The sugar and the damage done

It must have been something I ate.

When I failed the first glucose tolerance test last week, I went straight to denial. Maybe I went too late in the day. Maybe it was that cookie I had with lunch. Maybe I hadn't been drinking enough water.

I wasn't ready to be diabetic.

My doctor also extended the benefit of the doubt. She told me not to worry until we had seen the results from the follow up test.

So I woke up Monday, well before the crack of dawn, and dragged my hungry self to Labcorp. In exchange for a sugary beverage claiming some relationship to tropical fruits and access to the world's most disappointing magazine library, I gave up four hours of my morning and as many blood samples.

You could call it "One enchanted evening," but that was last year's theme

Last night was my employer's holiday party.

Every year, the company rents the ballroom of a local casino/hotel so that employees and their guests may enjoy an evening of dinner, dancing, and awkwardly introducing bored spouses to one another.

In many ways, the holiday party is like prom.

There's always a theme which could have been pulled straight out of a high school yearbook. This year, it was "An Affair to Remember." Past themes have included "Moonlight and Roses" (which I only remember because it was also the theme of my senior prom, and seemed equally banal at the time) and similar cliches with PG-rated romantic overtones. Of course, most people don't even notice the theme, since they flip straight past the invitation to the free drink coupons and raffle ticket.

Confessions of a kitchen fascist

Yesterday, I bought a turkey.

Today, I bought a new roasting pan and pie plates.

Tomorrow, the cooking begins.

I love Thanksgiving. It's a holiday about being thankful. It's a holiday about food. I love gratitude, and I love food.

But there's another reason I am excited.

The cooking.

I've got a small crowd to feed - just Sam, my sister-in-law Kirsten, and myself. I'll probably sneak a nibble of turkey to Oedipa, but she has notoriously low poultry standards, since she subsists mostly off of Purina One.

Knock knock

The last two weeks have been rife with milestones.

I crossed the halfway point of pregnancy. I bid farewell to pants with zippers, sleeping through the night, and lying on my back. I ventured into the baby megastore and settled on a color scheme for the nursery.

But the biggest milestone was also the tiniest.

Somehow, I imagined that when I felt the baby move, it would be a cinematic moment. She would reach out with her tiny hand, give me a nudge, and I would jump up in amazement. Sam would rush over and feel her movements, tears in his eyes. We would stand in a long, lovely embrace, dramatic music swelling in the background.

Exciting news from the world of Rasbaby!

I'm too tired to write much, but I just couldn't go to bed without telling you guys.

The doctor confirmed that Rasbaby is made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
That's right, she's a girl.

Everything looks healthy and right so far.

We're still working on names, though we're trying to keep that last detail a surprise.
Here are some Ras-photos for your enjoyment:

If you're not a pro at reading ultrasounds, the baby is in profile, with her head toward the right side of the frame, facing up. Just above her head, there is one little hand waving at us.

Schadenfreude or bad manners?

"Enjoy ____ while you can, because soon, you won't be able to anymore!"

There are a number of phrases that could fit in that blank. Sleeping. Eating in restaurants. Going on vacation. Privacy. Sex. My marriage. A social life. My cute little purse. Disposable income.

I'm not even halfway through my pregnancy, and I've heard them all.

Coworkers, casual acquaintances, and even strangers say this to me on a regular basis. They always follow their statement with a self-satisfied laugh, as if they have stumbled upon the most brilliant and perfect thing to say to a hormonal woman going through one of the biggest changes of her life.

A Tale of Five Kidnappings

This past weekend, I kidnapped my husband, Sam.

Kidnapping is one of my favorite traditions.

I'm proud to say that I came up with the idea, and I initiated the first kidnapping just over 5 years ago.

Sam and I were young, poor, and living in an apartment that had all the worst aspects of dorm life (loud neighbors, faraway laundry rooms) minus the meal plan.

Student loan payments had a way of sneaking up on us. One night we had to gather up all of our pocket change and rush to the casino, desperate to cash it in for some real money to cover our bills.

Requiem for a piercing

"How long have you had it?" The heavily tattooed man had the stature of a Lord of the Rings extra. He was small, his posture awkward. He was Queequeg of the Shire.

I performed some quick calculations and reminded myself of my age. "Well, I'm 28 now, so that would make it.... Ten years."

---------

In high school, I was a good kid. Sure, I instigated some drama, but for the most part, I was a good teenaged citizen. I was a straight-A student. I belonged to the environmental club, played the piano, and volunteered at the V.A. on weekends. I said no to sex, drugs, and alcohol. My non-controversial appearance was warmly sanctioned by my mother: Long blond hair, carefully applied makeup in neutral shades, perfectly average body weight, wardrobe by The Gap. There wasn't a crowd in Fargo that I couldn't blend right into.

Then I started college.

Marketing & The Pregnant Girl

Pregnancy is not just a transition into motherhood. It's not just a physical, emotional, and spiritual upheaval of your body and mind.

It's also a transition into an entirely different marketing demographic.

Recently, I've become addicted to baby propaganda (this, along with my physical exhaustion and dehabilitating work schedule, help explain why I haven't blogged in a couple of weeks). Babies don't come with instruction manuals, and there are a wealth of publishers who are trying desperately to fill that void.

Right beside those publishers are the advertisers, gleefully waiting to pounce on eager young mothers-to-be like myself.

10 Things a Pregnant Woman Never Wants to Hear

As part of my quest to learn every minute detail about my pregnancy, I signed up for a personalized online pregnancy calendar. I just had to type in my due date, and each day I am greeted with a timely factoid about my baby's development.

Sometimes, they are fascinating. "Your baby can now suck her thumb."

Sometimes, they are a little creepy. "Your baby's eyes have formed, but they are on opposite sides of his head."

Most of the time, they're banal little health tips. "Veal liver is an excellent source of iron." (Since everything besides saltine crackers and ginger ale nauseates me on some level, adding veal liver to my diet might qualify as the worst idea I have ever heard)

For some reason, today's tip weirded me out:

Tuesday, September 5. Gestational age: 11 weeks and 4 days. "Your baby has started producing urine."

I'm not sure why I found this slightly disturbing. It seems reasonable enough. What goes in must come out. Also, I couldn't help but wonder what Rasbaby was doing before acquiring this skill - say, yesterday.

I mentioned it to Sam. He didn't flinch.

"So you're peeing for two," he offered constructively.

"Sounds about right," I agreed.

In the grand scheme of things, today's factoid scores a fairly low priority on the list of "Things a pregnant woman doesn't want to hear."

Unfortunately, it's a long list. From the pregnancy books that conclude every chapter with a section about miscarriage, to the alarmist articles touting statistically insignificant links between diet soda and birth defects, to the well-meaning stranger who just wants to tell me what I'm doing wrong, I've heard lots of things that I wish I could have avoided.

By the time Rasbaby is born, I'm sure I'll have 1,000, but I'm still in my first trimester, so here is a top 10 list:

Top 10 things a pregnant woman never wants to hear

10. "Isn't it a little early for you to be showing?"

9. "Restroom not available for public use."

8. "I'm sorry, we're out of cranberry scones. Would you like a cherry filled donut instead?"

7. "My morning sickness never went away. I was throwing up until the day my water broke."

6. "You don't even know the meaning of the word 'exhaustion.' Just wait until you have a newborn to take care of. Then you'll realize how easy you have it now."

5. "By this point, you should have gained 1-3 pounds."

4. "Enjoy them now, because next year at this time, they'll look like deflated footballs."

3. "You can use the microwave as soon as I'm done reheating my leftover Tuna Helper."

2. "My sister's friend was in labor for 52 hours, and then it got even worse..."

1. "Don't you think you might be overreacting?"

The addictive properties of ultrasound, and other dangers

I have a confession to make.

I'm a peeker.

I always have been.

When I was growing up, I knew exactly where my mother stashed the Christmas gifts. She kept them in the walk-in closet in her bedroom, and in her mind, the holiday shopping season began with Labor Day sales.

Throughout the glorious fall months, my brother and I would eagerly wait for our mother to leave the house, then we would sneak into the closet and examine the wares. This jigsaw puzzle is clearly for Monica... but which one of us gets the Legos?

Joyeux Anniversaire, Papa

There is one story that has echoed around me throughout my life. It starts in Communist Poland, and it ends in Fargo, North Dakota.

The version I have heard the most is a story of courage, patriotism, and a fervent pursuit of the American dream. This is the story that I retold in every grade school essay competition and scholarship application. It's the story I told in my college graduation speech. It's the story I told in his obituary.

There's another version that I prefer to tell my friends over cocktails. I didn't learn it until I was in my 20s, but it has the twists and turns of a suspense novel. The "spy mission" he accepted in order to leave the country. The secretive, hurried departure, presumably never to return. My mother's repeated breakdowns in embassies, as she struggled with the idea of leaving her homeland and family behind forever. Their constant flight from the Polish secret police, who tapped their phone lines and intercepted their mail.

Hormones and stress and dreams about fish

This has been a crazy week.

Many unwritten blogs have come and gone, fluttering into my consciousness, and then away just as quickly. Hummingbirdlike.

Some were funny. Some were poignant. There was an angry story in there, but I couldn't bring myself to write it.

What a week.

Sam gave the baby a nickname. Thanks to one of my myriad pregnancy books, I discovered that in the eighth week, the embryo is about the size of a small raspberry. Hence, Rasbaby.

Next year, I'm dressing as a Communist and hiding at home.

'Tis the weekend of Hot August Nights.

Hot August Nights is Reno's big tourist frenzy. The population of the town triples, taking us from the "Biggest Little City in the World" to "A Moderately Big City With Crappy Infrastructure."

What is it that brings so many people here?

Cars.

Not cars like this one:



Nope. People flock to Reno, so they can look at cars like this one:



If you've been reading my blogs for awhile, you probably know my opinion on the subject of cars.
In summary, big cars fail to impress me. Old cars don't do much for me either.

Occasionally, I will spot a car that makes me pause and say "Ooh, that's kind of neat."

A restored Model T, for example:



Or an Art Car driving through town on its way to Burning Man:



... But cars from the '50s, not so much.

1950s nostalgia is a huge part of Hot August Nights.

Not only do people stand and gawk at the cars, they also dress up like characters form the Archie comics. There are street dances called sock-hops. There are Elvis impersonators. There are "Grease" revivals.

I'll be honest.

I wasn't alive in the 1950s.

Neither were most people who really enjoy Hot August Nights.

But I still think it's a weird decade to glorify.

When I think of the '50s, I think of racial inequality, Communist witch-hunts, and women who "know their place."

I'm sure there were some people who truly enjoyed the '50s. They sat in diners drinking malts, listening to Elvis and Chubby Checker on the jukebox, and then went for long drives under the stars in their oversized convertibles.

However, I just don't believe that most people lived this way.

I think that glorifying a time period glosses over the very real progress that we have made since then.

The Feminist Movement. The Civil Rights Movement. Do we really think life used to be better before they happened?

Maybe I should lighten up.

It's just a car show, really.

If people want to dress their children in poodle skirts and drive their old cars under the Reno arch, why should it bother me?



And, aside from the traffic, it really doesn't bother me that much.

It's good for the local economy.

People have fun.

Still, if I ran Reno, I'd want a tourist event that celebrated a more appealing decade.

Imagine if we could bring 700,000 people to Reno for a Roaring '20s weekend, with flappers, gangsters, and bathtub moonshine for everyone. The casinos would make a fortune!

Or the 1970s. We could celebrate the good (contraception, environmentalism) while playfully satirizing the rest (Watergate, hot pants).

I would even attend the car show.





I'd head downtown to watch them drive under the arch. How about you?

No beer and no caffeine make Monica something something

Homer Simpson: All right, brain, you don't like me and I don't like you, but let's get me through this, and I can get back to slowly killing you with beer."
Homer's Brain: It's a deal!

Replace the word "brain" with "body," and that could be my internal monologue of the past 20-some years.

My passive-aggressive abuse of my body has not been limited to beer. When I think about all the suntans, late nights drinking Vodka Red Bulls, brutally long work weeks, cigarettes, fad diets, car rides without seat belts... it seems like a wonder that I've survived this long.

Homer Simpson: Shut up, brain, or I'll stab you with a Q-Tip!"

An open letter

Dear Little Thing,

I don't know who or what you are, but it's time you learned about me.

I came to live with Sam and Monica during the summer of 1999. I'm not proud to say this, but I was living in a cardboard box at a trailer park in Winnemucca, Nevada when they found me. Thankfully, they recognized me as royalty (it must have been my blue eyes), and rescued me.

I can't say the adjustment was easy. Having never been inside of a house (or, more accurately, a questionable duplex), I wasn't sure what dangers might lurk around the corner. However, I knew that Sam and Monica were on my side. I avoided the center of rooms, refused to touch my paws to linoleum, and only ate when Sam would hold me in his protective hand. Somehow, we got through this traumatic time, the three of us.

Montana Reflections

Sam's family, thanks to his great-grandfather's handiness, are the proud owners of a lake cabin in southern Montana. It's shared among a smattering of extended family, so it runs like a timeshare without the swindling or free dinner coupons.

The cabin itself is rather small and rustic. Here it is, posing with my sister-in-law Emily.

Fun with the reproductive system (PG-13)

I had a great doctor's visit today. It looks like the potpourri of drugs have been doing exactly what they're supposed to. My womb is a friendly, happy place, with one healthy little egg on its way to maturity.

What does this all mean? I won't be getting the twins I was hoping for, at least not on this round. On the other hand, I won't have to contemplate selling my octuplets to a zookeeper.

But, if all continues to go well, I just might get my coveted clump of undifferentiated Sam-and-Monica cells this weekend.

Since I have a one-track mind, here are some entertaining bits of reproduction-related trivia for you:

Preconceived Notions

Blame it on the hormones.

On Tuesday, I started taking Drug #2 in my multi-phase pharmacopia of baby-producing wonder pills.

By this time next week, I just might have a zygote in my possession.

Or maybe not.

Everything around me has taken on a new level of significance.

Friday evening, I was driving in my car between sprinklings of rain. The sunset had caught the storm clouds, turning the sky bright yellow. Every tree and blade of grass looked greener than green. I rolled down my window; the air smelled like new life. I turned up the radio and sang along. Just over the valley, I spotted the biggest, brightest rainbow I had ever seen in Nevada.

The One-Minute "Who Moved My Parachute?" - A blog about management

In one of my future hypothetical realities, I write business books. Not technical trade manuals, but books about management. Books that help people motivate their employees.

This genre is rife with wretched writing. (Has anyone actually read Who Moved My Cheese? That's 20 minutes of my life I'm never getting back!) Some are so abstract that they're impossible to follow. Others crash down the slippery slope into self-help melodrama.

When my insightful, funny, highly readable business books hit the market, the joyless middle managers won't know what hit 'em. At business conferences, I'll be more popular than PowerPoint. I'll be the toast of the BlackBerry set. Quotations from me will be thumbtacked onto cubicle walls everywhere.

Hey, it's my daydream.

The troubled teens make it look so easy.

Around this time last year, Sam and I first agreed that we might possibly be almost kind of ready (more or less) to bring a new human being into the world.

On paper, we seemed like the sort of people who could be reasonably successful at raising a child. Stable employment. A happy marriage of several years. A house large enough to share.

We ditched the birth control and decided to let nature take its course.

"We're not exactly trying," we would tell people. "We're just not not trying."

We reviewed the checklist of things we wanted to do before becoming parents. I finished my master's degree. We took an alcohol-soaked tour of Western Europe with our friends. I bought a car with four doors. I quit smoking. I practiced ordering Diet Coke at bars while my friends drank beer.

The Friendliest Blog on the Loneliest Road in America

Last week, my friends Adam and Bree got married.

Here is a picture of the newlyweds sitting on a train in Ely, Nevada.



The wedding took place the day before the train ride.

It also occurred in Ely, Nevada.

We did not travel there by train.

Home Alone: Confessions of a Phasmophobic

There was a perfectly reasonable and scientific explanation for most of what happened to me last night. I'll accept it for now.

I returned from my business trip to an empty house. Nobody was waiting anxiously for my plane to land. Most of my friends were already far from town, enjoying their Memorial Day adventures. Sam was at Lake Tahoe, shepherding a group of Episcopalian teenagers through a weekend of (hopefully) spiritually satisfying activities.

The house was both welcoming and lonely, a reminder that I had two more days as a single woman before my life returned to normal.

I know plenty of people who appreciate time apart from their significant others. I'm not one of them.

Oh me? I'm on business.

I have a confession to make. I love business trips.

Among my contemporaries, it's fashionable to complain about travel. Somehow, these complaints always strike me as overly affected.

"Oh, mercy me! If I have to eat free room service salmon one more time, I do believe I'll die of ennui!"

If I traveled every week, or I had a precocious toddler in my possession, I might feel a little resentment toward these trips. But I don't. And so I approach business trips as I approach most of life's little inevitables: with as much joy as possible.

Where Not to Stay in Vegas

A few weeks ago:

Monica: Would you be willing to sleep in McCarran Airport if it saves us $400 in air fare?

Sam: What? Why?

Monica: The flight from Fargo to Vegas gets in at 10:30 p.m.. That's too late to catch a flight to Reno, but we could fly out the next morning.

Sam: I am not sleeping in the airport. If you can find a hotel room, we'll talk.

Monica: Oooh, I can get a room at the Howard Johnson for 40 bucks. It's right next to the airport, and it has a free shuttle.

Sam: Sure.

Monica: I've never stayed at Howard Johnson, but it's a chain. How bad can it be?

Reflections on Fargo

Unless tomorrow includes disasters of TV-movie proportions, I'm ready to declare successful completion of my best visit to Fargo since I moved to Nevada seven years ago.

I'll never forget the look on my mother's face when she entered the Chinese restaurant and saw me and Sam standing there. She had no idea we were coming. Not a clue. Once the initial shock and confusion dissipated, she was happier than I imagined, even in my best daydreams.

Somewhere to the east, a storm is drenching the North Dakota prairie. It is too far away for me to hear the thunder, but the view across the flat, treeless prairie seems infinite. Spindly lightning bolts and bright washes of blue flash aganst the sky. I've been watching them like fireworks, each display more impressive than the last.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. She will be 65.

My mother has led an action-packed life. She grew up in Poland. She was a doctor. So was my dad. He posed as a spy so they could escape the Communists and build a better life for their kids.
It sounds like a cheesy movie script, but this is the story of my family.

My mother grew up in Poland.

I grew up in North Dakota.

My life has been very drama-free, compared to my parents' lives. That's exactly what they wanted.

Thoughts of the garden variety

I do not possess a green thumb.

Gardening is one of those things that I've always wanted to be good at. There is something beautiful and poetic about putting something in the earth and watching it grow.

Last summer, like every summer since I've lived in this house, went something like this:

April: Oooh, I should plant a garden this year.

May: Yay, it's nice out! I'm going to plant petunias and rose bushes and strawberries and chili peppers and string beans and basil and cilantro. I will eat fresh fruits and vegetables from my garden, I will lose weight, and I will be blissfully happy. [dig, dig, dig, plant, plant, plant, water]

The Indignity of Downsizing: Monica's Trip to the Mall

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon shopping with my friend Heather at the long-awaited and much hyped new mall in south Reno.

For years, Reno only had one mall worth speaking of. I was excited to see some competition in the market, hoping that maybe - just maybe - I could find some attractive clothing and the temporary self-esteem boost that comes from wearing something flattering and fashionable.

You'd think that, by now, I'd have learned my lesson.

The new mall has plenty of clothing stores: Abercrombie & Fitch, Guess, Gap, Hot Topic, Ann Taylor, and many more places where women of my size receive no acknowledgement.

Usually, I ignore the other stores, just like they ignore me. My trips to the mall involve a quick foray into Lane Bryant, then back out to the parking lot.

However, Heather wears a size 4, so she has many more options available to her. I joined her in perusing some of the many stores that I usually avoid.

It can be kind of disheartening to look at tank tops that resemble the "onesies" my year-old niece wears, to stand next to mannequins with torsos the size of my thigh, and to get disapproving looks from salespeople who haven't realized that I'm not being unrealistic, I'm just here with my friend.

If I didn't like Heather so much, I may have felt Schadenfreude as she found that Abercrombie only makes tank tops for a prepubescent figure, completely ignoring slender women who wear anything larger than an A-cup. But I do like her, and I empathize, so we directed our collective indignation at clothing manufacturers instead.

How dare they make us feel like there is only one acceptable shape for a woman? How dare they produce a range of sizes that only straddles the smaller half of the spectrum? Who are they to tell us that Heather shouldn't be entitled to breasts, or that I'm such a freak of nature that I might as well not even exist?

Before the afternoon was done, we ventured to Lane Bryant. It's the one store where I feel comfortable, knowing that my size lies well within their range of offerings, usually toward the smaller end.

A friendly salesman directed me to the Seven jeans, arguably the most high-end denim product available for a woman of my stature.

"I've got to warn you," he said, "They run small. You might need a size or two bigger than you usually wear."

Why do clothing designers do this? Why do they think it's a good idea?

Size is everything, and I'll take a compact

I love small cars.

I drive a Toyota Prius, and its four doors and moderately useful back seat just might qualify it as the largest car I've ever owned.

I live in the part of the country where truck and SUV names come from (Sierra, Tahoe), so it can be kind of lonely at the bottom, looking up at people in their giant pickups and contemplating the irony of naming gas guzzling vehicles after natural features.

This is not a family blog: Moral and semantic questions posed by a pizza box

"Do you want another slice of pizza?"

"Sure."

"Uh oh."

"What's wrong?"

"It says on the box... Little Caesars, a Family Company."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

Good lord, woman! What are you carrying in that thing?

The days are longer, things are growing in my yard, and I'm starting to get weird back and shoulder pains.

It's time to switch to a warm-weather purse.

I've heard that a woman's purse is a window into her identity. If that's true, I'm thickly built, overweight, and a magnet for things of little consequence. So let's see what's inside, shall we?

Inventory, April 2, 2006, or... Why Monica's Purse Weighs More than a Small Child

Prelude to a mother-in-law's visit

In a few short hours, my mother-in-law will be arriving for a weekend visit.

This will be her first time in our house since 2002. We're hardly estranged from the in-laws - we talk on the phone regularly, and Sam and I have made a handful of trips to Minnesota in the meantime. But this weekend is Sam's mother's first visit to Reno since our wedding three and a half years ago.

I'm terrified.

I've talked to a lot of people who seem puzzled by my demeanor. She's not, in her own right, scary in any way. My mother-in-law is a very nice woman, "terrific" if we're speaking Minnesotan. She's a grade school teacher, a liberal intellectual, and a fantastic cook. And I'm fairly certain that her opinion of me is pretty positive and well-formed.

The Grilled Cheese Chronicles

At 11:00 on Monday, it hit me. Hard. It was overwhelming.

I needed a grilled cheese sandwich.

I was at work, and I couldn't think of a place to procure said sandwich. I instant-messaged my husband, bemoaning the fact that even going home for lunch wouldn't fulfill my needs, since our house lacked bread of the non-doorstop variety.

Resourceful guy that he is, Sam immediately responded with an idea.

"Go across the street to Target... Buy some bread, some cheese, and a sandwich maker. Make yourself a grilled cheese at work."

It was brilliant.

For some reason I felt embarrassed about undertaking such a complex lunch mission on my own, so I turned to Heather, my coworker, friend, and partner in cheese. She didn't let me down.

Another teammate learned of our mission and asked to join. The three of us set forth in search of ingredients and equipment.

Sure enough, we found everything we needed at Target, including a handsome little $10 grilling apparatus that boldly called itself the Snackmaster. We returned to the office, set up a sandwich assembly line, and prepared a hearty, office-made lunch while intriguing passersby.

When all was said and done, it was a tasty lunch and a fun diversion from the tax research procedures I was supposed to be working on.

This morning, one of my coworkers stopped me to voice a concern.

"You left your sandwich maker in the break room," she said.

"I know," I responded. "I figured we could make sandwiches again sometime, or maybe someone else can use it."

"Are you crazy? Someone's going to steal that thing if you don't take it home."

A few others piped in, backing her up.

"It'll be gone by the end of the week," another teammate said.

"You should at least keep it at your desk."

"No, people will take it off your desk. You should put it in your desk."

Fake Plastic Coins

Like so many other work projects, it started with a bang and ended with a barely audible sputter.

Just over a year ago, I started my mission to bring behavior-based recognition to my workplace.

I feel compelled to tell the story here, because I'm trying to figure out what went right and what went wrong, and because I haven't given up yet. Someday, I hope to write a book about employee motivation, and I imagine a version of this experience will be included.

From the prisoner aisle to the snack cakes

I can't believe I'm losing weight in the season of Easter candy.

It's actually the tail end of the six month Candy Corridor, when you can't enter a grocery store without being assaulted by chocolate.

The assault begins in early fall with the fun-sized Snickers bars and marshmallow pumpkins of Halloween, which give way to the festive candies of Christmas, which subside to romantic Valentine's Day chocolates, which melt into the chocolate bunnies and pastel eggs of Easter.

Gonna have to face it, I'm addicted to snooze.

I love to sleep. I don't just appreciate it in that passive, I-prefer-to-feel-well-rested-than-tired way. It's something I actively enjoy, an indulgence of sensory delight and pleasure, an activity to be entered into with joy and enthusiasm.

Even though I got plenty of sleep last night, I would jump at the opportunity to go home right now, curl up with my down comforter, body pillow, and cat (although that's entirely on her terms), and nap into the afternoon. It would feel so good...

The only downside is, I know exactly how that scenario would end.

I would wake up in the dark, disoriented, thirsty, and possibly drooling. The cat would have ferociously staked out some improbable real estate on my back, pinning me into an awkward position and responding with an annoyed meow and some claw-digging if I tried to move her. I would reach for the alarm clock to determine what time it was, clumsily knock over a bottle of water, see that it was 5:30, and try to figure out which 5:30 it was.

The MBA Blues

I'm in kind of a bummer of a mood today. To keep this blog from being a complete and total downer, I figured I would throw in some random Internet photos to lighten things up.

Last year, at this time, I was spending most of my time here:


This glorious feat of postmodern architecture is the business building at UNR. Last spring, I was spending a minimum of four evenings a week inside its walls, studying to be a businesswoman.

There's no "i" in volunteer work, but you'd be surprised.

In high school, I was one of those overachievers who couldn't make a sandwich without thinking about how it would look on my college applications. I joined everything from chamber orchestra to environmental club in my attempt to look well-rounded, stopping just short of playing sports (even I had my limits).

Volunteer work was a big plus in the world of competitive college admissions. I wanted schools to know that I was not only smart and competitive, but had a soul as well.

Instead of just venturing out into the world looking for people who needed me, I found a club at school that would not only help me find projects, they also kept track of my hours, gave me certificates of completion, and happily vouched for my volunteerism on college and scholarship applications.

And that's when I discovered the world of community self-service.

By the time I'm a parent, they'll sell class rings at daycare.

It all started with an innocent lunchtime conversation among coworkers.

"I have to go pay for my son's cap and gown," one of my colleagues said, casually recalling her to-do list.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "Is your son even in school yet?"

"He's graduating from kindergarten this spring."

I don't have children, so it took me a minute to put all the words together and realize she was being serious. My other coworkers, all mothers with children of various ages, piped in to confirm that yes, it was perfectly common in this day and age to slap a mortar board on the head of a five-year-old, play "Pomp and Circumstance," and hand him or her a "diploma" that the "graduate" could not reasonably be expected to read.

Someday, my daughter will write blogs about me, too.

If I don't call my mom at any other point in the week, I call her on Tuesday nights. She lives in Fargo, I live in Reno, so the phone is our only method of communication. I've tried to introduce her to computers, but her friend Heinz convinced her that the Internet is a steaming cesspool of scam artists out to steal the identities and money of old people.

Anyway. Heinz is a topic all his own.

The dialogue that follows is translated from Polish, so I apologize that the wording is a little imprecise.

Send me your worst, Mother Nature!

I love a good storm.

I'm not just saying this because today, I get to procrastinate at home instead of in a cubicle across town.

I've been waiting eagerly for this storm, ever since it was spotted off the coast of California a few days ago. I felt like a child awaiting Christmas.

Storms help me relax. I am one of those lame people who hardly ever takes a vacation day and never gets sick. And even if I do, I still check my e-mail, just in case I missed something interesting. I know, I'm a dork. Even on weekends, I usually stay home, but I always feel guilty about the things I am not doing. Desperately needed shopping trips. Overdue oil changes. Christmas lights still hanging in March.

I have plenty of things I should be working on right now.

If you're a hard-working person who carefully plans and prioritizes your work, you have every reason to hate me. I would hate me too, if I didn't have to live with myself.

I am a compulsive procrastinator, and I refuse to admit that I have a problem. In fact, I kind of enjoy it.

All my life, people have been trying to convince me to stop procrastinating. Sometimes, I'll even try interventions with myself. Usually when I'm at a stressful breaking point, I will tell myself that I've had enough of this whole charade, that I need to get my act together and start doing things in order of priority... right after I finish this game of Bejeweled...

There are some definite upsides to procrastinating.

Something unexpected and moving from the archives

Monica's Tip of the Day: If, while walking on your treadmill, you spot out of the corner of your eye an unfamiliar 3.5" floppy disk with your maiden name on it (written in somebody else's handwriting, no less) check it out. You might find a gem like this one.

Background: I recognize this as an assignment I wrote for a Magazine Journalism class in college. In case you don't know, Peter Czernek was my father, and he passed away in December 2001 at the age of 59. I do believe that he's still watching over me, and that he may have had something to do with me discovering this article when I was in need of some inspiration today.

I am posting it here as a tribute to him. Perhaps his story will inspire someone else today.

Seeking fun and inspiration in the Reno bar scene

I live in Reno. If you're not familiar with Reno, you could look at a Nevada guide book or do a Google search and see a picture like this one:

Of course, there is more to Reno than this silly arch. There is also a second arch:

When you close your eyes...

Last night, I shook Sam out of a sound sleep to ask: "What are we going to do about the spiders and the sapphires?"

He said I was very persistent, repeating the question a few times before finally dropping the issue and returning to sleep.

This morning, I remembered nothing of this exchange or the dream that inspired it. I was somewhat curious - I detest spiders, enjoy sapphires, and have never consciously considered a connection between the two. I was also horribly embarrassed.

This was hardly the first time I had talked in my sleep. My college roommates would occasionally regale our friends with tales of my nonsensical somniloquies, and I would blush and try to deny each story.

Of first loves and talk show hosts and Canadian nachos

Steve from Wahpeton is married.

The wedding happened a few weeks ago, but the announcement ran in the Fargo Forum yesterday. My eagle-eyed friend Jennie e-mailed me the article, which included the usual laundry list of bridal attendants (where did the term laundry list come from? Who makes lists for washing their clothes? Why not just wash whatever is in the hamper?).

Sadly, the online version did not include a photograph. Jennie assured me he looked pretty much the same, plus a few pounds.

So you might be wondering, "Who is Steve?" "What is Wahpeton?" "Why is Monica writing about this?"

Clutter Conquers All

Wherever Monica goes, clutter shall follow.

I am a danger to myself and others. Invite me into your pristine home and watch random items appear on your bookshelves, coffee table, and any other exposed surface.

My own house is a baffling array of small objects which have taken on lives (and reproductive cycles) all their own. In the time I've been writing this, a camera case and a set of picture hangers have spontaneously given birth to a French card game and some sticks of incense on top of my ironing board.

Today, I made some small steps toward progress. I finally threw away the 2002 Franklin-Covey planner pages that have been on my bookshelf since, I would imagine, 2002. I bought an under-bed storage unit so I can put at least some objects out of sight, out of mind. And, in my semi-competent amateur psychologist way, I decided to self-diagnose.