San Francisco Wedding Pics

So, here are a few of Mario's shots from my cousin's wedding: aunts, uncles, cousins--grandma, grandpa--sister, husband, baby, me--litchi-tinis--a little dancing, a little drama--beautiful everything--and a helluva party.

Not Happy, Not Happy at All!

So, Mario, Miss Scarlett and I were away from home last night. On Saturday morning, we headed to San Francisco for my cousin Nikki's wedding. We had a great time staying with my Aunt Karen and seeing a bunch of our wonderful family members. The wedding was beautiful! The only bummer was that we ACTUALLY. MISSED. THE CEREMONY. How awful is that? San Francisco traffic was SO awful (on a Saturday? How do those poor people effing live?) that it took us TWO HOURS to get 30 miles. Actually, one whole hour of that was devoted to less than 8 miles! We arrived at the Flood Mansion as the wedding party was out from taking pictures...TOTALLY EMBARRASSING. I felt awful! But luckily the bride and groom graciously forgave us, and we managed to enjoy a beautiful night (a few pics soon to come).

I came home to rather troublesome news, however. The house on the right of us has been empty via foreclosure for almost a year now, and it just sold a couple of weeks ago. At first glance, I was rather pleased with our new neighbor selection...they appeared to be a small family (translate: four generations are not living with them, and they appear to own a mere two or three cars!) and, or so I thought, quiet?

Apparently not so. My sister's boyfriend told us they had a RAGER Saturday night. A RAGING PARTY that was still going strong after 1:00am. Cars parked in the backyard and everything. (Yes, this is the side of the house that Scarlett's room is on.) Pounding music, screaming people, utter madness.

Oh wait...it gets better.

According to Scott, round about 1:30a.m. an insane fight broke out in the street. Scott estimated 50 people gathered as fighters punched, kicked, and rolled in the street. He heard sirens wailing before he could dial the cops himself.

Yeah. LOVE-FUCKING-LY.

Cross your fingers that shit doesn't happen again, because you'd better believe I'm not letting it go past 10pm without a call to the cops! Yes, I'm an old fuddy duddy. Why, oh why, oh why, am I living in this ghetto ass neighborhood?? Oh wait...because we are 100 thousand plus upside down in this house and we are NEVER getting out from under it, that's why.

In other news, Scarlett is none too happy either. Her first tooth, the bottom right, is just about half way in, and already it's neighbor is breaking through her gums...and one or two of the top front teeth are coming fast on their heels! So she is getting either three or four teeth simultaneously! Yeah...if I was her...I'd be fussy too!

Sleep-sence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

(This picture taken by the fabulous EmilyPie!)

In the first few months of Scarlett's life, I loved her--unconditionally, consumingly, completely. All that parent love stuff that you hear about, you'd throw yourself in front of a train for them, leap in front of a bullet, yadi yadi ya...yes, I felt it all, and more.

But, I realize in retrospect, I also loved her stressfully. This was probably due partially to my lack of experience, partially to my hectic schedule, partially to the fact that Scarlett was not the world's easiest baby...but my immense love for her was tangled up with fear and frustration. Fear that she'd derail me, fear that I was doing the wrong thing, fear that things would never get better. Looking back, I'm actually kind of amazed I managed to appear so together in my daily life--well, at least I think I did. The truth was that I was barely staying afloat.

Lately, I've realized, my love feels different than it did, and I feel different than I did...in both respects, so much more light-hearted, so much happier. I'm sure a HUGE reason for the change is that fact that Scarlett is sleeping (almost) every night from 8:00pm to 6:00 or 7:00am. Also, now that she can sit and crawl I can set her down when I'm doing something, instead of feeling paralyzed by never being able to put her down without her being devastated. Sometimes I can even read or email while, a few feet away, she babbles and plays with her toys!

Whatever the reason, I suddenly feel healthier, more flexible about dealing with whatever baby drama she throws at me, and more positive in my belief that I CAN have kids and a succesful career and do them both well. I had been doubting something that before I had never questioned: that I was born to be a mom. These days I love hanging out with my baby and playing with her, and eagerly anticipate rather than dreading uninterrupted days of Scarlett-Mommy-time. Her personality is just so darling and fun...even though she still has her little-devil side.

The hard thing about this new more peaceful love is that being away from Miss Adorable is suddenly so much harder than it ever was. Even when she was only a few weeks old--yes, go ahead and condemn me as an unnatural mother for this--I would welcome the breaks and welcome the chance to immerse myself in school stuff, where I could glory in feeling like a moderate moron instead of an extreme one. But, because I was still breastfeeing, I went back and forth a lot and was rarely away from Scarlett more than four or five hours at a time.

Lately, however, it's been more like seven- and eight-hour days that she's with my mom and I am hammering away on a computer at school. As my husband pointed out, suddenly full time daycare doesn't seem like that much of a stretch. And I am so lucky--I have the absolute luxury of knowing that she is with her Grammy who loves her more than anything in the world (her own kids included!) But suddenly I find myself calculating hours, creating an equation of Grandma hours vs. Mommy hours. I never felt guilty before but I do now--isn't that weird? I think most moms are the opposite--the younger the child, the more the guilt. I am torn between wanting to be my child's primary caregiver and also wanting to get to a place where I have a career that will let me give her a good life, make me happy, AND--I hope--make her proud of me.

This is still an intense time in my life. And I am still worried about my ability to find this balance. But, on a positive note, I want to try to use this concern to motivate me. My new goal is to find better ways to be a student AND a mom, better ways to use my time more effectively and get more out of every day with my little one AND my program. The best part is that the new well-rested me actually feels hopeful that this is possible.

Speaking of...it's time for bed!

Pics from Portland Weekend

Yes, I'm behind as always, but here are some tidbits from Labor Day weekend in Portland. I, by the way, HEART Portland. Not only do I love the city completely, but multiple friends are there, both from high school and from college. I love, love, love it. Every time I eat a fresh bagel from Noah's, drink a bubble tea, or wander through the shops on Hawthorne, I wish that I could move there. Come on, big job market in three years!

Anyway, the scoop. First, I got to have a baby-free night with the girls--I flew up Thursday; Mario brought Scarlett up Friday night--which involved drinking OF COURSE, a wee bit of dancing, overloading a poor pedicab driver, and having a great time at a gay male strip club--best invention EVER, by the way! Totally brilliant, to be able to freely enjoy delectable male bodies without having to worry about getting hit on by skeezey patrons! Sadly, no pics allowed, or this would have been a GREAT blog post! Ha.

Of course with all that WILD PARTYING (okay, that definitely counts as wild in my life!) I didn't get much sleep, and was hoping I'd be able to catch up later, but that didn't happen--Scarlett's amazing newfound ability to sleep through the night does not hold up in unknown places! Dammit. But although tired, we had fun on Friday--my friend Saundra, who just returned from Iraq, and I had fun kickin' it in downtown Portland and visiting my friend from high school Jennifer who also lives there. Mario and Scarlett came in late Friday, and I was happy to see them. I decided it is IDEAL to arrive a day before your husband and child on any vacation so you get enough independent time to be thrilled when they arrive!

Saturday we headed out to the coast, where we had rented a house in Rockaway Beach. The rest of the weekend was beaching, hot tubbing, eating, drinking OF COURSE, and enjoying deliciousness at the local cheese factories in Tillamook. Some pics:

Saundra with Scarlett


Allysa helping Scarlett walk:


Megan--my roommate from the dorms and for the next three years--flying a kite:


Denise and Scott--guess who they're smiling at?


Scarlett with Andrew and Alexis:


Mmm, Coffee on the Beach:



A little coastal character:


More:


Old college roommates: Megan, Saundra, me, and Denise

I-R-Exasperating as All HECK

Nearly a freaking year ago…okay, maybe not quite, but it feels like it, we got a letter from the IRS stating that we owed them $2,000 dollars. After recovering from nearly fainting, I sat down to read the letter and discovered that apparently we owed this money for two reasons. 1) We had failed to report a $90 gain on one tiny account we never use and 2) because my husband had made $13,000 dollars more than we had reported.

Well, apparently we had actually forgotten all about the tiny account, bad us. But, as much as I would have LOVED to have been $13,000 richer, the second and far more major charge simply wasn’t true. I had to dig up the W2s to verify that we didn’t have any severe brain malfunctions while filing, and surprisingly, we hadn’t. (I say surprisingly because, knowing us, a malfunction would be more than likely.) We had filed exactly what we received which was exactly what Mario had made.

So, I wrote the IRS a letter explaining all this, wrote a check for the estimated $20 we owed for the missed account, stuck it all in the mail, and dusted off my hands, confident the situation would soon be resolved.

Weeks went by. Months, even.

One day, another letter from the IRS showed up, this one more threatening than the last. It thanked me for my payment, but informed me I still owed a big chunk from that missing income, and it had better be paid now OR ELSE--or else fatty interest and a paddling from Uncle Sam.

Irate, I went to my husband’s employers. They swore up and down that we had the right information, and they had reported the same information. I wrote another letter, this time with all the required documentation, stuck it all in the mail, and dusted off my hands-—which, this time, were slightly sweaty and red from being clenched.

Weeks went by. Months, even.

One day, ANOTHER letter from IRS showed up, this one even more threatening than the threatening one. The documentation wasn’t good enough. I needed to pay asap or be entered into official deficiency status. I called and suffered through a long, long, LONG hold. The Fresno IRS center swore they had an extra, separate W2 for the missing amount. My husband’s bosses swore they had no record of it. A tad more than irate, I wrote another letter attesting to the fact that whatever mystical documentation had been received by the IRS was apparently sent by mischievous aliens, had the employers print it on their stationary and sign it, stuck it all in the mail, and dusted off my hands. Or I would have, if they hadn't been balled into punching position.

Weeks went by. Months, even.

Deficiency notices began appearing in the mail. I ignored them.

Then one glorious day not too long ago, another letter arrived, this one stating that we had finally been cleared of all charges. Oh, glorious day! How joyous we felt to know that our rightfully earned and already overtaxed $2,000 would be staying right where it belonged, in our none-too-chubby bank account.

Just when I thought it was all over, a good nine months later, today a check shows up in the mail, a check for $20.43. Apparently, the breakdown explained, that was $20 for what I paid on the charge I WAS NOT disputing, and .43 in interest. What the hell is wrong with the IRS, I ask you? I guess I should take comfort in the fact that not only did those lovely tax people have to fork over almost a whole 50-cent piece in interest, but between the hundred pieces of mail they sent me during the course of this debacle, they piddled away at least another good 30 dollars.

I have to say, however, that it doesn’t much comfort me. After all, those are my tax dollars at work.