Throwback toy: Nesting/stacking cups

Remember these? Boy loves 'em.

"You tryin' to sneak up on my cups?"

"Um, a little help?"

"Cups: The perfect toy during mealtimes. Four out of five babies agree!"

"If only I had the fine motor skills to stack them up myself. I usually wait for mom to do it. But she makes it tough on me when she does. After all, they're not going to knock themselves down."

Boy weighs in

Today's post is brought to you by guest-blogger: Boy. Since he's featured so prominently throughout the blog, I thought he might enjoy speaking directly to you.

My top five favorite things, ever (or, so far, anyway):

• Ceiling fans. So, they turn. Fast. And it gets all breeze-y, and my downy hair fluffs up. Plus, they make a pleasant sound that I like to impersonate (see photo of me going "hoooooooo.").
• Bath time. There's this thing I do where I take my hand and I smack the wet stuff really hard. Aaaaaaand it goes everywhere. I love that.
• Dad coming home from work. That guy knows how to play, with a capital pluh.
• When people chase me. Sometimes dad holds me and I look over his shoulder, and mom walks up behind us really fast. Gah, that kills me.
• When stuff rocks suddenly from side to side. I cannot even tell you how hilarious that is.

My top five least favorite things:

• Hats. Super-lame. Mom loves to put 'em on me, more's the pity.
• Going to bed. Dude. I LOVE PLAYING. Why is that so hard for them to get? What's so cool about sleeping, anyway? Stupid bedtime. When I grow up I'm NEVER going to bed.
• Peas. They make me gag. After a lot of gagging, I think I finally convinced mom to quit feeding them to me. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that the last time I had squash, there was a little something extra mixed in. That woman's good.
• When mom walks out of the room. Geez, I really hate that. And you'd think by now she would have picked up on it. Sometimes, she's not so quick.
• When mom cleans out my nose. Um, excuse me? Those were mine. And I wanted to keep them. Just put down that blue rubber bulb-y thing and step back, already.

Perspective

Things that, when you're sick, you swear to yourself you'll do once you get better:

• Work out
• Appreciate breathing through both nostrils
• Stop eating junk food
• Be grateful for having a job to go to
• Thank your spouse for taking care of you

Number of items on this list you actually do once recovered:

None.

Or maybe Dumbledore will loan me his Pensieve

I've been blessed with a pretty good memory. Ask me what my third grade teacher's name was (Mrs. Leach), or what the opening lyrics were to the "Perfect Strangers" theme song ("Sometimes the world looks perfect / nothing to rearrange ... "), or my least favorite opera-day on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood was ("Bubbleland", with the opening number voiced by Francoise Clemens). While it's handy for things like Trivial Pursuit, sometimes I get the feeling that my brain's getting cluttered. There are, after all, things I'd be happy to forget, such as:

• The day of the kindergarten Christmas program, when my stick containing stapled bells suddenly became unstapled in the middle of a vigorous rendition of "Jingle Bells". With true presence of mind, I continued to shake the empty stick, but I wasn't so naive that I could ignore the chuckles of the audience members.
• The first day of second grade (at a new school) when I cleared the classroom by losing my lunch all over my desk. That's a powerful way to get yourself some privacy. And no friends.
• The time in fifth grade when I fell in the school cafeteria, right into a puddle of orange soda, which stained my white outfit for the rest of the day.
• The first day of sixth grade when I carried a full tray of cafeteria food down a crowded aisle of seated students, only to have one wave her arms at just the right (or, wrong, really) moment and knock my meal all over the place. (Happy ending -- she ended up being one of my dearest friends after that inauspicious beginning, and even occasionally reads this blog. Hey, girl, call me.)
• The lyrics to Richard Marx's "Hazard."
• Spiderman 3.
• Morning sickness.
• Everything I wore from the year 1986 through 1991.

The thing that worries me is that these and other extremely forgettable memories will infringe on the stuff I never, ever want to lose. And there are many of them.

• My gramma's voice, especially when she sang Christmas carols.
• My grampa's laugh, almost silent but with much shoulder-shaking.
• The way my mom's hugs feel like she completely enfolds you in her embrace, even now that I'm taller than she is.
• My husband's repeated whispering of the single phrase, "you're my wife" after our wedding ceremony, like it was too good to be true.
• My dad calling my husband "son" for the first time and giving him an enormous hug after we got married.
• My son's first cry, and immediately after that, the break in my husband's voice when he said, "that's our baby."
• The maniacal giggle my son gets when he's being carried, and he's looking over that person's shoulder, and you pretend you're going to get 'im.

Maybe Apple, in all their genius-ness, will come up with a way to back up my personal memory. I'd spend a lot of money on that baby.

A greeting to age 33

Dear age 33,

I like you already. Today has brought a trip to Starbucks, an afternoon spent with family and a few dear friends, my mother's homemade lasagna, TWO birthday cakes with chocolate in them (one of which was my favorite chocolate chip angel food cake), a stack of NEW BOOKS to read and several gift certificates that AREN'T to Babies'R'Us. (In other words, those little plastic talismans of retail delight are all about mommy and not baby. Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

You know how to make a good first impression. And I'm thinking you and I will get along just fine.

Sincerely,

The birthday girl

An open letter to age 32

Dear age 32,

Well, this is it -- the last night you and I will spend together. We've been together a while (almost a year, strangely enough), and before we part ways for good, I wanted to lay some things on the line.

You've given me a great deal to remember you by -- the third trimester of pregnancy, labor pains, and the birth of my son, most remarkably. On the whole, you've brought me some of the most vivid and unforgettable experiences of my life, and I'm grateful. I *will* say, though, that since the boy's arrival, you've neglected to provide me with as much sleep as I used to get from, say, ages 28 and 29. So I'm chalking that one up in the "could have been better" column, but still -- I don't mean to sound ungrateful.

Before you go, I do have one bone to pick with you. I was always given to understand that along with your arrival, I'd be getting wiser, gaining insight and knowledge heretofore reserved for the most sage women around. And I have to say -- not so much. I thought by now, I'd have a lot more figured out -- like my true professional calling, or how to perfectly balance being in the moment with planning for the future. I thought, too, that I'd use this time with you more wisely to get into what I seriously wrote in a journal to be "the best shape of my life." And, um, to put it lightly, no. Unless "soft" is a shape.

In a few key areas, then, age 32, you just didn't deliver what I thought you'd promised. You remind me of that guy I dated in grad school who wanted to give me a string of freshwater pearls for my birthday. (Let me point out, age 32, that it was his idea and not mine.) We talked about the size of the pearls I liked -- we compared freshwater with cultured pearls -- we discussed strand length. We planned out exactly the kind of accessory that would suit me and my existing wardrobe perfectly, leaning more toward Jackie O. than Barbara Bush, of course -- and on my birthday, I unwrapped not the perfect pearl necklace I had come to anticipate with guilty avarice, but a green ceramic dolphin. The guy explained he hadn't been able to find the perfect necklace after all, and nothing short would do, and really, things were kind of tough and he couldn't quite swing it right now after all ... all of which I understood very well, and was truly sympathetic to -- but I just didn't get why the hell was I getting a ceramic dolphin, then? Age 32, you know I do not collect ceramics, have no particular affinity for dolphins, and don't even consider green to be my favorite color. So I was first surprised, then confused, then disappointed and hurt -- but what did I do? I smiled and like a moron acted like it was the best damn ceramic dolphin ever. Really, I love it. No, don't feel bad -- I know exactly where I'll put it at home. 

Anyway, age 32, I digress, but the point is that you, too, promised a few things that you didn't end up coming through with. But this time around, it really is ok. Because what you delivered, you delivered in a big way, and it more than made up for the wisdom I didn't obtain and the jeans size I didn't reach. And I'll admit, too, that along with the baby's arrival, you brought me a sense of deeper connection to my family and to other mothers than I ever thought possible. Besides, I hear you and age 33 are pretty close -- and I figure you wanted to leave a few things for age 33 to give me.

So farewell, my friend. Thank you for the last painful, difficult, sleep-deprived, glorious year. Thank you for the first smile, the first feeding of rice cereal, the first time boy said "da-da." Thank you for the quiet moments spent with the two most amazing men in my life -- the boy and his daddy. Thank you for the hours we've passed laughing in delight at our family antics -- crawling on the floor, splashing in the tub, blowing bubbles on a baby's perfect belly. Thank you for the way you've made my heart feel so full that my chest is tight with joy and it's hard to breathe. 

Age 33's got a lot to live up to.

Sincerely,

The almost-birthday girl

It starts.

Today, Boy got his hands on a number of contraband items, which I had to wrestle away from him. Here's how various confrontations were resolved:

Boy crawled over to his diaper caddy and wrangled a bottle of baby lotion out of it, commencing chewing. I removed it from his hands. He crawled away and began to play with an actual toy quite happily.

Boy crawled over to the power cord for a floor lamp. I picked him up and turned him

in another direction. He crawled away, once again perfectly content.

Boy found the universal remote lying on the floor and eagerly pounced on it. I took it from him. BOY BEGAN TO SCREAM. IN ALL CAPS. It was REALLY LOUD, I tell you.

I am now outnumbered. Also, doomed. 

I mean, it's a backlit keyboard, for Pete's sake.

After he ate a sandwich and chips for dinner, my husband moved toward my new MacBook. As he reached for it, I leaped into action.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Did you wash your hands yet?"

[Beat.] "Are you serious?"

"Well ... yeah. I mean, you had Cheetos."

"My hands are fine, honey."

"Please. Just do it."

Whether or not he actually did it is not important. What's sad is that ... I don't even do that to him when he reaches for the baby anymore. [Sigh. With a head shake.] 

And the migration continues

This post courtesy of my new MacBook Pro. (Thank you, husband!)

First an iPhone, now a MacBook ... the delight never ceases.

I'm still figuring it all out. Switching from the PC world to the Apple world is not without its pains and discomforts ... but so very TOTALLY worth it.

Bear with me. Must ... not ... stay ... up ... till ... 3 a.m. .... playing ... with ... MacBook ...

Grateful, part 2

Why mgb, married yoshimi's husband, rocks:

1. Because he's known me since I was a total dork (as opposed to the semi-dork I've become) and still wants to be friends with me.
2. Because he reads books. Like, real books. Fiction and stuff.
3. Because he married the aforementioned ms. yoshimi. She's in-freakin'-credible. And if it wasn't for him, I never would have met her.
4. Because even if it's been months since we talked, I know it's all good and we won't waste any time berating each other for not calling -- we'll just jump into the juicy stuff.
5. Because sometimes he hears songs that make him think of me, and he'll send me links to the files so I can hear them too.

Grateful, part 1

Why I love the boy:

1. Because of the way he sleeps on his tummy, with his diapered butt way up in the air.
2. Because of the way, from time to time, he'll put a tiny hand on either side of my head (grabbing one ear and one handful of hair), and try to eat my face. It's as if he, also, loves me so much he wants to consume me.
3. Because he is always, always happy to see me. And it doesn't matter if I haven't brushed my hair or if my t-shirt has strained peas on it or if I'm two weeks behind on getting my brows reshaped. He just lights up. (I'm enjoying it while it lasts.)
4. Because he is heartbreakingly beautiful.
5. Because he is mine.

Why I'm sweet on my husband:

1. Because he gets the spiders. And geckos.
2. Because he knows how much I hate being startled and has never once leapt out at me from behind a door.
3. Because he hung in there and waited. And waited. And never gave up.
4. Because sometimes, once in a while, he looks at our son and the boy's beauty makes him cry, too.
5. Because he's never once made me feel bad about myself or said anything intentionally hurtful to me in the nine years we've been together.

I have yet another blogging hero ...

... and here she is.

The posts about her daughter and her dog are my faves.

Would that I were this clever. Can I just follow this woman around and listen as gems of delicious wit fall from her lips? I heart her style.

Yet another reason I'm glad I married him: A one-act play

[Scene: A semi-lighted living room in a two-story home in the suburbs. It is 9:45 p.m. on a Wednesday. A WOMAN enters, wearing pajamas and a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She crosses the living room intending to enter the master bedroom, adjacent. Suddenly, she freezes. She slowly backtracks a good ten feet, then leans back to call up to the second floor.]

Woman: [Urgently] Honey!
Man: [Enters, and can be seen on the landing] Yes?
Woman: [With great deliberation] There. Is. A. GECKO. Under. The. Couch.
Man: ...
Woman: Come down here and GET it. Please.
Man: [With finality] Sweetie, I'm not touching a gecko. They freak me out. The way they run ... [affects a surprisingly good gecko crawling motion while standing upright] ... Gah. Yuck.
Woman: But this is precisely why I got married! So I wouldn't have to touch them!
Man: Seriously? You can't pretend it's not there?
Woman: [Thunderously] This is where YOUR SON crawls. Every day. [Switches to whining] PLEASE.
Man: [Sighs] I'm coming.

[MAN comes downstairs, having tiptoed past the doorway of a sleeping INFANT.]

Man: Where is it?
Woman: [From across the room] Under the corner section of the sectional couch.
Man: Of COURSE. It WOULD be under the hardest section to move.

[MAN retrieves a flashlight and a broom from offstage. Returning, he surveys the scene.]

Man: What sucks is that I'll have to get down at FACE-LEVEL to the thing to find it.
Woman: [With great sincerity] I love you, by the way.

[MAN gets on his belly behind the couch. A long silence ensues, during which time WOMAN climbs onto a chair to get even further away from the alleged gecko.]

Woman: Do you see it?
Man: [Looking intently ... then, suddenly] YES. [He leaps upright with alacrity.] Baby, I would love to be your knight in shining armor on this one, but I am NOT touching that thing. It's effing QUICK.
Woman: [Despairing] But what am I going to do with the baby all day tomorrow? This is where he plays most of the day! What do we do now?
Man: [Unhelpfully] I don't know.
Woman: [Thinks furiously, then says with decision] I'm calling J. [J is her youngest brother, away at college.]
Man: Wha ...? Why?
Woman: He'll have a plan.

[WOMAN whips out her iPhone and dials. YOUNGEST BROTHER answers.]

Youngest brother: Hello?
Woman: [Without preamble] I've got a problem and I need advice.
Youngest brother: [Immediately gets serious] I'm ready.
Woman: There's a gecko under the couch, and neither one of us here wants to touch it. Can you think of a way to trap it that doesn't involve touching it?
Youngest brother: YES. [He launches right in.] One of you will have to tip the couch slightly to flush it out. Then the person who's committed to catching it should take a large transparent Tupperware container and clap it over the lizard when it emerges. Then you can scoop it up with a piece of cardboard underneath and take it outside.
Woman: Right. The problem is, you see, neither one of us is really willing to commit to catching it.
Youngest brother: [Trying not to laugh] Yes, there is THAT.
Woman: Ok, we're going to try something else. I'll keep you posted.
Youngest brother: Text me later. [They hang up.]

[Back to square one, WOMAN and MAN look at each other across the room. A silent struggle takes place, an argument completely held within their shared gaze. MAN graciously surrenders first.]

Man: [Resigned] Ok, I'll tip the couch section back, but it might run toward YOU. You have to promise not to scream.
Woman. [Confidently] I can absolutely NOT promise you that.

[MAN reaches toward couch, but WOMAN's protest stops him.]

Woman: Wait!
Man: What?
Woman: What will you do when you find it?
Man: Yeah, I'm not sure yet.
Woman: But you'll have a very small window of time to decide on a course of action! We need a plan!
Man: Ok. I have a plan. Hand me that shoe by the back door.
Woman: [Aghast] No! Don't kill it!
Man: [Almost out of patience] Baby, I'm NOT TOUCHING IT. It's either kill it, or it stays where it is.
Woman: [Wages an inner war, with the combatants being her conscience and her cowardice. Cowardice wins.] Ok, FINE. But I don't like this.
[MAN shoots WOMAN an eloquent glance that clearly communicates his distinct dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs as well.]

[MAN tips up the couch section.] Do you see it?
Woman: Um, no. No, I don't s- ... CRAP. THERE IT IS. [A tiny one-and-a-half inch lizard sits quietly on the underside of the couch section.]
Man: [With great urgency] IS IT MOVING?
Woman: No. It is NOT moving.

[MAN sets the couch section down on its back, and makes his way gingerly around to get a clear shot at the reptilian victim. WOMAN gasps as he raises the shoe high. The shoe whistles through the air, delivering a quick blow to the couch. MAN straightens up.]

Woman: Did you get it?
Man: Yes.
[WOMAN clamors down from her perch to peek at the lizard.] Aw, poor thing.
Man: [!!?!?!]
Woman: I know. You're right. [Sighs with great relief] THANK YOU, honey. The sanctity of my home has been preserved. I love you SO MUCH. [They embrace. WOMAN smiles up at MAN.]
Man: [Proud of himself, and basking in the praise] Will you help me move this couch section back in place?
Woman: [Instantly retreats] Not a chance till that thing's outside.

[MAN sighs. Curtain closes as MAN cleans up the carnage and sets the room to rights.]

THE END

Starring:

WOMAN ....... Me
MAN .......... My husband
YOUNGEST BROTHER ........... J
INFANT ......... Himself

Good thing he's too young to vote.

I don't generally trust my seven-month-old son's judgment. Here's a quick run-down of his opinions ...

Things that taste better than actual food:

1. His fingers
2. My wrist
3. Carpet fuzz
4. Blanket lint
5. Strands of hair

Syllables/sounds that are preferable to "ma-ma":

1. Da-da
2. Gee
3. Ba
4. [Various tongue clicks]
5. Ts

Objects more interesting to gaze at than his mother's face:

1. Ceiling fans
2. Windows
3. Moving cars
4. Televisions
5. Tubes of diaper ointment

Items more fun to play with than toys created for that purpose:

1. Shoes
2. Plastic bags
3. Paper napkins
4. Empty water bottles
5. Stereo and TV components

Every now and then, though, he gets it right.

People he prefers to his mother, when he's scared or wants comfort, especially in the middle of the night:

1. No one
2. No one
3. No one
4. No one
5. No one.

At least I realize how ridiculous I sound.

These are first-world problem statements I've actually made or thought in the very recent past:

• "I wish this Starbucks was a drive-thru."
• "I hate that this antibiotic pill is so BIG."
• "I thought these flourescent light bulbs were supposed to last seven years! It hasn't even been two!"
• "So should we rent the 15-foot ladder again, or just buy one?"
• "Damnit, I bought fat-free Lactaid milk. I meant to buy the 2% kind."
• "This Uncrustable [frozen PB&J sandwich] is taking forever to thaw."
• "I guess it's time to do the 'pre-cleaning' before the cleaning lady gets here."

Seriously ... it's embarrassing.

I totally thought I'd get more of them.

I scored 51. You give it a try.

Any given morning

[I open the nursery door and walk in. Boy is babbling in his crib.]

Me: Good morning, son! How's baby today?
Boy: Day! Da-da-da-day-DAY! Day.
Me: Really. Hm. Interesting. What do you want to do today?
Boy: Thhhhhhh. Ts-ts-ts. BAAAAH. Bay-ba-ba!
Me: Ok, you work on that. How about we start with a diaper change?
Boy: [Indifferent silence, as he's rediscovered how delicious his toes are.]

[Diaper change commences. A struggle ensues.]

Me: Son. Son. Can you lie still so mommy can get your diaper on?
Boy: [Makes a surprisingly quick-handed swipe for, and snags, one of various toiletry items stationed near his head. Apparently mommies and daddies never learn not to store the nasal aspirator/hairbrush/tube of diaper ointment so close by.]
Me: Um, can I have that back?
Boy: [Gums the taboo item gleefully while making happy faces around the thing lodged in his mouth.]
Me: Fine, but just till I get the diaper done, then I get it back.
Boy: Ghee. Gleh.

[Boy is scooped up and carted downstairs to his play area in the family room. Shoes off (to keep the carpet clean for creeping and crawling), we sit on the floor and survey our little kingdom.]

Me: Look, son! All your toys are saying 'good morning' and are ready to play with you!
Boy: [Makes a beeline for my flip-flops at the edge of the carpet.]
Me: No, no, honey. Shoes are not for eating. How about this? [I hold up an adorable monkey toy with rattling body and squeaky head.]
Boy: Uhn. MMMMMM. [Strains to be released. I place him back on the carpet in front of another toy.]
Me: Ok, how about this instead? Look, the purple elephant will tickle you with his nose. See?!
Boy: [Glances dispassionately at the elephant in question, and then looks at me as if I'm nuts.]
Me: Um, alright. Let's sit you up in your Boppy so you can practice sitting up like a big boy.
Boy: [Is placed upright in a firm horseshoe shaped pillow, and nestled just so. He sits up for four seconds, then spots the satin tag on the side of the pillow. Heedless for the safety of his adorable face, he makes a nosedive for the floor.]
Me: Whoopsie. Careful, big guy. Here, lay on the floor, then, so you can play with the tag.
Boy: [Immediately loses interest in the aforementioned, desperately-necessary-to-his-happiness tag.]
Me: Fine, sweetie. What do YOU want to do, then?
Boy: [Affects a faraway look. From below the belt, unmistakable sounds issue forth.]
Me: [Sigh]. I figured.

In due time

When people see that you have a baby, their first two questions are as regular as clockwork. "Oh -- how old is he?" And then the inevitable, "Does he sleep through the night yet?"

I never saw that one coming. Sure, I knew people would ask about the baby's age. I knew they'd have opinions on nursing versus bottle-feeding. I knew they'd share ideas about how to cure colic. But I had no clue about the sleep thing. People really seem to care. And if your answer is "No, he's not sleeping through the night yet," they act as if that's a bad thing.

I'll admit I don't get nearly as much sleep as I used to. And I'll even go so far as to acknowledge that it would probably be really good for me to sleep more than three or four hours at a stretch. That's pretty much all I can complain about, though. My dirty little secret is that I love the nighttime feedings.

See, during the day, feedings tend to be a little rushed. We're either coming back from somewhere or on the way out the door. We're waking up to tackle tasks, or we're winding down to grab a quick nap before an afternoon appointment. And while my eyes are on my son, my mind tends to wander, visiting and revisiting my endless mental to-do lists. But nighttime's a different story.

Boy goes to bed around 7 or 7:15 each night. He's up for the first feeding around 11 or so, before I turn in. I call it a night around midnight or later, so I'm really only awakened for the second feeding. I usually hear him stirring via the monitor on my nightstand. A bit groggy, I fumble for my glasses, check the time, and head upstairs. With each step I wake up a little more, and by the time I reach the door to his room, I'm firing on all cylinders again. Within a few steps, I'm at his crib-side, and when he hears my quiet greeting ("hey, baby"), his cry instantly changes from angry or frantic to relieved -- it really does, every time, and it touches my heart to know that I can bring him comfort, that he is always glad to see me. I scoop him up and do a quick pat-down for diaper status. If it needs changing, we attend to it, but if all's well, we get a few seconds to just cuddle as we make our way in the dark to the rocking chair.

As I sink into the soft chair and settle him to start nursing, my eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see the shape his jammies make in my arms, and I can marvel one more time at how much he's grown and changed from the fragile little newborn we brought home. Nursing contentedly, boy's hands and arms settle into their usual nighttime positions -- one clutching my shirt, as if to say, "stay with me, mommy," and the other wrapped around my side, skimming across my skin, as though he needs a moment's reassurance that I'm really there. And in the peace and quiet, it's just me and my son, his warmth a perfect anchor in the darkness, the soft touch of his downy hair in the bend of my arm. There are no phones to answer, no pressing tasks to perform, nowhere I need to be but with my boy, wrapped around him in the dark, trying desperately to soak in every second of the fleeting baby-ness of him.

Within ten minutes, he's had his fill, and is sound asleep in my arms, sated and heavy with sleep. I lay him gently in his crib and tiptoe out the door to my own room, glad to have had an excuse to touch him once more, at peace knowing that he's full and happy and resting comfortably. As I drift off to sleep again myself, I glance at the monitor on the nightstand, a sentinel in the dark, and know that when I'm called again, I'll know it within seconds.

Maybe in a few more months, I'll feel differently about the nighttime feedings -- maybe. For now, I find that some of my richest memories are of the few moments I have alone with my son in the night, when everyone else we know is asleep.

Is he sleeping through the night? We'll get there. All in due time.

I thank you, Lord, for the gift of this perfect child. I ask you to make me worthy of him. Help me to be the mommy he needs and deserves. With all that I am, I implore you to keep him safe, healthy, and happy. Show me how to nurture him to grow up into kindness. Protect him as he learns, grows, explores the world around him. Help me to raise this healthy baby into a happy child, and that smiling child into a loving person of faith and courage and strength.

Please, God, help me to do this right -- this job of being a mommy. Never have I been so blessed as now, and never have I needed You more than I do in this work. Guide my steps, my words and actions, please.

There just aren't enough Os in "smooth" for me.

A while back, I decided to go see a great band at a cool local venue. I couldn't talk my husband into going -- he was in grad school at the time and had to do something lame like "study" or "read" -- so I figured, hey, I'm secure. I'll go alone. No big deal.

So when a great band comes to a popular joint, turns out the place fills up. It never occured to me to call ahead to reserve a seat in the pub -- I just figured I'd get there early and stake out a spot. When I walked into the place and was greeted by a hostess, I realized the error of my ways.

"Hi, can I help you?"
"Yes, I have a ticket for tonight's show. Can I just sit anywhere?"
[Beat.] "No, ma'am. If you don't have a reserved seat, it's standing room only tonight."

Oh.

Sitting alone is easy. You trade small talk with the people on either side of you, and once the show starts, you're on your own. Done. Enjoy the show, sing along, whatever. But standing? You have to keep shuffling around to get out of the way of the harried waitstaff. If you walk to the ladies' room, your two-by-two square of carpet gets taken over, and you lose that spot you so carefully staked out. Not to mention the awkward eye contact with the people sitting at the bar.

[Let me back up here. I'll go on record with this -- I've never been much of a drinker, or a girls'-night-out-er, or a bar-frequenter. I had what you might call a more bookish experience in my earlier years. I've never even been drunk. So as a result, I don't have any social grace around bars or their patrons. I just get all stupid and tongue-tied. As you'll soon see. Plus, I never know when people are drunk or not. I just figure they may naturally be loud, or careless enunciators. Anyway, I digress.]

So I pick my spot -- carefully chosen to 1) see the stage, 2) scan the room for two friends who said they might drop in, and 3) catch one of the waitstaff if I get a hankering for a diet Coke. It's a half-hour before the show starts, and I'm seeing and scanning, and contemplating catching. As my eyes skim over the crowd, I accidentally lock gazes with a guy at the bar. I look away quickly, but not before I see that he smiles. And -- horror of horrors -- he starts making his way toward my two-by-two square.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! WHY did you do that? Ok, just be cool. Refold your arms so that your left hand with the wedding rings is on top of your jacket. That's right. Make it look casual, though. Ok, here he comes. Be cool. Cool. Wait, hurry up and think of something to talk about in case he asks you a question! You need to prepare a way to let him know you're married, so you have to anticipate his approach! Um ... ok, crowded bar, great band, got it. He'll probably go with something along those lines.

He arrives. "Excuse me. Are you going to be here for a while?"
I smile brightly. "Yup! Standing room only! Guess I'll be standing! Since it's crowded, you know! So, standing!"
He blinks, taken aback. "Well -- I'm working on this beer, and I don't want the waitress to take it away. Would you just watch my beer while I put my jacket in my car?"
Oh, Lord. "Sure."

He walks away, leaving his beer on the ledge near me. As my cheeks burn in embarrassment, I try to regroup before he gets back. So I thought he was going to hit on me. And I was wrong. Big deal! I can handle NOT being hit on. Didn't I want to prevent it in the first place? Come on, girl, pull it together. Sh*t, here he comes again.

"Hey, thanks."
And still I have not learned. "Sure! No one put drugs in it or anything!"

...

All I can say is, it's a good thing I'm already married. I have no idea how I'd ever meet anyone again.

Congratulations

Dear Snickers,

Nice work. With the introduction of your Snickers "Miniatures," you've managed to make me work four times as hard to feel twice as guilty for eating half as much candy.

Really. Good job.