you can uncross your fingers

BECAUSE I GOT THE JOB!!!!

Whew. This week has been such a tumultuous whirlwind that it's been hard to catch my breath. Interview on Monday. Reference check on Tuesday (but only one reference, weird, huh?), then the agony of waiting through Wednesday and Thursday morning, checking the messages at home, gripping the cell phone at work. Then on Thursday at about noon, I checked the messages and there was a message offering me the job. Then there was the inevitable considering of whether or not I should try to negotiate salary, then there was the nervousness last night of what I would have to do today (I ate a whole full size back of popcorn by myself I was so nervous).

This morning I gave my lame attempt at negotiating, then took the job (it actually was a great offer to begin with, so don't worry I'm getting shafted).

Then I waited for my boss to come in so I could give my notice.

Then I made myself and my boss cry.

Then I waited while she got herself back together.

Then I was able to tell everyone else in the office that I'm leaving. I'm happy about my new job, but today is definitely bittersweet--I've worked with these people for nigh on 6 years and I truly felt like I was breaking up with my law firm. I will miss them all terribly, but I need to move on and do what is best for me. And this, for now, is what's best for me.

Thanks so much to everyone who crossed their fingers and thought good thoughts on my behalf. Whether you believe that kind of thing helps or not, it certainly didn't hurt. And it certainly let me know how loved I am, which never hurts anyone's confidence.

So now all that's left to do is figure out my start date and tell my parents that I've quit my job and got me a new one.

Yay Me!

administrative professionals day, or how can i say thank you without really saying thank you?

For those of you who don't work in the mind-numbingly boring world of The Office, today is Administrative Professionals Day. Here at The Firm this means that we get taken out for a lengthy lunch while the attorneys bring their various spouses and children for the free meal. No speeches are made, no one says thank you for all you do, all you've done. Just a free meal. And usually not a very good one at that. The last three years we've gone to Dave and Buster's across the street, which I don't otherwise frequent because it usually makes me sick. Then we get a Power Card to go blow away some zombies or similar, which is fun, but only because it is fairly easy to visualize them as being attorneys. Might be a great Admin. Prof. Day for a bunch of teenagers, but for women in their thirties, forties and beyond, it seems a bit silly.

This year, us lucky devils are having lunch catered here. We don't even get to leave the office or eat at a table like civilized human beings. It is one shuttle through the line at the Qdoba naked burrito bar (the burritos don't have tortillas, that's why their naked, and only the burritos are naked, not anyone else, don't get too excited) and then back to work for us.

Next year (of course hopefully I won't be here, but I can still imagine where The Firm is headed) they'll just throw us a piece of raw meat in our cages and maybe take us for a walk out in the "yard" as a special treat. Kinda makes me miss the ol' place already.

in re the matter of: references

I got a heart jangling call on my cell at work today, from THE JOB, asking for my references. I've reached that special cordoned off circle of hell where you're down to the final heat (so to speak, heh), apparently. Anyway I've emailed my references to THE JOB and given my peeps the heads up, pumped them full of details of my stunning work ethic and my detail-orientedness.

And I know from one well-placed source that the call has come, the glorious praises of Mrs. Bump have been sung (by one reference, at least).

So now what I have to do is sit back, relax (hah) and wait for THE JOB offer to roll in.

Hah, says the negative nellie on my shoulder. Like Nelson from The Simpsons, she says "Hah-ha."

I hate that negative nellie bitch.

we got punk'd by mother nature

On Saturday, the weather here was spring with just the merest suggestion of summer--trees flowering, birds singing, eventually downright hot. I stepped out on the aluminum threshold to our deck and nearly burned my bare foot, that's how hot. And so we made the calculated decision to switch our furnace over from heat to cool. It seemed like it was time. Even on Sunday, the thunderstorms and rain/hail were more suggestive of a summer storm than anything more sinister. Fast forward to yesterday morning, when the rain turned into SNOW, and the temperature dropped to 34 degrees. Last night, as we watched the giant, fluffy snowflakes settle on the blossoms of the fruit trees in our alley and made a big ol' pot of chili, we made the solemn switch back to heat with our heads bowed in shame. Because we knew we had fallen for the summer fake-out and resulting bitch slap--that's right, we'd been punk'd by mother nature.

According to my Firefox Weather.com add-on, it is currently cloudy and 32 degrees out. Having already been outside, I believe it. It also promises to be 75 degrees by Thursday. But I'm much more wary now. I'll believe that when I see it. That's the thing you've got to remember about weather in Colorado. You can't believe you won't see snow again (until fall, that is) unless it's the Fourth of July.

But I'll get you back, mother nature. When you least expect it, I'll get you back.

job interview, take 2

Let's see, where do I start? I woke up this morning to GI distress and spent precious moments I should have been plucking stray eyebrow hairs and drilling myself on my weaknesses (give something, but a skill, rather than a quality) on the toilet. I managed to get showered, get dressed, get everything (0r so I thought) into the black purse before I had to spend a little quality time in the powder room. It's a rain/snow mix here so I bring my umbrella but eschew a coat because of the flop sweat. I get there and I immediately realize (when the security guy asks for it) that I've left my id in my other purse. It hasn't made the transition. Thankfully, someone was able to come and get me and vouch for me because I told the guard I had an interview. I know, I remembered it last time, I had no excuse.

The interview itself was not bad, it was with three possible fellow coworkers, all of whom seemed very nice and while inexperienced at interviewing, managed to loosen up a bit toward the end. We talked about shared interests, etc.

After that I hobbled over to Mr. Bump's office for a little debriefing and to call in sick to work. But now I'm back home waiting for the next wave of cramping, etc. while I make some tea and attempt one of the homemade graham crackers we made yesterday.

They said someone would call me but they seemed a bit vague on the details. I don't feel like it went badly at all, in fact it seemed to go well. But the lack of any kind of resolution is what's killing me. Ah well. Cowboy up, Mrs. Bump.

Somehow with everything else going on, I'm not going to worry about it.

...and the winner is

The Winner
Yep. That's what I'm going with. Call me a chicken but when you come down the stairs and your husband says "Wow," you go with that one rather than the one he says, "That's kinda low cut for an interview, isn't it?" You'll have to pardon the quality of your intrepid blogger's looks--I've no makeup on, I let my hair air-dry and I haven't shaved my legs and the choice of bra was more for comfort than support as I was in lazy-Sunday-laundry-day-mode. And I still got a wow from Mr. Bump. I'm a lucky gal.

dressing mrs. bump--like barbies with backtalk

I have purchased two options for the next go-round of interviews for this job, and I can't decide which one of them I want to go with.

Contestant No. One is a black skirt suit, with a skinny white pinstripe and a dotted pinkish red pinstripe. I would probably be pairing it with a white shirt of some variety, probably crewneck. Or perhaps black, but probably white. And a pair of pointy toes, kitten heeled pumps.

Contestant No. Two is a cream suit (it says "vanilla" is the color), which is solid in color. I would be wearing either a black crewneck shirt or a french blue button down shirt with ruching--an added bit of fashion detail should I unbutton the jacket during the interview. Shoes would be the very same pumps mentioned above if I go with the black crewneck shirt, and I'm not sure if I go with the blue. I don't have a pair of cream "vanilla" shoes, so I would either have to go with brown or black regardless. I don't know.

For reference, I previously wore a tan pantsuit with a white pinstripe and a pink pinstripe running through it. I wore a white crewneck shirt under it, and pinkish brownish mary janes with a square toe.

Makeup will be minimal--foundation, blush, a little neutral lippy.

My watch choices are black leather band. That's all I got that currently has batteries in it. Oh, and a metal stretch band watch with a blue face, which might work with the blue shirted ensemble.

I will be carrying a black portfolio.

My car is originally hunter green but is currently a greenish brown shade due to weather-related residue. Could be a problem with the cream suit.

Purse-wise, the field is wide open: black leather, brown leather, teal suede, black and white fabric, orange fabric (although more of an evening purse), and even multicolored corduroy. I'm leaning toward black leather.

Contestant No. One Contestant 1 Close-up












Contestant 2A Contestant 2B












Let's review the options: Black pin-striped skirt suit, Contestant No. One. Cream suit with black shirt, Contestant No. Two A. Cream suit with blue shirt, Contestant No. Two B.

And just keep in mind, I have total dictator-type veto power, much like the producers on [insert your favorite reality elimination-type show here].

mr. bump goes to school

I miss my husband today. This is how much of a freak I am. He's not on a business trip. We slept in the same bed last night and he even drove me to work this morning. But Mr. Bump is attending a class today and tomorrow (something technical and computer-y) and therefore I am being deprived of my near constant contact with him via email and IM. I can't relay every thought I have to him exactly when I have it. Or at least I can't expect a response from him.

Sadly, I have gotten to the intersection of marriage and technology where I still want to communicate with my husband but technology is failing me. I could text message him if Mr. Bump didn't have an ancient Nokia phone that doesn't do text. Despite Mr. Bump's leanings toward the newest and best technology has to offer, he's nearly a Luddite when it comes to cell phones. For that matter he never wants to use the phone at home either. By that I mean he never wants to answer it, and getting him to even call his brother to see when he's coming over for dinner is a chore. I would rock, paper, scissors him on it but he's stolen my RPS mojo, and so I'm crippled in that arena. (More on this at another time.)

It was nice to have the drive to work to talk to him, but he had to go and wreck that in the following exchange:

Mrs. B: You don't want to be in this lane.
Mr. B: Are you sure?
Mrs. B: Yes, this lane ends up ahead.
Mr. B: Are you sure?
Mrs. B: What do you mean am I sure? I take this route every day.
Mr. B: Well, where does it end?
Mrs. B: At the next light.
Mr. B: The lane continues, it just turns.
Mrs. B: Yes, but it doesn't continue the way we're going.

And a short time later, as we're behind a slow bus:

Mrs. B: You want to pass him if you can.
Mr. B: Why, is he going to stop?
Mrs. B: I don't think so. But you can get by him.
Mr. B: (passing) You were right.
Mrs. B: Of course I'm right. I take this route every day.

We'll see if we have this same conversation on the way home today, or on the way to work again tomorrow.

One of the benefits of this job I'm applying for is that it is catty-corner from Mr. Bump's office building, and we could have lunch every day. You would think after this morning's exchange I might be having second thoughts about that arrangment. But you'd be wrong. We used to do it when we were first dating and it was really nice. Plus it forces Mr. Bump to actually take a lunch hour, which he hardly ever does. Plus unlike lane changes, we don't have any trust issues regarding lunch choices.

Yeah Baby!

That's right, second interview baby! Uh-huh, that's what I'm talking about. I'll bet it was my thank you note. I give good thank you note, if I do say so myself.

Crap. I've got to get another new suit.

Oh well. And yay!

You don't drown by falling in the water; you drown by staying there.

I have this saying I picked up somewhere on the internet post-it noted to my monitor at work. I picked it up as a dieting tip, to remind myself if I blow it at lunch I don't need to blow the whole day, or whole week. But I think it applies to a lot of other situations. The parts of my life that feel stagnated, the parts that are drowning me. Like, say, my job, for example.

I certainly am more than willing to embrace change. Achieving it, however, can sometimes be more tricky. You may only drown by staying in the water, but when it feels like you're being held under by the universe, it feels like will drown you just as surely. It is hard to keep coming back for more. But I'm trying. I'm trying to hold on to what I learn, digest it and use it.

Yesterday Ruby learned that sometimes when you show attitude to a dog that's about your size, and even significantly older than you, sometimes you get attitude back. It isn't often that owners applaud the dog that growled right back to their dog, but we sure did. That's right Ruby Slippers, Maddie schooled you, even at her ripe old age of 15.

Yesterday Mr. Bump learned that our kitchen counters don't necessarily end up cleaner after they've been cleaned. He saw an experiment on Mythbusters (see episode 12) involving sterile swabs, petrie dishes, and a quest for which is the dirtiest location on their set. And guess what, our kitchen countertops were not so clean, even after he wiped them down with bleach/water solution. We're still trying to figure that out. Anyway, here is one of his cultures if you care. If you don't, I'm sorry.


Yesterday I learned that you can't take a camera cell phone into a federal judicial building. I learned that if you argue with the parking garage attendant that you parked in Early Bird and she doesn't speak English very well, she'll eventually just give in and give you the cheaper rate. And I learned that even if you can't get out of the water yet, you can save yourself by just holding on and treading in it.

And for god's sake, if the water happens to be pooled on our kitchen counters, don't drink it.

...And Another Thing

I hate this now, this waiting game between the interview and the decision, whether for a second interview or to say thanks, but no thanks. You think of all the things you should have said. You go over everything you did say and try to remember how they took those in, whether they were nodding or if they asked a follow-up question. You do the extended dance remix version of the instant replay. And no matter how confident you were, no matter how straight you sat up, all you can think of are the things you said that might not have been the "right" answer. You fret that there was a right answer to begin with, and you didn't get the rosetta stone to it.

And there is some inverse proportion between how much you want the job and how interested they are in you. But all the advice goes against playing hard to get, at least until you get the job offer and you're in salary negotiations.

So I've got to let it go, and just get on with going to the sucky job that I HAVE, and let go of the one that I may or may not get. After all, it pays the bills. It is somewhere to go every day. And the people I work with almost make it worth all the other crap I put up with.

Are your fingers still crossed?

So are mine.

And I Didn't Even Trip Or Spill Anything On Myself

So its over. I had my job interview and I did my best. And I have absolutely no idea how it went or how I did. I think I did ok, maybe even well, but it is hard to know. And it sounds like I'll have to go through a second round of interviews with more people, if I get lucky. So the possibility of me getting this job is still tenuous. But I did ask questions. And I do feel I put my best foot forward. So now I'll just have to wait and see what happens. And unfortunately for you all, you'll just have to wait right along with me.

I do want to say thank you for all the calls and emails and support I've gotten over the last couple of days. It made running the gauntlet of the interview a bit easier.

I just need to remember that even if I don't get this job, it isn't the end of the world. I mean, after all, I am currently gainfully employed. And I still have all the other great stuff in my life. But I kinda think I would like this job. I think it would be a challenge. So that's all the news I have to report. When I know more, I'll let you know.

Warning: This Post Contains Un-Funny Content

I had a big fight with my mother this weekend, over the phone (which sucks), with both of us ending up in tears (which double sucks). Making your mother cry doesn't do anyone any favors, but my mother truly is the nicest, most accomodating person you will ever meet. Those of you that have met her know this. And I made her cry. I am an evil, horrible daughter. The fight was stupid and I picked it when I should have just let the issue go. But every once in a while I get fed up and I have to open my big mouth rather than having perspective on the given situation.

It doesn't matter who your parents are, or how much you love them, how much they love you--sometimes there are going to be differences of opinion. But I think I realized this weekend for the first time that I have the ability to wound my mother. I've probably had the ability for a long time, but I think I really realized it on Saturday.

It is a long stupid story but essentially I accused her of choosing my brother over me, when the choice comes up. And I do think that both my parents lean that way. But maybe I'm biased. Because he lives close to my parents, and my father works with my brother every day, it is easy for me to see myself as the Sunday child, the one they see sometimes, maybe once a month. The one they talk to maybe once a week, rather than ten times a day. And when I do talk to them, or see them, it is like we haven't seen each other in months. The first hour or two I'm with them they seem to vomit all the information they've kept stored up. So it isn't that I don't think they love me. Or even that they want to see me. It's just that I'm outside of their daily lives. In some ways I feel I've always been.

My brother and I are both adopted. Recently I searched for and found my birth mother, only to discover that aside from rosacea and a passing resemblance around the eyes, we have little else in common. For reasons I won't go into, I decided it was not a relationship that I wanted to pursue. The thing I took from that experience was that I am me, and I've made myself. I am parts of the parents who raised me--values, beliefs. I am less of the person who gave birth to me, same eyes, some similar medical history. I'm just me. I don't get my love of books from either mother. I don't get my passion for food, my love of travel, my smile, my freckles from anyone. They are my own. You would think that knowledge would be freeing--and it is, to some extent. But it also makes me sad. It makes me feel alone.

Sometimes, a lot of times, actually, I feel I have only just found the family of my heart, in my Mr. Bump's family. The thirst for knowledge, the breadth of interests, the sense of humor, the love of travel are the same. But even though I know all the stories about Mr. Bump's childhood and his family tree, they are just stories to me. And to have such intimacy with my husband's family causes a disconnect between me and my family, my parents and my brother. I have stories that no one I'm with remembers, because I'm not with my family. I'm with Mr. Bump's family once a week, often more than that, and so it is natural that that bond is reinforced. I see my family once a month, and we spend so much time catching up on each other's lives we have little time to reminisce about the past, about what makes up our family tree. And then there is the fact that my tree has been grafted to this family tree. Not that I feel like my parents loved me any differently or less because I was adopted--in fact, they probably loved me more. The grip was so tight for so long that I physically feel its absence since we see each other so much less.

I suspect that my mother knows I enjoy the time I spend with my mother-in-law. I suspect she is jealous and wounded about it, but she would never say that to me. Because whatever makes me happy makes her happy. And that's just what she wants more than anything--that her babies are happy. And so this is what I blunder into with my too-blunt and frankly mean accusation that she plays favorites. That she's been feeling like she's lost me to the Bumps, and here I am saying that she chooses my brother over me. So who can blame her for crying?

And so I'm very sorry that I made her cry. I'm sorry this is less funny and more personal than you may want. I'm sorry for a lot of things lately.

You'll be happy to know that after running some errands and cooling off (all the while feeling like a poopy-head) I called my mother and apologized profusely. Of course, so did she. That's the kind of mom she is.

The Grown-Up Fairy

Last night Mr. Bump and I made a very delicious dinner of bacon wrapped pork tenderloin, roast carrots and potatoes (of the baby yukon gold variety) and a staggering salad of romain, dolce gorgonzola and nuts, drizzled with some drops of lovely extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. And rosemary sourdough bread dipped in more extra virgin olive oil. And I had a yummy glass of Black Swan Shiraz (from Australia). Very, very good. New recipes but will definitely be repeated.

Then David waxed the cheese (sounds dirty, eh?) he made over the weekend, which is now ready to go down to the cheese cave (i.e. the basement). It seems our food week has been spent--we are out of milk, we are out of recipes, we are paper towels.

Last night I also finally cleaned the toenail polish off my toes from the pedicure I had in December (?) and trimmed by nails and buffed them shiny. There's something about these small gestures of tending to myself--getting to plucking that stray eyebrow hair that's been staring you down in the mirror every morning or making sure you're moisturized properly--that make me feel like a grown-up in ways that a job, a mortgage, a husband do not.

But Situation Laundry is heading into its fourth week--I wouldn't say the Grown-Up Fairy has hit me with her wand just yet.

I Hope, I Hope, I Hope

I know that Easter is coming up this weekend, and that spring is beginning to sprung, and that the sun is shining and the birds are singing and the trees are budding and yadda yadda yadda. I know I should feel like I'm turning some bright corner and all things are possible. And to some extent, contrary to my nature, I do. Despite being against my nature to hope for good things, lately I hope, I hope.

On Tuesday I have an interview for a job that, depending on what further information I get from the interviewers, I may really want. The vacation time is good, benefits are good, I would be working across the street from Mr. Bump. Literally. Across the street. I would have 401K and retirement. And I would have the opportunity to either move up the ladder or move around--try other things. The money is good if not great, similar to what I'm making now. So it sounds good from the outside, but aside from a description in the ad which sounds like I could do the job, I don't know if I would like the job. And of course, there is the little matter of whether they want me for the job.

But I've got nervous, excited butterflies in my stomach about the possibility. The possibility of something new has got me bounding out of bed, showing up to work on time, and generally smiling a little more. All of which tells me that I should have done this long ago, if just the possibility of a new job has got me this excited. I'm afraid of how dashed I'm going to feel if I don't get the job. I'm afraid of what I'll take it to mean about my self-worth. So I'm not going to think about that.

I'm just going to study up about the job, create a big list of questions to ask, get my new suit pressed and the buttons secured, and mainline self-esteem. Wish me luck and if you think of it, at 8:00 a.m. mountain time, cross your fingers.

Bachin' It

Mr. Bump is off helping out our dear friend C tonight, who is loading up his remaining possessions in Colorado for shipment back to San Diego. And so I have myself a free night. I can watch whatever crap TV I want, I can eat whatever I want for dinner, I can spend another night in denial about what is rapidly becoming known as Situation Laundry on my half of the bedroom.

Here's how much of a grown-up I am: I got home and took Ms. Ru bear for a walk first thing. I made myself a spaghetti dinner with a appetizer of bread dipped in the most delicious, fragrant, decadent olive oil you can get for $4.00 a bottle. Calabria. You can get it on most King Soopers, Vons(?), Kroger type shelves. It comes in a littler bottle and a bigger bottle, depending on how much you indulge. I highly recommend it for the occasional good fat indulgence.

Anyway, after that dinner--the spaghetti was eh, but I ate it anyway, like a grownup--I sorted through a pile of old bank statements, receipts and deposit slips, investment statements, etc. It has been an ongoing project that is finished with the sorting phase. Now I can move on to thoughts about what needs to be shred (I know it should be shredded but I like shred better) and what needs to be organized in some kind of neat and tidy filing system. People, this stuff dated back to at least 2003. And I found a couple of old high school ids in there--whew, that was some big hair. Maybe if you play your cards right I'll scan them in and share them with y'all. Then again maybe not. I'm a grown-up, after all.

Then I watched House, and read my Maybe Baby book, drug 6 garbage bags worth of too big clothes out for "Jane from ARC," (again exhibiting my grown-upness) and then did some blog surfing and some blogging. And now my husband and our friend C are at least an hour from here and they haven't called to say they've left yet. And we are approaching my bedtime. And for all my grown-upness I don't like to go to bed without my husband. In fact, since we got married we haven't spent more than maybe 5 nights apart. And I know he'll be home, but I won't really go to sleep until he's home. There's no point. Right now my insides are jangly and tense without him in the house at this hour. I'm not scared exactly, but I sure hear every little noise when I'm on my own. I'm more restless. Caged tiger in the zoo restless.

So how much of a grown up am I, then, if I can't go to sleep without my husband by my side? I don't know, but I can still argue that I've gotten old and set in my ways. Or I could argue the opposite and say that he's my security blanket. Either way, he's my sounding board, my best friend, by devil's advocate, my back scratcher, the guy who does silly dances around the bedroom with me in his underwear, my better, more cautious, thoughtful half. And the simple truth is that I can't sleep without him. Although it appears that the dog has no such troubles. She's on her way up to bed without me as I speak. I best turn in.

G'night y'all. Sleep tight. Don't let Ruby bite. Owait, that last one's for me.

EEG Stands for Eeg! I've Got Such a Headache!

I have a wonderful post about our weekend adventures in food, but I've currently posted it twice and for some reason parts of it keep getting deleted. So once I fix that, I'll be happy to share my weekend with you. But this morning I'm having a hard time being patient because I feel like there's a mac truck parked in my head. Coupled with some nausea and light sensitivity, I'm beginning to think this is developing into a migraine. This all seems to be derived from an EEG (electroencephalogram) I underwent this morning for my epilepsy. It had been 20 years since I last underwent one, so my neurologist felt the time was right.

Aside from a head of hair vaseline-greasy (which I remember from last time) with whatever goo they use to make the electrodes stick, I left the hospital feeling both on edge and sort of woozy, a combination that any epileptic will tell you isn't a good one. Initially I thought maybe it was from the flashing strobe light they placed in front of my face and then ramped up from disco to rave to "head toward the light." There was a breif, blissful pause between each dial up of the strobe, but my body quickly learned not to relax during this pause, but to tense for the coming onslaught. My teeth were gritted against it.

But then I reconsidered, thinking that maybe my headache is the product of the torture of next having to "deeply and quickly breathe through my mouth for three minutes." And that, if there ever was one, is a recipe for passing out. Try it some time, and let me know how long it takes before your mouth is dry, you're tired, shaky, and feeling lightheaded. I hit that point right around the time the technician said I'd been breathing for a minute.

After that, all I had to do was relax and try to fall asleep. I think she had to tell me to untense my jaw at some point. She claims I almost did fall asleep, but I don't remember that point, whenever it was.

So now my head is pounding, light sensitive, nauseous, etc. And now that I just want to relax and fall asleep, I'm at work, trying to think straight. Whee.

Anyway.

A Stay-Home Food Weekend

This last weekend has proven to be all about food. Yesterday morning, after a gargantuan bacon and egg breakfast, we took a gustatory pursuits. We bought some gorgeous cheeses--including a lovely danish blue packed in oil and extra creamy, mmm. We got meat for a variety of dishes we wanted to try. And then we had a great deal of fun with produce--beautiful organic carrots with the tops still on, bright red liked their name. primary colored peppers, deep green zucchini, a tightly furled couple of heads of butter lettuce, some tiny yellow yukon gold potatoes, a handful of dark, heavy criminis. They had some other interesting mushrooms too: hen of the forests, which were strange looking but I love the name.

Mr. Bump also found some local non-homogonized "cream top" milk for making cheese. He is, as I speak, making that cheese, something called Derby cheese. (Incidentally, Derby cheese comes from the region of England called Derbyshire, which is the home county of one of my favorite Jane Austen heros, Mr. Darcy.) We'll let you know how it is three months from now when it has aged enough for us to taste it.

Saturday he also experimented with making yogurt, using a greek yogurt as a starter. I'm not sure that was as much of a success, but maybe it will be better in a couple of days. It's sort of runny. Oh well. Sometimes the experiments work. Sometimes they don't.

Saturday night we took the chicken, cremini mushrooms, and the last cup of our bottle of marsala and made a quite delicious chicken marsala, even if the recipe was my own recipe/codged from several different cookbooks. It was very sweet and marsala-y and buttery. We served it on a bed of linguine. Mmm.

Sunday morning, after a quick trip to Wild Oats for blood oranges and some more milk, we went to our favorite local nursery and bought rosemary, thyme, sweet basil, italian parsely, spearmint, and greek dwarf oregano plants. We also bought pots, potting soil, and fertilizer. It is such an exercise in hope for us to invest so heavily in herbs, as we are generally known as having Black Thumbs of Death. I'm hoping that between the investment in the tidy sum of $111.00 and the dream of fresh pasta with herbs and extra virgin olive oil, with just a touch of parmesean.

Sunday afternoon I got outside (with my hat on, of course) and repotted the herbs we had bought for our windowsill garden while David turned tended his warm milk, added cultures, cut curds, etc. to make cheese. He finally got to use his cheese press, which I previously referenced in another post looks like a torture device. But it worked and we have a nice hunk of what will be cheese in 3 months air-drying on our counter currently.

We also whisked our arms of Sunday afternoon making lemon curd from this recipe, from Meyer lemons off the tree in our dear friend Elana's backyard. While I am not a big lemon curd fan, the meyer lemons have a flavor that is much more complex and floral than merely tart, and the ENTIRE STICK OF BUTTER that the recipe called for made the resulting curd creamy and rich, although I might re-think that in the future. I'm not sure it needed it and my arm about cracked off even though Mr. Bump and I took turns whisking for all we were worth.

And by Sunday evening I was pooped. I curled up on the bed with the dog stretched out beside me and a John Hughes movie playing on the tv. Does life get any better than this? If it does, I can't wait.

Here are some pictures from our weekend's food 'ventures.

Rain, Rain Don't Go Away

It's raining here today. I love the rain--I have always loved rain. I used to go outside in my wellies and stomp in puddles when I was little. I lived in Davis and I still love rain, after two long winters of wet, day after day after day. It was the kind of constant rain that eventually drives the ants inside. They found their way into my apartment, went up one wall, across the ceiling and down to my cat Grover's food dish in a neat dotted line. The kind of rain that gets you partially wet, no matter what you do to try to keep yourself dry. Today's that kind of wet, but I don't mind it. It smells like spring. It smells green outside.

It rained in New Zealand, a downpour out of nowhere when we were walking around downtown Dunedin. We waited in doorways, waiting for it to abate, but it didn't abate. There had been a band playing in the center of town and they packed up all their instruments, calling it a day when the rain came. We tried to make a run for it back to the car but we were all soaked. It also rained the day before we took the boat tour of Milford Sound. We holed up in wonderful little cottage outside of Te Anau, watching the sheep owned by the proprietor and grudgingly making our way into town for pizza. The rain turned out to be a bit of luck for us because it meant all the waterfalls were flowing the next day, little trickles and big, thundering falls --water everywhere, too many falling streams to count. He is a picture of us on that boat. Note the wet weather gear.

It rained when we were in Dublin, too, the day we went to Trinity College and saw the Book of Kells, and toured some cathedral that I don't remember the name of offhand. It was a slow, steady pattering. I had a raincoat on but my pants, at the point where the raincoat stopped, were drenched. Eventually we found a little restaurant for lunch and I steamed dry in front of the fireplace, with a big bowl of tomato soup. There was a tiny and somewhat creepy bathroom under the restaurant, where I tried to dry myself off with paper towels, to little effect.

For the three days I was in Paris at the age of eighteen, it rained every day. I was there on a short tour before going to live with a French family for a month, armed only with an enormous suitcase and three years of high school French. We saw the Eiffel Tower in the rain. We saw the Arc de Triomphe in the rain. We saw Versailles in the rain. We saw the Louvre and the Musee D'Orsay in the rain. We took a bateau mouche down the Seine in the rain. And it was July, in Paris. But I loved it. It was gorgeous and moody and it fit the city for me. I hadn't packed many warm clothes and certainly no raincoat. I had a poncho my brother had brought me back from Mexico after spring break, and so I smelled like a wet mexican poncho all through Paris. We had a french tour guide, whose name escapes me but was something very French, like Yves or Pierre, but not either of those. Everywhere it went he said "I 'ate zee rain! I 'ate it." And I would tease him about it, tell him how I loved it and how beautiful it was.

I love rain. I love it when you can smell it coming on an August afternoon, see a storm rolling in off the mountains and falling, raining itself out in the foothills before it gets to you. I love how it feels on your face, smells in the air, how it changes the potential of a day. How a day moves to a good book and grilled cheese and tomato soup just like that. How suddenly you want to bake cookies and watch movies in your pajamas. How sometimes I just need to take a walk it to make myself smile. This morning, on my way to work, I charged my car through puddles on the road to see how far the spray would fly. It was the closest I could get to jumping through puddles in my wellies today.

I wish you all a very rainy day.

She Could Spot a Two Week Old Sunburn at 50 Paces

Dermotologist appointment today, which I have discovered is a great way place to go if I need to be taken down a peg about how I've been taking care of my body. I have rosacea, so went in for a check up and to get a different topical creme to try and work on that, and I'm itching like crazy so I thought I'd mention that. The first thing the noticed was that my scalp was irritated. Honestly you can't really see that I burned at this point. Unless you're my dermotologist, apparently. So I had to fess up that I'd actually gotten a bit of a sunburn in San Diego (whoops) but that it wasn't too bad, hadn't figured I'd burn so easily at a lower elevation, etc.

--I should be wearing a hat. Every time I go outside I need to wear a hat. Even to go get the mail I need a hat. Apparently they are making hats with spf woven into them. And they're cute. We'll see about that.

I pointed out that I did buy a hat in San Diego and did wear it later in the trip.

--I should be using haircare products with sunscreen in them. Did you know there were haircare products with sunscreen in them? Why yes, there are.

I showed her a spot on my leg where I've been itching, and admittedly I was running late this morning so after shaving my legs I didn't have time to put lotion on them.

--I need to be moisturizing all over, everywhere, every single day. She obviously doesn't realize that I'm not a morning person and I'm lucky if I get out of bed in time to shower and brush my teeth. With my type of skin I really need to be doing that every single day.

We finally moved on to the fact that I can't stop itching, which she decided was probably allergies.

--I need to drink plenty of water and try to stay hydrated.

--I need to take Clairitin every day, and if it makes me drowsy, take it at night. I was also given samples of about 7 different kinds of lotions to try.

--And finally, I need to be using a retina-a product to basically peel off the top layer of skin to keep down inflammation, help reduce age spots and essentially make me a better person. Ok, better looking. Apparently. Oh, and by the way, this stuff costs $30 an ounce for the generic and over $100 an ounce for the sample I'm giving you. Oh, and it's considered to be cosmetic rather than medication so insurance doesn't cover it even though you need a prescription for it. And you might want to use it every 3 days to start because it might make you look like a komodo dragon in molt.

That's just great. Wonderful. Just what I need, more medication my insurance doesn't cover but costs over $100. Whee. I love sun damage.

So, in summary, I will be the one you see with a giant floppy hat and sunglasses covering the bulk of her flaky, peeling face, wearing long sleeves and pants in the summer, greasy with lotion, guzzling from a gallon jug of water and penniless from trying to afford all the crap I've slathered all over myself. Oh look, there I am, the girl who has had a sunburn in the last seven years. Just ask my dermotologist--she'll be able to pick me out.

The Word Is Lachrymose

Some days, it doesn't take much to set me off. Today might be one of those days. The mildest of cruelties can shatter me, to the point where I'm at my desk, at work, in tears. It can be a comment from Mr. Bump, which wasn't meant to hurt my feelings but I take it wrong. It can be the fact that I woke up from a horrible dream, where I had done things my waking mind despised.

It can be the cumulation of several days of baiting from a mouthy male coworker, trying to get me to argue with him about subjects I have no investment in. I hate that kind of lawyer, the one who likes the argument, will take up whatever side you are against. I don't like to argue. I'm no good at it. It makes me tearful and shaky and I doubt myself too much to ever be really good at debate.

It can be the fact that I'm waiting for a voicemail and every time I check there are no messages. It can be I hate my hair.

This last bout seems to have been triggered simply by the act of walking down the hall. I feel like I could splinter, if you touched me wrong. Don't take this the wrong way, I'll live. There are just days I can shrug off all the shit that swirls around you. Today I haven't a chance.

Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm just hormonal. Maybe I'm dehydrated. I don't know. I'm just saying, you might want to be careful around me. I seem to be leaking.

Mr. Bump Takes Some (Kick Ass) Pictures

These are some of the things Mr. Bump has been taking pictures of lately. In case you were wondering why I love him.

#1, is of course, our Ruby. There she is with her ball again, her second best friend. Her first best friend, or BFF (Best Friend Forever) being her litter-sister Rosie, who belongs to my MIL. Yes, the names are cute, and no, it wasn't on purpose.

#2 is from our recent trip to San Diego, The Flower Fields in Carlsbad. The Flower Fields were just that--several fields of ranunculus flowers. (Yep, I had to look up how to spell that.)

#3 is from Wellington, North Island, New Zealand. He took this shot in the daytime too, but didn't post that one. It just wasn't nearly as magical. If you ever get to Wellington, do yourself a favor and check out the Te Papa Tongarewa Museum. Hands down, New Zealand was the best trip we've ever taken. Worth every long and gruelling, edema leg inducing hour.

#4 is Niles, one of our friends K & C's two lovely Devon Rex cats. Fluffernutter.

#5 is from our snowshoeing trip in Rocky Mountain National Park. I know, there are those of you who find it hard to believe that I would be snowshoeing. But its true. I can post the pictures of me both freezing and sweating at the same time, if you want. This is Dream Lake, which seems an appropriate name. It was on the trail between Nymph Lake and Emerald Lake. We turned around here. Believe me, I wasn't the only one ready to turn around. Snowshoeing kicks ass, but it also kicks your ass.

#6 is a flower, a tulip I think, coming up through the snow in Mary Elitch Park by our house. Just typical of the weather here, sunny one day, snow the next, sunny the day after that. Don't like the weather here? Wait five minutes.

He's taken other really great pictures that I'll have to prod him to get at. But these are some fun ones to look at, while you're waiting.

Dorothy Parker Slept Here

One of the more interesting things about where I live is that once upon a time, Dorothy Parker ran off from New York with a man 11 years her junior, an actor names Alan Campbell and came to Denver, to our neighborhood. He was actually cast in a summer stock production here, which is across the street from my house. "Dottie" and her "husband" (they actually ran off and got married in New Mexico later) lived here, a short walk from both the Elitch Theater and where our house currently stands. She loved it here, playing housewife and digging in the dirt--or at least she said she did.

Elitch Gardens was initially started by John and Mary Elitch in 1890 as a vaudeville venue, eventually growing to include an actual garden and a zoo, one of the first west of Chicago, with the centerpiece being the theater, which hosted many famous actors including Grace Kelly before she became the Princess of Monaco. Elitch Gardens also was famous for the Trocodero Ballroom, which hosted big bands such as The Glenn Miller Orchestra and Benny Goodman. The "Troc" was torn down in 1975 due to ballroom dancing's decline in popularity.

Mostly what we knew Elitch's to be growing up was the only amusement park (except for the death trap that remains Lakeside--even the website is kinda scary) within several states. I can tell if someone is a native to Colorado based on their age if they know where "Elitch's used to be." In 1995, Elitch became a Six Flags Park and moved to their current location, which is a hot, tarry asphalt jungle. I went once and mourned what Elitch's of my youth had been.

But I am lucky enough to live on the grounds of an old amusement park, without the scary "Scooby Doo" eccentric haunting it and shaking his fist at "those meddlesome kids." We live, if you remember Elitch's, somewhere between the skee-ball and the Octopus. We're even kind of famous--check this out.

There are plans to renovate the old theater, which thankfully are costly enough to have taken several years to raise funds for. I say thankfully because I have become hopelessly attached to the family of foxes that lives in the theater. I love spring because it means baby foxes romping on the lawn out front, running around at dusk and pouncing on each other.

Once, a couple of years ago, we went for an early morning walk--about 5:45? and still dark out. Our normal route runs through the park in the center of our neighboorhood, Mary Elitch Park. We got about halfway through when we realized we weren't alone. There was a pair of foxes mating--stuck together, in fact, trying desperately to get away from us and from each other. We tightened Ruby's leash and crossed the street out of the park.

On our first night in our new home, Mr. Bump and I pushed our new bed up against the window, and looked out over across the empty lot to the theater. We weren't married, didn't have a dog, had just bought a house together. It is a memory that is washed in pure possibility. We lay there, looking out the window, thinking about what the future would hold for us, what memories we would make here. It was high July and hot when we moved in, and we had the windows full open. Foxes don't make noises but we smelled them, and we saw them, too. They were playing in the moonlight, rolling and nipping. Right in the middle of the city a block from heavy traffic, they watched and cavorted.

Since then the curtain of an ugly apartment building has been pulled between us and our foxes. (Of course we claim them as our own, as many other people in our neighborhood do.) We have to go for walks to catch glimpses of them, and they are certainly more cagey since there has been so much more activity, new lofts built around the theater, commercial construction now going on a block away. There are no plans to trap them and remove them from the theater. It is understood by both construction contractors and conservationists that the foxes will find somewhere more hospitable and just move on.

I am glad they will not have to be moved, but I am sad they will be moving on. I am happy we will have a renovated Historic Landmark Theatre, but at the same time, I will miss my foxes terribly.

What does any of this have to do with Dorothy Parker, you ask? Nothing. Except she walked here, the same as I have, and the foxes have. I like to humor myself that a bit of her energy floats about the old bones of this place, a bit of that happiness she seemed to enjoy while living in Denver.

I think I'll finish with a thought of hers (epanalepsis, for those of you in Max Byrd's class), since the sun is shining at the moment here in Denver:

Thought For a Sunshiny Morning

It costs me never a stab nor squirm
To tread by chance upon a worm.
"Aha, my little dear," I say,
"Your clan will pay me back one day."

Dorothy Parker

Maybe Baby

Last night I had one of those nights where you keep falling back into the same dream--dreaming the same thing over and over, waking up, and then falling back into the dream. It was a clear case of knowing why I was dreaming what I was dreaming, but not really knowing or wanting to know what it might mean. It felt like someone kept pushing my face underwater--I would struggle to wake up out of it and then I would just fall back under.

The dream is fading now but I know it involved a baby--an infant--and breastfeeding, and a feeling of ineptitude with regard to the ability to not just care for the infant, but to remember that it needed caring for. At one point I went out and left the baby sleeping. The baby didn't seem to cry or make noise--it was like a doll. A placeholder. So it seems pretty obvious what the dream is "about," although I'm not sure that the conscription of narrative and meaning on what is so obviously non-narrative and disjointed is wholly appropriate.

The question of children--to breed or not to breed--has been on our minds a great deal lately. We are entering the age of life where nearly everyone we know has had children or is having children. At this point, we only know one couple who are married but have not made that leap. We feel a bit adrift. Currently we are reading this book, which, while timely, is not necessarily making our minds up one way or another.

Tell me how you know to have children? What are the reasons for it? Why have children at all? What makes it the "right time" in your life, your circumstances of place and situation? Am I treading water, waiting? Or is it not meant to be for us? Do we just not want it badly enough to justify what comes with procreation? Is it safe? Does it matter if it isn't? I want to know if anyone thinks about the world their children will inherit when they make the decision. How do you shrug that off or make it ok? Will it make me happy? Will it hurt the happiness I already have? What if it changes me? What if it doesn't?

Sometimes I think I do want parenthood, and all that it entails. I think that it would make things easier, in some ways. You have a defined role: in your house, in society, in the world. Everyone knows that you are a Mother, and what that means. But then another part of me wants to make my own path, my own role. I want to decide who I want to be. I know that I don't have to be the "mother" as anyone else defines it. I know that. But I also know that it is easier to walk a path that is already beaten down than one that you have to forge yourself.

But I also would want it for other reasons, too. I would want it for baby smells and a boy who looked like Mr. Bump, with those same hands that his father and his brother have, and he has too. I would want it for teaching someone, and that moment when suddenly you are learning from them. I would want it for heated arguments about political beliefs, for watching someone shape who they are, which parts align with yours, which parts are against yours. I would want it for the experience of the whole thing, baths and meals and games and tears and hugs and letting them go. I would want it for my parents' sake, even though they have never pushed a desire for grandchildren on me. I would want it for the people I hope I could raise children to be in the world, and how they might change it in ways the world wouldn't change if they didn't exist. I would want it for hope.

There is the other side of me, too. There is the side which doesn't want to have to discipline anyone, is frankly afraid of what kind of damage she could do to someone who is wholly dependent upon my guidance. It is the side that loves my life with Mr. Bump, loves the freedom we have in what we spend our money on, and where we can travel to. It is the side that can sit for a whole afternoon reading a book, letting silence fill the space around me. It is the side which likes its nap, doesn't like to share, doesn't like a mess. It is also the side that loves Mr. Bump so much and worries about how children tax a relationship, how they change it. How they strain a marriage financially, emotionally, physically.

If we had gotten pregnant by accident, I can't tell you what we would have done, but we are careful people and that hasn't happened. It probably never will. And so it is up to us which way we want to turn. We don't have (thankfully) any pressure from parents or families for grandchildren. We are left to our own decision-making devices. Some days I'm tempted to flip a coin, I'm so ambivalent.

But Mr. Bump is much more cautious about the whole thing. I think initially when I met him he understood that someday he would get married, have children, etc. But then he met me, and I imparted the beliefs that I had had since I was eight or so, which were, "Why have children? Not for me." I think he challenged his own beliefs and was won over to mine. Now he claims I did too good a job convincing him he didn't want kids. I understand how he feels and my feelings are so of two minds that I am on his side and I am not, all at the same time.

I want someone to tell me the answer but I know there is not really anyone who can. And so I dream this dream, probably at least once or twice a month, where I lose a baby, or I think I'm pregnant but I don't ever look pregnant, or something like that. And I know that dreaming about that baby doesn't mean that I want a baby. But I wish it did. It would be so much easier that way.

P.S.--I have heard that there are all these people out there reading this blog--directed there by one of my dear friends. But I have yet to hear from any of you--you ghost readers. In the world of forums and blogs you're called lurkers. It seems to me that I could use your help--tell me what you think about what I think. I'm never above hearing other people's opinions, thoughts, advice. Please. I don't bite. (Unless you ask me to, that is.)