A CRY FOR BLOG HELP!

Suddenly my feedburner feed is invalid! I can't even get it myself through feeds. If any of you are getting this could you please recommend someone, an actual live person, who can advise me on how to re-validate my feed. I made a few changes this weekend (trying to provide links to Digg, StumbleUpon, etc.) and suddenly my feeds are not working. I've crawled through various feedburner help groups but this is too complex and they really don't offer much in the way of help.

Can anyone be my blogger knight in shining armor???

Hello????

Many thanks.

PROFILE OF A BEACH NEIGHBORHOOD

I LOVE where I live.
Not much to complain about.
Sunny California.
Walks to the beach, park, school.
Tight-knit community with our own local newspaper.
Sounds like heaven, no?

There's just one thing...

CONSTRUCTION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seems I'm not the only one who thinks this is paradise.
For the past year, I have been sandwiched in by dirt lots like this one:

which became homes for fragrant porta-potties and temporary fences like this one ( Fridays are potty clean-out day):which became mammoth wooden structures on postage-stamp sized lots like this one:and within a year or two a house like this:becomes a house like this:
I am the corned beef currently wedged between these two slices of rye:
Lest I forget, this is the house behind me which has been under exceptionally noisy construction for over two years now:


Until this point, I have been very zen.
I dismissed my neighbors' worry, concern, joy that it wasn't their home pity for me.
I dismissed the countless mornings (Saturdays, too) I awakened at 6:59am to hear heavy metal pipes hitting the ground, loud music blasting from tinny, portable radios, the roach coach horns blaring "chow time".
I dismissed sawdust blanketing my car, my patio furniture, my dog's food bowl.
I dismissed chunks of wood and metal landing like errant pieces of satellite onto my rear deck.
I dismissed hearing jackhammers and inhaling second hand smoke during dinner.
I dismissed seeing one of the brand new houses get sold, breathing a sigh of relief, and days later watching more construction workers park in the driveway for 3 MORE months of noisy "renovations".
I dismissed the loss of my beautiful bedroom mountain view for this:



UNTIL YESTERDAY...

When a loud music playing, cigarette smoking, jack-hammer toting worker stood on the same second floor balcony that blocks my beautiful mountain view (and creates a clear visual runway from their master bedroom to our master BED) and blew out three loud, wet, thick, germ-laden sneezes only to then turn 180 degrees toward my house, collect whatever did not come out in the previous snot-ridden rainstorm, and hock a huge slimy, loogy into my backyard.

Splat.

I heard and saw the whole gross episode from behind this window down here:




He didn't know I was there.
Though he might have heard me gagging.

I've tried to remain calm. I've tried to see the glass half full. I'm all for raising the home value in my neighborhood ... but does that mean my yard has to be used as a freakin' spittoon?!?!

THE TRUST MATRIX

It seems everyone is admitting to infidelity these days. The onslaught of public confessions has brought my subconscious insecurities to the surface causing me recurrent nightmares. Two mornings in a row I woke my husband with a swift punch in the arm punishing him for his overnight betrayal.

I'm intelligent, I'm in touch with my feelings, I knew my dreams were not reality so I apologized, we laughed, and went on with our day.

Until...

circumstances led us to a situation with another woman. I know this woman, know she and my husband are close friends. I didn't question it...until others did.

Like poison seeping into the well through imperceptible cracks, I couldn't keep their words from entering my head. My gut and my brain went to war. My gut telling me that I know my husband and I would sense if something was different. My brain asking me, reiterating what others inferred, "How do you REALLY know? Does anyone REALLY know another person?"

The nightmares flooded back. Stories of Spitzer, Paterson, and countless others, public figures and personal acquaintances, betraying their loved ones rang in my head.

The insecurities morphed into anger. I was distant, curt. My anger made him impatient and we fed off of each other until a perfectly pleasant morning turned into a chilly and isolated afternoon. When I finally explained the root of my wrath he did not react with affirmations of love or nurturing murmurs of no need to worry. He got mad. It didn't occur to me that he would be upset at my distrust. I hadn't thought about it that way. I hadn't thought about him. At first I was defensive. Angry at me? I was angry at him. He had no right. But you know what? He did. After 15 years of infidelity-free marriage, didn't he (didn't we) deserve better from each other?

Marriage is hard. We make life-long vows to one person. We're human and vows are bound to be tested. Over the course of a marriage, both people will have opportunities to stray emotionally and physically. It takes commitment to the vows, to your spouse, and a serious consideration of the consequences, to not go outside the marriage. By protecting yourself, assuming the worst, it won't lessen the pain if your spouse is unfaithful. So why bother? It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. To project the worst onto someone, always assume they are capable of bad behavior, is to eat away at the trust and the reasons for good behavior become less clear.

On the other hand, if you trust your gut, assume the other person is the person they say they are, the person you believe they are, there still is that risk of a breech, of human failing. Others may deem you a fool, you may deem you a fool, but ultimately it's not about anyone else. It's about you, your spouse and your faith in each other.

HOW I BECAME A MOMMA

Sarcastic Mom has mommy bloggers out there writing about their birth experiences in her Birth-Story Carnival. I've never written on paper about the birth of my daughter (I am a writer who is terrible at keeping journals), but I've written it in my head no less than fifty times.



It was a warm September morning and the walk from the Fox Studios employee parking structure to my office in the executive building felt like the last mile in a marathon. Before this day, my pregnancy had not stopped me from doing much of anything in my daily life, although it did create a constant need to have Tums on hand. I continued working, doing yoga, walking my dogs, going out on weekends. But in my 38th week, walking the quarter mile to my office, in 90 degree heat, I sensed a definite shift.

When I arrived in my office, sweating and desperate for a glass of water, I announced to my boss that today would be my last day. Mother's intuition. I began some serious nesting. I organized four years worth of Bon Appetit recipes into a large, three-ring binder. I bought, washed and folded hundreds of pieces of Carter's onesies, bath towels, and diaper cloths. I bought a plastic doll wrapped it in Pampers and attempted to introduce it to my two chocolate labradors. That quickly went south when I found them jumping on the kitchen counter trying to play with it. I got serious about finding a nanny since I was returning to work after my maternity leave.

A few days after leaving my office, I awoke at 2am to cramping sensations. By 9am, the pains were consistent enough for me to call my doctor but not strong enough to be sure I was in labor. I saw the doctor at 12pm for my regular appointment. I was a bit dilated but not enough to guarantee imminent delivery. He sent me home predicting it could be today or it could be a few days. I tried to squeeze in a haircut appointment but the woman refused to take me fearful I might break water in her chair. I set up a meeting with a promising nanny at 4pm. I gave my husband the head's up so he would come home early. He had a meeting until 5:30 but would come home afterward. Everything was in order.

Already mocking my illusion of efficiency, the baby decided to kick things up a notch minutes before the nanny candidate knocked at my door. By the time I sat down with her we had to frame our conversation between escalating contractions during which I would excuse myself to my bedroom to hunch down on all fours and breathe through the intensifying pain. I called my husband but he was unreachable. By the time he showed up at 7:30 my bags were at the door and my fury was firmly in his face.

At the hospital I assumed my husband would tell them to call our doctor but I probably forgot to put that in his instructions and I was a slightly distracted. It was a busy night for birthing babies and in triage I was deemed low priority.

"Are you a nullipara?" asked a young woman wearing hospital scrubs and a clipboard from which she never raised her eyes.
"What?" I asked.

She repeated herself despite the obvious inconvenience.

"Is this your first baby?" she said.
"Yes," I said proudly as if she was one of the those people who'd thrust their hand onto my belly to share in God's miracle.

Uninterested, she walked away muttering more to herself than to me, "You'll be awhile. We'll get you when we have a room."

I thought about asking how long it would be but I could already imagine her answer, "Young lady," she would say, "this is a hospital not a restaurant. We do not accept reservations."

I heard moans and screams coming from behind closed doors. Doctors and residents moving, reviewing. Helpless husbands peeking out looking for nurses. After an hour or so of sitting on a hard plastic chair, filling out paperwork between contractions, taking myself to some inner place, I began to envy the screaming women. At least they could scream from the comfort of a warm bed, from behind walls in anonymity. I had to shift to keep my blood circulating and stifle my groans for fear of public humiliation.

I was eventually assigned a room and a resident - both were cold and sterile. I'd been through my share of unpleasant sexual experiences before but having a total stranger shove his fist up my hole and tool around was by far the worst. By 11:30 that evening I was experiencing horrible back labor with contractions every 3 minutes. My husband stayed close massaging me with a tennis ball which at this point had the potency of a Raisinet. The nurse watched the fetal monitor and after a particular painful contraction she flatly remarked, "That was a strong one."

Really. I hadn't noticed. Fuckface.

But the real fuckface made his way back into my room and once again jabbed his fist up my crotch only to state to the nurse as if we weren't even there, "I can't feel the head." When my husband and I pressed, "You can't feel the head? What does that mean?" he removed his gloves, headed toward the door and said, "It's probably breech. I'll be back later."

I cried and pleaded for my husband to request a new resident. This guy was rough and we were baby-birthing newbies in need of a soft touch. It was a stressful time with no room for added strife. But the resident didn't agree. Rather than acquiescing and moving on to his next victim he confronted us.

"I hear you want a new resident," he said bursting into the room. "What is it exactly that you don't like about me?"

Fuck. I'm a nullipara, my spine is threatening to split every 3 minutes and you're a complete douchebag - isn't it obvious?

We held our ground and told him what we thought of his treatment but that only made things worse because he refused to go. He was SNL's obnoxious guest that wouldn't leave.

Eventually I got an epidural and we sank into a rhythm while waiting for labor to progress. My husband fell into a sound sleep on the couch unperturbed by the periodic ringing of my blood pressure cuff which summoned the nurses and prevented me from getting any rest. The resident came by on occasion and I remained silent and detached as he foraged inside my swollen privates.

About 6:30am my beloved doctor entered the room. I believe there was a golden halo on his head but that could have been the drugs. It turns out the hospital never called him. Because I was in his office the day before he called my home to check on me and getting no answer he called the hospital. I'd heard all about transference with shrinks and OB-GYN's and it didn't hurt that mine was handsome, young, and sweet, but right now, with my husband asleep on the couch and the evil resident lurking about, he was my knight in shining armor.

Within minutes the resident did not intrude again. His prediction of a breech baby was dismissed with a wave of my doctor's glowing hand and the most soothing words I'd ever heard, "You're baby is just fine. Everything is going to be just fine."

Labor did not move as quickly as anyone would have liked and by late that morning I was still in what my doctor called unproductive labor. He gave me Oxytocin and a little while later it was time to push.

I'd heard horror stories from friends about pushing for hours and then going in for emergency C-sections. That was not going to be me. I was going to push that baby out as fast as humanly possible and end this misery once and for all.

Doctor at one end, hubby at the other (a bit squeamish is he) I was told to push. By the second push I realized I'd forgotten to have them hold a mirror so we could see but it was too late. The labor may have taken forever but this baby was coming.

I had waited for this moment for 10 months and 20 some odd years ever since the "I LOVE LUCY" episode when the doctor enters the waiting room and tells an anxious Ricky that he is proud father of a beautiful baby boy. I wanted that moment. I fantasized about that moment while chewing my Tums. "Mr. and Mrs. so and so, you are the proud parents of a beautiful, baby ---."

But right before the third push the doctor gave me one final motivation," One more push...here she comes."

Despite the fact that I'd been in labor for over 30 hours, despite the fact that I was numb on drugs, despite the fact that I loved my doctor, I still managed to scream, "Oh my god! You told me. You gave it away! And out slipped my beautiful, pasty, gooey, crinkled-up baby girl.

Who could stay mad at a time like this? Baby in my arms, husband by my side, there was no time to be mad. I was scared shitless.


P.S. The moral of the story is NOT to have your babies in September or, if you are, do NOT have them in a hospital. The residents are brand spanking new and have no clue what they're doing. My second came in June at the same hospital and I was a very happy puppy.

WHEN IS ENOUGH ENOUGH?? A Mother's Rant

Is it not enough that my skin stretched and pulled to previously unfathomable distances while she grew and sucked all the nutrients from my body?

Is it not enough that I endured 32 hours of back-breaking labor before pushing her out of my vagina unwittingly creating a life with donut pillows and Preparation-H?

Is it not enough that pushing her out of said, once taut, once sexually appealing orifice brought new meaning to the term “loose lips sink ships”?

Is it not enough that while she sucked and squeezed on my raw, cracked nipples, I white-knuckled the glider and stifled my screams in order to provide her with a tranquil, nurturing environment.

Is it not enough that I willingly placed my hands into human excrement to keep her clean and rash free?

Is it not enough that I lost countless hours of precious sleep to feed, burp, and comfort her and that those hours were directly related to the now permanent appearance of bags and dark circles under my eyes?

Is it not enough that despite no longer being able to wear short tops for fear that she will once again compare me to a Sharpei puppy, I still finish off her grilled cheese sandwiches so she won’t experience guilt thinking about the starving children in India?

Is it not enough that I gave up driving a zippy little sports car so I could schlep she and her friends to Pinkberry for what I believe to be a completely foul-tasting, artificial, and non-nutritive treat?

Is it not enough that I bury my deep hatred of the claustrophic, carbon-copy, monotony of shopping malls so I can waste spend my time miming a coat hanger while she tries on clothes.

NO! APPARENTLY IT’S NOT ENOUGH!

Apparently I still have not given everything I have to give because even though every shirt in my closet now resides in hers, and even though my shoes keep finding their way onto her feet, she still comes to my closet to BORROW whatever the hell I’ve got left!

And apparently, though she is highly intelligent, she is somehow not smart enough to conceal her tracks. Lights left on, her clothing abandoned and twisted into painful contortions on my floor, a tell-tale trail of hairbands, socks, ribbons. More likely she just doesn’t care - which is worse.

I could let my closet inventory continue to shrink until there's nothing left for her pre-adolescent clepto fingers to grab but that means I'll be carpooling the kids to Pinkberry bare-ass naked. (Just writing that gave me the shivers.)

I'd love to see the glass half-full on this one. To go out and use this opportunity to buy myself some pretty new things. But I know if I do she'll be back in my closet, like a roach, feeding off delicious new treats.

I could try to hide my new loot but who am I kidding? She sees all. I can't get away with a small clump of mascara on my lashes.

Some of you are probably thinking, "Just buy her her own clothes and shoes and she'll leave you alone." To you I answer, "You must not have a pre-pubescent daughter." Been there, done that. As much as I attempt to reason, threaten, and demand "enough is enough" those words are not in her middle-school level vocabulary. She just smiles her pretty smile and talks her sweet talk and before I know it I'm down another pair of sandals.

I love my daughter, truly I do. She's a kind person, sensitive, and strong, and I have faith she will continue on that path. But as far as my closet goes, I want her outta there!

Tomorrow I'm calling a locksmith.

THE VIEW SURE IS NICE FROM UP HERE

I do love sunny Los Angeles, it's temperate weather, it's proximity to the beaches of the Pacific...

But I must say, the Wasatch mountains possess their own version of majestic beauty...

BLOG VS. FAMILY; FAMILY WINS (FOR THIS WEEK ANYWAY)

I will be posting less this week because I'm on Spring Break. I'm choosing to actually spend time with my family rather than just write about them.

We had a great day skiing today, minimal whining and fighting (and the kids were great,too...)

I guess this is what vacations are for?

Be back soon.