A Pleasant Fiction

Last night, the Mister and I had our second movie date night of my furlough.  We went to see the new Indy movie (which was fairly entertaining but lacking the sparkle of its predecessors, especially Raiders.).  Life has really been falling back into this semi-normalcy, despite Momma A's bald head and tubies and clinic visits. We were eating family meals, going on errands, and having a great time playing with Little A.   But it was a pretend normalcy

Because now I'm back in the Big House, getting chemo Round 2.  I'm back in the land of Cletus the IV, cavalcade of medicine, late night nurse visits, poking and prodding, and napalm mouthwash.  Good times peeps.  And of course, a bone marrow transplant is in my near future.  Whoop, whoop! 

Last week my bone marrow biopsy revealed refractory leukemia cells.  Some of these stupid cells dared show their faces after the Zombie Warrior and her chemo arsenal steamrolled through the halls of my bone marrow.  This news wasn't a huge surprise to me considering I'd already been informed that my flavor of AML is particularly aggressive and a narsty bugger at that.  So instead of those slobbering, shambling Romero-esque ghouls, the Stupid Leukemia Zombie Cells inhabiting my marrow are more like the psychotic infected from 28 Days Later or Zack Snyder's swiftly moving undead.  These are tough buggers, and Zombie Warrior's going to need a more powerful set of weapons, and that's why I am here.  Of course, arming her to the teeth may cause some further collateral damage to my body; give a gal a flame thrower, and she's bound to scorch the walls something fierce.

Keep me in your prayers as I take on this new, more intense round of chemo.  The poisons are being pumped in for five days.  If I don't react poorly (meaning no fevers or insane side effects) to the chemo, I might be released on parole after the chemo treatments ends.  That's our prayer goal now: That Zombie Warrior cleans up these vicious leukemia ghouls and that she doesn't completely trash my body in the process.

Yeah and my new attending doctor is a jackass.  An old fart doctor who cracked a joked about how I "looked good now but just wait until after they'd finished with me."  Yeah, who's been complaining about Dr. CrotchedyPants?

Did anyone else notice Aaron had a White Rabbit poster on his bedroom door on tonight's Lost season finale?

Spam sales are up 7%.

Finally, according to the US Postal Service, come December, I no longer live in Richmond, but Henrico.  Curiouser.

Off to catch my fleeting Big House zzzzzzz's.

Holiday. Celebration. Come together in every nation.

(No medical updates today, peeps. I had a great holiday weekend with the fam and want to focus on that. The news from Friday wasn't devastating, nor was it ohmygoshyouaremiraculouslycured. More details tomorrow.)

My holiday weekend started on Thursday. The Mister and I threw caution (and my neutropenic state) to the wind and took in a flick. The flick. Iron Man, baby. In honor of my fabulously supportive 'jibans, I donned my "Pajiba Bus(ted) Tour 2008" t-shirt, as well as my Jolly Roger do-rag over my bald head especially for the big event: The first real movie post Big House. It was as if the whole Pajiba crew was there to cheer and celebrate as I crammed my mouth full of movie popcorn and dark chocolate Raisinets.

Man, that movie was something else. It was in many ways the perfect comic book movie. Just enough back story and character development to make Tony Stark believable, but not waste vital screen time. Action sequences were kickin' but not overly long. Actors put in smooth, professional performances. And I laughed out loud more than a few times. I'm just delighted to have been able to see it on the big screen.

Plus, the trailer for The Incredible Hulk was intriguing. I think I might want to see this one. Who can pass up Ed Norton AND Tim Roth?

Saturday, Clan Amos headed over to the king of bog box toy stores, Toys-R-Us, on a mission to acquire some outdoor play equipment for Little A. The set we ended up with is perfect for our crazy toddler man. It's got a ladder, a slide, two walls with climbing hand holds, a cave, and... a steering wheel, the feature that ultimately sold us on this particular model. My little racer does love to drive. After his first few minutes on his new playground, Alastair announced, "This playground is neat."

During the time I was in The Big House, Alastair has totally moved out of babydom into little boyhood. Watching him play and listening to the things that come out of his mouth, I've realized how much he's grown in such a short time.

Adrian has taught him to exclaim, "Punk rock!" (which he sometimes gets mixed up and calls out "Punk up!" instead.), as well as to command someone to "Throw the goat!"

Tonight at dinner Adrian asked him where the million dollars was, and he replied, "Upstairs in bed sleeping." I explain that probably wasn't a wise investment of funds.

We have also established that "narcolepsy" is a magic word that sends Daddy to the ground with some voracious fake snoring.

Sunday, I enjoyed my favorite mom-shared pastime, shopping and spent most of the time digging through the Anthropologie clearance room. Hey, were I independently wealthly, I would be outfitted exclusively in their high-priced quirk.

Yesterday was full of outside playtime (resulting in some butt whooping allergy symptoms today), Indy car racing, and ice cream. I actually watched the entire race with The Mister, particularly enjoying Danica Patrick's minor hissy fit when a fender bender in the pits pulled her prematurely out of the race.

Listen to me. I sound like a freakin' race fan. Shivers.

Finally, I cannot express how excited I am to have So You Think You Can Dance back on television.

Mixed Nuts With a Seasoning of Marrow

Tonight I've been gimping about my house like a geriatric hip replacement patient. Now I can fully appreciate having gone through my four previous bone marrow biopsies in The Big House where I could laze about in bed and oxycodone was on tap. The biopsy went well; the doc performing it was actually a hemo-oncologist fellow and the pathologist observed and assisted. That's the double edged sword of being treated at a teaching hospital; there are lots of fresh minds on your case, but you are also something of a guinea pig. The fellow performed the biopsy fine, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that he was seriously digging for treasure in my pelvic bone. Plus he reiterated the findings of the two previous pathologists who did my other biopsies: I have bones of stone.

The biopsy results will be ready for my appointment on Friday. Here's hoping for good news.

Speaking of good news, my white counts are up. Other counts are holding firm. Of course, I forgot to ask whether or not this takes me out of neutropenic precautionary zone. A viewing of Iron Man is still in my near future, even if I have to wear my sexy mask and cover the seat in a surgical drape.

Other random news from down Amos Way:

My relationship with Little A has been firmly (and perhaps even stronger than before) reestablished. Yesterday, for the first time since my being home, he called specifically for "Mommy" after his nap. We spend lots of time snuggling and hugging and wrestling, and actually, he's gotten pretty lovey and cuddly lately. It's awesome.

He has also become obsessed with watching the online trailers for both Kung Fu Panda and Wall*E. Based on release dates, it looks like Clan Amos will have to betray their fierce Pixar loyalties and introduce Little A to the movie theater experience with a Dreamworks flick. Oh well. He'll love them both, of that I am certain. He can already sing the first few bars of "Kung Fu Fighting" complete with the "da da da da duh duh duh" part and can identify both Wall*E and his robotic girlfriend Eve.

I can't believe I've not posted this sooner, but my West Coast blogger buddy Girl With the Curious Hair is working with Team in Training, raising funds and preparing to run a half marathon in my honor this October. Mosey on over to her fundraising page and toss her some coin. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society does some awesome work for folks like me and their families, acting as a support system and an advocate for people who are battling blood cancers. Hopefully, this time next year I will have successfully kicked leukemia's butt and will be training for my own race.

Speaking of events in my honor, the blood drive was apparently a success. Forty-four people showed up to donate, and thirty-eight were able. I only wish I could have been there to personally thank every single donor or potential donor. That's thirty-eight lives saved. Kick Ass.

It appears that the esteemed Senator Teddy Kennedy and I are rowing in the same boat. I'd love to send him a card saying welcome to The Cancer and just suck it up because you've had a long life, outliving your more esteemed brothers, and even managing to dodge that whole Chappaquiddick business.

What the hell was up with the House season finale? Could it be any more Debbie Downer? And why did it have to air on the same day I get a rotten prognosis concerning my particularly nasty brand of Stupid Zombie Leukemia? And my anniversary? Jeezie-peezie people. Way to stick it in and break it off.

I really need to post a baldness picture soon because I am very proud of my naked skull. It's quite lovely.

Quiet Days

Now that I am off the antibiotics, I get less attention from the nursing staff here.  But that's not to say that they don't like coming and hanging out with me.  A large percentage of the nursing staff is close to my age or younger, and I guess that's why they like taking a little break from their daily patient workload to come chat and chill in the nutty bald gal's room.

Yesterday, my nurse told me I was the healthiest leukemia patient they had on the floor.  If only my bone marrow would get that message and start doing it's dang job.  Dang it.

My days have been pretty quiet as of late.  This morning I organized my library of books, CDs, and DVDs.  Because of the great generosity of friends and readers, I still have quite a stack of unread books.  I thought I'd catalog the various titles I've read since my incarceration in the Big House.  Here they are, in no particular order, what I've read in the past month (And don't be insulted if the book you gifted/lent me hasn't made the list.  I go with what my mood and brain are itching to read at that moment, but trust me, every book will be consumed in good time.):

Hell House by Richard Matheson

20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill

How Sassy Changed My Life by Kara Jesella and Marisa Meltzer

Suite Francaise by  Irene Nemirovsky

A Cook's Tour by Anthony Bourdain

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman

Blackgas by Warren Ellis (disturbed the bejeebers out of me)

Heroes, Vol. 1 graphic novel

Duma Key by Stephen King

Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories

Soul Kitchen by Poppy Z. Brite

The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde

Twelve books.  Considering I've been here a month, that works out to about three books a week.  Not too shabby.  This isn't counting the fact that I've read my body weight in magazines, nor the daily little nibbles I take from various devotional books. I'm in the process of reading More Jesus, Less Religion by Stephen Arterburn.  And I've watched a fair share of movies and I'm almost through the first season of Arrested Development (then on to tackle season one of Veronica Mars).

My next book was sent to me from my great Yankee girlfriend, Maureen, who also sent me Bunny Suicides.  I'll next be cracking open G. K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday.  Whatever comes out of my stay here in the Big House, at least I can say I'm well-read.

What the heck was up with Lost last night?  Could they cram more stuff into one episode?  It was like one of those food brick burritos from Chipotle.  The back story and plot twists were just oozing out all over the place like sour cream and guacamole. 

And just in time for Mother's Day, there's this insanity.  Holy junk, lady.  Give your poor uterus a rest.

Finally, an experience that one would only have in the Big House: I woke this morning to find a blood-filled syringe lying next to my thigh.  Not a cause for alarm but weird nonetheless.  Man, I love it here.

Life in the Slow Lane

The results from my biopsy came in, and there's no bad news.  No signs of leukemia present in my marrow, thank God.  However, there's really no good news, either. Apparently, there's not much else going on in my marrow, and it should be cranking out the white blood cells right now.  The White Coat Folks are concerned as I am young and should be bouncing back at a more accelerated rate.  Right now my recovery is taking a slower than average pace.  My main attending doc said he's confident my white count will come up; it's just a matter of time.

My poor bone marrow has really taken a beating.  First there's the invasion of the Stupid Leukemic Zombie Cells that crowded out and devoured all the normal healthy cells.  Then we send in Zombie Warrior with her arsenal of chemo weaponry.  She plowed through the halls of my marrow leaving a wake of gore and shell casings.  The zombie cells were annihilated, but somewhat at the expense of my bullet hole-riddled marrow.

The latest and greatest news from The White Coat Folks is that they may take me off of the antibiotic I've been receiving every six hours through my IV, Cletus.  Apparently, some medicines and antibiotics actually can suppress white count production.  The docs are hoping that perhaps this is the answer to my pokey white blood cell production, and by pulling me off the antibiotic, we might be able to get this show on the road.

So there we are.  More waiting.  More frustration.  Thank the Good Lord for all my readers and Pajibans who have been gifting me with books and entertainment.  It chases away the boredom, fo' sho'.

Blood Drive in my honor to be held Thursday, May 15 from 3-7 pm!

For those of you in the RVA area, a blood drive is being held next Thursday at Dumbarton Elementary School, located at 9000 Hungary Spring Rd. in the West End (near Hermitage High School).  The drive was organized by the staff at the school, which is also the school where my mother works.  They are holding the drive in my honor because we all know what a freakin' vampire I've been since moving to LeukemiaTown, scarfing down blood transfusions.  

If you are interested in participating in the drive, please let me know, so we can contact the school with a rough estimate of donors (It helps the Virginia Blood Service staff for the drive.).  Please feel free to pass the word about the drive to anyone you think would be interested.  If you've never given blood, I encourage you to consider it.  Maybe the process is a little uncomfortable, but you just don't know how valuable these donations are to those of us who need them.

I leave you with a tip on Life in The Big House:  Avoid cooking shows, like Top Chef.  I was practically slobbering all over myself watching last night's episode.  Even though in real life, I'd never have eaten beef brisket or Chilean sea bass.

Gotcha!

Yesterday evening, my doc came in to tell me that plans have changed.  The leukemia specialist with whom she consulted trusts the job Zombie Warrior has done on the Stupid Leukemic Zombie Cells and wasn't overly concerned about performing a repeat bone marrow biopsy in the very near future.  He thought that waiting a week or two and performing a biopsy in the clinic as an outpatient thing would be more effective.

So biopsy number four is off the table for the immediate future.  My pelvic bone heaved a sigh of relief with this news.

This is so typical of the way the Big House operates.   Reminds me a little of this fake folded twenty-dollar-bill I guy I know used to have.  It was attached to a fishing line.  He would lay the bill on a sidewalk and sit near by, waiting for someone to notice it.  As soon as some poor schmuck would bend down to pick up what he thought was an unexpected windfall, my friend would give the fishing line a tug and the bill would go flying.  Except in this case, I don't mind that the bill got whisked away from me.  Lord knows, I wasn't exactly awaiting another drilling into my bone with baited breath.

My doctor also gave me some hopeful news.  I am on track to go home.  As long as my counts continue to rise, there is the potential of my release from the Big House in a few days.  The goal for release is a neutrophil count of at least .500 which would get me out of the neutropenic level.  This morning my doc didn't have a count for me but yesterday I was around .121.

Folks, we have a goal towards which to focus our prayers, meditations, chants, positive thoughts, etc.

.500

.500

.500

In other news, Adam Sandler was once on an episode of The Cosby Show.  He played one of Theo's buddies who go in together to rent a limo for prom.  That's about all I could get from the two minutes I watched of the show before turning it.  Adam Sandler on The Cosby Show.  Weird.

I think my rash might be getting a little better.  Just a smidge less purple-red all over my thighs.

Strange News

Bone marrow biopsy update:  I'm up for biopsy number four.  Yup.  Apparently, the pathologist just couldn't tell whether the lurking blasts were healthy or diseased.  Couldn't tell?  Are my leukemia cells super ninjas or something.  Sheesh.

Depending on what the leukemia specialist here recommends, I may or may not have the biopsy on Friday.  Super.  

Amazingly, the doc also delivered some potentially good news.  If my counts continue to improve at the same rate they have been, I may be going home soon, possibly the same day as my biopsy.  But somehow, with this uncertainty about my chemo's success and yet another biopsy looming, I can't help but be guarded about my happiness.

Someone tell me that Dodge really isn't using an instrumental version of Weezer's "Sweater" to pimp some new vehicle.  'Cause darned if that isn't what the music sounds like.

Yesterday, I whacked off my hair in a little shortie pixie 'do.  Previously, I had sported a sorta reverse bob (Yeah, me and Posh!), and lately, me and the hair were quickly parting ways.  I figured cutting it short would ease the transition to shaving myself bald.  My hairdresser (and my neighbor and my friend) did a great job; I can style it so it looks less sparse.

The rash has spread over my entire body and in some places, gotten worse in color and appearance.   I look like some bad sci-fi monster.  The docs say the rash will probably last at least a week.  So awesome.  With my soon to be bald head, I'm going to look like the survivor of some sort of chemical accident.

Man, it just keeps getting better down here in LeukemiaTown. 

Day Twelve: Yesterday Was My Birthday

I'm pretty sure my 33rd birthday trumps my 12th birthday (I got the chicken pox.) in out right suckitude.  Ah well, what are you going to do?

Everyone made a great effort to ensure my day was a fun as it could be considering I'm stuck in the hospital recovering from chemotherapy treatments for my frakkin' leukemia.  (Can I just say here that, until recently, I always associated leukemia with lil bald-headed children on their Make-A-Wish trip to DisneyWorld?  What about adults?  Can't I get a sympathy trip to the South of France?)  My mom came down and decorated my room with banners and such.  Little A sang his version of "Happy Birthday" to me twice, once with extra dancing on the side.  Adrian organized a small posse of local friends to descend on my room, filling to capacity, to join me for the resplendent, sugary goodness of Ukrop's birthday cake.  I got lots of phone calls and well wishes from friends near and far.  I felt loved.

And I ran a fever almost the whole stinking day.  Nuts.  I did blame the cake for a particularly nasty spike up to 102 in the late afternoon.

And Adrian felt unwell the whole day also, making our hope for a little date night dashed.  He spent my entire mini-party with a mask on so as to not infect me, which I know was disappointing to him.

So far, I've been fever-free today (touch wood), and hope to continue to be so.  I got some platelets this morning and am getting a transfusion of blood as a I type.  Hopefully the platelets will help with my bloody snot issue, which continues to be a problem.  Other than that, it's business as usual here in LeukemiaTown; a slow meandering process of wait-and-see prognosis while I make every effort not to dwell on the fact that this disease could haunt me for a long, bloody time and eventually kick my ass.  Fun time, let me tell you.

There's a mystery afoot in either the room above or next me.  All hours of the day and night (and early morning)  furniture is moved around at thunderous levels of scraping and screeching.  Because I cannot determine the exact source of the noise, it's debatable if banging on my neighbor's door and shouting, "Dude, what the HELL?" would be a worthwhile venture.

Food and Nutrition continues their campaign to beat my leukemia via margarine.

Word of advice:  Never read an Anthony Bourdain book while in the hospital confined to anemic, overcooked hospital food.  It's monumentally depressing.  The man is such a great food writer his description of haggis makes it sound like a divine delicacy worthy of the finest four star restaurant.

Before I go I want to share this story about Good Morning America co-host Robin Roberts who lost her hair to chemo treatments and recently decided to doff her wig permanently when appearing on television.   The clip hit home for me; Roberts' decision is commendable and goes along way to normalizing women who are undergoing chemo. While my hair's not gone yet, when it goes I don't think I'll go the route of naturalistic wigs.  Shoot, who will I be trying to fool with fake hair?  I don't care enough what people think of me normally, why should I now? Besides, it's going to be summer soon in the RVA, and the last thing I want suffocating my sweaty head is a tight, itchy wig.

One of my favorite quotes from the clip in the story is that the wig is "for everyone else's comfort."  And ya'll know how much I give a rip about how comfortable the general population is.  Kiss my soon-to-be bald, pink skull, jackasses.

Pop Culture Poison

Today, we received our Nielson TV diary in the mail. That's right; Clan Amos has once again been chosen by Nielson to document our TV viewing habits. This will be our third or fourth time as a Nielson family which, considering the fact that we don't have The Cable, continues to amuse us. For this go 'round, our diary will definitely reveal an significant amount of public television viewing in the mornings, as well as a random assortment of shows (mostly crap) viewed nightly between the hours of 8:30 and 10:00 p.m.-the normal time frame for my visit with the elliptical machine.

For those of you wishing to promote your favorite program with a lift in its Nielson ratings, we are currently accepting donations of any kind in exchange for documenting the viewing of a particular show. Baked goods are welcome, as are babysitting services.

However, I will warn you of the previously documented Amos Television Curse. Over the past couple of years, we seem to be losing our tainted powers over television shows, especially considering the unexpected resuscitation from cancellation of one of our favorite new shows , Jericho.

The curse, at least in my case, has moved on to destroying my magazine favorites. Magazine addiction has me in a pretty tight, glossy grip but not as tightly as it once held me. I can now actually enter a bookstore, peruse the racks, and not buy a single magazine, my once insatiable cravings curtailed somewhat by my lack of independent income. Even my subscription volume is down from nine to seven 'zines that my dealer/postman slips into my mailbox.

About a year ago, once of my favorite glossies, Budget Living, was shuttered, and my subscription went through a number of iterations before officially kicking the bucket. Recently, I received notice that Blueprint, another of my favs and a fairly new one at that, was being shut down and in its place, I would start receiving Martha Stewart Living. Well, crap. Blueprint was a fresher, hipper imprint of Martha Stewart Omnimedia (Don't you just love how Martha uses omni in her company name? Delusions of grandeur, methinks.). Blueprint had a clean, modern design, and its articles and projects were appealing. It was from this magazine that I first got inspiration to start making my vintage button jewelry and make my own bathing suit. Apparently, a Blueprint blog with new content will be maintained, as well as a new column in Martha Stewart Weddings. Maybe I'll read the blog, but I'm certainly not plunking down any cash for one article in a weddings magazine.

So now I'm getting Martha Stewart Living which isn't a big deal since I once was a subscriber. But I don't drink the Martha Kool-Aid so much anymore; I'm convinced her complex recipes and intricate projects are tools by which she can browbeat her superiority into the American consciousness. Well, crap again.

I'm waiting now for another of my magazines to fold, leaving me with some sub par replacement rag for the remainder of my subscription. If experience has taught me anything, it's that once my poisoned tentacles curl around a form of media there's sure to be multiple victims.

Perhaps I can be released from this curse. Anyone got a chicken, some candles, and mandrake root? Meet me a few minutes before midnight in the graveyard.

Let's Scare Amanda to Death

Whoever DJ's the mix of piped in music at my local Ukrop's (For the uninitiated, Ukrop's is the homegrown RVA grocery chain.) is a sick bastard. Perhaps it is the Halloween season that inspired him/her to add the full instrumentation of the Tales From the Darkside theme song to today's morning line up.

While I like a good scare, really like a good scare, I did not relish having my heart go cold this morning in the baking products aisle.

Darkside, in particular one episode, scared the living shit out of me as a child. Yet, like a junkie to her smack, I watched it religiously, huddled late on a Friday night in bed with only the glow from my little B&W set to illuminate my room. Yes, blame my parents.

The last thing I thought I'd hear as I passed the sugar and stuffing mixes and Jello packets was that ominous "Boo Bee Bee Boom..." Even without the haunting, Poe-ish voiceover, the score was as eerie as it was to me 20 years ago. I stopped in the middle of the brightly lit aisle and sucked in my breath as I waited for the world to flip into the negative aspect of colors just like it did in the opening credits of the show.

Little A stopped chattering and knitted his brow as he studied his woefully pale, non-breathing mommy.

Then after only a few minutes song came to an end. The world had not slipped into horror and small closet monsters. Little A chucked a loaf of bread into the floor to get my attention. I recaptured my sanity just as it was beginning to float out over the icing.

Man lives in the sunlit world
of what he believes to be reality.
But, there is, unseen by most, an underworld,
a place that is just as real,
but not as brightly lit.....
A DARKSIDE.


Bwah ha ha!

Happy Halloween, y'all.

Random Ruminations

We caught a new episode of Sesame Street the other day. Tyra Banks was one of the celebrity guests, and as usual, she was terrifying. Her scariness seemed to be amplified because I was watching it with my infant son. I wanted to shield his eyes.

Anderson Cooper was also on the episode, and I'll have to say that while I do not care for his reporting, he was one of the best celebrity guests they've had on the show in a while.

Prairie Dawn has a new hair style. I hate it.

It's been ages since Momma and Daddy A went to see a movie. I'm dying to catch a flick. Any babysitters out there?

Yesterday, Little A and I made good use of our tax dollars and visited story time at the library and a local park. Little A is still telling me about how he sang songs and played with books and a bear.

ER has now been relegated to visual stimulus while I run on the elliptical machine. But I am captivated every time Stanley Tucci's on screen, even removing my Shufflelufagus earbuds to have a listen.

So Life isn't half-bad. The procedural crime part of the show seems like filler for the mystery of Charlie Crewes false imprisonment. That and I love Damian Lewis.

As sunset now comes earlier and earlier in the evening, I'm back to running in the dark. Guess it's time to find that ninja running partner.

And cross another missing friend off my list. I flipped over the right rock and found Ezra.

That's all for now. Time to bleach the sink! Yee Haw!

Can you tell me how to get...

There's not much viewing of the All Powerful Idiot Box going on the Casa Amos, in large part because we do not subscribe to The Cable. We also aren't one of those families where the television stays on constantly. Of the rooms in our house, only one, the den, has a television that picks up stations. No set in the bedroom or kitchen (nor will there every be if I have my way about it) either. Nonetheless, we are big believers in The TiVo and have quite a few shows in our Seasons Pass list. Currently, we are trying to slog our way through the entire second-half of this past season's Desperate Housewives.

Little A is only allowed to watch one show, Sesame Street. Now I am sure that by exposing him to a few hours of television a week at his tender age (combined with his Mattel-induced exposure to lead paint), I am somehow warping his brain into mush and probably giving him ADHD. Of all the shite on television aimed at kids, Sesame Street has a lot going for it and is probably the best choice with which to distract him for a brief period of time. Namely, by watching the show, Alastair is getting some great early exposure to the concepts of numbers and letters. I think this is part of the reason why he is already counting to ten and can identify when he has two of the same object. (However, he says "two" for any group of things numbering more than one, but hey, it's a start.) Little A also enjoys the Muppets (Big Bird and Cookie monster being his favorites.) and loves to groove to the fun songs.

The new season of the venerable workhorse of kiddie programming started Monday. I've got a few nits to pick with the changes. For example, I hate the new frenetic animated opening sequence. I much preferred the previous, more straightforward one because it prominently featured Big Bird and automatically brought a grin to my son's face. Also, the jazzy version of the opening song that is being used isn't winning any points with me. Why mess with a classic? But there are also a lot of great additions. There's the Word on the Street: a daily focus word to bring cohesion to the episode. Celebrity guests seemed to have also increased. Just today we had a visit from Robert DeNiro who transformed himself into a dog, a cabbage, and Elmo. I was tickled to watch Monday's episode where Tina Fey mugged with Elmo as a "Bookeneer".

Sesame Street gained a new human resident in the form of Chris, nephew to Gordon and Susan. This new cast member got me thinking about the diversity of the Sesame cast. Historically, Sesame Street has been lauded for its inclusive casting. Amongst the human and Muppet characters, various ethnic and age groups are represented, as well as religious affiliations and persons with disabilities. However, after seeing the new cast member yesterday, I couldn't help but notice one disparity; it appears that the female members of Sesame Street are in a noticeable minority.

Here's my informal breakdown of the major character (appearing at least once a week). Muppets in italic text; humans in normal:

Male
Gordon
Alan
Luis
Bob
Miles
Chris
Mr. Noodle and his brother, Mr. Noodle
Oscar
Grover
The Count
Bert
Ernie
Elmo
Baby Bear
Telly
Cookie Monster
Big Bird ( I list him here, but Big Bird's gender isn't clearly defined. If anyone can prove to me BB is a female, I will relent BB's position on this list.)

Female
Maria
Gina
Zoe
Rosita
Abby Cadabby

There are numerous secondary female characters that show up from time to time like Gaby, Maria's daughter; Susan, Gordon's wife; The Countess and Grungetta, The Count and Oscar's girlfriends respectively; and Ms. Noodle, the sister of Messrs. Noodle.T

If Sesame Street is such a purposely progressive show, what gives? Now, I am not going to start some passionate e-mail campaign to force a more female presence on Sesame Street. I left that girlie back in my college women's studies class. It's a kid's show for crying out loud, not Congress.

Maybe there is some underlying trend along gender lines in children's television. Off the top of my head, I came up with a list of a few popular programs for the pre-school and elementary school set and most of them had male protagonists: Bob the Builder, Curious George, Barney, The Wiggles, Roly Poly Oly, Jimmy Neutron, SpongeBob SquarePants. There's only one notable exception to my list and that's Dora the Explorer, but her brother Diego has been given his own show. If you then turn to shows geared towards the tween/pre-teen set, a large number of them are helmed by female characters: Kim Possible, Hannah Montana, That's So Raven, The Cheetah Girls, Lizzie McQuire, The Amanda Bynes Show. The ubiquitous High School Musical is clearly aimed at the Limited Too crowd.

Okay, enough of my completely unscientific analysis of children's programming. I am sure there are countless sociological papers floating about dissecting the options available in kid's television shows. My initial response to the completely anecdotal trend I uncovered is this:

As small children, boys are the primary audience for television, or perhaps it's that little girls are more neutral when it comes to identifying with the specific genders of television characters whereas little boys gravitate strongly towards male characters while at the same time have difficulty relating to female characters. Children's shows recognize this and create characters accordingly. Perhaps as these children get older, this tendency flip-flops to girls, hence the increase in female-centric shows for tweens. Again though, maybe in the pre-teen years, girls become the larger consumer of youth-oriented TV while their male counterparts depart the kiddie programming for watching or participating in sports or video games.

Holy cow; is it totally obvious that I need to put my college education to use?

I think I'll go watch So You Think You Can Dance now.

Vicarious Television

When Reality TV first hit the airwaves, I dismissed it as gussied-up game shows. On most of these shows, the notion of "reality" is simply what the producers want to edit together to create better drama. Auditions for these shows search for people who will make for interesting "characters". Don't even get me started on celebrity reality shows: rubbernecking for the new century.

But in recent years, reality shows have been popping up that actually demand real talent from the contestants instead of just being crazy or conniving.

Granted some of the "talent" is questionable (Ahem. Sanjaya.) , but entertaining nonetheless.

Last night while watching our summer addiction, So You Think You Can Dance, I realized that entertainment alone isn't what's driving me to tune in to these shows. I am living vicariously through the performers on the show.

Now I can't walk across the room without tripping over something (my own feet), but I've always dreamed of being able to dance. Now I watch SYTYCD and plug along with all the aspiring hoofers, rooting them on and getting involved in their little storylines.

Same is true of American Idol, which grew a bit dull this season. Still, when I sing I make what can only be described as a "joyful noise", and so I allow myself to get wrapped up in the competition of undiscovered singing sensations because darn it, I wish I could sing half as good as Melinda.

I can dress myself with some degree of skill and manage to walk out of the house on a daily basis looking 10x better than a one Miss Spears. But I sure as shit can't draw nor design clothing nor can I sew with any modicum of skill. That's why I get sucked into the creative combat on Project Runway. Those people amaze with with their skills. Except last season, I know I could have thrown together better looking outfits than most of the hot mess that Vincent or Angela sent down the runway.

Admittedly, I have absolutely no discernible talents or skills except maybe blowing bubbles with my spit and tying a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. A girl can dream of being Somebody, though. And thank goodness the kind and generous people of TV Land have given me a medium through which I can live out those fantasies.

At least until Alastair gets a little older.

Figures

After a few good spells of warm weather in March, I start packing up sweaters and wintry clothing and pulling out my shorts and tank tops.

Then Virginia gets a nice spell of global warming.

Bam! A cold snap and snow on Saturday.

Daggit.

Hey, anyone gotten the new Arcade Fire album? I keep hearing good things about them, but upon watching the band perform on SNL, I got second thoughts. They looked kind of like a therapeutic band formed at the local loony bin. The music was so-so, but then again it was pretty poorly mixed.

Oh and SNL totally sucks now. Except for the guy who used to be on Keenen & Kel. He's a hoot. "I hate your face!"

Worst Mom Ever Part II

First, let me just say that the Monument Ave 10K went swimmingly this morning. The weather couldn't have been nicer (cool and sunny). Being this was my first 10K and I normally run around 4 miles in my regular workout, I was pretty darn pleased with my performance. I ran the entire race without stopping and felt pretty darn good. My pace didn't change a lot, and I might have made in just under an hour. Adrian and I are looking forward to the Komen 5K and maybe even the Carytown 10K in May.

This running this seems to be turning into a nice little hobby. Plus, it's cheaper than The Gastric.

Tuesday while at Ukrop's with Little A, I was stopped by a total stranger and chastised (albeit nicely) for not using the little seat belt-thingy in the grocery cart on him. It was the first time any one's ever publicly accused me of doing something unsafe with my son. While I am sure this woman had well-meaning intentions, it came across as pretty annoying. Did I look young and stupid? Is that why she felt it necessary to lecture me on how once her daughter fell out of a grocery cart reaching for something on the shelf? Mildly shocked and embarrassed, I let her prattle on to me for a few minutes and then smiled, thanked her, and went on my way. No, I did not buckle up Little A either.

The whole incident was strange, and amazingly I managed to not become defensive with the lady. I guess I figured it would have been a waste of energy to try and explain why I choose not to use the seat belt thing (For several reasons including how uncomfortable it seems to be for him, cutting into his belly as well as the fact that my kid's not stupid. Why would he reach for a shelf a few feet away when he can reach back and grab crap right out of the cart.). Sure, I am a super-crappy mom when it comes to safety. I haven't baby proofed my entire home, wrapping all of the edges of furniture in thick cotton batting and baby-gating every single doorway. But Adrian and I believe, short of allowing him access to breakables and poisonous household chemicals, that it is more important to instill in Little A a sense of boundaries not determined by plastic barriers and child-locks. If we don't want him into something, we work really hard (as it is not easy) at teaching him not to go into a cabinet or touch something on a shelf.

What I realized that it that woman probably spoke up to me because of where we were shopping. The average shopper at the Village Ukrop's probably has a household income in the six figures. Wal-Mart this ain't. So these rich West End women probably are imbued by years of privilege with a sense of moral superiority and the knowledge that other white, upper class young women will kow-tow to them, especially in public.

Dude, I know better than to call some stranger out on how they are raising their kids. If I was in Target and pulled some random mother aside and lectured her on using the seat belt on her kid, she'd probably cut me or at least chew me out. Unless something serious is occurring with a child that involves sharp pointy objects or live electrical wires, I will mind my own damn business. Even in a dangerous situation, I'll take a good look at the parents and try to determine whether or not they would whoop my ass for telling them how to raise their child. While said child jabs himself in the eye with a stick, of course.

Ah well, just another badge of merit on my Worst Mom Ever uniform.

Does anyone else think that this past Lost episode was not the best one in a long time? It was teh awesome.

I really like the new enviga peach. It's pretty tasty. Hey it even burns calories. If I drink three, of course.

Short Cuts

After running on the machine for 40 minutes, I probably should shower. But instead I am sweating on my desk chair and blogging because my husband's at work. I also really need to write Little A's birthday Thank You's. But I'm lazy.

Initial nay saying aside, I am now fully addicted to MySpace. It helps that I uncovered several stellar college friends with whom I have not spoken since graduation. I've been having particular fun with my friend Jon, the erstwhile Fuckhead, ragging on who we used to be back in our less-than-halcyon days in college.

Tuesday, I sold SpaceMobile. She zoomed off into other adventures, to be helmed by another pilot, in a galaxy known as Blacksburg. I felt a little pang of sadness and almost shed a tear as I watched her taillights fade into the distance. She was the first car I ever bought all on my own. She was an extension of my personality, an outward representation of who I am like my tattoos, clothing, or jewelry. With SpaceMobile gone, I feel like yet another part of pre-baby Amanda has died. Adrian suggested having a VolksWake this weekend to include getting smashed on vodka-and-tonics-with-extra-lime (My drink of choice when I first bought SpaceMobile.). Back in the summer of 2005, I wrote this entry as a tribute to SpaceMobile when she crossed 50,000 miles. I think it's a fitting way to sign off on our relationship.

Now I drive a very functional but highly cliche CRV. Sigh. Next thing you know I'll be hosting playdates and carpooling to the soccer game. Shudder.

Finally, if Abigail Breslin's character in Little Miss Sunshine was the perfect mirror for me as a little girl, then Tina Fey's character on 30 Rock is so my doppelganger now.

And how is it that Zack Braff is a romantic leading man? He is seriously goofy looking. A female counterpart in the appearance department would get stuck in the crazy/retard/ugly friend roles. Zack Braff on the other hand woos Natalie Portman and Rachel Bilson. WTF?

Cause and Effect

Last week was Little A's first week of full-time daycare (aka Baby Work). Coincidentally he also caught his first cold. Proving the theoritcal equation of Daycare+ Baby= Illness. Poor little guy. For the past four days, we've been armed with the aspirator, suctioning mucous out of his nose. Some times he doesn't mind, like it's a game; other times he howls in aggravation. Indicative of his generous nature, he was also kind enough to share his germs with Adrian and me. We both came down with the sniffles. The family that gets sick together...

Adrian was kind enough to stay home with Alastair yesterday so that our little man could get some rest and help his little body repair. I think it might have helped; this morning he was more animated and vocal than he's been in a while. He's still pretty snotty and coughy, but hopefully he's on the mend. I feel so helpless when he's sick. All I can do is pray, suck snot out of his nose, and hope for the best.

We've also been crossing a few developmental milestones with Little A. He's been working really hard on sitting on his own. Right now he crumples up into a modified tripod that lasts all of about 10 seconds at a time. But he's working on it. Adrian and I try to prop him up with pillows and such as many opportunities as we can. I can tell he's much happier seeing the world from a seated position than lying on his back.

This weekend was The Wedding. It's funny how much a wedding resembles a stage production. There's the cast, an audience, the musicians, set decoration, programs, costumes, a stage manager. There's normally a script of some sort. We rehearse and have a post-production photo call. Then there is the chaos of opening night (which also happens to be the sole performance). I think the only real difference between a stage show and a wedding is that only in a wedding is the director also one of the lead actors.

The ceremony was quite lovely, and everything went off with little or no major hitches. (Which in a weird way is a little disappointing because I was hoping for a classic AFV moment. Hey, you can make some serious cash off of the documentation of human suffering and humiliation! Still think I should have pulled the groom's ring from the bodice of my dress.)

Honestly, I don't think I've seen Jeff and Evelyn happier than they were in those moments at the front of the sanctuary, professing their love and devotion to one another. Except of course when Evelyn got all choked up on her vows, but let's all assume that was because of anoverwhelming joy. It wasn't until yesterday afternoon while driving home from work that it hit me: Jeff and Evelyn are married. They are now officially The Cronins. Far out.

Goodbye Elliott. You had a great run and made fans out of almost an entire city. If Idol were about raw talent alone, you would have been the sure-fire winner. No matter what path you take in your hopefully sucessful music career, may you retain your honesty, sensitivity, and humility that endeared you to all of us.

I have now lost all interest in Idol since the options have been whittled down to the Drunk Epileptic Wedding Singer and Queen Plastic the Over-Singer. I just wish I had gotten tickets to the show in July. I had no idea they would sell out in 15 minutes! Go Elliott; Richmond still loves ya!

Oh really?

The other day I was driving down Staples Mill Road when I spotted a license plate reading "2QT2BST8". Intrigued, I pulled up beside the car at a stoplight to take a gander at the chick driving.

Yeah...No. Speaking for all straight people, I'd say we aren't too saddened by the loss.

A few days later, I saw a bumper sticker that read "God is a Race Fan". Huh. Who'da thunk?

Since my last post, literally eons ago, there've been a few occurrences in my life to note:

• Little A has now moved into his crib and is sleeping in his own room. We've had over a week's worth of (mostly) uninterrupted sleep. The past few nights, however, he's decided that 2 a.m. is a good time to be wide awake and wants everyone in the house to join him in this endeavor.
• There were two "firsts" for Little A: First party-a cookout in honor of Jeff and Evelyn's impending nuptials. First trip- to Williamsburg where he finally got to meet Shana and Chad. He had a blast at both. As we like to say, that boy loves an audience.
• Last weekend along with Chris H and Adrian, I ran in the Race for the Cure 5k. I definitely struggled a lot more this year versus last, and I guarantee I did not finish with as good a time. There were a ton of idiotic walkers up at the start line with us; dodging and evading them for about the first 1/4 mile burned up a ton of my energy. It was hard to find my running stride after that. But despite my slowness, I finished the race without stopping and without falling down, two of my general goals when running.
• As of today, I am back on a full time schedule which also means that Little A is in full-time daycare. I am trying not to think too much on the later statement because it fills me with worry and sadness. This change in my life also means frequent trips to the mother's room for pumping. Just call me Bessie.

Those are the biggies.

Looking ahead there's:

• The Wedding. We are still trying to figure out logistically how to coordinate our baby's care. We are going back and forth on whether or not he should join us at the church and/or reception. Either way, I don't want my in-laws saddled with him for too long, nor do I expect them to execute our rather elaborate bedtime ritual. Such are the quandaries that new parent's face. Plus, sometime between now and then I need to paint my toenails.
• My grandmother is hopefully moving to Richmond in about a month. For the first time in my life I won't have to drive 7+ hours to visit with her. On the flip side, as Adrian pointed out, Alastair will probably never get to visit Grundy. At least not for a long time.
• In June, we are hoping to take Alastair to Irvington and on his first overnight trip. The notion excites and scares me. I only hope that between now and then we can wean him off being fully swaddled to go to sleep. But I can't wait to lounge in the swing with my boy, feeling the breeze on our face and watching life slowly pass by the front porch.

Of course, the most exciting update is... GO ELLIOTT!! Our boy has made it to the top three, propelled by an awesome performance on Elvis night. Let's hope he can maintain that momentum and boot The Queen of Vocal histrionics, Katherine. I hear that if Elliott makes the final two, a giant viewing party might be organized at the Coliseum. Sweet. It's just pretty darn thrilling that despite his humble attitude and less-than-model-perfect looks, Elliott has managed to stay in the competition. GO ELLIOTT!

Rally 'Round the Campfire

Please, for the love of Pete, VOTE FOR ELLIOTT!!! Honestly, he's got the most talent in terms of pipes, and he's our hometown boy. That and he's just so gosh-darn humble. Ya, gotta love it. He's been in the bottom three for two weeks now and I'm getting concerned that he will be exiting shortly. Let's boot Ace or Paris and keep Elliott for just a few weeks more.

Little A crossed 12 weeks on Easter. He did it looking quite smart and getting all the attention in Church. Plus, he was generous enough not to poop on his Easter outfit. The Easter Parade on Monument was a big hit as the bumps of the cobblestones lulled him right to sleep.

Alastair's been doing a lot of growing and changing lately. Aside from a few nights of the two-hour-long screamfest, he's still sleeping through the majority of the night. His sounds are taking on some great character. Lately, he's been getting into his upper register for some fun squeals. His motor control has been improving every day. He is getting the hang of having two hands and using them together. Just today, he started bringing his toys to his mouth. Now this means everything has got to pass the choking hazard test. It's so cool to see all the new ways Alastair is learning about and interacting with his world.

The countdown has begun: Two more days and I am back at work. Gross. Then I'll begin the new countdown...how many days until I quit. It'll be like the counter in Lost except unlike Locke, I won't be entering any numbers or pressing any buttons when the 108 minutes are up. Heh, heh.

Yet another countdown has also begun: four more days until my birthday. On April 22, I will be 31. This birthday does not inspire the same obsessive silliness as last year. (Funny how a new baby changes your perspective on things.) I'm just glad it falls on a Saturday. Still, if you are so inclined, once again My Birthday Wishlist.

Uh-oh. My kid's fussing. Danger, danger. Fussing after bedtime is not a good sign.

Gulp.

Hey Look. It's April!

How can this be? It's already April 9th! I am 13 days from my birthday. Even better, I am 11 days away from returning to Corporate Hell. Man, how a three-month maternity leave can just zip by you. Already I look back at pictures from Alastair's first few days at home and marvel at how far he's come since then. He's outgrowing his bassinette and is almost fitting into 6-month clothing. We have enjoyed several nights of interrupted sleep. He's actively reaching out and grasping at his toys. The dinosaur grunts of his early weeks have evolved into vowel-heavy "words" like "Ah-Gooh-Ah" (That one seems to be his favorite.). At least once every few days, he poops out his diaper while on his mommy's lap and soils her clothes. That's a fun one.

It's amazing to me how much he is learning, while at the same time still has so far to go. How is it that humans are the dominant species when it takes so long for us to develop? I mean baby giraffes are running almost immediately out of the womb.

More on the subject of Coporate Hell: Looks like my department underwent some serious shake-ups over the last weeks. I will return to a new organizational structure and a new manager who doesn't even know me. Swell. This will make breaking free from the chains of Corporate Hell all the more easier.

Childcare search continues. We can't seem to find a caretaker that either wants to wait until May to take Little A (That whole bird in the hand stuff) or meets my high standards. Dammit my kid is totally awesome and like hell am I just going to drop him off with any old body.

I am excited about this week's Idol. While I can't say that the Queen songs will be a good choice for everyone, I love Queen and can't wait to see who picks what and how they perform. I think I might actually break down and vote to try to keep Elliott out of the bottom three.

At last week's weigh-in I was down to 160. Eight pounds in six weeks! This week, however, I have been particularly snacky and not as active. I live in fear of the scale.

V for Vendetta was pretty f-ing cool. Hugo Weaving is my new hero. Only a fabulous actor can make one feel empathetic for a mask. Adrian said that after a while he stopped noticing that it was a mask. Natalie Portman also did a wonderful job. She is one of those fortunate people who actually looks pretty darn good bald.