Weekend Round-up

This weekend we trekked down to Baltimore to visit Matt's brother, Joe, and Kristen - his girlfriend who recently moved to the charm city due to Kristen's first year of residency.  I'm quite proud of my little Corolla - girl huffed it down there with four adults (my sister-in-law and boyfriend and Matt and me) and baby in tow.  It was a welcome respite from a too-hectic week.

Priscilla, Royce, Kristen and Joe at Faidley's (rumored to have the best crab cakes in the city).  As a crab cake aficionado, I can confirm it was damn tasty. 

Annie: "Nerds."

We walked around downtown and around the wharf.  Here we are in the Fells Point neighborhood.  Annie is lookin' cute in her pumpkin hate.  Matt?  Not so much.  (I say that with LOVE!)

Today we relaxed at home.  Have I mentioned how much Annie adores her swing?  Girl is CRAY CRAY for the swing.  Here she is ridin' high with her owl hat (knit by Aunt Silla).

This was Matt's favorite of the day's photos.  I think she looks a little motion sick from the swing, but I think Matt thought she looked ethereal or something (which is a hard feat wearing an owl hat and cruisin' in a plastic Fisher Price swing, I must say).  I think she pulled it off.

Annie adores Penny.  She's always so excited to see her after a long day at daycare (we get second billing).

Photographic evidence Matt is trying to teach Annie that sticking your tongue out means "dog".  

Penny darted away shortly after this photo was taken.  She was never one for the camera.

We finished the day with a bath.  This is the expression I get with 50% of my photos.  Girl is already too cool for her mother and exasperated with that camera.  

Coming Home

Long time, no post, huh? I'm in San Francisco for business, and it's all much more sexy than it sounds (trust me). But I like saying that...."I'm in San Francisco for business....". I'll let it linger there on the tongue.

I do not have a job where I travel across the country, but by chance I am here, sitting in a hotel room (facing a highway and not the bay, alas), and taking stock of things. Traveling always puts me in a contemplative mood. I sometimes travel regionally for work and I relish the alone time. I think Matt does, too. You're never very alone with yourself and your thoughts in everyday life, you know? I like removing myself from my suburban life for a bit, even if it's just a late train ride from New York or a hotel in central Pennsylvania. I like missing home; it reminds me what good I have.

This trip is no different, and I needed to take stock. To breathe in. To exhale. I haven't had a deep breath in three months. I wish I dealt better with stress, but my body tightens and it's fight or flight all day long. And poor Matthew. Every night I cry and he looks on, helplessly. Matt is never stressed. It's a gift because I often am. But, he admits, he has it easy. He loves his job. He is in perfect health. Above all, he has the perfect wife (okay, okay, it's a joke!).

Stress and Crohn's do not mix well, but my intestines have behaved. Usually before a flight I run to the bathroom no less than three times, my nerves working their churning magic. I hate flying, and I hate the thought of limited bathroom access. But this week's flight I sat at the gate, eating my bagel and...was fine. This afternoon I have the window seat home. It's enough that my bowels constantly inconvenience me, but now I have to inconvenience two other people when I ask them to get up to use the bathroom? Those two innocent souls have no idea what they're in for.

I was at dinner with a dear friend last week. We talked about work, about my health, about my fruitless baby making, and how I thought I'd have more to show for myself by my late twenties. She is her early thirties and said, "I hated my twenties! Do you remember how depressed I was? I'm so much happier now." So now I think everyone has a late twenties rut, and agony likes company, right?

I'm enjoying how this trip put things in perspective and how much I want to walk through the front door. For me, that's where it begins, and ends.

Zany (Z)antics at the Zoo

I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to go to the Philadelphia Zoo with two of my favorite people: Priscilla, my sister-in-law, and Matt (and, well, you know Matt). Here's a short pictorial of our day.

There are those dashing Hopkins siblings.

Me and my better half.

This baby croc was terrifying. He didn't move for a good five minutes, although his eyes followed you. Shudder.

This creature in the background was like a donkey-zebra. Matt hated it, so I made him pose with it. I really find nothing that insulting about a donkey-zebra, so I'm not sure where he gets off.

There is nothing better than a bronze (is it bronze?) statue and two willing family members to act pretend-terrified. Nothing.

Matt doing some nefarious with a hippo statue. (It's funny how all my photos are of statues and not real, live, animals.)

Pretend-milking a pretend cow. Obviously.

Gettin' frisky with the aforementioned pretend cow.

Well, well, well....the sign says, "Goat and Sheep Clubhouse: No Humans Please!" I see how it is. I'm lookin' at YOU, white goat. Elitist.

A giraffe is how I see myself in the animal world. You know, tall, elegant, regal, a lady...NO LAUGHING!

Nothin' like some frisky tribal paintings on the way to see the rhinos.

Speaking of risque...

A love letter to my intestines

I'm not sure what I ever did to my intestines for them to hate me so much - for them to fight back, rebel and want to break all ties with their clueless owner. Perhaps they were tired of all the greasy digestion. Maybe the years of late night leftovers did it (who doesn't love cold lo mein in the glow of a 2 am television?) , or the third piece of ice cream cake I snuck straight out of the freezer, my fork puncturing the dark chocolate ganache with so much relish.

See, I love food. I will never be a thin girl (stretch marks be damned!) - but I don't care. I love the anticipation of preparing a meal that requires a slow day of cooking. I love the artistry of the presentation. I love the cook's spoils - the small bites I'd savor while idling by the stove.

My mother - bless her - instilled a love of food in me. This six foot woman would drag my sister and me into our small town's Vietnamese grocery store after violin lessons. To this day that image humors me - our big family overtaking this small store, and its equally smallish proprietors. We'd bitch and moan: "Mom! God! Why can't we have hamburgers!!!?!" or "You never let us eat anything normal!!!" And the woman loved her fish sauce (so ubiquitous in Asian cooking) and the groans would grow even more strained: "Mom, that smells like something Molly rolled in! Gross - I am not eating that!!" Molly was our dog (and yes, she rolled in her fair share of gross things that made us girls run shrieking from the room).

Food hasn't always loved me back. I wish it shared the same adoring passion I have with it. I've always had a sensitive stomach - rarely was a dinner out that I didn't excuse myself for the bathroom. And then a bit over three years ago I was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease. Crohn's is an autoimmune disorder that affects the digestive system - the immune system attacks the gastrointestinal tract causing rampant inflammation, pain, and all-over yuckiness (I added the last part).

I intend this blog to be, in part, a love letter to my intestines. When you get down to it, it's really not their fault, is it? They're victims, too, of my bullying immune system. So when I say this is a love letter - it's me, accepting my body as a whole - and working toward remission.

Crohn's isn't a glamorous disease - there are no freshly-botoxed celebrities championing the cause - and, well, it's just sort of...icky. It has to do with those bits and pieces that are societal no-no's in public: so yeah, I may mention my anus (in only strictly clinical terms, I assure you...well, mostly).

So....I'm sorry, intestines. We'll kick this shitty disease together (pun intended).