the first 4 am feeding

Two words: Ex hausted.

The labor went better than expected, thanks in large part to the wonderful aid of friends. A big shout out to Weakley, who helped me unload the entire U-haul the same night she helped load it and moved another friend of ours. Epic friend points.

But now, the baby is starting to whine and remind me that it needs things like food and clothing. Usually my regressive type-A personality flares up when I move; I unpack and organize as quickly as possible. However, since my family got into town the day after I unloaded the truck, my entire dining room is still full of boxes. Also, this lovely heat wave hitting the East Coast means that every window air conditioning unit in the city has been sold. So the first night trying to sleep through the night with my new little child meant being able to find no clothes, having no curtains to shield my near-naked sleeping, not being able to sleep through the night anyway because of unbearable heat, and my rusty pipes forcing the purchase of a new showerhead, which of course did not work in the fitting of the old showerhead but who would've thought to check that before taking off the old showerhead and making the entire shower feature nonfunctional. Not this new mama.

Thank God for Grandpa.

As many things as I find overbearing about my father, his insistence that his daughters will not be stranded by a flat tire or ask someone the difference between a flathead and phillips screwdriver are not on the list. So, when the new baby was not only keeping me from a good night's sleep but destroying any remnants of my normal lifestyle, he helped me tackle at least the shower.

Of course this first required a trip to Lowe's, where he loaded up a new toolbox full of more kinds of plyers than I will ever have need for. An hour and another trip to Ace Hardware later, and I have a rust-free, 5-option spray shower. And sometimes I think that's just what a new mother needs. I can't do anything about the sleeping (remedied at the moment by crashing in Weakley's air conditioned basement), or the unpacking until they leave, but I at least have a respite from life for as long as the water wants to flow. Or spray, or trickle, or whatever my fancy is at the moment. Of course the curtains I bought are too short, so clearly I just need to focus on one project at a time.

My sister (who is reading this post over my shoulder), slept through the entire afternoon ordeal. Hints of her future skills as an aunt, I think.

a partial transcript

Quotes from my dad watching his first-ever episode of The Bachelorette:

-"He could've saved so much money and just told her over the damn phone."

-"No guy talks like that. He sounds like a woman" (in reference to Chris Harrison).

-"Oh, well...wait why is this the most important decision of her life? I must've missed something."

-"Who are these people? What, they're parents are just footing the bill for them to fly wherever they want? This is ludicrous."

-"giggling." Literally giggling, not saying the word. That's a first I think.

(impersonating Frank): "you know, I got another broad. Deal with it."

-"You can do it, cry for the camera. There you go, you can do it. Everyone loves some good tears...you're getting paid to do that for another 10 minutes, so you better keep it up."

(impersonating Ali): "No, you can do this I totally understand. I got an ex-boyfriend back home waiting for this paycheck, too."

-"Oh, there's other fish to fry, lady. You'll be fine."

it's like having a baby, over and over again

It's that time of year again. The time when I'm constantly dripping in sweat, letting out expletives like no one's business, and asking myself "how much do I care about my dishes?"

That's right, I'm moving.

Since I was 17, I have not lived in the same place for longer than 9 months. Most of this was due to coming and going from college, but since I never make things easy, I usually would move from college to home to another location for the summer, then back to home then back to school. Last summer was the trifecta: graduate, next day move home, pack not only my stuff to move across the country but pack my parent's house for their move, and then lived out of a suitcase for 3 months. It got to the point where I could pack my entire life in about 45 minutes.

I've realized that I now just assume I'm not going to stay somewhere very long. As I pack my bedroom (cough cough closet), I have nothing to take off the walls. No photos, posters, not even a decorative vase. I knew that the apartment was only for a year, and just told myself that I would just have to take everything down soon, so why bother. Almost like I was a surrogate mother for my living space, carrying it to gestation but knowing I couldn't get attached because I just had to give it back to its rightful owner.

The place I'm moving has definitely not been an enjoyable conception, but hopefully it will result in a loving relationship, rather than a purely symbiotic relationship. I think the porch swing should help with that...

I'll have to cut back on my weird crime story obsessions

Since I've been out of the journalism game for a while, I've fallen behind in the latest social media/online journalism marketing trends. I got on the bandwagon fairly early, at one point maintaining Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Blogger, Delicious, and Flickr accounts. However, adding the former hyperlinks forced me to visit some of those pages for the first time in months. Partly because of the legal ramifications for teachers with an online presence (no matter how squeaky clean it may be), and my limited patience for extraneous computer use during the past year, I've slowly pulled back from the world wide web.

But the other day when I was browsing the Washington Post, I noticed a new feature (or at least new to me): in the top right corner of the home page, I can view what my Facebook friends are reading and sharing from the paper's online content. This disturbed me for several reasons. One, I still get slightly creeped out when websites know more about me that I tell them, such as my Facebook friends or targeted advertising. Two, it provides yet another distraction from reading actual news, and instead adds a whole new level to a person's Facebook stalking abilities.

But I think the most unnerving about this addition was its representation of the larger problem: we rely on digital communication to tell us something about a person. Sure, it's interesting to see that Susan* read about the Coney Island hot dog eating contest, but in the grand scheme of things, I don't really care. I am completely guilty of flooding friends' inboxes with articles or interesting sites; I also know half of these go ignored, which in no way hurts my feelings. I even link my Delicious account to this blog, and try to link a variety of articles. To date I only know of 2 people ever reading one of these articles because I linked it.

I agree with *Jeremy* on most political and social issues. But rarely am I going to see that he liked the latest "summer pet pics" series and suddenly be motivated to view yappy dogs dressed in bathing suits.

I do have to say, the articles being highlighted made me proud of the depth and intellect of most of my "friends." But just remember, your future employer could see your unending devotion to the latest Kardashian family gossip and think twice...

hipsters aren't supposed to complain

When I moved to Baltimore, most people assumed that traveling to D.C. is the same as driving to Kennewick in the Tri-Cities or the Valley in Spokane: a short inconvenience, but basically you're in the same town. And while I've been making the southern trek more often as I've gotten comfortable with the travel options (drive, drive to Metro stop, MARC train, regular train, light rail that I've yet to use), I've realized that Baltimore has one advantage over the "hipster" filled D.C.:

the escalators.

Almost any Metro station in D.C. requires use of potentially lengthy escalators to enter and exit the station. There are elevators and sometimes old-school stairs, but neither of these are seen as a cool-kid option unless you have an actual handicap that requires it. Part of the D.C. culture is being able to navigate these escalators, and they're unspoken but firmly upheld rules: static passengers hug the right side of the contraption, leaving commuters and eager beavers free to walk up or down on the left side.

But unless I'm with wanna-be hipster friends (aka Doug) who sigh heavily any time they (he) has to wait behind tourists who don't abide by the escalator code, you can find me gripping the right handrail and praying for my life. I've never been a huge fan of escalators anyway, but the entrance/exits to the Metro sometimes reach phobia-inspiring heights. The Wheaton station has the second-longest escalator in the Western Hemisphere (hence why this is not my park-and-ride station of choice). This past weekend when I had a small overnight bag with me to upset my normal sense of balance, we almost had a situation on our hands.

I don't know if it was my over-consumption of Rescue 9-1-1 as a child with William Shatner creeping us out with kids getting their arms sucked off, or just a general dislike of the awareness of heights (different than a fear of heights, in the sense that I'm fine with them until I realize how far off the ground I actually am). Anyone who's been to the Riverpark Square mall in Spokane can't say they've never looked down on the four-story open atrium from the moving staircase and thought "this is a good idea."

So for now, I'm working through the fear. And as far as the Metro goes, I'll take the stairs. At least when I'm moving down, anyway...