This One Is About Barney

The only people who take transitions worse than women who are seven and a half months pregnant and filled with impossible nesting hormones, are dogs.

Every day B and I put on our shopping shoes and trod off to the next furniture store to see if they sell chairs that are small enough, or dressers that are small enough, or shelves that are small enough, so that maybe they can come and live in our Green Bathroom Central Park Palace of Tiny Wonders.  It is quite the effort, involving multiple bottles of water, miniature measuring tapes, in-depth subway route strategy meetings, and lots snacks for the suddenly ravenous pregnant girl.

Some days I have three lunches. I am so tired of eating!

And then at the end of all this we run home to walk the dogs.

My favorite part of this is when we come home, and we click the lock open, and then there are our two furball butt heads greeting us at the door wearing their best WUH-OH! faces.

And then, the carnage.

Mostly it is not terrible. Mostly it is just Message Destruction, which, as opposed to Boredom Destruction, is not so very awful.

Message Destruction is when you pull it all out of the garbage can and strew it about just-so, in order to convey to the humans the power for evil you could possess should things continue on in such an undesirable canine manner.

Boredom Destruction on the other hand . . . total annihilation.

And it is never terribly clear-cut who did what in these escapades. Sometimes the garbage has been procured from tall structures (only Barney would dare to leap to), and sometimes the garbage has been recovered from deep caverns (only a Peter-length face could reach). The nature of the artistry usually leans toward The Pan, who never commits to anything less than the ultimate of high expression, but then the guilt in the room upon our return is heavily Scottie in nature, and so I am never sure who to blame.

Except, as the higher-intelligent being, it really does fall to Peter Pan to be a better example. That sounds stupid even as I type it.

But today was the best. Today, after a marathon day in Brooklyn, we returned home to a pristine apartment, with our two butt head dogs wearing their best angel faces. We thought, Hallelujah! Praise Mayor Bloomberg! The dogs are all right!

But actually there were nefarious plots afoot, and not ten minutes after I arrived home, the king of our apartment, Sir Barnabus MacDuff, waltzed into the bedroom where I was napping, planted a fragrant load right in the corner, and then casually strutted out.

The minute his furry behind had crossed the threshold to the living room his guilt set in, and I could hear him scurrying about in a delighted panic.

As I lay there overcome with the aroma of death, I imagined I could hear his thoughts translated through the tapping of his toenails on the hardwoods, like morse code.

"I poo-ed! I poo-ed! She's going to catch me! Weeeee!"

I got up and made all my angry noises and shook all my fingers at Barney, while he wiggled in half-brained guilty excitement and launched himself into the green bathtub for cover, his ears tucked back against his head and his eyes darting about nervously. I was headed to the bathroom myself for supplies, and when Barney realized I was coming he shot out of the tub with glee and barreled directly toward his crate, his back half twisting so forcefully he looked like a rocketing corkscrew.

All of our Target purchases were piled in the doorway to his crate and when he realized he couldn't get in he started scrambling in the opposite direction. Redirect! Redirect! He chose to make for higher ground and made a last-second crooked leap toward a tall cardboard box. One minute he was landing on top of the box in triumphant splendor, and the next minute the box was swallowing him whole. I watched his shocked little face disappear and heard a yelp of surprise, followed by a great scramble of dog against cardboard as he ran about in chaotic circles, not sure if he was safe inside or if he was stuck forever, and obviously loving every second of it.

Peter Pan, meanwhile, had this certain expression on his face, like possibly he had put Barney up to all of it and felt marginally guilty for how it had turned out, but still relieved that, for the moment, the dumb black one seemed to be gone for good.

I opened the flap to the cardboard box and took a good look at my little prisoner, who by now had gotten the pleasure of pooping indoors and going on a wild adventure, and then I looked at Peter Pan, who had by now composed himself and was now staring at the wall with a bored expression, and I said to myself,

"Shoot! We forgot to look at lamps while we were out!"


True Story

Fact: To get from my apartment to my doctor's office it takes three trains, six flights of stairs, eight blocks, and 45 minutes.

That is all.



This is my father-in-law. His name is Joe. He is growing this beard so he can compete in the upcoming "Ernest Hemingway Look-Alike Contest" in Sun Valley, Idaho.

Joe likes to collect falcons. NOT eagles.

(I like to collect antlers. One of which I unpacked just today, and I was all, "Surprise! I packed this!")

This is my Holbsfarmerhusband, on a tractor, in Chesterfield Idaho, where my father-in-law Joe was born.

And now this has come full circle.

The Holbs has requested that I write a haiku regarding the above panoramic photograph of wonder.

my husband likes to
sleep with one arm draped over
his eyes. dramatic.

There it is! (Are you supposed to capitalize things in haikus? The spirit told me not to, so, I didn't.)

This informative post has been brought to you by the fact that all I did today was nap and buy milk at the Food Emporium.


The Sad Fact Is . . .

I stole this photo from my sister. Hi sister!

I haven't unpacked my blogging fingers yet. Are they in this box?

And these nesting hormones are no good unto me. They are demanding that I be unpacked yesterday. With everything spotless. And while I am at it they would much prefer if we had some air conditioning.

If there is one thing I had forgotten about New York City (aside from how terribly disappointing street pretzels are, every time), it is that in New York City you do a lot of waiting. For a city that never sleeps, everything seems to take a million years around here. I am constantly impressed at how long it takes to get anywhere when your main mode of transportation are two (very pregnant) legs.

Also astounding is how incredibly handsome Ben Affleck is in person.

New York over and out.


what it looks like

this is what it looks like when you are in business mode, on the phone with your husband, and the window of the apartment you are looking at has garbage bags for window coverings.

this is what it looks like when you have looked at crazy small apartments that cost stupidly crazy amounts of money all day long, just before you sit on a dusty floor with your mom and have a real good cry.

this is what it looks like when you are in a kitchen in the village that happens to have a shower in it. 

this is what it looks like when you are traversing down many escalators to the A train.

this is what it looks like when your potential apartment has the view of what appears to be Azkaban.

this is what it looks like when you are a perfectly green bathroom, in an impossibly cute (and impossibly tiny) uws apartment, right smack on the entrance to Central Park, and you think, hallelujah!


Eighteen Hours

In 18 hours, I'll be riiiiight there.

I am going to miss my boys terribly while I'm without them this week.

This weekend is possibly going to kick my trash.

See you tomorrow, New York!



 don't even ask how many mini kit kats I ate today.


How You Know You're Seven Months Pregnant

All I can think about is what it must have felt like to look like this.

(It felt terribly lonely in my uterus parts, actually.)

(I wouldn't trade it for the world.)


Little Love Letters

We are staying at my in-laws house in Utah for a few weeks.

The other night I was eating a string cheese in the kitchen when B came in from the bedroom with a stack of papers in his fist. Six little love letters, addressed to The Holbsboyfriend, written by me.

They're really bad.

Letter #1
(Written the day after my poor Holbsvirgo suffered a bout of salmonella poisoning - not pretty.)
(Also, it should be noted that my mother was onto something. My husband is a total puker.)

I thought I had your sunglasses, but I was wrong.
We haven't left yet, surprise surprise. My mom has to clean the whole house top to bottom before going on a road trip, even if it's not her own house. We had a sheet fiasco. Mom had Alex strip the sheets and Alex took all the comforters off and tried to stuff them in the washer. It was quite the ordeal. Needless to say, we all now know the proper way to strip a bed.
My mom asked me a whole ton of questions about you and why you got sick last night, and then she said, "You don't want someone who's sick all the time, that's just weird." My mom is funny. I had to explain that you aren't sick all the time, and that it's a Virgo trait to have a picky stomach. After that she was fine.
Did you know I love you?
Love, Natalie
Terribly unromantic. "I thought I had your sunglasses?" Nice opener!

Letter #2
Dear Holbsy,
I love you very much. I'm sorry I'm not so mushy and lovey dovey all the time, but that doesn't mean I don't love you - I just love you in a different way is all! 
I'm excited to be engaged to you. I know you'll pick me a ring that is more beautiful than anything I could ever imagine. What matters most is that it's from you, and that it's a symbol of some kind of commitment crap.
I'm going to be wonderful to you. You support me in my crazy dreams, and I'll support you in yours, too.
Love, Nat
(This one takes the cake.)

So, maybe I could work on my little love letter skills.