jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

So, theoretically, if you threw two big chunks of dry ice into your little plastic garbage can, and then your garbage can got all frozen and frosty, what would you do next to make it go away?

I’ll give you a hint: Grabbing it with your bare hands is not the right answer.

At work we have what we call The Giveaway Table. I love love love The Giveaway Table.

About two weeks ago I strolled by and saw the pink and tan box of The OV Watch sitting there. At the time, I didn’t even register what I was seeing, exactly, but I saw the word “ovulation” and thought I’d grab it. No one was around. Not that it’s a secret that I ovulate, but I’m not interested in sharing my pregnancy efforts with the office.

So has anyone seen the commercial for The OV Watch? I’d seen it a few times and had the same conversation with myself every time:
Me: I should buy that.
Me: Dude, it’s like $300
Me: So are you saying you wouldn’t pay $300 to be pregnant?
Me: No, I’m saying I don’t want to fall prey to expensive desperation grabs.
Me: But you don’t know, that thing might work.
Me: That’s right, I don’t know. So I’m not going to spend the money.

But if one drops in my lap, I’m certainly going to wear it.

And sure enough, it did.

The jury is out on whether or not it works. It’s definitely taking readings and giving me fertility indications. But whether or not it’s just an expensive Magic 8 Ball remains to be seen. I expect to talk to my doctor this week and I’ll ask her opinion. What she says will help determine whether I order more sensors, as the giveaway watch only came with one.

I hope it works. For obvious reasons. But also because I’ve been harboring a fear that I’m not ovulating. The literature says the watch stays on the “Not Fertile” reading all month long if there’s no ovulation. And I’m already on “Fertile Day 2.” My body is also telling me it’s Go Week again, so I’m at least optimistic that it’s possible if not that it will definitely happen.

The “Not Fertile” reading is cracking me up. It’s right there in big block letters across the front of the watch face. Which, I think, is something they may want to reconsider in their phase two designs. Because, really, that’s a bit harsh. Even if it is true. We can assume that by the time a woman is wearing this thing she’s already had some trouble. Does she really need that judgment hovering there, visible at all times?

On the alternate route, I’ve done more adoption research. I’m considering setting up a consultation with Jane Aronson, who’s an international adoption expert/pediatrician. (Hey, she’s Angelina’s pediatrician so she’s got to be good, right?). She’s expensive, but not totally out of reach.

Damon and I have been married for one year. Last July, up in the mountains of north Georgia, we were with all our friends and feeling optimistic about life in general.

It’s been a beautiful year, everything I could have hoped for. Which is not to say that we haven’t fought; haven’t wanted to occassionally do our worst to each other, hide the evidence and run for Panama.

Yesterday we celebrated staying on the right side of the law. Damon knows a thing or two about women, and scored big points by presenting me with a beauty of a red and white dress I’d amired in a boutique window weeks ago. It’s a strapless sundress built for maximum swirl.

I gave him a NY-themed gift. First was a CD compilation of musicians from our neighborhood, second was the DVD of Batman Begins (to commemorate the two times hopeful tourists have tentatively asked him if he’s Christian Bale. Which is hilarious because, really, he doesn’t look like Christian Bale) and third is a big, beautiful photo of the Flatiron building, taken in the ’30s from the top of a tour bus. That both celebrates a gorgeous building and commemorates our disasterous tourist bus trip with my Mom and Jerry.

Happy with our presents, I threw on my new dress and we headed for Coney Island. And here’s what I’ve learned. Coney Island is fun, but not as much fun when it’s 90 degrees out. Next time we will go at night. But we did have a good time. I got one of the world’s finest caramel apples and happily watched Damon ride scary rides.

The best part of the rides is the operator patter. They’ve all got mics and they seem to enjoy the theater. So while the cars all go whizzing by every which way on, say, the Break Dance ride you hear this booming voice announcing things like, “Shorty in the pink had better hold on to that bar.” and “Oh, she mad. She don’t like this ride at all.” All of Coney Island has become a perfect marriage of carny and hip hop. The Polar Express features the classic polar bears illustrations, but in this case they’re wearing hoodies and hanging out with Tupac.

I also loved the guy on the boardwalk yelling: “Shoot the freak! When you come to Coney Island you got to eat a hot dog. You got to ride the Cyclone. And you got to shoot the freak in his freaking face. He’s a freak. He deserves to be shot. You don’t shoot him, he don’t eat!”

The Freak, by the way, is just some guy in a hockey mask and football pads. I guess the silly dance is what earns him his title.

Once I’d eaten everything that wasn’t nailed down and Damon had been flung far and wide by every ride in the park we headed back to Times Square to catch The Da Vinci Code. This entry is already pretty long and I won’t bore anyone who happens to still be reading with a review. We did enjoy ourselves, though. And Damon got to restore balance to the universe, which is important to him. The women behind us in the ticket queue, after repeated tries to cut around us (which were aggressively blocked by me) had already forced their way in front of the guy who was behind us, and then was behind them. So Damon made a big production of turning around and saying in full voice to the guy, “I think you’ve lost your place in line. Why don’t you come get in front of us?” I’m sure the women were not remotely chagrined, but the guy seemed to feel better.

After the movie we capped our time out with a big sushi dinner. I wish I had a nice nigiri platter right now.

So we staggered home, a little bit sunburned, smelling like coconut and promising to try to do at least as well this coming year.

I’ve been fairly absent lately, but with a 4-day weekend stretching out before me I’m hoping to catch up.

I love this early-morning feeling. It’s 8:45. Normally I’d be finishing up and about to walk out the door for work. And I don’t mind going to work. But today I’m sitting on the couch in my pjs watching a TiVo’d Daily Show with a sleepy cat at my side. I may go have a bowl of spaghetti soon.

Last weekend was lovely, but not restful. Friday night Damon and I took a Chinatown bus to DC to spend the weekend with our friends Geoff and Lisa. They’ve got a 4-month-old son, Andrew, and we wanted to take a look at him. He really is a handsome boy, and apparently quite big for his age — 17 pounds. He’s got big wandering eyes and kicky legs. I liked how whenever you meet his eyes and talk to him he responds with a big, gummy smile. I don’t know if all babies that age will do that, but I got a big kick out of it. He wasn’t old enough to have any fear of strangers, so he contentedly let me and Damon tote him around. I was a little taken aback how he would make these sort of complaining noises any time we weren’t giving him direct attention. That got a little exhausting. It’s a good thing they sleep a lot.

After six months of challenging work, I hit the goal I was hired for today: redbookmag.com. It isn’t perfect, I know. But it’s my baby and I love it. And like any good mother, I’ve already got a long list of things to improve my progeny.

I’m relieved, I’m elated, I’m tired, I’m excited.

On a different note, my laptop went to the hard drive home in the sky. Anyone have any recommendations for a new one? I would like it to be relatively light, PC and competent but not fancy.