On the Subject of Babies

The first argument Ilya and I ever had was about what our children's names were to be. He proclaimed (this is three weeks into our relationship, mind you) that his first son would be named Victor after his father, and his first daughter Natalia after his grandmother. It was as if he expected the hand of God to come down and pat him on the head, he was so proud of himself. I was taken aback, but chocked it up to some kind of Russian Jewish tradition I knew nothing of, that the father named his children before even going to the trouble of securing a handy fertile woman. So I told him he was a moron and we sort of forgot about it.

Which pretty much sums up my feeling about kids in general. Can we just forget about it? Lalalala I can't hear you. I'm 26 years old, Ilya and I have been together nearly 10 years, we own a home, he has a good job, and we're both all over this country like a pack of dogs on a three legged cat. We are writers. We are selfish. We need three hours a day holed up in our respective offices with no disturbances to mentally masturbate, producing maybe 10 words, maybe 1000. We go to bookstores for fun. I'm turning into the kind of woman who sneers at noisy kids in the restaurant.

But funny things sometimes happen. A 5-year-old with a mohawk made me giggle by standing on his head. A picture of a newborn made me feel a little empty in the womb region. I simply refuse to plant over our back lawn despite the drought because I see an undefined but rather tall toddler stumbling all over it laughing insanely as his father chases him. A little girl picks up a Queen Elizabeth doll in the bookstore and turns to her mother, saying "Look, mama. A queen." With a kind of reverence I have never, ever heard.

There isn't any time. Lately I've felt more desperate than ever before, watching it slip away. Where are my books? My degrees? Where's my career? Ilya continues to be successful, and I could not be more proud. I love my life, I'm proud of my accomplishments, but damn if I don't feel jealous sometimes. Just on the verge, on the cusp of finally succeeding, of beginning something wonderful with my life, how can I slow down for 18 years to bring a child into the world?

Even if I would be a MILF. Cause I totally would be, you know.

I Done Bought Me a House!

Now, don't judge a book by its cover. Slap a fresh coat of paint on that sucker and we're good to go! The interior is just a matter of clearing out the pigeon shit and the possum babies, though we're thinking we might just adopt them for pets. Would keep the coon dogs good and exercised, and they're getting a little draggy with all this city living, if you know what I'm saying.

The kitchen has indoor plumbing, y'all! We just need to buy some pipes cause the scavengers already been through here for all the copper in the place. T'ain't no snakes in the tolet (it is an outhouse, y'all! So cute with that little crescent moon and everything! It's like my own little house, behind the big house!), I know cause I just dangled one of them possum babies down there to check and nothing came raring up. So I'll pee easier tonight. I've named the spiders Octopussy, Heptopussy, Sextopussy (that's my favorite!), Quintopussy, Quartopussy, Triptopussy, Duopussy, and Monopussy. They've all got eight eyes and most of 'em got eight legs.

But the best thing about it is all we've got to do is hook the mobile home up to the tractor and tow it on out here! Moving's no trouble y'all, I don't know what all the bitching and moaning is about!

Come on down-- we got a guest room and everthang!

This 87-Year-Old Woman is Cooler Than You

But then, most 87-year-old women are.

On the Subject of Art

Art, Craft, or Crapola? Sometimes the line is thin my friends. So very thin.

Climbing the Walls

I am afraid of heights. This is fairly well established to anyone who knows me well. Walking on sidewalks looking down at the curb can make me kind of dizzy. I have to close my eyes when I go up on tiptoe. Don't get me started on getting in and out of Hummers. (Because I am this eco-obnoxious, may I just state that I have never, in my life, gotten in or out of a Hummer?) Okay.

What is the most logical form of exercise for such a one, may I ask? Obviously, rockclimbing. Or wall-climbing. But you know, anything that gets you sixty or so feet off the ground, dangling from a dubious purple string and a carabiner between your legs. But for some strange reason, I have always wanted to do it. And on Tuesday (and again today!) I did. 
Injuries sustained. (Yes, they hardly exist, but the one on my elbow hurts like a BITCH!!)

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of myself for this. When it comes to physical fitness, I usually lack a little in the way of... motivation? Confidence? Reflexes? Going on a treadmill was enough to make me sweat (I mean, not in the... you understand). Why? Because I might look like I didn't know what I was doing. And let me tell you, being the only one on a climbing wall in the middle of a gym screaming your fool head off is not the way to deflect attention. But I don't care. Because it was really fun, felt like I was doing something (unlike the treadmill) and allowed me to overcome a fear. Or at least, ignore it for a little while. I think I may have to sleep on the floor tonight, though-- the bed seems a little altitudinous for me today.

PS-- I must also note that it was Friday the 13th! That must account for the elbow bruise.

On the Subject of the Fitness of One's Physique

Some sort of spring fever seems to have hit the world at large, and instead of cleaning, my nearest and dearest are flocking to gyms, yoga studios, and the great outdoors for the purpose of greasing their knee joints, increasing the relative strength of their heartbeats, and presumably, nurturing that more abstract but socially hygienic goal of "physical fitness." So I, like the lemur [LEMMING] I am, got in line to jump off the cliff. I joined the gym.

Not only "the" gym, or "a" gym, but the Campus Gym. The San Diego State University gym, or the "Aztec Recreational Center" as they euphemistically term it-- a friendlier term than "The Gym Where 30 Thousand Hardbodied Undergraduates go to Lift Hundred Pound Weights on their Buttocks while Engaging in the World's Most Perfect Downward Dog." It's enormous, it's open 24 hours, it's color scheme is primarily grey. It's serious bidness.

For those of you who haven't known me since high school when my "physical fitness" consisted of hoisting a bottle of 20/20 to my lips (followed, perhaps, by ab-strengthening Toilet Bowl Worship), I have engaged in some basic physical fitness in the last ten years. I have yoga'd, I ran for several months, I mastered the Lusty Leapfrog (remember: there is no such thing as an overshare). 

And now, after a year-long hiatus, I'm attempting to reengage in the world's most obnoxiously beautiful city. And I mean beautiful people-wise. I should qualify, as this is a particularly blonde, tan, toned sort of beauty, not one to which I necessarily prescribe, although I enjoy T&A as much as the next fellow. This is Intimidating. I have Fitness Shame.

I think this is partly because, other than my pastiness and Lack of Tone, I seem to be in reasonable shape, because I am thin. This is a lie. Although I can touch my toes to my nose (a strange sort of claim to fame), I no longer have any sort of cardiovascular stamina. Even at my running peak, after six months of going 4 days a week, I could only go a mile and a half. In half an hour. People walk faster than I run. And I am PROUD of that accomplishment, my friends. 

I expect to die, but I really hope it won't be because of a treadmill Incident. I'll keep you posted.