She's Alive!

I went to two -- TWO -- social events last week. After months of solitary confinement, I left my apartment after sunset and chatted with people over food and drinks.
Event #1
The Stroller Strides Christmas Party.
I've been attending this work out group for several months now -- not that you'd be able to tell, because I think I've lost exactly no pounds since giving birth. Nor have I really gotten to know any of the ladies. I get shy (*awww*). And also, it takes me a while to remember what people outside of university campuses talk about for fun. These work-out-mommies are all really nice. And I could care less if they've never heard of Lacan or chuckled over Tristram Shandy. But they don't watch Mad Men!?! And they don't think Liz Lemon is hilarious. I don't get it. So -- I've been keeping the chit-chat limited to the subject of how cute Desmond is. And he gives us so much to talk about, cause he's so darned cute. See? But the Christmas Party was real swell. I was a little anxious about it, and I'm never brave enough not to feel shy. But there was some good chatting going on -- mostly about babies. But also about other things. Check plus!

Event #2
Christmas Party hosted by a geologist at David's work
Dave was waffling on this one, he being 100X shyer than myself. But the host of the party had been really supportive of David and pushed for him to get a promotion. And I have a suspicion that Dave was getting a little sick of being the hermit-father, though I'm sure he'd deny it. So, at the last moment, Dave asked his dad if he wouldn't mind watching Desmond. And we used that free night to hang out with 50-year old, frizzy-haired state geologists. But it was nice. I talked with a young mother of three, the wife of an engineer. And Dave met people in his department. It wasn't a barn-burner -- and I slept like poop that night -- but it was nice.

How to Decorate a Dining Room

We moved baby Desmond to his own room a couple of weeks ago. Rather than putting him down to sleep in the dining room area -- which lies between the front living room and the hallway leading to the kitchen and back bedroom -- we housed his crib and new dresser in the back. This gave us the nighttime freedom to make noisy kitchen sounds and move from watching TV to grabbing an unneeded snack with ease.

The problem is -- Desmond is not a sound sleeper, and he's an early and exuberant riser. The back bedroom shares a wall with our very friendly neighbors who appreciate our concern but, I'm sure, would much prefer a full night's sleep (wouldn't we all). We've tried our best to sound-proof the room. I spent $60 at Joann's fabrics to make padded fabric wall panels, and Dave draped the room in blankets. But sounds still echo.

I don't think Desmond is sleeping any worse back there. But we are. Every little peep gets me out of bed to readjust and pacify for fear that louder noises are afoot, liable to wake the neighbors. And rather than letting him babble and moan when he wakes up at 5AM so that he'll learn to get up at the proper and just plain reasonable 6AM, I rush in to grab him and bring him to bed with us. This, apparently, is a delight to him -- but doesn't give us that much-needed extra hour.

The whole move has been the cause of early morning arguments. I want us all to just get used to the new arrangements for the sake of dinner as well as domestic aesthetics -- it just looks weird having a crib to creep by in the middle of the apartment. Dave wants it back the way it was for the sake of everyone's sanity. We can't (or I can't -- he's a pretty sound sleeper) keep popping up at every noise. And Desmond needs the vocal freedom to cry and moan and babble without all the parental fussing. He's right, damn him.

So tonight it goes back to the old, ugly arrangement.
My only consolation is that we only have three and a half more months on our lease. Two-bedroom house, here we come! Eventually.

Ikea Trip Threatens Marriage; or, Opposites May Not Attract

I love going to Ikea. Our trips are rare, saved for the transition moments when we've planned dramatic overhauls of our living arrangements. This weekend is one of those moments. We found a dresser on craigslist that will work as a changing table and will allow us to move Desmond into the bedroom and us into the "dining room." Desmond having his own room is a perfect excuse for an Ikea visit, an opportunity to pick up a kid's rug and some other things we need around the house.
Everyone, I think, must have a similar attraction to Ikea, especially on a quiet, unbusy afternoon. In fact, I just listened to a radio story about the store's opening in China which was promptly occupied by bored teenagers who used the little living rooms and kitchens and bedrooms as hang-out spaces in which to pass a lazy summer evening. With some meatballs on the side, this sounds like a perfect idea!
Yes, walking through the alternative universes of practically decorated spaces is inspirational and exciting and gets my synapses firing. Things on the top floor usually go okay for me. It's when we hit the "marketplace" that I begin to lose my mind-grapes. I know what it looks like from inside my shoes -- like a blur. I scan this cutely designed, reasonably priced object and before I can tell what the hell I'm looking at, I spy something across the aisle equally priced and just as cute. Should I get this colander, or this one? $4.99 or 9.99? Or this one for $11.99? But I have a colander. But this one is 4.99. or 11.99. These are colanders here, in front me. The one at home I can't see right now, so how do I know if it's as good as this one, that's only $9.99? I'm a mess, and it lasts the entire hour or so that I'm careening through the basement maze.
David is the exact opposite of me. But despite what you'd think, this does not help matters. His opposite to me is not calm, rational consumerism -- the kind that would gently chuckle at my mania and calmly remind me of all the colanders and hand towels and glass vases we already own. He is the kind of opposite that walks into the marketplace with a look of extreme skepticism and a resolute NO already formed on his lips. As I told him yesterday, he's like Desmond has become with the new foods we try to feed him: he pokes at it suspiciously and then closes his eyes and turns his head in disgust. This attitude does not counteract my frenzy. I think it may feed it, because now not only do I have to choose the items among all the items on my own, but I also have to yell at David and tell him to look at this thing in my hand, we need it right? Look at it! If only he'd look at it.

The Moe Syzlak Effect

Yesterday as Dave and I were approaching a garage sale, I had an imaginary conversation in which I was asked what I was looking for. "Oh, nothing in particular." This reminded me of a Simpsons episode that ends with Moe Syzlak swooping down with hand-made wings to save the day. As he's about to take off, an adoring fan asks where he's flying to. Moe shrugs and says, "Eh, nowheres in partickeller." As those words crossed my brain, they were uttered outloud by my husband. I turned to him and yelled, "Why did you say that? I was JUST thinking that! I mean, when you were saying it, I was thinking it. The words were in my head, but they were coming out of your mouth!"
And he said, "Oh well, when we were walking up to this garage sale, I was thinking they'd ask me . . ." And then he went on to tell me he was thinking the exact same thoughts. At the exact same time.
People, this is sad. In a couple of years, we probably won't even need to have verbal conversations. We'll be able to communicate with a series of winks and nods. Like baseball players. Which might be kind of annoying for Desmond. He'll learn the code eventually.

The One-Hour Evening TV Drama

I am currently deep into the third season of Mad Men, in which the ineffable Don Draper diagnoses the modern condition through his heartfelt ruminations for ad campaigns while juggling a harem of dark-haired mistresses.
Where would I be without my weekly one-hour evening dramas? I recently realized how long I've depended on them. I was watching "thirtysomething" when I was twelve years old. (Would this show hold up now that I'm in my thirties? I don't remember anything about the show except for Nancy getting cancer and Gary getting in a bike accident -- I think the rest was whining about kids and jobs -- which doesn't seem too far off.) Then "China Beach" -- some surfer dude, the camp prostitute with a heart of gold and Dana Delaney. Onto "Twin Peaks" -- of course my favorite of the bunch, cause it was scary and full of beautiful people (the choice between Bobby and James would eat at me for years.) Then a lull during my college years.
But then came the golden era of the one-hour cable drama: "Six Feet Under," "The Wire," and "Deadwood." With swear words and boobs!

Marriage and a Happy Baby

To backtrack a bit, we went to New York and attended a beautiful wedding surrounded by friends that I love to see but so rarely do. The wedding was way up in the Adirondacks in a lodge equipped with old-timey, cozy things -- like huge fireplaces, and a "There Will Be Blood" style bowling alley. The ceremony was simple and sweet, and by God, parted the rain clouds, so you know it must've been special. Someone did the sweetest, off-key version of Hendrix's "Waterfall" that has been stuck in my head ever since. I talked and ate and drank and pretty much had a gay old time. Was I walking around worried over the well-being of my baby (which again reminds me of "TWBB" -- "I've abandoned my child.")? Not really -- Dave was feeling a bit guilty, worried that he wouldn't remember us. But, after a few phone calls back home, I realized he was fine. He had a dog to distract him with occasional licks to the face. The nicest part, I must say, was to be with people I know the best and who say things I understand and who understand me when I say things. And who like to laugh a lot. I miss that.

Two memories

D's been listening to a lot of "This American Life" and comes home from work full of stories about stories. One is about a British guy who has a distinct childhood memory of being thrown in a lake by his friends because he's fat. Turns out, after a series of reunion-related interviews, he jumped willingly into the lake because that was what they were doing, jumping in the lake. His plumpness, in the minds of his friends, had nothing to do with his ending up wet.
Which got me wondering if I have mis-remembered facts from the past, which I hardly seem to remember anyway. But the shocking moments, did they happen for the reasons I think they did?
-- In seventh grade, I surprisingly slapped my best friend out of total confusion when a bunch of people gathered around to tell me, teasingly but playfully, that Danny liked me. I guess I was super excited? (I remember, we "went together" for a total of 7 days.)
-- I distinctly remember my kindergarten teacher mocking me to the entire class because of a silly mistake I made on an assignment (I remember the assignment too). Can that be right? Kindergarten teachers don't ridicule 6-year olds, do they? Even elderly midwestern kindgarten teachers named Schultz -- it just can't be.

The Lost Weekend

We're heading for New York tomorrow night, jetblue red-eye then a six hour car trip upstate to attend a little wedding in the woods. I'm beyond excited, to witness the nuptials of dear friends in celebration with a whole bunch of other dear friends who I haven't seen in a while. I'll be surrounded by friends! A comforting thought to one lost in a strange city with a baby and a hubbie, neither of whom help fill my social calendar.
But our poor baby -- the thought has been eating at me for months -- will be spending the weekend at grandpa's. With his baby-loving ladyfriend and D's sister next door, there will be a community of loving arms for Desmond to cry into during our absence. But, cry I'm sure he will. He's a sensitive little one who jumps with delight everytime he sees his father enter a room, who pulls himself up to stand with a devious and proud grin on wobbly bookcases, who gets so tired he doesn't know what to do but cry and giggle at once, who shivers in anticipation whenever I pull out the box of Joe's O's. He's a (heavy! over 21 lbs!) handful. And I feel both guilty for putting my in-laws through three and a half days of back-breaking babysitting and worried worried worried that Desmond will be psychically scarred so thoroughly that all the analysis in Austria wouldn't be enough to cure him of the trauma of a weekend without mommy and daddy.
On the other (saner) hand, I have my dress at the cleaners and the long-lost friends in the wings gearing up the car to pick us up. I can't wait!

How to Write a Dissertation, pt 2

On my "days off," during Dave's furlough Fridays, or on a lazy Saturday or Sunday, I either head off to a nearby coffeshop or drive 20 minutes to UC Davis to use their library. I am supposed to be writing. Furiously. With passion and determination. With my eyes on the PhD prize.
Instead I flip through a biography or book of criticism. Underline a sentence or two. Open up my Word doc. Think about what word would be a good word to write. Write. Delete. Write. Then spend the next 10 - 15 minutes on facebook, thinking with much more concentration about how to appropriately word an update I'll never end up writing.
Right now I'm looking at the cutest little black chiuaua-type dog with toenails painted pink. She of course is owned by a tatted rock-abilly chick, the type of girl I used to think was badass when I first moved to northern California.

Food on the Floor

The stages of Desmond's dietary development can be measured by the objects found underfoot. Right now we're at the crushed or mushy Cheerio stage, which leaves me rubbing the bottom of one foot against the calf of the opposite leg trying to brush the thing off. He grabs them by the handful, but only about a quarter reach his mouth, and even less make it into the digestive system, spit out as they are.
We're also still in the teething phase, which brings with it small puddles -- or more like Pollackian drizzles of drool dripped across the hardwood floor.
We're long past the era of breastfeeding that left white splashes on the ground every time the baby cried. Or at two hour intervals, whichever came first.
We're about to enter finger food land -- which will probably just be a messier version of Cheerio-dom.
We almost got into a teething biscuit phase today but, after a messy five minute try-out, we quickly reconsidered.

A slice in the life of . . .

To fill in some lost time, I will quickly describe the routine of life as a parent in Sacramento:
1) Desmond is apparently a morning person. He wakes up between 5:30 - 6:30. Best not to get me started on the topic of sleeping, cause I'll be likely to go on a bit. "Sleep training" in an apartment right next to another apartment in the summer when windows are open. No verb here to complete the sentence.
2) Dave wakes up and gets Desmond out of bed, changes a diaper, makes coffee and does whatever dishes are in the sink. (sigh!)
3) I get up around 7 to take over while Dave gets ready for work.
4) He leaves and Desmond and I stare at each other -- he with a toothy, drooly grin. I with puffy eyes and morning breath.
5) If it's a day for "Stroller Strides," the mommy exercise group in the park, I sit Desmond down on his play pad while I rush around getting things ready to go.
6) He takes a bottle, maybe drifts off for a half hour nap. Or we hit the pavement and are out being social and healthy.
7) A long stretch of unscheduled time that includes eating lunch, napping, crying, playing, walking, laughing.
8) Dave gets home at 5:10 and I either head out to the cafe to study, or Dave and I do something like play tennis while Desmond makes eyes at passers-by.
9) Feed / Bath / Story / Bed. Usually bedtime is undramatic, the way I like it.
10) Dave and I eat dinner, watch something either trashy, interesting, or stupid on tv/dvd.
11) Bedtime for Dave around 9:30. For me, 10:30.
Typically.

How to Write a Dissertation

I have no idea. Not the way I'm doing it.

Dave and I have a not-so-strict routine. On Mondays/Wednesdays when Dave gets home from work at 5, I go off to a cafe to get some reading or writing done. And on "furlough Fridays," I'll try to get a good 4-5 hours of work in. So far this has produced a photobook of baby pictures I ordered through QOOP, and a paragraph of quotes I should use.

In the meantime, Desmond has two teeth and will crawl any day now. Season 3 of Mad Men started last night. And temperatures reached the upper 90s in the Sacramento region.

Back to Work

I've been worried for weeks about today the day I commute 3 hours (each way) from Sac to Santa Cruz with a baby in the back seat who has no predictable eating schedule yet. Lit 101/Marxism is calling -- 8AM lecture.
Things seemed like they were going to work out with less belly-aching than I thought. Dave got the (Cesar Chavez) day off and could accompany us there and back, taking a lot of pressure off our first day back in school.
I prepared all day yesterday to get everything set up for our early morning departure. The diaper bag and school bag were packed, the stroller was stowed, the bottles were made in advance and the cooler bag was ready. All I had to do was wake up, feed the baby, and be on my way. And we were making excellent time, I was to be there with a good half hour to breathe.
Except half-way there I had a vision that did not include seeing myself putting the bottles in the car. I remember throwing the diaper bag and my school bag in the backseat, next to the camera which I thought I should bring. But the bag of bottles, were they there? Nope.
So for the last hour of the journey, Dave and I worried: where were we going to buy formula, and bottles, and how were we going to sterilize them? And would hungry Desmond give us the time to figure all this out? We were straight panicking our merry way over highway 17, and what should have been a pleasant early morning drive down memory lane was nailbiting nightmare.
With a happy ending. Dave called his old Paper Vision bosses who kindly opened their doors to our screaming baby and let bottles be sterilized and formula mixed as I strolled into a packed auditorium pretending that motherhood is really a cinch.
Thankfully, my sister-in-law offered to care for poor Desmond Tuesdays and Thursdays so he'll never have to suffer that drive again.

Pass the Chicken Soup I guess

Yesterday evening we went to pick up a fancy Pali crib we found on craigslist. The woman selling the crib was a local East-Sac mom with a hip husband in a Volvo. They seemed like nice people who decorate their modest home in French bistro decor and stunning black-and-white wedding photos. We agreed to take their crib, and kindly accepted the accoutrements: mattress, crib bumper, sheets. And then the mom let me know that she has published a book and said I should take one home with me. She even signed it. The Light at the End of the Diaper Pail (and I see she has a blog too).
In another life, I think I might have scoffed at a publication of this nature. In fact, because I'm a cynical snob (and probably also jealous of all "regular" people who also have a published book), I did scoff a bit as I flipped through pages that reminded me to "Breathe. Repeat." or to "Love your partner." Little chicken-soup tidbits geared to a specific demographic who just so happens to spend a lot of money on feel-good baby-shower gifts. But it actually did make me feel good. While I may ignore the advice to "Beam. Cry. Laugh. Be real." I do kind of appreciate the reassurance that my hours of sitting on the big bed watching bad cable is acceptable behavior.

Around the Bed

We've been living at my father-in-law's since we got back from France three(!!) months ago. In fact, we've been living in my father-in-law's bedroom, while he's been staying at his lady friend's as his children figure their shit out. J -- my sister-in-law -- and her husband have recently moved from here to their re-modeled mega-house next door. And Dave and I are packing up and heading out to our new one-bedroom apartment, with all the old-school features -- like a built-in kitchen hutch, a Wedgewood stove, and a strange swiveling door that used to house a Murphy bed.
I'm excited about our move, to finally be in our own space with our own things. But I must admit, I'm also regretting some amenities of living in the burbs -- washer/dryer (I'm not quite sure I can live without one at this point . . . this will be a test), no apartment neighbors for Desmond to bother, no utilities or cable bills.
What most characterizes our stay here has been "going around the bed." Going around, that is, the California King sized bed that is the main piece of furniture in the room in which we live. The in-law's bedroom is of a generous size -- bigger than my studio in Paris for sure -- with a bathroom and walk-in closet attached. It also houses a huge flat-screen TV that offers one million channels or something close to that. What I do all day is sit on the bed, feed the baby, walk around the bed to gather clothes to put in the washer, check to see if I've already seen the "What Not to Wear" episode, walk around the bed to get to the kitchen to prepare lunch, feed the baby, walk around the bed to stare blankly at a bookshelf with books that I'll definitely read tomorrow. The bed is big and to get anything accomplished, you must walk around it. Thankfully, I'm not concerned these days with getting much accomplished, so I've been occupied mostly upon rather than around the bed.
Soon I'll be sitting on the new-to-me sofa I bought through craigslist that we tried to squeeze through a series of apt. doors, scuffing and streaking its white micro suede fabric, only to decide that we entered through the wrong entrance. The currently cushion-less couch is now sitting in the back utilities room waiting for Dave to regain his strength to take it through the correct series of doors.

In February, Bad Things Happened

Like two bouts of breast infection -- one of which sent me to the emergency room to have a huge abscess drained, leaving me with a hole that I *affectionately* call my "boob wound" which must be dressed twice daily.
So, with the least amount of guilt that I can manage, I've given up breast-feeding and have moved Desmond to the formula'ed bottle. He doesn't seem to mind at all.
However, I must admit that, despite the decidedly motherly intimacy that breast feeding provides -- I do feel a kind of pride that I am able to produce food to nourish my child -- I was not that keen on nursing. It is really totally exhausting. I know that some of my own happiness and independence must be sacrificed for the good of my dependent, but I had some difficulty coming to terms with the many months and countless hours ahead of me, hunched over a hungry child whose appetite seemed eternal.
What is more, I was feeling a fair amount of resentment toward all the websites and advice books -- and even California legislation -- compelling me to think of my body as a sacred trough that not only provides the best nourishment -- a miracle elixir allegedly preventing diabetes, asthma, obesity and slow-wittedness -- but also points to a morally superior mother who deeply, truly loves her progeny (unlike the bottle-feeding mother who is either conceived of as a self-absorbed diva or a lower-income, under-educated teenager).
Here's a pretty convincing article detailing the breastfeeding trend and questioning the actual medical benefits of nursing.

Labor Story

My appointment for the induction was Friday night, 8pm. I was not thrilled about the idea of being induced. I wasn't really sure what it entailed, nor was I sure -- based on my (not really) extensive internet research -- how patient-friendly, as opposed to doctorly-convenient, it was going to be. I was afraid, as was Dave, that I was setting myself up for a chain of interventions. First an induction, next thing you know a C-section.

But we arrived promptly at the scheduled hour and I was immediately surrounded by nurses attaching monitors to my belly and sticking me with needles, taking my temperature, asking me questions then doubting with their sidelong looks the veracity of my answers (No really, I haven't done street drugs. Not cocaine OR heroine. Swear.) But once these pleasantries were out of the way, the first of three main nurses was really sweet. She looked just like Joan from *Mad Men*. She explained the deal with inducing labor: she was going to insert a tiny pill that would slowly release a hormone and my contractions would get going. The thing is, though, is that my contractions had already begun. I just couldn't feel them really. I could see them on the contraction monitor -- but felt nothing like pain when I was supposedly experiencing a contraction. The induction pill was supposed to help things along. But as soon as "Joan" went to take her break -- around 9pm -- my water broke. On it's own. It had nothing to do with the hormone pill. Weird.

For the next 6 hours, I didn't need the monitor to tell me when I was having a contraction. I was in pain. What's unfortunate about scheduling a labor induction is that they have you come in at night, assuming that you'll be opting for pain medication. I think I could have handled the pain however if I hadn't been so miserably tired. As it was, both Dave and I were struggling to find the energy to withstand what felt like . . . you know, I don't even remember what it felt like exactly. All I remember is that it hurt and that I had to audibly moan because for some reason that helped soothe the pain.

Anyway -- they did have to ask twice, but I took their drugs. Because it was too early for the epidural (I wasn't dilated enough -- you need to be between 5-6 inches), but my contractions were practically on top of each other, they injected into my IV some kind of narcotic that immediately made me feel great. I felt high. And good. And then recalled that I have never been straight-edge. I have mostly always enjoyed a dopey high, especially one that dulls pain (although, for the record, I've never really taken drugs to alleviate pain before). So Dave was off pain-partner duty and, at 3AM, we could both get some rest.

I remember at around 6AM, the drugs were wearing off and the sun was beginning to rise. All I wanted was to be surrounded by peaceful things. There was a TV station that showed images of nature -- winter landscapes, fall foliage -- accompanied by soft music. Despite the rising pain, I wanted to live in this moment it was so quiet.

But then at 8pm the epidural brigade arrived, along with my new main nurse, Irene, who is much younger than her name suggests. This was her first day back from a four month maternity leave after delivering her second child. She was great and I kind of want to go back to give her a proper thank you for her help. So, they inserted the epidural: it was a scary sounding procedure and I think Dave was really uncomfortable watching them thread things into my back. But, whoo, it's kind of amazing how the pain completely disappeared. I was a little concerned, about 6 hours later, when one of my legs -- which were both tingly and numb -- wouldn't stop tingling (it eventually did, though).

About 7 hours later, after almost 18 hours of active -- though mostly painless -- labor and a steady dose of pitocin (yet another hormone that speeds labor along) I was ready to deliver. Irene told me when to push and Dave held my hand (and leg) and counted to 10 three times. What was unexpected about delivery is that it's much calmer than in the movies. There's not constant screaming and cursing. When there was a contraction I would push as hard as I could. But then there'd be a couple of minutes of just hanging out, chatting with the nurses about other deliveries, or their own babies, or nothing at all -- just staring and zoning out. There was about 45 minutes of this. And the scariest thing about it all, as you would imagine, is the thought -- and the reality -- of a head passing through a smaller passageway, that I would have to experience this passing, and that it would (or should, if it drugily didn't) hurt. But out he came. And all because, I'm sure, of my expert pushing. Everyone was really impressed with my pushing.

And it was CRAZY, crazy to have little Desmond placed on my chest two seconds later. Things then start to become real, but not really because I'm worn out and addled, with nurses and doctors running in and out, and I don't fully understand what's going on. And maybe because I don't know what else to do and definitely don't know what to think, I'm just smiling and crying and looking at Dave, whose state will remain unwritten, and Desmond who knows no better than me what to do next.

In February, Things Happen

-- Little Desmond Harold aka Ji-myung has arrived (labor details to follow). As the pediatrician commented today, he's a robust lad for being only a week and a half old. He eats well, sleeps tolerably well, and cries whenever he feels like it.
-- The jobs Dave has been *patiently* awaiting have slowly started to hatch. The State job (whose hiring staff has had me wondering how anything gets done at the state level) may actually happen. Could it be true? After months of random and pointless test-taking and stalling and paper-shuffling, will there come a day when he walks into an office to work and leaves with a paycheck in hand? Let's not get too excited . . .
-- And sadly, Dave and his family had to put their dog Bubba down this morning. He had a growth in his stomach and looked miserable and heartbreakingly ashamed. Bubba leaves behind his twin brother, Poncho.

January is the month of waiting

It's five in the morning and I've been up for an hour and a half. I think this might be my new schedule for a little while: up at 1 and 4 am.
It seems like everything is going to happen at once. After an entire month on the edge of our seats, waiting for things to start moving and get decided, it's all going to get done this weekend. I'll still keep my fingers crossed:
The baby's about a week late and the doctor will induce labor Friday night.
David finally has an interview with the State tomorrow, I mean this morning.
The in-laws' house next door is almost done with renovations and it looks like they can move back this weekend.
My parents arrive on Sunday.
The Australian Open Finals are this weekend.
As is the Super Bowl.
Obama passed a stimulus package.