Oh Brother

Summer in St. Louis is a bit of a mirage.

Out your back window, the grass is green, the flowers are blooming, the birds are singing and the sun is shining. It beckons you to grab your kid and your dog and come out to play.

Thirty seconds later, you're swatting super-sized mosquitoes off your child's forehead and shouting "RUN FOR COVER!" as a frenzied, buzzing cloud of bloodsuckers drives you back indoors.

We've tried toxic yard treatments, citronella candles and stinky body sprays, and have even entertained the idea of enclosing the perimeter inside some sort of biospheric globe. So far, nothing works against the muggy, swamp-like insect breeding ground that is our yard from June to August.

So I've gotten really good at making "inside entertainment."

Last night, we simulated one of those "summer lawn movies" that are so popular in more hospitable climates by cranking our A/C, laying out sleeping bags and blankets in our living room and screening Hotel For Dogs. This is one of those movies that, as a parent, you KNOW you will be forced to watch at some point. And, while it's nothing you'd chose to watch on your own time, it is preferable BY FAR to the usual fare, in that there are no talking donkeys and flatulent 3D guinea pigs.

Well, okay, there ARE pooping dogs. I mean, you've gotta get the preschool crowd laughing somehow.

The plot of this movie centers around an orphaned brother and sister living in an unhappy foster home lorded over by a WRETCHED Lisa Kudrow (seriously? Who came up with the idea to cast "Phoebe" as a meanie? NOT believable). The kids start rescuing stray dogs and putting them up in a vacant hotel, outfitted with all sorts of inventive contraptions to keep the mutts entertained. (The unsung stars of this movie, by the way, are the dog trainers who taught five dogs to crap in a toilet on cue. GENIOUS).

Anyway, the plot comes to climax when the scheme is discovered by heartless grown-ups, the hotel is shut down by the cops, the mutts are headed for the gas chamber and the siblings have been ousted from their foster home to be split up into separate group homes. The music swells as the big sister apologizes to her little brother for letting him down, and the siblings say their tearful goodbyes as they're torn apart...FOREVER.

And that's when I feel a nudge from Ben, who is silently pointing at Jack. Jack, who is bravely trying to swipe away the TEARS streaming down his face.

And in my delicate emotional state, that sprung a well of tears in MY eyes, and I sniffled back, "Awwww...isn't he going to be SUCH a good big brother?"

Cue the eye-rolling from Ben.

Lest you think this is turning out to be the WORST KID'S MOVIE EVER, let me assure you that a kindly Don Cheadle (the kids' caseworker) saves the day, delivering a heartfelt speech that convinces a crowd of cold-souled New Yorkers to keep the hotel doors open for our four-legged friends. Followed by a hilarious montage of pampered pups getting massages and pedicures. And then the heartwarming moment when Don tells the kids he's going to adopt them both himself. No more tears.

That's when I felt a second nudge from Ben. He whispers, "Didn't Don Cheadle win and Oscar for Hotel for Dogs? Oh wait...that was HOTEL RWANDA."

Cue the eye-rolling again. This time by ME.

We've still got the whole month of August ahead, and those bugs aren't going anywhere, so I'm tempted to make these indoor "sleeping bag screenings" a regular thing. Especially now that I know Jack's such a cute little move crier.

Next up...Bambi.

Decade

Ten years ago, I married my best friend in a small Ohio town on the hottest day of the year. In a chapel without air conditioning, wearing a white dress festooned with 30 pounds of sequins and lace.

Ben proposed to me more than 11 years ago on the Ponte Vecchio, a famously picturesque bridge in Florence, Italy. Afterwards, a little bit love-drunk and more than a little bit wine-drunk, we strolled the cobblestone streets and swore we'd come back to Italy for our five-year anniversary. And our tenth.

We actually did made it back for our fifth, due in large part to some obliging friends who happened to plan their own nuptials there, it the picturesque Tuscan village of Cortona.

I was optimistic about going back again for this year's milestone, even going so far as to plan where we'd stay. But with a flagging economy and a high-risk baby in utero, we had to sort of "downgrade" our plans from "go to Italy" to something more along the lines of "go to an Italian restaurant." But hey, these days, a couple child-free hours with my husband and a nice meal I didn't have to cook are enough to move the needle on my romance-a-meter.

During our anniversary meal, I amused Ben by recounting what I'd consider to be the "highlights reel" of our ten-year marriage. You know, the three-minute montage set to corny, upbeat music that plays in my head when I imagine the made-for-TV version of our life together. That first Christmas in Chicago when we cheerfully lugged a burly fir tree five city blocks in the freezing cold and wedged it into a corner of our overpriced shoebox of an apartment. Segueing to the two of us perched side-by-side in a dilapidated U-haul truck packed with our earthly belongings, full of optimism and bound for Denver. Flashing forward to us up on ladders at midnight, sweating in the summer heat as we painted over the hideous Pepto-pink walls of our first home. Fading to us lying in bed, Ben's hands on my stomach, feeling for our baby's mysterious thumps and kicks.

It's a heartwarming little scene, though the highlights reel misses some of the best parts. And by that I mean the WORST parts. Like the time the toilet broke and we both had the flu so bad we had to take turns puking in a bucket. Or the day we rushed Jack to the emergency room to stem the tide of blood gushing from his forehead after a playground altercation. Or that frightening night when we were very nearly stranded in our car during a sudden blizzard on a desolate, winding mountain road outside Taos.

That's marriage. Highlights and lowlights. Joy and fear. Laughter and tears. For better, for worse.

And, if you're lucky, no regrets.

Except, you know...maybe that 30-pound dress.

The Fear

I've always made it pretty clear to anyone who will listen that I have a serious phobia related to veins. I know they're there. I know they're necessary. But I don't want to think about them. Or look at them. Or, God forbid...puncture them. EVER.

I can't watch bloody slasher films. I practically have to take a sick day when there's a blood drive at the office. In fact, I can barely even take my own pulse without getting woozy.

So I was not a happy camper, to say the least, to learn prior to this pregnancy that I have a blood clotting
disorder that, should I be so brazen as to conceive a child, would require me to inject myself with blood thinners. IN THE STOMACH. EVERY DAY. FOR A YEAR.

That sounded pretty scary. But not quite as scary as the words that jumped off the page when I read about what could happen if I didn't submit to the needle: Miscarriage. Stillborn. Preeclampsia. Pulmonary Embolism. Maternal Death.

Um...I guess I'll pick...the shots?

After some initial hyperventilation following those two pink lines (not "OMG, I'm pregnant!" but "OMG, now I'm going to have to start those "f$@King shots!"), I sucked it up and realized that this was something I was just going to have to get over and get through. And after a kindly nurse let me practice on an obliging kitchen sponge, I was ready to give it a try. ON MYSELF. With the goal of not passing out.

That was two months and 62 injections ago.

These days, I'm a stone-cold self-injecting MACHINE. Basically, each morning I just unwrap one of these:

Then I grab myself some baby belly, swab on some alcohol, clench my teeth and plunge that sucker into one of these:

(Disclosure...this is not my belly.
This is the belly of some other unfortunate pregnant lady who was foolish enough to post it on the Internet. I can't post a photo of my OWN belly because the stretch marks would BURN YOUR EYES.)

The medication stings like hell for about 20 seconds, during which I mutter a few choice swear words and hop around the bathroom. Later, I show my husband the bruises and guilt him into running out to get me a pint of Ben & Jerry's (You really MUST try their new Cake Batter flavor).

Between this and the monthly nine-vial blood draws, I think it's fair to say that I've very nearly conquered my phobia related to veins, needles and blood. Or at least downgraded it from a phobia to more of a strong aversion.

It makes me feel sort of powerful. Like maybe I ought to go out and rent the bloodiest slasher film I can find. Or get REALLY crazy and walk into a craft store to stare at some peg boards without feeling the urge to tear out my eyes.

Geez...I wish I had a therapist I could fire.

I'm Flor'd

With about 18 months in the "new" house under our belt, Ben and I recently set out to redecorate (or, in fact, decorate for the first time) our living room.

The first step, as some of you will recall, was to liquidate some surplus inventory (Thank you, Craig's List!). Once that task was out of the way, it was time to survey they remains and begin to ACCESSORIZE.

In keeping with our mid-century Danish aesthetic and my desire for surroundings that are a fun and a little funky, we've been mixing nicer pieces from the likes of Room & Board (I keep their catalog under my mattress like porn) with modern accessories from favorite online shops and treasures from a few local flea markets. It's beginning to come together, into a look I think one might call "intentionally eclectic." A few of my favorite finds so far:


Cross-stitched "Bargello" pillows by Jonathan Adler


Vintage hand-shaped child's chair by Pedro Friedeberg


"Sun" Mask Fabric by Room & Board

The only decor issue we've had trouble agreeing on is the matter of a rug. I picked the last one, a black and white faux zebra number that was the bane of Ben's manly existence. Having unloaded that on an acquiescing co-worker a few weeks ago, we've been living with a bare floor in the living room. Which has caused two problems: 1) I can't kick Ben off the couch and force him to lie on the floor while I stretch out, and 2) Frankie can't get enough traction to jump up unto her favorite napping spot, which has forced her to suffer the HUMILIATION of sleeping on a dog bed.

How are such things to be borne?

Picking out a new rug we both can live with isn't as easy as it sounds. I promised Ben that this time we could do something without any kind of pattern. Something simple and neutral. (Fair enough...I have my garishly fabulous pillows). But he also insisted that it couldn't be too scratchy, too sheddy OR too shaggy. And then there was the issue of size. Given our long, narrow room, we needed something about 11 by 7 feet, which isn't exactly standard. And, with an anxiety-ridden dog, a scabby-kneed preschooler and a baby on the way, I pointed out that it needed to be completely cleanable AND impervious to urine, vomit, breast milk and pepperoni pizza. Tall order. We were stymied.

The solution came to me one day, quite miraculously, in the form of an unsolicited catalog. Flor!

Flor's modular carpet squares give you the freedom to custom-build an area rug in any color, texture or size by simply ordering and assembling a series of square-shaped tiles. And if the baby pukes on a square? Gross! But not a major problem. Just detach that square, clean it, and put it back. And if it's not cleanable? For less than $20, you can replace the single, ruined tile without needing a whole new rug.

After perusing about 19 different samples, Ben and I actually settled on the SAME one (Lamb Cord in "Suffolk White"...a soft, all-natural woolen number with kicky corduroy ribbing for her pleasure). Proving that we will, in fact, make it to our 10-year anniversary later this month.

And, like Ben, the new rug is just what I needed....rugged, snuggly, durable AND it doesn't look half bad in my living room, either.

People...I'm flor'd.