Inland Empress

Morning sickness haiku

A pride of lions
roars and rages deep within --
I pop two more Tums

Pressure cooker

First, I won a certificate in 1st grade for perfect spelling, which hung on my wall until I went off to college.

When I graduated high school, I got a $100 scholarship from my town's Chamber of Commerce for good citizenship. I found out later my mother's best friend was vice president of the chamber, but being a good citizen meant I could magnanimously expand my definition of civic virtue to include some occasional graft.

And now I'm a Top 10 finalist in the BoB awards' "Best Mommy blog" category, which isn't quite the same as being a finalist for "Best Mommy," and is therefore at least somewhat credible.

Voting starts Jan. 1, which means I have to make a good impression, right? Ack, the pressure.

I suppose this means I have to change my underwear now. And wear make-up. Note to self: Remember not to smudge so I look sleepless. Though maybe that will get sympathy votes. Okay on smudging.

Get icons back. My blog used to have cute, 1" icons on each post until the hubby's computer crashed and ate all our photos. Dratted computer! Now I'll surely lose, darn that thing! How can I, a mere writer with a background in actual writing, ever hope to compete with fancy shmancy Web designers for a writing prize?

Oh, hubby says it's fixed and I can retrieve them tonight. Phew. Dodged that bullet.

Hmm ... I still have to pull out all the stops. Maybe write about the boobs some more, or poopy diapers. That always works.

And, before I forget, I'm also rooting for my Poor, Long-Suffering Husband to earn a top berth in the "Best Daddy blogs" category. Or, you know, the whole guilt thing will just kill me.

Help for a troubled world

I had to delete the Red Cross / Amazon.com button for tsunami disaster relief due to technical difficulties (i.e., it didn't work).

I know everyone finds the images pouring out of Asia to be heart-wrenching. I have to force myself to look. I live in an earthquake-prone area and can't afford to ignore what's happening on the other side of our small, small planet.

Plosh and I will be making a contribution to relief efforts and I urge everyone to do the same, if you can possibly afford it. Heck, the holiday bills won't come due for another month yet, right?

I'll amend this post later to include links to relief organizations. Thanks.

Amazon Relief Page

American Joint Jewish Distribution Committee

American Red Cross

AmeriCares

India's National Relief Fund

Mercy Corps

Oxfam

Save The Children

Thanks to the Command Post for many of the entries on this list. Keep checking their blog for further updates of where to donate.

Me, my boobs and I

My boobs have discovered I'm pregnant. I'd hoped to keep it a secret from them for another, oh, 7 months or so and then sneak it past them. They'd wake up in the hospital with an infant attached and say, "Whoa, better start lactating!"

But no. They're a little quick out of the gate, you might say. I could feed a whole maternity ward now. Yesterday, they were a hefty but not freakish 34DDD. Sometime during the night

POW

they exploded like airbags.

And tomorrow I'm going to have to dig out the bras from my last pregnancy, which ranged from a comparatively petite 36DDD to a back-breaking 38 I. Did you know bras come in I cups? That means my boobs added 10 inches to my chest measurements.

But by the time my breast milk came in, those particular bras were stretched like teeny bits of dental floss, barely able to cover a freckle. 

American lingerie designers do not make a cup larger than size I, even as American women grow steadily more obese and/or silicon-obsessed. You cannot imagine the humiliation of bursting out of a hospital gown. You know, that one-size-fits-everybody-else potato sack?

I don't know why my boobs do this. They're overeager, I guess. Regular cheerleaders for the whole procreation thing, bless their mammoth mammaries. 

Yes, I have pictures from last time. No, I'm not going to post them. Sheesh. Is that all you people think about?

Even Minitaur is noticing the difference. We took the rare bath together -- his Daddy was late to work and had to pass -- and he kept pushing my boob away. It kept thwapping him upside his head as he splashed next to me.

It's a long way to July. Sigh.

Seafood, me food

With four more days until New Year's, I'm in a hurry to do some last-second indulging before my resolutions kick in. 

The hubby and I are going vegetarian plus I'm trying on a more spiritual self to see how it looks. This is supposed to help us a) live longer and maybe even b) live forever, but I'm not pushing the latter one too much. With my luck, my heavenly reward will be yet more tofu.

Which means of course it's time for a Sandwich Maven recipe that not only contains animal flesh but cannot, under any circumstances, be made kosher.

It's yummy anyway. I refuse to take responsibility if you get struck by lightning, however.

Sandwich Maven's "G-d shouldn't strike me dead" seafood salad

a handful of cooked, frozen shrimp, thawed
some other cooked seafood, such as langostinos or scallops
6 oz. can of crabmeat
1 stalk celery, finely diced
1-2 tsp of your favorite Cajun or seafood seasoning, such as Emeril's, Old Bay or Tony Chachere's
1 tbsp mayo
big squirt of ketchup
dash Tobasco sauce
dash lemon juice

Chop the first two ingredients together. Don't make an all-day production of it -- coarsely chopped is fine.

Combine in a bowl with all the other ingredients. You needed me to help you figure that out?

Serve on a hoagie roll or hot dog bun with some shredded lettuce.

Alternative: slice open an avocado, remove the pit, and scoop the salad into the holes and heap on top. Spoon up little chunks of avocado with the seafood.

Classified ads for my bod

I'm getting rid of my body. The damn thing's useless -- it's sick again. All it's done this weekend is flop around in bed and feel achy.

I'm hoping someone'll take it off my hands.

If I were a car:

'63 Female: Low mileage, only ridden on weekends. Prone to occasional breakdowns and high tailpipe emissions, but headlights work just fine. Sluggish handling, especially in traffic, but good for short hauls over empty roads. Seats one. Perfect for budding mechanic in need of a challenge.

If I were a house:

Handyman Special: This charming fixer upper just needs some lifting, tucking and maybe a high colonic to become your dream home! Fully 5.5 feet of room, plumbing needs an overhaul. Front features big knockers, plus bonus room in the rear. Subject to 9-month expansion project. Owner motivated to sell! This offer won't last!

If I were a pet:

Free to a good home: Non-spayed female, expecting litter sometime in July. Gentle temperament but will bite when tired or hungry. Good with kids. Doesn't shed or pee on carpet. Needs frequent petting. Won't fetch worth a damn.

The trouble with the flu is that it's taken all my strength just to write this silly stuff. I really wanted to post yesterday about our fabulous Shabbos dinner with the Chassidic rabbi and his family. I was going to call it "Heathens vs. Chassids" but I got stumped on exactly what to say.

So until I work up the strength to describe the scrumptious food and witty company, you'll have to settle for my usual gripes.

Unless, of course, you're in the market for a pre-owned body in need of an overhaul ...

UPDATE: So a male fan emails and asks if he can take me for a test drive. Oh my. Not quite what I had in mind. *blush*

Ho ho ho, yo!

My hits have sunk through the basement, so either I'm wildly unfunny these days or most of my readers are preoccupied elsewhere. Y'think?

Here's hoping all my Catholic and Christian friends keep finding better things to do this weekend than blogging.

Merry Christmas.

The flu strikes again -- or still

My husband looks resplendent in puke. There's something irresistable about a soulmate who's man enough to wear someone else's supper while tenderly changing a kid's soiled jammies.

We'd just settled Minitaur into our bed and snuck downstairs to watch Spiderman II when Plosh heard a creepy gagging noise. He raced upstairs in time to measure the air speed velocity of half-digested mac 'n cheese.

I'm sorry to say I was slower out of the gate, though certainly empathetic considering the recent vicissitudes of my own digestive tract. My job was to fetch clean towels, change the sheets, fetch more towels, clean the carpet and fetch more towels.

There was quite a lot of puke for one little kid.

I'm not certain if this if Virus #97 of the cold/flu season or one long, continuous germ that keeps mutating. In any case, we all cuddled up on several layers of towels -- no surprise there -- until Minitaur's tummy was finally empty and Plosh and I fell into a watchful sleep.

This morning, Minitaur woke up starved, but the sight of a solitary piece of toast sent him scrambling for his toys. He's currently gnawing on his only remaining clean blanket.

Poor kid, I know just how he feels.

Into the jaws of love

Nothing says "I love you" more than getting hitched beneath a gaping shark's mouth. For the rest of their married lives, my brother and his wife will be able to look over their wedding album and relive the tender moment they committed themselves to one another beneath a 10-foot spread of razor-sharp teeth.

Oh sure, they erected the traditional chuppah, or wedding canopy, a lovely floral banner by an artist friend of the bride's. It coordinated nicely with the yarmulkes (skullcaps) with vivid fish patterns -- you had your choice of clownfish or sharks.

Was there some fishy symbolism in all this? I wonder.

It takes no small amount of creativity and chutzpah to marry at an aquarium, but it has to be one of the most fun weddings I've ever attended. My own nuptials were such a serious affair, I'm almost embarrassed to admit I was there.

We started with hors d'ouevres by the Petting Gallery, where, if you tired of cheese cubes and fresh fruit, you could reach in for a horseshoe crab or sea sponge or other non-kosher delectables. Just kidding! You had to put them back. The crackers wouldn't hold a whole starfish anyway.

While I caught up with friends and relatives, oversized fish slid past in burbling tanks and classical musicians played by the glow of a jellyfish display.

People who know my baby brother weren't the least bit surprised. He's the easygoing sort, all about kicking back and enjoying yourself. Not to flog the marine metaphors, but he's always cast a wide social net and anyone ensnared since earliest childhood seems reluctant to swim free.

Heck, the younger sister of his kindergarten best friend came.

I threw my arms around two grinning redheads and asked what the heck those middle-aged farts were doing here? I remembered them -- and a half dozen others in attendance -- as attitudinous high schoolers huddled over many a round of Dungeons and Dragons at our kitchen table. They cast "No Big Sisters Allowed" spells to keep me at bay, and now find themselves charmed into submission by wives and kids and mortgages.

His college frat buddies turned up in force, though it's been 17 years since their last kegger. An old boss from nearly a decade ago flew in from California. Cousins shook loose from the family tree that no one'd seen in years.

As usual, our tribe overwhelmed the other half. At my wedding, my side numbered 100 to the groom's 10. Yes, 10. This time, the bride's family gave a somewhat better showing, but were still outnumbered by the largest collection of neurotics, gossips and goofballs outside of Congress. 

We ate, we danced, we watched the seals flop around on rocks. What else is there?

Mazel Tov, Larry and Joyce.

The family kvetch-catcher

Must update blog ... must update blog ... oy. How do I squeeze a lifetime of aggravation into a few days? I know -- attend a family wedding!

We flew to Connecticut on Wednesday and landed smack in the middle of my family's usual baroque intrigues all neatly compressed into the short time it will take to see my youngest brother wed.

It's not even a matter of who's sleeping with whom, but where. Oh, it's not like anyone's sleeping anyplace interesting, like a bed of nails, though there's certainly one or two who deserve it.

Let's just say I'm having trouble keeping track of people's current addresses. Who's moved out? Who's moving in? Are they still speaking? Which one's been designated the "bad guy" this week?

Mostly it concerns people who should be living together as families who aren't, for one reason or another, engendering a certain amount of disbelief, heartbreak and irritation, depending on the family and their set of circumstances.

This puts pressure on me, the only sister, thrusting me into the unfamiliar role of interlocuter, sounding board and, for lack of a better term, kvetch-catcher. I stand around in my emotional padding and intercept all the stray insults, bellyaches and discontented mutterings.

I long ago retired as the family neurotic, the introverted and slightly odd spinster who finally married but lived too far away, then went and had a kid she was obviously going to ruin. But I'm pregnant now and temporarily on everyone's good side. And I have the curse of appearing to be a good listener, when people mistake my silence for rapt attention.

Plosh knows better, but isn't blowing my cover. Hard experience has taught him that the vacant look on my face is because I'm on an entirely different planet. It's amazing what a few well-timed nods can convey.

So I'm at my mother's house, wagging my chin up and down, wondering if this soap opera has a commercial break. Because, vacant stare or not, I need to think about something else for a while.