Babys!

After the publication of Let's Panic About Babies! in 2011, both our editor and agent left the publishing industry. "What's the point of continuing?" we assume they thought. "We have published the perfect book. Our work here is done."  And while worthy replacements stepped in right away, some details got lost in the transition. Like the fact that our book was being published in Germany.

Actually our editor had mentioned it as a possibility, shortly before she sailed off into the Great Unknown. Failing to hear any sort of follow-up, Eden and I naturally assumed the Germans were disgusted by our attempts to make light of the baby-making process (insert lengthy German word for "baby-making process."). But apparently it was a go, after all. Which we discovered when these books arrived at our respective doorsteps. Sent by the stork! Der Klapperstorch!

I'm glad to see that HUMOR at the end, there. I mean, what if the Germans took us seriously? And an entire nation believed that someone could mistake a horseshoe crab for their own child?

Here's the best part: according to Google Translate, the German title for our book is THEY ALWAYS COME OUT. I've been reminding Henry of this fact as we go about our day. "They always come out, Henry." "Yes, mom. I know." "Always."

THEY ALWAYS COME OUT is my favorite title ever. Is it too late to change the name of our book? Second edition, maybe?

(p.s.: there's no German equivalent for "Huggs," I guess. Also, that first bullet point is supposed to be "gently bearded," not "friendly beard." Who has a friendly beard? Ridiculous!)

(p.p.s.: "Funkle, funkle?" Really, German?)

(p.p.s: TAFT! WAR! FETT!)

A list of celebrities and what they smell like

Because I think you should know.

Justin Timberlake: Vetiver, anise, llama tears
Glenn Close: Gummy bears and woodsmoke
Eric Bana: Dragonfruit smashed with a hand-rubbed mahogany desk clock
Anne Heche: Driftwood and ambergris, with notes of alligator
Tom Skerritt: Peach blossom, shrapnel, gooseberry bitters
Edie Falco: Madagascar vanilla muddled by porcelain doll feet
Peabo Bryson: The silk lining of a 19th century leather valise
Will Smith: Surprised bergamot
Selena Gomez: Leviticus 2:16
Craig T. Nelson: Juicy Fruit, civet musk, houseboats
Dianne Wiest: Peppermint-infused beard gloss
Michael Caine: A geodesic dome wrapped in handwoven butter muslin
Angelica Huston: Hematite, starfruit, irony
Jay-Z:  Absinthe diffused in a particle accelerator
Bryan Cranston: Turkish wildflowers picked during a sunshower
Emmylou Harris: Artisanal, locally sourced gyro meat
Clive Owen: Clouds

An absolutely nonsensical post about eyeballs

I keep absentmindedly rubbing the inside of my eye. Not the INSIDE, it's not like I'm rooting around in my optic nerve. I mean the part around the tear duct. Probably I mean "the tear duct." This move then activates mysterious Itch Receptors all around the inside rims of my eyelids and subsequently I want to spend the rest of the day scratching at my eye-coverings with a shrimp fork. What kind of fucked-up god or Science Devil decided this was a good plan, to make the tear-duct area so exquisitely sensitive to any kind of rubbing/scratching/poking? All it takes is the least pressure with my finger or knuckle or dog nose and then JUST LIKE THAT mascara is running into my cleavage while I claw at my face. I can't remember if this happens all the time or it's some kind of allergy-related itchiness. Has it happened my whole life? My brain has cleared all the eye-scratching memories right out of my head. It's like there have been more important things!

I do clearly recall the time I scratched my cornea, because you don't forget a thing like that. I still maintain that my corneal scratch was more painful than childbirth. Certainly less rewarding. Absolutely nothing to show for it at the end. Except for an infection a couple of months later, which was just as painful and decidedly un-cute.

How did I scratch my cornea, you may be asking?  Here is the true answer I gave to every medical professional I dealt with that day: I poked myself in the eye. With my finger. The entire story is that I was trying to get something out of my eye when my cat startled me, but the cat detail didn't seem important. I can't blame the cat for this genius move. The fact is, when your finger is already resting against your eyeball, you should concentrate. And really, what could the cat have been doing that was really so alarming? I can't even remember. This was a cat we had long ago. She's dead now, and cannot answer my questions. Even if she had leapt off the armoire and sailed past me like a flying squirrel I should have at least REMOVED MY FINGER before turning to see what she was up to.

This actually looks like something my old cat could have done. She was kind of flappy.

Speaking of eyes, which it appears I am doing, my sister tore her retina a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't anything she did or (fortunately) anything I did (I would really hate to have injured someone else's eye with my wayward fingers); apparently this can just…happen. Bodies! They are totally fucked.

She had to have emergency futuristic laser-cat surgery (except without cats) and then, you guys, THEN. Then she was instructed to not move her eyes for a week.  A WEEK. I still cannot get over this. The period has already come and gone and I am still talking about it to anyone who will listen. No eye movement for a week! She could not: read, email, Internet-browse, cook, use a phone, or take a walk. All she could do was watch television (from a distance), and, I guess, stare into space. Probably she could also bathe. BUT NO READING THE SHAMPOO BOTTLE. No reading! At all! Do you know how much daytime television she had to watch? How many Dove commercials about the perils of discolored armpits? Do you think this caused permanent emotional scarring because I DO. It scarred me, and I only had to hear about it.

I called Liz a few days into her no-eye-moving trial and I was like WAIT A MINUTE WHAT ABOUT RAPID EYE-MOVEMENT. How do you control your dreams, Liz?! And then she had to explain to me that the goal was to minimize movement as much as possible, that of course some movement was inevitable, and I breathed into a paper bag and we were both okay.

And then my eye started itching again.  I wasn't going to call her back to update her on this itching situation. But then I realized she had nothing better to do than to listen to my problems, and anyway she shouldn't watch that much Kathie Lee and Hoda. And the moral of this story is that I am a really, really good sister.

Topics I am considering writing about, or further proof that I am not as bright as I'd like to believe

-the time I walked into a steam room holding a handful of Hershey's Kisses

-as an awkward and (needless to say) extremely white junior-high school student with a mouthful of braces, chose to perform a monologue spoken by "Mama" in "Raisin in the Sun"

-the time I sprayed red-pepper spray at a menacing stranger but lost my nerve and aimed for his ankles

-when I fully believed my summer-camp friend who told me she could get Paul McCartney and Wings and ELO to attend my Billy Joel musical

-the day I hit myself repeatedly in the foot with a hammer, for what I believed was medical reasons

-when I broke my tailbone because I slipped holding a cocktail and I didn't put my arms down because then I'd spill my drink

-when I (after a few drinks) told Gloria Steinem I loved her and her "whole feminist thing"

-a trillion even more idiotic things I have done while drunk, sleepy, panicked, or all three

If any of these sound especially intriguing to you, let me know, and I'll see what I can put together, for your amusement.