And up in the nursery an absurd little bird is popping out to say "cuckoo"

H said to me the other morning, “You are looking really hot. You’re tightening up!” The man must be smoking crack when I am not looking – the only thing tightening up around here is the waistband of my jeans. Yet when I was actually losing weight, before the carb-stuffing that the long, cold, dreary, grey winter in this godforsaken town requires, he was giving me grief over the baby-belly. So an incredibly liberating realization dawned on me – *my* fat is totally subjective to *his* mood. Do you have any idea how amazing it was to realize that none of his comments are based on any sort of empirical evidence? If I know that I can just plateau here, where clearly my body wants to be as it’s been there for years, and know that any observation on my weight that comes out of his mouth is contingent SOLELY UPON HIS MOOD – well, hell, pass the chips! And hand him the antidepressants! And I can be thin and beautiful all the time!

But I still can’t fit back into my wedding gown so I can’t do any housework.

Don’t ask.

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Amalah’s son is almost the exact same age as Terzo. They are two very cute babies. I feel somehow connected to the famous Amalah (that sounds like a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavor, does it not?) due to the fact that we were birthing within 36 hours of each other. This whole Internet thing is so screwy, people.

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I got all dressed up last night – yes, I put eyeliner on! And high heels! Although, allow me to tell you, it’s hard to feel sexy when you are leaking breast milk! – and went out to dinner with my friend L, to celebrate her birthday. A few other friends were there, too. Friends who had very considerately brought her birthday presents. What, people? You KNOW I was raised by wolves! And I *did* get her a non-fat cinnamon dulce latte this morning – I mean, after making her very late for work, after conning her into giving me a ride, it was the least I could do. (I should’ve given her a copy of Bitter is the New Black! Why didn’t I think of that last night?) Also along for the festivities was her Turkish is-he-a-boyfriend-what-exactly-is-he sort of boyfriend-ish guy, who we oh-so-cleverly have nicknamed “Turkish.” We went to this great little restaurant that reminded me of L.A. in that I was fairly certain they were going to weigh us all at the door, and I? I was going to be over the weight limit: “You! You there! In the not-so-slimming black pants! Over the limit! You may not come in and stuff your face here, you’re too fat already! And we, we here are all thin and trendy and wear avant-garde hairstyles and black-rimmed glasses! So begone! Skedaddle! Va-moose!” But, no they let me in and let me eat a nice little pad thai. I am quite proficient with the ole chopsticks and until last night it never occurred to me that you might not be. (I could’ve given L chopstick lessons for her birthday! Along with those cool little rocks they give you to rest your sticks on between courses.) And then, for dessert, which the server kindly allowed me to have although after eating my entire plate of pad thai I probably gained three pounds in like ten minutes, I had cardamom crème brulee with crystallized ginger shortbread and a basil-coconut macaroon. Yes, it is one of those places that serves art as food. It was all very civil and nice, even if I couldn’t understand one damn thing Turkish was saying. I do have a couple pictures, but am not going to post them as I prefer to respect the privacy of both L and Turkish. Just in case the INS is out looking for him or something. (Kidding, L! Totally kidding! No, I DO NOT think he’s illegal!)

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And now, as I seem to have used my yearly allotment of exclamation points in one post, I bid adieu…to yew…and yew…and yew...