Quick, tell me what to eat in New York.

Thanksgiving was good. We had fun visitors. We ate stuff and cooked stuff. We were very good cooks, although very slow cause of all the talking. We patted ourselves on the back for our tasty creations. We sent the children out in the yard, where they played chicken on electric mini cars and scooters and scraped off lots of their skin. I ran out of band-aids. No one lost any teeth. (Except Jane. But it was already loose. And our flaky tooth fairy still hasn't shown up yet.) I forgot to sleep very much. I might have stayed up until 5 am on Saturday morning, woke at 8, then ate an entire box of Harry and David chocolate covered blueberries. Fell asleep for the night at 5:30 pm. 14 hours later, I rose refreshed, like a Phoenix (but in Gilbert, not Phoenix). Was a 2-days-after-Thanksgiving miracle. Then Jane started puking and didn't stop, and I got all hypochondriac-y and got nauseous, too. But so far I don't have it.

I really hope I don't get it.

I'm leaving for New York on Saturday.

Is my last hurrah before I get all third trimester big and mean and can't move. And before I start nursing, and can't ditch the infant for like a year. (Er, I mean, I would never want to be separated from my baby for even a moment.)

This year's trip is rather spontaneous, and we don't have plays or food planned yet. Today, perhaps? But we did find a hotel. Is not the Plaza, but it does have Gordon Ramsay and afternoon tea. (We don't like the F word, but we LOVE tiny sandwiches and clotted cream.) Also, according to the photo gallery, they have very hip, skinny, 50s style guests wearing small furs, and dogs. (They don't wear the dogs, they bring them, live, on vacation to the city.) Can't wait for that.

This London Hotel NYC patron has it all: retro suit, afternoon tea, dog.

We are thinking about seeing South Pacific, Superior Donuts, In the Heights, and perhaps Mamet's Race or A little Night Music (starring Catherine Zeta-Jones and Angela Landsbury. I'm not joshing.) Both of these shows are still too new to have reviews, so is possible are real stinkers, and pricey stinkers. No discounts on Broadway box yet.)

We will also probly go back to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, because it is awesome and has many different tenement tours given by super attractive NYU grad students. (And by super attractive, I mean huge nerds with floppy hair and Barry Goldwater glasses.) When we were there before, my sister leaned over and said

you want that guy's job, huh?

And you think he's hot?

And I did.

And I did.

(Heaven forgive me.)

As for food, all we've settled on is Carnegie Deli and Mr. Chow. We've decided to go a little lower brow this time, cause sometimes we go to these fancy places and they like to trot out the weird animal products at dinner time to impress us. Please, we plead, don't get out the suckling duck and sweetmeats on our account. We totally dig chicken. Do whatever you like to the chicken. Or the fish, or the skeletal meat of the cow. But please, put away all the testicles, and stop stuffing that intestine with cauliflower or figs. Is untoward.

So, quick, tell me if you have any recommendations. I'm buying tickets and making reservations asap.

Then, I'll worry about the fact that I don't have any pants. That fit.

I do have one very cute dress, though. I should get some tights, or my bum will be frozen.

Thinking about pie.

What I'm thinking about:

Pie.

What I ought to be thinking about:

emptying out some of the boxes in the hallway so that when Kari and Craig come from Utah for Thanksgiving, they won't have to slither sideways to get to their room.

But pie is more interesting. I have been assigned the pumpkin pies for our holiday meal. This might sound important, but my Mom thinks pumpkin pie is yuck (but likes apple-mince, which actually IS yuck), and offered to buy them at Costco. I was horrified, and took the job myself. So I have spent some pleasant hours perusing internet recipes and reviews, and I am thinking maybe I will mix it up a little and make Paula Deen's pie, which includes some cream cheese? I trust Paula will not get too crazy, nor try to make it healthy or something lame like that. But will people stab me with their greasy turkey forks if I deviate from the pie on the back of the Libby's can? Is a serious question.

I will also be in charge of Ardy's rolls again (recipe here. But, as usual, I get pretty blabby, so you will have to scroll down so much you'll develop carpal tunnel), which everyone agrees actually are important. So important, in fact, that cousin Melanie and I will both be making double batches, so everyone can take bags of rolls home for leftovers. Cause how can you make those little turkey sandwiches with stuffing and gravy and cranberries in a roll, if all the rolls are gone? You see my point.

Lastly, I will be making the cranberry jell-O. This is an act of love, because as you might remember, I love jell-O. First I make the cranberry sauce in the food processor. (1 apple: 1 orange with rind: 1 bag of fresh cranberries: 1 cup (or more) of sugar. I usually make twice that much.) Then I make lots of cran-raspberry jell-O with half the liquid, and add some of the cranberry sauce/relish to the jell-O (about two cups for a 9x13. Add finely chopped pecans and even some extra finely chopped celery. Eat it with lots of whipped cream. (Don't be stingy. I whip my cream by the quart.) So good, I usually consume one pan myself, over the course of the weekend. Although, last year Kari might have helped me? Kari? Is this true?

Anyhow, now that I think about it, both Kari and Craig are both quite lean and svelte people (they are runners, and it shows. No, I don't really know if they run. I also don't know how many of you get my Office quotes, or how many just think I'm odd. Do you run, Kari?) and will have no problem getting down the hallway with all the boxes. (You know, if my pie daydreams continue to get in the way of the unpacking.)

So, what are YOU making for Thanksgiving dinner? Is it delicious? Should I make it sometime? You can leave me the recipe if you like, and I will probly try it. I'm not lying to you.

(P.S. New Moon tonight is at 7, with bleu cheese burgers at The Keg first. I'm not up for this midnight stuff. Like any middle-aged pregnant woman, I like to see my teen vampire romance movie sequels at a reasonable hour.)

I write the songs.

Just like Barry Manilow, only with greater emphasis on bodily functions.

I think you write the songs, too. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't be copping to it.

I'm talking about nursery rhymes.

You know, like Mary had a little lamb? Or Jack and Jill? Only you make them up yourself? And they often don't rhyme? So they are more like nursery free verse? And they are normally quite bad? So bad, in fact, that you are glad your child doesn't fully comprendo the English yet? And these verses are almost always immediately forgotten, but very occasionally they stick, and become part of the family collective conscious?

Like, who can ever forget It's Happy Nappy Time!, sung to the tune of tra-la-la-boom-de-ay? Is now in its second generation, and still going strong. My Mom holds the copyright to that one, but I bet she won't care if you use it.

And I've come up with a few good ones myself. But time is not good to this fragile and ethereal poetry. Even ten minutes later, you can't recall anything more than that the song was a plea for your son to stop bugging you about going to store and getting more avocados, cause he is constantly hassling you about avocados. He eats like 3 avocados a a day.  You can't remember anything, save you sang it to Paula Abdul's Straight Up, and that it was so good, if you could remember it, it might win a Grammy. 

Here's one I do remember, from not so long ago. It is entitled Poo in the loo, and I think the tune name is obvious, but I'll tell you anyway (Skip to my Lou):

Poo's in the kitchen,

Who Tom who?

Poo's in the kitchen,

Poo Tom poo.

Poo's in the kitchen,

Tom, its you.

Poo in the loo my Tommy.

Now, sometimes these sorts of songs can be wonderful teaching tools, but Tommy is not an anglophile like his mum, and he doesn't yet know his loo from his lorry. So I guess the songs are as much for me as the children, and help me to keep my spirits high while I disinfect the kitchen floor. Again.

Have you read that book about the five love languages? Well, I'm mostly a quality time sort of girl, with a minor emphasis in receiving gifts or acts of service. Whichever of those would include people bringing me treats in my bed. So one night when I was feeling my love tank (and belly) was empty, I sang this to my ungrateful children, in all the serious Barbara Streisand intensity I could muster:

You don't bring me cheez-its

you don't bring me grape pop

you don't bring me tiny banana splits from Sonic (ask your dad to take you there and get me one!)

anymore.

The kids weren't terribly impressed. But they never did like Neil Diamond as much as I do.

You might feel differently, but my rule for nursery songs is you can't try too hard. They have to come entirely naturally, and so they are generally one-offs.

For instance, this morning Tom came in with a roll of toilet paper and a crack full of feces. (Don't worry, this is just fun back story.) He bends over at the waist and commands: WIPE ME. And so I do. But I realize bathing might be necessary for proper clean-up (is messier than average, and now we are both involved), so I tell him to put his Move it, Move it undies (Madagascar Movie) in the laundry and meet me in the bathroom. 

But nothing is that simple these days. Everything must be explained. Why? Why? He asks. 

And then the song comes, from somewhere deep inside me:

All the naked boys need to get in the shower.

Naked, fecal boys need to get in the shower.

Naked, naked boys need need to get in the shower

with their mommies.

Oh, boy. Is a real stinker. And more than a little disturbing. I don't think it is going to unseat Miss Muffet from her tuffet. (Not to mention, you might think I shouldn't be showering with my toddler. And you would be right. Remember this?)

Is okay, though. Good is not really the point.

Still, I wonder if Coldplay ever came up with something similar? Just before they wrote Viva La Vida, maybe? 

So, tell me. Do you sing stupid, goofy, sometimes disturbing or inappropriate songs to your children? Do you have any favorites you would like to share?

But is he wearing pants?

I know I don't have time for this but I was just thinking about that time sister Jen and I took our kids to see that Planet Earth movie. Which I guess was cool to see on the big screen but really we'd seen all the footage on the Discovery Channel so it was kind of a waste of cash. Except for the rain forest birds. I could totally watch those things all day.

But the birds are beside the point. (Or are they? Perhaps not.) See, about halfway through the film, I notice the shoulders of the man sitting directly in front of me. They are large. Exceedingly hairy (gray hair). They are round, belonging as they do to a heavyset gentleman. But they are not wearing anything. 

The man is shirtless.

I immediately lost all interest in the movie.  (My interest was already waning, to be fair.) I became focused entirely on this furry topless fella sitting just inches from me. He had the bald pate/scraggly ponytail of an aging hippie. He was apparently feeling rather warm (although, it wasn't warm. We were in a movie theater in the middle of the Arizona summer, where people pay good money to be frozen solid for a couple of pleasant hours. I was wearing a sweatshirt. It was zipped up to my neck.) Yet, here was this guy, apparently comfortable in his own nudie skin. But of course, the real, burning question was: WAS HE WEARING ANY PANTS?

So I tried to surreptitiously lean forward and peer over into the next row. I didn't need to be super stealthy, because by this time, we've got 8 kids who are tired of looking at animals eat each other and/or starve to death because of global warming, and they are growing restless.

But I can't see any pants! I can see hairy knees, and above that, the beginnings of some hairy thighs, but I can't see any more. So I quick use some hand gestures (not obscene ones) and put my sister on the case. Her eyes grow large as she surveys the scene, but she can't see either. Now we are getting sort of nervous he's some style of pervy.  Is very frustrating. Jen is about to go refill our giant tub of popcorn (naked guy doesn't know all the Dots are gone and nobody is going to eat popcorn without the Dots, unless we put some of that fake cheese powder on it), as a ploy to ogle the naked guy from the front (I know, is perilous mission), when the movie ends, and the lights come up.

Jen and I are both holding our breath. We are transfixed. Some of our children may have already left via the side exit, but we don't notice.

Naked man doesn't immediately rise from his seat. First, he reaches into the next chair, where he's been storing his tie-dyed tank top (the sort with two foot, waist deep arm holes, perfect for showing off his copious gray armpit hair) and slips it over his head. I hold my breath. 

He stands. 

He is wearing shorts. 

They are short and flesh-colored, but they are shorts.

There is no question.

Naked guy isn't naked.

And that is my whole entire story.

I know, it leaves you with more questions than answers.*

But isn't that what good literature is all about?

*Like: Why take off the tank top? Is only a scrap of fabric. Is  not like you take it off and think, whew! much better.

*Or, like: Didn't you just move, Beeswax? why are you telling me this story instead of unpacking your office? And aren't you out of cereal? Shouldn't you go to the grocery store? 

Pandora's Worms, and...do you think I should have worn falsies?

I'm back on the grid. 

Except for Tivo. And on this girl's grid, Tivo is more important than telephone or internet, water or sewer. But not electric. Cause obviously you need that for the Tivo to work. DUH.

I really need someone to hook up my Tivo. 

Since you and I last met, I have had a change of venue. I have packed, driven west about 5 miles, unpacked, wiped things out, mowed things, and spent a great deal of time looking for stuff that is probably still in boxes in the garage. Yesterday, I sent Jake a text asking him to get poo, and lots of it. He's pretty chintzy with the poo. (We are trying to overseed the lawn, and keep running out of seed and manure. Aqui en el desierto we have bermuda grass in summer but plant rye in the winter.) It isn't going very well. I think we need to call Tony the landscaper. I'll bet he's full of poo (or his truck is, at least).

So, the unpacking. At first, it went on swimmingly. Oh, look! My toothbrush! And only missing two days! My yoga pants! I know just where to put you! Furniture: Here. And here. Or maybe here. 

Wait. Stop unpacking and get in your costumes, children! We've got to go to the Ward party! Boys, do you have your weapons? 

Tommy, wired, even before the sugar high.

Army man #1

Army man #2

And #3

Vampira here spent the whole time in the petting zoo.

Oh, but what about me? I forgot to wear a costume! How about this here Dolly Partonish wig? And maybe some sunglasses? Yes! Is perfect. 

(Nobody took my picture. So, here is sloppy November 6th reenactment:)

Only, wig was very bad move on my part. Cause I don't know most of these people at the party. Cause we just moved in on Wednesday. And they didn't know me. Especially in the wig. (Except one nice girl, who was like, I dig your blog, Beeswax! Hi, Dana!)  At Church the next day I overhear one lady whisper to another: Kelly Beeswax? Who? To which the second lady responds: You know, the blonde one. And the first lady nods, as if to say, of course.

Why am I such a geek? Cause I really, really, really am. Now I am thinking I should have gone whole hog, with gargantuan falsies and what nots. Then, I would fer shur not get any callings for awhile. They probly wouldn't even want me out visiting teaching. What do you think?

So now we continue to unpack. But things are slowing down. Now, when I open a box, it is filled with stuff I don't want to see. Is like big, cardboard cans of worms. Pandora's moving box. Okay, Let's see. What's in here? Ack. Is canning jar from kitchen desk area. It is filled with pennies, deutchmarks and pfennigs circa 1990, antique keys, beheaded lego guys, old contact lens cases, hair clips, Carmex (I should apply some of that. Am feeling quite chapped), colored pencils, cap for inflatable slide from 5 years ago, and the battery case cover for a blue game boy. Is WORMS! WORMS! WORMS! Quick, Pandora, close the box! 

So, you see what I am up against. And the kids rooms? More of the same. Tiny pieces of caca that will drive me to madness.

P.S. I feel WAY better now. No more vomiting. Am almost five months along, and nearly well. Am very, very happy about this. Happy November to me. And you.