American Chinese food is vaguely satisfying, oddly perplexing (Moo Shu Pork, anyone?), and just a tad irritating (I wanted so badly to jump up and scream, “People, this isn’t Chinese food! Not even close!”).
But still, I go. I accept it as the separate and necessary cuisine that it is and order things like Lemongrass Shrimp with Noodles (above left) and Spinach with Garlic (above right).
Often, it’s rather tasty.
Not today.
At some point, I think the chefs at P. F. Chang’s decided, “Fuck it, we don’t even need to pretend to be an Asian restaurant anymore.”
The noodles turned out to be pasta type noodles, not Asian noodles. Strike one.
The “spinach” turned out to be spinach salad leaves stir fried in garlic, NOT the Chinese spinach I assumed I was ordering. Strike two.
It all would have tasted semi-decent if at the very least, I ate the meal while it was hot.
But Ruby decided to wake up with a yell that said, “This is the end of my world as I know it. Feed me, change me, hold me. Now.”
I did all three, and when I returned to the meal, it was stone cold.
Strike three.
I know I don’t make any money, but do you really have to rub it in?
Plus I didn’t know Roberto Cavalli designed clothes for babies.
Yes, BABIES.
This pink silk blouse the size of my head costs $258.
I’m guessing the baby who wears this also carries a Louis Vuitton diaper bag, eats caviar for breakfast, and parties in the south of France.
Poor Ruby. The best she’s going to get is a Baby Gap tracksuit and a Hello Kitty-themed birthday party.
A car seat is to Ruby what a strait jacket is to Dot.
(More so if Krispy Kremes are involved.)
Because of that, I have come to accept I can never “dash out to grab lunch” anymore. Getting Ruby in her car seat adds hours to any errand, which puts a crimp in the “dashing” part.
Today, after much grief and yelling  on Ruby’s part  we finally left the house. I was tired and hungry and felt a little like yelling myself.
I wandered absent-mindedly into a new cafe.
Nothing looked good, but after all the trouble and attention (two women opened the doors for me, customers gave me their place in the queue, the owner of the cafe yelled, “Yes, what does the woman with the baby want?”), I felt compelled to order something. Anything.
So I bought me a $4 egg salad half-sandwich.
It tasted…expensive.
This is a post in two parts.
Part One: Ruby turned one month and we had a little to-do this weekend.
Part Two: Ruby chose to declare her maturity by peeing on Jay, me, AND the backseat of a 2000 Volkswagen Beetle in the parking lot of a QFC that same weekend.
But let’s get to the fun bits first.
Ruby did not like her birthday outfit picked out by mom.
But she managed to keep all the drama inside while there were guests in the house. She was surprisingly on her Best Behavior.
Here she’s showing what a big girl she is by slightly beating out the cake in a “Look Who’s Bigger” contest.
Everyone (and by “everyone” I mean Jay and I) proclaimed Ruby the CUTEST thing on earth. Here’s more evidence and party shots.
Cute’s the general rule, except when she decided to pee on us.
That was not so cute.
Here, in the second installation of this post, she is all innocent and demure  but with a hint of knowing in her eye  just before she launched a stream of pee on us as we BOTH attempted to change her poo-ful diaper in the backseat of my car.
I can just hear the “How many adults does it take to change a newborn in the backseat of a VW Beetle?” jokes right now.
But seriously, I think the question should be “How do a baby carseat, a baby (not in carseat), a man, and a woman fit in the backseat of a Beetle?”
Gingerly.
Because life’s too short to be grouchy.
Even if one-month-olds keep you up at night and emit distressing cries that break your heart, they go ahead and do something ridiculously cute like this.
And you really can’t be grouchy anymore.
OH RUBY.
For more Rubyliciousness, go here.
Mwahahahahahahahahahah (choke) hahahahahahah (cough cough) hahahahahaha (doubled over spitting)!
Look what the old camera dragged in.
This is a tree.
I like this tree.
We found it in the Arboretum during a walk with an unnamed minor this past weekend.
Dear Readers of This Fine Blog,
I know what you are thinking.
More precisely, I know what you are asking.
When, oh when, will Dot take a break from writing about babies, especially the one named Ruby?
Answer: Not today.
But tomorrow, definitely. There will be a Ruby-less post tomorrow. I guarantee it.
But today  TODAY  I’d like to show you what equal opportunity parents we are in giving Ruby the chance to carry (or be crushed by) a week’s worth of her own diapers at Babies R Us.
She doesn’t know it yet, but we fully expect her to load that into Jay’s truck.
The world’s scariest assignment? Taking home a 7-pound human and caring for it with NO instruction manuals.
Just, er, use your wits, Google everything, and offer a nipple or two when things get hairy.
Tending to every sound, look, gurgle, cry, grunt, fart, and/or perceived expression of bodily or emotional distress is exhausting. Not to mention stressful.
Did I do that right?
Is she comfortable?
Why is she still fussing?
Two highly distressing events  for me at least  are the hiccups and the baby acne (That happens! Google it!).
Both break my heart although conventional wisdom says they affect parents way more than the baby, and yes, eventually go away.
Meanwhile, I am into Week 3 of sleep deprivation and parental self-doubt.
So mom and dad, if you’re reading this: Apologies for being a newborn and thank you very much for not throwing me out with the trash.
How many pictures can you take of a sleeping baby?
Not enough.
Over-Photography is a common disease that ails all first-time parents. You shoot way too many pictures of your first kid. The second, third, or more? Meh.
Here’s pretty much Dot’s reaction to every Ruby move.
“Oh look, she’s gurgling! Let me grab my camera!”
“Oh boy! She’s so cute in that outfit! Let me grab my camera!”
“Good gawd! First explosive poop! Let me grab my camera!
Alas, (un)fortunate readers, you will be spared the poop shots in my Flickr stream.
Ruby is really sick of her mammarazzo. (Mama + Paparazzo = Mammarazzo)
Can you tell she’s giving me the finger here?
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