My body after baby

Confession: Today I bought a dress that totally didn't fit me. Unfortunately, it's not that it was too big (an easy fix with a cinched belt); it was too small. And I knew this, but it didn't stop me from bypassing the dressing rooms, taking said dress up to the front register and purchasing it. That's right, I bought it. All in the name of cute minimalist color-blocking and an exposed zipper down the back.

Like an idiot I was all happy to get home and try on the damn dress so I could brag to everyone I knew about how at two months postpartum, I already fit into “those” kind of dresses – the kind with cinched waists, slim shoulders and tailored butts. You know, the skinny girl kind. Of course somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew full well I wouldn't fit into the thing. I still have 14 el bees of baby weight to lose (although I hide it very, very well) and once in a while I'll look at myself naked in the mirror and swear my ass has exploded to Kim Kardashian proportions. J insists this isn't the case but husbands can't always be trusted when their wife's weight is at issue. Anyway, irrational Crystal assured me that somehow it would fit, or at least I'd force it to fit. Well let's just say that if the dress were Cinderella's glass slipper it would be less like this:

And more like this:

It was much worse than a little snug. I felt like a sausage stuffed in to size zero casing. Curtains of armpit fat spilled out the arm holes. My thighs made the fabric across them pucker in a most unappealing fashion. And the waist. . .well, it looked like I'd slipped a small rubberband over my torso to use as some makeshift belt. This time last year this dress would have looked stunning on me, in fact it probably would have been loose on and I would have pretended I didn't love all the compliments I'd get for how great I looked in it. Now I looked like Jeana Keough from Real Housewives of Orange County, albeit with no Playboy Magazine past to attest to my former hotness.

Dejected, I tore the dress off and flung it over my shoulder into the baby's empty crib (I currently use Ava's nursery as my second closet). So, aside from collecting dust on its hanger, I guess this dress could serve one of two purposes:

• It can serve as a reminder that I'm a fat cow now that I've had a baby. This can further remind me that not only has the baby sucked me dry of all energy (along with parts of my soul), she's also ruined my body in her wake. 
• It can serve as a reminder that though I may be of fat cow status now, if I work hard at losing the weight I can one day fit into some version of this dress again.

Of those two purposes I think I'm better off attempting to be a little positive, so I'm going with option number 2. Like Stella, I need to get my groove back. The dress will now join my pre-pregnancy Hudson Jeans, Banana Republic little black dress and countless other garments that don't fit me to serve as overall motivation to get myself (and my butt) back into shape.

I'm not asking to look like a Victoria's Secret Angel, but I also don't want to keep going this way and wind up padding around my house in a leopard-print muumuu like Kirstie Alley with a bag of Cheetos. I want to feel good about my body again and not automatically hold a shirt or towel up over my midsection if J happens to walk in on me while I'm changing. I never used to be that girl who was insecure about her body. Before I was Samantha Jones about my body; now I'm Bridget Jones. Maybe it's karma for sunbathing topless once in my entire life because I wanted to know what all the fuss was about (turns out not much, other than sunburned boobs).

For a girl who hates working out I don't quite know what I'm going to do aside from count calories and starve myself back to skinny-ness...but that seems a bit unreasonable at the moment since I need every last ounce of my energy to make it through these days. Plus, the last time I counted calories -- 1,100 calories per day – I always felt like I was one step away from fainting like some character in a Jane Austen novel. Definitely not conducive to raising a baby.

I plan to keep walking and maybe I'll gradually cut my calories here and there. I suppose the occasional crunch wouldn't hurt either. I've been a good little witch and cut out my brownie batter habit a few weeks ago, so there's that. The next step is cutting out most of the junk food I eat (humongous sigh). I guess I'll have to say goodbye to Taco Bell, Panda Express, Red Vines licorice and basically anything else that comes packaged in a box, bag or jar. This is the best rule of thumb for a diet since anything packaged in one of these is generally high in sodium, preservatives and, well, all that stuff that tastes good. I once heard that the most healthy way to shop the grocery store was to cruise the perimeter, which makes sense. That's where all the produce, meats, dairy and freshly baked goods are. Everything else in the store's middle is just junk (no matter how good it tastes). So if it means I can get back into that dress and back into a better frame of mind about my body,  I'll make the sacrifice and shop the perimeter more.

After all, not only are there clothes in my closet waiting to hang out with me again, the holidays are just around the corner and that means. . . holiday dress season!!! (I type those exclamation points with heartfelt sarcasm.) Normally this time of year elicits quiet squeals from me since holiday dress shopping and wearing are some of my favorite things. This year, though, I'm meeting it with equal parts skepticism and remorse. No matter how much I cut calories there's no way in a healthy hell I'd ever be able to drop 14 pounds by Christmas. It's a crap situation all around. Nevertheless, I've got three events in December already lined up that I need to at least try and look good at:

1.) A white elephant Christmas party one of my new mom friends is throwing for a group of us mothers. Obviously a cocktail dress would be too dressy for this occasion, but I still need to be the hottest mother there. Naturally.

2.) J's office holiday party. It's being held at a steakhouse in downtown SF (fancy, fancy) and is a great excuse to rock a stunning cocktail dress. Lucky me? Again, I need to be the hottest wife there. It's a gold standard I constantly strive for.

3.) My cousin's wedding. It's going to be a black-tie, evening shindig, so a TKO dress is in order. I'm thinking something in a jewel tone that doesn't highlight the thin layer of fat I now carry around on my back. Not a big deal if I'm not the hottest person at this party since half my extended family are Persian Kardashian-lookalikes that make me look super vanilla in comparison.

I miss my husband

There. I said it. I miss my husband. No, he's not away on some weeks-long business trip or stuck in Manhattan due to any apocalypse-esque hurricane. Nope, he's only about 20 miles away and for some reason that 20 miles feels like 200.

I guess I should preface this with the good news: J got a new job! Mostly thanks to me, since I'm the one that forwarded him the listing online when I saw it (and was slightly obsessed with him moving up the ladder to a higher paying, more prestigious position). Okay, I suppose it also helped that he went to an ivy league school and gained great experience at the law firm he was currently with, but I like to think that my emailing him the posting kicked off all this good news (however delusional that may be). After an initial call to come interview and another month or so of interviews later, J was offered the job, which he promptly accepted. Score!

In a nutshell this job is everything we wished for while he was in law school. Tony street address in one of the best buildings in the city's financial district. Marble lobby with gilded sculptures leering down at all who enter. An office on one of the top floors. A view of Coit Tower and the Transamerica Pyramid from J's window. Big clients and complex legal work. More money than I ever dreamed of having at age 30. After years of uncertainty thanks to the effects of a terrible economy on the legal profession, we -- or I should say he -- had finally joined the big leagues.

For those who've followed my blog over the last few years, you'd think this is all I ever wanted. Frankly, it was. But as is the case with my rose-colored lenses, I tend to only look at "how cool" a situation can be without measuring the negatives as well. Stuck in the path of a historical hurricane? Color me jealous. Lost in the wilderness for three days? At least you lived to tell about it. You were there when Lincoln was shot? Not only would I envy you, I'd also quietly sign up for more theater ticket reminders just in case.

So of course when J got the formal job offer, I was beyond thrilled. We celebrated with cigars and a bottle of Blue Label and stayed up all night talking about how different our lives were going to be now that he had this job. What I didn't consider was that every positive difference also comes with a negative one. I was blind to the the yin and yang until he started work last Monday.

It's only been over a week and I already feel like he's had this job for ages. How could I have thought this was all I ever wanted? Stupid, stupid me. I'm lucky now if he gets home before 8pm, and even when he does it doesn't matter because he's so exhausted from waking up early that all he wants to do is eat dinner and go to bed. He loves his new job so much that he often loses track of time in the office and only notices it's late when I call him and remind him that the sun is coming up in a couple hours (okay, it hasn't gotten to that point yet, but you get the point).

Only having dinner together once in the last seven business days is not all I ever wanted. Watching Anderson Cooper 360 every evening with Ava as my conversational companion is not quite the tradeoff I'd envisioned once J had a Big Law job. Handing Ava over to J when he gets home so I can do some things for myself like, oh I don't know, take a shower, tends to quell any quality time we can spend together throughout the week. I just want my husband back, but I guess this is the tradeoff. If I really want the lifestyle I've always dreamed of, then I've got to give something up...no matter how much it sucks.

So what's more worth it: time or money? I miss our time together but I can't complain about the money, so I don't argue about his long work hours because I know he's simply providing for his family. How else will we be able to do all the things we want to do, like eventually buy a bigger home, travel the world, make real estate investments, (hopefully) retire early, etc. etc.? Does that mean my silence has been bought? Slightly disturbing when thought about this way.

Of course J knows how I feel, but at the same time we're both realistic and know that it's better to work harder younger and enjoy money later than it is to work harder older and not have the time (or mobility) to enjoy it in your geriatric years. Over waffles on Sunday, I told J that I completely understand why he has to work so hard right now. I really do. I am, after all, the person who sparked all this off by emailing him that job posting. I wanted it so bad I could taste it. And as much as I miss him, I'm inspired by his work ethic and commitment to his craft. But at the same time I know myself and I know I can't do this forever. Thankfully he understood, and visions of me in my 70s waiting for him to retire while I lounge lakeside and alone on the banks of Como quickly dissipated.

For now I'll just have to take it day to day and hope it gets easier. At least he changed jobs at a time when caring for Ava on my own isn't as harrowing as it initially was (the thought of him making this transition when we first had her would have been mortifying, to say the least). And because he's in the city now, it gives me more of an excuse to head in and have lunch or dinner with him when I can.

But still, even after five years of marriage, I have this sense of urgency with him and our relationship. It's that butterflies-in-your-tummy, I-can't-get-enough-of-you urgency that makes you do crazy things when you're dating a boy you love, like stay up late talking all night on the phone, make out like teenagers in the rain, or drive for hours just to see him for a quick visit. It's a drug, that urgency, and for some reason I still feel it with J, which makes him working like this all the more harder for me to stomach. But paper covers rock and dollars cover wife, so again I shouldn't complain.

Regardless, I still (and always will) miss him.

The baby blues

Tuesday officially marked my baby's two-month birthday. By the way, her name is Ava.

Ava celebrated this momentous occasion by sleeping through most of the day, only opening her eyes and squeaking or crying when she wanted to be fed (right now she doesn't ask for much). For the first time in eight weeks, I finally -- finally! -- have time to sit down and write something, which I really should have been doing from Day 1, but all other excuses aside, I've been so busy with Ava that I often can't remember what day it is, much less how to even begin recording my thoughts on this whole process online or getting back to writing the book. While time, or the lack thereof, was a factor keeping me from blogging, I have to be honest and say that I was also scared to start writing about it all. Especially that first month of having her. Why? Because it wasn't the idyllic situation that I always envisioned having a baby would be like.

I felt that if I admitted this through words it would make me a bad person (and an equally bad mother). Something like Joan Crawford's character in Mommy Dearest, minus all that wire hanger business. By week 4 or 5, I literally felt like I was going insane. Of course I love Ava to death, but those first few weeks were so foreign to me. It felt like I was tossed into a maelstrom of transition that I wasn't prepared for, what with the sleepless nights, uncomfortable healing "down there," and the stress of hearing a tiny baby emit hours of bloodcurdling cries and an inability to understand what it is they actually want after diapers are changed and tummies are fed.

The frosting on the cake for me was my detachment from the situation. I felt like I wanted to turn in on myself and disappear. Sometimes I felt like she was a stranger when I'd hold her. Other times I felt like she didn't love me because she didn't recognize me as her mother (which is stupid, really, since at that age she couldn't recognize a zucchini, much less her own mother). Often I'd resent her -- for needing so much of me that I had nothing left over for myself. Terrible to say, right? And I feel guilty for even writing it now, although I've since come to grips with most of this. I'd cry for no reason, missing my "old" life even though I was happy to say goodbye to it up until the day we brought her home. I'd be so pissed at J, sometimes even resentful of him, for giving me this new life and being able to leave every day for work while I had to suffer through it alone. I hated how my post-baby body looked and missed the old times where I could actually feel my core and use it for good posture.

Every day was an up/down confluence of emotions, going from extremely sad to (once in a while) very happy. I felt like I was stuck in someone else's life, taking care of this baby that I had no connection with. I was scared that I felt any of this, even though I'd read about it in popular baby books and heard from endless television doctors that this was "normal." Well, it might be considered normal but it didn't feel normal to me. Normal moms were put together and organized, loved their new lives as mothers and got pure satisfaction from their babies. I felt sad and resentful, terribly absent-minded and mentally scattered, like my brain was in a fog. The worst part was that I didn't want to talk to anyone about it. J was the only one who knew what I was going through. I felt guilty for feeling the way I did and that I'd somehow be a failure if I admitted any of it out loud to close friends or family, which made me feel more isolated because I didn't feel I could be honest with anyone, sometimes not even myself. This would just feed into my sadness, which would make me feel even more isolated and...well, you get the cyclical point.

So at my six-week postpartum checkup with my doctor (you know, that awkward office visit where doctors pretend everyone alludes to sex as "intercourse" and they let you know whether you can or can't have it yet), they made me take a written postpartum test. On this test I had to circle answers in multiple choice form and apparently I couldn't hide my sadness enough because my doctor told me I had borderline postpartum depression.

My first thought was: "Great, I'm officially a statistic," because though I'd read about postpartum depression I didn't think I'd actually ever get it. It was one of those scary things you hear about and hope to never experience, like foreclosures or herpes. Other people might get those things, but those type of people serve as cautionary tales. My second thought was "Jesus, if I'm borderline, I cringe to think what full-blown postpartum depression is." After all, I was always a happy-go-lucky girl, easily finding humor in even the worst situations. That girl is still in me, but now I just need to work at maintaining her. My third thought was: "How the hell do I get better?" I didn't like feeling blue all the time.

My doctor's answer was simple. "Prozac," she said, suggesting it like taking Prozac was as common as chewing gum.

"I'd really rather not," I said. After all, she had just said I was borderline, not full-blown, and I refused to believe that medication was the only way to happiness again. At least not in my circumstance. 

"It would only be for a month or two. Three tops. Then you can stop taking it," she said.

I think the look on my face, a look made of two-parts confusion and one-part fear with just a dash of skepticism, said it all. "Okay, but is there anything else I could do besides take pills?" I asked. Visions of me losing my mind and moving to L.A. to be a failed actress with my anti-depressants instantly surfaced, because clearly -- to me, at least -- anything related to pills has to be lifted from the pages of a Jacqueline Susann novel. Yes, my limited knowledge of prescription drugs pretty much centers around Valley of the Dolls.

She asked if I used to work out, and through my haze I did actually find this funny since there's nothing I loathe more than working out, except maybe men who wear athletic sneakers. I told her I used to walk a lot, but this wasn't so much for working out as it was a good excuse to get out of the house and listen to my iShuffle. Nevertheless, it was still some form of physical activity that didn't include getting off and on the couch according to Bravo's TV show lineup.

"You could try walking again," she said, and then went on to tell me how endorphins play a part in us humans being happy. "...But when I see you at our next appointment, let me know how it's going and whether you want to start Prozac," she added (endorphins aside). Jesus, I thought, this lady was really pushing the meds. I thanked her and said I'd think it over between now and our next appointment, but the truth was I wanted no part in Prozac.

So I started walking. Even when Ava cried or acted fussy for hours on end and it probably would have been easier to stay at home in my PJs with her and zone out on some Real Housewives episode, I'd get dressed, pack her up in her stroller and we'd stroll the neighborhood together. She'd fall asleep while I (quietly) rocked out to Lady Gaga and miraculously I started to feel better. Just a little. At about week 6, I decided it was time for her and I to get out into the world more, past the confines of our neighborhood. I know this doesn't seem like much, especially since the old Crystal went out into the world every day, but with a baby, the world kind of feels like a new place. Taking your baby out into it for the first time is terrifying. What if she cries while I'm shopping? I'd think. How or where will I change her diaper if she needs to be changed? What if I can't get the carseat properly put in the car? What if I run of out of bottled milk while we're out and she has a fit? (I'm not one to whip out the boob in public. I just. Can't.)

Slowly we'd go out more, running an errand here and there. I got the hang of snapping her carseat in and out of its base in my car. I grew more sure of myself unpacking and packing her stroller into our trunk. If she'd start to cry in a store, I became more adept at understanding what she'd want. Pretty soon us going out became like second nature to me and the blues I had slowly began to fade.

Then one day she decided to smile for the first time and it was like sunshine peeking through my gray cloudy haze. All of a sudden something connected between us, with that smile of hers, and I couldn't help but smile back. That smile told me that she finally recognized who I was, that all this hard work was paying off. I smiled back at her and it was all over. Since then she smiles almost every time she sees me and in the last week or so she's started babbling and trying her hardest to mimic sounds I make. They're all nonsensical sounds, but it makes me so much happier to feel like we're somewhat communicating with one another. If you had told me this the first couple weeks of her being home I wouldn't have believed it -- how would a smile or babbling make me happy? But it just does. Maybe it's this instinctual thing hardwired into my mother gene. Who knows.

As much as I love the babbles, I also knew I needed to make friends with other moms in my area, which would motivate me to get out even more. So I did. Right now I'm part of two mom groups in my town and while I still routinely have out-of-body experiences when four or five of us walk down a street with our strollers (I never thought I'd be one of those women), it's nice spending time with people who are going through the same thing as me. I don't connect with all of them equally but unlike clubs for books or movies, babies seem like a true commonality you can bond over.

So in the end I am doing better (thank God) and this whole "being a mother" thing seems to get slightly easier every day. I still don't always have the time to eat breakfast or lunch, and there are days I want to bang my head a few times against my brick fireplace because I've been holding her for 4+ hours and I'm tired and hungry and my arm feels like it's going to fall off, yet I can't put her down or else she'll start wailing. But then there are days where I can see what people mean when they say it's "all worth it." Those are usually the days where she'll look up at me with those baby blues and give me a big toothless grin. Just a simple, silent grin. And on those days it feels like my heart smiles.

Peanut has arrived

My little bundle is finally here! My doctor induced me a week after my due date (on a Wednesday night). By Thursday morning my body was responding so well with contractions that I got to forgo the second round of induction drugs and by the early afternoon I was already pushing. Despite my worst fears, labor and delivery was actually a breeze. So much so that I won't be scared at all when we're ready to have Baby #2. The epidural was a Godsend and I was in such a good place during pushing that I laughed the whole time and made jokes with the doctor and nurse. J was amazed and relieved, since he kind of didn't know what to expect either, but according to him I didn't even break a sweat. And, after bébé made her grand entrance into the world, the doctor said I'd escaped my first pregnancy without one stretch mark. Victory was mine! Guess it paid to indulge in all those bottles of cocoa butter.

Bébé at one week old.

Anyway, my biggest victory was holding her for the first time in my arms. Yes, she was covered in slime and crying, but when you've got that little body laying across your chest for the first time all that blood and slime just seem to be insignificant. I cried; J cried. After we got her home and family and friend visitors started to dwindle after the first few days, we finally had our first moments of being alone with her. Everything about her is amazing. The way she opens her dark blue eyes and tries so hard to focus on things like the front door or a tree or some framed art we have up. The way she stubbornly keeps trying to hold her head up even though it's still much too heavy for her tiny neck. Even the way she throws up on my shoulder when I burp her -- always masterfully missing the burp rag and aiming it right on my clothing. It's all amazing. I can't imagine how fascinating it's going to be watching her consciousness form over the next few years and rediscovering the world through her untainted eyes.

Baby update

So yesterday was my official due date. . .and it came and went with no baby in sight. :(

I had an appointment with my doctor yesterday morning and she stripped my membranes, which I'll spare you the details of since it was equal parts uncomfortable and strange. Stripping membranes (sidenote: how cool of a band name is that?) is supposed to be a last-ditch effort to kick-start labor, but so far I've felt nothing since I've had it done. Which depresses me on two levels:

1.) I was really, really looking forward to meeting our baby girl already! I know it's pretty unrealistic to expect she'd come on her due date (especially since only 5% of babies make their grand entrance on the actual day), but still, I hoped she'd be in that 5%. Or even better, I had hoped we would have her early, like around J's 30th birthday on August 10th. That would have been the ULTIMATE birthday present. Unfortunately, I had no baby to give him. . . just a barbecue I picked up at Home Depot. While it's nice he finally has a grill, it's really no substitute for a baby.

2.) If labor doesn't start on its own, I'll have to be induced next week. It's a fairly routine procedure, but for some reason the prospect of being induced still scares the living crap out of me. Not like regular labor and delivery doesn't (you want me to push what out of where?!), but this is like icing on the cake. If, in the off-chance, induction doesn't work then they may need to do a C-section since I'll be in the hospital already and all hooked up to everything.

So for now I'm just sitting here, hoping (praying?) that labor starts on its own. Of course, now I've probably jinxed it and I'll have to wait till Wednesday for the induction, but the longer this whole process drags out, the more scared I get. I really want to avoid a c-section unless absolutely medically necessary. I have no idea how my body will react to the Pitocin drip they'll hook me up on to get my contractions started. I have no idea how the Pitocin may affect the baby. Thinking about these things and more just gets me doubly anxious, which I know isn't good for baby. I'm trying to keep myself preoccupied and calm -- I read, I write, I shop -- but now that I'm past the 11th hour it's so hard to focus on anything since my mind keeps wandering back to all this.

It could be a lot worse . . . or a lot better

I hate it when people say "Well, it could be a lot worse."

Yes, I admit, I used to be one of those people who would say that. More often than I realized. But if you think about it, it's such a trite, meaningless thing to say. All it does is temporarily make you feel better about whatever tragedy -- great or small -- you're currently going through. Kind of like religion.

Of course it could be a lot worse. Anything could be a lot worse. But most of us don't live a life of extremes where things are either catastrophic on a daily basis or so Technicolor that you need a pair of RayBans just to see through all the everyday joy. Most of us live somewhere in the middle -- a place where, in general, everything is usually copacetic (save for the occasional cancer scare or pet death).

Maybe my hatred of the whole "It could be a lot worse" platitude is that not only is it said just to make one's self feel better about whatever substandard state of affairs is happening, but it's also a way out. "It could be a lot worse" means "hey, my lot in life isn't so bad . . . I should be happy with this crap job/crap relationship/crap haircut." But why? Why should you be happy just because you're employed, just because you aren't alone, or just because you're not wearing a wig like Kim Zolciak? Maybe it's better being unemployed and exploring what it is you actually do best. Maybe you would be better off alone. Maybe you would even look better wearing a wig.

"It could be a lot worse" is like spoon-feeding yourself mediocrity. It demotivates you to do better, be better and live a better life. It's time to admit that sometimes circumstances just suck or don't go your way. Such is the way of life. But instead of climbing into a nice, comfortable pool of "it could be a lot worses", the kind of pool that makes it easier for you to settle your standards, why not say "it could be a lot better"? Maybe you could make more money, drive a better car, be in a better relationship or hang out with higher quality people -- people you actually consider "real" friends, not just ones you say are friends but secretly detest.

Perhaps a healthier way to think about it is somewhere out there, right now, someone is being born with a terrible birth defect that will affect the trajectory of the rest of their life. From their first breaths in this world they never had a chance like yours. Somewhere else out there someone is dying of starvation or terminal cancer or some degenerative disease with no cure. Do you think any of these people would want you using them as a reason for why you should feel better about yourself? Of course not. They'd kill to be in your position. One where you can actually change things because unlike them you have a chance at tomorrow. So forget about what's worse. Seize the way you can make it better.

Antiquing a French Provincial table on a budget

I've been on a Francophile kick lately for the baby girl's nursery theme: French Garden.

Over the past few months I've collected things here and there to try and make this nursery as calm and dreamlike as possible, but furniture was the one area that proved frustrating. I'd love more than anything to waltz into Pottery Barn and scoop up anything I want from their nursery collection, but money is a little tight with all our home remodels, and spending a grand here and there on nursery art and furniture just doesn't seem like the responsible thing to do. Luckily my parents bought us a beautiful new baby crib as a gift, so that was taken care of but I still needed a sidetable and a rocking chair.

After exhausting all searches on the Internet, I hit up my local consignment store looking for any type of table that I could modify. My only requirement? That it have French Provincial legs. Surprisingly these types of tables are more obscure than I thought, but just as I was about to leave the store empty-handed, I noticed this little hutch on provincial legs hiding under a rolled up rug:

(Ignore that goopy stuff on it. This was taken after we brought the thing home and slathered on some stripper compound to get rid of that awful Grandma patina walnut stain.) Grandma-furniture coloring aside, I saw major potential in this piece, especially with the adorable beveled detailing on the drawer and the steel mesh grids on the doors.

Since I'm conveniently pregnant at the moment, I had J work with all chemicals to antique this thing back to life so it would fit in a little girl's nursery. Like the diligent husband he is, J got to work stripping off the icky veneer. . .

This part took about two hours in 90-degree temps. Ugh.

Stripped and ready for painting. Much better already!

After perusing various design blogs, I decided to have J spray my little table with Rustoleum's "Heirloom White" paint in satin. I'm absolutely obsessed with this color -- it's a slight off-white with no yellow undertones like other off-whites. Two cans of spray paint and a sanding around all beveling and curves later, the final product was magnifique!:

Nice legs.

Love these curves.

The perfect nursery addition.

Materials Breakdown:

French table: $65
Stripper: $5
Mineral Spirits (to clean stripper off): $10
Two cans of spray paint: $8
Sandpaper: $4

Total Cost: $92

At just under a hundred dollars, I would say this project was a success! Especially considering that it was a solid wood piece and a hundred bucks barely gets you a heap of particle board at Target. We're currently at work antiquing a vintage rocker I found at another consignment store -- pics coming soon.

Boys: You can't go wrong with Kate Spade

So our five-year anniversary came and went and since we're on a bit of a budget with the bebe coming and all, we didn't do anything extravagant but had lots of fun regardless.

Earlier that day I'd been a bit irritated because my hair was not cooperating with me (first-world problems, I know) and no matter how much I curled it, it was so Goddamn hot here that the curls would just fall flat after a few minutes. And no, I will not use hairspray, this isn't the '80s and I'm not Sheila E. After a few more attempts I decided to put the curler down since I was afraid I was slowly burning my hair to death, and let's face it, my hair isn't really the first thing people notice anymore now that it looks like I shoved a volleyball up under my clothing where my flat tummy used to be. I continued primping and getting ready for J to come home from work and whisk me away on our date. And then I waited. And waited. And waited.

No sign of J when he said he'd be here, and by 7pm I was starting to get a mixture of pissed and worried since he also wasn't answering his cell phone and I started to wonder if he'd gotten into some horrific car accident or something. Then, just after 7, he pulls up in his mini cooper and comes running in the front door.

"Hey can you grab some groceries I picked up out of the trunk? I need to pee badly." By his urgent tone I wasn't putting it past him that he had, in fact, had one too many sodas at work and did, actually, need to pee.

"Ummm....okay," I replied, still disgruntled that he'd come home so late.

I waddled down our driveway (yes, I waddle now, how endearing is that?) and popped open his trunk. Of course there were no groceries there (we always grocery shop together, after all), but there was a bouquet of flowers and a big Kate Spade box wrapped up with a big ribbon. At this point the flowers and box eclipsed the fact that he was so late and he was standing right behind me smiling as I spun around and threw my arms around his neck, giving him a big, Hollywood, Frank Capra-directed kiss.

Once we took the stuff inside he told me to open the gift and there weren't one but two gifts inside. I kept playfully chiding him that he "shouldn't have" because we'd already said no gifts this anniversary because of our budget, but he said he was always planning to get an anniversary present for me,no matter what we discussed and I had to try not to smile so hard because what can I say? I love prezzies more than most people and what girl wouldn't want something from Kate Spade? And let's just say the boy done good: He bought me the pair of Simon shoes I'd been lusting over for, oh, the past six months:

And a gold bangle with a cork inset, since cork was the closest thing he could find to wood (which is the 5-year wedding anniversary material). My earlier irritation with my hair suddenly took a backseat to all this pampering, and I slipped on the shoes before we made our way to this little tapas restaurant we love downtown. A couple ginger ales later (and two Bombay martinis later for him) we realized three hours had already passed in the restaurant. Time flies when you've got good food and good conversation.

After splitting a coconut blueberry bread pudding dish and downing a couple divine cappuccinos, he asked what I wanted to do. I said we should go on a long drive and howl at the moon out the car windows, which is always my stock answer to this type of question since it is, actually, what I've always wanted to do. But I compromised with J that a drive up a hill near us would suffice, so we could see the cityscape at night below. Unfortunately our little drive was cut short when on our way up the hill we were met with locked gates, thanks to a state park curfew-at-sunset on the place, but at least we tried. No howling at the moon commenced, but it was an excellent five-year anniversary anyway.

Five years ago today...

I married the one I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. I've appreciated every single day with him and I hope we grow very, very old together. Sometimes I just don't feel like one lifetime is enough.

Leave Marissa Mayer alone (said in a Chris Crocker voice)

So the world is all atwitter about the new Yahoo CEO, Marissa Mayer (who's name sounds more like that of a Victoria's Secret model's and not of an ex-Google engineer). It's beyond impressive that a woman will be heading such a huge company. . .even if that company hasn't had the best track record in the last few years, and that fact that she's only 37? Well, not only is that even more outstanding, but it also makes me feel wildly unsuccessful, though I can't hate since I jumped the corporate bandwagon by choice and will never -- mark my words -- go back. So major props to her for sticking with it.

But the biggest news isn't that Marissa is Yahoo's new CEO. Nope, it's that she's (gasp!) six months pregnant(!!). Um, what decade is it again?  Obviously this woman is more than capable of running with the big dogs of business, so why are her talents and capabilities suddenly called into question just because she's got a bun in the oven? Oh I forgot, because people are still saying women can't have it all. Now I know not every woman is cut out for high-stress, high-powered work (I'm looking at yours truly here), but some are, some even choose it and work hard for it, and I think Marissa has proven she can do it all. Yes, this is her first baby, but her career has obviously been a top priority in her life till now -- and if she accepted said job at this point in her life knowing she's going to be con baby in about three months, why should the media/analysts/we question if she's up to task? She's already stated that she won't be taking maternity leave.

Also, let's define "having it all" while we're at it. "All" doesn't necessarily mean a full-time job, kids, a husband and a white picket fence, does it? To one girl I know, her definition of "all" is working from home and spending time with her kids. This makes her very happy, and she used to be a pretty high-profile, in-the-newsroom reporter. To another girl I know, it's a life with no kids and a high-ranking title at work. "Having it all" is such an ambiguous way to put things since there is no one thing that makes the female masses happy. So maybe we need to stop defining women as whether they "have it all" or not. Maybe we should be asking whether today's women are happy, and why or why not. Happiness seems a better indicator than having it all.

Plus, let's not pretend that Marissa Mayer is not going to have the luxury of 24-hour private, in-office daycare, all-day access seeing her baby (if she feels like it) and the ability to take it (and her husband, if he's lucky) anywhere in the world she needs to be for a business meeting, along with her private 24-hour live-in nanny, if her baby needs one. So let's stop comparing Marissa Mayer to any other average career woman in this country. She is not the norm. The girl has choices, and with those choices come great flexibility when it comes to building her family and her career. She's earned it.