So…

I sent this email yesterday:

Hi friends!

Big news on the Fanning front. After many months of number-crunching and soul-searching and fire-breathing (unrelated)…we have made a decision.

(cue confetti)

We are not moving to Colorado.

There are scads of reasons…how much time do you have? I am happy to share them with any and all of you. Most importantly, though, is that I have learned a lot about myself, and the bottom line is this: I need people! I need family! I need YOU. As for Shaun — he would love to move out west, and there will come a day when we will do that.

Ruby loves her preschool, her friends, her family, her parks and Starbucks and Safeway and museums and the National Mall and Aunt Carrie down the street and Congressional Cemetery and and and and. We had a great time this summer in Colorado, but this is home. And it is indeed where our hearts are.

I would LIKE a bigger house. I would LIKE to live at the foot of a mountain. But no amount of square footage or natural beauty can take the place of warm friendship and community — and we have those in spades in DC.

We will be at [our current address] for another year or so — probably until BFII starts walking and we just POP out of this tiny place. Then, we will look locally in what will hopefully be a more reasonable market.

I hope you’re as happy as we are about this decision. I know it was hard for you to imagine “I’m never going to move” Amy uprooting and heading out to the Rockies. Turns out I couldn’t imagine it either.

See you ’round town!
Love to all,
Amy Shaun Ruby Moose and BFII

I am glad to have made the decision — it’s a big relief. I have started nesting, and needing to “settle” into whatever place I will be when this baby comes. The uncertainty of the Colorado thing was killin’ us.

I’m happy to be staying in such a great city, surrounded by love love love.

To celebrate? I’m just going to go listen to some tunes. What the!?

Joan Baez, Please Come to Boston

Dear Man at Safeway Running the Buffing Machine:

Why must you torment me so? I realize that the cereal aisle must be cleaned, at approximately the same moment that I am reaching for my husband’s brand (on sale, even). Did you notice, though? I can hardly walk, much less maneuver around your crazed path. I thought it was enough that I stepped out of the aisle entirely for you to make your first pass. Hey, look now! Are you chasing me? Did the spice aisle have to be the next on your list? I thought I had gone two aisles over, just to get out of your way.

Oh, and you know that part where my hand-held basket hit the corner of the display (because I was trying so desperately to turn the corner quickly?) and it caused me to trip and have to catch myself? That really hurt. See, my pelvis is as soft as the tip of my nose right now, and it’s all jangly and skewed. Walking, turning in bed, carrying a gallon of milk, and running from buffers are high on the list of things that are…mmm….difficult these days. I would appreciate it if you, perhaps, PAUSED a moment to let me pass. I do appreciate your buffing work — perhaps you were too busy to notice the limping woman that you almost flattened more than once in your path. And, NO, I am not just fat. I’m heavily pregnant, with a hormonal condition that’s causing the limping, and I’m in no mood to play tag with you today.

If you had actually knocked me down and permanently separated my pelvis? I could have sued you. You, Safeway, whoever. Just to be hormonal and bitchy. Because THAT I could do from my bed. While sippin’ a mocha. No big whoop.

Look out, Buffer Man.

Oh, and the deodorant? It’s in aisle 2. On the left. I’m just sayin’.

R. B. Greaves, Take a Letter Maria

I saw this heartbreaking video on my local Moms’ listserv this morning, and it took my breath away. I’m not sure what to do with the feelings it brings up in me, other than to share it, and encourage you to pass it on. I can also suggest a great blog for parents committed to raising children with an anti-racist outlook.

Marvin Gaye, What’s Happening Brother?

It seems a pallor has been cast over the blogosphere. I hit a certain time of the day and I can’t string three words together, much less write something witty and informative on Fannfare. As I click around on the blogs that I read, most folks are tiring of winter, feeling blue, struggling with ennui, malaise, depression.

Schmutzie’s got it. Sweetney is clawing her way through. Leahpeah is ripping all the curtains back to let the sun in. What’s going on? How are you?

This is my second turn around the dance floor with chronic pain, although I have to say that it’s kickin’ me a little harder this time. I am worried about my growing dependence on pain medication to complete a day. I time taking my meds with picking up my daughter from preschool, so that I can share a smile and a laugh with her instead of just winces and groans. She has taken to complaining about her pelvis hurting when she climbs the stairs, or telling me she will take care of my pelvis when we are getting in and out of the car, the bed, the bath. I hate to think that in her little mind, she has ANYthing to do with this hormonal condition, or that it is Baby Fanning II’s fault (although, let’s face it, little trickster is not blameless). I am supposed to be taking care of her, you know? It’s hard to think that she will remember me as being so…handicapped…but then I try to remember back to when I was 2.5 years old and it’s all fuzz. Thank heavens.

The other thing about pain that is so…interesting…is that it really does come with bad feelings. I have a Nurse Practitioner that I love (I am circling the wagons for when I have the baby and I have to get off the meds), and have seen her recently to prepare for battle. I told her I was concerned because one day, my pain was no different, but I was full of despair (why did I get pregnant? What if I completely fall apart when I have this baby? What if Shaun leaves? What if what if what if?) and I took a pill…realizing that’s why I took it. I loved her hard when she said “Amy, percoset treats many levels of pain.” I just felt like she got it. And, we both knew it was good that I didn’t then take 12 more and rip my top off and go racing down the street.

Note: I am so Billy Squier. When I take my meds, the sky blues out like in the video (about 1:22), and man, I just rock. The belly crawls are getting a little more awkward these days, and I just don’t have that many disposable tees, but otherwise…..well, you get the picture. When Shaun gets home from the office (about 4:26)? All bets are off, my friends. Then Tom comes over, and Hollis and Foster, and we all take our shirts off. It’s complete 80s madness over here.

Rock on!

REM, Everybody Hurts

My sister charmed us with a lobe of foie gras for Christmas (well, she gave it to Shaun but I’m sort of connected to him), based on a “group project” that we wanted to do. Megnut had made a torchon and blogged about it — sounded like something we would be interested in and relatively good at. It did end up being fun and challenging and mildly gross — all the things we had read. And, it made for a very nice evening after Ruby went to sleep. A grown-up dinner! That we made! Wanna see?

First we went through all the blech-y stages of cleaning it and getting it marinated and ready to wrap. We had chopped off and sauteed several pieces in advance of making the torchon, so it was actually sort of a small one.

We hung it up in the refrigerator to harden and gel and get all yummy and buttery and delicious:

For dinner, we paired it with some field greens, a cranberry chutney, and a great Burgundy Butter sauce Shaun made:

In the absence of an aged Sauternes (uhm, yeah, we don’t keep wine in the house anymore), we got Shaun an ice wine from Trader Joe’s that he said “[went] quite nicely” with the dish:

The Perfect Bite:

After dinner, we sat around a roaring fire and belched, in our pointy satin slippers, and talked loudly about how funny it would be to bare our bottoms to the serfs standing below our many turreted windows, gazing skyward and taking in the delicious smells and sounds of our intimate dinner party. We passed out, half-nude, with grease and jam still shining on our chins.

Yeah, we’re bringing sexy back here at Chez Fanning. Only here, we’re searing it.

Charlotte’s Web, A Veritable Smorgasbord

Tonight we attended a surprise 40th birthday party for our (looks 30!) friend Debbie. I think the beautiful smile above is an indicator of how she felt about it. I was so impressed by the Hurculean effort put on by her husband and neice to set it all up. I have been to weddings that weren’t as well orchestrated! We started off with a delicious buffet, with a dee-jay playing in the background, then a whole new room opened up and a live band played late into the evening. Late-night sandwich bar, chocolate covered strawberries that looked like little tuxedos, cake, fresh roses, you name it! Not a detail overlooked.

Here are a couple other great moments:

Surprise!

Oh No He Di’n't!

Aww…

Debbie deserves all the happy moments. She’s the mother of four kids, friend to many, and from what I know, a great sibling and daughter. What do I love about her? She laughs easily, gives generously, and loves to (get this!) chat on the phone (Note: I hate the phone now, so it always takes me back to some great eighth-grade memories when I meet someone who still swaps stories on it)! She makes the best fish-face and the best hot Reuben dip and the best late-night at-the-beach swim partner.

Happy birthday, Deb.

Oh, and by the way, Greg (Debbie’s husband)? Shaun says THANKS for setting the bar so high. I am 40 in a couple years and in order to top this he’s already set up an off-shore account, sent an email to Poi Dog Pondering asking about their availability, and started to fatten some ducks out back for the foie gras (to be shaped like me, topping each table!).

Burt Bacharach, That’s What Friends Are For

I caved. CAVED.

I blame Takeisha, the barista. I point a finger at her and scream to the Heavens that it’s NOT MY FAULT.

I meant to order a grande decaf. I did. But the coffee machine was broken. Broken, I tell you. They only had espresso drinks. Only. Had. Espresso. Drinks.

Takeisha knows my plight. She sees my expanding belly and watches me John-Wayne-swagger into the Safeway every morning for my run-of-the-mill (though still better than what I make at home with exactly the same ingredients! What’s that about?) coffee. I told her on New Years Eve that this was IT. No more mochas. No more delicious “hot chocolate with a splash of coffee” drinks, as Shaun calls them. No more choca-laca-love-a-cuppa JOY for me.

She taunted me with her thick gooey tub of chocolate syrup and her fresh roasted beans. (THAT didn’t sound right, but I’m leaving it, because it’s TRUE). The line was building behind me. I felt a tinge of reserve, and then the sweet free-fall of giving in.

“DO IT,” I said, and swiped my card before I could turn back.

And here I sit, on my pillow of regret, loving every calorie-and-angel-laden sip.

Cheers!
Fatty

Howard Jones, No One Is To Blame

I never imagined I would utter the following:

To Ruby: “Honey, don’t put those in your bottom. They go in your hair.”

To a friend: “I KNOW. I can’t believe there’s a weiner in there! I don’t know what to do with the little tiny ones.”

To the gal at the pediatrician’s office this morning: “Is there something I am supposed to do between two years and three years?”

To Shaun: “Honey, don’t put those in your bottom. They go in Ruby’s hair.”

EMF, Unbelievable

By popular demand, seems I am keeping up with the lyric-titles until I sing my last breath! It helps with bedtime, too, as Ruby has started requesting “new song” when we do the put-down. Last night was about 15 minutes of singing, with a new throw-in of “I Got A Name” by Jim Croce. She cracked up at croakin’ toad, which sort of delayed the actual falling asleep portion of the exercise, but it might be a keeper. We only had to put her back to bed four times last night. How do you keep these suckers in once they learn how to get out?

So today is day one of Mocha Withdrawal. Decaf triple-grande skim with-whip Mocha from Starbucks to be exact. I am sure those puppies have a lot to do with the 13-lb. weight gain (which the doc sort of raised his eyebrows at last visit) with this pregnancy so far. At that rate, I would deliver a 7-8 pound baby and still weigh about 2-fitty so I need to cut them out. I told Shaun that what I wanted when the epidural wears off (can I get one of those at about 8 months?) I want one waiting at the ready. I had my last Venti (which just means you have to reheat it about 3 times) on New Years Eve.

That’s my only resolution to speak of — other than pack up the house, get a 30-month-old to 36 months without siginificant injury or event, have a baby, move to Colorado, and keep a marriage alive in the middle of a pelvic firestorm (and not the good kind). Get off my back, people.

I enjoyed all the top ten lists of 2006 — scrolling through them is always a fun way to learn about things I missed. This evolution of dance video? Where was I? Apparently everyone in the world but me saw it, and now I can’t stop watching it. I don’t see one move the guy missed. Excellent.

Paul McCartney, Come and Get It