Keeping Up Appearances

Last night one of my more erudite Facebook friends posted about the death of British actor Geoffrey Hughes.  She mentioned that while he was best known for his role on Coronation Street, to her he was Onslow on Keeping Up Appearances.

Why did the latter show sound so familiar to me?  I wondered, as I typed the name into the Google search field.

When I reached its Wikipedia page, I remembered.  I smiled.

On the sole trip J and I made together to Colorado Springs to see my grandparents, my Far-Mor had been giddy with delight over this show.  She insisted we would love it; and so we settled down one night on the family room couches to watch.  J and I were not exactly enamored with this brand of British humor, but we chuckled gamely with my grandparents.  The main character, Hyacinth Bucket, insisted her last name was pronounced "Bouquet" and always answered the telephone grandly in a sing-song voice: "Bouquet residence!  The lady of the house speaking!"

For months after our trip, I would answer the phone like this when my grandmother called, and we would giggle together.  At some point, however, I had forgotten our inside joke.

Last night, as I brushed my teeth, I laughed.  I wondered if it wasn't my grandmother reminding me of all the fun we'd had.  And then I felt a crushing sadness, and I was sobbing, unable to catch my breath.  When I finished brushing, I climbed into bed with J, unable to tell him what was wrong initially.

"That show," I gasped.  And when I finally got the words out, I laughed again through my tears.

"It's easy to forget she's gone," I tell him.  We didn't speak every day.  She lived 2000 miles from me for most of the last 22 years.  "But then, when it hits me..." I begin, a fresh wave of weeping consuming me as J holds me.

I think: I miss my friend.  

Emmys Dis Lost, But Look at Me Liking Jimmy Fallon!

Admittedly, I am tearing up watching Modern Family accept the Emmy for Best Comedy Series. It's a seriously phenomenal show; and did you see Manny's outfit? That little man is sharp.

A few notes:

• Stop nominating The Office, Academy. Let them work for it again, for JC's sake. This last season reeked.


• I am sure Mad Men is a fantastic show. I bet it's smart, sexy, and cleverly-written. (I also bet it's extremely misogynistic, but I've never seen it, so I must withhold judgment.) And? This Jon Hamm person is incredibly rugged and handsome. But... how could you shun Lost, Academy? What did Damon and Carlton ever do to you? Has any show in the history of television garnered such a voracious and loyal fan-base? This is a show that seeped into the hearts and minds of viewers. It was stunning, and you did the actors (Matthew Fox, Terry O'Quinn, and Michael Emerson) a grave disservice. For shame.


• Glee! And best opening for any awards show ever? Or was that just me? (I deduct points for Kate Gosselin's involvement. Sweet Jesus, that woman has no comedic chops. I wish Tina Fey would have sucker-punched her. Now that's funny!)


• Betty White! A friend of a friend believes that with every Golden Girl passing, Betty just gets that much stronger. That woman is a force, y'all. I want to be that relevant at 88.


• Ricky. Gervais.


• I am done with True Blood, but Alexander Skarsgard is delicious. (And a Swede! This makes him my new boyfriend.)


• I do love me some Jim Parsons. Bazinga. J and I are forever trying to convince people to watch The Big Bang Theory. I don't know anyone who does, but it is certainly a great time.

Did y'all watch? Thoughts? Anyone want to consider writing a pilot with me? I think we should be there next year. If Kate Gosselin gets to go? I want in.

29 Weeks - As Free As a Birth Now.

29 weeks (that's 27 weeks gestational age), and Ninja is already keeping me up at night.

Do you just want to play, baby? Is that it? I don't know when you find time to sleep, friend. But I can tell you are a ton of fun already.

The other night, I seriously got out of bed around midnight to FEED the baby. All of the kicking was making me nervous - had I failed the Ninja? When was the last time I ate something nutritious? So I hoisted myself onto my feet and waddled down to the kitchen for a glass of water and an apple. Ninj: you are welcome. Mama loves you.

I had another prenatal this past Friday, and things are looking up. Ninj's estimated chubtastic glory is three pounds, five ounces. The doc I spoke to at Maternal Fetal Medicine was very enthusiastic. Baby is great! You are no more likely to have a nine pound baby than you are a six pound baby at this point! You are thin; maybe that's why you are measuring big! Hey, you have the perfect amount of amniotic fluid! You are perfect perfection!

The midwife I saw later that morning at my regular OB office?

Not so kind.

Mama Kath accompanied me that morning, and as she settled into a chair in the exam room I hopped on the scale with my usual trepidation.

AND LO: I gained a modest two pounds. SOUND THE TRUMPETS!

Enter Midwife Killjoy.

"I gained two pounds!" I exclaim triumphantly.

"Yes. Are you exercising?"

"Yup. I do prenatal yoga and I try to walk at least 20 minutes per day, 6 days per week."

"No - 45 minutes to an hour, three to five times per week."

"Er, ok. I can do that."

"Yes, because you only have a few more pounds to gain."

"Really? I know you like to keep it between 25 - 35, but I know many women who have gained upward of 50 pounds..."

"No! That is not healthy for you, or your baby. Keep exercising."

"Oh, and I see you had your 24-hour heart monitor," she continues. (I didn't get into this here, but my SVT seems to be rearing it's ugly, uncomfortable, benign head again.)

"Yes, and I didn't notice any abnormal activity when I had it on either." I say confidently.

"Hmm. Well, there were some abnormal PACs. Have you been speaking with your cardiologist?"

"Well, no. They really can't help me; they only tell me it is benign and they could do an ablasion if I wanted to - "

"Call your cardiologist. Just to check in." (Of course this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion, but every time I speak to a cardiologist they tell me the same damn thing.)

KillJoy measures my belly (29 WEEKS!) and checks for swelling.

"Are you drinking any caffeine?"

"No - I drink decaf coffee and tea - "

"No. No decaf coffee. No decaf tea. No herbal teas."

*HomeValley's head explodes.*

"BUT why?"

"They're diuretics," she assures me. "If you get dehydrated, your heart could act up."

Oh, and then Mom helpfully chimes in, "Tell her what you gave up, Melis! She gave up sugar. She noticed her heart would act up when she ate a LOT of sugar."

(Know your audience, Kath.)

"Oh, well, you shouldn't be eating sugar anyway."

"But.. but Easter? I was going to feast on Easter." WHO WILL EAT THE CADBURY CREME EGGS FOR THE LOVE OF LIONEL?!?!

"No."

She leaves, and I look at my mom. Perhaps my lip is trembling.

"You just do what you can, Melis."

What I can do is cut out MOST of the decaf, but not all. JC, I am only human. I have had 2 decaf coffees since I got the news, which is a marked improvement.

But seriously? You would have to be a saint to avoid the Cadbury, right?

Now, should we talk about the momentous birth of Baby Girl Halpert on The Office?

Perhaps it is the pregnant in me talking, but was anyone else HORRIFIED when Pam breastfed the WRONG child?

I was simply aghast. Seriously, I am not letting my kid out of my sight when we are in that hospital. I mean, what if Pam had hepatitis? Geez.

I also caught a show on Discovery last night about "freebirthing." Apparently, there is a new movement in which not only do women give birth at home, they do it with zero medical intervention. Some even forego any prenatal care. (One seriously misguided 22 year-old kid went to the local pharmacy to check her blood pressure. She also thought she may have placenta previa - holy jesus you don't want to be dealing with that at home - but insisted that she and her husband were the most qualified to oversee the birth process, as they had the most "vested interest.")

The whole program made me slightly queasy, though I continued watching because I had to see the births.

One woman - a pretty lass from Wales - gave birth in a tub as her husband taped (the Discovery camera crews refused to be there to avoid liability). Her labor looked completely painless. She was absolutely silent for the two-hour process (we're told in VO), and then oops, here is your baby floating in this pool of fluids. Scoop it up! To be sure, it looked extremely peaceful.

The other two women were not so zen. Despite being relatively calm in the days leading up to the births, they both ended up writhing and screaming in great pain. "I AM SO SCARED!" cried a woman from London. "DON"T TOUCH IT!" cried Placenta Previa, as her baby's head protruded... Well, you get the picture. (Set your DVRs now, dudes! You can probably still catch this.)

So, er, yeah. I am not going to try freebirthing. I do think that I will continue to focus on my upcoming labor as a beautiful, life-changing experience, rather than a ghastly, painful, perineum- tearing one.

(In other news, the term "freebirth" makes me sing "Free Bird" in my head, which makes me giggle.)

(In other, other news, I have developed a new habit: every song I hear, I must evaluate its potential to be used in a Ninja video/photo montage. Because there is no greater reason to have a child then to feature he/she in a video montage on your blog. Am I right?)

I love you all. You stay classy out there.

My Aunt gave me these maternity pants, and I guess this is how you wear them? Whatever, they're sexy. I think I will sport them later tonight, if J and I get romantic.

Did We Ever Have a Chance?

I seriously can't believe Wheel of Fortune is still on television, or that I am watching it in my pajamas on a Friday night (read: my amazing throwback "THE Zack Attack 1992 World Tour" tee, courtesy of Vanessa). Dudes, who are these nerds? I think it is my new mission in life to become a contestant. Honestly, they have to be paying these people to come on at this point, no?

(All of this reminds me that I totally read Vanna White's autobiography when I was ten. My mother is a sucker for good ole celeb memoirs, and I guess she is not so discerning. I vaguely remember Vanna waxing poetic about crocheting, and lo.)

(What the fuck is this entry about?)

J is in Atlanta for the weekend, and I am luxuriating at home. So far this evening I have ordered a vegeterian burrito from here, and watched a spectacular episode of 90210, in which Brenda Walsh runs into "Reek" from Paris and has to pretend to be Brenda DuBois with the most horrific French accent in the history of the universe, then she dumps Dylan and then he goes and sticks his tongue down Kelly's throat. Also, Rosie O'Donnell makes a horrifying cameo to discuss Donna and David's sex life. Also, Zuckerman gets hit by a car and is confined to a wheelchair, which is hilarious because she was like 67 at the time of filming. Well-played, writers. The (awesome) end. I also took a long bath and finally read the compelling Vanity Fair piece on John Hughes, which only made me feel guilty, because apparently Hughes didn't stop writing until he quite literally dropped dead, and I can only manage two posts a week, let alone some best-selling chick lit. Boo.

(Oh my lands. Allen just totally geeked out after solving the puzzle and winning a trip to St. Lucia. He may explode with happiness. Where do they film this show?)

Tomorrow I take mah precious baby sisters to Manhattan for our annual theatre trip/ trek through the snowy goodness. We're seeing West Side Story. Lord, did I ever tell you how I almost was cast as Maria in our high school production? Well, in my mind I was. But really, I was about 5 inches taller than Tony. And decidedly Swedish-looking. And also, not the best singer. So they made me Graziella but she was just a lame Jet girlfriend. Come on. Those chicks couldn't compare to the Shark girls, who got to flit around singing awesome songs about America! What a giant slap in the face, Buddy.

(Oh shit: Allen just shouted "R!" when it was totally Joanne's turn, and Sajak was all, "I am going to ignore what you just said; it's Joanne's turn." DRAMA.)

And so I shall end this entry about nothing and bid you adieu. I have two episodes of The Tudors to watch - squee! - which means I shall fall into a Henry Cavill-induced reverie for the next several hours.

I am out like Zack Morris when he got too big for his britches and Bob Mackie started designing his costumes and then that bitch Mindy turned him into a male Madonna and he quit and had to run to the hospital to see Slater.

Night, y'all.

"We're Gonna Have To Bring Him Too."

Time to nerd out, Losties!



Tis the night we have been waiting nine long months for, and I, for one, AM THRILLED. Beyond thrilled. Really beyond spectacularly overstimulated and excited. Bring it, Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindeloff!



Tonight is our annual (and final) Lost Party at the crib. Grace has decided that there is no way she can top last year's contribution, so she is just bringing some hummus. Dudes, she's probably right:



We've had so much going on (Ninj, 30, did I mention Turks and Caicos on Saturday?) that I am a little late in putting this shindig together. Today's "To-Do" List:

1. Download DriveShaft's greatest hits.
2. Sharpen black eyeliner pencil for J, as methinks tonight mah friend is going as the gorgeous Richard Alpert.
3. Outfit Ninja belly in proper Season 1 Claire attire.
4. Find a sassy black friend to play Rose. (Preferably with a big butt, and even bigger heart.)
5. Design elaborate contraption to concoct the smoke monster. (Perhaps just burn the toasting pita?)
6. Borrow a polar bear.
7. Hide the numbers all over the living room, pretend to have no knowledge when I discover them. ("That's weird, J, why am I getting a call from 4 8 15 16 23 42?")
8. Recreate hatch door under living room carpet. (What the...?)
9. Buy bear treats for h'ors doeuvres.
10. Crap! Do you think they can rush deliver an OFFICIAL Dharma jumpsuit?

Time to get cracking!

Resolutionary

So I am in Dallas, living the dream. I'm at a conference here, and I have to tell you, I am completely committed to my work in 2010. It's strange; Ninja will be here in less than 5 months, and my only instinct is to be better at EVERYTHING. To be a fantastic, calm mom, of course; but also to rock standardized tests. To get into a good Master's program. To be amazing at my job; so damn phenomenal that I kill it around bonus time. I figure, that way my company has every reason to accommodate me when I am just too madly in love with mah baby to board a plane come late August.


I confess: I sneak up to my room during breaks to take a peak at baby photos. I only brought two of the 7839 ulrasound pictures our tech was kind enough to provide us, but these shots are exquisite. Have you seen my baby's ears? His/her shoulder? It's all so real now. Ninj is no longer just a tiny little bean with a microscopic beating heart. Miraculously (and holy shit, this is the most spectacular miracle), Ninja has functioning kidneys. And a big old heart with four whole chambers. Eyes. Lungs. A perfect spine. I wanted to kiss the doctor when she came in to thoroughly examine the ultrasound screen.


"Looks great, guys!" She said, and was on her way.


"We're so lucky," I said to J as we hustled back to the parking garage. "How did we get so lucky?"


The second ultrasound pic I have tucked in my planner is a regular 2D (3D?) profile shot of the entire baby. I promise I'll scan it tomorrow night when I get home, because y'all have to see this. Ninj has the most precious chin; a tiny mouth that is upturned in the slightest smile; and a miniature button nose. It's surreal, but the baby looks like J, which makes me imagine I have a little boy dancing around my placenta. But either sex is fine by me. A cliche, yes, but all I want is a healthy child.


So, so lucky.


Now, I will stop staring at Ninj for three minutes to recap my resolutions for 2010. I have never felt more equipped to handle all that is on this list, which I almost hate to admit. I worry that if I gush to much about how wonderful life is, some horrible malady will inevitably befall me. So:



1. LESS WORRYING. In my book, 100 Ways to Motivate Yourself, the author contends that once you become an adult, the only time you engage your imagination is to concoct worst-case scenarios. Ha! That's, like, the most true statement ever in the history of the world. I suspect this only gets worse as you become a parent. So I have decided to tell my worst-case scenario imagination to fuck off this year. Every time a bad thought creeps in (Oh man, my ankle hurts. I am obviously dying of cancer.) I am going to think something positive and life-affirming instead. That's right: fuck off, imagination. I shall now only use you for good.



2. MORE EXERCISING. Oh, original. But also: I been lazy. Time to be a truly hot mama. Rawr.



3. LESS PHONE SCREENING. I keep trying, guys. We shall overcome.



4. MORE GREEN-ING OF ENVIRONMENT. I am starting small: organic cottons for Ninj. A reusable coffee mug for Dunkin' Donuts. A reusable water bottle for the gym. More water and energy conservation. Plants. Also, maybe vacuum and dust a tad more.



5. MORE SEX. Apologize if you are blushing, gentle readers, but the H and I are still young, and we're having a baby. I am preemptively putting this high on the priority list for 2010. (J: You're welcome.)



6. LESS ROAD RAGE.



7. NO TEXTING WHILE DRIVING.



8. MORE STANDARDIZED TESTS. Setting a date for the GREs ASAP.



9. MORE WRITING. Ugh, I hate listing that one. But year after year, I need to make writing a higher priority. I mean, I love you guys. And I probably should write a novel one of these days.



10. MORE HEALTHY COOKING. Mmm, organics.



11. LESS PROCESSED FOODS. I won't go on a diatribe here. In summary: processed foods are evil and so delicious. Cutting back.



12. MORE QUALITY READING. I thoroughly enjoyed Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy, but I don't think it made me any smarter.



13. LESS TELEVISION. Shut up, talking picture box.



14. MORE AWESOME. Just that. Bringing the awesome.



15. MORE GRATITUDE. To everyone. For everything. It is ultimately a lovely world.



16. MORE WATER. I totally don't drink enough of it. J thinks Ninja's home will dry up or something.



17. LESS TECHNOLOGY. Says the girl with the new Kindle and iPod Touch. But still.



18. MORE COMMENTING. I read so many amazing blogs, and then get shy when it comes to joining the discussion. That ends now.



19. MORE CALLS. To friends and family. Maybe even some enemies. I just need to stop communicating solely on Facebook. Real interaction is neat.



20. MORE (okay, first) BlogHer convention.

And there you have it, kids: a nice, round number of things that will make a better HomeValley. Pray tell, what will you do differently in 2010?

With a Heavy Heart...

...I must bring you this news, Internets.

Grace and I already have a plan to show proper reverence on that sad, sad day in September 2011. And as I helpfully pointed out, my baby will be walking by then.

Flash Mob Dance, anyone?

For Shame, Roseanne Connor.

*Blogger whines to husband about GOALS! She is driven! She is coming out of the first trimester wretchedness! She will accomplish a floppity-jillion things before Ninja comes!*

"OK. So what did you do today?"

"Well, I got downstairs around 7:30. And then I poured myself a hearty bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios. And then I sat on the couch and flipped on the TV. Started watching Roseanne, but it was an episode from the final season... And so I turned it off and booted up the computer to find out what the fuck was going on with the final season? The Connors won the lottery? And then I learned that - wait, are you ready for this? This is fucking unbelievable, J. Here, the entire show was all Roseanne's 'writing.' Jackie was gay! Dan DIED of a HEART ATTACK. They never won the lottery! Becky was with David! DARLENE WAS WITH MARK! Is that the most fucked-up thing you have ever heard?!?"

Beat.

"So, that was pretty productive."

"Quite."

*Husband's head explodes*

J, KC, The Nard Dog, and Me.

There are three sure-fire ways to get me out of a funk:

1. J, Husband Extraordinaire.

2.

3.

When I explained to J last night that I was feeling blue, he immediately sprang into action.

"What can we do to make you feel better?"

I thought about it for a moment, and then told him that we needed to clean the bedroom.

(Oh, super fun!)

But lo, the bedroom needed to be cleaned. And I needed to get organized. Cuz in the midst of my blues? Leaving the country next week (!). We're going to Buenos Aires and Montevideo (!!). Poor little depressed girl, must dutifully travel to South America. Don't you feel sorry for me?

This trip really sneaked up on us, though. So J, bless his heart, helped me sort the laundry and then, that man went and put it in the machine. I unpacked our bags from the NY trip. I straightened the bureau, and J dusted. Then we sat on the bed and made the Argentina list. As well as a list of cards and gifts that are PAST DUE. (Sorry, Koos. I really do love your baby. I'm just an asshat.)

Once we were organized, I felt I could breathe again. I ate some cherries on the couch and passed out during House Hunters International.

I slept more soundly last night than I have in weeks. It was glorious.

This morning I woke at 6, prepared a no-carb breakfast of eggs and turkey bacon, made some coffee, and then sent an email to Koos: how GOOD is coffee? Also, I watched Chelsea Handler. What of it? She is an irreverent beacon of delicious sarcasm and snark. LOVE.

At 7 I retreated to the office, and I filed and organized my desk while listening to Kelly Clarkson. Internet? Listen to Kelly Clarkson. KC = sublime happiness and productivity. You can imagine I was already feeling good and energetic, when my amazing husband sent me this email:

Subject: Start the day off right!

“They say you should never mix business with pleasure. Really? Well then explain to me how a putt-putt golf company operates.”

- Andy Bernard

And that is why, friends, I don't need anti-anxiety meds. I have J, KC, and the Nard Dog.

And happy hour! With dear friends Grace and JM (JM - don't you already have a pesudonym on this blog? Please advise.) Did I ever tell y'all about the first day of high school? Koos and I arrived and I believe we only had one or two classes together. (Koos? Please advise.) So I spent the first day observing the other chicas to determine whom I would deign to be friends with. (Er, or whom I thought might like my skinny, be-braced, nerd self.) And Grace and JM were the big winners!

I'm pleased as punch that 15 years later, we still can get together to drink cheap beer carb-conscious club soda and recall the old times.

It is going to be a good day.

Awesomeness in Our Favorite Zip

New feature!

I have been completely obsessed with Beverly Hills, 90210 as of late. Thanks to DVR, I can record all of the episodes that air on Soap Net, all 74849 a week. J is most certainly not pleased. He just doesn't get it. Because, man, at one point it was so, so good...

Take, for instance, 1992, the summer before senior year at the Beverly Hills Beach Club. The kids from West Beverly spend most of their days entering volleyball tournaments and tanning, except Andrea (who plays camp counselor and befriends an adorable deaf child), and Brenda and Donna (who are holy hell in a French "immersion" program in Paris which is AWESOME, though I can't tell if these scenes are actually filmed in France. But Donna almost becomes a world-renowned fashion model and Brenda starts smoking and affects an incredibly poor French accent to impress "Reek", a handsome Dean Cain!)

*Takes deep breath. All too glorious.*

So one day new gal Nikki hippies her way from San Fran to the Bev Beach Club, and spots shirtless Steve and his Curly Mullet (which really should have received its own billing, because WOW!) in the sand. She says hello, then becomes distracted and abruptly asks something like, "Where's that great sound coming from?"

She needn't look far. As behold! There is squeaky-voiced, bejeweled David Silver in Mel and Jackie's cabana, ernestly playing his keyboard and crooning:

You are so precious to me
Am I so precious to you?
You are so precious to me
Am I so precious to you?

Nikki starts grooving to Silver's beats, naturally, as the show's producers will spend a lot of years trying to convince us that David is a talented musician/dancer, before they finally pack it in and just give him the Peach Pit After Dark already, he's terrible. Nonetheless, he and Nikki make out (for shame! He is with Donna.) and Steve and the Curly Mullet decide to manage ole Squeaky-Voice, because the Curly Mullet has contacts in the biz, his mom is Samantha f-ing Sanders from The Hartley House, damnit!

And it was awesome.