How's Milo?

Occasionally I'll get a note saying, "We see you, Husband and Lillie all the time, but what about Milo. How's he doing?"

And the answer is, "He's fine."

For readers who don't know, Milo is my step-dog.  He'll be seven on his next birthday, which he shares with me as well as my sweet nephew James (if you believe the date on his adoption papers.)

He's been living with Husband since he was about 6 months old.  So clearly he's been around much longer than I have been, but we've been fast friends since the very beginning. 

We became The Pack about four months after Husband and I began dating when we decided that we needed one more. So we added Lillie, who we (meaning mostly me) refer to as our first daughter. 

(She came home with us on February 16, 2007, which is exactly one year before our wedding.)

 

So while Lillie is my constant companion and dear household clown, Milo is well and happy, too.  

He appreciates you asking of him, though. 

We went to the dog park a few days ago.  

Both of them spent some time running about and making new friends.

Then the hunds were parched.

(Milo first because he's lead house dog or as Lillie might say, "Age before beauty.")

Then sweet Lillie, but Milo had some more as well...

Then we all posed for a minute before it was time to go home. 

Reason #87,343

on the list of Why I Married Husband:

Because when I forget that it's our monthaversary, a holiday that I created, he remembers....And even brings home a flower to replace the one I accidentally murdered from a few monthaversaries ago. 

Paris in Pictures (and a few words)

In June, Andrea called and said she and Deena were going to be in Paris in the fall. And she invited us to head down to meet them for a long weekend.

At that time, Husband and I hadn't even left for our big trip to Portugal, so I thought I would sit tight on that invite for a while...

But, of course, sweet Husband thought it was a great idea as well. So we worked it out.

I couldn't have been more thrilled. And by the time the dates rolled around, I was so homesick for a visit with a longtime girl, I could barely contain myself until the moment we arrived.

What made it even better was that both of our partners, who had never met, got on so well with each other.

The four of us spent a great long weekend wandering lively neighborhoods, eating decadent desserts, shopping in glamorous stores and drinking (well, I didn't drink, but I spent much time sniffing. It was pretty close to second best…) the best wines. 

And visiting.

It couldn't have been much better....

THURSDAY

We took off from Stavanger to Copenhagen.

(Husband is not afraid, I promise.)

When we got to Copenhagen, we had several hours to kill while we waited for our connection to Paris. And while you think that sounds like a horrible waste of time, especially when we are heading to Paris. It wasn't. Not a bit.

Mainly because Husband knew that there was a good steak restaurant in the airport.

I thought I was just going to get to have a Starbucks drink---which would have been thrilling on its own because that is nowhere to be found in Stavanger either---but he surprised me.

I couldn't have been more excited and even squealed "Steak??? Seriously???" causing several Europeans, who are much, much cooler than Americans (natch), to roll their eyes.

Note: This may not seem like a big deal or even a little bit yuck ---- "A steak restaurant in an airport???" --- Trust me on this---It was a big deal and wasn't one bit yuck. The steak was GOOD, plus, it was semi-swanky, for reals...the waiters came by with white cloths draped over their arms...

Why did I squeal, then jump up and down with happiness you wonder? 

The answer: Partially just because I tend to do those things, but if you really want to understand, think on this for a moment:  

Imagine, you are a pregnant American living in a smallish town in Norway. Imagine you cannot get your hormonally driven hands on the vast majority of any of the things you crave.  Also imagine you are a long time carnivore who craves steak constantly and even more so now that you are Pickle farming. And not surprisingly, a skillfully cooked slab of cow meat is just another line on that list of things you can't have whenever you want/NEED it...

Think on that a minute....Then perhaps you can understand why I got slightly teary-eyed with happiness.

(Yes, it's barely dead and just cooked enough. That's how I like it: five minutes past its last moo...Thanks cow, you tasted goooooooood. And later on, I had a Starbucks frappuccino for dessert. The most excellent way to start a great trip, ever. Seriously.)

Then we got to Paris and met up with Andrea and Deena for dinner.

(Andrea, Husband, Deena...I was too excited to take my usual artful shots...)

FRIDAY

We wandered a bit before meeting up with the girls for lunch.

We saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time this trip.

(Click on the photo for a closer look. This is Husband when I say, "Look French!" ---And no offense, franchophiles, we're just having a little fun. We're loving you while cheerfully contributing to the local economy. We're all friends, here. Plus, I'm totally open to you teasing me, too.)

The Pope was coming to town and the Pope's peeps were nice enough to set out some Pope Potties. Every single one was locked---except for this one....Thanks, Pope.
(No, Husband does not wear red leather bucket bags on regular occasions. He does when I am in the one unlocked Pope Potty.)

This is where the Pope's going to sit in a few hours.

Then we all met up for the best lunch ever at a place called Violon d'Ingres. 

We lingered three hours, consumed five courses of fantastic food and drank (smelled) glasses and glasses of lovely wine.

It really was one of those rare meals that became an experience. 

Great company, great atmosphere, great food.

(It is also the most expensive lunch I have ever eaten. That should not dissuade you from going. If you're in Paris, you will probably splurge at least once. Let it be here.)

While everyone at the table is versed in wine (except for me, I just know what I like...) Deena just passed her sommelier exam, so she officially knows all the good stuff. I also think that we're supposed to call her Master, now.
(Husband and Deena...Yay Deena!)

Andrea knows about wine, too. (She'd want me to add that in...)

Then fortified by good food, we decided to be tourists for the rest of the afternoon.

And to head to the top.
(Husband is not afraid, here either, I just snapped in the middle of a sentence.)

(I thought Deena must have amazingly, and perhaps freakishly, long arms to snap this photo. But really, she's just tall with good aim.)

It's 1346 km (836 miles) that way to Oslo.

It was a great afternoon.

Then Andrea and Deena took the elevator back down, while Husband and I walked down the stairs. It was windy and lovely, but many many steps. So, before we took a boat ride on the Seine, we decided to stop for a few refreshments.

It was BYOB.

(The second "B" stands for Beer, Bag and wine poured from a Bottle.)

Andrea took the tour very seriously and listened intently. I didn't want to put my ear in the same place that thousands of tourists had before me. Andrea's standards were not so high. She was a little stingy with the information after I explained my anti-germ stance.

She also took lots of photos. I took photos of the taking of photos.

Deena took photos, too. But if I didn't know her, I would think she was an East German assassin on a recon mission. Seriously. Scary stuff.

See what I mean...

As we got on the boat, a photographer snapped away. This is the photo he got of Andrea and Husband strolling up the gangplank like celebrities in stride past the paparazzi. It was awesome. Sadly, he did not get a photo of the East German assassin helping the pregnant lady onboard. That was the one we really wanted. We would have even paid for it.

SATURDAY

Husband and I did a little shopping. When were done were with that, we stopped for lunch. I started with yummy snails.

Husband stayed a bit more on the traditional side, which of course included wine and a cheese covered substance.

For dinner, we met up at a place called Le Relais de l’Entrecôte. 

(Seriously, Andrea did her homework on where to get the good eats.)

At this place, you wait outside in a long line (which moves surprisingly fast) until a table come open. 

Then you have one main choice. 

Steak. That's it. You can choose how you'd like it cooked---Rare, Medium, Well... (Don't try to get fancy with Medium Well or even Charred Beyond All Recognition---I'm talking to you, Big D...)

It comes with frites as well. 

There are about six wines on the menu and a handful of desserts. 

And if you are terribly nice, the slightly sullen wait staff will bring water.

Again, if you are in Paris, go there immediately.

Andrea: You want me to stop eating this good stuff so you can take a photo?

Deena: Mmmmmmmm...Andrea, put your fork up close to your mouth so you get back to eating as quickly as possible when you hear the 'snap.'

Me: Just one smell, please.

Husband: You about done? I'm feeling thirssssssssssssss-ty.

Then we went to another cafe for dessert. Husband is eating creme brulee, while getting slightly tired of my incessant photo taking, but is as always, a good sport.

(I ordered what I thought was lemon ice cream and was thrilled to realize that it was lime sorbet....Mmmmmm my favorite. I love Paris.)

SUNDAY

Andrea and Deena headed for the airport for their flight home to San Francisco. 

Husband and I wandered the city on our way to the Musee D'Orsay.

As a general rule, we are bad tourists.  We take cabs to natural wonders.  Instead of locating and finding the names of famous sites, we go shopping. 

The one firm and fast rule we have: Wherever we are, we always spend one afternoon in a great museum. 

On this trip, we chose the Musee d'Orsay.  I'd been before and love its collection of (mainly) French impressionists. And the setting, a renovated train station, is gorgeous and striking, but it's not my favorite.  The layout is twisty and turny, with lots of back and forths.  Plus, the escalators only go up in one corner and it's really hard to find the bathrooms. 

But Andrea had spoken so highly of it that Husband wanted to go, plus it has one of the few Gustav Klimts, one of my favorite artists...So those are plenty of reasons to get me back in the doors.  

On the way, we stopped in the Luxembourg Gardens, a public park.

The grounds are beautiful enough on their own, but on this day, was in the middle of an exhibition of public art.
(Hint: The giant gold head is not normally there.)

But it's also full of art that is normally there.

Then we stopped for lunch. French love their cheese so much, they even put in on the outside of grilled cheese sandwiches.
(Husband is almost done with the snapping of the photos. Eat Husband, you'll feel better soon!)

So finally we made it to the museum. We started on the top floor, missing the escalator per usual, and saw great pieces.  Finally we made our way side room on the second floor to see the Klimt. 

(Oh well, it will be back in January.)

Because it was our last evening in Paris, we thought it was would be nice to watch the sunset from the steps in front of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, which is the highest point in Paris. 
(So did about 200 other people, but it was lovely, nonetheless.)

But we had a few more stops on our list...

So we headed to the Arc de Triomphe and then wandered down the Champs-Élysées.

(Yep, Husband is standing in the middle of the avenue, but don't worry, he's safe on a median.)

Then after a few more desserts and one more night, it was time to head back. 
(We took the subway back to the airport. I love subways.) 

And then we're home. 

Gherkin Alert* (Or Pickle FAQ's)

Thus far, it's been a big year.  We've hit many of the major life milestones---please see explanation underneath the title line of this blog---and it's all been good.  

So we decided to step the game up a level. (The news has been leaking for long while, really, ever since Big D got caught with an early picture.) 

As you may or may not have heard, it's official.  

We're having a baby or as we're calling it, "hatching a Pickle," which will arrive sometime around March 8.   

You guys have been awesome, calling and sending notes and packages.  (I wasn't ready to say it then, but that package came with this note listing all the things inside...)

My dear sister is making Pickle a quilt and organizing the nursery fabrics from 7,000 miles away. (While I make no judgements on other's tastes, I've never been one for cartoon characters or pink vs. blue.) 

And everyone is concerned and asking such thoughtful questions, so I thought I'd answer them all in one place....

________________________________________

1) How are you feeling?

I'm mostly completely fine.  

In the first trimester, I often felt about three seconds from being sick, but never was. 

I am tired, and if I didn't know I was pregnant, I'd think I developed a mild case of narcolepsy.  

And as for the moodiness, not so much.  

There was one minor incident fairly early on in which Husband saw me sitting quietly on the sofa and said,"You okay?" 

I hissed, "I'm hormonal, you ass!" ** 

Then I ran downstairs and slammed the door.   

That's pretty much it. 

________________________________________

2)  Why do you call it Pickle?  

Pickle came into being during our trip to Portugal.  

It wasn't a total shock, but when we took the test, we both were surprised, because when considered at face value, it's really just completely odd and science-fiction-y.  

Later on as we looked at the weird stick with the second line (which was the first of five tests over the next week, that was how much it didn't seem all that real), it occurred to me that we had consumed several alcoholic drinks over the two weeks on vacation. 

And I said, "Uh oh, I hope it's not pickled."***  

________________________________________

3)  What are you going to do about Lillie?

Not much, except work on training her to be prepared for it.  Then we'll just cross our fingers and hope that she doesn't eat the baby. 

________________________________________

4) No more bikini's for you.  (This was less of a question and more of a statement.) 

Oh I don't know about that. 

________________________________________

5) How's Husband?

He's really excited and getting prepared. 

(Husband says "It's an okay book because it explains some things and breaks the time down month by month, but some of it is not for me."  For instance... "Ummm the parts about dreaming of walking on the beach hand in hand with my unborn child.  Then there's the advice about how talking to the unborn baby more than two hours per day is not useful.") 

Husband does think that we're in the slightly boring time right now. 

I feel pretty good and we've got a while before I totally start to show.  

Plus, March seems like a pretty long while away.  

Throughout, I've been keeping him updated on the size of the baby as it relates to fruit.  (It amuses me to no end. This week it's a navel orange.  Next week, an avacado.)

On the last update, I noticed his eyes glazing over ever so slightly.  

When he noticed me cocking my eyebrow in his general direction, he said, "You know, it will be much more interesting when it's like a cantaloupe or something."  

Just you wait Husband, we're almost there. 

________________________________________

6) Do we know what it is yet?

Not yet.  

We'll find out in mid-October.  

We do know that lately it is looking less like a weather pattern...
(at 5 weeks) 

And more like a little person. 
(at 12 weeks)

________________________________________

7) Are you showing yet?

Yep, and it's looking weird. 

(taken last Sunday at exactly 15 weeks...)

(Okay, now back to the regularly scheduled programming...)

*Title borrowed from Carolyn, a friend who is a celebrity reporter --- for a magazine that you probably read voraciously, but would equally deride as "only airport reading."  Don't ashamed people, you're in the company of tens of millions of your closet friends ----  She is especially clever with the snappy phrase. Thanks Carolyn!

**This is the first and only time I have ever called Husband an unkind name.  And it wasn't so bad.  If you had been there, you would have laughed.  Then I would have most likely called you an ass, too, before I disappeared. Husband did not laugh.  At least not until later, when I had regained my sanity. 

***No, of course, Pickle hasn't been boozing since... 

If you had a few drinks before you knew you were pregnant, it does not mean your child is doomed to suffer.

First, the fertilized egg is actually protected from alcohol for the first two weeks of pregnancy. It is after the little zygote implants in the uterus and the placenta begins to develop that alcohol can enter his or her blood stream.