Zora Travels

"Whose _____ does Monkey-Mouse have?"

Ummmm...breastfeeding hurts.  The books say, "It should not be painful if they are on correctly."  Well, I think this is a conspiracy to make an new-bf'ing-mom feel like quitting.  Something perhaps concocted by the formula companies (who oh-so-nicely have large bags of their supplies delivered to you in the hospital in a dapper-dandy striped bag).  There are other areas of discomfort...I am sure with Daniel's super-grande head, progressing from crowning to cord-cutting in 13 minutes, and her 9 lb. birth weight...you can figure out which area this is.

I know that the pain of nursing will pass.  The sharp-knife-like pain will pass.  But several weeks sounds like an eternity sometimes.

At least the pain comes with an incredible experience of being able to look at my one-eyed pirate girl.  She always has one eye closed and then the other dark slate-gray eye stays open.  Her eyes, by the way, are a mystery.  Daniel's eyes are not that Asian-looking.  Mine are certainly not of such a beautiful slant. Perhaps Lola Loi (D's mom &"Lola" is Kapampangan for Grandma) dropped in her DNA into the mix, certainly Lolo Quiel (D's granfather) came through in the curved palate above her lip.

And who knew this game of "Whose _______ does she have?" would turn out to be such a fabulous way to pass the hours.  Sometimes Nora slumbers in serenity and Daniel or I find ourselves picking her up and just looking at one another and justifying it by saying, "I just miss her" and then the game begins. 

Here's what we think so far.

two cowlicks = me

eyes = ?

nose = Daniel

dimpled chin = Daniel

eyebrows = Daniel

ears = Daniel

fingers = me

toes = both

Did you notice a pattern? Uh, yeah, me to.  I was harboring a near genetic replica of a female Daniel in my womb.  Proudly carrying on his lineage of the African-American & Filipino caramel twist.  I'm sure other physical and certainly personality elements will eventually emerge; however, for now, I am smitten staring at Daddy's little girl.  (He is, too, by looking at his picture)

If you can point out similarities that I don't see, let me know.  Here's a pic of me being held by my Grandpa Thurm.  The next picture, is the "apple of my pie" (a favorite mixed-metaphor saying from Auntie Ludee), Nuglett Nora, being held by Lola Loi.

What do you think?

***and for kicks & giggles - another video of Meine Liebe.

The high life

I've spent the last three days either sleeping, napping, or watching television.  My eyeballs are sizzling and my mind and body are gelatinous mush.  I wish I could say that the Food Network and home channels have sprouted a plethora of decorating ideas and gourmet cooking tips in my brain...well, actually, there is just one.  "Use only roma tomatoes when you're making bruschetta sauce because other varieties are too watery."  There.  Isn't that impressive for an ungodly thirty hours of cable television? This is what happens when I'm sick. 

The Zicams and Niquils are playing a sweet duet with my palate.  I've been well taken care of....brought tissue, tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches....but being sick...umm...sucks.   Especially when you're at your future in-law's home, sniffling on their couch, drooling on their blankets, monopolizing their television with "Bridezilla," "Property Virgins," and "Top Chef" all day.

And when did I start my waltz with this pestry bug?  On the very day that we were celebrating our engagement in high style at the Palazzo down on the Vegas strip.  A fancy-schmancy luxury sweet on the 31st floor, plush furry robes, an elegant tub with dim lights, curtains that raise by remote, and a view of the pirate show below at the Tropicana.  It was amazing!  In between my sneezes and discreet sprays of Zicam, we had a fabulous time.

Our hotel was a bastion of hoighty-toity shopping.  We rambled past one bling shop, purse shop, and shoe shop after another.  The infamous Jimmy Choo's, which Carrie of Sex in the City wore so proudly upon the grimy streets of New York, were suddenly prancing in a window.  I simply had to go inside and see why they were slightly more expensive than the Pay Less varietals that sit in my closet.

You have to have big fashionista chutzpah to wear most of his shoes.  Not for the run-of-the-mill Old Navy t-shirt and Target jeans day.  Here is a shoe (on the right), that given the right frock, I could imagine wearing...briefly...then needing to sit down.  I am not sure when girls learned to walk in high heels, but I apparently was absent that day.  I mean truthfully, leave me some comments about when you first tackled "the walk" because I simply can't do it.  I'm 33 years old and I stumble, waddle, and trip when I even try to walk in shoes with a tiny heel.  And platform-schmatform...anything with height has my face contorted in a nervous twist, my ankles jiggling, and my feet throbbing.

But back to these golden jeweled babies.  Now, the woman at the counter spotted my dusty boots and continued chatting on her cell phone.  We were thus, given the freedom to chortle about the prices.  How much do you think these pearls cost? Well, if I broke it down in the number of sub days that I would have to work, it would come to eight.  If I sat in a classroom for eight days with random teenagers, controlling chaos, I could come home and proudly sit in these shoes.  Not stand...and certainly not walk...but sit.

Now, I'm naked, mind you.  I don't have a single garment that could splash dignity above these shoes...and I need a pedicure, so I'd hide my toe tips under a blanket....hmmmm...the look is ruined.  And you're dying to know how much they cost...so here goes.  Click to enlarge the sticker shock.

   

And then it was hat time.  I'm wearing "Oprah's Favorite Visor" and he's not.

   

Anyone for a sunlit stroll through the canals of Venice?

   

What about an overpriced almond cookie, coated with goo and flying dried apple wings at Woo?

All in all, our romp with the upper crust was fun.  We managed to stretch our free $50 on the slot machines for a ridiculous amount of time.  I floated on the same screen for twenty minutes while we waited for our free drinks.... pocketing the coasters, matches, and napkins for mementos, while milking the system for as many drops of free booze as possible.

And if you think there was single loofah, shampoo bottle, or lemon verbena bar of soap left in that suite at checkout?  You've got me all wrong.

Plodding, pink, and panting

These are the three perfect adjectives to describe my jogging ability.  Daniel and I woke up this morning (two hours after our dueling cell phone alarm spectacular) to a cool winter morning.  Keeping in mind that "cool" for us means in the mid 50's.  I suggested that we still persevere and go for a run.  But before your mind envisions a sporty oreo couple striding along the beach, waves crashing in the distance, sun shining overhead, and sea birds squawking in the blue sky...think again.

Here's the more accurate portrayal:  my slow feet awkwardly shuffle and scrape along the sandy beach path as grimy seagulls screech in the sand; I'm panting and the toilet paper wad for my runny nose is slowly inching its way out of the top of my damp sports bra; my cheeks are crimson and every few minutes I eschew barely audible inquiries of "How many minutes?"  To which Daniel replies, "13," then "18."  My plodding stopped the second we reached 20.  It's never a pretty sight...but at least I was out there.

A preferred physical endeavor would be our recent intense session of Jenga...we reached 31 stories.  On Saturday night, my mom's lush table draped in cranberry twig cloth hosted take-out Chinese food from our beloved Fortune Cookie and then multiple rounds of this stacking game.  It was a fun night, with Top Chef contestants dicing and simmering in the background, John nervously poking out blocks under the eagle eyes of my mother, and glasses of iced Bailey's to celebrate the holiday season.

Much to the dismay of my jolly Noel spirit, we've decided to forgo this year's Christmas tree.  Todd's lot down the street bursts with pines, firs, wreaths, mistletoe and free candy canes.  Their "$3 off" coupon lies clipped near my purse; however, our budget, practicality, and upcoming move dictates that we should just buy a carton of low-fat eggnog, light a pine candle, and kiss while Christmas carols play on the computer.

I'll be able to satiate my festive cravings through the enormous tree at Mara's, the decadent tree at my mom's, and the splash of style at Cheryl's.  I'll sniff their branches, fondle their ornaments, and know that our winter paraphernalia, encased in bubble wrap, lies ready for our January move into storage.

Ah, moving....is it really just 5 weeks away?  Is Daniel really flying back to Ann Arbor to interview for Ross?

Michigan + 3 years = cold. 

Fire lasagna and backgammon woes

Last night our house filled with laughter as I talked to Courtney, the funky sounds of Sergio Mendez, the smells of Claire's "simple red sauce" lasagna, and the smooth exotic flesh of a ripe cherimoya.  Haydar brought this buttery fruit that looks like an insect's vibrant green belly, pickled with brown smudges, bursting with goo.  Inside one will find a creamy ivory smoosh, muddled with slimy cocoa brown seeds.  My teeth nervously slid through the succulent porridge, isolating the seed, while my backgammon pieces remained frozen.  Now, I'm certainly no expert on backgammon...but when you have two pieces on the bridge and not a single slot in which to escape...you're in trouble.

And that lasagna...with only 1/2 tbsp of crushed red pepper...is still burning a trail through my chest (and this is only half of the called for amount of crushed pepper).  Claire and Greg must have steel intestines, yet, I'll dive into another slice at lunch.  The suffering still tastes so good!

Bubbles and the Sharp Shooter

It's amazing that at 33 years of age hearing my father enthusiastically say, "I am so proud of you!" feels so validating.  Albeit, the circumstances were a dusty ride into the hills, nestling cardboard targets into the bushes underneath buzzing transformers, and firing his .22 gauge pistol.  I was good- apparently, really good.  I had "good grouping" and while the targets moved farther up the hill, my aim strangely improved.  I beat my dad (if it had been a competition).

My initial reaction to the firing invitation had been an instantaneous and emphatic, "No thanks!" and then I saw in his face something rare...a true whimsy and desire to share with me something he loves.  I suppose it would be the same if I offered to wax up a surfboard and frolic in the ocean with him; however, this was a rare occasion for us to bond - his style.  And from the first moment that he unzipped the case and showed me how to load the cartridge, I was slightly smitten with the activity.  I used yoga techniques of cleansing breaths and calming thoughts as I increased the pressure on the trigger.  Just before I exhaled completely, I fired...the pistol jerked, a puff of smoke, and my dad would yell out, "Wow!"

Occasionally, in between loading bullets, taking a sip of water, and readjusting my yellow safety googles, I would think about how at this very moment my friends Claire and Greg were getting married.  Literally, as the neon yellow splatters confirmed yet another sharp shooter moment, they were exchanging vows and bubbles flirted in the air outside on the church steps.  It made my smile to think how differently, and yet joyously, we were both experiencing our Saturday morning.  When I spoke to the newlyweds yesterday as their ferry boat left Martha's Vineyard, I shared my story with Greg who got a kick out of it.

The two things friends won't let you play as a "newbie"

#1 - Backgammon

I asked an experienced backgammon friend once, "Can I play backgammon with you?"  His face slightly winced, like the pungent drift of a neighbor's sour milk had lingered to his back house.  It was disheartening to think that his well-used board with his nimble fingers dancing across the pyramids, clicking chips over the bridge, was off limits to my slow and steady, plodding, counting, touching each point, fingers.

That's okay, though...Daniel got a backgammon set from my folks for his birthday.  (Thanks to me telling them that's exactly what he wanted for his birthday).  Imagine my his excitement when he opened the box and discovered a polished smooth landscape of pyramids and clicking chips.

#2 - Tennis

If you want to see your tennis-playing friends squirm, say this, "We've just started taking tennis lessons through the city, maybe we could play sometime?"  They simply don't know what to do.  They long to say no.  They repeat the fact that they and their spouse/friend/colleagues play on such-and-such day each week, they've played since they were 2 (obvious segue into Tiger Woods discussion), that they enjoy the game...always trying to dodge the question.  I suppose the image of me with my Big 5-on sale-racket and my mesh bag of on-sale balls, dingy cross-training sneakers, and purple running shorts (void of any pockets), is almost too horrific for their minds to comprehend. 

So they offer me hummous, or cookies, or ask me about my students, and the moment soon passes. 

But I remember.  And Daniel and I are taking tennis lessons.  We just chased after balls last night.  We still miss a few when we get distracted, forget what a backhand is, or the balls pop out of my sports bra (remember, I don't have any pockets)...but we're improving.

One day we'll be the ones to slightly squirm, wince, dodge when the shiny-new-tennis lessons through the city-couple questions our schedule for the upcoming week.