Late Night Chronicals

I’m going through a stage. The stage, regrettably, is called television. My sister called last night and asked if I was watching the democratic debates on YouTube, and I said, “Hell no, we’re watching our cooking show.” Yes, Matt and I are addicted to Hell’s Kitchen.

I never once watched a reality show and I still really hate them. Matt, as smart as he is, can choke down some really bad TV sometimes, and even if I feel like hanging out, wrapped up in a blanket with him on the couch, I can’t do it. Jé deteste le téle.

But cooking is an interest of mine, and I got sucked in. I really don’t like any of the participants left: Rock, the jerk; Bonnie, the crybaby; and Jen, the hick. I’d like to vote all of them off.

Matt and I have a theory, though, that Bonnie and the chef (also jerk) are having an affair, so we’re anxious to see what will happen when she flubs the veggie prep again, then cries about it.

I’m coasting on 3 hours of sleep today. Matt was restless around 1 a.m., and I joined him. We looked up vacation destinations on the Internet. We’re going to California for Christmas (with a newborn!!), but we’re planning to take our own trip once the baby is at least 6-months-old (my family owes me big time for babysitting). So, at 1:30 a.m., Matt said, “Let’s go to Hawaii.” Yeah, baby!

The only part about this baby thing that is freaking me out is the lack of independence in my travel schedule. I have always been spontaneous, hopping on airplanes about every 4-6 months and going to amazing places. Friends with kids say that those days are over, but I say they don’t have to be. Matt and I are going to be the laid back parentals who take our kid everywhere, introduce it to everything possible. (Read: I say "kid," but Matt is already planning our second. I define "big gulp".)

I’m working on my book now, and after Matt went to bed I stayed up until 3:30 writing. I understand why writers do this, because the wee hours are when the brain won’t shut down. I made some real progress last night and it felt great. Truth is always greater than fiction, and I’ve gathered some pretty good characters over the last couple of years that I’m now developing further. I’m always thankful for a stir in the pot because it makes for good material.

It’s relaxing having a baby moving inside my stomach when I write, too—it feels like I have a co-author. : )

The Luckiest

Matt and I are plotting a big adventure for next year. Mexico (we've both already been). Australia, maybe (neither of us, ever). We can spend every life moment together and want more. I mean, who does that?!

My mom was in town last week and I played her my Matt song, "The Luckiest," by Ben Folds. I started bawling, which made her cry. I am the luckiest. With a baby just a few weeks away, and a guy who, just last night, said, "I want us to spend more time together," (even when we're together every night), I know that this is what I waited for all those years.

I was missing New York this week. I love the city and could live there easily...with Matt. The last time I was there I dined with friends at Megu, a posh sushi joint, and Robin Williams came up to our table and shook all of our hands. We didn't bother him, he invited himself (it was a table full of 6 blonde women, which might have had something to do with it). 15 seconds later, Lindsay Lohan waltzed by and the two of them brushed star kisses against each other's face. I sat smiling quietly, taking in the fabricated friendship, and thought, "I want something more than this, something much more real."

When I returned home, I got it. That was two summers ago, and now I'm sitting here wondering what Matt and I will cook for dinner tonight, which music we'll play, what we'll talk about, and how many times he'll say, "I'm the luckiest."

Thank You!

Thank you everyone (who reads this blog) who was a part of our three showers in the past 3 days! We received so many wonderful gifts and we both learned about so many new baby items. At our shower on Saturday night, Matt quietly asked me, "What are these?" I replied, "Diapers, honey."

We appreciate all of the wonderful gifts, and the efforts of our family and friends! Thanks so much.

p.s. What is a Bumbo?

My friend Ken Bethea, guitarist for the Old 97s, just called me...from downtown Indianapolis. He asked if I'm going to the show tonight. Say what? Pregnancy not only makes you fat, but tired and uncool too.

Ken said not to worry about the belly. When he's home in Dallas, he plays Mr. Mom quite often. He said, "Jill, most of my daytime friends are pregnant...I'm used to it."

I have a sore throat, got about 5 hours of sleep, have a banjo lesson tonight, but I'm going to the show; yeah, I'm going, and I'm dragging along my better half too.

Ken and I have been friends for 6 years, ever since my Scottish mate turned me on to the band. We're very much like peas and carrots; our friendship was a natural progression.

If you saw that horrible Jennifer Anniston movie (aren't they all?) about discontinuing a relationship, the Old 97s were in it...I love 'em.

Thoughty

Whew, looks like a case of attention starvation. We already ate.

I'm writing again; been saving all the good stuff. Freelancing is around the corner, soon enough from another state. I need an ocean.

Happy 4th

Matt brought home $60 worth of fireworks last night and put on a show for baby and me. He made me wrap two heavy blankets around my waist so to not deafen Junior; I sat on the front porch, hot, and getting eaten by mosquitos, and watched his display of patriotism. A couple of the firecrackers (Swarm of Killer Bees, to be exact), made me jump, making baby jump too. We felt so guilty. Matt, California boy, still can't get over the fact that these things are legal, that he can aim a bottle rocket right at Paulette's house across the street and not go to jail. I'll soon have two little kids. : )

I'm learning You Are My Sunshine on banjo, we're gearing up for the "Week of Baby Showers," and we're making incredible plans for our future. The recent past seems like a lifetime ago. I now cut coupons for Huggies.