Team Pink ... or Team Blue?

We ended 2008 on a high note: Finding out whether Truffle is a boy or a girl. And for the last few weeks, our family and friends have been weighing in.

Among those who thought Truffle was a boy: Uncle Tyler, Uncle Tony, Julie, Kris, Leah, Caro, Jessi ...

Among those who thought Truffle was a girl: Grandma Susie, Aunt Krissy, Uncle Scott, Godsister Kaely, Lauren, Kate, Lisa, Clem ...

So who was right?

MEET TRUFFLE ...



... also known as Collin, but still to be referred to as Truffle until he makes his appearance on June 10, 2009. IT'S A BOY!!!!

I just about had a stroke right there on the table at Seattle Ultrasound Associates, mainly because those three little words blew 17 weeks of "intuition" right out the window (the first thought that ran through my mind: Brynn has a penis?!?!) but at the same time, I am excited to be having a son. And I'm also glad to have time to read up on trucks and dinosaurs. As for Chris, well, there are no words. I think we've finally found something that makes him happier than back-to-back Apple Cup wins.

We went to Southcenter on the way home and I bought three pairs of maternity pants (I can no longer be in denial that I can't button my pants) and eight pieces of clothing from the Gymboree sale for our little he-Truffle. (Common theme: Bears and blue. Sadly, no argyle.) I'm not going to lie and say I didn't have evil thoughts of buying the pink "snow bunny" shirt anyway, but I think Chris would have left me to take the bus home.

On the other hand, I still have a goddaughter and two nieces to buy pink for. And, of course, myself. You know, uh, right after I buy a new copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting" which I threw up on while looking up nausea cures the other night. And no, I'm not kidding. What can I say, it's been a surprising week.

The Real World: Las Vegas

I figured I should blog about our trip to Vegas before it becomes a distant memory, considering we came home two weeks ago yesterday ... and oh, yeah, there's that little detail of having no job come Tuesday and I don't want to taint any good memories from the month of November, which now joins July as being a candidate for being kicked off the calendar ...

Anyway, our pre-holidays trip was not only a blast, but an unexpected reality check, too. My about-to-be-ex-boss/about-to-be-legit-friend I threw the shower for in September gave birth to her beautiful daughter the day before we left (I maintain she held off on being born until the Cougars won the Apple Cup considering her parents are Gonzaga grads, but that's just my opinion) and when we got to Vegas, it hit me that not only are we having a child, too, but our days of cavorting around the great state of Nevada are OVER. Don't get me wrong -- it's not like I wasn't already aware I am having a child (trust me, I remember it every morning as I am lying on the bathroom floor), but it became really real in a different way.

And I have to say that I am madly in love with the Mandalay Bay and steadfastly refused to return to Seattle (especially since I had to come straight to work from the airport on Thanksgiving). The hotel really lives up to its "South Pacific" theme: it smells like coconuts and tropical flowers, and there's lush greenery everywhere and it's just so, so classy. Definitely the perfect spot for what was supposed to be our "rage against the cold weather" trip and turned into our "kiss goodbye our days of being alone" rendezvous.

It was also a big reminder as I was handing over my credit card at Tiffany & Co. for my to-me-from-me Christmas present -- if you saw how much work I do every year and how utterly useless my spouse is when it comes to shopping/wrapping/decorating/sending cards, you'd totally understand -- (sorry, Chris, I love you, but you know it's true) and I realized that soon I'll be buying binkies instead of bling. Not that I'm complaining, but it's amazing how quickly things are changing. We would see people pushing strollers all over The Strip and think, wow, that will be us next year. (Side note: I continue to maintain that Vegas is not a family-friendly vacation and maintain this was Truffle's first and last trip there for many years.)

And even in good ol' Sin City (And yes, I find it ironic that I have been there three times in 18 months, and two of the times, I have been avec enfant), we indulged our newfound roles are parents-to-be, buying some clothes at the Baby Gap (now there's a sight: me strolling down Las Vegas Boulevard with a bag full of onesies in one hand and a bag with a $200 necklace in the other) and a stuffed bunny at FAO Schwarz. (Chris was eyeing a lifesize tiger, but I pointed out that not only would it scare the baby, but it would probably give the cats a nervous breakdown.)

We ate some great food, including the buffets at the Mandalay Bay and the Paris, and Margaritaville and the House of Blues -- and Truffle was not shy about informing me of what he/she did NOT enjoy. (Seriously, who throws up pancakes?! And room-service ones, at that?!) It was between the high 60s and mid 70s, so we went swimming in the MB's pool, which was entirely too awesome given that it was two days before Thanksgiving, and we wore our summer clothes, or, in my case, the ones that still fit. (Mock my pink plaid pants if you want, but at least they zip up ... or at least they did two weeks ago. Now may be another story.)

Morning sickness aside (easy fix: pizza at the New York, New York), the only problem I ran into was how much walking we did. I normally have no problem walking that far, and we easily trekked down to the Fashion Show Mall from the MGM Grand in January, but since getting pregnant, I haven't had much energy, and rarely walk farther than the kitchen (and not even the whole length of the kitchen, either, since the fridge is close to the doorway), so the distance from the hotel to, well, pretty much anywhere, was horrible.

I think I would have died had it not been for the tram that goes from the Mandalay Bay, which is at the VERY end of The Strip, to the Excalibur, which has sky bridges to NYNY, and from there you can walk down by Caesar's and the Bellagio. (I will admit it's amazing how fast I can walk when there's either (A) Starbucks (B) A snack or
(C) Tiffany in the vicinity.) Chris, fortunately, was very understanding, even when I went on strike and sat down in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge at NYNY. Oh yeah, and when I wanted pizza at 11:45 p.m. while he was watching college basketball.

I got a little teary on the plane coming home because it was really nice to escape reality for a while -- even if it was a reminder of the reality to come. But all things considered, it's not so bad. At this point, I'd rather have sippy cups than SoCo anyway.

And then good luck, it finally struck, like lightning from the blue ...

Ironically, this is the post I have been hoping and praying to make for more than a year, and I am having a hard time putting it into words. Still, I always knew those lyrics, from Survivor's "The Search is Over," would be the title. I always knew that, eventually, lightning would strike, because, after all, I'm a survivor. (And that's to say nothing about the fact that I lost my job last week.)

And it has.

I'm pregnant.

After two years of trying, a miscarriage, enough pregnancy tests that I really should have bought them in bulk, two trips to Vegas, and endless tears, I got pregnant in September, love affair with Nyquil aside. (Most people will remember I spent the greater part of the month hacking and moaning, and not in a sexy way, either.)

It was a huge surprise to both of us. (Chris' exact words, on the night of October 4, once he picked his jaw up off the floor: "We didn't even try that hard ... Go me!")

I am now 10.5 weeks along. I was cleared as being out of the woods for another loss after an ultrasound this week (the chances are less than 3 percent at this point), and I am due on June 10, 2009, two weeks before our third wedding anniversary. We're cautiously optimistic that come early summer, we will have our little Truffle, as seen here in this very poor picture of a picture because I couldn't find the scanner cord, and almost cried. (The head is the left, and the feet are the right.)

Unlike last time, I can eat. (Just not Indian, Thai, anything spicy, and, apparently, pie.) Bring me lemonade and I'll love you. Bring me macaroni and cheese, and I'll really love you. Be warned that I may cry if you bring me either. I am sick every morning, but the queasiness isn't nearly as bad as last time, and it should let up in a few weeks. Even so, it's a small price to pay, and so is my constant insomnia and fatigue.

Ah, the irony: Spend the greater portion of a month planning a baby shower ... and end up with a baby on the way.

That's my kind of irony.

And now, please excuse me, because I have to go throw up.

Living on a prayer

The newspaper industry could use a hero right about now.

And no, I don't mean one like Lex Luthor, who "altruistically" purchases a newspaper -- and then blows it up. We're doing a pretty good job of imploding all on our own these days.

The bottom line is that we're in trouble. Big trouble. And it doesn't take a genius to know that not even Superman may be able to save you when the formidable opponent you're up against is the economy.

I've held off talking about this because, quite honestly, I'm shell shocked. There's a chance that I may not have a job by Christmas. Four and a half years, countless Inside Sundays, more than 100,000 miles, and a mountain of page proofs later, I may be unemployed. Or I may be doing something totally different here. Or The Times could be bought by the same company that has been bleeding us dry under the weight of the JOA. The fact that I don't need "101 ways to lure your new man into bed" anymore is just one reason why I don't subscribe to Cosmopolitan anymore -- I can't stomach the idea of supporting Hearst.

In an industry that thrives on uncovering the truth, this state of uncertainty is terrifying.

We've heard everything from a 25 percent reduction on the desk, to a 30 percent across-the-board cut, to the situation being OK if we can get our spending in line with our profits. All we know is that we have a whole lot of debt, the economy has basically decimated advertising revenues, and that our focus is shifting toward the Web.

And what I know is that I am seventh from the bottom on the seniority list for desk editors. It's not a panic-inducing place to be (yet), but it definitely has me nervous. I've survived before, but how many times can one person land on their Coach-heels-covered feet?

The industry has been battered for some time now, and it doesn't appear to be healing. Every daily newspaper in the state -- probably the country -- has had cuts, and just when we think it's as bad as it's going to get, we hear that the Tacoma paper reduced its entire staff to 37.5 hours a week, or the Skagit Valley paper laid off so many people it realized it now has to hire some.

But we're The Seattle Times. We're supposed to be invincible.

I don't think anyone counted on a hailstorm of Kryptonite.

Admittedly, as the role of the media shifts in general, there have been moments where I've asked myself if it's worth holding onto the railing of the Titanic as it goes down. I'm only 26. I have plenty of time to start a new career.

But then I remember that the ship is still floating.

And for some of us young journalists, it's still a ship of dreams. Like the dreams of a 12-year-old girl who wants to be Lois Lane -- who wants to change the world.

After my husband, journalism is the love of my life. I just don't see how you can get divorced if you're still in love.

When you love something, you fight.

And that's what I'm ready to do.

Making choices -- and "Taking Chances"

We all do things that make perfect sense in our own heads. Whether others think we're insane is another story. But, to paraphrase one of my favorite quotes, we make choices in every moment of our lives -- and we have to live with them.

Like the choice to go 300 miles for a football game even though I was coughing up mucus in shades of the opposing team's school colors. (For the record, I mean green and yellow; if it was red, I doubt I'd still be alive.) Yes, I'm sick again. For those keeping score, it is now Day 8 of Round 2 of the Pink Ills. I fortunately managed to get healthy in time for the baby shower, and then woke up with a new virus last Thursday, the day before we were leaving for our yearly football pilgrimage to Pullman. My very nice husband drove both ways, giving me the chance to alternately moan, sleep, sip Starbucks, read the latest Jodi Picoult novel and moan some more.

I'm sure Most sane people would probably have stayed in bed all weekend. I, on the other hand, go cavorting around Eastern Washington and Northern Idaho. I wasn't going to miss homecoming, both literally and figuratively. For someone who maintained they were not going to school at Washington State all the way up to the door of Housing, as my mom pulled out her checkbook for my dorm-room deposit (Oh, sorry, I mean residence-hall room; I am scarred for life from my experience dealing with RHA for The Chinook), once my earthly belongings and I had been relocated to the Palouse for four years, I fell in love with the small-town college experience.

Now I know that anyone who only knows the me who shops at Nordstrom and can't be too far from WiFi, Thai food or Starbucks, is probably doubtful that I have anything in common with Clark
"10 farmers and a cow in his graduating class" Kent, but I really love Pullman. I wouldn't want to live there, but visiting is just fine.

However, going out for the Oregon, game, when you know your team sucks, is another story. It's a familiar mantra in my household: It's a rebuilding year for the Cougars. New coach, young players, wheat allergies (OK, not really, but I was looking for another excuse for why they're so terrible) ... But seriously, driving 300 miles and sleeping on a rock-hard hotel mattress in Idaho to watch our beloved team get turned into 63 ounces of pate by the Ducks (as in 63-14 being the final score) ... I should clarify that the photo at the top of the post was taken at the beginning of the first quarter.

Still, it was fun, the weather was nice, we bought some Cougar cheese, the Chinese and calzones were fabulous, and I learned that snowcones are a great way to soothe a sore throat. (I had to have two, because just when I was starting to feel better, we finally scored, and I started yelling and jumping around, and that was the end of my throat until I went and bought another one.)

So, when you're sick, everything is 10 times worse than it actually is. Running out of Kleenex means the sky is falling, and seriously, once my vapor rub is gone, life as we know it will be over. Even so, had I been healthy this week, I still think I would have been equally upset when I found out that the day I had requested off several months ago to see Celine Dion perform in Tacoma didn't get put down on the vacation schedule, and the weekend of Oct. 18 was now full.

When getting teary, near-begging and subtly bringing up my previous altruistic deeds (51 hours of overtime in Editorial, anyone?) didn't work on my boss, and I had exhausted every conceivable avenue of getting someone to cover for me, I resigned myself to not getting to see Celine, who, honestly, is my No. 2 favorite celebrity (after Teri) and would be performing less than 12 miles from my house. Oh, the injustice of it all.

But here's where the whole "choice" thing comes into play: I can't really explain why, but I refused to give up. I had to see Celine, and while I wasn't going to do something unethical like call in sick, I wasn't finished looking for a solution. I guess you can say that Celine's music has been therapeutic to me during my fertility ordeal, especially since she had issues herself, and as I have said before, "A New Day Has Come" has a lot of meaning to me, as does "The Prayer. When I saw her in Las Vegas in 2007, I was pregnant, and for some reason, I felt that seeing her again, now, would be like coming full circle. Does that make sense? Probably not.

Anyway, a small miracle showed up today from the Editorial Department. Apparently, karma does mean something, because the desk editor who I fill in for during vacations said he could work for me, and my boss agreed, so I get to go to the concert (with my sister). I was beyond thrilled, and teary again, but for a good reason. And since this is her "Taking Chances" tour, I'll get to see Celine sing "Alone" live.

Go ahead. Place bets on how long it will take me to cry.

My money's on the opening note. But sometimes, tears are worth it.

Even superheroes get hat hair ...

There's a chapter in "Burnt Toast" where Teri talks about all the hats she wears. Now, I may not have an actress hat or mother hat in my closet, but lately, I have worn so many other hats that all I want to do is shake my hair out and go wash it.

In short, between my pink-and-brown party-planning hat, journalist hat, wife hat and writer hat, I'm exhausted.

I managed to kick my pesky two-week virus just in time to host Julie and Kris' baby shower. Being sick set me back an entire day, so I ended up making pink tissue pom-poms during the lull as late news editor (Martha Stewart is a bitch, but she's a bitch who can decorate), and baking at 1 a.m. the day of the shower. (Ironically, Chris is better than me at frosting pink cookies.) Given how much eleventh-hour work was required to get everything done on time, I am so glad I was healthy again, or I just may have collapsed into a glitter-covered heap in the middle of the newsroom.

In addition to making the invitations and shopping on behalf of various people, I took care of all the decorations (and bought and arranged the most amazing flowers from Pike Place Market), the drinks (pink punch and mimosas) and made cookie-dough truffles, mint-chocolate truffles and the aforementioned star-shaped cookies with pink frosting and brown sprinkles. These are the kinds of projects I rarely have time to do, and I had a lot of fun.

Here's a link to a few pics: http://s122.photobucket.com/albums/o279/editorjax/Baby%20shower/

And with the exception of the food arriving two hours late (seriously, how anyone gets so lost that they end up at the airport is beyond me), the shower was amazing. From the roast beef to the crab puffs, the food was outstanding, Elouise's house is gorgeous, and it was great to have so many people (nineteen she-journalists in all) come together to celebrate Julie and Kris. They totally deserved it, and I can't wait to meet their daughters.

Once the shower was over, I basically passed out on my couch, and woke up just in time to spend all of Monday running errands from Costco to Victoria's Secret (read: no rest for the pink and weary), doing laundry, taking out the recycling, etc. So imagine how thrilled I was to see all of the nagging in the feedback thread for Chapter 16 of "This Ain't a Love Song." On one hand, I'm thrilled to have readers who love the story so much, but on the other, leaving a message that says "ahem," and nothing else, or sending me a PM complaining that I haven't explained where Chapter 17 is, won't make me write faster, or, in fact, do anything except royally piss me off. All I can say is that I'm trying, and it's not easy.

And, while I'm mulling over my hat collection, let's add work to the list of things that aren't easy these days. Two more desk editors have left, so we're pretty thin on the news rim. Add in Julie and Kris' impending leaves, and the impending implementation of the "continuous news desk," and I'm seriously starting to worry that we're going to drown by Christmas. I've worked an hour late the last two nights, because when that nasty virus vacated my lungs, it moved on to torture other people. I just hope no one else gets sick, because I really don't want to be rim/slot/publisher/janitor.

But this weekend, I finally get a break. (Cue the throwing of homemade confetti) We're off to Pullman to presumably watch the Cougars get massacred by the Ducks, but it should be fun anyway, especially since it's homecoming weekend. We always go to the Chinese restaurant where we had our first date, spend entirely too much money at the campus bookstore (you can never have too much Cougar gear, especially in my household), and stop to buy apples and cider fresh from the orchards on the trip home. I have an occasional pang for Smallville, Washington, (we don't celebrate corn, but there is a lentil festival), so a couple weekends a year in Nowheresville is good for the pink soul.

But believe me, I'm glad to no longer wear a crimson-and-gray student hat. Wearing all these hats may be stressful, but every fashionable girl has a lot of accessories, right?

Fun for the whole family! And I don't mean the Nyquil!

I'm find.

In "Friends" speak, that's fine ... with a d at the end, to clarify that I am not, in fact, fine. In actuality, I have spent the last two weeks (that's fourteen days, for all you mathematicians) sick. It started out as a sore throat when I was in Editorial, followed me back to News as a head cold, and just when I started getting better, it all went to hell. But being, well, myself, I couldn't concede that I was sick, so I forced myself to go to work Friday and Saturday even though I felt like I had been hit by a bus. And I'm sure that my kickass job as Late News Editor Friday night, as Hurricane Ike came ashore, two trains crashed in L.A. and Russia decided to pack up and leave Georgia, didn't do much to negate my co-workers' perception that I am suffering from some form of TB and/or malaria as I spent eight hours coughing Saturday.

After spending the entire weekend on the couch save for a trip to Gene Juarez to get my brows waxed and to buy orange juice (equally important tasks), I finally gave up and admitted I was sick -- and, even more shockingly, I actually stayed home Tuesday. It probably comes as no surprise to anyone that calling in sick is something I normally don't do unless I think I am going to die and/or am standing in front of a firing squad (usually in the form of Chris, staring me down until I agree to go back to bed).

Even so, being the Type-A person that I am, I can't just lay on the couch and recover. Nope, I have to work on baby-shower projects, or make a DVD of L&C music videos, or do beta work, or make endless to-do lists for when I am better. No judgment; it's not like I had anything better to do. Stupid SoapNet took away my crack ("Melrose Place") with no warning! Now I'll never know if Megan returned to prostitution and Taylor figured out that Peter was trying to morph her into his dead wife. Damn you, Comcast.

And yes, I'm sure some of you are thinking hmm, couldn't you have worked on a little something called "This Ain't a Love Song"? Oh yeah, that. Guess what? It's almost done! (Hey, it's my blog, I can lie if I want to.) No really, it will get there. I've sketched out the whole chapter, and written some of it, but getting to the hard part is, well, hard. I just need to sit down and do it, and not when I'm doped up, either. Drinking, though, may be another story. A bottle of Riesling sounds like just what I need to get through Chapter 17.

I went back to work today, and my day was pretty normal, save for getting all teary watching Julie cleaning out her desk to go on maternity leave next week. (I blame the cold medicine.) But when I got home, I had another reason to cry, but this one was from laughing. You see, Chris' birthday was last Thursday, and since I was sick, we haven't technically celebrated, aside from me giving him his presents, a North Face coat from Nordstrom, and "The Yogi Bear Show" on DVD. (Yeah, guess which one he was more excited about? Hint: It wasn't the coat. And thank god for Amazon, where you can order embarrassing gifts from the privacy of your own home.)

Anyway, while "Yogi Bear" is acceptable in my house, his gift from his parents is, uh, not. Now I know, a gift is a gift, etc. But seriously. Chris is 29, and that's about 20 years older than the target demographic for the "Franklin Park Stadium Baseball" game (ages six and up), of which the No. 1 selling point is that it "fits on most standard tables!" (Or so it says on the box.) Seriously, I could not stop laughing. Happy birthday, little buddy!

(Visual proof is a must: http://ak.buy.com/db_assets/large_images/743/202321743.jpg)

Now Chris, being a much nicer person than his Mad Dog wife, tried to tell me that it could be fun. But after I gave him the staredown, he admitted that it wasn't something he would have picked out for himself. Now, if only we can figure out where it came from, and maybe he can exchange it for a set of golf clubs, which is what he was hoping for to begin with.

After all, his gift may be "fun for the whole family!" but it came with no guarantee that it will get me pregnant.

Oh wait, I spoke too soon. Upon pointing that out a few minutes ago, my dear spouse informed me that while playing Franklin Ballpark is unlikely to result in offspring, my ever-so-thoughtful (and subtle!) mother-in-law has a backup plan for the First Couple of Reproductively Challengedville: A relaxing getaway to a FERTILITY RESORT in Arizona.

Now that I have calmed down and picked my jaw up off the floor, here's what I am thinking about her little "suggestion": A. You have got to be f-ing kidding me. B. Is she offering to pay for it? (Because otherwise, we can have sex at home for free.) C. Is it too much to ask that my in-laws don't think about me and their son in the biblical sense?! And D. I know I went to public school and all, but I'm pretty sure a bed's a bed.

You know, I'm suddenly really glad I have a nine-iron at my disposal.

After all, clubbing her may not be fun for the whole family, but I'd sure enjoy it!

There are surefire ways to get pregnant ...

... and none of the following topics are among them, contrary to what you may have been told. (And, before I go any further, I have to add a disclaimer. After seeing a look of sheer horror pass across my spouse's face when I mentioned what I was blogging about, I must clarify that this entry is not, in any way, a reflection on our sex life. I mean, come on, I'm not going to talk about that here, anyway. I have to face some of the people who read this at work tomorrow.)

I had a great birthday, despite having to go to work. I got my kickass coat from Chris, and a bunch of awesome presents including flannel sheets, PINK sweatpants from VS, money that I used to buy "Desperate Housewives Season 4," fruity Chapsticks (swoon) and both pink cookies from my boss and funfetti cupcakes from my mom. Calories be damned. I also got an awesomely unexpected gift from my in-laws: golf clubs!

Back around Christmas, I had called my mother-in-law from this golf store in Seattle to ask what kind of balls my father-in-law used, and I mentioned I had an interest in taking up golf. I haven't exactly had the time to pursue it, though. But she remembered what I said, so last Saturday, my father-in-law delivered a set of Cougar X-Cat golf clubs and pink balls. I am SO excited! Plaid pants, here I come! My schedule doesn't really work with group lessons, so I think I am going to sign up for private ones that I can do on my day off.

So here's how my subject line comes into play: I called my mother-in-law the next day to thank her, and she was just thrilled that I liked my present. And I really do. As most people know, I have a somewhat dubious history with my mother-in-law, so the fact that she remembered that I wanted to take up golf meant a lot. But, as most people also know, my mother-in-law (and most mothers-in-law, for that matter) always has a reason for doing things.

So I shouldn't have been surprised one iota when she said that she was talking to a doctor and they said that it's important to have hobbies. I agreed, and said that I have several. She continued, driving home the point that having hobbies can help take your mind off things. I agreed again (I mean, really, we all know exactly what the fic-writing is), and then she said, just as glibly as can be, "So you just get out there and golf, and you'll be pregnant in no time!"

I now understand why it's illegal to talk on a cellphone without a hands-free device in Washington, because I about drove off the road. To my own credit, I managed to recover and reply that if I was golfing all the time, I wouldn't be home to get pregnant. (I didn't add that the way she was selling her grand plan made it sound like she was advocating I go all caddyshack right there on the golf course, and I wasn't sure if she was suggesting it actually be with her son.)

Honestly, I wasn't offended -- more like amused -- but still. I don't want his mother -- or anyone else -- plotting ways for me to get pregnant! And speaking of offended, I can't decide if I should be over the fact that most people have about fallen over laughing when I have announced my intentions to take up golf. You'd think I told my mother I was giving up journalism to turn tricks on Aurora Avenue.

(Ironically, the day after the 18 holes of fertility edict was handed down, I read that Tiger Woods' wife is expecting her second child. So maybe golf can get you pregnant -- if the guy has the clubs. Someone get Chris a nine-iron, pronto.)

Another way to not get pregnant: Spend all your free time planning a baby shower. I am helping throw one for one of my bosses (who is having her first child in November), and one of my friends (who is adopting a baby girl from China this fall), later this month. I love crafts, and with the exception of decorating at Christmas for my ingrate co-workers, I don't get a chance to do them often. So I am entirely too gleeful about spending until 5 a.m. watching "Melrose Place" and carefully sprinkling white translucent glitter on homemade pink-and-brown invitations. (And, may I add, carefully, my ass. That glitter was everywhere: the Oriental rug, my pajamas, the couch, the cat -- who, in turn, shimmered when he sat in the sun.) I spent most of last Monday shopping (I'd say more, but they both read this, so all I'm going to divulge is that I did my favorite color justice) and I'll be making star-shaped cookies with pink frosting and brown-and-pink decorations next weekend.

I know some people were initially worried about me hosting a baby shower given my own situation, but it has been so much fun that it hasn't been much of an issue aside from a few envious pangs while I was shopping. But hey, shopping -- I love shopping. So maybe this would motivate me in other ways, right? Go home and play hide-the-credit-card-bill or something equally sexy. Wrong. Try again. It actually freaked me out more than anything. I thought I knew a lot about baby gear, but after two trips to Babies 'R Us, I now realize there is a whole universe of things that I didn't know existed or hadn't considered the relevance of, such as swaddling blankets and different types of pacifiers for different ages.

And one last way to not get pregnant: Have your work schedule continually changed so you're either gone by the time your husband gets up (and therefore passed out on the couch by 8 p.m.), or arriving home when he's already asleep (and therefore spend the rest of the night beta-reading L&C ficathon entries for other people and mumbling "lucky bastards" under your breath). I spent my birthday week in Sports, which meant I started and got done with work an hour later than usual, and this last week I was in Editorial, which means I had to be at work around 10 a.m. Add in the fact that I have been sick since Wednesday, and the only thing I have eyes for is the bottle of Nyquil on the bathroom sink.

But hey, the faster I get well, the faster I'll be able to become Pinky Mickelsen. And, after all, that's every girl's dream, right?

I am unwritten ...

Drench yourself in words unspoken, live your life with arms wide open. Today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten. -- Natasha Bedingfield, "Unwritten"

I'm officially old today.

OK, not really, but in the last week or so, I couldn't help but think of that fact that I have finally caught up with Lois Lane.

When L&C first started airing, I was 11 -- and Lois was 26. That sounded so grown-up to me. After all, she was so accomplished as a journalist -- and she had the hottest guy in the universe (literally) following after her with stars in his eyes.

So in honor of turning the same age as the venerable Ms. Lane, I decided to do my best come-hither journalistic minx pose in the Calvin Klein coat Chris gave me for my birthday and my beloved Coach sunglasses.

(And now that I'm looking at the pic, I see that I don't do come-hither so well.)

You can't really see my new highlights in the first pic(they're a very subtle chestnut color and best seen in natural light, and it was taken at midnight), but here's a better pic, taken Tuesday at work. I really like the color, and even better, it was free. (The stylist needed "models" to get certified to cut hair at the ultra-swanky Salon 7 in Seattle, and one of my bosses told me about it after she got her hair cut there.)

Anyway, new coat, new hair, new year.

I feel like birthdays are a personal new year of sorts -- on your birthday, you are presented with a clean slate. After all, the calendar year encompasses two different ages, and that can be both a blessing and a curse. Case in point: I got married in June 2006 (at age 23), and found out my husband was losing his job in December (at age 24). Likewise, in February 2007, I was on top of the world after earning a permanent position at The Times, and six months later, I turned 25 at rock bottom in the aftermath of my miscarriage.

24 was a year of change -- adjusting to married life, making the decision to have a child, geting my job, struggling to get pregnant, and then losing the baby ...

25 was a year of healing and self-discovery. It was a horrible year, but I feel like I learned a lot about myself, and there were definitely high points, especially my trip to L.A. and getting new opportunities at the paper, including slotting and my work in Editorial.

Today is where the 26th chapter of my book begins.

The rest is still unwritten.

Did I ever mention I own pink mixing bowls?

Clark Kent ruined it for every woman on this side of Krypton. He's hot, he wins journalism awards -- and he cooks. So it should come as no surprise that at the ripe old age of 13, I decided I was going to marry someone who would have dinner waiting when I arrived home from working toward my next Pulitzer.

It also should come as no surprise that I married someone who can't really cook.

Well, technically, he makes great garden burgers, and he browns ground turkey for me since I suck at it, but that isn't exactly what I had meant.

When we bought our house in 2004, I started out simple, with spaghetti and tacos and chicken Kiev, and the irony is, the more I cooked, the more I liked it, and the more adventurous I became.

Adventurous enough that when we registered for our wedding, I scanned a ton of cooking stuff -- everything from pots and pans and a KitchenAid mixer (swoon) to a meat thermometer and different types of measuring cups (who knew they even made different types!) -- and two years later, I use it all. (And about those pink mixing bowls, they were an unexpected wedding present from William-Sonoma, and I LOVE them.)

It turns out I love to shop for food. (Well, it's no Nordstrom anniversary sale, but really, what is?) I have so much fun wandering around in Trader Joe's or Whole Foods, or even Costco (even if I do have a tendency to buy cantaloupe or sour cream in bulk and then have a "what the hell am I going to do with this?!?" moment when I get home). I like trying new recipes and reading food blogs and swapping ideas with a certain Igloo at 3 a.m. ;-)

Who'd have thought I would be able to make quiche and homemade chili and strawberry rhubarb pie and truffles? I don't know if Lois would be impressed -- or disgusted that I broke ranks.

Unfortunately, these days, my problem isn't a lack of talent -- it's a lack of time.

I always make out my grocery list with the best of intentions -- and then get mad when the vegetables rot and the bread molds, and I'm telling Chris we're having Taco Del Mar again.

But I have a little more time these days (you know, when I'm not writing fic, planning a baby shower, going to work and juggling 200 other tasks) so this afternoon I spent a couple hours pouring over recipes, made an ambitious meal plan, and went grocery shopping. I planned eight meals (I cook four days a week), and I'm going to post them here. That way, it will be a little harder to blow off dragging my pathetic pink self out to the kitchen. (Especially since finding sun-dried tomatoes was no easy task.)

So here's what we'll be eating the next eight (cooking) days:
1. Spinach/ham/sun-dried tomato calzones made with whole-wheat dough and a Greek salad
2. French onion soup macaroni and cheese
3. Chicken cordon bleu, parmesan garlic orzo and steamed zucchini
4. Cheese tortellini with spinach/tomato cream sauce and a Caesar salad
5. Low-fat ground turkey chimichungas.
6. Balsamic chicken and garlic mashed potatoes
7. Cream-cheese chicken squares with puffed pastry and southwestern pasta salad
8. Ground-turkey chili and homemade cornbread.

And while I was writing my grocery list -- and talking to two friends -- I had an idea. Would any of you guys be game for, like, FoLC Iron Chef? (Yeah, yeah, look at me branching away from uh, ficathons.) Like where we all make the same recipe one night, and see how it goes -- and post about it on our blogs or something? It would be something easy to cook, and easy to shop for (since some people aren't in the U.S.) but I think it could be a ton of fun. So I figured I'd float the idea and see if anyone had preliminary interest in it.

After all, pasta has an effect on all continents. ;-)

The news ... and "the news"

I'm not going to lie and say I spend all my spare time reading seattletimes.com or the Poynter Institute's Web site. I read celebrity gossip sites, which I think is a good way to keep up on pop-culture events and trends (and it definitely can come in handy at work when the baby boomers start asking who Jay-Z is).

And furthermore, I've always had an interest in celebrity news, and, OK, if I'm being honest, the gossip side is somewhat appealing. (See Google Talk status reading: "It's just a little harmless lime-swapping ... right?!) After all, it's not like being a copy editor is particularly salacious.

I mainly read Celebrity Baby Blog, because it's fun to see all the trendy baby gear, and hey, it's always interesting to hear what celebs name their kids (seriously Gwen and Gavin -- Zuma?), and I also like Crazy Days & Nights, which has blind items that are fun to guess (even if I'm rarely correct). Considering the subject matter, I generally make a point of not taking what I read too seriously. (But I never made any such promises about rolling my eyes.)

But there's always an exception.

Earlier today I read in the San Jose Mercury-News that Teri Hatcher's molester (her former uncle by marriage) had died in prison. She is the one who, reputation be damned, came forward in 2002 and put him away. He had molested three young girls. One of those girls went on to become an award-winning actress with a lot of emotional baggage. One of those girls put a gun to her head, clutched a photo of her grandmother to her chest, and pulled the trigger.

I have to admit I wasn't too surprised when I heard about what had happened to Teri when her Vanity Fair interview was published in 2006. It definitely explained some things. Her relationship with her parents always had me thinking that if something had happened, it had been her father who had abused her. Turns out that they just turned a blind eye to it. And I really haven't ever commented on it -- on the boards, at least -- because what could I say, other than that I have the utmost respect for her for coming forward?

But what got my attention tonight was when I clicked on a link on a Google news alert and it took me to Perez Hilton's Web site.

I think Perez Hilton is a total douchebag. Always have. But I also know that instead of being bothered by the backlash, he thrives on being a controversial prick. Even so, I thought it was pretty reprehensible to publish a post about Teri's "alleged" molester having died, thus casting doubt on her story. Even better were the reader comments saying that she deserved it, that she is responsible for that girl's death, that she wanted it to happen ... talk about sick.

Like I said, I generally read the mainstream blogs. I didn't even know some of the more tasteless ones existed until I had to deal with the cyberstalker who was posting fake comments as me about Teri and Dean. (And you bet your sweet chumpy I posted a comment on the Perez thread. For the record, I'm not some vigilante for her -- or any other celebrity -- but I just couldn't help myself. I think the phrase "attention whore" came up -- and I wasn't talking about Teri.)

Yes, celebrities voluntarily put themselves in the spotlight, whether it's by starring in a movie, or swimming to eight Olympic golds. But it's kind of sickening when judgement starts being passed for things over which they had no control. I can't even imagine being judged over my miscarriage. And the thing is, if I was a celebrity, I'm sure I would have been.

And unfortunately, with the popularity of blogs and other forms of non-conventional media (defined as everything from shows like "The Soup" to the endless array of "news" magazines to people like Perez Hilton being interviewed about their take on current events), the line starts to blur between legit journalism and this crap.

And contrary to public perception, those of us who work for legitimate news outlets, and write such headlines as "Oil prices fall for second straight day," do not set out to write "OH MY GOD" headlines. I have a feeling that a lot of true-blue newsmen and women cringe. I know that I do. And we know better than to throw words like "alleged" around unless we have a damn good reason.

Fifteen-second journalism lesson: You can call someone an alleged molester until they have been convicted. Once the facts have been proven, the word is no longer necessary. Case in point, you don't see people going around calling Ted Bundy an alleged killer.

Perhaps some of these "media" members should have taken News Writing (and, really, Media Law, too) before they started professing to be journalistic experts. But no, they prefer to gain "experience" by speculating if so-and-so is pregnant again, or if so-and-so is cheating on his wife.

As someone who works in the mainstream media, it's kind of disheartening that people can't get enough of this garbage -- and at the same time, newspaper readership continues to decline. To borrow one of my favorite L&C quotes (from SLV in Season 4), those type of salacious publications are "only after sleaze --you're a disgrace to legitimate reporters."

All that sleaze kind of makes me want to go take a shower.

History ... and hotness

I have an on-again, off-again relationship with the Olympics. It really depends on what the
A-list event of the games is. In 1996, I was captivated by the Magnificent Seven as they valuted and tumbled their way to history in Atlanta. In 2002, it was the heart-wrenching scandal of Canadian ice skaters Jamie Salé and David Pelletier being cheated out of the gold in Salt Lake City. (I also have a vague recollection of watching many heats of the slalom at
5 a.m. when I couldn't sleep. Gotta love replays.)

This year, I wasn't as jazzed. The time difference, meaning that nothing was being aired live -- no thanks to NBC -- coupled with my personal feelings toward China, the country that caused a mass outcry over lead in everything it exports except ramen, and has continually screwed over one of my friends who is adopting from there, had me kind of apathetic.

But then I got sent back to work in Sports two weeks ago, and we were watching the opening ceremony, which for some reason got me a little teary. There's something kind of amazing about seeing all these countries come together to celebrate their accomplishments -- and the world we live in today, opportunities to focus on the positive are few and far between.

And while it's impressive to see the delegations with hundreds of athletes, like the U.S. and China, I so enjoyed seeing the countries that only had five or ten athletes, waving so proudly as they entered the stadium. To me, that was far more moving than seeing LeBron James or Kobe Bryant (ew). And don't get me started on the hideous outfits the U.S. athletes wore in the opening ceremony. I love Ralph Lauren, but ... just ... no.

Being a former swimmer, it's, by far, my favorite sport to watch. Unlike, say, fencing, I understand it. And, well, once I saw the Superman in a speedo on the U.S. team, well ... I know he's younger than me, and I'm, you know, married, but I wouldn't mind doing the backstroke with him for a few hours ... in the pool, you sick people. (OK, just because I was told last fall, "Good job, Jenn. You do gutter so well," doesn't mean anything ...)

Anyway, it has been really cool to see Michael Phelps make history winning medal after medal. Eight gold medals at age 23 is kind of mindblowing. His butterfly is amazing. I did the stroke OK (I swam at districts in both the 200 IM and the 100 breaststroke) but he does it with, like, superhuman speed. And seriously, he's so hot. And he loves his mom. :::swoons:::

On an unrelated note that I am going to make related, you'd think more people would want to stay home and stare at Phelps on the Internet (see photo above) ... the traffic made me late for work five of five days this week. Hey, at least I'm consistent. One day, it took me more than 90 minutes to drive a commute that should take 45. Gas prices have more Americans taking "staycations" close to home, and I so do not endorse the never-ending stream of cars coming up from Oregon that don't realize the speed limit is 10 mph higher in Washington, or the people who clearly have never driven outside Whatcom County.

I thought about going up to Southcenter today, but with the way the traffic is, I think I'm safer sitting on my couch, and, you know ... staring at Phelps. Just kidding. I'm actually designing baby-shower invitations for the shower I am throwing for two co-workers, and working on my ficathon story. Uh, when's the deadline again? ;-)

Great expectations ...

Expectations.

They're a total minefield.

We all have expectations for how other people should act, the things they should say, the way they should look ... and we have expectations for ourselves, too.

It's one reason why I don't own jeans -- I have expectations for how a journalist should dress. (However, given that I'm not a journalist on the weekend, I'm giving some serious thought to lowering my wardrobe expectations for the two days a week that at home.)

The same goes for when a writer posts a story -- we expect that our hard work will be applauded, not criticized or ignored. And the more we write, and the more entrenched we become, the more we come to expect that we'll be lauded. And it's a really dangerous position to be in. Case in point: I was disheartened by the lack of initial feedback for Chapter 16 of "This Ain't a Love Song," especially since I about killed myself finishing it.

Anyway, back to the point. When our expectations aren't met, we're disappointed -- both with the people who failed us, and with ourselves for having those expectations to begin with.

For example, we expect our friends to be there for us in good times and bad. We don't expect them to basically cast us aside like a piece of trash when we're going through a hard time. If you're going to throw confetti and be over the moon for us when, for example, we announce that we're pregnant, you shouldn't be too surprised when your total 180-degree turn when we, say, lose the baby, may, you know, be noticed, and in turn, pisses us off.

I'm sorry if people are uncomfortable with the things I have been through in the last year. I really am. But this is my life. And to go from "I'm so lucky to have friends like you" to absolute silence -- it's kind of baffling. And the irony is, ever since she basically told me I'm a fertility failure, I haven't really been talking to my "friend," anyway, but, as petty as it sounds, it's kind of like, "where do you get off acting like you don't want to talk to me -- I don't want to talk to you!"

And really, I shouldn't care. There's a good 80 percent of me that doesn't care at this point. But the other 20 percent can't help but think, does my having had a miscarriage really make me that big a pile of broken glass that people would rather just walk around it than acknowledge that it actually can be put back together?

I guess, in this case, that my expectations were a little too high.

And along the same lines, when we spend a lot of time helping plan an event, expectations are borne of how it will turn out -- and how our hard work will be perceived. So when we're labeled as the bad guy, it's kind of like being sneaked up on and waterboarded. Some of you know what I am talking about here, and while I really don't want to get into it, I'm still pretty hungover from drinking Tang -- and it's been a month.

I am beyond tired of being the fall guy for what happened in L.A. It was my vacation. And I'm not spending my vacation sitting in a room watching a TV show I could watch at home for free. I'm not spending my vacation driving 40-something miles to see a beach that is inferior to anywhere I've been in Hawaii, when I could see Rodeo Drive. And I don't want to eat dinner at the hotel when I'm in one of the coolest food cities in the world. Where else are you going to have organic sweet-potato fries, or $7 ramen that you have to wait 90 minutes to get a table for?

I had a great time on my vacation. I don't regret anything about it -- except having set such unrealistic expectations about what was going to happen. But I didn't know any better. And for that reason, I am not going to feel guilty about going against the status quo and defying other people's expectations. I've spent the last month fighting the impulse to feel bad. If someone wants to nail me to the cross, they're going to have to make room for the other six people who were right there with me, and quite frankly, I don't think Home Depot sells a strong enough piece of wood.

And furthermore, I had expectations, too. I still do -- but I am going to have to alter them if I don't want to go crazy.

I'm tired of drama.

I really, really am. So here I am, saying my piece, and now I can go back to being zen.

Pain and passion: Writing the "Love Song"

"You and I were living like a love song. I feel so bad, I feel so bad that you're gone. Now I know you're the only one that I want. I want you back, I want you back.

Now I'm here to say I'm sorry, and ask for a second chance. Cause when it all comes down to the end, you were the best I ever had."

-- "Best I Ever Had," State of Shock

I've made a career out of meeting deadlines, so you'd think I'd have no problems with self-imposed ones.

Try again.

And tonight, I am going to break tradition and go into specifics about my writing.

Chapter 16 of "This Ain't a Love Song", was, without a shadow of a doubt, the hardest thing I have ever had to write. It made "Rain" look easy in comparison. I knew things wouldn't be easy once George and Lynn found out she was pregnant, but I expected the hardest moments to come later. I never thought it would be so difficult to write the lead-up to the worst moment of their lives. And I never thought it would take me almost three months to write it.

At first, I didn't even realize what was going on. It wasn't until Trin commented that she had never seen me have so much trouble finishing something that I stopped and took note of the fact that I was doing everything possible to avoid working on Chapter 16. Considering that I wrote all 35 chapters of "Inside Out" in less than two months, I couldn't exactly use being a slow writer as an excuse. And as time went by, I no longer could use my job, doing beta work or having to finish other stories as an excuse.

I went to Los Angeles and soaked up the "G&L culture." I visited The Grove, where the chapter opens. I toured the infamous Warner Bros. Studios. (And, much to my chagrin, I started thinking about Chapter 18. As in two chapters away.) I walked up and down Rodeo Drive, and all I had discovered was a craving for Sprinkles Cupcakes.

So what the hell was wrong with me? Visual research had certainly paid off in the past -- I went to Las Vegas in January, and started writing Chapter 14 on the flight home. Spago and The Paris, the fountains in front of the Bellagio and the dance floor at Pure ... the ideas came raining down like April in Seattle.

And then it hit me. I'm the happiness destroyer.

I have spent more than a year having a love affair with the characters of Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Writing about them has been my entertainment, my escape, what saved me from drowning. And I never, in a million years, would have guessed I'd fall even more in love with George Dailey and Lynn Thayer. They are amazing, intricate, maddening characters, and I have never felt so many emotions when writing as I have throughout "This Ain't a Love Song." There are moments when I just want it to be over -- to put them (and myself) out of their misery -- and there are moments when I wish that the story could go on forever. It has been my biggest challenge, and my proudest piece of work.

A good friend of mine has been going through a similiar situation, which makes me feel a little bit better -- and a little less crazy. "Kansas" is one of the most fastinating, heartbreakingly beautiful love stories I have ever read, and like me, she has spent the last few weeks struggling over how to put her characters through hell and still have them find their way back to each other.

I so badly want George and Lynn to get their happy ending. God knows they deserve it. But as I sat at my computer the last few weeks, typing word after word, I knew I was moving closer to destroying the love song they've been living the last few chapters. (And anyone reading the story knows it wasn't easy getting them there to begin with.) Even so, I knew it had to be this way. After all, the title says it all -- this ain't a love song. After everything they have put each other through for nine years, there is no way that happily ever after could come easily.

So I started edging them toward hell, and what better way to do it than give them exactly what they want -- the chance to truly be together. It's what George wants, what Lynn wants, what my readers want -- hell, it's what I've wanted all along. Why not let them hear the first verse of the love song? Why not let them be truthful and emotional and real?

After all, it makes for good drama. And believe me, I know.

Honestly, if I had known that July 30, 2007, would be the last day of my life that I'd truly feel normal, I probably wouldn't have gone to Costco, or watched "Friends" reruns all evening. I wouldn't have folded laundry or spent an hour flatironing my hair. And I'm pretty sure that if George and Lynn were real people, they wouldn't spend their last happy moments searching their souls in front of her pool.

I actually am thrilled with the way the chapter turned out, but at the same time, I can't stop thinking about the fact that I just turned off the love song. That the next time I open a blank Word document, it will be to ruin their lives, and potentially put myself through hell, too. I guess it's the perils of becoming so emotionally involved in your writing -- you feel their pain, and you feel like you caused it.

I'm going to end this with a passage from Chapter 16, which I finally finished at 6 a.m. yesterday. But before I do that, I have to take a moment to thank Trin, without whom I couldn't have finished this. Aside from being a total rockstar, she is the greatest creative consultant of all time.

Lynn looked down at the water, her body shaking with silent sobs. “George … I’m begging you … just be with me. Just love me. Please. I need you just as much as you need me.”

He tipped her chin up so she was looking into his eyes. “For how long?”

Her reply was barely audible. “How about the rest of our lives?”

His voice was rough with emotion. “Sounds good to me.”

Sounds good to me, too.

Here's hoping they make it.

Saving the world, one comma at a time ...

Being a journalist is hard work. And unfortunately, shows like "Lois & Clark" don't do much to negate the stereotype that reporters strut into the newsroom in their designer suits, file their front-page story (on the investigation they completed in mere hours), and win a Pulitzer, while systematically saving the world/going on tirades/flirting with their partner.

Well, Mr. Kent, and Ms. Lane,
THIS is journalism.

Newspapers are a 365-day enterprise. People are always shocked when I say I have to work on Saturday. Seriously, who do they think puts out the Sunday paper? And no, I can't go to dinner and a movie on Friday night; there's that little thing called the Saturday paper. We work hours that aren't exactly conducive to having a social life, we get home when our spouses are asleep, and we spend our holidays writing cutlines on photos of Fourth of July fireworks over Lake Union and editing stories about Christmas on the front lines of the war instead of being with our families.

You have to edit stories you don't care whatsoever about (see "Cadillac worms" or "Enron"). You get sent to work in other departments where the pace and protocol are totally different. (Did I mention I'm in Sports all week?) You have to deal with reporters who think your sole purpose in life is to piss them off by having the audacity to call and ask for clarification on something in their story so they don't have to write a correction. You have to sit and watch the wires in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, fighting back tears as you read datelines on stories that are places where you stood just weeks earlier. You have to write the perfect headline on a story about infertility on the day you've come back from recovering from your miscarriage.

You have to be objective, or you could get fired. And trust me, on some days, that's no easy task, especially on hot-button issues. I don't really get hot and bothered about light rail or the Sonics moving to Oklahoma City, but there are certain topics that, only out of respect for my desire to be employed for another 25 years or so, I do not write headlines like "Stupid bitch sleeps off drunken stupor while baby she's lucky to have drowns in bathtub."

Not having a political identity -- or worse, having one that goes against the industry's norm -- can be very hard. I remember being back in Editorial this spring and two of the editors were talking about Obama and McCain, and they said, "Well, Jennifer's a McCain fan," and I was like, "Oh yeah? Who said that?" while looking around in fear that someone was about to appear and waterboard me for even acknowledging them.

They apparently could "just tell," (I am guessing only because I never join on their riotous Bush bashing/Democratic swoonfests, which, in my own defense, I could just be being quiet for the sake of having my paycheck signed off on by the News department) and then suggested I be McCain's running mate. Too bad I wasn't born here; I bet I'd bring in the pink vote, at least.

All this ranting to the contrary, I love it. Considering I'm not the most patient person, I like seeing tangible evidence of what I did all day when I wake up in the morning. I feel a real sense of pride when I see people reading the paper, or it's mentioned on TV or in a movie. (You should hear my reaction every time it's shown on "Grey's Anatomy.")

And, furthermore, it's the catalyst for two (technically unrelated) things I am very happy about right now.

Because of my schedule (in addition to my horrific hours, we get to choose vacation days by seniority, and some of the desk editors have been at the paper since before I was born), it's not easy taking a vacation. Add in the fact that between the high-school football he's covering and the college and pro football he's watching, my husband is pretty much MIA from the end of the August until Thanksgiving, and suddenly, we're staring at each other on opposite ends of the couch whining, "We never see each other, and we never go anywhere." (The latter complaint coming from me, a mere three weeks after returning from California.) Seriously, reporters and editors do not work the same hours, and it can be challenging at times. For those who know what I am talking about, "eight days, six hours, four minutes and two seconds" is an understatement at times.

So in order to beat the traditional cold weather/ holiday-stress meltdown, we decided to go to Las Vegas the weekend before Thanksgiving! We were going to go Sunday and come home Wednesday, but it was a mere $3 difference to stay a fourth night, so we'll be coming back Thursday morning -- just in time for me to go to work. Should make for an interesting offering to the desk's holiday dinner. Uh, I bought a can of cranberry sauce, but the TSA took it away. I LOVE Vegas, so I am thrilled to be going back (and yes, for those counting, that will make three times in less than 18 months, but what can I say, it's not too far, it's cost-effective, and it's warm!). I am SO excited to be staying at the very swanky Mandalay Bay. Look at me being a Desperate Housewife!

So, have I mentioned that being a journalist requires an ever-evolving work wardrobe? Uh, probably not, because actually, it doesn't. Just ask my boss, who wears jeans pretty much every day and makes fun of me for not owning any. (In my own defense, I looked at some at Nordstrom over the weekend, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.) I got it stuck in my head that a journalist should dress like you-know-who, way back when, and while I don't wear suits or anything, I do dress up for work every day (except Saturday). I have more slacks, skirts and heels than I do khakis, T-shirts and sneakers. Most of the clothes I buy are for work, and then I complain on my days off that I have nothing to wear. You'd think I'd have learned by now.

Anyway, I fell in love with this Calvin Klein wool wrap coat during the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale, and my very nice husband decided to buy it for my upcoming birthday (despite me feeling bad for 15 seconds that I was basically telling him what to buy me this year and not giving him any creative liberties). It isn't hard to figure out why I wanted it so bad -- to quote my fabulous friend Clem, "It looks like you stole it from Lois' closet."

Hey, I deserve it. After all, being a journalist is hard work!

Extreme Makeover, Pink Edition

With a lot of support, a little self-reflection and a really long traffic backup, I made it through July 31 in one piece.

Now it's August 1, which means a new year -- and the perfect time for a little makeover.

So here's the new blog look. As for me, I technically just got a haircut, and I have a bunch of new shoes from the Nordstrom sale (see header photo) and a Tiffany necklace I am madly in love with.

I'll continue to consider adding other colors to my wardrobe. Not everything can be pink and black. (Technically, though, it was one of WSU's original colors, so I, uh, do it to represent for the Cougs.)

Maybe I will get on the treadmill ... or at least think about it.

I hope the next year is a little less tearful and a lot less crazy. It's one reason I changed the blog name. You can't find inner peace when the word crazy is right there in the header.

In the next year, I have two definitive goals: Finding zen, and telling it like it is.

And anyone who has a problem with my new stance can take it up with Lois Lane, who's been a bad influence on me since 1994.

You don't mess with the zen. It took a long time to find it. ;-)

Coming full circle

“It seems that when we give up on what was, well, that’s when things that we thought improbable, or impossible even, happen right before your eyes.” -- Kitty Walker, “Brothers & Sisters”

I made it.

Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes later, I have come full circle. I passed my due date, my conception date, and now, finally, the one-year anniversary of my miscarriage. It was one year ago today that my life was turned upside down. In the last year, I have lost something -- and found something, too.

I have spent the last year on an intense journey of self-discovery -- one that I most definitely don’t recall signing up for. I’ve questioned my faith, my patience, my priorities. I’ve been angry, I’ve been in denial, I’ve been shattered, and slowly, I’ve managed to put myself back together again.

I never, in a million years, thought I would lose a child at age 24. I’m in good health. I don’t smoke. I drink very sporadically. I take my vitamins. I only go to Starbucks once or twice a week, and I don‘t eat sushi. OK, so maybe I don’t drink my recommended amount of milk every day, and I’d rather sleep an extra half hour than run on the treadmill, but seriously, come on.

But more importantly, I wanted it. I’ve spent my life pushing myself to succeed -- and, for the most part, I’ve done it. I was a good student from preschool through college. I got my dream job right out of college. I’ve been increasingly entrusted with new challenges at said job -- from taking over the election chart from a senior manager, to running the advance Sunday paper to, most recently, slotting. I was able to establish a name for myself within the L&C fic-writing community in a short amount of time and won two Kerths in my first year.

In short, I don’t do anything half-assed (except maybe that whole treadmill thing, which I currently technically do no-assed), and I don’t handle it well when I fail. And to have worked so hard to get pregnant in the first place (not that I’m complaining about the, uh, efforts, but as we all know, I am not the most patient person), and then not succeed, was an unbelievable blow. It still is.

I always indirectly knew it wasn‘t my fault, but I’ve always been very hard on myself, and it took a long time to truly believe that, and to accept that I didn‘t do anything wrong. If I hadn’t had that latte/glass of wine/Thai food … if I hadn’t told everyone before twelve weeks ... if I hadn’t bought all of those baby clothes so soon … if I hadn’t gone to the fateful ultrasound alone … My rationale has, at times, been pretty weak, but no one ever said grief is logical.

I called in sick yesterday when I decided that driving 42 miles to throw up all over my desk wasn’t such a hot idea. And as I lay on the couch all afternoon, reading “Faustian Bargain” for the zillionth time and vacillating between needing a cold shower and crying over Lois’ miscarriage (talk about being able to relate to your hero in a way you wish you couldn‘t), I had a weird sense of déjà vu.

A year ago, I was lying at the same end of the same couch, reading the same story, and in a lot worse condition. (And in my own defense, I am not a masochist; I wasn’t really thinking about anything when I started reading FB today except that I was bored being home, and that we seriously are in need of a supply closet at work if Chris ever gets a job there. Just kidding.) But I kept thinking that maybe this is some higher being’s way of pointing out that being home for the day with a stomach bug isn‘t that bad in the larger scheme of things.

It’s kind of bittersweetly ironic that “Faustian Bargain” is the story I was reading yesterday -- and a year ago. Last fall, Sue told me that once I got past the important dates -- the due date and the one-year anniversary, I would be OK. That piece of advice was the best thing I’ve ever read by her (and yes, that includes all of her Kerth winners). I clung to it for so long, and she was right. I started to feel OK after Feb. 15 came and went, and now, on July 31, I can honestly say I am at peace with myself.

Yes, I lost something, and I’ll never get it back. But sitting here a year later, I still have a hell of a lot -- an incredible husband who would do anything for me, wonderful friends who have rallied to support me from all corners of the Earth, a career that I love, a pastime that provides an outlet for my frustrations and my passion. A year ago, I didn’t see how it ever would be again, but from the view on my couch, life’s actually pretty good these days.

I can focus on what is to come, and not what was.

The year is over. The circle is closed.

Hell has frozen over ...

I, the pink control freak, actually managed to go four days without turning on my laptop. I had it on during the flight to L.A. on Wednesday, and then didn't turn it on again until Sunday morning. But seriously, I was having too much fun, which I needed even more than I realized.

I don't think it hit me just how badly I needed a vacation until I got on the plane -- and started crying. I think it was a combination of fatigue, stress, nerves, guilt about going on vacation without Chris, and, oh yeah, Celine Dion. Virgin America was awesome, and they have MP3s on their in-flight entertainment system, so I got to blare "Alone" during takeoff, and then I switched over to "A New Day Has Come," which, of course, had me in tears.

I spent most of the flight reading Vanity Fair and drinking vodka/cranberry juice. I normally don't drink before noon, but the TV feed wasn't working on my seat, so they offered me a cocktail. It definitely took the edge off. Hee. It was entirely too amazing to get off the plane in L.A. and see Sue, Lara and Steph sitting there.

It was not so amazing to get stuck in rush-hour traffic on three different freeways trying to get from LAX to Burbank. I cannot even put into words my newfound appreciation for good old I-5 in Seattle. Wednesday night, we went to the Burbank Bar & Grille, and then sang karaoke (go figure) and hung out. I think there may have been drinks, but I can't remember, and that is only from fatigue, not from having been drunk (unlike Friday, and that is all I am saying).

Thursday, we went on the Warner Bros. tour, which was just awesome. I don't watch any shows currently taped there, but it was a ton of fun to see where "Friends" taped -- including the Central Perk set -- and even more so to see some of the buildings used on "Lois and Clark." It's been 11 years since the show went off the air, but seeing the streets where Teri and Dean walked, and the buildings that once housed The Daily Planet and Metropolis City Hall, and the theater where the Kerths was held, and the scandalous Chateau Roberge, totally brought out my inner pink geek.

That night, we went to a ramen place that was about 25 minutes away, and spent another 90 waiting, but seriously, it was worth it. Ramen is my ultimate bad food, and this was like a thousand times better. As in $137 worth of ramen for 11 people. (OK, there was sake and potstickers and oolong tea, too, but still, you could buy like a million 10-cent packages for that much money.) When we got back to the hotel, we read a very interesting fic out loud, and I can honestly say that when body parts start shooting off, it's no longer sexy.

Friday was entirely too awesome. We got up early and headed to The Grove in Beverly Hills. Steph, Anna, Sue and Lara went off to see "The Dark Knight," and I went shopping with Lauren, Kate and Laurie, who was kind enough to come meet us. I bought shoes at Nordstrom, and had lunch at an awesome organic restaurant, and also shopped at Victoria's Secret and Sur La Table.

And then we went to Rodeo Drive. I finally rewarded myself for my 51 hours of hell in Editorial with a gorgeous silver necklace from Tiffany & Co. We also went to Sprinkles for cupcakes that, as I described, would be like "baking an orgasm and selling it for $3.25." It was very celeb-ish, considering everyone from the Desperate Housewives to the Girls Next Door go there.

We finished off the evening with a trip to The Cheesecake Factory, where we ate pasta and laughed ourselves sick before traveling back to Burbank via a little, uh, detour through Studio City that took us past Chez Hatcher and Chez Clooney (and Chez Trebek, but who cares about him? The answer: No one, for $100).

Saturday, we went to Hollywood, where we saw famous handprints and built bears. Yeah, bet y'all didn't think I'd be the Build-a-Bear type, eh? I was going to do a Hawaiian bear, but I, uh, kind of made a Clark bear instead. He's in a suit, just like a fancy reporter (and totally unlike the reporters at my paper). We also took a tour of the famous Grauman’s Theater, which was really interesting. I didn't know that some celebs, including Julia Roberts, have turned down the chance to put their handprints in cement (in her case, three times). It kind of has me thinking there should be a Walk of Fame for journalists. ;-)

I was dead tired by the time I dragged myself onto the plane to come home -- after three hours of sleep, which was well worth it to stay up and talk with my friends -- and while I am glad to be home, I had so much fun with my friends that I am already counting down the days until next fall when we go to Vegas. Like I tearily told them early Sunday morning, this vacation was exactly what I needed.

For four days, I didn't have to think about fertility, or cyber stalkers, or headline contests and Newsline, or any other stresses. For four days, I just had an awesome time. I feel refreshed and ready to write -- both L&C and G&L -- and I realized that having some "me time" was, for lack of a better word, absolutely brilliant.

Exactly what I (didn't) need ...

I would like to personally thank the person who broke into my car at Costco this afternoon. As if I didn't have enough to do in the next three days, I now have a shattered passenger-side window, a stolen work bag, no headlines for the June contest, no digital camera or Zune cord, and miscellaneous other belongings, including three forks, a chapstick, a birthday card for one of my friends and all of the cardstock for the CD inserts I am making, are gone, too. And, to add insult to injury, the bag was my bridesmaid present from Brooke, and I loved it.

I hope they enjoy their new belongings, and I also hope they rot in hell.

On a positive note, I got some stuff done last night and earlier today -- this is a huge setback, though. And I have to cancel the June headline contest, and I am really, really upset about that. I take every single element of my job seriously, and I HATE having something get in the way.

If only it would work, I'd be up on the paper's roof right now, screaming: HELP, Superman, help!

It's a skill to be zen ... or bitchy ...

Zen. Must find zen. I have been ordered to be zen.

In between doing my job and changing my blog url for the third and what I hope is the final time (thanks to all of those who still bother to read this!) I have managed to cross a few more things off my to-do list, thanks largely to Lara, the best beta, bat and Canadian ever -- and yes, even more so than Celine Dion -- and Trin, my little sis and Pink Mafia henchman. And I have to give props to Mel, whose real name should be SuperSlot, because she knows stuff about India and can calm me down, and to my fabulous husband, who has tolerated my lack of time/inclination to cook dinner, listened to my rants, and even dropped off my dry cleaning.

So I'm trying to think of someone zen I can look to for inspiration -- and I'm thinking Mad Dog Lane isn't the best choice in this case. And ... I couldn't think of anyone. So I'm going to post a few of my favorite quotes instead, some of which I have loved for more than a decade, and others, more recently. Some of them are from celebs, some are from my friends, and several are from TV shows.

They all mean something to me, and honestly, even writing an entry right now is helping to restore my sense of zen. And I think, without a doubt, the first quote is going to have to be how I govern myself for the next five days ... and uh, maybe not the third quote on the list. I do have some common sense, after all.

"I'm trying to be my powerful me. It’s in there, but I have to find the strong part underneath the layers of ‘I'm shit. I'm never going to go anywhere!' "
-- Teri Hatcher, in a 2005 interview

"Please don’t mistake my anal retentiveness for actual affection."
-- Bree Van De Kamp, "Desperate Housewives"

"I am feeling the need to do some drinking. Actually, I’m feeling the need to do some crying, but my tear ducts seem to be too proud, so I am going to do some drinking instead."
-- Addison Montgomery, "Grey's Anatomy"

"If you don’t practice what you preach, I’d say you shouldn’t be preaching."
-- Lois Lane, "Inside Out" (my debut fic)

"We don’t even schedule evil. It just happens."
-- My hilarious friend Lisa, in IRC last fall

"I don’t believe in regrets because every moment in our lives we make choices about everything. Once you pick a road, you’re down it, and you can’t go back, so there’s no sense in regretting."
-- Teri Hatcher, in a 1999 interview

"It’s a skill to be bitchy. It’s a weapon you can use."
-- From a story on office politics we published in 2006.

"You gotta wonder why we cling to our expectations. Because the expected is just what keeps us steady, standing, still. The expected is just the beginning. The unexpected is what changes our lives."
-- Meredith Grey, "Grey's Anatomy"

"If that was the end of it, we wouldn't have jobs."
-- Clark Kent, "Lois & Clark"

"I think we can only justify our actions for so long before we crack and either go back to our 'normal' self or become someone else entirely. Either way, we have to deal with the aftermath of our actions."
-- My big sis Sue, on the plot to "Faustian Bargain"

"There is a land called Passive Aggressiva, and I am their queen."
-- Addison Montgomery, "Grey's Anatomy"

"People are just starting to scratch the surface on who I really am and what I can do. So I’m out to tell it like it is."
-- Teri Hatcher, in a 1995 interview, and my very favorite quote

Z is for ... oh, who am I kidding?

Z is supposed to be for zen.

And Z is also supposed to be for zzzzs, as in sleep.

So why is the letter Z gone from my vocabulary?

Maybe because of the comment left on my blog earlier today by my friendly neighborhood cyberstalker: "The 'game' stops when we say," which is clearly in reference to my post on here about the hacking of my blog, as well as the posts I made on the L&C and ficboards. Needless to say, it creeped me out. Someone e-mailed her the link to my blog, and she is now spamming this address all over the Internet in Teri and Dean posts.

I set up a Google alert with their names so I could check for posts, and one came over about 2 a.m. Wednesday, a blog posting with an array of photos of Teri, discussing how gorgeous she is. I figured I'd beat this bitch at her own game, so I posted as "The Real EditorJax" and complimented Teri, talked about which pics I liked, etc. I checked the blog again about 1 p.m. before I left for work, and my comment was the only one there. Well, imagine my surprise when I found a nasty comment by "Editor Jax" about 4 p.m.

So, this blog is now friends-only. I decided not to change the URL because I know exactly who has access, and no one can get to it, anyway, other than those who are invited. I won't lie and say that I don't wonder what she'll do next. And I am very sorry to have dragged my friends into this. I am eternally grateful they are so logical and calm, and, in one case, a law student. It's like having a human Westlaw database right at my fingertips. I love you guys.

And I am trying very hard to restore some semblance of zen. I will be in L.A. this time next week, having a Drunken Superman (yes, it really is a drink, thank you Lara!) or a Pinktini with my friends, and man, does that sound good.

I just need to get through the rest of this week. Among the things I have left to do (in addition to eat, sleep, breathe and edit): Return pants to Ann Taylor, go to Borders, drop clothes at the dry cleaner, finish G&L16 and RD3, buy sunblock, etc., go grocery shopping so Chris doesn't starve to death while I'm gone, and, oh yeah, bake four dozen truffles for work and to take to L.A.

So, where exactly does the zen come in?

Assuming there are no disasters on my watch as Late News Editor, I can probably be somewhat zen at work -- until Saturday, when I slot again, and turn into a pink pile of panic. I look at the veteran slots and wonder how they're so calm, and I seriously envy that. Maybe I'll get there someday. I also could be zen if I could get some writing done -- blame my stalker for why the finale to "Reality Destroyed" is never going to get done at the rate I am going -- and I also could be zen by lying here on the couch, at 3:30 a.m., watching "Jon & Kate Plus 8." Seriously, as much as I want kids, nothing makes me appreciate my generally-quiet life more than watching six 4-year-olds and two 7-year-olds all screaming at the same time.

I can find some zen. I have to.

Bottom line: There is no Z in stalker.

This lunatic is NOT going to win.