When I was six, I thought grownuppery would happen at nine. At nine, I thought thirteen was the age of adulthood. At thirteen, I knew I was at the pinnacle of wisdom and maturity – if only my teachers and parents would acknowledge that I was their equal. Once I got over that assumption, I always aimed a few years ahead for the exact moment when I would become an adult, or at least behave like one. Now, at 33 and expecting a baby of my own, I pretty much feel like a kid most of the time. Except for one thing: I now read the directions that come with my toys. Which is how I found the following misdirections this morning in the packaging for my camera’s battery charger. This multi-folded bit of paper assures me that I am not yet an adult – after all, adults should be able to process even complex directions such as this:

When the charging is complete, the LED light will turn orange. As(sic) this point, the battery can be removed for use. It is recommended, however, that you leave the battery connected to the charger for another 30 minutes to ensure a full, or “topped off”, charge. It is best to remove the battery after charging but it is ok to leave the batery(sic) in the charger for a short time because the micro processor controller will reduce voltage loss.

Um, wha–? Take the “batery” out when? After the light turns orange, or a half hour after that, or after it’s finished charging, which is when, exactly? And if it’s supposed to come out a while after the light turns orange and there’s no buzzer or beep or bloop to tell me when that happens, how do I know? Do I time it? Do I watch the battery charge? That’s guaranteed to be a fun time.

And that is why I read the directions: They make me feel young. And they amuse me severely.

Frequently Asked Questions:

1) How are you feeling? Queasy and tired, thanks. And you?

2) How far along are you? 18 weeks. And, yes, still regularly visited by the quease. The second trimester is a myth. So is the “morning” in morning sickness. Just so you know. Oh, and I have to pee. Again.

3) When are you due? February 11 - give or take a few days. Yes, a Valentine’s baby. No, Cupid and Valentine are not naming options.

4) Okay, so are there any names that you do want to use? Yes.

5) Well, what are they? A surprise. They are a surprise. They are also subject to change. We’ll announce in February.

6) Girl or boy? Yes, we hope so. Oh, you mean, which one? We’ll know in a few weeks, but we have some preliminary results. We’re just waiting for backup to know for certain. Don’t want to announce one and have it turn out to be the other after all.

7) So you’re going to find out? Yup. That’s the plan. I never was big on surprises.

8) Will you tell us? If you ask nicely. I’ll probably announce it on Twitter and Facebook first.

9) Is this your first? Yes. Otherwise you’d probably have seen me mention other children a time or two.

10) So is this why you haven’t written in a while? Or, visited my blog? (Not to sound pouty, but… Yeah, among other things. Like the flu (which is no fun without Dayquil, let me tell you). And multiple internet outages (still). And a very busy time at work.

Other than the occasional college hand-me-down, garage sale find, or unnecessary kitchen appliance, my main contribution to our household’s decorating scheme comes in book form. Hardcover, paperback, electronic - if you can read it, I’ve probably owned a copy. Sometimes two or three due to forgetfulness and a variety of gift-giving occasions.

I could blame my long-ago English major for the glut, but my Intro to Shakespeare and Literature of the Romantic Era classes are only partly responsible for the jaw-dropping array of books that took over our back bedroom almost the moment we moved into this house. Piles upon piles soon spilled over the floor, most scattered and tumbled on a search for an unread volume or a beloved favorite. I could have hidden bodies under my Jane Austen collection alone, and no one would know. Not even the most dedicated English lit major could have read all these in four years, plus done all the requisite essays, coffee shop stops and poetry readings, and no sane professor would have required it.

No, a closer diagnosis of the problem actually comes down to one word: Obsession. Since I am a book collector with a typical collector’s zeal for accumulation and a horror of thinning the masses, my toppled stacks have only grown larger and more intimidating over the years. I suspect they brought others into the fold the way all the best cult members do, and naturally some of the more prolific ones bred, so there were soon tiny Little Golden Books running around everywhere, flashing their yellow foil spines and colorful covers. At least the Poky Little Puppy appeared to be house-trained or we’d really have had a mess.

And so over the course of the last several weeks I sorted and stacked and piled and boxed, employing a ruthlessness the strictest anti-clutter guru would applaud. Soon only my unread books and favorite re-reads remained, fluffing out a goodly number of shelves in place of the photos and knickknacks that used to occupy those slots. The second-tier books - the ones I liked but see no need to re-read - I farmed out to friends.

In the end, I dumped the final rejects, those even my friends wouldn’t take, into several crates bound for the library. This gave me a little twinge since it’s a bit of a moral dilemma. My soul could be in peril if I foist off my least favorite tomes on these unsuspecting librarians and their patrons. But then, someone must have seen something in them, or they wouldn’t have been printed in the first place. That’s what I tell myself anytime I encounter a book that doesn’t lift my balloon, at least: Someone must have thought it was good.

The upshot is that we’ve reclaimed a room. I also have a tidy little tax refund for a charitable contribution plus an entire set of shelves dedicated to unread wonders, making new book selection easy. Now the hard part: only buying the essentials until I’ve pared away the unreads. Wish me luck and a great deal of fortitude on that one. I’m going to need it.

I am not a girly-girl. I’ve never treated myself to a manicure, I have less interest in shoes than most men, and my blow dryer last saw action several months ago when I removed one those flashy stickers some companies like to plaster all over their products. And yet.

And yet I am all about rainbows and butterflies and chirping birds and, yes, flowers. Not on t-shirts or binders or anything plastic and decorative, you understand. Just in reality, in this dimension.

Which is why I’m loving this summer so very much. Flowers are everywhere, blatantly growing and spreading and blooming. Three volunteer rosebushes sprouted in my vegetable garden, globe mallows are sweeping up and down the hillsides, and wild irises are grinning like lunatics in the mountain sunshine. It’s an obscene rainbow of blossoms carpeting everything outside of town except the rocks and asphalt. It’s like the Disney Channel, except no princesses.

What’s great about flowers, beyond the fact that they are nice-looking and they usually smell good and they stand still when I try to take pictures of them, is that they make no pretense whatsoever. They are all about the pollination, their petals and perfumes and colors brashly yelling, “Come and get it!” to any passing insects. It’s hard not to admire such honesty, especially when packaged so prettily.

Alas (if one can use such a word in 2009) this year the ridiculous abundance that overtook the local flowership completely skipped every fruit tree I know and love. Our neighbor’s apricot, which hangs halfway into our backyard, always produces enough to make any self-respecting fruit-lover sick to her stomach. This year, though? Only leaves. The plum tree? Nothing. Peaches? Not a one.

Only the Bing cherry in our front yard deigned to bring forth anything remotely edible - lots and lots of gorgeous cherries, swinging merrily in the early summer breeze. No doubt they were delicious, too. I wouldn’t actually know, you see, since the birds cleaned off the branches exactly one day before I planned my harvest. They did look yummy, though, plump and juicy and deep, sweet red.

Hrm. Now that I think about it, I take back what I said above about liking birds. Greedy little suckers. Flowers, though. Those I still adore. And rainbows and butterflies, of course. And once our trees start making fruit the way God and the garden center that sold them intended, I’m sure I’ll start liking them again, too. Check back next July, and I’ll let you know.

Obligatory flower photo. This one’s in our front yard.

I’m seeing a new dentist. I suppose that makes it sound like we’re dating, but it’s actually more serious than that - This guy, after all, has greater responsibilities than selecting a restaurant and picking up the check.^[1] In short, his duty is to make sure I keep my teeth as long as possible.^[2]

Until last Monday it had been, oh, a while since I last seated myself in a pleather dental chair. But just over a week ago I took a loaded clipboard and a cheap black pen from a friendly receptionist, plopped down in an empty waiting room, and began to fill in approximately three thousand blanks while waiting for my name to be called. Turns out the paperwork required for a professional floss job is more invasive than a dating service questionnaire. They requested info on everything but my astrological sign^[3] and whether or not I want children someday^[4]. Even my marital status and social security number were up for discussion.

Of course, it would have gone a lot faster if a) they’d shown a little restraint in the inquisition department, b) I wrote as speedily - and as legibly - as I type, c) I could have stilled the jittery knee on which I’d balanced the clipboard and d) my own list of dental-related questions would have shut up as requested. How often do you have to floss in order to say you do it regularly? I found myself wondering. Is monthly enough? Will weekly work? And What are the moral implications of lying to my dentist about the last time I had my teeth professionally cleaned? Do you go to hell for that, or is it an understandable white lie? Do all your teeth fall out in retribution? And, finally, the tiny, niggling little If I lie, will they find out and dump me?

Still wondering if I’d gotten all the answers right, I handed the clipboard back and then dug through my bag for Meg Cabot’s latest, Being Nikki - a fun, but not particularly deep or intricate sequel that’s perfect for waiting room reading. And then they called my name. Swallowing hard, I gathered my stuff and followed the hygienist into the back.

With all the nervousness and questions, it’s no wonder the visit itself was pleasantly anticlimactic: Two hours of scraping and polishing and rinsing and digging and, yes, pain. Most importantly, though: No cavities. My teeth felt loose and puffy afterward, and encased by the same tingling ache I always experienced for days after I skipped my eighth grade history class to have my braces tightened.

I wrapped up the appointment by solemnly swearing to become better acquainted with dental floss, then gathered my stuff and beat it to the receptionist’s desk, where I set up my next appointment. Six months and counting.

Turned out I wasn’t done, though. As I swished through the waiting room and toward the door, still running my tongue over my newly sparkling teeth, one of the hygienists called me back to personally tell me goodbye and invite me to return, saying that I was fun and a pleasure to work with. I felt absurdly pleased, like a kid who wins high marks for cooperation on her third grade report card.^[5] Though I can’t say I enjoyed the visit myself, I can’t complain - I do still have all my teeth, after all, and that is the goal.

1. Do men even do that anymore? [↩]
2. Bonus points for accomplishing the goal with a minimum of pain. [↩]
3. Gemini [↩]
4. Yes [↩]
5. True story. [↩]

I bought a tub of cottage cheese the other day, which means my weight loss plan finally has a chance of working. I never would have made the connection, except the other night hubby and I were in a restaurant and, while I was trying to decide which delectably greasy item to order, guilt nudged me toward the “On the Lite Side”(sic) portion of the menu. You know, all that heart-healthy, tasteless crap they dish up just so they can say they cater to everyone. It was there that I saw the key to effortless weight loss. It’s a trick that all restaurants seem to know, yet women’s magazines still have not picked up on: eat cottage cheese. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, according to menus across the country, one scoop of cottage cheese is all you need in order to stay healthy and lose weight, no matter what accompanies those blessed curds. And the good news is, all restaurant diet plates come with it, so you’ll never be without this magic gut-shrinking agent. And to think, you’ve been lied to all this time: Dieting is not about the portion size, the fat content, or even those now-meaningless calories (or kilocalories for those sticklers out there).

Skeptical? Itching for more specific proof than “every restaurant’s doing it”? Fine, then. Just witness this listing under the diet section of the restaurant menu mentioned above: ½ lb. ground top sirloin with a side of peaches and cottage cheese. And, no, I swear to you I’m not making this up. In fact, I just called the restaurant to verify, in case it was actually supposed to read “Mixed salad greens tossed in a light vinaigrette dressing, accompanied by a side of steamed broccoli and a dish of low fat cottage cheese”.

Since all evidence points to syrupy canned peaches, and we all know a whopping ½ lb. serving of beef doesn’t fit into traditional heart-healthy parameters, it must be the cottage cheese that makes this dinner choice “lite”. Which is the reason I had no worries about the contents of my plate at a family barbeque I attended on Saturday. All I had to do was add a spoonful of the miraculous side dish, and I could eat whatever I wanted. In fact, when I weighed myself that night, I had actually lost weight. It’s a miracle.

My kind of diet: Cheeseburger, baked beans, brownie and, of course, cottage cheese (which makes it all good for me).

My husband and I lie back-to-back on the hotel bed, neither moving in case the other is finally on the cusp of sleep. No talking, no fidgeting. Those are the rules.

Like most motels, a blaring yellow light floods the concrete walkway outside our door. It spills around the edges of the thick curtains and leaks into the room. I use it to gaze around my temporary habitat - cheap furniture, no clock, bags half-opened to let clothing spill out, a table with one chair, the ubiquitous luggage rack we’ve never used in any hotel.

Over there, inches away, lies another person, in his own world of thoughts. And, as per the unspoken rules, I cannot move or speak to bridge that gap, in case he has tumbled into sleep. Are his thoughts along the same theme as mine? I hate trying to sleep in hotel rooms.

When you’re married, you share everything eventually–even insomnia.

Against my will, paragraphs begin to shape themselves in my mind. I grope for my spiral notebook and a pencil and write them down, my script spiky and angled, overlapping in the dark. When I give up on sleep I slip from bed and fumble for my clothes in the grey darkness. I dress, barely breathing, thankful for the carpet swallowing the sound of my steps. My husband, whose occasional shifts and sighs betrayed his wakefulness throughout the night, doesn’t stir now, and I hope that he, at last, is asleep and dreaming, as I am unable to do.

I run my fingers through my hair and let myself out of the room, padding down the hallway toward the lobby and its free internet access. Around me, the smell of coffee brewing, and on TV a news anchor grimly analyzing the stock market. The cheerful desk clerk nods at me, then goes back to his morning paper. I scan the continental breakfast offering: Danishes, two kinds of muffins, and Tang - carbs and chemicals. Outside, flower petals chase each other on the breeze. Cars shoosh past.

Stifling a yawn, I feed the results of my notebook ramblings into the computer and publish them. Perhaps nearly everything is worth it if it gives you something to write about.

These days I’m finding it unusually hard to get out of bed. It’s not the time change, hateful and inhumane though it is. And it’s not that I spend each sleeping minute lumped upon by three dead-weight felines, whose combined corpulence equals thirty-six pounds of purring, furry, gelatinous cat. No. It’s the fact that our new mattress pad begins each night with about as much give as a slab of concrete, but by morning it has the structural integrity of warm marshmallow.

Here’s a tip: Do not buy a mattress that tries, night after night, to eat you.

Once upon a time, investing in a Memory Foam mattress topper seemed like a sensible plan. Long before we met, my husband — who had taken to sleeping on the floor of his college dorm room — finally broke down and purchased a bed. Since habit dictated that even carpeting was too soft for sleep, he asked for the firmest mattress they had. Unfortunately, they delivered. He was thrilled. Plywood would have been softer, and asphalt more forgiving. Life was perfect.

As it turned out, when I married my husband his bed came with him. While I immediately abhorred the thing, hubs’s turnaround came more slowly. Recently, after years of tingling fingers, aching shoulders, and dead arms, I made an executive decision: It was time for a new mattress.

Here’s another tip: Executive decisions should only be made after a full night of sleep.

To our surprise, mattresses, while they seem simple, cost as much as both our cars put together, but without the handy test drive to make sure everything feels okay. Time for a new plan. And so, several weeks later, a thick, gray, queen-sized expanse of foam came into our lives. Filled with enthusiasm, we tore open the box, poured it out, and ripped off the plastic bag in which it came. Then we stood back as it slowly unfurled itself, like a prehistoric beast stretching after a long winter’s sleep. We watched it rapturously. Soon life would be perfect, our dreams delightful and uninterrupted, our nights unmarred by discomfort.

The cats were more skeptical, sniffing the air around it with great distrust, jumping away when we nudged it, and daring one another to cross its dimpled expanse. Dropping them in the center sparked duck-and-cover maneuvering as they tried to escape this brand new enemy.

Final tip: Sometimes cats have a good point.

Bubbling with anticipation, we ignored their fears. Instead, we tossed it into place on top of the old mattress, fitted the sheets over it, and waited for night to fall. To our horror^[1], though, when bedtime hit we quickly discovered that our revolutionary new Memory Foam mattress topper morphs into a four-inch-thick brick in the cold evening air. We didn’t so much crawl into bed as on top of it. The pad hesitated^[2] and then, with an almost audible sigh, it slowly began to give under our weight and warmth. Fighting back giggles, we watched each other sink until our bodies had formed deep, steep-sided troughs from which we then fought to free ourselves each time we rolled over, reached for our bedside glasses of water, or flailed for the snooze button. In the morning we excavated ourselves with effort, as the sleep-softened foam beneath us sucked at our tired bodies and the untouched, cold foam beside and between us formed impossible, unyielding walls. Once we had escaped, a glance back at the bed showed the outlines of our sleeping positions, as crisply formed as chalk lines around a murder victim.

It has been thus for weeks now. While we are gradually growing accustomed to this new arrangement and the mild spring days make for softer nights, well, it’s still no wonder I was late to work today: My mattress tried to have me for breakfast.

1. mine more than my husband’s [↩]
2. which led my husband to quip, “Foam has slow memory. Needs more RAM” in a stilted, computer-esque voice. [↩]

It’s beautiful out — a clear, blue, bird-filled day.  A light breeze teases the undropped leaves still clinging to their branches, and sun has conquered snow in all but the most shadowed corners of every lawn.

It’s also cold enough to freeze the hind end off a penguin, which is why I’m lounging in our living room gazing out at the world rather than jogging or taking a hike or riding a bike through it. Although I should, just the thought makes me shudder and my veins ice over.

The indoor options are nearly as bleak. If I spend one more minute on my exercise machine I’m liable to find myself a good smelter and have it rendered into scrap metal, or whatever it is you do with annoying machinery. Short of jumping jacks, weight-lifting cans of ravioli, or doing laps around my kitchen, any other exercise choices require leaving my climate controlled house for the big, bad, wintry outdoors.

I’m a shivering, sniveling wimp when the thermometer dips below forty^[1], so this would normally be an easy choice. But eleven days ago we crested the hill and skidded over into 2009. After the food-fest that stretches from Halloween to Christmas, I’d been mumbling about losing my more Rubenesque qualities and getting back into shape and now, to my consternation, I had a convenient start date.

Despite the timing, I wouldn’t say I made a resolution, exactly. More like a vow^[2] recklessly proclaimed at the same time so many others were resolving the same thing: I would lose this winter weight or starve in the attempt. And with my kitchen skills, starvation was a very real possibility.

Since limiting calories goes hand-in-hand with exercise, I dragged my workout clothes to the front of my closet several days before the first of the year. Then I primed the exercise machine I’d forgotten I hated. I also made A Plan, which everyone knows is nearly as important as actually Carrying Out The Plan. Then I waited for the new year to begin. The waiting is the fun part, before the hope and excitement have been tempered by reality and, most importantly, before the actual sacrifice begins.

The first of January had its pleasures as well. Filled with promise, I bounded from bed — or would have if I’d had a proper night’s sleep — and sauntered into the kitchen to prepare a healthful breakfast, complete with vitamin pills big enough to choke a horse. When lunch and dinner came around, I prepared them as per The Plan, too, then dutifully entered all calories into my chart. I even exercised that afternoon.

Optimism carried me through three days, and pride through another four. Now I’m surviving on sheer, brute strength, and other than occasional lapses and, of course, the Great Exercise Dilemma of 2009, things are going pretty well. I’m only occasionally starving, and I’ve already lost an entire pound, enough to make…well, no difference whatsoever. But I’m nothing if not determined, even when cold and tired and hungry, which is exactly how I keep ending up.

**Update**
11:14 a.m. - 1:03 p.m.

1. As it generally does this time of year. After three years in the Rockies, you’d think I’d be used to it. [↩]
2. The difference is this: Resolutions are made to be broken, whereas vows are binding and, frankly, much more dramatic. They’re often louder, too. [↩]

Because of our wildly divergent schedules — not to mention total disagreement in what foods are considered palatable — hubs and I rarely eat together unless dining out. Instead, most evenings I eat like a single person, petting my cat and reading a book while slurping down far too many foods that emerged from a box just minutes before. Two hours later, I watch hubs prepare and eat his own meal.

Recently, however, I vowed that this would change. Not the schedule, perhaps, but the cuisine. After all, I’m on the road to good health and inner peace. My horoscope told me so, and the calendar backs it up.^[1]

After a little thought, I had the perfect meal idea. Since everybody knows that breakfast foods taste best after 5 p.m., I cased the refrigerator and cupboards for supplies, and soon I was chopping, whisking, stirring, and simmering until I had a lovely breakfast burrito — double wrapped for structural integrity, since I lack the gene that tells me when my tortillas are too full to tuck into without tearing. Two bites in, I had sour cream all over my fingers, Basil the cat begging for attention on the stool beside mine, and an empty paper towel roll in front of me. But the burrito was delicious, so I had no cause for complaint.

An hour later my husband came home, inhaled the remnants of cooked eggs, chiles, and green and red peppers, and declared himself hungry for a breakfast burrito of his very own.

Halfway through teasing him about being a follower, the good news struck: We finally have another recipe we both enjoy. I think that makes four.

1. Speaking of resolutions, check to the right for the newest poll. A new one goes up every week. [↩]