Prairie winds

Yesterday someone found my blog by googling "Million dollar cars and hot girls."

To that surely disappointed teenage boy, I'm sorry. You were misled.

To that boy's mother, you're welcome.

There may not be an abundance of hot girls and fast cars on this spot of blog, but I want to do whatever I can to keep the internet happy, so here's a boy with pretty hair.

Stephen's about two months overdue for a haircut. In Boulder terms this means he could go another four months. Boulder is many things, but well-groomed is not one of them. However in a few days we'll trek home to the motherland, and the Beehive State isn't quite so accepting of long, flowing, shiny hair on males.So the appointment is set.

Now's the time to pay your respects.

stains caked deep in the knees

"Kids will believe anything you tell them," my hair stylist told me this morning.
Oh, the power!
I feel like I should start drafting a version of my personal history in which I save a small nation from an evil overlord, produce a multi-platinum hip-hop album and am crowned prom queen. But then that's kind of braggy and I don't want her to feel like she has impossibly large shoes to fill. So maybe I should make up something more obscure. Like maybe Stephen and I are secret government agents? And she can't tell anyone for obvious security reasons. NO- wait- you know what would be even better and less soul-damning- I could just imply that we're spies. When I know Ivy is eavesdropping on my phone conversations, I'll say things like "The President needs this taken care of today." I'll send myself mysteriously shaped packages and make the return address THE PENTAGON. Every once in a while we'll call a sitter, dress in all black, and say "honey, we don't know when we'll be back, but if the man with the mustache shows up, hit the red button". And then we'll just go to the movies. If she ever asks if we're undercover, we'll deny it, and it won't be a lie. Win.

give me a reason

It was in seventh grade health class that I learned how gross birth really is. Ms. Fischer played The Miracle of Birth video, and it took all of three minutes before I was out in the hall with my head between my knees, along with my class mate Thiago, who if I recall correctly, threw up. I've been trying to unsee those images ever since.
I figured that we would be one of twenty couples in our child birth class last night, that we could sit in the back, and that if I closed my eyes or made a swift exit during any revolting film clips that might be shown, no one would really notice. But Stephen and I made up two out of the three students, and sat directly across from the instructor who spent most of class watching our faces. So when the time came to watch "Pushing and Birth", I really had no choice. I watched. Guys, I didn't even flinch. No big deal. Maybe it's some pregnancy induced evolutionary trigger or something, but I was totally ok with what was happening on screen. So maybe, just maybe, I'll be ok with what's about to actually happen in 11 weeks. Maybe.

today

I'm either becoming increasingly preoccupied or increasingly stupid.
I walked up to the front door of our apartment, pulled out the keys from my bag, then pressed the unlock button on my car key. Twice. And waited for my front door to click open. Then my caveman brain finally registered HOUSE NOT CAR.
In the shower I squoze the conditioner onto my hand, then rubbed it all over my face. The hair conditioner. On my face. It would be one thing if I was confused, messed up the the shower procedure and thought that I was using face wash. That would be understandable, however I haven't owned face wash for the past ten years.
It's like someone tried to give me a lobotomy but removed the wrong part of my brain, since my emotions are still very much intact. I'm Tearsy McCriesalot (bless Stephen's heart). Hormonesy McWeepster.
I can blame pregnancy, right? I blame everything else on pregnancy, including not making the bed this morning and eating a grilled cheese sandwich every day.

riders on the storm

The OBGYN floor of the Longmont clinic is a lovely place. The lab floor, which I had to visit after my appointment today, is Hell on Earth. No, really. It's like staring death in the mouth. It smells like a burning Stouffer's broccoli casserole. I don't know why I know that smell. Probably a repressed memory. There's a large, dark, stain circle on the floor. One has to assume it's blood. When asked when he was born, the man in front of me said 1919. NINETEEN NINETEEN! And I would say he was the median age of my fellow waiting-room patients. One lady had an entire fifteen minute conversation with herself about her friend Max. Another walked in, rummaged through a stack of newspapers from August, found the one she was looking for and walked out. One man excitedly read aloud from the cover of Sunset magazine, "Tricks to clamming," then exclaimed, "I've always wanted to know how to do that!". The lady in the chair next to me had on a Bronco's sweatshirt, carried a Bronco's purse, and had the Bronco's logo manicured on her nails. There's a sign above the receptionist's desk that reads "No eating, drinking or applying cosmetics in the laboratory area." I would think that it would take many instances of something happening to make a sign saying that it needs to stop. So I guess that many people were trying to apply lipstick and mascara in the laboratory.

Guys, I'm having the weirdest week.

won't you please? please won't you please?

Remember yesterday? The note? The tapping?
Well, I didn't bake cookies. Nor did I leave a mean note in retaliation. Instead Stephen and I went over to explain ourselves like adults.
I suspected that our neighbor, the note writer, was an older single lady. I hate that I stereotyped my own gender like that, but I was correct. As soon as she opened the door, it was apparent that something was...off. For one, right in front of the door was a fully decorated Christmas tree and a child's bicycle. And our single, older lady neighbor was crying. She said she was upset about all the noises. We weren't sure what to do, but we powered through, explained that we are not tapping on the wall, that we've heard the noise too and don't know where it's coming from but it's probably a pipe or something. Despite the hysteria, she seemed to understand, so we offered sympathies for her distraughtedness (not a word) and left a little confused but relieved that we were no longer the culprits.

So we thought...

Police knock just as aggressively as the movies portray. We were in bed, drifting to sleep, when the officer knocked loudly twice on the door. I was in polka-dot pajamas and not fit for serious, law-related interaction, so I stayed in the bedroom while Stephen handled the situation. The officer asked about the wall tapping. After ten minutes of explaining that we are not tapping on the wall, that we've heard the noise too and that we don't know where it's coming from but it's probably a pipe or something, the officer seemed convinced that we weren't trying to harrass our wall-sharer, and left his card in case we need to call.
But who knows what will happen next?
And why do I feel like a criminal? I know I'm innocent, but an officer knocking aggressively on the door has left me feeling like my record is downtown at the station. If dear neighbor calls the police again I'll probably be hauled away, handcuffed in the back of a squad car. While sitting at the prison cafeteria table, another inmate will ask, "What are you in for?" and I'll have to say, "I was framed for wall tapping." Would they send a pregnant woman to jail? Will Ivy be raised in the state penitentiary?
Also, why does the tapping not concern me more? I mean, it's reduced our neighbor to paranoia. It is a weird noise. I guess I just assume that apartments make strange noises? Or that our wall is haunted? But the poltergeists seem to be doing little haunting beyond knocking, so they're not really that much of a bother.

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

This morning I found a  note taped to our door. Always a good way to start the day. The note read,
Dear Residents,
I noticed that someone at your place of residence seems to enjoy tapping on the wall that connects your condo to mine. I find it repulsive and in poor taste. If you could please be more mindful of keeping the peace it would be greatly appreciated.
Thanx,
Your neighbor
We too have heard the tapping noise, and we assumed someone was remodeling. Our neighbor, however, assumed that we had nothing better to do with our time than stand around and knock on the wall. If that were the case, it would indeed be in very poor taste, and I guess repulsive, though that adjective seems a little out of place, but whatever. Since we do have jobs and homework and a life and driving our neighbor crazy isn't on our list of priorities, so we are not responsible for the tapping.
When something like this happens there are two very different sides of me that conflict. One side wants to overcompensate, take over a plate of cookies, tell her that the tapping really is unbearable and that even though it's not coming from our condo, we're still very sorry. The other side of me wants to be a total turd about it. The turd side of me wants to leave one of the following notes on her door:

So sorry about the tapping! I've been practicing my gravity-defying vertical tap dance routine. I'll switch walls.

We've wondered why you haven't responded to our morse code messages. The mission is soon. ---- ... -- .. - .... ---.

It's not tapping. We're knife throwers.

Sorry about the tapping. That's just Roy.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
-Love, Your neighbor, Edgar

We can't find our pet chimp. We think he might be in the wall. Don't worry, he's only killed once.