More squashy goodness

A couple of people asked me for this recipe after Brian and I made it when we had friends over last month, so I thought I'd post it here. It comes (with a few minor changes) from Peter Berley's Fresh Food Fast, which I picked up in Cody's a couple of years ago. It's another seasonal, vegetarian cookbook that we've had good luck with. The recipes are usually pretty easy to follow, and he's combined everything into menus. He even offers a shopping list and a "game plan" for getting everything ready at the same time.

Braised Pinto Beans with Delicata Squash, Red Wine, and Tomatoes

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cups thinly sliced onion
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 pound delicata squash, halved, seeded, and cut into 1/2-inch-thick slices*
3 garlic cloves, crushed
1 15-ounce can pinto beans, drained and rinsed
1 14-ounce can diced tomatoes with their juice
1/2 cup dry red wine
1 chipotle in adobo sauce, minced
1 tablespoon fresh sage, chopped
freshly ground black pepper
salt

*You can use butternut squash as well, with good results, but you have to peel it first. Actually, I usually peel the delicata, too, because I like the softer texture you get without the skin.

1. Melt the butter in a large pan over high heat with the oil. Add the onion and salt and saute until lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Reduce the heat, add the squash and garlic, and saute for 1 minute.

2. Stir in the pinto beans and the tomatoes, along with the wine, chipotle, and sage. Raise the heat and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, until the squash is tender but not falling apart--about 15 minutes.

3. Uncover the pan and cook for 1-2 minutes to thicken the sauce. Season with salt and pepper.

Berley suggests serving this over cheese-filled arepas (pupusas). As a lazy cook, I often just serve it with rice or tortillas. I also had good luck with an alternative version I prepared a couple of weeks ago: I used half the amount of onion, left out the beans, added an extra can of diced tomatoes, and tossed it with pasta.

Dimensions

I have always been adamantly pro-choice. Depending on the discussion at hand, I will argue in favor of Judith Jarvis Thompson's violinist perspective, take the position that even if it is a life, it’s okay to terminate a pregnancy, and support the legalization of late-term abortions. I attended to March to Save Women's Lives on the Mall a couple of years ago, and I always write cranky letters to my conservative senators whenever NARAL or NOW sends me an email alert.

But while in some debates on social issues I find it nearly impossible to see the other side of the issue (How does letting gay people get married threaten the quality of others’ marriages exactly?), when it comes to the abortion debate I can see where the other side is coming from. After all, if I truly believed that abortion was murder of a human being, I would feel a moral obligation to work to make it illegal, too. I think it was my ability to see the other side of the abortion debate that made me briefly question my beliefs last year after I miscarried.

I’m not sure what brought the idea to mind initially. I was lying in bed in the middle of the day, looking out the window and listening to the hum of the air conditioner while I let my mind drift. Suddenly I found myself wondering: if I am grieving like this for a nine-week-old fetus, how can I argue that it wasn’t a life? How can I believe that it’s okay to end a pregnancy on purpose if I’m this sad to see this one end for no apparent reason?

It didn’t take long for the answer to occur to me. I knew that I wasn’t grieving the loss of a life. Not yet. I was grieving for the loss of the hopes that I had attached to my pregnancy. For the plans I had made for my baby's arrival in April. For the transformation of my life and my self that I had looked forward to so eagerly. I wasn't grieving for "Elvis" (um, I'm apparently into the stupid fetal nicknames), but for the baby I had hoped Elvis would one day become.

Reading Sundry's post earlier this week about how having a child has tranformed her thoughts on abortion made me realize that I am still thinking about these things. It comes to mind on occasion when I feel Sticky kick my liver or shift so that I can feel her back through my belly with my hand. And once I give birth and hold her for the first time, my perspective may change again. I don't believe I will change my position on the legalization of abortion. I simply believe that it will add another dimension to the way I think about it.

Winter squash risotto

I love winter squash. Along with honeycrisp apples, it helps make up for the lack of nectarines and fresh corn when the weather starts to change. I eat a lot of butternut and acorn squash during the winter months, and I was excited last week when I went into Whole Foods and saw that the delicata squash had arrived (I maybe need to get out more). It's a yellow-and-green-speckled, sort of cucumber-shaped winter squash that I had no idea existed until a couple of years ago. It's sweet like other winter squashes, roasts nicely, and has skin thin enough that you can actually eat it (although I usually peel it anyhow, because I like the smoother texture). It seems to have a very short season, so Brian and I cook with it a couple of times a week while it's around.

I made my favorite risotto with it on Sunday night, and after seeing a couple of squash recipe posts, I thought I'd post my own. Well, it's not really my own: this comes pretty much straight from Jack Bishop's A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen. We love Jack Bishop in our house. Brian even wrote him a fan email one time (and was very excited when he got a response).

Winter Squash Risotto

2 T olive oil
6 T butter
4 cups broth
1 onion, diced small
1.5 cups arborio rice
1 cup white wine
2.5 pounds winter squash*
1 T sage, minced**
freshly grated nutmeg***
salt
1/2 cup grated parmesan, plus extra for the table

*I like delicata, butternut, and acorn squash, in that order.
**I actually used rosemary the other night because it was what I had. It was fine, but sage is better.
***You don't need much. I did 3 turns of my nutmeg grinder. If you don't have whole nutmeg, a dash of ground would probably do.

1. Preparing the squash: Preheat the oven to 450. Melt 3 T butter. Slice squash in half lengthwise, and scoop out the seeds and strings (reserve the seeds and strings). Place the squash on a baking sheet, brush with the melted butter, and sprinkle with salt. Roast the squash in the middle of the oven until they are soft. (It took me about 45 minutes to roast delicatas the other night.) When the squash are cool enough to handle, scoop the flesh from the skin, mash with a fork, and set aside.

2. Preparing the broth: Place the broth and the reserved squash innards in a sauce pan. Bring to a boil and let simmer for about 20 minutes. Strain the broth into a measuring cup and discard the the seeds and strings. Return the broth to the pan along with about 2 cups of water (you'll need about 6 cups of liquid total). Cover and keep warm.

3. Preparing the rice: Melt 2T butter in a large, heavy pot, along with the olive oil. Saute the onion until it is translucent and soft, but don't let it brown. Add the rice and saute for a minute or two, coating the rice in the oil. Pour in the wine and stir until most of it is evaporated or absorbed. Begin adding the broth, about 1/2 to 1 cup at a time, stirring often and waiting for each cup to be mostly absorbed before adding more. After adding about 5 cups, taste the rice to see if it's soft enough. If not continue adding broth until it is.

4. Putting it all together: Add the rest of the butter, the cheese, the squash, the sage, and the nutmeg to the pan. Stir until the butter and the cheese are melted in and the squash is thoroughly mixed in.

5. Serve, sprinkled with more parmesan, and enjoy the praise of the people you are feeding.

Travel journal: Chicago

When we were in New York back in April, Brian wondered out loud what it would take for us to have a relaxing vacation. He had a point: most of the time when we go places, we are constantly on the move, trying to fit as much in as possible, because we are usually only in a given city for a couple of days. But last weekend we figured out a solution: I am much less likely to crack the "we are going to have fun and see everything or else" whip when I'm knocked up.

We arrived in Chicago a little later than planned, as our flight was delayed for nearly three hours. We studied the farecard machine at the Midway El station for just a few seconds before a young woman offered us instructions. She assured us that we could share a farecard, which made no sense to me, given that everyone needs his or her own on Metro and BART, but we took her at her word, and found that she was right. I guess she hasn't figured out yet that it's fun to lie to tourists. (Not that I actually tell tourists lies. I at least try to be nice and helpful.)

Since we were late getting in, we checked into our hotel and decided to walk around in Millenium Park, which was nearby. I was fascinated by the "bean" and the Frank Gehry-designed amphitheatre and bridge.

We stopped in Grant Park to rest for a short while, and then headed back toward the El to go to Giordano's, for what a friend had assured me was some of the best pizza in Chicago. We wandered around feeling a little lost until we figured out that the El is actually a subway on the red line, and looking in the air for tracks wasn't going to help. The pizza was indeed excellent, especially because we had to wait 90 minutes for a table. Watching the guys behind the counter assemble pizzas for that long helped build up our appetites. After dinner, we headed back to the hotel, having given up any hope of keeping me awake enough to enjoy going out and listening to jazz.

The next morning we checked out the Art Institute. I have been somewhat afraid of art museums ever since Brian and I spent a day in Madrid trying to take in the entire Prado. Now I know I need to have an agenda, so we did a self-guided tour outlined in a tour book someone at work had given me, which made the museum much more manageable. The tour gave us the highlights, taking us first through the impressionists, and then into the surrealists. I've always thought Dali was pretty creepy, but I discovered that Tanguay is even more so. My favorite of his was "The Rapidity of Sleep"--not because I liked the work itself, but because the card beside the painting's only description beyond the artist, title, and date read, "The relationship to the title of the painting is unknown." I liked the work of Joseph Cornell, and an exhibit that used a lot of text, by a modern artist whose name I've forgotten. The tour book led us to a dead end, which turned out to be a good thing. If it had led us directly to Georgia O'Keeffe, as it was supposed to, we would have missed the Picasso rooms and the Jose Guadalupe Posada exhibit. There was definitely more that I wanted to see, but museum fatigue was setting in.

The Art Institute was supposed to be followed up by lunch and then a self-guided historic architecture tour. Instead, it was followed by lunch and a nap back at the hotel. After I'd recovered some of my energy, we walked around the Magnificent Mile area and then headed up to the Hancock Center for drinks in the lounge at sunset. The views from the 96th floor were amazing. We watched the sky and lake fade through colors more lovely than anything we'd seen at the museum that morning, as lights began to twinkle below us and night took over the city. Finally we headed out, venturing up to Devon Avenue for curry, which involved taking a bus that we didn't have a schedule for--just the tour book's word that it would get us to the right place. It actually worked out quite well (better than their suggestion for finding the O'Keeffe paintings), with the bus arriving after only a short wait, and a large group of Indians or Pakistanis who we followed when they all got off at the same stop. We picked Udupi Palace, because it was all vegetarian and had the same name as a restaurant we like in Takoma Park. It turned out that the two are actually owned by the same people. At least that meant we knew we would like the food. (It was very spicy and good, and totally and completely worth the heartburn it gave me.) Brian took pity on his poor, pregnant wife, and we took a cab back downtown to the hotel.

We spent the next day in more museums. The plan for our trip had been to do one museum per day, but since the delayed flight on Saturday had messed with that, we decided to go to two on Monday, since Monday was supposed to be cool and gloomy. It actually turned out to be cool and sunny, but plans can only be changed so many times, and I was not going to go all the way to Chicago and not see Sue, and Brian wasn't going to miss out on the museum of the Chicago Historical Society.

It actually turned out to be good to go to the Field Museum on a Monday. I knew it was a discount day, but I didn't know that "discount" meant "free." After four years in Washington, I find myself rather appalled to have to spend actual money to get into a museum, so the discount was a nice surprise. We checked out Sue, and then wandered through case after case of birds. Because it was free, I didn't feel bad about giving up after those two exhibits, but we did spend a little bit of time checking out the mammals.

For lunch we went to Gino's East, which was another friend's favorite pizza place when she lived in Chicago. I actually liked their pizza a little bit better than Giordano's--I think the crust was a little crisper, which was nice. And every available surface was covered in graffiti. That was fun to look at for a little while, but I really thought people should have been more creative than just writing their names. I was relieved that the bus ride up to Gino's from the museum was so long and that it took 40 minutes to make the pizza. I was exhausted.

The tour book failed us one more time on the trip. It assured us that on Mondays the Chicago Historical Society museum was free and open until eight. Well, it was free, but it apparently closes at 4:30. We learned that at about 4:25, when the staff started clearing us out. I wish we'd had more time to see other exhibits, but just the sections we saw about the Chicago Board of Trade, the fire, the Haymarket Riots, the race riots, and the Democratic National Convention were interesting.

Leaving earlier than we planned meant we had time to stop and sit down for a bit before a brisk walk back to the train, so we could get our bags from the hotel and head back to the airport. Where our plane was, fortunately, on time.

Pictures from the trip are online here.

Sugar rush

I was warned that the glucose tolerance test wasn't fun. Most of my friends complained about the sweet drink that they were required to drink. No one, though, thought to warn me about the sugar high you can get from gulping down 50 grams of glucose in about 2 minutes. More specifically, they didn't warn me about how it feels to have all that sugar wear off 45 minutes later.

So the routine test for gestational diabetes at my prenatal appointment on Tuesday was a bit of a surprise. I actually liked the drink: it just tasted like flat orange pop...or flat orange pop with a couple extra teaspoons of sugar mixed in. Then I had to wait for an hour to have my blood drawn. The first part of the hour went quickly because I was called upstairs for my check-up. But when I returned to the waiting room to sit, I realized I couldn't concentrate on my book at all. I was tired, hungry, queasy, dizzy. At least I got to make the office staff laugh by being (apparently) the only woman in the history of the practice to ask for another glucose drink. (I was sure that more sugar was the only thing that would make me feel better ever again.) They denied me, but the PBJ I'd brought along with me for after the blood draw did the trick.

Other than that, the appointment was good and easy. I am measuring about 29 weeks, which at 28 weeks is just fine with me. Sticky apparently had an early growth spurt, because at 22 weeks I was measuring 26 weeks. She's leveled off since then:at 24 weeks I was at 28. I guess we're leveling off now, and I'm not actually going to have an 18-pound baby. My blood pressure is lower than it was when I first got pregnant and I've gained less weight than I thought (when I started outgrowing some of my maternity clothes, I was worried), but still a healthy amount. As of now, I will have visits every two weeks instead of every four. That will be reassuring: I like to go in as often as possible to hear the fast little heartbeat.

Grandma Ruth's birthday

When I wrote the date, I realized that today would be my Grandma Ruth's birthday. I'm glad I remembered, because it brought back such good memories of a wonderful grandma.

The way I always describe Grandma Ruth to people is to explain what happened the day after my birthday when I turned 9 or 10. I received a new scooter for my birthday that year. It was lavender and had hand brakes. I don't know if my parents gave it to me or if Grandma did. But I remember that after school on my birthday, Grandma Ruth came over for birthday dinner and we took turns riding my scooter up and down the sidewalk up front. But the real memory is from the next day, when someone at school asked if I had had a party for my birthday. I told them that we'd had dinner and cake and ice cream, and that Grandma Ruth and I had played on my new scooter. "Your grandma? Rode a scooter? Grandmas don't ride scooters," someone said. And I was baffled, because of course grandmas could ride scooters. What kind of boring grandmas did this person have?

Grandma Ruth was our main babysitter growing up. She played with us, read us stories, and tucked us into bed. More than once I got out of bed and went to tell her I had a bad dream or I was scared, even if I wasn't, because I knew that she would come into my bedroom and rub my back until I fell asleep.

She made apple pie with lots of cinnamon for Thanksgiving, and ham with scalloped potatoes for dinner on Christmas Eve. I have a memory of standing on a chair in her kitchen helping to make cookies.

She played golf and liked the color red. She collected giraffes--everything from stuffed toys to jewelry to prints to dish towels. When we were little, my brother and sister and I made a game of counting how many giraffes were in Grandma's house. The number was well into the hundreds. When I was in Buenos Aires last year, I bought a wooden carving of a giraffe, thinking of it as a gift for Grandma.

She worked at the police station in our town. Sometimes my mom would take us down to visit her there after school. She always had lemon drops on her desk. I can't eat a lemon drop without remembering her.

When I was in middle school and my mom went back to work, I spent the afternoons at Grandma's house doing homework and watching television until my mom could pick me up. Grandma was working (right down the street), so most days I didn't see her. Until she got sick and had to stop working. Then she would be there in the afternoons. We would have Reese's peanut butter cups and A&W root beer for a snack. I remember that we would sit and talk, but I don't remember any of our conversations.

I remember that she got sicker and sicker. That instead of being in the rocking chair or at the kitchen table, she would be in bed when I got there. That eventually we would go visit her, but I wasn't spending afternoons there. That the house was full of people--relatives, friends, hospice workers. That I took home a stuffed giraffe a few weeks before she died.

She died just after Valentine's Day in 1992.

I wish Brian could have met her. I wish I could see her holding my baby this winter.

Hero worship

I saw Pete Seeger last night.

A couple of months ago I was looking at the Birchmere's fall lineup and saw "Woody Guthrie Tribute" on the list for October with Pete Seeger first on the list of performers. I didn't stop to see if I recognized any of the other artists. I just bought tickets. Pete Seeger. I mean, like, really: PETE SEEGER.

I suppose it could have been a let down. After all, after all the years of listening to his music and reading about him, my expectations might have been inflated beyond what any reality could live up to. I mean, his voice could have been shaky. He could have seemed small. He could have been somethng other than what I had imagined. But I think what amazed me most was how familiar everything seemed. There was Pete Seeger up on stage in a green shirt, looking tall and healthy, his banjo hanging from his right shoulder. His voice sounded just like it does on the records. After the intermission when he was answering questions about Woody Guthrie posed to him by Joe Uehlein, I knew his voice and his speech patterns.

The other artists were good too. Even though I'd never heard most of them before, some of their names were familiar. They were all talented musicians, and I will probably pick up an album by Sarah Lee Guthrie and Johnny Irions at some point. And because it was a Guthrie tribute I knew most of the songs. But, like most people in the audience, I was there to see Pete. I'd never seen him live before, and since he's 87 and not touring much, I figured this was my chance. It really was the perfect way to see him--surrounded by other singers who complemented his singing and playing style.

And then at the end everyone on stage and in the audience sang "This Land is Your Land," with Pete calling out the words to the verses in front of the song. Absolutely perfect.

***

We're off to Chicago for a weekend of pizza and dinosaurs!

Perhaps I should just get used to being embarrassed

I was talking to someone at work the other day and stopped mid-sentence when Sticky gave me a good hard kick. Delighted with the movement, I waited for another.

"Are you okay?"

"What? Oh, yes, sorry. What were you saying?"

"Well, you were saying..." I felt my face grow warm, as he reminded what we had been talking about.

Apparently a baby kick has the ability to completely reboot my brain. The next three months should be fun.

More nesting and other miscellany

Brian and I survived a trip to Ikea over the weekend. That's right, we are both alive and still married. Not only that, but we survived putting our new dresser together (no fighting and Brian only swore a little bit), and didn't even have to make a return trip as a result of missing or broken pieces. The Swedish furniture gods must have been smiling down upon us.

The store was amazingly calm for a Saturday morning. We got there just after it opened, found parking easily, wandered the store without being overwhelmed by crowds, and were able to bring the car around to the loading area without any problems. It was quite the contrast from when I first introduced myself to the gargantuan blue monster just off the freeway in Emeryville. That was shortly after it opened, and apparently everyone in the bay area needed cheap Swedish furniture. I was by myself, and somehow managed to enter through the exit. Since I didn't know anything about Ikea at that point, I was confused about why everyone was so excited about a big warehouse of flat cardboard boxes filled with furniture pieces. Eventually I found my way to the showroom, where I was overwhelmed by crowds as I moved in the opposite direction of the big arrows on the floor. I was never brave enough to return to an Ikea until after we moved to the east coast, when we made the mistake of attempting to buy new furniture the same weekend that all the new students did. That trip required about 3 return trips, all of which I made Brian do on his own on his way home from work. (I'm not entirely sure that Potomac Mills was on his way home, but he was the one who was taking the car each day, and his job was in Vienna which is in Virginia and Potomac Mills is in Virginia, so I assumed they must be near each other. My concept of the layout of this area still leaves something to be desired.) So making it through the store so easily was something of a relief. And we only came out of the Marketplace with three things we hadn't planned on buying.

Plus, now I have a cute little dresser that will be used as a changing table and can hold all of Sticky's cute little clothes. My nesting instinct is once again temporarily satisfied, even if I didn't convince Brian that we need a new dining room set. I figure all I need now are diapers and a carseat. That's all one really needs to have in order to have a baby, right? Well, and boobs to feed her with, but I've decided not to shop around for those and just use the ones I've got.

***

(Who needs a segue when you can just put three little stars up there and change the subject? Worked for Herb Caen.)

(Ha. I just compared me and my blog to Herb Caen.)

I've always believed in the mind-body connection, but in the past year that I've been regularly attending yoga classes--what I think of as real yoga classes, not just stretching classes--the connection has become even more clear to me. In my first trimester I was incredibly anxious most of the time. I continued to attend my yoga classes, find that they helped me relax for the hour and fifteen minutes I was there, and that that relaxed feeling often continued with me for a few days. I struggled with the balance poses, though. I've always been able to find my balance fairly easily and enjoyed the challenge of poses like tree and eagle. But during May and June, I felt incredibly shaky in those poses, often moving closer to the wall in order to give myself more of a sense of security

Yesterday I woke up in a foul mood for no apparent reason--the kind of mood that would have me bursting into tears when Brian asked me how I was feeling. I coaxed myself out the door to my prenatal yoga class, telling myself and Brian that yoga would straighten me out. It didn't occur to me until the teacher had us move into tree pose that my mood would affect my practice, but as I began to shift my weight onto my left leg--usually the side where my balance is the best--I felt wobbly. It took a few tries before I could remain in the pose without tipping over. Balancing on my right leg was even more of a challenge, and even in a warrior flow series I felt shaky.

Today I woke up in a much better mood. I'm going to a regular hatha class tonight, and I think my balance is going to be better.

***

My short term memory seems to be fading. I print a document, leave my office to pick it up from the printer, forget what it was I was doing, go into the kitchen to get a snack, and then return to my desk. Then someone else finds my document on the printer and brings it to me. I keep a notebook of all my phone calls at work, but I think I am going to have to record the details of all the in-person conversations I have as well.

***

I saw my first Monty Python movie over the weekend. Somehow, all I'd ever managed to see were Flying Circus episodes. A friend in college had a box set or something of those, and Brian and I spent a weekend with the flu our senior year crashed out in front of the TV watching those. Anyhow, the movie was hilarious, and I don't know how I went so long without that silliness.

***

Brian and I have met with a couple of doulas recently, and we settled on one easily. I had worried that we wouldn't like the same person, but in the end it was no trouble at all. One woman we met with for what we assumed would be a 30-minute interview. We talked with her for two hours and thought she was fantastic. Another came by our house over the weekend. Within a few minutes of her arrival, both Brian and I knew that we wouldn't be able to have this woman attending Sticky's birth. I feel like such a freaking hippy for saying this (but hell, I'm talking about doulas, so why not?), but the negative energy she gave off left me stunned. I have a feeling that she and I agreed on most things, but her approach to things that she didn't like were hostile andaggressive . We spent about half an hour with her, and after closing the door behind her, we looked at each other and said "Not her." At least she helped make our decision simple. And it was nice to know that Brian and I are on the same wavelength.

***

It makes me happy that there are nice people out there. I worried when I got to the Metro this morning and saw "MAJOR DELAYS" in red letters on the screen. My sciatica was killing me (I blame Ikea), and I didn't want to wait forever for a train. I only waited a couple of minutes, though, and when I boarded the crowded train, a woman promptly smiled and stood up to give me her seat. Most of the time, especially in the morning, I don't take a seat when it's offered, as I don't really feel like I need it. But since my seven-minute ride took half an hour, I was relieved to be sitting down.

iTunes tech support

Are you having problems with iTunes 7 for Windows? Here is some handy tech support from The Husband:

How to replace iTunes 7 with iTunes 6

Unfortunately, iTunes 7 is a lemon. Many people have reported that music playback on Windows machines is scratchy or stutters, particularly when running other applications in the background. We went through all of the troubleshooting steps on this Apple web page, and none of them fixed the problem. In desperation, we decided to try to install iTunes 6 instead.

All of the problems went away.

Here are the steps we followed:

1) Look for a file called "My Music" -> "iTunes" -> "Previous iTunes Libraries" -> "iTunes Library -date-", where -date- is the date you installed iTunes 7 and thus wrecked the sound quality. If you don't have this file, weep quietly for a moment. You're probably going to have to rebuild any custom playlists.

2) Download iTunes 6 from Apple's web site. (Click the "Download - 36 MB" link)

3) Back up any custom playlists. (We didn't end up needing the backups, but just in case.)

4) Uninstall iTunes 7, using the Window Add/Remove Programs control panel.

5) Reboot. (C'mon, this is Windows.)

6) Install iTunes 6 using the program you downloaded earlier.

7) No reboot. (Wow! This is Windows?)

8) Start up iTunes.

9) See an error saying the "iTunes Library.itl" file was created by a later version of iTunes, and cannot be used.

10) Panic. But not for too long.

11) Go find that "iTunes Library -date-" file we mentioned in step 1.

12) Kiss an iTunes developer, if one is around. If you don't know any iTunes developers, just send Steve Jobs a sexy photo. Not all products are sensible enough to backup old versions of configuration files during upgrades.

13) Copy the file "iTunes Library" to "iTunes 7 Library." (You don't need it, but backups are good karma.)

14) Copy the file named "Previous iTunes Libraries" -> "iTunes Library -date-" over the top of the "iTunes Library" file.

15) Start up iTunes.

16) Check if the problem is fixed.

17) Be groovy.

But not so embarrassing I won't tell the Internet

You know what's embarrassing? Being caught crying in your office by a coworker.

But what's more embarrassing is trying to explain to said coworker that you are crying because you are very hungry and you just want to go to the kitchen and heat up your lunch, but someone recently reheated some fried chicken and the smell in the kitchen and hallway makes you too sick, and having the coworker offer to go fix your lunch for you.

And yes, I totally took her up on that.

Don't tell the Blue Jays

Overheard on my bus home yesterday:

Man #1: Y'hear about that guy that shot up that school in Canada?

Man #2: Man, that wasn't in Canada. That was Montreal.

Man #1: Montreal is in Canada.

Man #2: No, it ain't, man. The Nats was the Montreal Expos 'fore they came here. They don't got baseball in Canada.

Career change

We now return you to your regularly scheduled all-pregnancy-all-the-time programming.

I quit my job.

Okay, I didn't really. I am still here, still working away. But this week I gave notice to my direct bosses that I do not intend to return to work after maternity leave. It seems early to make this decision, but because of the way the work in this office is funded (all grants and contracts), I felt my bosses needed to know sooner rather than later.

I've been surprised how ambivalent I've been feeling since I made this "official." I've known since long before I got pregnant that I was going to stay home. It's what I want. It's what Brian wants. When I first announced I was pregnant, a couple of friends asked what I was planning to do about maternity leave, and I told them happily that I was planning on "maternity quitting." But whenever I was asked at work, I was non-committal, refusing to say one way or another what my plan was. Now I've said it, and while I am happy with my decision, I am somewhat anxious about it: I really enjoy my job; I am still paying off student loans for the degree that helped me get this job; and I have no idea what it's really like to be a mother. But this is what I want, for myself, for my family. (Oh, crap! We're going to be a family!)

I am a planner. Maybe I don't take it to the same extremes as some people, but I like to know what's going to happen in advance. Well in advance. And I like to be the one making the plans to make things happen. I don't like letting go control over plans. But I figured out this week that actually finalizing plans actually makes me a bit crazy. I guess that's why I plan a trip six months in advance, only to buy plane tickets two weeks before I leave.

So we have contingency plans. Lots and lots of plans to help settle my neurotic, hormonal mind. Right now the plan is to stay home for a few months and see how that goes. If it seems like it is the right decision, we'll stick with that. If I find that I am the kind of person who is just not cut out for being a stay-at-home mom, then I will can look for another job. I am leaving this job on good terms, but I think if I do want to continue to work, it is time for me to move on to another experience. That may mean moving back to the west coast; that may mean staying put in the DC area. I feel okay about that uncertainty because there is a plan in place for either of those options, as well as for the option of having me continue to stay home with Sticky.

It seems as though I've got all my bases covered (although I know there must be something I've leaving out), which means I can direct my anxiety toward reorganizing the rest of our closets.

Five years

Traffic was slow this morning in the HOV lanes on 395. As we inched toward the exit for the Pentagon, everyone on the bus was quiet, lost in their thoughts or reading the paper.

I watched a plane on its ascent from National climbing across the grey sky over the Pentagon, and suddenly my mind stopped drifting and I remembered the date. I saw other people on the bus turn to watch the plane, and I imagined that we were all thinking the same thing.

The troops are being shot to bits, but the horses are safe

Yesterday I received two email messages from my congressman regarding the horse slaughter legislation he was promoting. The first was alerting me that the bill was to be under consideration that afternoon. The second arrived that evening, proudly announcing that the bill had passed.

According to Congressman Moran's email, 90,000 horses are slaughtered in this country each year:

The reason so many horses are treated in this manner is that the overseas market for horse meat is very lucrative. So-called "killer buyers" purchase horses at livestock auctions, from families and individuals believing their animal is going to receive good treatment. Instead, these unscrupulous buyers then turn to one of the three foreign owned horse slaughter houses (the only horse slaughter houses in the country) who put these proud animals through a painful rendering process. The byproduct of these actions ends up on the dinner plates at fancy French, Dutch and Japanese restaurants overseas.

I have been vegetarian for about three years now. You might think I would be against the slaughter of horses, but I'm having trouble being particularly concerned about the animals' plight. I generally tell people that I am a vegetarian not for ethical or health reasons, but for conceptual reasons. I do not think it is wrong for humans to eat animals. Certainly I am concerned about the conditions that animals are treated in and I know I benefit from eating less animal fat, but mainly I don't eat meat because the whole idea of eating an animal started to gross me out. Should I be more concerned about horses than I am about other animals that are used for meat?

Maybe I only feel this way because I don't feel any particular attachment to horses. I've never been on a horse in my life, and I'm a little bit of afraid of them, to be honest. What if this were cat slaughter legislation? Would I feel differently then? I thought about that last night as my cat curled up with me in bed. I certainly wouldn't be sending her off to the slaughter house (although I would totally threaten it when she wakes me up in the middle of the night to play), but I don't think I would be in favor of that legislation either. If other people in this country or in others want to eat cats, that's their business. I'm not going to eat cat meat, and I'm not going to send Cecilia off to the slaughter house when she reaches the end of her little kitty life, but I can't see defining eating cats or horses as wrong when it's okay to eat rabbits and pigs.

When I read the above paragraph I also wondered whether the "painful rendering process" these horses really go through is worse than what cows and pigs go through when they are slaughtered. I know there are many people in favor of more humane treatment of animals that are raised for meat, and I can support those beliefs, although since the animal ends up dead and eaten in the end regardless, I often think the humane treatment may be more for our benefit than for the animals'.

My favorite part of Moran's argument in this email is his statement that "this practice is simply un-American. Americans do not eat horse meat. We are taught from an early age to treat these animals with dignity and respect." Why horses in particular? According to Moran it is because they are an icon of the American West. According to a group advocating for the passage of the bill, one of the top reasons is that horse slaughter hurts the U.S. beef industry. (I'll have to look up whether Moran has taken any donations from them.)

I was disappointed to read that the bill had passed yesterday. I don't think the legislation is the right thing to do, and I'd really rather that my representatives in the Congress were working on more important things. In Moran's second email he seems to agree with me; after announcing the passage of the H.R. 503, he says:

Unfortunately, this Congress, with only three weeks left on the legislative calendar, still refuses to tackle the major issues that confront the American people. Issues such as the emerging civil war in Iraq, the exploding federal deficit, the growing ranks of the uninsured and rapid global warming continue to go without debate.

But then he adds:

In the absence of the Majority Party's willingness to tackle these vital issues, passing the horse slaughter ban means that the final month of session will not have been a complete waste.

I'm not so sure about that.

And you know what else bothers me about the whole thing? Apparently the Bush administration is on my side on this one.


The Husband contributed the title of this post. He says that if he could draw, he would create for me an illustration of beret-wearing horse thieves sneaking up on some child's pet pony, drooling, knife and fork in hand. I think it should be a cartoon strip, and in the next panel, John Sweeney and Jim Moran could swoop in and save the day using their amazing powers of . . . um . . . legislation?

Nesting

I always thought the "nesting instinct" was sort of made up, or at least that it would only set in during the last couple weeks of pregnancy. But last Friday when I was getting ready to leave work, I remembered how messy the house was and began to cry. I mean, I'm going to be bringing a baby into the house in four months. I don't know how to give birth or be a mother. But I clearly am going to be awful at it if I can't even keep my house clean. When I told Brian about my crying spell over the messiness, he was sympathetic and woke up on Saturday morning ready to do my bidding to get the house clean. I felt much better after that.

Until Monday morning. I went to get a towel out of the linen closet and realized how disorganized it has become. I sat down right where I was to cry for a few minutes, because dude, HOW CAN I BRING A BABY INTO A HOUSE WITH A DISORGANIZED LINEN CLOSET? Everything has since been pulled out, sorted through, and returned to its rightful, organized place. I have a sling, a few cute little outfits, and organized sheets and towels. What more could Sticky possibly need?

Expectations

My body image issues seem to be subsiding. Now that I am growing more and even strangers are able to tell that I am pregnant, I am more able to accept my changing body--at least visually. Instead of wondering if people think I've been making too many stops at the donut shop, they know that I'm pregnant, and that's a wonderful thing. (It also helps that my colleagues come by my office to ask how I'm feeling and tell me how fantastic my hair and skin are looking.)

But still I am struggling to accept the physical limitations that pregnancy is putting on me: I keep finding myself frustrated with things I think I ought to be able to do. Things I used to be able to do. A hike a few weeks back, on a trail that I found somewhat challenging (mostly because of my fear of falling) in April, left me limping with pain in my lower back for two days. In a recent yoga class, I discovered that plank pose, which has always given me a good arm workout, actually requires a fair amount of core strength--which isn't something I seem to have a lot of these days, not with an aching back and abs that are moving out of the way to make room for the baby. Speaking of abs, I used to be able to do 500 crunches. Now? Yeah, not so much.

"You just need to adjust your expectations," Brian keeps telling me. "Let go of your expectations," my yoga teacher says. "Practice non-attachment." Easier said that done, but I am slowly but surely taking their advice. While the rest of the yoga class does six sun salutations, I do four, moving at my own pace, putting up-dog in place of plank and cobra, rising carefully from my forward bend to avoid dizziness. I am cautious around the house, requesting that Brian carry laundry up and down the stairs for me, so that I don't do in my back again. I once walked a marathon, averaging a pace of 16 minutes a mile; now I walk a flat course on a treadmill, barely making it two miles in 40 minutes, so that I can keep my heartrate under control.

I figure this is good practice. All this letting go of expectations must be a rehearsal for motherhood.

Milestone

Yesterday on my commute home, someone offered me a seat on the train.

I was so suprised that I refused her offer.

How to entertain yourself on Metro when you've finished the Sudoku

I stepped onto the nearly-empty last car of the train, sat down in one of the first seats, and immediately regretted my choice: the young man behind me was talking on a cell phone. But even though he was talking in a loud cell phone voice, he did at least seem to be wrapping up his conversation.

“Excuse me,” I heard a woman behind me and across the aisle say after he hung up. “You aren’t from this area, are you?”

“No,” he told her. It was a safe question on her part: from the conversation he was having, it had been clear he was in town to visit friends.

“Well, they recently passed a law about using cell phones on the Metro. It’s actually a $25 ticket.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” He sounded very apologetic.

“A lot of people who aren’t from here don’t. It just passed and they don’t have signs up on all the trains.”

I bit my lip and tried not to laugh, as the young man apologized and the woman assured him that it was all right, that she was just trying to help him out. I wanted to turn around and look at them. Because of where I was seated I couldn’t even glimpse their reflections in the windows, but the man across the aisle from me was also suppressing laughter.

Last year for Christmas Brian gave me a book of lies to tell children. I’m thinking there ought to be one of fun lies to tell tourists.

Okay

When I went for my ultrasound last Friday, I was signing my file and noted the last date on it: “August 25, 2004,” I had written beside my name. I pointed it out to Brian.

“I don’t think I was thinking very clearly when we were here last year,” I told him. “I got the year wrong.”

I hadn’t been thinking clearly. I was terrified. When I signed that file it was part of the paperwork before the ultrasound to find out why I was spotting. I was nine weeks pregnant and praying silently that everything was going to be okay, even though I knew it wasn’t.

We had seen a heartbeat about two weeks before—a small, regular flicker on the screen—so I knew what to look for when the grainy black-and-white image appeared on the screen.

It wasn’t there.

I went home that afternoon to wait to eat ridiculous quantities of Ben & Jerry’s and wait to miscarry. I told my bosses, who didn’t know I was pregnant, that I was sick and I would be out for a few days. That was on Thursday. I didn’t miscarry until Sunday night.

I had decided Sunday afternoon that I would call the next morning to schedule a D&C. My fear of the anesthetic had made me decide to wait, but I was tired of waiting. I was ready to move on. I planned out the next couple of days as the cramping became harder to handle. I alternated between forcing myself to relax into child’s pose and pacing my bedroom, as I attempted to slow down my breathing and deny what was happening.

And then there was blood, lots of it, and the blood and the pain were something of a relief. At least I wasn’t waiting anymore. At least I wasn’t going to have to go to the hospital.

I took three more days away from work. Even though only one person in the office had known I was pregnant, I couldn’t bear to face anyone. I spent the days reading the news about Hurricane Katrina, eating ice cream, and talking on the phone and IMing with a couple of friends.

I didn’t want to talk to most people. When we told friends and family what was happening, we made it clear that I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone. But I needed those friends. Those friends who promised me that things would be okay. Who let me talk about it. Who let me talk about anything but it. Whatever I needed at that moment.

At least I wasn’t surprised by the intensity of the grief I felt. It seemed reasonable to me. It took awhile to work through, which also made sense, and when I began to reach the other side of it, I was very conscious of the change. I wanted to go out with friends again. I could look around me and appreciate the world. I wasn’t full of hate that I didn’t have any place to direct. I don’t think I was clinically depressed during those weeks, although I know Brian and my friends worried about it. I think I was dealing with grief in the only way it can truly be dealt with, and in the end I was okay.

***

It wasn’t until months later, until after my original due date had passed, that I got pregnant again. Sometimes I wonder about that connection. Knowing that day was my due date was sad, but I didn’t become depressed the way I had feared I might. I was simply very conscious of it, and I felt relieved when April 1st had come and gone. Getting through that date was freeing. I didn’t have a baby. I wasn’t pregnant. But I had made it and I was okay.

And then I was pregnant.

I was ecstatic and terrified. It had been too soon to test, but I had. It was too soon for the test to show a result at all, but when I looked down, there it was. I am not one who is willing to wonder if that second line is really a line. It was a digital test and it said “pregnant.” I was shocked.

Crying is my response to a lot of different emotions. I cry when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm confused. But when all those things hit at once? I freeze. It was four in the morning, and I was frozen. For an hour I sat, not thinking, not crying, not feeling. It wasn't until I woke Brian up and told him and felt his arms around me that I cried.

I told a few friends almost immediately—the friends that I knew I would need in case something went wrong again. One of them asked me how I was feeling about it.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Really?”

"Well, I alternate among being blissfully happy, being in complete denial, and freaking the righteous fuck out. Which I think averages out to 'okay.'"

I was totally serious, and it’s completely true, even though typing it makes me laugh. I was terrified, but the joy of being pregnant won out. The checker at Whole Foods complimented my necklace, and I burst out with the news that I was pregnant. I called to schedule my first prenatal exam. I started thinking about baby names.

But every day I worried. Even when I would eat to settle my upset stomach and then feel sick ten minutes later because I had eaten, I would worry that it was all in my head. I felt guilty for being so afraid. The baby deserves for me to be happy. He deserves for me to love him, I told myself. And I did love him. That wasn’t something I could stop myself from doing, no matter how afraid I was.

Now “he” is a “she.” I’ve heard her heart beat. I’ve seen her little feet. People are starting to be able to tell I’m pregnant just by looking at me. Still, I’m anxious. But I just felt her wiggle.