Am I the last Chinese on earth to learn how to play mahjong?
I’ll answer that.
Why, yes, yes I am.
So it fell upon some very patient Singaporeans here in Seattle to spend an hour breaking it down for clueless Dot.
As far as I can remember, here are the rules, in no particular order: They are called tiles, not pieces. The wind direction changes every time. Animals are good. Flowers are good too. Match three of the same, or consecutive numbers. You have to say aloud what tile you’re throwing down.
As far as I can remember, here is what I remember, in no particular order: My butt fell asleep. I kept forgetting what the Chinese character for my direction looked like. “Pong!” is very fun to shout. I didn’t know the Chinese names of the different tiles, so I’d say, “Three Bamboo down”. Everyone kindly played at the slowest speed imaginable because I took forever to count the number of circles and bamboos on my tiles. I won, once.
It was a complete and utter accident.
It’s 10 pm on a Tuesday night.
Do you know what your bump is doing?
I do.
Mine is listening to and watching a youtube of someone reading a story called Goodnight Moon.
As a Bump Carrier, everyone (and their mothers) felt compelled to tell me to start reading stories to the Bump.
Jay and I own a total of 0 children’s books. I briefly considered reading Bump the news, but was told (by the aforementioned everyone and their mothers) that the Bump liked stories with rhythm and cadence like Goodnight Moon.
I scoured the Internet for the text to read aloud to Bump, but BELIEVE IT OR NOT, you can find your father’s cousin’s long-lost childhood friend on Facebook, but you cannot find the words to Goodnight Moon.
Defeated, I finally found a video of the story for Bump.
Who knows if Bump heard or saw anything under all that fat (and a T-shirt)?
So tomorrow, I’m reading the Times.
Aloud. With rhythm. And cadence. And all. That. Jazz.
[cue jazzy hands]
At 3:17 pm this afternoon, I had the inexplicable urge to listen to Christmas songs.
To willingly, completely, and selflessly throw myself into a cereal bowl filled with sweet Christmas lyrics.
Google to the rescue and I quickly found a Seattle station that played Christmas tunes 24/7.
Oh. Jingle. My. Bells.
Unfortunately, the site required Mac users to download something, install something else, and generally became a pain in the ass once I clicked on the “Listen Here” tab.
BUT I WANTED TO LISTEN TO CHRISTMAS SONGS.
After 45 minutes of complete computer idiocy, I finally got it to work.
After 7 minutes and 35 seconds of seasonal joy, including a jazzed up instrumental version of Amazing Grace, I forgot why the f*** I wanted to listen to anything in the first place.
I realize this may be the spookiest thing you’ve seen since Halloweenâ€â€don’t mean to make you spit out that coffee you’re drinkingâ€â€but this stack ‘o fakebies is just another day at your friendly neighborhood hospital.
So here we are in baby class, with our pretend baby.
“You are only allowed to hit the baby’s head on the table once today,” deadpans the woman at the front of the class, as all the parents-to-be collectively fumble the first “baby lift”.
We learn about baby moods, baby poop, baby pee, baby diapers (100 a weekâ€â€read ‘em and weep), baby swaddling (see our incorrectly swaddled baby above), and breast feeding.
Boob talk. Lots of it. Including a handout with the title Breast Engorgement.
There is only one chance in my life I’ll ever get to end a post with Breast Engorgement, so I’m taking it.
Breast Engorgement.
This is us hiding our post-Turkey double chins at Louise’s Thanksgiving dinner.
Turkeyholics Anonymous 12-Step Program
with apologies to the AA 12-Step Program
1. We woke up admitting that we were powerless to resist the upcoming Turkeylicious Fest.
2. Believed in our Tummy’s Greater Power to digest the overwhelming portions.
3. Made a decision to give up all meals before approaching the Turkey.
4. Made brutally honest measurements of our body pre-Turkey.
5. Admitted to ourselves and any other non-vegetarian the exact nature of our carnivoric cravings.
6. Be ready to receive the Turkey.
7. Humbly drenched the Turkey in cranberries (and gravy).
8. Made a list of all the animals we had harmed in the making of the Turkeylicious Thanksgiving, and became willing to make them taste the best they had ever tasted.
9. Made direct and copious consumption of such animals wherever possible in the meal, except when to do so would interfere with the consumption of dessert.
10. Continued to measure our bodies post-Turkey and when we were fat, promptly admitted it.
11. Sought through Tums and Antacid to improve our digestion of Turkey.
12. Having had a massive bowel movement as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to Turkeyholics, and to practise these principles in all our affairs.
Remember this?
Jay’s carefully crafted mid-century modern gingerbread house made during last year’s Thanksgiving Gingerbread Smackdown at the Dokkens?
The one complete with garden and swimming pool?
Last week, Jay emailed me this photo below with one lineâ€â€Someone Stole My Idea.
Red Envelope, you have some ‘splaining to do. And you owe Jay royalties on this $88 “modern gingerbread house, with a mid-century makeover, complete with garage and rock garden.”
P/S I would like to point out that it is not the Spencer’s (unless only one lives there), but the Spencers. Get it right, people. I am tired of the Apostrophe War.
I believe there is a right time to write a check, and a not-so-right time to write a check.
The right time: At home, in front of your credit card bill.
The wrong time: At QFC, in the express cashier’s lane, in front of Dot, who is merely in line to buy toilet paper, because in her zeal to pee like a madwoman, she has run out (of said paper), and needs to run out in the middle of the day to get more (of said paper).
Back to my point.
To the lady in front of Dot who wrote a check for the grand sum of $9.56 at the lightning speed of drying paintâ€â€please don’t.
Please. Don’t.
Ever.
I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why it is.
But I do know I can blame it on the baby.
I’m talking cravings, baby, cravings.
People just love to ask you about your cravings. It’s like the weirder they are, the more pregnancy cred you have.
Pickles and icecream? You go, girl.
Kit Kat and noodles? Bring it on.
So I must seem like a total square when I say that the worst I’ve done is two weeks spent eating nothing but Mac ‘n Cheese (when I don’t like cheese); a very specific dinner of banana, berries (it had to be berries) and chocolate cake; and a whopper of a meal I inhaled in 20 minutes of two Micky D’s cheeseburgers, large fries, and iced coffee.
I wish I were a lot cooler and craved bizarre shit that would make me turn to Jay at 3 am and proclaim, “Jay, go get me some chocolate-covered sour Skittles. NOW.”
Come to think of it, I have some mighty cravings, but I know Jay can’t help me there.
Fulfilling them involves getting on a plane, flying 20 hours to the Equator, and returning with some freeze-dried carrot cake and yong tau foo.
Problem isâ€â€in 20 hoursâ€â€the baby wants pickles and icecream.
The number of times I have wanted to go up to people’s (correct usage) signs and paint over those gawddamn apostrophe’s (incorrect usage) is approximately equal to the number of times I have silently screamed, and walked away.
Optimism is squeezing into your sweater as though you were Before Chunk.
Optimism is ordering that dessert because you thought you had room.
Optimism is thinking you can’t get any bigger.
My tummy isn’t half empty, it’s twice full.
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