Coda

I know, I know, I said, "this is it," but this time I really mean it! I just wanted to let you fans know about two things.

1. The power of blogs is amazing! (Uh oh, I now have "The Power of Love" stuck in my head). Not only has it given me the opportunity to have newunions and renewunions with fellow bloggers and blurkers I had never met before, but it has reunited two friends who have not communicated with each other in forty-one years! A woman found my post about my family and managed to reconnect with my mother, with whom she was very close friends in Hong Kong and they had a lovely time catching each other up on four decades worth of news and gossip. SUCCESS! So you can give credit to this coda to the blog demise to Aunty Yasomi.

2. Stay tuned.

Gone, Daddy, Gone

I think it's time for me to close up shop. After five and a half years, it's been fun, I've actually met a few outstanding folks, and I got a chance to write (whether creatively or not). So, let me know what your favorite memories are, give me your 411 if you want to keep in touch, and bid me adieu.

Method of Elenchus can suck it

For those throngs of you who wanted to know how the cliff-hangery ending of our trip actually concluded, let me recap with:

(a) after hoofing it with our luggage from our hotel at Lexington Avenue at 49th Street to the High-line Cafe, we found the staff to be top notch, the decor cute, but the food crap (although Gojira was quite content with our crap scraps);

(b) the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater is extraordinarily tiny compared to my conception of it (the exterior is, at least);

(c) the Empire Diner satiated my need for a decent cup of coffee (fancy cappuccino, actually); and

(d) despite their strong encouragement to order a plain cheese pizza, I was pleased with the mushroom and onion slice I got from NY Pizza Suprema (right across the street from Penn Station) ... even if my fellow Amtrak commuters were not.

The mini-vacation was great and we returned to great fanfare and enthusiasm when we got home (diaper needed changing! fish bowl needed cleaning! someone needs a nap!).

Since then, we've been back in the groove of things. The latest updates are that ZP is enrolled to begin preschool starting August 24th and he is very excited about it; ZP has finally gotten off the paci (not easy on any of us but after a week, we seem to be in calm waters once again); AP is getting heavier and faster and cleverer lately and loves to start her day by reciting the few words she knows: "flower! baby! daddy!"; TP has successfully caught at least four mice but, alas, none by stomperation and there is still at least one rogue mouse out there; I am going to the gym regularly but have already put a freeze on my account for the month of Ramadan.

I just got back from getting my eyes checked and everything is A-okay. There is always some trepidation associated with these visits (more so than the gum-gouging dentists or privacy-scoffing obgyns) because my mother has retinitis pigmentosa which is a genetic eye condition that, thankfully, neither my sister nor I have inherited. Although I like my opthalmologist well enough, he has this irritating manner of using the Socratic Method in our conversations:

Doc: "Well, it looks like your vision has not changed in the last three years. Do you know what that means?"
Me: "Ummm ... that's good?"
Doc: "Yes! It also means that you would make a good candidate for ... "
Me: " ... "
Doc: "Laser surgery!"
Me: "Ah, okay. Great."
Doc: "Have you ever considered it?"
Me: "Sure, but it's not high on my list of things to do. If I win the lottery, maybe. But otherwise, I don't think I'll do it now."
Doc: "If you ever did decide to do it, the first thing you would do would be ...?"
Me: "Do some research on it?"
Doc: "Yeah, but how would you know which doctor to go to?"
Me: "Ummm ... the internets?"
Doc: "Well, yeah, but what would you look for?"
Me: "I'd just research various services and providers."
Doc: "But how would you know which is best?"
Me: "I'd look at the user reviews."
Doc: "But what exactly would you look for?"
Me: "I'd look to see if someone said "this doctor totally butchered me and now I'm blind" and I'd take note."
Doc: (a little taken aback) "Uh, yes. But where else might you get a recommendation?"
Me: (finally getting it) "You, of course."
Doc: "Yes!"

He then went on to explain that he'd be happy to work with whomever I chose but if I chose someone he knew was not trustworthy, he'd bow out. It irked me so much because (a) he was wasting my time because I already said I wasn't interested in it right now and (b) the Q and A game was so annoying! I had enough of the Socratic Method in law school; I certainly didn't have the patience for it at an eye exam. I wanted to say, "just spit it out already so I can go!" but, instead, I politely listened and played along until I was finally allowed to leave. I treated myself to an iced mocha at Illy's as a reward and as a defense against the humid mid 90s that accosted me after I flew out of the office. Worth it.

My Dogs Are Barkin'

"Keep your eyes closed."

"Don't raise your head to look at the clock."

"Stay in bed."

"Imagine you are floating and drifting and being super puffy like a cloud."

"Stop twisting and turning and being restless and just relax."

DAMNATION! 6:00 a.m. on the dot. Despite my every attempt to take advantage of the opportunity to sleep late, my brain refuses to let me sink back into sleep and propels me out of bed and into the shower so I can plot out the day: Meet the gang for brunch; split up and spend time with our respective peeps; reconvene somewhere for dinner. Since this is partially TP's birthday present/getaway, I let him sleep in since he seems to have no trouble doing so. I quietly get dressed, whisper a request for his coffee order, and let myself out. I scope the area for some non-chain cafe but end up at Starbucks nonetheless. After correcting the barrista's mistake in the order (unadulterated coffee is horrid unless one is in Italy/France/Spain where they know how to do it right), I snag a New York Times for TP and head back up to our room.

As I exit the elevator on the 19th floor, I hear the sound of running water. "Hmm," I think to myself, "I don't remember there being a sink or water fountain near the elevators . . . " I turn around to locate the source of the sound and before I can blind myself by throwing the hot coffee in my face . . .

*parental advisory: the following contains explicit language, partial nudity, and vomitriousness*

I see a disheveled, swarthy man with one hand steadying himself against the wall and the other hand directing a full-on stream of piss right onto the carpet. No lie. He was drunk or completely brain-addled but either way, he didn't even register my presence and blithely emptied his bladder directly in front of the emergency exit door. I beat a hasty retreat back to the room, picked up the phone, and called . . . who? Security? No listing. Maintenance? Um. Concierge? Why not; they are supposed to attend to all situations, right? I reported the atrocity and got a mild, "*sigh* oh boy, we'll send someone up right away" in response. I'm not sure if this kind of thing happens all the time, but I'm loathe to find out. Whether it was my outrage or the smell of coffee, TP finally got out of bed and shared his usual "what do you expect? the whole world is full of horrible people" reaction.

Even though we have plans for brunch, TP wants to fill his stomach with some food before he boards the subway. We all remember what happens when TP mixes caffeine with nothing and then takes public transportation. We shudder, shriek, and shiver at the prices listed at several nearby eateries before ending up at a deli across the street. They, too, get the order wrong but the food is edible if not forgettable and we shuffle our way over the metro according to schedule. Or so we thought. While we watch one train after another whiz by, it becomes very apparent to me that OUR train, the V train, is glaringly absent. Upon closer inspection of a tiny, weathered notice posted on a column halfway down the platform, I see that the V line likes to take weekends off. Thanks, NYC Transit. Thanks a lot.

Doing some mental gymnastics to figure out the next best alternative, TP and I race back to the main entrance, get a sketchy signal on our cell phones to let our three buddies (who don't really know each other but hopefully will enjoy each other's company until we arrive) know that we are running late, and reroute ourselves to take the first 4, 5, or 6 line that comes our way. We finally emerge in the Lower East Side, and sweaty and mighty late, we find our gang seated together at Supper. After some perfunctory greetings and small-talk, TP and Dullard take off to check out Dullard's new house in Brooklyn (sell out!) while HA and Gojira and I settle in for a nice, leisurely brunch. HA's Organic Pancakes with fresh fruit looked healthy and tasty, the bite of parmigiano and fennel I swiped from Gojira's Grilled Polenta and Poached Eggs was delightful, and my Spinach and Goat Cheese Omelet was perfect. Grade: A.

HA had to "dip" into work, so Gojira and I spend the rest of the afternoon hoofing it around the area. We, too, dip into here and there: the tight housewares shop, the overwhelming candy shop, a tiny apartment moving sale. I refuel with a Lemon Yummy cupcake from the Sugar Sweet Sunshine Bakery. Despite the numerous flies buzzing around, Grade: A.

I stop in for a visit with Gojira's roommate Dr. Clothilde who is absolutely charming and gives me a warm reception. To soak in some more of the unusually gorgeous weather, we stroll outside. We walk through hustling, bustling, stinky, dizzying Chinatown which makes D.C.'s version look like a crummy and immature diorama, parts of Little Italy, and Soho. TP rejoins us for a quick-that-turned-long visit to Pearl River (or Pearl Harbor) Mart where we pick up a few "thank you for watching our kids, for helping out, for everything that you do for us" prezzies for the family. Indulging my desire to check out the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art, we find the tiny and slightly pathetic museum, get turned off by the clerk's sycophantic glomming onto TP (ignoring us girls ... which, actually, was a good thing) and forcefully relating the suggested donation of five bucks each, and high-tail it out of there. To reward ourselves for our quick getaway, we stop at the kiosky Il Laboratorio del Gelato for a scoop of dark chocolate and toasted sesame gelato for me (Grade: GOOD GOD) and a scoop of dark chocolate with amaretto for TP (Grade: why must you put that topping on when you KNOW that anything almond-flavored except actual almonds makes me want to vomit through my nose?).

Gojira, back in her no-nonsense, "it's called a New York minute for a reason" milieu, instantly hails a cab for TP so he can meet up with some more buddies. Unprepared, TP ends up tossing the rest of the gelato away which, in other circumstances, would be an indefensible crime, but in this instance, with the amaretto poisoning, was acceptable. I give a brief eugoogooly for the dark chocolate melting in the trash and drown my sorrows in a cappuccino at the shabby chic Cake Shop. Gojira and I spend our valuable, limited time together discussing family, food, and inane subjects [Gojira, what on earth did we talk about?! The only thing that I really remember was the story about your grandmother lamenting the fact that NYC still hasn't rebuilt what was left of the two houses].

We finally decide to give our tired feet some rest back at Gojira's apartment. Our dogs were barkin'! Mine from having the insoles of my shoes fall apart and torn out earlier and hers from having fallen down and busticating herself while in France. We chill out and spend the rest of the evening listening to the mix CD I made for her, taking turns keeping Dr. Clo company while she dines, and making plans for dinner. Other than speaking in foreign accents, reciting quotes or recommending books/movies/shows to each other, jeering and sneering at others and agreeing that we are the best and everyone else is the worst, most of our time spent together has always been and will always be about making plans for our next meal. TP joins us at last and we order some sushi from Ogawa Cafe. Quick delivery, buttery soft sushi, and proper bite-sized rolls. Grade: Eyes rolling into the back of our heads delicious.

Exhausted, TP and I take our leave from the jet-lagged but seemingly tireless Gojira and sit around waiting for our F line to show up and take us to Rockefeller Center. Several trains later, I point out that, yet again, our sleep-deprived noggins were empty and that the F line was actually one level lower than the platform upon which we had been semi-passed out. We catch the next car which has an unusual amount of piratey commuters on it and come out at network studio heaven. Even though we spent the majority of the day walking around, the stroll back to the hotel is a lovely one and we make it back just as the first drops of rain began to fall. A quick recon by TP to ensure nothing inappropriate was happening outside of the elevators and we are finally back in our room to wash up, eat the rest of the leftover gyro in the fridge, and call it a night.













[no photo of sushi available because we inhaled it too quickly]

I hear the train a comin'; it's rollin' 'round the bend

After a lot of instructions and prep-work and battening and making of contingency plans for Nani and Babu and ZP and AP, TP and I caught Amtrak's Northeast Regional non-stop (except for the eight stops along the way) to New York. We managed to find two seats together in the Quiet Car where, despite the draconian rules, we used the cell phone and carried on extended conversations. It was so nice not to have to go through ultra unnecessary security, limit the amount of snacks (liquid or otherwise) on board, or have to cram your body and legs into a narrow seat in order to avoid getting brained by a metal cart. Train travel is the way to go.

We arrived at Penn Station and because it was an amazingly pleasant, incredibly sunny but not humid, "are you sure this is July?" day, decided to hoof it to our hotel. I admit, we did the typical gawking tourist thing when we caught sight of the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the famous-named streets. How can you not? We kicked off our culinary trek through the city by grabbing lunch at Nirvana which was pricey (at least to our country bumpkin eyes) but worth it as TP tucked into TWO helpings at the buffet and I devoured the Murg Khaliyan -- Chicken chunks in cilantro and mint flavored yogurt marinade. Despite arriving ten minutes before closing time, we were seated, given fresh and hot food, and did not get any stink eyes from the staff when I ordered from the menu instead of digging through the buffet. Grade: A.

We checked into our hotel, consulted the map, conferred with some friends, and went right back out into the sunshiney day. We stopped at St. Patrick's Cathedral ("hmph, we have a cathedral too!"), Central Park ("hmph, we have a zoological park designed by Frederick Law Olmsted too!"), and the Museum of Modern Art which, as we gleefully discovered, waives its $20 fee on Fridays after 5 p.m. ("hmph, we have free museums too!"). We left the REAL touristy tourists behind and took the metro ... er ... subway to the Meatpacking District in the West Village (capital "V") to meet up with TP's high school friend Dullard. I had my one celebrity sighting ("TP! It's Debbie Downer!") and was pleased. We walked down to Los Dados and after seeing the crowd, decided to order something from the takeout-only taquería, foolishly thinking we'd get faster service. Tacos, sweet corn tamale, and tamarind juice were lazily prepared, fussed over, and finally delivered. Infuriatingly slow service (I can't imagine what the wait time for sit-down service would be) but decent food. Grade: B.

As the sun started setting, we found three empty seats overlooking the Hudson River and ate our dinner on the High Line, a former elevated freight railroad that has been rescued from demolition and redeveloped into a promenade plantée (fancy word for the elevated park). It was lovely to be able to put our feet up for a while and just absorb the view, the breeze, and the quiet. After a leisurely stroll up and down the railroad tracks and amiable conversation, we made plans for the next day, took the subway back, and returned to the hotel. Around 11ish, we were feeling peckish and decided to take advantage of the much touted convenience of being able to dash outside and grabbing something to eat from a local street cart. I washed up, put on my PJs, and got comfortable with the puffy pillows, cozy blankets, and remote control while TP ran out to get some juicy and tasty gyros and piping hot and crisp french fries. Grade: A. For both the food and the delivery man.

So, there's Day One, folks. Pix and the rest of the trip coming soon.

Vacation, all I ever wanted; Vacation, had to get away

Trust me. I'll be calling in every other hour to check up on the wee ones and Nani and Babu to make sure everyone is eating, sleeping, behaving, and not destroying downtown D.C. while we Escape To New York this weekend. I will miss them, no doubt. But, at the same time, I can't wait. It will be the first time in three years that it will be just me and TP. The first time in three years we get to sleep in ... at the same time. The first time in three years that we will spend the whole weekend eating out and exploring and meeting friends without feeling rushed or anxious or exhausted. We got a great deal on Amtrak (thanks, LB!) which is nicer than the bus but cheaper and faster than the plane. I look forward to traveling with as many knives, ounces of liquid, and non-baby-related gear as i want! We also got a great deal on a hotel (thanks, KG!) and I hope they don't mind if we end up watching Phineas and Ferb on the fancy flat screen HDTV out of habit.

For anyone interested in meeting up with us (or just stalking us), here's where we'll be:

• First stop on Friday night: Los Dados, where we may or may not meet up with The Dullard and another high school friend of TP's.
• Brunch on Saturday morning: Supper, where we may or may not meet up with Gojira and my cousin.
• Cupcakes at Sunshine, Coffee at Cake Shop and Gelato at Il Laboratorio del Gelato where we may or may not explode ala Mr. Creosote.
• Relaxing in Central Park and perusing the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Arts if we have time and the weather agrees with us.

So long, suckers!

Newunion 09

Hijabman, Yaz, and I met up early this morning for a quick breakfast (no, 8 a.m. is NOT too early for a root beer float) to kick off Newunion 09. The tentative all hands on deck meet up will be for tomorrow, Saturday, around 11 a.m. near Hijabman's booth followed by a tour of the Islamic Art exhibits. Be there or be square.

Revenge of the Pack Rats

Following in my mother's footsteps, I am a fiend for collecting, keeping, and hoarding stuff. Pretty and sturdy boxes, old letters and postcards, bits of twine. Organized on good days, FEMA-labeled disaster area on bad days, I am loath to throw stuff away and so my stuff gathers and multiplies and takes over. On the few occasions I have culled through my stuff and thrown stuff out (when I got married and moved out of the apartment; when we moved into this house before ZP was born; when TP held me at gunpoint to clean up), it has been with a heavy heart and careful deliberation akin to a judge deciding the fate of a death row inmate. This weekend, however, my accumlator tendencies saved the day.

We were heading home for my cousin's wedding (see below) and I had everything and everyone packed, fed, and ready to go. We arrived at the airport, were directed to a "special" (read "snail's pace slow") lane, and approached the check-in desk.

Clerk: "How many passengers?"
Me: "Four but one is a lap child."
Clerk: "Do you have proof of age?"
Me: ---------
Clerk: "Do you have a copy of her birth certificate?"
Me: "No."
Clerk: "Do you have a copy of her immunization shots that would show her age?"
Me: "No."
Clerk: "Do you have anything at all that shows she is under two years old?"
Me: [rummaging through the diaper bag in hopes of finding some evidence, some shred of proof, some saving grace that would allow us to board without having to resort to TP's clever but complicated plan of purchasing an extra ticket and then getting reimbursed upon sending proof of age later] "AHA!" [pulling out a strip of plastic that was hidden in a side zippered pocket that had not been opened for over a year] "THIS is the medical bracelet I wore at the hospital when AP was born! See! It has her date of birth on it!"
Clerk: "Works for me."
Me: "SUCCESS! Pack rats of the world UNITE!"

Shaadi Time

We are heading home to participate in, celebrate, and create new inside jokes at my cousin's wedding this week. I remember when that branch of the family came to live with ours having freshly and recently emigrated from the U.K., my cousins had the fiercest English accents. My memory not being what it used to be, I have come to recall that they had the thickest Cockney accents ever. They were regular Maurice Micklewhites, they were! I saw them grow up, test out various 80s hairstyles (my cousin was the first and only guy I knew who had a design shaved into his hair), and absorb the Southern Indiana cadence that they sport today. I can't believe that this guy (the one pictured below ... in the dungarees ... and his chest hair covered) is, in a matter of days, getting married. We wish him and his lovely fiancee happiness, health, peace, and wealth (in any order they choose). Mabrook, mubarak, and congrats!

Happy Birthday, LB!

Happy Birthday, Lil Baji!

I know we have had our ups and downs, faced off with our respective weapons of choice (tattle telling/giant wax crayon candles), and listed each other as enemy combatants before we became best friends. But I'm so glad that we have been and have remained close for so many years now and that we get to see each other on such a regular basis. I can't imagine what my life would be like without you so involved in it. Thank you for being my sounding board, my advice-giver, my fellow bellowing karoke singer, my inside-joke-getter, my go-to-babysitter, my baby sister. I love you so much.

CYA (or as LB likes to call it, "CAY")

I'm reading this book called "Intern" by Dr. [aside, whenever I write "Dr." I always hear "It's Dr. Evil, I didn't spend six years in Evil Medical School to be called "mister," thank you very much." in my head] Sandeep Jauhar. It focuses on the traumas and tribulations he faced on his medical career path and features the inner workings of the process and procedures of hospital life. Some parts are stomach-clenching, like when his forgetfulness led to a tube of HIV-infected fluids to spray everywhere and on everything in the room. Some parts are secret-revealing, like when he explains that when he checks the blood pressure of a patient, he counts the pulses in the wrist and then keeps pretending to do so while he counts the breaths so as not to make the patient self-concious and thus change breathing patterns. Some parts are disheartening and particular to the medical field but this part struck me as fitting for just about every job, including mine:

"There were set times on call when you could expect a flurry of pages, like when the nurses checked vital signs at 4:00 a.m. That was when they called about fevers. Your response was always the same: blood and urine cultures and a portable chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia—but sometimes you discovered that a patient was already on antibiotics or that blood cultures had been drawn every night for the past week, every single one negative, and then you had to decide whether you really needed to stick him again, but most of the time you did so anyway, not for the patient’s sake but for your own, lest someone fault you in the morning for not doing it. That was the sad reality of residency: much of the time you were ordering tests to protect yourself. “The endgame of life is so depressing,” I wrote in my diary. “Look at Mr. Fisher. Successful lawyer, Goldberg patient. Now look at him? Sick, febrile, dying of who-knows-what: cancer, TB, sarcoidosis? If you think about it, it could make all of life seem unworthwhile if, in the end, we end up dying in the hospital, awakened at 4:00 a.m. by a stupid intern trying to draw another set of blood cultures.”

Can you relate? Does your job have a CYA culture too?

I'm the Ugliest Guy On the Lower East Side

For the first time in three years, TP and I are planning a weekend getaway consisting of just the two of us and no kids. We are looking for a cheap place to stay around the Lower East Side of NYC and would think that the dead of summer would be tourist repellent. "Cheap" for TP means $75 a night but for me is less than $125. No luck thus far. Any suggestions, recommendations, etc.?

"Good evening, Ms. . . . uh . . . Hwowrsha?"

Normally, I automagically delete any forwarded emails that have nothing to do with my actual friends and family. I can't stand the threats (forward this to ten of your friends or these baby kittens will die), the rumors (you'll get breast cancer if you use antiperspirant!), the general inanity (look at these weird pictures of the Madonna on a piece of toast!). But today I got one that appeared helpful and potentially satisfying. Or so I thought. I can't stand telemarketing calls (I know I may be alone in this but I stand firm on the matter). Sometimes, I am polite and say, "thanks but I'm not interested and please take my name off of your call list goodbye" and hang up. Sometimes, I hand the phone over to ZP or AP who are delighted to take the call. These tips seemed so clever and made me rub my hands together Mr. Burns' style. Good old www.snopes.com ruined my glee but does provide the real tips. Please forward this to your loved ones or they will get bitten by mosquitoes.

Harbinger

My hair has gotten more than its fair share of attention in its years. While waiting patiently for a haircut, the phrase "your hair is so thick!" inevitably was uttered at each and every single appointment. I call it my mujahideen hair because it can be so wild and unruly as it struggles to defy rubber bands, conditioners, and gravity, especially on humid summer days. Whenever I happen to let the beast out of its confines, I get remarks on how different I look with my hair down.

My locks have gone from jet black to reddish brown. Recently, a new shade has made an appearance. When I was pregnant with ZP, I found a single white hair. When I was pregnant with AP, I found another single white hair. The other day, I found my third white hair. Uh oh.

Robot Roll Call

ISNA's annual conference is being held in DC this year. Who is attending? Report!

4 real

Happy (official) Birthday, ZP!

Everything Old is New Again

This appears to be the Summer of Before in the entertainment industry. There are only so many sequels you can churn out and although prequels are certainly not a new phenomenon, it seems like there are more than the usual amount this season:

• The latest incarnation of Battlestar Gallatica (which itself is a sequel of sorts to the original 1970s version) ended recently (*weeps*) and Caprica has just come out to show us what life was like "before the fall." Young Adama is likeable enough, but the young Cylon needs some work.
  
• Although we've seen what Picard was like when he was a headstrong youth, we haven't seen a young Kirk or wee Spock before . . . until J.J. Abrams got his hands on the Star Trek franchise and offered his take. Young Scotty is, of course, my favorite.
  
• Speaking of J.J., his show Lost is also taking a trip down memory lane. Well, a trip down, up, across, double-backed, and splintered off. Wee Ben, wee Miles, and wee Charlotte running amok on the Island while their older selves are plotting, surviving, and/or dead.
  
• After the Last Stand, the X-Men folks decided to reminisce and review the origins of its mutants beginning with one of our favorites, Wolverine.
• Wedged between The Sarah Conner Chronicals and The Terminator, we pick up the story line of the rise of the 'bots in Terminator Salvation.
• Ever wonder about the background, history, and origin of G.I. Joe's nemesis, the Cobra Organization? Wait until August and find out in the Rise of the Cobra.

I always enjoyed The Young Sherlock Holmes and was tickled by the antics of a young Indy. We have already been introducted to baby Darth Vader and teenage Hannibal Lecter. I wonder what's next on the plate. I'd love to see Ripper or the pre-Firefly war or anything Joss is willing to dish out to me. Who would you like to see suffering through teenage angst, hormones, and heartbreak?

Happy Birthday, ZP!

Dearest Beast/Zoo Zoo/Zonks,

It's still over a week away, but this will give your fans a chance to get a jump start to say:

Happy Third Birthday! Now that you have put your twos, and the terribleness that goes with it (right? no more tantrums? no more inappropriate shrieking? no more "I wanna do it mySEEELLLFFF!!! rants? RIGHT?), behind you, let's take a look back at your achievements and milestones, shall we?

Your Second Day of Birth was attended by your new and oh-so-permanent baby sister. You were wary of her arrival, which was accompanied by the arrival of Babu and Nani and thus linked, and decided to condense all of your confusion and worry and jealousy and heap it all onto one person - Nani. You shunned her, you avoided her, and you would studiously avert your eyes from her whenever she happened to be cuddling AP. You also decided to intensify your adoration and need for your father. If he so much as dared to lift AP for a quick smooch or even a cursory inspection, you'd rend your clothes apart, beat your chest, and devise your very first self-made sentence ever: "put! baby! ziza! DOWN!" Thankfully, with LB, KG, Babu, Aunty C, and, when you let her, Nani lavishing affection, presents, and love on you, you eventually calmed down and came to accept this interloper into the family. It helped that she never tried to play with your toys, never really made much noise, and actually was kinda cute. She is now old enough to start encroaching on your territory and although there are some skirmishes that do not go as well as planned, you are generally pretty careful around her and try not to lash out when she scratches or bites or swats at you. For that, I thank you.

You finally graduated out of jarred baby food, but you still never really took a liking to kid or adult food other than a few, select choices: oatmeal or cereal for breakfast, pollo con arroz and some fruta for lunch, and whatever we could force down you for dinner (yogurt with honey, pizza, PB&H sandwich). The closest thing to a vegetable we could get you to eat is potatoes in the version of french fries and those are just tubers anyway.

Despite your desire to be a monkey, a train, or a robot, your personality has established itself quite squarely as "policeman." You are adamant about others following the rules, obeying your directives, and pretty much doing what you say when you say it. On our trip to Georgia, you not only reprimanded some kids who were running down the walkway to the plane, you also warned everyone around you that "we're in the plane; you have to be quiet." You nearly put me in time out when I insisted that a picture of a baby on LB's fridge was you and not your sister ("NO, MOMMY! IT NOT ME!") Your vocabulary has jumped by leaps and bounds and you are a quick study for any words that further your goals, nefarious or otherwise. When you abused your power over viewing countless episodes of whatever on youtube and were told that you could no longer do so because "the computer is broken," you stored the slogan away until bathtime when you regretfully announced that you couldn't take a shampoo shampoo because "the tub is broken." Your writing skills and drawing skills have also gotten better, thanks to countless reams of paper and crayons, chalk and the Magna doodle (which you stood on until it cracked and started oozing some clear liquid and we had to toss it away. . . R.I.P. Magny!)

One day, the day after our return from a trip to Florida (where we watched the historical inauguration and you familiarized yourself with the man named Obama who is always on the cover of Daddy's paper and who is the only one allowed to touch THAT switch on the heater), Tia decided that you were old enough to lose the diapers and go straight for the underwear to get some boot camp potty training. On the one hand, I was happy to have the help, happy to know that it would mean one less baby's butt mooning me several times a day, and happy to see you move to this next level of development. On the other hand, I was terrified that you'd balk at it as you have with pretty much everything else until you are darn well good and ready, terrified that our 40 year old Persian carpet and our brand-spanking-new couches would be stained and destroyed beyond all repair, and terrified that you would burn the house down. I decided to take some half days at work so that I could be on call for the meltdowns, mayhem, and mania that was sure to come. To our astonishment and relief, it all went pretty smoothly. You were already familiar with "the frog," you were excited about your new undies, and you were offered treats as rewards for each successful visit. The first day was tense but successful (it helped that Tia ran you up to the toilet every half hour or so whether you said you had to go or not) and by the second day, not only did you avoid any accidents during the day, you even emerged from your room after a good night's sleep completely dry. We were floored.

We had some sad moments this year when your great-grandfather passed away. When you found me in tears, you patted my knee and ran for a tissue. You asked me, "why you crying like me?" I told you that I missed Nani and Babu and you sympathetically nodded and said, "I miss them too. 'Sokay, 'sokay, they're coming!" When that made me smile, you asked, "you happy? I'm happy." And I was - because of you. During those times when you drive me insane with the silence-killing questions ("Mommy, what are you doing? what are you doing? what are you doing? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?") or the demands (after feeding, bathing, and reading you 27 stories before bedtime, tucking you in, and giving you cuddles, you begin your mantra of "I want Daddy." ) or the boisterousness that comes with a two-year old boy (throwing, hitting, running, falling, yelling, screaming, never sleeping), I remember that. I remember the times that you give me unsolicited hugs and smooches. And the times you help me make bread, sort the laundry, and bring AP a toy when she cries. And the times you make clever observations (such as the time I was reading a book about Peter Rabbit jumping into a watering can. I explained that the watering can was used to water the garden, like you did with Nani last summer. You looked it and said, 'yes, it's for flowers. and for my body' which is what you call your bottom). *dies*

And so, my lovely, loving, lovable boy, we wish you a happy birthday and best wishes and all that jazz. Cue the clip show!

GOJIRA!

Gojira is coming! Gojira is coming! AAAIIIiiiii . . . iiiiii . . . iii.

Agenda:

Friday: arrival, Ben's Chili Bowl for some chili cheeseboigahs and fries, home
Saturday: Breakfast (either force TP to make spanish tortilla or get brunch somewhere or both); lunch with LB and KG followed by birthday party for Maggie Jane (ain't no party like a two-year-old party); Kotobuki sushi for dinner
Sunday: [radio edit]
Monday: Breakfast at Tryst or the Diner or Open City; return to Union Station and grab some of Vaccaro's cannoli to go.

Hmmm. It appears that your entire visit will be based up and revolve around food. That okay with you? Yeah. Thought so.

Tourist In My Own Backyard

I spent most of yesterday playing hooky. Work was annoying me and with my flexible schedule and stellar history, I decided to take the day off and meet up with a friend. I walked from Adams Morgan to Georgetown's harbor and appreciated the flowers and trees still in bloom, the crowdless sidewalks, and the streaming sunshine on the way. I stopped at the recently renovated Second Story Books in Dupont Circle to peruse the latest arrivals and see if I could find copies of books I am interested in reading but for which I am not interested in paying full price. I ended up buying two books for my friend.



I treated myself to a lovely cup of mocha at Illy Cafe that I enjoyed all the way to Georgetown.



After visiting the Old Stone House and sitting in the wisteria-blooming garden for a while to soak up some rays, I headed over to the C & O canal. I watched two horses pull a boat through the canal until they reached the lock gates and then watched the Amishly-dressed folks go about heaving and hoing to get the boat down to the next level.



I walked to the Potomac River to enjoy the nearly empty waterfront where. I loitered in the stacks of yet another bookstore until my friend finally called to let me know she was ready for lunch.

We strolled over to the LEED certified Founding Farmers where we had the popcorn of the day (what was it sprinked on there? chipotle? bbq? chaat?) as an appetizer followed by perfectly made crab cakes, whipped yukon gold potatoes, and limeade.



We caught up, made fun of each other, and exchanged prezzies. We fought over the bill (par for the course), promised to visit Tunisia next summer when her beach house was complete, and said our goodbyes. I haven't had a day off in D.C. where it didn't involve going grocery shopping, getting someone's hairS cut, or running errands in what seems like forever. It was a gorgeous day and completely recharged me. As DCist put it so nicely:

D.C. can be a wondrous place for tourists. It's got magnificent architecture, history, museums, and bustling streets and sidewalks. There are people from all over the world, homeless people, military folks in uniform, police, politicians, black squirrels, and lots of well-scrubbed young people. There's the Metro, the Mall, and more. And it's tourist season, so maybe those fanny-pack wearing throngs standing in front of the escalators are just awe struck, rather than annoying. The greater D.C. metropolitan area can be too much to grasp sometimes. It can be amazing.