DMV and Beyonce's back-up

As I pulled into the DMV parking lot, I had a nagging feeling that something wasn't right. I glanced over at the seat next to me to go over my documents once more. Marriage license, check. New social security card, check. Passport, birth certificate, temple marriage certificate, old driver's license, and every other official document I thought might mitigate the unpredictable turns of Chicago bureaucracy--check, check, check, check, and check. What was missing?

Then it hit me. To get a new driver's license, I need a new picture! I glanced in the rear view mirror and recoiled in horror. I had not washed my hair in days, and the yolk colored shirt I had worn to bed the night before did nothing for my pregnancy-impaired complexion. I had left the house in my pj pants (a habit I had not indulged in since college days) because earlier that week I had literally busted through my jeans.

I was aghast. Months before when I realized I would need a new driver's license to match my new married name, I had eagerly anticipated the opportunity to do a picture re-take. I remember resolving to spare no pains in coiffing myself for the event; I had not prepared for my last picture at all and have had to live with the aesthetically offensive consequences ever since. This was supposed to be my day to shine!

And yet, and yet. I did not want to drive all the way home. After all, it had already taken me months to getting around to the chore. I also driven out of my way to go to my favorite DMV located in the heart of the South Side. It is a gem of a place filled with bureaucrats who speak in perpetually placating tones, free parking spaces, and great people watching opportunities. Because this DMV is located in a crime-ridden and highly segregated area, it also boasts a noticeable dearth of white people. It reminds me, in pleasant ways, of my short-lived teaching career in an equally segregated school not far from the facility.

With a sigh, I heaved myself out of the car and waddled into the DMV, all the while resigned to photographic doom. Soon, however, my frustrated feelings gave way to a sense of peace. There is something about being caught in the ineluctable grasp of government inefficiency (think four counters, two hours of waiting, and ten government officials later) that lulls you into a state of quiet quiescence. As much as you would like to speed up the process, you can't. It's you against the Department of Motor Vehicles, and, like it or not, you will sit where they tell you to sit until, hours later, some merciful bureaucrat decides to call your name. I wasn't the only one who decided to take my wait quietly; in fact, a sense of quiet resignation pervaded the entire facility, which, inefficient though it was, ran relatively calmly.


My only hurried movements occurred while waiting at counter number three (cashier), when I remembered that I carried earrings in my purse just for emergencies such as this. I crammed the earrings in and patted my eyebrows into place with my fingers, and then proceeded to take a seat in yet another waiting room.

It was at that moment that I spotted her. She was tall, perfectly coiffed, and arrayed in shiny black boots and an outfit that showed off her killer figure; if we weren't both waiting to have our pictures taken, I would have thought she was on her way to preform onstage as one of Beyonce's back-up singers. When she sat down a couple rows away, I stared. "Man," I thought to myself, "that is the way to go. She obviously remembered that this process involves a picture, and wow is she prepared!" I looked down wistfully at my shabby appearance and realized that even if I had taken the time, the end product wouldn't be the same. After all, how do you hide the fact that you look like a hippopotamus?

Then I heard her talking to the woman next to her, and to my delight, she started explaining why she looked so stunning. "My last picture was terrible!" she exclaimed, settling into her seat and shaking her beautiful curls vigorously. "I was pregnant and puffy, and nobody even recognizes me in the picture! I came here just to have my photo redone--I just couldn't take it anymore."

I rejoiced. There was hope for me, after all! At one point, this gorgeous woman had also been--in her very own words, "pregnant and puffy," and she too had suffered the consequences in her driver's license picture.

I zipped up my red sweater, pulled my hair out of my face, and smiled hopefully into the camera. Someday, post-pregnant me will do this again.

diplomacy and other matters

I love fresh air and have been known to keep my windows open in the dead of Chicago winters. Naturally, it did not even occur to me to close the windows this early in the game--even though the night temperatures have been doing precarious dips into the 40's and 30's. I have also  scrupulously turned off as many of our radiators as I can so that this quirk doesn't turn into our condo into an energy sink.

The other morning, Abe tentatively asked me when I intended to close the windows. I responded vaguely that I'd be open to discussion sometime around February. "What about November?" he asked pleadingly. "We'll see," I responded. Truthfully, my strategy was to keep saying "we'll see" all winter long and then appear open to compromise when the nice Spring air wafts invitingly into our home. (I learned the "we'll see" trick from my mom, who almost always substitutes "no" with that more diplomatic sounding phrase.)

Last night when Abe got home from his late night inspections, he was shivering. I assumed it was because he just stepped in from the cold, but as I was puttering in the kitchen, I turned around and saw that he had donned his ski hat!

After I did my share of laughing, my heart softened, and I closed our bedroom windows. The kitchen and living room are still open to the wonderfully brisk air, though, but I figure as long as I keep feeding Abe warm food, maybe he won't notice.

 

After I closed the windows, I asked for help opening a jar of saurkraut that I purchased at Hyde Park Produce yesterday. I have not had much luck with their jars; the last time I bought some jarred Borscht (Abe's favorite food--no joke), neither of us could open it and we relegated it to food storage. Same story with the saurkraut. "Man," Abe exclaimed, as he put down the unopenable jar, "if we ever need our food storage, people will discover our bodies next to these two jars. They'll think we're dead AND incompetent!"

On a completely unrelated note, I have two other pictures to post. One is of my trip to the Mexican Museum of Fine Art with my friend, Liz. We had  lot of fun wandering around looking at all of the Day of the Dead stuff. I have really enjoyed decorating for Halloween, and I was sorely tempted by all of the neat skeleton figurines in the gift shop. However, even simple decorations were going for hundreds of dollars, so I skipped the purchase and just took a picture of us instead. This one's a little fuzzy, but the unfuzzy picture had way too good of a view of my burgeoning butt, so I'm posting this one:

                                           

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My other picture is of the Salt Lake Temple. When I was out in Utah this past weekend, we had dinner with Abe's family on the top of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, and this is the view:

Abe sent me the same shot in an email before we were dating, and he titled it, "wish you were here." That was a great clue!

GRE practice

Tonight I accompanied Abe on his late night inspections, and we practiced his GRE words. At the end of the trip, we played a story game. We each took turns writing a sentence using at least one GRE word per turn. Here are our stories:

"The nadir of my life occurred when I was 14 years old. It was already hard being a neophyte at the nuances of high school life, but to make matters worse, Tommy Brown, the seraphic school quarterback, was oblivious to my existence. I suspect my obsequious  attempts to get his attention came across as officious behavior. For example, I offered to help him with his homework and brought him liberal helpings of homemade pie, but to no avail. Though our simple interactions must have seemed quotidian to him, a mere glance from Tommy would make the apex  of my day. Thought I was undoubtedly a nominal part of his existence, he was the reason I got up in the morning. My friends tried hard to explain his disinterest in me, but I was obstinate in my obsession. Perhaps he was turned off by my noisome odor. At the time, I didn't even know I smelled because my nose was perpetually occluded by allergies."

And then, we learned the word, "numismatics." It means, "coin-collecting." Abe pointed out that each phrase has four syllables, and the world would be just fine if we got rid of one phrase. But we made a story about it anyway.

"I love numismatics! Although others might consider my hobby jejune, I believe anyone who can't appreciate a fine coin collection is a Philestine. In fact, coin collecting is so thrilling to me, it obviates the need for any other hobbies. I have a coterie of friends who share my passion. We are such zealots that it would be impossible for us to abjure our love of coins. I keep my coffer of coins in a hidden safe because I fear that the mendacious mendicants who hang out near my house might try to break in and steal my collection. The hermetic  seal on my safe is so effective that it would prevent those dissembling crooks from stealing my collection--even if they knew where it was."

Yes, we are nerds.

Last night I found out the truth about my husband. It scared me.

It started out with a very pleasant dinner at the house of my mother-in-law, Karin. We were chatting easily about pets and Utah restaurants when the conversation turned to the subject of babies. I inquired about Karin's experience with her pregnancies and children. "The pregnancies were fine," she said, "but afterward it was really hard." She went on to explain that two out of her three children were collicky (the chances of having a collicky baby are one in ten), and that Abe, her first child, never slept for more than twenty minutes at a time. At that point, my heart dropped.

"That first year I was insane," she said. "He would cry and cry, and finally when he went to sleep I would start to relax, but then he would wake up twenty minutes later and start crying again. I thought I had given birth to a monster!" She was so busy trying to calm Abe down that she didn't even notice she was pregnant with her second child until four months into her second pregnancy. She only noticed she was pregnant when a neighbor helpfully pointed out that she looked pregnant and insisted she take a test. When she went to the doctor's, she discovered she'd already sailed through the first trimester and had less than six months to go before launch.

The good news is, her second baby, Jere, was a breeze. He obviously didn't cause much trouble in utero, and, in the words of Abe's youngest brother, David, Jere was "an angel" ex-utero as well. That settles it, I thought. If we have a boy, we're going to find a way to fit "Jeremiah" into his name. I am not interested in spending a year sleeping a mere twenty minutes at a time, so hopefully our baby will disregard the fussy-baby genes he inherited from his father and opt to live up to his name instead.

When I accused Abe of being a bad baby later that night, he had nothing to say for himself. "Hey, I've been a stress case since the minute I left the womb," he said. "I was probably freaked out at the lack of order in the universe and missed my warm amniotic sac. I've never done well with change, so I'm sure I was freaked out by earth life." That's true. Abe loves order and is slightly obsessed with creating systems to organize his world. Recently he took a practice GRE, and one of the passages he encountered was about how Greeks are pained by chaos and have a well-documented obsession with imposing systems of order on the universe. (That's why they made so many mathematical discoveries.) Darais is a Greek name (Abe's grandfather immigrated from Greece), and when Abe read that essay, he felt like he had engaged in an enlightened form of self-discovery.

But I am scared. Up until last night, I had been praying that our children would turn out just like Abe, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe I need to get more specific with God: I would like to place an order for an easy baby who sleeps for hours at a time. Any musical, artistic, or theatrical inclinations would also be a plus. Please discuss these matters soon with my future baby. Thank-you so much for your time and attention to this matter. Sincerely, one of your many freaked-out moms to be.

Addendum

I know two posts in one day is kind of excessive, but I am so exhausted right now that doing anything which requires verticality is simply out of the question. This is the craziest week I have had in a long time! First, I went to Springfield and back in about 26 hours. When I got home, I discovered a wedding picture surrounded by sticky notes with Abe's favorite memories of our time together on the coffee table (I love my husband!):

My grandma is moving, and I came back from Springfield laden with many of her unwanted items. My favorite is one of the very first pieces of baby furniture I have acquired thus far: a time out chair. (My poor baby. I haven't even bought so much as a diaper, but instead am welcoming him/her into a world rife with opportunities to earn time outs.) The chair is  black and looks rather Puritanical in cut. I might, with time, mellow out and paint the chair a less scary color. Or who knows? If my kids get really bad, I might go the other way and ask an artistic friend to paint some flames licking the legs of the chair.

 In any case, I should probably buy some diapers too.

Speaking of scary stuff, I also acquired some new witches for my witch collection. I started collecting witches in Rome's Piazza Navona at Christmastime. In Italy, the Christmas witch is known as "La Befana," "La Vecchia," or "La Strega," and she gives gifts to children on Epiphany Eve. Here are some of my witches:


Aren't they fun?

Today and tomorrow I will be cleaning and cooking like a madwoman to prepare for the arrival of my dear friend, Kristin, and her lovely family. I am also dog-sitting, so I woke at 3:30am to walk the dog in order to be on time to support my mom at a going-away breakfast some of her friends had for her. Tomorrow after I teach piano, my mom gets officially set apart as a missionary, and then on Thursday, after picking Kristin up from the airport and giving her a speedy tour of our neighborhood and home, I will depart for Utah with my mom and brother to drop my mom off at the MTC (Missionary Training Center). So much excitement for one little week! But the most exciting thing is that I think I just heard Abe's car--and that means I now have someone home to help me clean. Yay!

Morton Arbortetum

(Abe and I stand by one of the scarecrows in the Arboretum.)

Abe has been meaning to get to the Morton Arboretum for a looooooong time, and we finally went this weekend. The weather was beautiful, and apparently, we weren't the only ones with the idea. The car lines to enter the Arboretum reminded me of a traffic jam on the 405 in L.A., but once we got through them, we had a great time. Abe got a little excited by all the trees, as you can see here.

My back prevented me from expressing enthusiasm in a similar fashion, so I chose to enjoy the arboretum by planting myself solidly against a sturdy tree trunk.

After a while, I decided to sprawl on the ground. The view was great! All blue skies and colorful leaves.






When we got tired of reclining in the shadows of various trees, we grabbed a quick bite to eat and then headed into Abe's office so he could get some work done. I occupied myself by making Halloween invitations for the four-year old "sunbeams"we teach in church.








We are so excited for the party! I can't wait to post pictures of all the cute kids in their costumes. The party is October 29, so check back in if you want some cute overload in your life.

I began this blog hoping it would inspire me to take more pictures. To my dismay, the only graphics to adorn my poor little project have been stolen from the internet or provided by our wedding photographer. So, in attempt to fix this sorry state of affairs, I have finally taken some pictures!

Here is a picture of my current belly:



You can see that my butt wants to get a ying/yang thing going. Very discouraging.

I also took a picture of my kitchen because it's one of my happy spots. I would love to have you over for dinner!


If you came over for dinner, we could maybe have some curried carrot soup, courtesy of a recipe provided by our friends, Dan and Preethi Harbuck. (They made us a wonderful cookbook for our wedding! We love it.)


I also took a picture of the magazines I subscribe to. I hate opening the mailbox because it is usually filled with nasty things like bills and City of Chicago parking ticket notices. In order to motivate myself to check the mail, I subscribe to these:

The crazy thing is, I read all of my magazines, cover to cover. I love them! I even have a wish list. In a perfect world, I would also subscribe to The New Yorker and (may its canceled pages rest in peace) Gourmet. (Tear.) But Abe has promised me exciting things! Soon I am to be the recipient of The Wall Street Journal and FOUR investment magazines. I wonder if he's trying to tell me something about my money management skills...

And finally, I took a picture of Abe's planner.


Why, you might ask? Well, Abe is a lover of planning. He started weekly planning sessions with his family at the age of twelve, and some of his favorite childhood memories are of going to the Franklin Covey store with his dad for his yearly planner. He still spends hours every Sunday planning his week, and then, for fun, he will replan his week during weekdays. I am not a planner, but I have been feeling unproductive lately. Abe's solution? Plan! So, this Sunday, we planned. According to my new hourly planner, I am currently job hunting. Hmmm.

There. I think that redeems this blog from its former paucity of pictures. Wouldn't you agree?