La vida NICU

Before having a 3-pound baby, I'd never given a single dang thought to the NICU.  Now not only do I think about it, but I imagine coming into large sums of money and donating it to NICUs around the globe because, man!, they do some thiiiiings.

Hamb and I spend most of our free time at the Overlake NICU in Bellevue.  It's no snazzy coffee shop with board games and foamy milk and jazzy music, but we like it.  Our baby is there and all.

P's room back when she had that weird, clear, baby cage

Each baby has their own room at this NICU.  Phoebe welcomes us into hers, something she may be hesitant to do fifteen years from now.  We enter via a sliding door into a hall o' nurses who come in for feedings, to check on concerning beeps, to soothe crybabies, etc.  When I need to whip out the bosom for pumping or baby nuzzles, we close the door curtain so other NICU parents can't ogle my glorious chest.

In Phoebe's room, we have a crib (see ya, isolette!), cozy rolly chair for baby time, li'l couch that converts into a bed, shelves and a closet for our crap, and other medical stuff.  We've learned where back-up diapers are stored for proportionally impressive baby poops, how to turn off the annoying, "OMG THE FOOD IS DONE THE FOOD IS DONE COME CHECK TO MAKE SURE EVERYTHING IS OK!" beeper, and - wait for it - how to move our baby from point A to point B!  (This last thing is new in the last couple days.)

Whiteboard of cute, useful info

The super-secure NICU requires us to call in and share our secret code to get in (h no, you can't know it) (unless you read the hospital bracelet I'm required to wear... but I always wave my wrists erratically, so you have no chance at that), so you know the folks wandering the halls by the rooms are either staff or NICU families.  There are 12 NICU rooms, but sometimes only 3 or 4 are filled.  We don't know much about the other babies other than their names (thanks to adorbs name tags outside their doors) and how long they've been there; most babies are in and out within a couple days.  Only two other babies have been there as long as Phoebe, and I've only seen their parents once each.  I assume Phoebe has the best personality of all the babies, but I'll never be able to prove it due to all the dang privacy.  

Cute sign about being 4 lbs

I'm guessing the NICU employs around 25 nurses.  While we've had some a dozen times already, occasionally a new face shows up and we're suspicious... until they turn out to be as swell as the rest of the nurses.  Every person we've encountered is pleasant to us and downright delightful to the baby.  Plus, some of them make cute signs.  These nurses are like the ideal mix of a preschool teacher (crafty, sweet); doctor (well-versed in medicine); and painter of miniature figurines (able to deal with tiny things).

Hamb spends a few hours at the NICU about five days a week, and I spend between four and eight hours there every day, so we've become comfortable hanging out in rooms that smell like hand sanitizer and optimism.  Still, as grateful as we are for Phoebe's quality care, we'll be ready when our daughter declares, "I can do regular baby things.  Let's get on home."

Kangaroo care

When I was pregnant, I remember thinking how weird it would be if I were a marsupial and my fetus decided to climb out of me underdeveloped and then finish growing in an exterior pouch.  Well, that's kind of what happened, and that's kind of what happens to premature human babies all over the dang world.

Hamb and I are fortunate enough to live in driving distance to plenty of great hospitals, but in some countries, preemies don't have access to cozy isolettes and well-trained doctors, so their survival/thriving rates were much lower than in developed nations.  Then, somebody was like, "Look what happens when this baby snuggles up on its mom!  OMG! Stability!"

It turns out that these preemies kind of wanted the marsupial pouch experience.  You can't blame them.  It's cozy.

Now "Kangaroo Care" is used almost all day in places where medical technology isn't as advanced, and it's used frequently plenty of other places.  Study after study have shown that when babies are snugged up on a parent's chest, their temperature, heartbeat, and breathing regulate.  It's during this stable, sleepy time that the babies do almost all of their growing.

My view during Kangaroo Care

Apparently my body knows what to do as well as the baby's body during "Kangaroo Care."  When I sense her getting too hot or too cold, my boobs change temperature!  Really!  (I haven't actually noticed this.  Medical studies told me.)  Also, K-care releases all sorts of hormones in me that makes pumping (and later breastfeeding) wildly successful.  Post-cuddle milkfest!

All this means that Hamb and I have been taking off our shirts and cuddling with the baby.  (Not both of us at once, weirdo.)  We do it during her feeding time (which is just when a vial of milk is being slowly pushed into a tube that goes down her nose into her stomach) so she associates feeding with skin.  Because of our schedules, we probably get in a total of 2-3 hours a day, but once she's home it's practically going to be an all day kangaroo party.  (Besides the boxing.  Don't kangaroos box?)

Since "Kangaroo Care" and "Skin-to-skin" time is being used more and more in hospitals, you'll probably see plenty of pictures of both moms and dads sans shirt cuddling up with their babies.  It's not just us bragging about our hot bods (though that is definitely part of it), but rather giving our babies the best shot at growing up and bragging about THEIR hot bods.

How the gal grows

Phoebe is experiencing her third trimester outside of the womb.  That's so bizarre.  Like, the things she's doing are about the same as she'd be doing if she were in my belly, minus all the wires she's hooked up to.  And the breathing.  And the occasional bleating like a goat.

In many ways, she's like a regular newborn but teenier.  She was 16.5 inches long at birth (possibly shorter now since her cone head has gone down some), and a full-term baby is about 20 inches long.   That means most of the weight difference is made up in chub.  She's skinny like Hamb, except it's not quite as handsome on a baby.

Awake, wired up, and cone-headed!

Fortunately, I have a plethora of excess ounces to transfer her way via boob milk.  I pump my milk bags every 2-3 hours, just as often as if she were nursing regularly.  (This has challenged my initial thought of, "The only nice thing of having a baby in the NICU is that I'll get more sleep than I would if she were home right now.")  Then I deliver it to the NICU nurses, and they stick it in a tube that goes through Phoebe's nose into her stomach.  She eats 30 ml (about one ounce) every 3 hours.  That seems like a lot, but we need to bulk up this baby!  Right now, she's 10 grams (about a third of an ounce) from her birth weight, and the goal is to get her gaining 20-30 grams a day.  

A week and a half ago, I couldn't have told you much about why breast milk was great except that smart people told me it was, so I believed them.  Now, those smart people have given me details.  In addition to helping babies gain weight, breast milk also helps their brains develop more quickly (something about certain fats) and - get this - I PASS ON ANTIBODIES TO HER!  So let's say I'm exposed to some li'l virus at 1:00 PM.  By 2:00 PM, my body has figured out a way to fight that virus and then I pass that "immuno-knowledge" to Phoebe in the next breastfeeding session.  Whaaaat!

For some reason, my breastmilk is also helping Phoebe become more resistant to other dumb diseases and health hassles later in life including cancer, diabetes, allergies, and Inflammatory Bowel Disease (something she has a 1 in 10 chance of getting, what with my Crohn's and all).

All of this makes the 4:30 AM alarm and "Pump!" message that flashes on my phone screen far more tolerable.  When she's home and eventually able to breastfeed (34 weeks gestational age at the earliest - her brain can't tell her how to multi-task sucking, swallowing, and breathing right now), I'll think of her midnight whinings for food as a request for magic disease-fighters.  That's kind of bad ass, and I'd much rather cuddle up to a baby than a hospital-grade breast pump anyway.

A Birthday Post

What better reason to resurrect a blog than Phoebe Jean Hambleton?  Folks have inquired about our baby's startling escape from my uterus, so here's the tale from the beginning:

Background - It was Saturday, June 28th at 10:00 PM.  I was 30 weeks, 6 days pregnant (out of 40 weeks, if you need some context).  I was wearing my gray-striped t-shirt.

And I was sitting in this exact seat - eastern-most at the dining room table, typing on the laptop, sitting on the red cushion - when I thought, "I sure do have to pee, as usual."  This was no normal pee sesh, however.  It was a li'l red.

I came out of the bathroom, saw Hamb, and said, "Don't panic, but I'm bleeding.  I'm going to call the doctor and they'll tell me to come in, but it's probably nothing."  He did panic a bit, especially when I started leaking like a failed water balloon.  Drew tossed three baby books in a bag, escorted our dog to the Toyota Matrix, and we moseyed down to the Group Health Birthing Center on Capitol Hill.  (Question for Hamb: Why did we take the Matrix?  Why not our spanking new Subaru Outback?)

Sweet nurses and doctors started poking around and confirmed our concerns that yes, in fact, my water had broken. Dr. Something explained, "Our goal is to keep you pregnant as long as you can be up until 34 weeks, at which time we'll induce you to avoid the infection risks.  Until then, you'll be on bed rest here."  (It should be noted that at this point, I felt zero pain and zero contractions.)  "However, if you end up going into labor some time this week, we'll transport you to UW or Overlake where their NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) is better prepared for babies under 32 weeks," she elaborated.

At this point, Hamb drove home to transfer our dog to in-laws Ben and BSands and pick up 3-week bed-rest essentials like my body pillow, phone charger, and current book club book.

The body pillow was useless.  My contractions started right as Hamb returned to the hospital.

The Group Health doctors injected me with a steroid to develop the baby's lungs and something else to temporarily slow my contractions.  Then a few EMTs rolled me into an ambulance and swept me OVER the LAKE to Overlake Hospital while Hamb drove closely behind.  It was a pleasant trip.  No contractions, just stories of the drunks the EMTs had been dealing with.

---Note: I had to confer with Hamb about these next details.  Apparently I fell asleep.  Who knew?--- Once I arrived at the hospital, a nurse named Christina helped me get settled in and updated my stats on the white board in the room.  My goal for the day: "Stay pregnant!"

I did not achieve that goal.

The contractions started returning around sunrise, so the doctors started pumping me with magnesium.  Supposedly this has several benefits, one of which is that the magnesium replaces some of the calcium in your muscles so contractions can't be as forceful.  (Weird.  Science is weird.)  Around this time, Nurse Christina (who was delightful during our few interactions) was replaced by Nurse Christine (the world's best nurse), a sassy version of Ann Perkins who at one point told my dad that though she couldn't examine his knee, she could examine his vagina.  Haha!  Hahaha!

Around 9:00, our families start showing up.  Drew's parents came in and were lovely.  My parents and Grandma DoDo came in and were lovely.  The NICU doctor came in and explained what I can expect from a nine-week-early baby.  The ultrasound technician came in and examined the unborn baby (whose heart was beating healthily and diaphragm was hiccuping enthusiastically).  Christine taught me some coping strategies we would have learned if I could have gone to the last 6 classes of our 7-class birthing series.

All was well!  We were happy!  Even through the hot-flashy fuzz of the magnesium!

Then shit starts getting real.  The contractions start being painful and frequent.  We give up on the dream of giving baby another shot of lung-helping steroids.  At 10:45ish I kick out my family.  At 11:15ish I have a conversation with Christine about drugs.  At 11:55ish I'm being wheelchaired to the delivery room (and told there is no time for drugs) as Christine wrangles the necessary doctors and nurses.  At 12:07, I push out a baby.  I see she's pink, I hear her cry, and someone said, "It's a girl!  She's a girl!"

The rest runs together, but I know that Hamb followed our daughter to the NICU while I got cleaned up.  Our parents came in to celebrate with us, and at some point Hamb came back to tell me that our girl was 3 pounds, 5 ounces of breathing, cone-headed Hambleton.

We told our parents to go to lunch and that when they returned, we'd have picked out a name.  We knew the middle name Jean - we each have a grandmother named Jean - and it took us about eight seconds to agree that of the names on our short list, Phoebe was the best fit.

So that, interested parties, is how Phoebe Jean Hambleton was born.  I'll post Phoebe updates here (along with other sentiments, probably about blueberries) to keep Phoebe phans happy.

Bird Year

In 2013, I intend to identify at least one hundred species of birds.  When I bring it up, most people are like, "Isn't that really easy?  Aren't there like three hundred species in just Seattle?"  I have three responses:
1. I don't know how easy it will be.  I've never done it, goof.
2. There are lots and lots of species in Seattle, but that doesn't mean it's simple to track down the rascals.
3. I don't just have to see these birds.  I have to identify them.

I keep the bird list on my phone.  Every weekend, I add new species.  Here's my unscientific, not-exactly-in-order List of Birds I've Seen and Identified (Sometimes With Help) in 2013 Thus Far:
1. Harrier
2. Snow goose
3. Bald eagle
4. Short-eared owl
5. Western meadowlark
6. Hooded merganser (picture of a happy h. merg. couple on the right)
7. Bufflehead
8. American wigeon
9. Eurasian wigeon
10. Northern shoveler
11. Mallard
12. Double-crested cormorant
13. American robin
14. Killdeer
15. Good ol' American crow
16. Common goldeneye
17. Coots, coots, coots
18. Dark-eyed junco
19. Northern flicker (Pic of one of these guys on the left... imagine it hammering annoyingly on our metal chimney cover. One did that this morning.  Silly dummies.)
20. Chestnut-backed chickadee
21. Ruby-crowned kinglet
22. Pine siskin
23. Stellar's jay
24. European starling (ewwww)
25. Spotted towhee
26. Varied thrush
27. Anna's hummingbird
28. Black-capped chickadee
29. Great blue heron
30. Red-tailed hawk
31. Barrow's goldeneye
32. Red-breasted nuthatch
33. Wee flock o' bushtits! (See that li'l posse on the right? Those are bushtits! Their sweet, pure souls contrast their giggle-worthy name.)
34. House finch
35. Bewick's wren
36. Common merganser
37. American goldfinch

Boldies = birds new to my life list
Italies = birds I really, really love

Get ready for some serious 2013 bird tales, friends.  And if I finally see the Swainson's Thrush instead of just hearing it, get ready to sip some champagne with me!

The Year of Nothing Big

The past half a decade, I've been earning degrees, getting hitched, buying houses, paying vet bills, and so on.  It's been busy.  So last year, husb and I were like, "Let's not do anything in 2012."  Do nothing we did.

This made time for reading.

My favorite book of 2012 wasn't the best written, wasn't the most exciting, and wasn't the most respectful of my wholesome spirit.  None of that mattered when you have characters like Tyrion Freaking Lannister.  This  little man exemplified all that is perfect about Game of Thrones - characters who are cruel and loveable, beautiful and confused, courageous and doomed.  Also, ale.

I started book one over the summer.  House, pets, and spouses were neglected until I finish the fourth in the series.  I held out on investing in book five because it's hardback and we're not the Gates family, but a few handy connections and pdf conversions made it possible for me to finish book five last month.  These characters and their stories have consumed my every thought.  (Exaggeration.  Not every thought.  But seriously, if I spoke about direwolves every time they popped in my mind, I would lose friends.  Good friends.  Friends who put up with my deep and eternal Harry Potter love.)

I'm not a fantasy weirdo and dragons don't do it for me, but man oh man, Thrones has consumed me.  Print a character tree, a map of Westoros, and get your literate butt reading.

2013 in your face

Guess what I'm going to do in 2013.  No guesses?  You're so silent.

I'm going to blog.

Living in the 'burbs

Second, Shoreline boasts Shoreview Park.  So! Many! Shores! Around here!  To be honest, I never saw the view of the shore, but I did see a few mini-waterfalls and a hidden lake aptly named Hidden Lake.  Plus, tennis courts.  Get under my feet on a warmer day, tennis courts.  I'll spend many a spring day fluffing around this place, and perhaps we are more patient next time, we'll see the shockingly boring Kingfisher actually do a little fishing.

We moved to Shoreline, a suburb of Seattle, for these reasons:
1. We could afford a solid house here.
2. We could afford a yard here.
3. It's a delightful little place.

Number three was confirmed during Drew and Kelly Have the Day Off and Drive Around and Discover Many Awesome Parks Day.  Others call it "Sunday, March 4th" or "Today".

First, we accidentally moseyed into the Richmond Beach Saltwater Park.  I want you to imagine a perfect Northwest beach: salty driftwood, miscellaneous waterfowl, dogs.  There you have it.  Of course, similar elements can be found in "the city", but their loveliness is diminished by the crowds of crazies and ban on pups.  Richmond Beach was dogtastic, and our (currently blind in one eye) dog was even able to trot leash-free into the agua.  That's what's up.

Kingfisher Friend

Third... psych, we didn't get to a third because we had to shop for groceries.  But no matter, both parks today rivaled my fav Seattle park, Carkeek, and these were just ones we stumbled across.  Who knew our affordable, new community would also be an awesome, new community?

My History with Live Rodents

Rodent Experience #1:

Until 2006, I believed rodents only lived on farms and in dingy New York apartments. Abey Cat debunked that myth with the thoughtful prezzy of a live mouse.  One lovely summer afternoon, he strutted through our open door, rodent in mouth.  He interpreted my scream as, "Oh, obviously Kelly wants this in her room," and he trotted upstairs to liberate the rodent there.

Who could help me?  My first thought was my favorite lesbian, but she didn't answer the phone.  My next thought was my favorite former-country-dweller, Lynn.  She did answer the phone.  Then she came over and we ransacked my room, to no avail.  (This was our first time hanging out in a non-group setting, and we became great pals.  Almost exactly five years later, she officiated my wedding.)

We never found the mouse.




Rodent Experience #2:

Second verse, same(ish) as the first.  It was July 2010, and this time I didn't have to call Lynn because we were roomies.  In fact, we were in the living room sobering up from a Happy Hour On Alki Beach buzz when we heard a strange noise at the front door.  "Dumb Abe," I thought as I opened the door to let him in.  False.  It was actually "Dumb Kelly." The croak was coming from the terrified mouse in Abe's mouth, not Abe himself.  Just like four years before, Abe ran into my room and freed the mouse.  Egggh.

Once again, Lynn was my hero.  She chased the mouse from room to room, trying to kill it with a Catholic Bible (our heaviest book... don't take it personally, Pope) until it holed up in the heater.  Since Drew was on his way over, he agreed to pick up mouse traps.  Lynn set them, and Drew and I barricaded my bedroom while we slept on the living room futon.  Harper's kennel cough, the lumpy futon mattress, and our deep, deep fear made it the worst night's sleep of our lives.

In the morning, the mouse was dead in the trap.  Lynn dealt with it.



Rodent Experience #3:

Six months later, I was living with Drew, and we had another rodent.  This time Abe had nothing to do with it.  We arrived home after being away for Christmas, and the animals were acting suspicious.  Harper barked in the middle of the night.  Abey skitted around the floor like a useless hunter.  Then, I saw it - a mouse home (sans mouse) in a box of panty liners.

So. Gross.

We set traps around the house.  The rodent has not been found.



Rodent Experience #4:

Last week, I was driving home from work when Drew called.  "Kel, are you almost home?" he asked in an unsettling voice.  I said yes, I was five blocks away, and what was wrong?  I thought someone had died.  He whispered, "There is a noise in the bathroom.  I think we have... a mouse."

I walked in confident that he was being paranoid, but my first step in the bathroom revealed a scratching noise.  We thought it came from a drawer.  Drew set traps, and we dashed off to a Thai restaurant to enjoy spring rolls while we waited for the rodent to be snapped to death.

We arrived home to empty traps.  We dehydrated ourselves so that we would not have to use the restroom.  In the middle of the night, we awoke to noisy scratching and clunking.  Fear. Fear. Fear.

Come morning, the traps were still empty.  Our midnight Fright Conversation resulted in a plan that involved giant garbage bags, the drawer thing, and our backyard.  On my morning run to Safeway for said garbage bags, I used their bathroom.  I returned, we enacted the plan, and we found nothing.

That rodent is probably the same rascal involved in Rodent Experience #5.



Rodent Experience #5:

Three hours ago, I heard a familiar scratching.  I boldly walked into the bathroom and kicked the stupid drawers, but the noise continued.  What was this?  It was coming from INSIDE THE WALLS.   Motherf'er.

Drew was at work and Lynn was in California, so I called the neighbors.  I said, "Za, there is noise in my bathroom, and I need you to hear it."  She strolled on over and gently told me, "Umm... that sounds like a rat building a nest."  Since Za is (a) very brave and (b) vaccinated for rabies due to a raccoon incident last year, she took charge.

First, we locked Abe in the bathroom hoping he'd catch the damn thing.  He was pathetic, so we freed him.  Second, we duct taped the crap out of holes under the kitchen sink in case the bastard tried to escape there.  Third, Za courageously vacuumed near the tiny hole behind the toilet to scare it while I stood behind her with an empty box telling myself that I would be strong enough to trap it if it ran by.  Last, we taped up the "vacuum hole" and listened.  Silence.

I have vacuumed every half hour since then just to freak it out.  Move out, rodent!  You're not welcome!  I have called our landlords and they will come get you if you don't leave on your own!

The rodent is still unaccounted before, but at least it's quiet.


I hope this is where my Rodent History ends forever and ever.  We are moving to Shoreline in a couple weeks.  Mice and rats have a reputation to keep, and I'm pretty sure they would never allow themselves to live in the suburbs.


At least it's not dinosaurs.

Christmas Movies

In December, I watch Love Actually and Sleepless in Seattle two to three times a week.  Once I invest in White Christmas, Home Alone (one AND two, perhaps?), and It's a Wonderful Life, I will only leave the house to replenish my hot chocolate and wrapping paper supply.

Also, we bought a house.  Booyaaaa.

What You Don't See In My Paycheck

I am the teacher, so I can force my students to tell me their favorite baby animal.  Last week, I did.  One of my students, an English Language Learner, asked me, "What's the word for a baby camel?"  I answered, "I don't know.  I think 'baby camel'."

I was wrong.  It's a calf.  He was right.  They're adorable.  Here are pictures:

If the "name your favorite baby animal" game was a contest, that student would have won.  What can I ask them that tops this?

Life Things

You know how I know I'm adult?  I almost went to Fred Meyer to buy files.  Files!  (I also had an ulterior motive to invest in fancy apples.  Drew once harassed me about the cost of my favorite apples [Sweet Tango, Pink Lady, Granny Smith, in that order], but now he's gone and married me and there's nothing he can do about my expensive tastes.)  Instead, I will ransack our stinky office/guest room/cat lair and use old ones.  You could call me Frugal Kelly... Frugal Kelly Except for the Apples.

This file mania stems from three situations, two major and one minor.

Major #1: We are going to leave redfin.com and explore the real world of houses.  Living the American Dream will go well with our love for Settlers of Catan.  OMG capitalism.  Anyway, paperwork like "whoa."

Major #2: I officially changed my name today.  The process was made easier by the social security lady who was also born on good ol' April 16th.  You know how when you share a birthday with a stranger, suddenly you're friends?  Yep, we're getting tattoos together tomorrow and then making a tape to be on the next season of Amazing Race.  Anyway, paperwork like "kind of whoa."

Minor #1: Harper Dog murdered our comforter.  It's a relief that the comforter was filled with down rather than grenades or wolverines or volatile sacks of poison, but it still made a mess.  Dust busting our bedroom (because our vacuum cleaner broke the day we received that dust buster... we were destined to hunch while removing grime) sent us into a cleaning frenzy.  Thus, the tossing out of 3-year-old bills.  Get out of here, 3-year-old bills.  (Do NOT get out of here, 3-year-old Bills.  Most of us can agree that non-crying three-year-olds are adorable, and ones named Bill? The vision is a fluffy dream.)

What's next?  Putting away the rest of the wedding prezzies?  Haaaaa.

A silly bird.

Double-crested Cormorants love Hammersley Inlet, the fjord my parents live above. I watch them waggle their wings like the barely evolved rascals they are.

Drew tells me they hold out their wings like football players saying, "Appreciate my masculinity!" because they never acquired whatever it is that allows most birds to dry off.  He's probably right.  However, I choose to think that they do it to entertain me.  I hold binoculars to my eyes like a weirdo to entertain them.  The Cormorants and I have an unspoken agreement to amuse one another.

Nature is considerate of my need to giggle.

Hamb and I got hitched four weeks ago.

Our wedding was so much fun I puked.

The ceremony with a pal's fancy iPhone touch on it.

A shot of the handsome, married, Hamblecouple.

Happy bride, happy parents.

An owl named Pigwidgeon could have delivered this.

I went to Harry Potter land for my bachelorette party. Oh yeah, I totally outbacheloretted you. There, I received the poem below and several tasks that I failed. (Don't judge me. It's hard to order butterbeer in Parseltongue....)

KJDub, the girl who lived,
Many missions you will be gived.

All these tasks you must complete
Or Harpy Walden, Voldy will eat.

You will be given tasks one at a time.
None involve coronas and lime.

Don't look for owls. Florida is too hot.
Task by text is what you've got.

Blimey! Each task will be hard.
Always be vigilant, be on your guard.

Strange people may approach you.
You must complete those tasks too.

After completing the tasks you'll be ready to wed,
And be ready for hippogriff-style in the marriage bed.

Like Harry Potter, you can rely on your friends.
They'll be with you until the end.

We hope you succeed. We hope you don't flunk.
Because once you succeed, we can get crunk!

Paws Up: A Good Week

1. Lady Gaga's new album comes out tomorrow. I plan to sing "Edge of Glory" all day every day until I die or until I discover an even better Gaga tune, whatever comes first.

2. Thursday, I am hopping on a plane with several of my besties and flying to Orlando, Florida. There, we will enjoy Harry Potter land, vitamin D, and an unheated pool.

And Kindle was its name-o

I'm looking at John Steinbeck. He resembles 20% of the men I'd see on Seattle's trendy Capitol Hill. His hair is lightly floofed, his expression is slightly pompous, and he's mustachioed. Don't ask me on a date, John Steinbeck. Do, however, stay on my Kindle because you're a delightful screensaver.

What? Oh, yeah, I have a Kindle. I'm one of thoooose, and I love it. Here are the books my teensy weensy machine has awaiting:
-Moby Dick
-War and Peace
-Poems by Emily Dickinson
-BOSSYPANTS! Booya!

(I ended with that last one by Ms. TINA FEY! Booya! for two reasons.
1. It makes me sound like less of a d'bag than those first ones did. I have no no problem sharing my appreciation of old, snooty books, but I do have shame about listing books to sound awesome. I listed them because they're big and my Kindle is small. Plus, they were free. So it's cool. And anyway, I have about 15 other books like those, and I didn't even tell you about them. 2. Bossypants will transform you into Peepants. I cannot count the number of times it has made me cackle aloud, and my counting skills are above average. Truth. Ask me to count something.)

I also use my Kindle to lose at chess (it keeps me humble), distract Hamb with the word jumble (it keeps him from interrupting bad TV shows I like), and stay up on the terrible, free books that are released every day (it keeps me from being a productive member of society).

I'm not an electronics nerd, but this thing has made my life wonderful. Owning a Kindle + knowing Tina Fey exists and continues to write = the happiest lady on this couch.

Pileated Pal

It's a good thing gray skies don't stop the Walden, because if they did, I would have never made a new bird friend. Yes internet-users, today I saw my first Pileated Woodpecker. "Ain't no thang," you say? You think it's just a bird? You're silly. Look:

The Pileated Woodpecker is funny! It has a red fan head, a gangly neck, and pecks dead trees like there's no tomorrow... or maybe there will be a tomorrow, but all the dead trees will have vanished by then. Either way, the Pileated Woodpecker is a manic with the beak.

I saw the goober today in Carkeek Park. Harper Dog and I were huffing and puffing up a hill (that, if I were in better shape, would not be huff-and-puff-worthy) when I saw a massive, flying, hunk of feathers zoom in front of me. It soared like this other creature did once right before Hamb said, "That was a Pileated Woodpecker that just flew by! Did you see it?" And I was like, "Hamb, you weirdo, you can't tell what the bird was just by how it flew!" But I was wrong. It was my biannual mistake. He could tell what kind of bird it was.

I know this because today when I thought, "Whatty what what... that flew like that other thing Hamb said was a Pileated Woodpecker. Could it be?" I snuck up the trail because I didn't want to scare it away, but it wouldn't have mattered it anyway. It was a Pileated Woodpecker, and it didn't give a Spotted Owl's hoot that I was watching it like a creeper. That bird flicked sawdust this way and hopped that way and totally owned that tree.

It was a thrill, and it didn't even matter that I hadn't brought my new binoculars (a gift from my future in-laws who tricked me into liking these rascally, winged beasts) because it was only fifteen feet away. If Hamb were there, he could have stretched out his freakishly long arm and poked it.

Way to be in my life, Pileated Woodpecker. Also, thanks for coming along after I had already locked down an awesome man so that it doesn't matter if my excessive nerdiness scares of future mates. I don't need them. Just give me my Hamb, my pup, my park, and more goofy-looking birds.

Hypothetical "Most Awesome Day" Becomes Reality

If someone had asked, "What would be your ideal Saturday?" I'd answer, "Well, Asker, I'd want to go on a short hike with my dogger, bake cookies, spend an hour or two reading, socialize a bit, and find free money."

Well stomp your foot, it totally happened.

Harper Dog and I trotted around Carkeek Park, my favorite King County location. It cancels out so much urban crappiness. Plus, we met a well-behaved dachshund named Moe.

I baked thumbprint cookies for our neighbor because he always takes out our garbage on Wednesday mornings when we've forgotten. I saved a couple for Hamb, because that is one of the perks of being engaged to me. Cookies.

I flopped on the couch and read The Bishop's Man. Solid characters, interesting story.

Tonight, Hambo and I are heading to the neighbors for dinner, cards, and dog frolics. (Their pupper Coal is a black lab mix. He makes sounds like Chewbacca.)

And the free money? Yep, that happened too. The federal government decided that I overpaid them, so they're giving me a pile of cash back. I love tax refunds almost as much as I love taxes. Truth. "Taxes are a down payment on the common good." The common good is wonderful! Give me a hug, common good! And feel free to toss me a couple dollars!

It's too bad you weren't here, reader pal. Today was a winner.

In case you missed it, here is an adorable picture of Harper and Drew's feet.