 cup drained oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes, sliced, 2 tablespoons of oil reserved
1 pound of hot Italian sausage, casings removed (* I used mild Italian sausage and it was good)
2 (8-ounce) packages of frozen artichoke hearts
1 cup asparagus, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces
2 large garlic cloves, chopped
1 3/4 cups chicken broth
1/2 cup dry white wine
12 ounces rigatoni or other tubular pasta
1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
1/3 cup chopped fresh basil
1/4 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
8 ounces fresh mozzarella, cubed
salt and freshly ground black pepper

Heat oil reserved from the tomatoes in a large, heavy frying pan over medium-high heat. Add the sausage and cook until browned, breaking up meat into bite-sized pieces with a fork, about 8 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the sausage to a bowl. Add the artichokes, asparagus, and garlic to the same skillet, and saute over medium heat until the garlic is tender, about 2 minutes. Add the broth, wine, and sun-dried tomatoes. Boil over medium-high heat until the sauce reduces slightly, stirring occasionally, about 8 minutes.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook the pasta until tender but firm, stirring often, about 10 minutes. Drain pasta.

Add the pasta, sausage, 1/2 cup of Parmesan cheese, basil, and parsley to the artichoke mixture. Toss until the sauce is almost absorbed by the pasta. Stir in the mozzarella. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve, passing additional Parmesan cheese alongside.

(Recipe from Everyday Pasta. Copyright 2007 by Giada De Laurentiis) Thanks, Giada!

Dog + Rocks = Not Good

Have I ever mentioned that I love my dog? I mean, I adore that beast with all my heart. Ever since I started working from home about a year ago, he has become my constant companion and shadow. He is great. A bit spaztic and hyper, yes, but he makes up for it with his unwavering love and devotion. He makes me wish I was human being who was that committed to pure and unadulterated love of everything. (except he's not a fan of squirrels and doves and cats...)

We have been having some minor work done to our house which is really annoying and disruptive and unnerving for our spaztic, hyper dog, so we have been sending him to day care whilst the house is getting its little face lift. Drop him off at 7am, let him run wild to release his inner beast, and pick him up again in the afternoon, when the crew wraps up for the day.

This has been going swimmingly. We thought. When I drop him off, he is so excited to go inside and play with his pals that he doesn't even look back to say "Bye, mom" when I walk / get pulled through the front door. Zoom. He's gone. But he's equally as happy to see me when I pick him up in the afternoon, so all is forgiven and we have the happiest reunions ever. Every day this happens. I love it.

I think we may have overstepped our drop-off, pick-up, reunion boundaries when we not only put him in daycare, but also boarded him for the weekend when we went to Tahoe (see below post about crazy chipmunk encounter). We pick him up on Sunday to the same routine as always:

Us: "Hi, Max, old buddy, old pal!"
Max: "Hey! You came back! Whoopie! I'll jump up on you so that I can lick your face!"

And all is right with the world.

Except we get home and feed him dinner. He doesn't eat. "Huh?" we think. Max not eating? "Maybe he ate just before we picked him up," I suggest. "Maybe he's just really tired," the husband contingent surmises. We shrug our shoulders and carry on.

Monday morning. Didn't eat breakfast. Weird, odd, and worrisome. But he certainly had no issues with scarfing down the handful of dog biscuits I was handing out in lieu of breakfast, so perhaps I'm just being paranoid.

Monday night. Runs through the door straight to his bowl and inhales every last morsel of food in his bowl. "PHEW," I thought. Now we're talking. Max is normal and all is right with the world.

Until early Tuesday morning. I wake to the sound of Max vomiting so I leap out of bed and find 9 (NINE) decent sized rocks in a pile on the floor. Are you kidding me? NINE rocks?

I take Max out of daycare. I call the vet. I watch him like a hawk. I call the vet. Max doesn't really move all day. Highly out of character for my dear boy. I worry. I call a different vet. I get an appointment.

Max goes in to the vet's office and suddenly springs back to life. "Oh great," I think. "I am just one of those paranoid worry warts. Max is fine."

Vet inspects him and says "I should X-ray his stomach to make sure there were only 9 rocks in there. Is that okay?" Like I'm gonna say no. Off Max goes to the back room for further inspection. 20 minutes pass. The vet comes out.

"I don't know how, but we got really, really lucky," she says. "He has 8 more rocks in his colon." EIGHT rocks. But thank goodness they made it to his colon (apparently), because the rocks were somehow able to pass through part of the stomach that they shouldn't have been able to.

Who the hell eats 17 rocks? And how the hell does someone not notice a dog eating those 17 rocks?

All I know is that my poor, sweet dog is suffering, and I believe it is because he was a lot more stressed about the daycare situation that I would have ever thought. He is okay for now, but he is still not great.

But I suppose it's really hard work to pass EIGHT rocks through your body, so I'll continue to watch him like a hawk and hope he poops 'em out tomorrow morning.

I never, ever, ever thought I would be up for inspecting dog poop. But tomorrow I will.

I love this dog with my whole heart, and I really need him to be okay tomorrow.

Chipmunk in da house

So, we're sitting in our house in Tahoe this weekend, enjoying the fact that we're being completely lazy and non-productive. I mean, that is the whole point of spending time in Tahoe.

The weather is amazingly beautiful and very unseasonably warm - temperatures in the mid 80's while the folk in the Bay Area are suffering through a massive heatwave - so we have the doors to the back patio open to let the sunlight and slightly warm breezy air fill our souls with mountain goodness.

I am hunkered down on the small sofa, engrossed in some fascinating story on one of the websites I stalk (I think I was reading the Celebrity Baby Blog at this particular moment in time), while the husband contingent was on the large sofa with a dueling laptop reading Sailing Anarchy and watching some sporting event on TV.

Suddenly, this flash of darkness comes flying around the corner and into the living room, only to disappear as quickly as it appeared. I think I jumped 10 feet off the sofa (much faster and higher than I've moved in months, mind you) and screamed "Oh my GOD! What was that??!!" And the husband jumps over the back of the sofa to see a tiny little chipmunk scurry out of the doors back to the patio.

We run over to the doors, to make sure he really did run out of the house and not under the sofa, or into the kitchen, or someplace other than the vast wilderness he calls home, only to find him sitting in the corner of the deck with his eyes popping out of his head and his heart visibly beating 1000 beats per minute. And then he saw us again and bolted for the trees. Poor little guy.

Who knew that a 32-week pregnant lady who is grasping her MacBook Pro, while hanging from the rafters for dear life, while screeching at the top her lungs would be a scary sight to see?

It's true what they say, though. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the girl. City Girl colliding with Mother Nature = heart racing, adrenaline pumping good times. And that was the most excitement I had all weekend.

Poor little chipmunk. I think he may be scarred for life.

G'bye for now

This is the most I can see of my feet when I look down these days. And I actually have to stick my rear-end out and lean back to get this view.

I look forward to seeing you soon, feet.

Hey, big spender

I can't believe I completely forgot to write about my fantastically exciting weekend. Well, the entire weekend wasn't necessarily fantastically exciting, but I did make two big purchases that made me smile. The first:

When REI has a 20% off sale and the stroller you want is part of the sale, you really can't pass up that kind of bargain.

Now, I realize that the orange may be a bit garish and I may tire of the color (hopefully not!) but I have this thing for orange right now. Which is odd, really, because it is so 70s and so reminiscent of my childhood where we drove around in an orange Volvo station wagon, sat in orange vinyl chairs at dinner, had orange fuzzy flowered wallpaper in our house and, well, you get the idea. I grew to loathe orange. Despise. Detest. But, somehow, I found myself jumping for joy at the purchase of an orange stroller for the babe. Perhaps I'm just setting this kid up for the kind of mental torture and embarrassment that my parents subjected me to when I was growing up.

On to the second purchase of the weekend:

Whoopie!! I have been thinking long and hard about upgrading to a digital camera for some time now. Yes, it's true, my rusty-trusty Nikon SLR that I have loved (and still love, by the way) for so many years is, in fact, a film camera. Like the kind that you have to send away for processing and wait days on end to get back. There is something so satisfyingly nostalgic about opening up that envelope filled with memories. But, I have finally joined the ranks of the 21st Century, much to the delight of many friends and family. Now I no longer have to hear: "WHAT?! You don't own a digital camera? What is wrong with you?" As if not owning a digital camera somehow made me some sort of leper.

I won't go into the drama I had to endure to actually acquire the camera. Long story short, I bought it at Best Buy, was sent home several hundreds of dollars later (unknowingly) with a box that contained no camera only a lens. Which was followed by a trip back, a grilling session tantamount to the Spanish Inquisition (um, yeah. I'm totally lying. I took the camera out and am trying to weasel my way into getting two camera bodies for the price of one), and finally arrived home after much discussion and debate with the fine people of Best Buy with my camera. But all's well that ends well.

Oh, and here is a picture of dog that I took with the camera. My very first picture ever taken with this wondrous new joy of technology.

He's such a pretty boy.

My, how you've... grown?

We had a follow-up ultrasound today to ensure things were on the up-and-up relative to me and my ability to deliver the baby. Yep, things are looking good.

Of course we were super excited to see the babe at t-minus 30 weeks, thinking we're really going to get a good sense of what he or she will look like when babe makes its grand entrance in 10 or so weeks. Hmmm... maybe not.

While the general health and growth of the baby are seemingly perfect, we also seem to have a very active and stubborn baby all at the same time... le bebe was kind enough to share a brief (brief = nanosecond) snippet of grabbing its toes, opening its mouth, and sucking its thumb. But if you blinked, you would miss it. This picture was taken mid-blink:


Another of le bebe is a very distorted and fuzzy shot of its face:


This is in stark contrast to the ultrasound we had a mere 11 weeks ago, when baby was mellow, forthcoming and cooperative. My guess is that baby was sound asleep at that last picture-taking session. Just look at the cherub then:

So sweet and docile. That little trickster.

Guess today's experience means that our little one is not feeling quite ready for prime time, since its hands completely covered its face for about 99.6% of the time. I say this stubbornness means it's a girl. My husband disagrees and says this behavior is all boy. We shall see...

The Diggingest Dog

Max the dog does everything with a sense of purpose. He walks everywhere like he's on a mission, he monitors the backyard like he's protecting us from the doves and squirrels, and he hunts. Hunts for moles and mice as if he's not sure when or where his next meal is coming. Even though he is fed twice a day like clock work.

Here is an example of Max on a hunt:


Usually these hunting excursions happen on walks or hikes or jaunts to the dog park. And usually he isn't successful. But sometimes he is, and it's always surprising and slightly disturbing when he pops his head up out of a hole that he has dug with a live beast in his mouth. One time he even caught a baby shark. But that is another story for another day.

Things were unusually quiet around our house this morning. The normal routine is Max wakes up and demands to be let out sometime between 5:30 and 5:45. This is to patrol the backyard to make sure the doves and squirrels are not planning some sort of coup. Then, he comes back inside sometime between 6:00 and 6:30 to make sure that we are getting up.

So, I get up at 6:30 to make coffee without a prompt from Dog. As I do so, I realize there is no Max lying beside the bed. No Max resting on his cozy chair. No Max to be found. Actually, I think to myself, I haven't heard Max bark at the doves and squirrels for quite some time. And then I look outside. His head buried in the ground, dirt flying, much like the above picture.

Noticing that the plant he's digging around is starting to fall victim to Max's one track mind of "Must. Get. Beast." I coerce him inside with the promise of food - hoping to distract him enough that he'll forget that he's on a mission to capture the beast beneath the surface. All is well and good, except that I forgot to close all doors to the outside world. He escaped back outside to complete his mission.

The plant used to look like this:


Now it looks like this:


Max didn't capture the beast, and now we have to buy a new plant. But at least he's happy.

Offically 3rd Trimester

This past weekend I "officially" became a 3rd trimester mom-to-be. I can't begin to describe how thrilled this makes me. While it's true that I haven't had a difficult pregnancy (yet... knock on wood), there is a lot of fear and uncertainty that comes with the excitement and anticipation of pregnancy. So with each milestone, I breathe a sigh of relief.

But for all of the fear and uncertainty, I love being pregnant. I adore it every second of every day. True, there are some inconveniences associated with being knocked up: I can't drink alcohol, I am forced to side sleeping, I have heartburn, etc., but these are all incredibly minor things that I am more than happy to "suffer" through for all the joys that come with being pregnant. And I truly do not mind that I'm getting fatter with each passing second. I am approaching whale status and couldn't care less.

I am sure that I will look back on this next statement sometime over the next three months and cringe, laugh or tell myself I was a naive fool, but I really wouldn't mind being pregnant forever. That is how much I love being pregnant.

Funny story: This past Saturday, I stopped by Safeway to buy a 6-pack of O'Douls. Fake beer. I am a mid-30s, married, 6+ months pregnant lady, and it was 90 degrees outside. I get to the check out line and am asked for my ID. "You do realize this is non-alcoholic beer," I say. "I don't care, the computer is asking for your ID," she says. Um, okay, as I happily hand over my driver's license. I was clearly born long before this young thang, and she immediately realized it the second she looked at my birth date. "Uh, thank you, Mrs. P. Have a good day," she says sheepishly as she hands me back my ID. And I happily float/waddle/sloth my way out of the store.

But I suppose it's a bit of a compliment to be mistaken for Juno when you're in your mid-30s, married, 6+ months pregnant and it's 90 degrees outside. I haven't been carded in about 5 years, and let me tell you that I looked about 10 years younger then than I do now.

The Friday Five

My (current) five favorite baby things. Bet you can't guess I like the color green:
(and my apologies in advance for the kindergarten quality of the photos. We're upgrading the digital in two weeks)


the rocking chair (really? who knew)


turtle booties


mod circle stroller blanket


a teeny weeny little outfit


itty bitty socks

The excitement of things to come...

It should come as no surprise to me that I am starting to find myself in massive nesting mode, in anticipation of the arrival of Baby P. And it should come as no surprise to me that I'm loving every minute of it, given that I've wanted nothing more than to be a mom for longer than I can remember. But somehow, I'm a little surprised.

The latest fixation I've had in my full-on nesting mode is to locate and purchase a rocking chair for the nursery. Some people say it's a gigantic waste of money, others tell me it's a lifesaver and I will often find myself sleeping many a night (I mean, hour or so between feedings) in that chair. I choose to side with those who tell me it's a necessity. I mean, hello. This is an opportunity to buy something after all.

So off we trot to our favorite "hidden" furniture store to buy a massive dresser and massive armoire for our bedroom, that will hopefully fit all of the clothes and miscellany that currently reside in the closet of what is soon to be baby monkey's room. And, of course, we have rocking chair on the list of items to search for and hopefully purchase. I, of course, have already decided that the rockers at Pottery Barn and Land of Nod are "it" for me, but the husband half of this union is not altogether too happy with the respective price tags of said chairs.

Well, we found a chair we loved (and, to the husband's credit, for a lesser price than PBK or Land of Nod). But even better, we found a fabric that was perfect for us. You see, we tend toward very bland (er, neutral), simple pieces of furniture in our home, so one would think that we would be the first people to stand in line for a beige-colored, twill-covered rocker. But, this is not one of those times. The fabric we liked was green (!) with a pattern (!). Alas, the rocker we liked did not come stocked in that fabric. The nice people at our favorite "hidden" furniture store were going to see if it could be done: that rocker in that fabric.

Bless them. They succeeded. And then I got the price... well over $1,000. Gulp. Double gulp. Apparently the fabric we liked was a "premium" fabric, which means "premium" price tag. And the rocker is, therefore, immediately stricken from the list options. "No way, Jose" the husband said. Poor, sad me. I had convinced myself that this was the rocker of my dreams. I imagined myself sitting in it, rocking my newborn to a peaceful night (I mean hour) of sleep.

But I can be quite determined when I want to be, so off I went on a multi-hour, multi-day search into the vast and varied world of the Internet for a rocker in that fabric that would come in on, or under, budget.

Bless the Internet. I found it. Well, not the chair, but a pretty darned comfortable looking chair, and I could order it in the fabric. At no additional fee for "premium" fabric. And at a place that offered free shipping. (And anyone who has shopped online for furniture will tell you, shipping costs are not what one would consider to be cheap.) So I placed my order. I received confirmation of my order. I am told my chair will arrive in "approximately 6-8 weeks" from date of order. That was last Tuesday.

Yesterday (Wednesday. One week and less than one day after placing my order), I receive a phone call from a delivery guy telling me that he's going to be at my house in 20 minutes with my chair. I can not even begin to tell you how excited (and stunned) I was to receive this phone call. I mean, I'm not expecting the thing until mid-May! Not that I'm complaining at the speed or efficiency of the company from which I ordered my chair. No way. Never.

So my chair is perfect, if not ever so slightly on the "minty" green side of things. But it's perfect nontheless. Comfortable, quiet and safely waiting in what will be baby monkey's room in about 13 weeks:


And here is a close-up of the fabric:


So, I am happy once again.

The End.