If He Gets Asked "So How Was Your Christmas?" Do You Think People Believe The Answer?

I felt kinda bad for Tony Romo, but I really feel bad for this guy.

Granted, he shouldn't have been driving on a suspended license, but did he really deserve to be extradited to Maryland as a sex offender and get stuck there once MD authorities realized he wasn't the guy they thought he was? Talk about a rough couple of days.

I'm not sure what bothers me more: 1) the guy spent the holidays in jail because of a mistake, 2) Tennessee authorities complain that the guy didn't protest enough during extradition proceedings ("but I've never even been to Maryland" is apparently not good enough), or 3) after spending $2500 of the taxpayers' money to fly the guy to Maryland, no one will cough up the $88 for a bus ticket to get this poor sap home.

At least Tony Romo still has his job. I wonder if Mr. Rice (or Mr. Simpson or whatever his name is - maybe that can be straightened out in Texas) can hold a field goal?

Reflections on Holiday Cards

Do you regard your collection of mailed holiday greetings as some kind of popularity gauge? “Hey, looky here! This many people like me!”

Yeah, me either. I realize it’s only a subset of the people to whom I sent a card last year. But I can’t help feeling my stack of cards and pictures is a representation of the people I care about, and it makes me happy. So if you sent me a holiday card this year, I am properly greeted and feel festive as a result of your missive. Thank you.

The Perfect Holiday Card
(as I imagine it is envisioned by my favorite convicted felon):

A short, handwritten letter, perhaps a page or two long, written on engraved stationery of the proper weight. Because we correspond frequently, this letter only needs to detail our holiday plans and reflect on the wonder of the season. Perhaps a card features a photo of precious ones (kids, pets, the new boat) dressed in holiday finery.

My Perfect Holiday Card:

The greeting comes in the mail, because that’s quaint. You use a postage stamp and everything.

Because we haven’t actually seen each other in years, you include a photo. I sigh over how big Brianna has gotten or remark how much little Tristan looks like his dad.

Because we haven’t actually corresponded since last December, you also include a newsy note. You tell me about your latest adventures, describe your life in general, and maybe include an anecdote about the kids or a description of their personalities.

What I LOVE Getting:

1. Pictures. Of you.

I think the photos of your kids or cat or latest remodeling project are great, but how about including your own mug? I admit Bump and I feel narcissistic including a picture of ourselves, but since we love receiving pictures that include the grownups as well as the kids (and I can’t really complain unless I put out myself) we're in our holiday card picture. I see it as a chance to allow your friends to ask “Who’s this Doofus?” when they’re browsing through your cards.

Frankly, unless Ingris starts sending us holiday greetings (and she just might, I wouldn't put it past her) I don’t really know your kids, I know you. I want a picture of you. And don’t worry that you’re too fat/balding/otherwise unsightly to be in a photo, because that’s the damn point. I want to see how fat/balding/otherwise unsightly you’re become. Or more likely, I’ll marvel that you still look great and then hate you for it. Merry Christmas, now pass the damn pie.

2. Holiday cards for holidays I don’t celebrate, but you do.

Yeah, yeah, Christmas blah blah. Wish me a Happy Hannakuh or Kwanzaa or Pagan Winter Celebration or New Year, and don’t worry about the “holidays” or “peace” or “season” bullshit. If you celebrate it, include me in the celebration and I’ll be honored. It doesn’t matter if it’s not my holiday.

Plus, it makes me feel all multi-cultural and shit to have non-Christmas cards in my stack. As an added bonus, this policy makes it perfectly acceptable to have holiday cards arrive long after December 25. Because, damn, who can get all their shit in one bucket by that deadline?

3. A card that includes your handwriting.

It just makes the card for me. Whether it’s at the bottom of a fold-over card or at the end of a computer-generated letter, I just love seeing it. Since I can’t analyze the DNA on the envelope to see if you licked it, this is the only way I can tell you actually sent the card yourself, instead of instructing your staff to do so. If you include a sentence or two of personal message, differentiating my card from the other 80 you sent, I’m totally over the moon.

Because I love to see your handwriting, I can’t bring myself to use labels on our holiday cards. The direct victim of this neurosis is Bump: he ends up hand writing most of our friends’ and families’ addresses, while I do a token few. At least I’ve capitulated to letting him use labels for our return address.


What I’m Less Enchanted About Receiving:

1. "Good Lord"
The three-page, single-spaced letter. You know what I mean, you all get these. I always read them - in their entirety - but I usually need a drink afterward. I report the Cliff Notes version to Bump when I’m done, and I editorialize. Oh, do I editorialize.

2. "Precious Lord"
A letter sprinkled liberally with references to Baby Jesus and the magic of God’s creation and prayers for the evil baby-killing Democrats in Washington. Do we even know each other? Why are you sending me a card?

3. “Who the fuck are the Van Blankens?”
Do you get these? I’m left wondering if they’re some sort of ransom demand. It’s a photo card featuring anonymous babies (“Merry Christmas from the Van Blanken Family, Alex 2 and Crystal 6 mos.”) with no note. After ruling out Bump’s friends, I wrack my brain and imagine I knew the anonymous babies’ mother years ago, before she changed her name. Or I find out later it’s from the family of my dad’s second cousin, who asked about me while visiting last summer. (This is another plug for putting your damn self in the photo, even though in the case of dad’s second cousin, it wouldn’t help.)


One last question: Does anyone have ingenious display ideas for holiday cards? My current system is Untidy Stack of Crap. I’d love to hear of a simple, elegant way to show off those beautiful photos you send before I throw them in the trash a month later.

Who am I kidding? I don’t throw them away. I stick them in a box, intending to look at them later or at least haul them out next year around card time to update our list. Then I totally forget where I stashed them.

Confessions from the Weekend

1. We packed the hospital bag. Actually, Bump packed the hospital bag, while I dithered about what I would wear home, complained about not wanting to take a pair of my ginormous underwear out of the rotation to put in the bag, and was completely unhelpful. I finally just handed over my toiletry kit and figured I would send Bump home for stuff as I needed it, which I admit is a terrible plan.

I decided the hospital bag should be mostly Bump’s stuff, since the hospital will see to almost all of my needs. I started putting a together a hospital list a few weeks ago, but sort of lost interest after I wrote “champagne flutes” and “bubbly.” I suppose I should make sure someone has a camera.


2. I feel kinda bad for Tony Romo. Poor thing, with his sad little head hung in despair. This is only one of the reasons why I’ll never be a very good sports blogger.

Say What You Will About Politicians, But They’re Good at What They Do

I have two suits that fit. They’re not even really suits; they’re two slightly different black jackets which pair passably well with pants that don’t really match. I’m not a particularly well-dressed woman to begin with, so when even I can tell that I have so few wardrobe choices, the situation is pretty bleak.

Earlier this week, my new office got uncomfortably hot and I had to admit to my officemate that I couldn’t take off my jacket because the shirt I was wearing underneath wouldn’t button below my sternum. She laughed at me. Then she felt kind of bad, gave me a sympathetic “Poor Thing,” and then laughed at me some more.

Yesterday I opted for a maternity dress that doesn’t really fit (it’s much shorter in the front than it should be) and a non-maternity jacket that serves only to hide my upper arm flab. I thought that since it was Friday, I probably wouldn’t see any Members and would spend the day holed up in my office in my ill-fitting garments.

Except I ended up spending 20 minutes on the House floor looking for my boss, during a vote.

Here’s the thing about being surrounded by hundreds of people who have just won big popularity contests: they’re all really charismatic. I received many hearty greetings of “How are you? Congratulations!” and one enthusiastic “That baby is due!” A Member from Texas stopped short of patting me, instead giving the air around my belly a reverent rub.

A Member chatted with me about due dates and delivery and wrangling two children. Almost two years ago, his twins were born six weeks early and spent a little under a month in the NICU. The Congressman’s wife will be traveling next week, leaving him alone with a pair of very healthy two-year-old boys. (If you think you're busy next week, imagine yourself in this guy’s position.)

All this glad-handing probably explains why it took so damn long to find my boss.

While I felt silly in my goofy clothes, it’s hard not to be cheered up when elected officials are grinning at you. They didn’t seem to notice that my feet were jammed into shoes that were too snug, and I kind of forgot how swollen the legs just above those feet were.

It’s an interesting time on the Hill right now. Everybody is polite to you just in case you’re that freshman Member they haven’t heard about. Eventually the Capitol Police and cloakroom attendants and Parliamentarians and reporters milling about the Speaker’s Lobby will figure out who’s who and get back to being snippy to “just staff.” Soon I will no longer be lumbering about as a heavily pregnant woman, and Members of Congress won’t be leaping up to get me a chair.

Even though I’m uncomfortable and cranky and so ready to be done being pregnant, it was a fun experience yesterday. I walk really slow and have to endure 17 more days of this and then the joy of labor awaits, but no one on the House floor noticed that my jacket didn’t fit. Instead, everyone seemed genuinely happy to be in the presence of a big fat pregnant lady.

I’m still screwed, but somehow I feel better about it.

And what more can we expect from our politicians, really?

From the Bump Department

(Since he posts approximately never, and even if he did he probably wouldn't tell you about these things, so you're stuck with my second-hand accounts of his life.)


Bump is going to the gym. Like, regularly.

Well, maybe only three or four times so far, but that's pretty good in my estimation.

I'm not sure how much of a workout Bump is getting, but Lumpyhead is going to the gym's child care center and being exposed to different things (like germs) and other children (who mostly ignore him) and new experiences (such as abandonment anxiety).

Bump's still ironing out the kinks, like finding the optimal time window to go and juggling the gym with other errands, but at least he's getting a shower.

--

There's this little girl named Ingris who is often at the playground when Bump and Lumpyhead are there. She's maybe six years old, and completely starved for attention. She loves Lumpyhead. She squeals when she sees him approach and makes unending attempts to play with him; he rejects her to go about his regular playground duties of wandering around and climbing on things. Bump seems to dread Ingris, as he tries to preserve her feelings and explain that Lumpyhead is too little to play with her the way she wants. Ingris responds by persistently and enthusiastically telling Lumpyhead to follow her to the slide.

She's perfectly nice, although perhaps a bit. . . much.

When Bump reports the day's goings-on, the "We went to the playground" part of the day is often followed by a heavy sigh as Bump wearily adds, "Ingris was there."

We think she lives across the street from the playground, and her parents or caretakers or whomever send her out to play for hours on end without supervision. This worries me. It's not that I'm afraid our neighborhood is unsafe, but I don't think any place is safe enough to send your six-year old daughter to a playground by herself. She loves playing with near Lumpyhead, but I imagine the acknowledgement of her existence by a grownup is also something she craves. She talks to Lumpyhead, but through Bump.

Of course Bump is concerned about this little girl's lack of supervision, but is honestly a little hesitant about how much contact he has with her. As he puts it, "What if I were hanging around the playground without Lumpyhead?"

This makes me shiver. Obviously Bump is not a perv, but this little girl is happily interacting with a stranger, and no one seems to notice. Is the Dad title Bump clearly sports enough to make him non-threatening? Is there a gender difference in stranger danger, or is parent status enough to remove suspicion? I know some children are told "if you get lost, find another mommy to help you." Will that ever become "ask a mommy or daddy to help you" as more men stay home with their children? Are we just not there yet, or is the world too scary of a place to encourage a child to talk to a man she doesn't know?

Whatever the case, Bump could sure use a break from Ingris.

Party Parenting

I attended a couple of parties this past week, which has become a rather unusual occurrence, and I'm feeling a little disoriented.

Maybe Bump and I are overly protective, but one of us is always doggedly chasing Lumpyhead at these functions to keep him from killing himself or breaking something of value.

What I witnessed this week, at different parties:

- Parents of a five-month old handing off their child to another guest, then disappearing for long stretches, on several occassions. I'm certain the parents had no idea who had their child for most of the evening.

- Parents sitting around a Christmas tree, happily chatting and drinking wine, while their children screamed and threw things in another part of the house.

Look at me, being all judgy. Am I just doing this party thing wrong? When I attend a party at your house, should I expect you to prevent my offspring from trashing your place while I kick back and have a good time? Because, damn, that would make these parties a lot less tiring.


A woman at one of these parties was telling me about how she and her neighbors have become so close. The neighbors, who were also at the party, had children of the same age and also didn't believe in letting their kids watch TV.

Instead of snarfing my mini quiche out my nose, I smiled politely and nodded and only said in my head how nice it was that both families were raising freaks. She proudly reported that at a recent event the conversation turned to TV characters, and her daughter and son had no idea what others were talking about. (Me, in my head only: "Super, go you. They're little social outcasts already.")

I admit I'm a little weirded out when Lumpyhead whines for Elmo or the Little People video or that damn squirrel at the beginning of Ice Age. We don't park the boy in front of the tube all day, and we limit his TV time in favor of books or toys or actual interaction. I understand that TV before age 3 isn't the way to build a baby genius.

But if you're gonna claim to "not believe" in television, I'm afraid you kinda lost me.

Also, it's probably best not to make this claim while neither you nor your husband nor your so-close neighbors are supervising the four children running amok in someone else's basement. It throws off the whole Conscientious Parent vibe.

I'm not saying you're a bad parent. But I am saying you're a shitty party guest.

And They're Out

I dropped my parents off at the airport yesterday without the usual tears and gnashing of teeth.

They had an early morning flight, and had to peek in on Lumpyhead before they left. My mother would have been okay to leave without the last look, but my dad insisted on seeing the little man one more time, and they were quiet enough to sneak out without waking him.

Usually by the second day of a week-long visit, my mother is already bemoaning the fact that the trip will be over in “just five days.” This countdown continues until the day they leave, when I ferry my eerily silent parents to the airport.

This time, even she couldn’t really dwell on the end of her trip, because she’ll be back in just a few weeks. So instead, my mother constantly lamented how hard it will be to leave next time, when she has to say goodbye to two grandchildren.

It’s always something.

It Begins

According to my parents’ original itinerary, Bump should be picking them up at the airport right now.

Instead, he’s going to pick up their luggage.

As you may recall, thanks to my Evil Genius Brother, my parents are coming for a week. They would have left yesterday, but that’s a whole other story involving my mother and a commitment to teach Sunday School for the month December. (That sound you hear is me sighing heavily.)

So, original itinerary: arrival at National by 2pm today.

I should point out that establishing the first itinerary was no easy task. Apart from the whole Sunday School thing (Did I mention it was a class of one student? Trade your days with the January teacher, gah!), my mother frets and dithers about making her connection in Minneapolis every time she flies. It’s not just a nagging concern she has, I’m talking “losing some sleep over it” worry. (That was me sighing again, accompanied now by eye rolling.)

Yesterday on the phone, in order to put her a bit more at ease, I tried to explain that even if they did miss their connection, there are tons flights from Minneapolis to the DC area, and they would still get here without problem. Not only are there multiple flights to National every day, they could catch a plane to Dulles or even BWI as a backup.

My mother called me from Minneapolis this morning, and I was certain she was about to tell me they had missed their connection and had no idea what to do. Instead, she said the flight was overbooked and asked if they should consider volunteering their seats for free tickets. Since they’re coming again once Akutaq emerges, Bump and I advised them to take a later flight. A few minutes later Mom called back to say they had been given two $300 vouchers and first-class seats on a flight to Dulles that left in two hours.

Pretty sweet deal, huh? Granted, the set-dollar amount vouchers are slightly less fabulous than round-trip tickets, but I still thought they made out pretty well. They wouldn’t drink as much booze on the flight to Dulles as an Unpregnant Me would, but they promised to have a drink or two (it’s free, you know. And they’re Dutch).

Yeah, you knew that was too easy, right?

The flight to Dulles was cancelled. Not because it wasn’t full (as Bump and I speculated) but because Northwest Airlines didn’t have a flight crew available. Mom’s gate agent suggested it was due to an ongoing labor dispute with the pilots, and an entire planeful of Christmas Day travelers were scrambling to make other arrangements. Two ticket agents were helping as many people as they could, and long lines of people waited for phones to other reservation agents.

Mom and Dad are now scheduled to land at 10:10 this evening at National. Mom is regretting her decision to give up their seats in the first place, while Dad still insists they won the jackpot.

Incidentally, I’m with Dad. If someone offered you $75 per hour to sit in an airport, would you do it? It’s better than the meat packing plant pays, is all I’m sayin’. Plus, the initial deal of a two-hour wait for a first-class flight and $600 was a no-brainer, and it was impossible to predict the cancellation.

Now, sitting in an airport isn’t the greatest way to spend Christmas Day, particularly when you’re waiting to see your only grandchild. But there are plenty of restaurants and shopping options at MSP, so it’s not a terrible place to be stuck for several hours. My parents took one small tote bag as a carry-on, so they aren’t lugging around tons of bags. And as I pointed out to foreshadow our trip next Christmas, they don’t have two screaming kids with them.

“Yeah, I just have Dad,” Mom replied.

Somehow, I’m certain this is all my brother’s fault.

You May Stop Scoffing At Me Now

I’ve always had a special feeling about January 17. I sense I’m forgetting something on that day, like a friend’s birthday or a significant event I should be observing. It turns out to be nothing, just a funny feeling that goes away without incident.

Today at my doctor’s appointment, we set a tentative date for induction.

It’s January 23.

(See what I did there? I made you think I was gonna say January 17, but then I went and said January 23. I’m sure there’s a literary term for that, but I think in blog-ese it’s called Wasting Your Damn Time.)

(Heh.)

I have dedicated myself to eating more salads because I’m hugely fat according to the doctor’s scale and any objective measures of the term. You know, like “pants size” and “additional stretch marks” and also “visible huge fatness.”

So upon my arrival at work I immediately ate a Goo Goo Cluster that my colleague brought me.

Salads, indeed.

Grumble Grumble Move Grumble Grumble

My office is closed the week of the 25th, which means I’ll be home while my parents are here without burning any vacation days. (Yay.)

As a result of the Democratic takeover of Congress, we’ll be moving offices. On the 26th. (Great.)

This isn’t such a big deal, as we don’t have to be present during the move. In theory, I can just leave the old office on the 22nd and show up at the new one on January 2nd. (Right.)

I’m spending this week packing up my office amidst constant badgering by my colleagues that I shouldn’t be lifting that binder and constant worry from my husband that I’m overdoing it.

I’ve been told to get the intern to box up my stuff, but I just can’t bring myself to ask him. First, I would feel like a total shithead doing that, and second, sometimes he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean.

Our offices are currently tucked away in the basement and are not glamorous. Our windows look out into a concrete moat and we’ve got a great view of some pipes. I’ve got a pigeon nest outside my window, and despite multiple efforts to get rid of it, its inhabitants still festively decorate my pane with their own special flocking. Happy holidays to you, too, Pigeons!

But we’ve all got private offices.

I’ve heard multiple comments about how great it will be to move up out of the basement and into the “nice” offices. We’ll be close to the hearing room and have high ceilings and when we look out our windows, we’ll actually be able to see what the weather is doing. Everyone’s office will triple in size. But they will no longer be private.

Details have yet to be determined, but I’m going to have at least one office mate. Possibly four.

I’d like to think I’m not the kind of person who is shallow enough to care about office space. Who’s closer to the window, who’s got an extra five inches of space, who’s got a bigger desk? Who cares. As long as the work gets done, what does it matter?

Except I’m totally that shallow.

I’m really demoralized by the idea of moving from my cramped, dingy office (with a couch and an easy chair and a mini fridge and a door that closes) to a soaring space with lovely drapes and crown molding (where I can’t discreetly watch your YouTube video or scratch when it itches in an inconvenient place and I have to overhear my colleague tell the doctor that mystery rash is crusting over).

My big worry is that after my too-short maternity leave, I’ll need a place to pump. In my current office, I scrawled the words “Privacy Please” onto a post-it note and slapped it on the locked door. I’ll have to work out something else in the new space, which I hope does not include having to pump at the nurses’ station or in the bathroom.

I’m sure I’ll adjust, and everything will be fine, but right now this is just giving me something else to be cranky about. I haven’t decided what to do with my plants because I don’t know what my new office will look like. And what the hell am I going to do about my fish?*

*She’s a guppy. Her name is Stump. She lives in a one-gallon tank in my office. Should I trust the movers, or instruct them to leave her in place and come get her myself on the 2nd? What if the new inhabitant of my office holds her for ransom?