Ruminating Slav

Courtney Cox, I love you

Hi internets! You don't write, you don't call ... What? You've been calling every day and I never pick up? Unpossible! Clearly, it is You (Time's Person of the Year, natch) who has failed to maintain this beautiful and delicate relationship we have spent weeks, nay, MONTHS cultivating. No, shhh! Don't speak! Don't speak.

No, for real. I've got a headache.

So, what's new? How's the holiday season been treating you? Good, good. Here Chez Slav things are plodding along quite nicely. In BK news, on Friday the man himself was named the newest partner at his law firm. Woohoo, go BK! Good things happening to good people -- me likey. Also, BK's Christmas gift to himself was Lasik. Look how cute:

The Stanimal emailed me yesterday to tell me he was not able to figure out at which terminal our flight to Toronto will be landing. Not surprising considering we don't leave for another week. Eager beaver much, Stanimal? This trip has all the ingredients of a true holiday fiasco, I'm telling you You. The Stanimal and his wife now live in a condo in a high-rise, and they were very insistent back in June that we make reservations one of the rental apartments in the building. But see, the baby, he goes to sleep in the seven-o'clock hour. Hm ... maybe this is all part of the Stanimal's evil plan to see as little of us as possible.

Speaking of the baby, he walks!



A weaker woman than I might also say he talks, but I'm waiting until he repeats things a little more before giving him the gold speaking star. They probably don't give gold stars any more, do they? They're all exclusionary for the kids who didn't get one. Let's give everyone a nice pale yellow star instead! Just for being you You!

Now I wish we'd eaten there and had some oysters

Last night BK and I had a Hott Date -- first we ate some sushi in the presence of Dallas' beautiful people (none of whom have anything as pedestrian as a baby, I'm sure) and concluded that the beautiful people like it way too loud in their restaurants. On the way to the movie theatre we realized neither of us was particularly excited to see Clerks II (although Kevin Smith ripping Joel Siegal a new one on his MySpace page is pretty funny) so we ended up at The Oceanaire for drinks and dessert. The dessert was monstrous -- a couple of those bad boys would fix Lebanon's current humanitarian crisis right up. Well, just the food shortage aspect. It was big, but not big enough to provide shelter from Iraqi bombs.

Right!

Anyway. When we first got to the restaurant we ran into some coworkers of BK's, one of whom was all palsy with the bartender and gave him strict instructions to treat us right. Next thing we know we've got two glasses of champagne sitting in front of us, and when that's all gone we order more cause, you know, champagne. It's good like that. Thank god treating us right consisted of comping those first two glasses, though, cause we done drank $80 worth of champagne, people. Sweet fancy moses! It wasn't even the good stuff.

Anyone who has three grand burning a hole in their pocket, feel free to buy me this.

All bow before BK, god of cookery

Just in case you weren't 100% sure that I married the most amazing man, like, ever, here are the eggrolls he whipped up today for lunch. From scratch. Really! God almighty, were they ever good. Pork-filled delights!

eggrolls on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

Blogged with Flock

As BK feeds the baby

BK: This rice cereal tastes kind of sweet.

Me: You tasted it?

BK: Yeah.

Me: You know that's made with my breastmilk, right?

This morning at the Waffle House

This morning BK invited me to breakfast at the Waffle House, his generosity spurred on by the guilt of not getting home until 12:30 last night. Salient details for your mental image of the scene include BK having the bacon and eggs (over medium-well) and buttermilk pancakes, and me avec the ham and cheese omelette and grits. So there we are, breakfasting and getting our morning poos on thanks to the Waffle House's house blend, and BK says, "So last night I was thinking about what we should do if someone broke into the house."

Uh, ok.

Apparently I should grab Baxter and run out into the backyard and start screaming. When I pointed out that our gate is padlocked and that we'd be trapped back there, BK reconsidered and offered up the following as Plan B: "OK, then you should grab Baxter and hide. Hide in the study closet. And take the phone with you."

I am really enjoying the thought of the perpetrator sliding open the study closet door to find me crouched amid BK's shoes and comic books, baby attached to one exposed boob to prevent him from crying and Revealing Our Location. Not that it would ever come to that, of course, since BK would have fought him off with the aluminum baseball bat he bought at a deceased neighbor's estate sale a few months ago expressly for that purpose.

I leave you with one more BK gem from the car ride home: "Hey, if you want something fun to do today, you could take my clothes to the cleaners."

BK told me to do it

As we all know, as gentlemen get on in years they often begin losing hair on top and growing it in odd places where Hair Should Not Grow. Luckily, BK has a lovely, full head of hair, but is cursed with random Old-Man body hairs. Typical offenders include Pierre, that saucy little hair peeking out of your man's nostril at you (zoot alors!), and Claude, the mind-bogglingly long, pale-white ear hair that's oddly coarse and doesn't match any other hairs on your man's body. BK, however, will see your Pierres and Claudes and will raise you a baker's dozen Zekes. Who is Zeke, you ask? Zeke, my friends, is a nose hair. But not a normal nose hair that resides inside the nose. No no, Zeke and his brethren sprout from the top of the nose, creating a PELT of nose hairs, a little Zekey jacket for BK's fine proboscis.

Perhaps what I am about to tell you is TMI, but WTF, KWIM? Back in the pre-Baxter days of yore, if I had been a very good Slav, BK would reward me by allowing me to run and fetch the tweezers and would let me go Zeke Pluckin'. I was only allowed one or two plucks at a time, three at most, and I would treasure each Zeke like a gold nugget I had panned California's creeks and rivers for for months, holding it up to the light and marveling at its length and enormous onion-like follicle.

Sadly, those days are long gone and there is no time for mad dashes for the tweezers. Which is why, when snuggling up to BK last night, I spied a veritable forest of black hairs sprouting from the top of his nose. Aye, I have been neglecting my wifely duties in the bedroom. Kids, this is what happens after you have a baby. You never fuck pluck again.

Go, Mavs, Go!

mavs game, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

Last night we went to the Mavs game at the American Airlines Center with Baxter. That Pau Gasol does not play, let me tell you. Actually, he does play, and very well.

Baxter was great throughout the game -- he slept for two long chunks and looked around, wide-eyed, for the rest. Hopefully us dragging him to the game will not result in permanent hearing loss for the poor guy.

In other news, I attended the game last night in my pre-pregnancy jeans. Sweet. Now it's time to attack the ass I packed on after we moved away from DC and I completely stopped working out.

Bad, but could be worse

A couple of months ago BK admitted to me that he had made a doctor's appointment. I immediately scanned his body for missing limbs, because that is what it would take to get my husband to the doctor. A little bronchitis or a touch of cholera would not stop him from BOUNDING out of bed in the morning and making his way to work.

Ok, maybe the bounding is an exaggeration, but you get the picture.

Having accounted for all arms and legs, I cautiously inquired why he was going. It turns out that his HEART had been doing STRANGE THINGS for a while now, so he thought it best to get it checked out.

I don't think I need to explain to you that the last thing a woman who is nine months pregnant wants to hear is that her husband has a wonky ticker.

Unfortunately, the appointment was the day after Baxter was born, so it got cancelled and the whole heart thing got forgotten about while we dealt with pressing matters of new parenthood. A few weeks ago, though, I suddenly remembered -- BK! Palpitations! So I nagged and nagged (a stretch for me, of course) until he made a new appointment.

Well! That appointment has come and gone, and BK has had an EKG, and it turns out that he has a CONDITION called mitral valve prolapse. Prolapse! Of the mitral valve! In the HEART! BK has a moderate case, meaning it needs to be monitored in case it gets bad enough for surgery to be required. He also has to take drugs for the heart palpitations that are a side effect of the MVP.

Feel free to share with me stories of relatives with MVP who lived to be 107, internets.

Oh. My. God.

I am speechless.

Click now, before it gets taken down, according to this BBC story!

All hail the conquering hero

All hail the conquering hero, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

BK is currently in the backyard, battling the crepe myrtles which, in the very rainy previous summer, did quite a number on the pool. If he had his way, he'd cut them down completely. But I think they're pretty, so instead he's limited to taking his aggressions out on them limb by limb.

I liken it to a woman who gets overly zelous with the tweezers. Soon she will have no eyebrows left.