Pride Goeth Before ...

Go ahead, folks, say it with me: THE FALL!

Yes, it's true--I routinely feel the need to prove gravity. (Though Arizona likes to remind me that  gravity can't actually be proven. I'm just providing more evidence that argues in favor of its existence. Geek.) So you might wince when you hear (as did several friends when I mentioned the plan) that this weekend was my first time back on my mountain bike in roughly a year. But with good weather and a grandma lined up to walk Wallaby on the pedestrian trail while Arizona and I took the bikes up onto the gnarly stuff, I was raring to go!

Some couples (okay, most of 'em) probably use that first official babysitting opportunity for a nice dinner out where they can both sit down at the same time, use two hands to eat, and spend more than five minutes on the process of shoveling ye olde food into ye olde mouth. Which (at least at chez Doc Jess) is a rarity these days. But Arizona and I don't really do fancy restaurants as romance--he proposed to me on the side of a bike trail overlooking a local reservoir and I told him he was going to be a daddy at the gun range. 'Nuff said. 

So it was this past Sunday that my mom headed off with the jogging stroller and the baby, while Arizona and I wheeled off on our bikes. And I refused to admit, even to myself, that I was nervous. Not of falling so much as being different on the bike. Feeling different about something that had been a central part of our time together pre-baby. 

A few years ago, I took a chunk of time away from my bike to rehab a dislocated elbow (see above re: proving gravity), and it wasn't easy to get back into the swing of things after--I was slow and tentative, and that's not a recipe for success on a downhill bike. And that was before I had things in my head like "I'm a mom" and "I don't have time to be hurt right now" … The latter of which I knew from my days competing horses in the jumper ring was guaranteed to invoke the law (theory?) of gravity. 

So, yeah. Mild butterflies--not just because falling hurts, but because after all the happy changes Arizona and I have been through recently, I wanted this one thing to stay more or less the same.

As we started out I wobbled a little, feeling the adjustments we had made to my bike in the early weeks of pregnancy. A few quick changes--lose the gel seat cover, lower the seat, let a little air out of the rear shock--and we were back on the go, turning onto the trail leading to the first climb.

And, suddenly, I got why "just like riding a bike" is a cliche. As we powered up the hill and then gravity (hello again!) sent us boinging down the rocky backside, my body remembered where everything was--how to shift, how to balance, when to tap the brakes and when to power through. Even better, suddenly the idea of staying back in the saddle made more sense than it ever had before--why lean forward and rush to an obstacle when I can sit back, lighten the front end, and let the tires carry me up and over?

Which is a little like my developing take on motherhood, come to think--take it slow, one thing at a time, and don't rush the fun stuff. And while there are going to be bumps and low points, there will be peaks and smooth spots, too. All of which we found on our ride together. 

So where does the pride part come in, you might ask? Well, after the first ten minutes or so, I realized I was getting sassy--showboating in the corners and taking tougher lines and bigger drops than I probably should be after a year out of the saddle. And I know from experience that for me, the "woo-hoo, look at me!" is usually closely followed by: CRASH! So I backed off. I slowed down a little and took a breath. And I didn't rush the fun stuff.

Nope, despite the title (and my history) I didn't fall--except back in love with biking, and always in love with Arizona. And later, as we pedaled for home and talked about the biking being an important two-of-us thing in a suddenly three-of-us world, he said, "Absolutely. But it's also awesome to know that Wallaby's waiting for us in the parking lot."

And, oh, it is.

Am I going to fall and hurt myself one of these days? Undoubtedly. But, like always, I'll get back up, assess my injuries, and go from there. And a few days later, Arizona will get a package in the mail and present me with a pad to protect whatever part of me I banged that time, wanting to keep me safe. And that, for me, is romance.

Bigger Than A …

You've probably seen the list of "I've lost a …" that floats around the interwebz and appears during about half the weight-loss discussions I've ever been part of. If not, check it out--it's good reading. Back when I was working on my weight, it amused me to say "I've lost 20 dozen large eggs." And when I was furiously gestating, it was daunting (yet still amusing) to say, "I've gained a mid-sized microwave and two guinea pigs, thankyouverymuch." 

I've come to realize, though, that different people have different lists. When I'm fleshing out a character in a book, one of my favorite things to do is figure out what's important to them, and how that's going to color their take on the world. An artist might see colors and patterns, a chef might see ingredients, and a cowboy might compare a woman's hair to his favorite horse's tail and consider it a compliment. It's all a matter of perspective.

Thus, while I might consider that Wallaby was equivalent to a chihuahua and three dozen Krispy Kreme donuts at birth and currently weighs slightly more than a sperm whale's brain, the other day Arizona was bouncing him around rather vigorously (as Daddies apparently do), and said, "You weigh about the same as a good road bike!" Which he does, though it'll be a while before he approaches the weight of my mountain bike, at 36 lbs.

In mountain biking parlance, Arizona is a "weight weenie"--meaning that he'll go to great expense to swap out this component or that, in order to shave a few ounces off the total weight of his bike. So his weight vocabulary is often in terms of hubs, rims and tires. Then there was the other day when, upon finding that Wallaby is over 26" long now, he channeled his inner fisherman and said, "Wow, you're almost legal!" (In CT waters, a striped sea bass has to be 28" to be a keeper.)

Which gets me thinking as I sit down to write today … my hero is a contractor who loves his high tech and my heroine runs the vintage clothing store near Mustang Ridge. How are their perspectives going to color their worlds and the comparisons they make? Is his phone named Hal, or maybe Jarvis? Does she compare the color of a customer's shirt to the Fiestaware serving dish she has upstairs? We'll have to see!

Boil Bottles, Not Bunnies

So the other day, it went like this:

Me (puttering around the kitchen, singing to Wallaby--to the tune of Row Your Boat): Boil, boil, boil your bottles; gently in the steam! Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily; life is but a dream … (back to talking voice) Remember, Wallaby, boil bottles, not bunnies, okay? Boiling bunnies is not recommended.

Arizona (coming into the kitchen to flip the bacon): Why?

Me: Why boil the bottles?

Arizona: No, why warn him against boiling bunnies in particular? Why not bleach or aerosol cans or something?

Me: You know. Boiling bunnies … from Fatal Attraction. (Getting a blank look.) With Michael Douglas? Did you see it?

Arizona: Yeah, but I don't remember the bunny boiling scene.

Me: Which goes to show that your exes have been generally sane. 

Back in the day, I remember reading a science fiction short story about a society in which certain things were given; they were called an 'everyone-knows thing' and treated as fact in the absence of evidence. Then along comes our main character, who manipulates a situation by saying that something is an everyone-knows thing when it isn't. The others around him, who can't conceive of a falsehood, assume they have forgotten this everyone-knows thing and accept it into their world view. And thus lying is born. 

(Google didn't provide much help in a search of 'everyone knows thing science fiction', although I found a few places where folks have used the term, so am pretty sure I'm not making up the story. It might have been in the Asimov or Analog magazines, or a short-story collection? Mad points to anyone who comes up with the title and author.)

Anyway, in my association with Arizona, I have come to find that certain things that I always took as everyone-knows things are more like 'things everyone in New England knows' or 'things me and my friends know' rather than absolutes. Like bowling with the little balls with no finger holes (candlepin, which is all I've ever known as 'bowling' and which Arizona finds entirely weird) or ordering jimmies on my ice cream.

What are some of your everyone-knows things that turned out to be 'things I know that I assume everyone else does'? For me, I'll add bunny boiling to the list, while Wallaby (in rock star mode with his hair and shades) laughs at us both.

Things I never thought I'd search on Youtube

Once upon a time, Arizona taught high school math. I have to believe he was very good at it, because he taught me to mountain bike with wonderful positivity. I remember gems such as: "Awesome climb, sweetie! Just keep breathing and you'll be able to feel your face in no time" and "Way to fall! You're getting so much better at tucking in your hands and leading with your helmet." (I jest. But only a little.) Furthermore, I've had the pleasure to getting to know several of his former students as friends, and they're unanimous in his praise. (Which I get to pass along to him because he's allergic to Facebook.) 

Back in the day, another of his students gifted him with a mix CD of cool music, and I must say, the kid had taste beyond his years. Said CD has traveled with Arizona for more than a decade, and the songs now reside on our familial iTunes playlist under said student's name. Which isn't half bad as a legacy goes, don't you think? 

The problem arises, however, when we want to identify the artists and see if we like anything else they've done--it's just not practical to search for '(Insert student's name) Track # 7'. So we tend to pull up Youtube on the TV and search for random lyric snippets. This works better than you'd think, and even when it doesn't work, it's entertaining.

Arizona: Search for 'never going to give you up.'

Me: Because that's not at all generic. (Types it in.) Not Rick Astley. Nope, not that one either. (Scrolls down.) Maybe Butthole Gorillas? The name has the right level of grunge.

Arizona: Try it. (Listens. Winces.) Nope. Okay, let's go back for more lyrics. 

(We do. We type in another line. Up pops the search results.)

In chorus: Linkin Park! Duh. Of course.

I realize there are more sophisticated ways of doing this, like actual lyric search engines and apps that listen to the song for you and pull up reams of information, including the title, artist, date, copyright, and what the songwriter had for breakfast last Tuesday. But we like the Youtube theory, and it's remarkably effective. 

Granted, our Youtube playlist has gotten increasingly random with the addition of Baby Wallaby, who is 10 weeks old today, and loves to rock out to loud music, the more repetitive and the harder the bass, the better. If you had asked Arizona or me a year ago whether we'd ever dance around the house to Katy Perry or that "Geronimo" song, we would've laughed our butts off. 'Nuff said.

While the current hits are easy to find, some of Wallaby's other favorites have required more sophisticated Youtube searches, like "repeated loop of the Sprint narwhal song" (good luck forgetting THAT). And then there was the other day …

Me: (singing randomly to baby)

Arizona: (starts to sing along from the other room, then asks) Is that a real song?

Me: (considers it) I don't have a clue. I guess my mom used to sing it to me. It could be the chorus from something real, I guess.

Arizona: Look and see.

Me: Seriously? You want me to search Youtube for 'ooh eee ooh ah ah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang'? 

Arizona: Why not?

And you know what? It worked, and ... It really is a song, and we've been dancing to it ever since.

Flock of Seagulls hairdo baby approves of this playlist. What's on yours?

The Fox, the Goose and the Grain (or, technically, the Kid, the Cat and Me)

It's going to be a busy day. Mind you, I booked the appointments, so any resulting chaos is entirely on me. But somehow I wound up with a 9 a.m. visit to the pediatrician, a 12:30 at the vet's and a 3:40 at the gyno. Sounds like a party going someplace to happen, doesn't it? In an effort to keep it a *good* party, I am going to operate today on the following to-do list:

1. Bring Wallaby to pediatrician for 9 a.m. Fortunately, the office is right around the corner from our Little House In The Trees, and I remembered to give him a bath last night. If I put him in a completely random, non-matching outfit, he will likely refrain from spitting up the instant I have him fully strapped in his car seat (the reverse is also true). While he and I will likely be traumatized by the administration of his baby shots, we can afterwards be soothed by a boob and a chocolate donut, respectively.

2. Back home, hang with Wallaby, read Just-So Stories, dance to his favorites (much to Arizona's concern, he's a fan of Katy Perry), and when he conks out, attempt to write that last scene for the upcoming long novella (STARTING OVER AT MUSTANG RIDGE, available … er … soon-ish). 

3. Make sure Lucy T. Cat (known at the vet's office as Cujo) doesn't get let out past midmorning. Once she's confirmed to be inside, retrieve the Hated Cat Carrier (HCC) and leave it in an appropriate spot. (This is my corgis' old carrier, as Lucy is too big and mean to use Pixel's soft-and-cuddly little kitty carrier. Cujo needs plastic sides and metal bars.)

4. Starting around 11:30, monitor Lucy. When she goes into a room with a door, shut said door.

5. Around noon, hand off Wallaby to his father (thanking the powers that be that we both work from home) wrestle HCC into Room With Cat. Commence Cat Insertion Procedure. Apply Band-Aids as needed.

6. Bring cat-containing HCC to vet. Allow the techs to whisk Cujo and her container into the back, where they do vet stuff, mostly through the bars.

7. Return home and release the pissed-off cat to go sulk under some furniture. Probably discover that Arizona has fed Wallaby all three Daddy Snack bottles that were in the fridge, despite them being marked for different days. Get an hour of good writing done because baby is dead asleep.

8. Look at clock, discover it's 3:15, remember I meant to shower and shave. Curse, put Arizona back in charge of Wallaby, and zoom off to yet another doctor's office.

9. Come home, give self high-five for making it through the list. And maybe a cookie. Probably a cookie. Then write more. Did I mention that I need to finish this novella?

Heck, definitely a cookie.

So how about you? What's on tap for your busy day this week?

The Home Depot Date

Back when I had my farm, there were long stretches when it seemed like every penny went to repairs--whether to the property, a piece of equipment, or one of the horses. That new truck the vet was driving? Yeah, pretty sure it should've had my name on the vanity plate. 

So you'd think that the inevitable trips to Home Depot would've been a chore--Except that I lived way out in the country (by New England standards, at any rate) and was in a weird mental place, so sometimes the drive into 'town' was my only outside face-to-face contact for weeks at a time. The ex and I joked about Home Depot dates, and went through the McDonalds drive-thru on the way home to mend fences--physically, at least.

When I called it quits on that lifestyle, I was grateful to hole up in my post-breakup apartment and call my landlady when the plumbing dripped into the basement or a mystery water stain appeared in the corner of the bedroom. And when Arizona came along, I made it clear that I wasn't looking for a fixer-upper on any level.

Now, he's a handy guy, and I've done more than my share of plumbing, wiring and construction projects (see above re: owning a farm), so we could conceivably do most of what needs doing as home owners. But the thing is … we don't have to. We intentionally bought a place that didn't need much work aside from cosmetics, freeing us to use more of our free time for, well, free-time stuff. Fishing. Biking. Kayaking. Watching the entirety of Breaking Bad in a weekend. You know--the important things!

We still have the occasional Home Depot Date, but they're usually because of non-emergency upgrade-type projects around the house. (I sincerely hope I haven't jinxed myself by putting that in writing!) Gaskets and sealant to install a depth finder in the big kayak, lumber to build my floating desk, a storm door to help keep out the cold. 

I wouldn't say I've upgrade my post-HD dining options, as many of Arizona's and my milestones have occurred at Taco Bell or Kentucky Fried. However, those meals are savored as naughty grease-and-sodium-filled exceptions to our diets rather than scarfed as fuel on the run, and we both enjoy these occasional forays into the world of DIY consumerism.

This past weekend, in preparation for the arrival of the Big Brown Couch, we crafted a plan to move the TV and wires and such to a new wall, and dress the old TV wall with two large pictures that Arizona's mother had brought over at her last visit. So we  hied ourselves off to Big Orange with our to-do list in hand. And, as we loaded our cart with the various odds and ends we would require, Arizona pulled out his phone and snapped a picture

and he said, "Look, it's baby's first Home Depot Date!"

Here's to many more. And to you, my ReaderFriends (especially those beginning to emerge from a snowy winter), may your shopping lists be short and your Home Depot Dates non-emergency.

Doc Jess

The Tale of my Manky Old Sofa

Beat up old couch has
Viewed many things good and bad
What will new couch see?

Since his 2001 purchase from Jordans Furniture (a rather strange New England megastore that offers popcorn, daily Mardi Gras parades and an Omni theater), my Big Green couch has been with me through three moves, six housecats (no, autocorrect, I have no housecoats), two corgis, five publishers, fifty novels, three literary agents, a breakup, dating, true love, a wedding, a baby, and approximately two thousand frozen pizzas. 

In the next week or so, he will go on Facebook and Craigslist as "Big old beat to hell sectional couch plus ottoman, free for the taking. Cushions all have newer (3 years) removable slipcovers from Pottery Barn. Fifteen years old, one owner, exposed to cats, dogs, salad dressing and general chaos. L-shaped, 102" per side, very comfortable, especially if you've got your eyes closed. Possibly suitable for Great Danes, teenagers, frat parties, maybe a game room? You decide. Free. Must pick up, and our driveway doubles as a ski jump. You can keep whatever you find under the cushions."

Because, you see, Monster Brown is on the way.

As part of our 'being actual grownups with a budget and sh*t' protocol, Arizona and I each get a set amount of fun money per month. His usually goes to mountain bike parts, while I tend to spend some of mine on clothes and girls' nights out, and set aside the rest for some future purchase. I had planned on splurging on a dude ranch vacation for two this summer or the next, but now that'll be put off a few more years until Wallaby is old enough to enjoy the adventure and I'm relatively sure that he won't start lobbying for a pony. 

Meanwhile, over the past year I have spent an inordinate amount of time on the couch, what with pregnancy making it far more comfortable to write in the living room than at a desk, and now a little one to feed and entertain while sneaking in some writing. And did I mention that the living room is one of the two rooms we routinely heat, along with Arizona's office, and this winter has been flipping cold? Ergo, I have logged lots of miles on Big Green, and have finally been forced to admit that my once super comfortable friend is less so these days.

Mind you, he's been fugly for a while--stained, clawed-up and smooshed down, with a not very well done replacement cushion on the ottoman and wearing blue slipcovers made of an outdoor fabric that I bought for its durability and stain resistance, not realizing it would have the cuddle factor of sandpaper and produce friction burns at inopportune moments. 

Still, Arizona and I had planned on keeping Big Green another few years, until Wallaby and the puppy-to-be-acquired-at-a-later-date are both housebroken. That is, until the other day, when Arizona joined me to feed Wallaby on the basement pull-out-bed couch for a change of scenery--and even though Downstairs Couch was relatively inexpensive and primarily serves as our guest bed, we both confessed that we found him more comfortable than Big Green. Which, we decided, meant it was time.

Thus on Saturday, after doing the necessary measurements and online research, and assuring my hubby that I really consider buying a new couch *fun* and thus don't mind using my fun money for the purchase, seeing how our house money is currently tied up with hospital bills from Wallaby's arrival (high deductible plan, 'nuff said), the three of us hied off to Bob's Discount Furniture (which lacks the carnival atmosphere of Jordans, but is rather less spendy) to test drive sectionals. And then on Sunday, we rearranged the living room in anticipation of Monster Brown's arrival in a week or so, looking forward to having a new piece of furniture that's all the same color and doesn't have a single claw mark (yet). 

What will Monster Brown see me through? Will we get fourteen years out of him as I did Big Green? How crazy to think of Wallaby as a teenager, Arizona and I in our mid-fifties. Who will we be then? What will I be writing? Will we have made it to Australia yet? How about that dude ranch? I don't know, as that's all crystal ball stuff. But it's fun to think about … and it'll be even funner next Monday, when I'm doing that thinking from my gel-foam chaise at the end of my fun-money sofa.