Author Archives: carlieblissirwin

Our place

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Do you have a local restaurant or bar that you like to think of as “your place?”

I haven’t exactly been bowled over by the vast array of unique and affordable eating and drinking establishments in St. Louis since I’ve moved here. It’s not that there aren’t any. Let’s just say I can’t throw a stone out my apartment door and hit two Irish pubs, a wine bar and a cute little Italian place, as was the case when I lived in Chicago.

I can, however, walk for 25 minutes (or drive for 5) and get to Sasha’s. This is “my place.” Actually, I’m pretty much always with Will when I go there, so I like to think of it as “our place.”

Sasha’s is a cute little wine bar in a cute little neighborhood next to a cute little park. It has charm and character, good wine, and a great outdoor seating area. It also has Sofia sparkling wine that comes in a cute little can with a cute little straw. What’s not to love?

Niebaum-Coppola Winery

Apparently being cute and little will get you far with me. Take my dog, for example.

But back to Sasha’s. Will and I have been regulars ever since I became an official St. Louis resident. We’ve made some great (albeit fuzzy) memories there.

There was the unusually warm November night when we were sitting outside and got caught in a thunderstorm. (This was more fun than it sounds. We didn’t get that wet. And we were drunk.) There was the sunny summer day we decided to walk over with Gatsby and I ate my salad with him sitting in my lap. Then there was the time that we went for an early dinner and promised each other we would only get two drinks, but we ran into Will’s aunt, cousin and grandma and ended up staying and drinking with them until the wee hours of the night. I think we probably quadrupled our self-imposed drink limit for that night.

The thing about Sasha’s, and the reason we always make a pact not to drink too much when we go there, is that we end up enjoying ourselves so much that we don’t want to leave. So we stay. And we drink. And we get sloshed. And until the hangover sets in the following day, we have a really, really great time.

We love the place so much that we actually have a sketch of it hanging in our dining room. The picture was a thoughtful wedding gift from Sarah, one of my bridesmaids, and if we ever move from St. Louis, at least we’ll have a cool-looking piece of art to always remind us of “our place.”

One early summer evening, we were sitting outside at Sasha’s when another young couple sat down next to us. With a baby.

Now, we were also accompanied by our pseudo-child Gatsby, but bringing a real human child to a wine bar is a different story. However, after recoiling a little at the site of the tiny stroller troll at “my place” (my very adult place), I took another sip of wine and pretty much forgot that he/she/it was there. A little while later, I glanced over, and the couple was enjoying their wine just as much as we were, with their baby happily and silently looking on. Heck, with Gatsby nearly choking himself after winding his leash around a table leg, having a dog was almost more trouble than having an infant in this case!

So, I don’t know. Maybe babies don’t cramp your style quite as much as I think. Not that I want to find out any time soon…

Here’s the part where I shamelessly promote myself.

I was inspired by my love for Sasha’s (and my desire for a free trip to San Francisco) to enter a writing contest on trazzler.com. I whipped up a cheesy little blurb about the wine bar, and if I get enough votes, I can win a trip to San Fran (my second favorite American city after Chicago)!

If you want to check it out, click here:

http://www.trazzler.com/trips/sasha-s-wine-bar-in-clayton-mo#

If you feel like voting, you just have to sign up for Trazzler (they don’t send any annoying emails, I promise), go to my trip and hit “save.”

I don’t think I’m going to win at this point, but you never know! And if I do get to go to San Francisco…I will think of you all fondly while I’m there. And maybe take a few pictures and post them on this blog. Exciting, right?!?!?

Random question of the day

Ok, how many of you girls out there (or guys, I don’t judge) had this awesomely nineties pastel radio/cassette player when you were growing up?

I had it in purple and my best friend Debbie had it in pink. And I feel like every other girl my age had it too. I’m just curious if I’m right. I heard Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” on the radio at lunch today and the image of my old girly boom box immediately popped into my head. I made some purely magical mix tapes by recording songs off the radio with this bad boy.

Spring fever!!

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They say when the weather gets warmer, all the crazies come out. Yesterday, it was 72 degrees and sunny in St. Louis, and I’m now convinced that this theory may hold some water.

Apparently three months of below-normal winter temps and general bleakness have turned us all into depressed, gray, withering Smigel/Gollum-like creatures who crawl out of the woodwork at the hint of a warm breeze or ray of sunshine.

Everyone and their mom (including myself) was in a good mood yesterday and looking for an excuse to get outside. Now there is absolutely nothing wrong with this, but come on people, let’s get a hold of ourselves! You can lay out in a bikini top in Forest Park all you want, but you are NOT going to get a tan at 5:00 pm on March 10 in St. Louis. It’s just nature.

Yes, spring fever season is upon us. Those of us who aren’t lucky enough to get a vaccination (aka, escape for a week to somewhere tropical during the winter months to temper the warm weather craving) are extremely susceptible to oftentimes irrational behavior. The fresh air makes us high as a kite.

If you experience any of the following symptoms, fear not – you will be instantly cured when the temperatures inevitably plunge and the icy hand of cruel winter bitch slaps you across the face. It’s March. Let’s face it, snow is still not out of the question.

10 Signs You Have Spring Fever

1. You decide to go running. You don’t normally exercise. You make it half way down the block.

2. You break out the flip flops. Forget that you don’t have a pedicure and your feet are the color and texture of drywall – these toes need to breathe!

3. You are that girl who I actually saw in Forest Park in a bikini top yesterday. She had apparently contracted a very acute case of spring fever, and I’m not sure there’s any hope for her. Ever. In life.

4. You take your dog for an extra long walk. If you don’t have a dog, you try it with the cat. If you don’t have any pets, you borrow a neighbor’s animal so you can take it for a walk. That’s just what people do in warm weather.

5. You make a special trip to the grocery store to get ground beef, hamburger buns and charcoal so you can bust out the grill. Sadly, many of those hamburger buns will succumb to mold before it’s warm enough to use them again.

6. You drive with the windows down, even on the highway. Warm air is so worth the harsh wind and hair in your mouth and eyes and the jarring sound of speeding semi-trucks.

7. You go to Dairy Queen. Nothing screams ice cream like 68 degrees. If this was July, you’d be drinking hot chocolate.

8. You go out for lunch just so you can get out of the office to enjoy the nice weather. Warm days like this don’t come around too often! Wait – yes they do. It’s called summer, and it lasts three months.

9. You go to happy hour at any bar you can find with an open outdoor patio. At least the alcohol will help keep you warm when the sun goes down and it’s 55 degrees and you’re outside in short sleeves.

10. The 5-day forecast on the 10:00 news sends you spiraling into a deep depression. A high of 45 degrees tomorrow???

Adventures in Chi-town

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Even though it’s been almost five years since I moved from Chicago to St. Louis, I still feel like I sort of half live there. My family and a vast majority of my friends are still there, so between weddings, holidays, family events, and big parties that we just don’t want to miss, Will and I probably make the 4.5 hour trek up I-55 at least every other month. I could probably drive that route in my sleep at this point, and come to think of it, I think I literally have – I do it so much I even dream about it.

Last weekend was our latest Chi-town adventure. Normally when we go up there, we try to pack as many people and events as we can into a 48-hour period, and this weekend was no exception. Below is the play-by-play for your reading pleasure.

FRIDAY

8:30 am – 4:30 pm: Work. Blah.

4:30 pm: Pick up Gatsby at home. He immediately jumps into his crate when I tell him we are going to go see Riley, my parents’ dog and his homosexual love interest. More on this later.

5 pm: Arrive in downtown STL to pick Will up from work. Start texting him incessantly when he still hasn’t come down after 20 minutes of me waiting at the curb. Give him my best You Have Displeased Me look when he finally gets to the car.

5:20 pm – 10 pm: Drive. Drive. Drive. Cornfield mirage of something resembling civilization. Blink. Drive more.

10 pm: Arrive at my parents’ house in Wheaton. Let Gatsby out of his crate so he can explode from the car like a solo piece of canine confetti.

10:05 pm: Watch Gatsby latch himself onto Riley’s rear end like he’s hugging a redwood tree. Vigorous humping ensues. Riley tries to escape, but Gatsby is a quick one, even on two legs. I feel like I’m watching a sick furry conga line.

10:30 pm: Chat with parents while trying to keep the humping to a minimum.

12 am: Bed.

SATURDAY

10:30 am: Go with my mom to meet my cute (and very pregnant) friend Stacey and her mom for breakfast at Egglectic. I try to fit in good breakfast food during all of my Chicago trips as I feel St. Louis is very lacking in that department for some reason.

12:30 pm: Return to my parents’ house to find Gatsby humping Riley. Give Riley an extra scratch behind the ears for being such a trooper and not biting my dog in half.

1 pm: My sister and MK and Vicki (two of my mom’s longtime friends) come over so we can plan our trip to Charleston, SC in a few weeks. We are going to visit MK’s daughter Becca, and I CANNOT WAIT. Palm trees? Yes, please.

3 pm: Head to the West Loop to meet up with a bunch of our college friends. Bar food and beer. Good times.

7pm: BULLS GAME!! I had not been to one of these since high school. Since we were such a big group (there were over 25 of us), we got a special shout out on the jumbo-tron (IWU 2004!) and free posters of some guy named Derrick Rose. Score!

7:30 pm: Take this picture. I am the only one who looks like an ass. Go figure.

8 pm: At this point, I am probably on my 4th beer. My memory of the rest of the night goes something like this: Luv-a-Bulls are wearing sequins and pleather. I find this amusing. Will is wearing his coat everywhere because he’s afraid someone will steal it. Also amusing. Emily puts her gum on the side of her cup while she’s drinking. This is so college. Guess what? I find it amusing. The game is over. I miss B.J. Armstrong. Hey, we’re at a bar! Pineapple hurricane $5 special? Don’t mind if I do! This bar stool is getting increasingly precarious. Time to leave. Stop at El Famous Burrito? Don’t mind if I do! Shouldn’t it be El Burrito Famoso? Huh. Chit chat with Megan and Amit about creepy rural Missouri meth addicts. Aaaaaaannnnnnd SLEEP.

SUNDAY

9 am: Wake up. Shockingly, with no hang-over. This is turning out to be a GREAT weekend.

10 am: My parents pick us up at Megan’s condo and we head to North Ave. Beach to watch my brother-in-law Mark dive into ice cold Lake Michigan wearing nothing but a swimsuit and Indian headdress. Mark is odd, but even this behavior is abnormal for him. It’s called the Polar Plunge and it’s for charity.

11:30 am: 3rd Coast for brunch. This is my very favorite hidden gem of a restaurant in the Gold Coast. I’m only sharing it with you because you are nice enough to read my blog, but don’t tell too many people about it. If I have to wait to be seated the next time I go there, I know who to blame…

2 pm: Stop back in Wheaton to pick up Gatsby. His romantic weekend with Riley is over. He looks depressed.

3 pm: Drive back to St. Louis for what seems like THE REST OF MY LIFE. These drives home are always the worst.

8 pm: Home! Oscars! Great end to a great weekend!

<SCENE>

Reason #1,235 that I am not ready to have babies

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I want to be able to go to a wine tasting class then drink margaritas and eat copious amounts of chips and salsa at a local Mexican restaurant where it just so happens to be karaoke night. All on a Wednesday after work. There’s no room for babies in that scenario. There’s barely room for a full grown toy fox terrier. (Gatsby was not happy that we left him alone for so long, as evidenced by the explosion of hyperactivity that met us at the door when we got home).

Let’s just say that if it’s wrong to find it hilarious that through some weird misunderstanding, my friend Erin accidentally led the host of karaoke night to believe that she was a scout from EMI talent agency, then I don’t want to be right. There’s something beautiful about the sparkle of hope in a small Asian man’s eyes when he believes that maybe his big break has finally come.

Witnessing a college frat boy methodically recite all of the lyrics to The Bloodhound Gang’s “Ain’t Nothing But Mammals” is the kind of experience I am not yet willing to give up. If anyone deserves to be discovered, it’s that guy – I was beyond impressed.

And then there was Don. Adorable, scruffy, Vietnam vet Don who sang several country songs about stars and stripes. And also Neil Sedaka’s Calendar Girl. His wife, when she wasn’t trying to get his attention by barking “God Damn it, Don!” could be found dancing in the back of the room with one of college frat boy’s friends.

God Bless America.

And birth control.

The Bachelor Chat

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I am writing this blog post mere hours before the much-anticipated season finale of The Bachelor: On the Wings of Love Edition. Or, as I like to call it, Cringing While Watching a Ken Doll Pilot with No Personality Agonize Over Which Nitwit Girl He Will Propose to and Dump Two Months Later. People, break out the popcorn – this is entertainment to the max.

I first got hooked on the Bachelor and Bachelorette shows back in the olden days when I lived in a dorm room, my bed doubled as a couch, and my viewing apparatus was a 14-inch box that included a built-in VCR. (Kids, VCRs were machines that played movies using strange rectangular devices called video tapes. Now go to your room for making me feel old.) Once I moved in with my sorority sisters, watching The Bachelor became a weekly event. It was a great way to relax, hang out, put off writing that paper for another hour, and make fun of people who were prettier and stupider than we were. Or at least appeared that way on TV.

After we graduated, watching this parade of slut-tastic ridiculousness just wasn’t the same. When I scoffed out loud about how that blonde chick had a bad boob job and was wearing a pageant dress or how Jesse the football player smashed girls’ faces when he kissed them, I was either greeted by silence or a polite chuckle from my roommate or boyfriend. Where were my girls when I needed them??

While watching an episode during Lorenzo “Prince Toolbox” Borghese’s season, I happened to be talking with a couple of them on AOL instant messenger. (Kids, instant messenger is an old fashioned online messaging service that – wait a second, who said you could come out of your room??) And that, my friends, was when a tradition was born: The Bachelor Chat!

For those of you who don’t use AIM anymore, there is a “chat” function that allows you to create chat rooms and have conversations online with a group of people. For those of you who still use AIM – why? Anyway, we invited all of our friends to join our chats during The Bachelor episodes and pretty soon it became a weekly event. I especially looked forward to it since I had moved to St. Louis and most of my college friends were still in Chicago – it was a fun way to keep in touch.

Sadly, it seems the days of the Bachelor Chat may be going by the wayside. Since we all started chatting, many of us have gotten married, started new demanding careers or moved out of the Central time zone. It also doesn’t help that the episodes are now 2 hours long. Two hours?? Really, ABC? Thankfully, this group of friends has not yet been struck by the baby boom, but I guess that’s just a matter of time as well. Who knows, once we all have kids we might not even have time for reality TV – oh, the horror!

One thing that makes me kind of sad about getting older is the fact that life increasingly tends to get in the way of recreational guilty pleasures such as the Bachelor Chat. So listen up, friends who don’t have babies yet: I have a plan! Let’s wait a couple years and then all have babies at exactly the same time! If we sync up our lives this way, our kids will all be best friends and they can play together while we hang out, and then our kids can all marry each other and we’ll never lose touch just like one big happy family! Or commune…whatever.

Well if that brilliant plan doesn’t pan out for some reason, I guess my only hope is that our lives may calm down by the time we all retire and maybe then we can actually resume the Bachelor Chat or The Price Is Right Chat, or whatever old people will be watching in 30 years.

Addendum: Ok, it’s the following morning and now we all know that Vienna has won Jake’s heart (which according to him is still “crying” for Tenley – over a balcony perhaps?). The two lovebirds actually danced on the After the Final Rose special while Jeffrey Osborne (who?) sang On the Wings of Love in the background. And let me tell you, my eyes could not roll far enough back in my head to express the way I felt about this. Reality TV, I love you.

Random tip of the day: Doing an ab workout that includes 130 leg drops and 3 minute planks when you have a cold is NOT a good idea because oh my God it hurts to sneeze the next day.

Being a #2 is just a load of crap

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I had an interesting thought on the way home from work yesterday.

I commute every day, 30 minutes each way. These 30 minutes, whether in the morning or evening, can be summed up as follows:

  1. Get in the car (this step is key).
  2. Adjust seat and mirrors. Due to my OCD tendencies, I’m always searching for the perfect seat angle/height/distance-from-wheel combination. I’ve never found it and I’m pretty much always uncomfortable until I just start driving and forget about it.
  3. Put on seat belt. The ordering of steps 2 and 3 is essential and very intentional, as I’ve discovered that adjusting my seat with the seat belt on does not work well. Having your esophagus and bladder simultaneously squished by a tightening strap of thick nylon is unpleasant to say the least.
  4. Turn car on and hope it doesn’t make that unnerving squealing sound. My car is getting old, and apparently very irritable as well. If it could talk and own property, it would be yelling at all the neighborhood kids to get off its lawn.
  5. Put the car in drive and, well, drive.
  6. Merge onto highway.
  7. Decide that the semi in the lane next to me is drifting and getting a little too close. Start panicking. See my life flash before my eyes. Ok, this reaction may seem a little extreme to you, but in the back of my mind I see all trucks as evil Carlie-killing machines. I’m pretty sure this stems from an unfortunate incident (or fortunate since everyone in my family is still alive) involving an evil, drifting semi-truck, my family in a small rental car, and spinning across 4 lanes of traffic on the Washington DC beltway at rush hour. So yeah, thanks for making me re-live that moment. Moving on.
  8. Realize that my ears are bleeding because a Nickelback song is playing on the radio (AGAIN).
  9. Curse myself for living in St. Louis for 5 years and still not changing the Chicago stations on my radio buttons. Hey “seek” button – you annoy me.
  10. FINALLY come across a song worth listening to. I bless the rains down in Aaaaaafricaaaaa…. (no, I’m not kidding)

And then I feel it – the urge to sing! And why not? I’m completely alone in my car, my tone deaf screeching audible to no one but me. So I go for it. GONNA TAKE SOME TIME TO DO THE THINGS WE NEVER HAAA-AAA-AAA-AAAVE! OOOHOOOH. Yeah Toto. You rock. And so do I. So ready for this next verse. I can belt it out at the top of my lungs because no one can hear me! No one can see me…except that middle-aged bald guy I’m passing on my right. Did he just make eye contact with me? Crap. Did he see me singing? Ehhh….

Thus brings me to the aforementioned interesting thought I had. You’ll be glad you stuck with me because this will blow your mind.

My theory is that there are three different kinds of people in life:

  1. Those who unabashedly sing along to the radio in their car no matter who can hear or see them.
  2. Those who start singing but become self-conscious and worried that they will attract the stares of fellow drivers, so they tone it down a little and sing between clenched teeth giving the outward impression that they are in fact not singing at all like some sort of idiotic, paranoid ventriloquist. (I fall into this category.)
  3. Those who do not sing ever, no matter what.

I think your car singing habits or lack thereof say a lot about you as a person. The #1’s are confident free spirits, enjoying life and just being themselves. The #2’s want to be like the #1’s but care a little too much about what other people think of them. And the #3’s are just no fun at all. I think if we all lived like #1’s, the world would be a much happier place.

So on your way home from work today, sing along to the radio like you’re freaking Pavarotti – I dare you. And if the person driving next to you starts staring, motion to them to sing along! And, if that thought alone isn’t making you smile, here are a few pictures of some super cute baby meerkats because this is my blog and I want it to make people happy.

You’re welcome.

Happy Surviving Childbirth Day, Mom!

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Readers, I lied to you. In my post last week, I told you that I’m 28 years old. This is untrue. Or I guess I should say this was untrue. When I wrote that post one week ago I was 27 (ah, the good ol’ days), but today I can officially say that I have been a member of the human race for 28 years.

Yes, today is my birthday, but more importantly in my opinion, it was 28 years ago today that my mother survived what I imagine to be one of the most horrific and gruesome of all human experiences: chidbirth. I know that may sound a bit dramatic, but when you get down to brass tacks and think about what giving birth means and what supposedly happens during this process, it is not completely dissimilar from the plot of a horror movie. And I hate horror movies.

Suspense, pain, screaming, blood, and then a small creature emerges from inside you. Hello, did you see Alien???


 

I’m sorry about that. Hopefully you aren’t eating while reading this post. But let’s be honest, you didn’t need that second granola bar anyway.

I have several friends who are labor and delivery nurses, or “baby catchers” as they sometimes refer to themselves. I know that when they talk to me about what they’ve experienced in the delivery room, it’s all matter-of-fact for them and they are not trying to turn me off to having kids. They are also not trying to make me feel nauseated and light-headed, but that’s exactly what happens when I hear the word “tear” in that context. Ugghh…again, I really hope you’re not eating right now.

Here’s a fun story: Once upon a time (3 weeks ago), I had to get my blood drawn for a life insurance physical. This experience ended in me passed out on my dining room table. The last thing I heard was the nurse saying to Will, “I think we’re losing her!” So now you know where I’m coming from. I’m not sure if it would be possible for me to stay conscious during my prenatal doctor’s appointments, let alone childbirth itself.

Also, did you know that labor and delivery nurses actually notice and discuss amongst themselves whether or not you have a pedicure? Well apparently they do. So that’s one more thing to worry about.

To sum up, the thought of giving birth is very, very scary to me. And realizing that my mom was willing to go through that just to have me (and then do it again with my sister!) is proof that she is amazing. Further proof that both of my parents are amazing is the fact that they were willing to drive 5 hours to St. Louis on Saturday just to take me out to dinner for my birthday only to have to turn around and drive 5 hours back on Sunday in the face of a possible snow storm. So if creating a life makes you care about someone that much, I guess it might be worth it. Plus, hundreds of thousands of women give birth every day so it can’t be that bad right? Right?

My mom and me last weekend

Post puppy depression

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First of all, I just want to thank everyone who read my inaugural blog post. I’ve always liked to consider myself a writer, but it took me this long to start a blog because I’m a generally private person – sharing my thoughts and opinions with an audience is frankly a little terrifying. It was literally with a trembling hand and butterflies in my stomach (ok, that part isn’t literal) that I hit “publish” last Monday. I felt like I was back in Mrs. Fenton’s speech class my junior year of high school. Lucky for you, this is a blog so you couldn’t hear my voice shake, and lucky for me, Mrs. Fenton wasn’t there to roll her eyes and say “That’s enough. Sit down. You’re finished,” when I started blanking out. (That didn’t actually happen to me, but it happened to several other kids in my class and initiated my life-long fear of public speaking and snippy, petite, red-headed women.) Because of this, it meant a lot when the page views and comments started coming in – I was genuinely surprised that people were actually reading what I wrote and had something to say about it! So thanks for that. Now that you know I love you, let’s move on.

It was actually one of your comments (shout out to Anna – what up girlfriend?!)** that inspired me to write this next post about a very serious subject: post puppy depression. No, not postpartum. I may have that to look forward to with the advent of Babygeddon, but this is different. Mainly because it involves a puppy instead of a baby. Regardless, remembering this experience does not bring me any closer to shaking my baby-phobic inclinations. Here is my story.

**PLEASE NOTE: This is what I like to call my “shout out” voice. In no way does it reflect the way I verbally express myself in real life. Peace.


It all started about 3 ½ years ago when I devised a brilliant, elaborate plan to convince Will that we needed to get a puppy. It turned out this effort was entirely unnecessary because he agreed wholeheartedly the second the word “puppy” escaped my mouth. So now I have a brilliant, elaborate plan on file for when I need to convince him of something else in the future. Win-win.

We did some research online and found the perfect candidate – a 9 week old toy fox terrier hailing from rural Missouri who was 2 pounds and 6 inches tall at the time. My mind was reeling with the possibility of all the designer luggage and handbags I could fit him in. Sold! We christened him Gatsby and happily drove out to the sticks to pick up our new little family member.

Everything was great the first day. Gatsby slept in a tiny little ball in my lap all the way back to St. Louis, explored his new home for a little while, then slept in a tiny little ball in my lap the rest of the night while we watched a movie. In case you’re wondering, tiny little balls of sleeping puppy are ridiculously adorable and not at all hard to take care of. I think Gatsby knew this – it was all part of his diabolical plot to make me love him before he began his quest to destroy my life.

Maybe that’s being a little dramatic – he didn’t destroy my life, he just changed it. But for a person whose only commitments in life were a fiancé and a job, that change felt pretty destructive at first. I couldn’t put a finger on exactly what was bothering me, but I think I was actually slightly depressed the first month we had Gatsby. It wasn’t that I minded feeding him or even cleaning up poop, puke and fur (granted, I didn’t love that either). I just felt tied down in a way I never had before. We always had to think about what we were going to do with him whenever we wanted to go anywhere. Our solution was to lock him in the bathroom, and while even a bathroom-sized room is a palace for a dog of his microscopic proportions, he always wailed like a banshee (he has big pipes for a small dog) and made us feel guilty. Then some disturbing thoughts started entering my head. Did we make a huge mistake? Am I going to be tied down by a dog for the next 15 years? Do I even LIKE this dog?

Thankfully, post puppy depression isn’t quite as severe as postpartum depression can be. I didn’t have to resort to taking medication and worrying about what Tom Cruise thinks of me. At the risk of sounding glib, within a few weeks the post puppy depression was a thing of the past. In fact, I am now pretty much obsessed with Gatsby. After all, he is the cutest dog in the world.

Am I right or am I right?

I think the problem all along was that I wasn’t prepared for change, and the long-term commitment of having a dog didn’t hit me until we actually brought Gatsby home. The fact that I was able to adjust to that gives me hope that I’m maturing and maybe I’ll be able to use this lesson when other future family members make their debut.

Random thought of the day: The lyrics to some of the popular songs right now are laugh-out-loud ridiculous. Ke$ha – while you’re inefficiently brushing your teeth with a bottle of Jack, remember that gingivitis is a serious risk factor for heart disease. You just think about that, young lady.

Welcome to my not-a-mommy blog: My future babies scare me

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So here I am, a happily married textbook editor living in St. Louis with my husband Will and loving the “young couple” lifestyle. We hang out with friends, try all the new restaurants, travel whenever we want, and obsess way too much over our pseudo-child, Gatsby (a five pound toy fox terrier). All of this is great and I pretty much never want to give it up. But I have a feeling it’s going to change. And that change begins with a “B” and ends with an “aby.”

No, I am NOT pregnant (Mom – you can stop freaking out). Nor will I be within the next couple of years, at least not according to the “life plan” I have carefully crafted for myself. Will and I have always said that the magic number is 30 – we’ll wait until we’re 30 to have kids. Great! Thirty is OLD. Heck, I might not even live that long. But wait – NEWSFLASH – suddenly I’m 28! And I can feel the freedom of my childless years slipping through my fingers. A tiny person-to-be is looming in the not-so-distant future, plotting to invade our lives and my uterus.

FUTURE BABY: Hey Mom, you know how you like to go out to nice restaurants more often than you probably should? Well you better soak that up now because when I’m in the picture? Not gonna happen.

ME: Huh? Mom? Wait – are you talking to me, baldy?

FB: Also, you better start planning and saving for that trip to Europe, stat. I’m not a huge fan of history, museums, good wine, or even solid foods for that matter.

ME: Wow, way to be a party pooper.

FB: Oh, I’m an expert pooper. You’ll see.

ME: <throwing up in mouth>

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t want to have kids. (Again, Mom, stop freaking out.) I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we are lucky enough to have that experience because I know that many people aren’t and it’s often taken for granted. But whether biological or adopted, I’m guessing that in the relatively near future there will be mini people dictating what we can and cannot do in our day-to-day lives. This scares me.

I’m not what you might call a “baby person.” I’ve probably held about five babies in my entire life, and I think I can speak on behalf of myself and the babies when I say it was not good. I mean really, when someone hands you her baby, what are you supposed to do? Support the head – ok I know that, but then what? Do you just look at it? Pat it? Pet it? Bounce? Stand still? I don’t know. And then there’s the whole issue of baby talk. In the presence of a baby, it seems that pretty much everyone in the world suddenly loses the ability to pronounce the letter L, as in “Wook at this wittle cutie!” I cannot compel myself to do this. My conversations with babies go more like this:

ME: Hi! Awww, you’re cute. Yes you are!

BABY: <blink>

<Crickets chirping.>

ME: You’re heavy…

Note to friends and family members whose babies I’ve held: Don’t worry, I actually loved holding your baby. It’s the other four I’m talking about.

Another sign my maternal instincts haven’t kicked in yet? I don’t think babies are cute. Granted, they do get progressively cuter as they get older. I think most four and five year olds are adorable. I always want to take them by the shoulders, look them in the eye and say “Enjoy it kid, the awkward middle school years are not too far down the road.” But if you’re talking actual babies – most are wrinkly, fleshy, spitty Verne Troyer look-alikes.

Not cute.

So that’s where I stand right now. I do feel like I might be slowly warming up to humans of the ankle-biting, rug rat variety thanks to the fact that I have several friends who have babies or are pregnant. From what I’ve observed, motherhood does have some perks. However, I obviously have a ways to go. Thus begins my quest to enjoy living spontaneously and selfishly while I still can and to mentally prepare myself for what I like to refer to as Babygeddon…