BAAAAAAAAD Carpet

Since we are moving to LA next week, I'm feeling a bit nostalgic and also like I need to document things that we'll miss. One thing we will decidedly not miss, but that is document-worthy, is the most heinous carpet imaginable, that graces the 2nd floor of our otherwise-fairly-nice Binghamton rental.

This is obviously very embarrassing for me, to publicly post the disgusting state of our flooring, but it's not mine, right? I just had to suffer with it for 3 1/2 years. In fact, when we first rented the place, I approached the landlord and offered to split the cost of new carpet. Pretty generous for a short-term renter, right? She was having none of it. The old carpet was perfectly serviceable, she assured me.

Not only is it horrifically ugly to look at, it's even worn out, beaten down and not the cleanest. There are three flavors of awfulness to sample, variously in the master bedroom (yellow), the hallway (the brown marbleized stuff) and the two additional bedrooms (the dark blue/aqua/light blue stuff).

The yellow carpet, which I alternately refer to as "the rice-a-roni carpet" or "the surface of the sun" because it is blindingly bright yellow, is in our bedroom. When we first moved in, I was at a loss as to how to minimize its nastiness, so I painted the walls a light yellow. But I was only fooling myself to think that that would distract from the heinousity that was the carpet. Really, I think the surface-of-the-sun burned a hole into my retina so that I no longer saw it.

But maybe the best part is that, when we move out, the landlady's first order of business is not to have a housekeeper come in or have the place painted. No sirree, the day after we move out, she's having the carpets cleaned!

Tales from the Moving Sale

Today is Sunday and we are taking the day off. Yesterday's Moving Sale was a smashing success. I would have been happy if all I got out of it was the experience; some good stories and something to blog about. We got that, 95% of our unwanted stuff was taken away by willing participants, and we made a wad of cash, to boot. Win/win/win/win! I am a convert to the whole notion. Here are some highlights:

The Early Birds
The ads (CraigsList, the newspaper, and an angelic friend/neighbor who made beautifully eye-catching signs and even got pink helium balloons to draw people in) indicated that we'd be starting at 8 am, as local custom prescribed. We got started hauling stuff outside a bit after 6 am and we expected "early birds" but I didn't really expect how aggressive they'd be, nor that we'd have a gaggle of them (all men, for some reason) lined up by 7:30 am. Some people would pull up and ask questions to assess our offerings: "You got any archery or hunting?" asked one man. "Any vintage Christmas?" asked another. "Jewelry?" "Buttons?" "Fragrances?" (that last one sort of grossed me out- who sells used perfume? or old perfume? more to the point, who buys it?)

Shoo! Bird, Shoo!
We tried to tell people politely, but firmly, that we were not open for business until 8 am. One lady came a bit after 7 am, was shooed off, and came back with some old-lady friends a few minutes later. Her unwanted return coincided with John and me trying to lug out a heavy piece of furniture and she and her buddies were totally in our way. My super-nice husband surprised with a stern, "Ladies, please, move aside!" The response? "Come on, mom, let's go." Hilarious. Game on.

Commerce
We had a friend of John's on-hand starting at 7 am and thank God we did because we needed the help. We must have had 20 people there by 8:30 am. At one point, baby strapped to me, I looked at my watch, convinced it was 10:30 am. Ugh. Only 9:05!

I didn't do much of the money-transacting, actually. It seemed like they sought out the men for this activity. Or maybe I wasn't making myself available. I have to admit, I got confused, and it probably showed, every time someone handed me money to take my unwanted stuff away. I realized that, although I'm in "sales" as a lawyer, people don't buy my services of their own volition. It's a necessity. So it just felt so odd for people to be excited about handing me cash for what I had to offer. A lawyer's lesson in capitalism, to be sure.

(Please note, in the above photo, the two men who appear to be racing each other up the steps to check out our "electronics section." I recognized the guy in the jeans shorts on the left: he is a neighbor from whom I acquired my most-prized garage sale haul: a stack of about 20 vintage Playboy Magazines!)

John's First "Art Show"
John's photography is quite good, and I had about 30 of his photos, mostly from our travels to Europe, that I had framed and up in my office at one point or another. They were in cheap frames, and it's easy to re-order the photos, so I decided to see if we could sell any of them at the sale, at the same time fulfilling John's long-standing goal of organizing a show of his work. A two-fer! We laid them out on the sloped, grassy front lawn and sold 2/3 of them ($9 each, 2 for $16, 3 for $20!) People loved them. Not the Early Birds, though. Interestingly, all the art photos sold to the afternoon crowd, the people not so on-a-mission that their radar was not up for the really good stuff, like this.

That's not totally true. We did sell one of John's artsy photos to a woman in the 8 am hour. It was a dramatic, black and white photo that I had not intended to even put out for sale. She had her pick of any of the 30 photos at that point, but she said she really liked this one because of the movie star in it. Guess what the photo was of? ME. Better yet, me in Berlin, standing in the The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. As I stood there, sweaty and draped in a baby, wearing maternity-capris from Target, I confessed that the "movie star" in the photo was me. Sensing I was queering the sale, I did not mention the "murdered Jews" part.


Moving the Product
The above photo was taken at the end of the day, after we consolidated all the tables and the porch. We were left with about 5% of what we started out with. I was shocked. I thought we'd have half of it left. Instead, people would practically have bought the paint off the house. Recession-busters, we are!

My favorite customer was the Mayor. He and his fiance apparently just moved in a block down our street. In addition to one of John's ski jackets and a stereo system (for his campaign headquarters, he said), he bought an air mattress. I don't know why I find this so funny, but I do. He also tried to pay with a check, which so confused me that I actually accepted it. Clearly he does not understand the "buy now, pay now" nature of these things. When he returned to pick up his substantial purchases, I gave him a hard enough time ("I'm good for it," he protested. I know, I don't care. I don't want another errand to have to do next week!) that he handed me 3 twenties. Thank you!


At the end of the day, the experience exceeded our wildest expectations. We moved 95% of our unwanted stuff, made tons of people happy with their found-treasures, and made a wad of cash (probably 4 times more money than either of us estimated, in fact), a happy bonus.

We'd do it again, but it would take years to accumulate that much stuff again. As I sit here typing this, someone just wrapped on our door. NO LATE BIRDS!!!

NO EARLY BIRDS!

When I first moved here and did a lot of garage-saleing, we thought it was hysterical that the newspaper ads would often say "No Early Birds!" What, pray tell, was this rare breed? Well, we found out. First, a bit of background . . .

We live at 51 1/2 ____ Street. Our landlords live at 51 ___ Street. When I went to place the ad for the Moving Sale, the space was so narrow that the "1/2" really threw off the lines. It just looked sooo much better when it read "51 ___ Street." I called John, "Would it be terrible if I listed the address for the Moving Sale at 51?" His response, "You've got to be an idiot if you show up at our side-by-side two-family house and can't figure out where the sale is." OK, I thought, I'll do it. I ordered the ad with the landlord's address (technically). But still, it didn't feel right to put someone else's address in the newspaper, no matter how tiny the ad is. But John said it was OK, right?

The same night I ordered the ad, my friend came over to help me price stuff. She told me of her experience in having a garage sale nearby, on a prestigious street where people really get psyched about attending these things. She told me she had people banging on her door the day before the sale.

My eyes almost popped out of my head. It had never occurred to me that people would arrive outside of the prescribed Saturday, 8am-4pm hours! It was too late in the day to call the newspaper and get the ad corrected. I vowed to call first thing in the morning to Stop The Presses!

And thank God I did. Friday morning, as I went to the door to leave for work, I thought I heard a faint knocking. As I opened the door, I found a woman standing on my porch, looking sheepish. She smiled, "Are you the ones having a garage sale?" MOVING sale, lady. And you and I both know that it starts tomorrow at 8 am. NO EARLY BIRDS! I get it now.

I am told that, even though we are starting the sale at what I consider to be the crack of dawn on a Saturday (8 am), people are going to arrive at like 6 am to try and beat the cherry-picking masses. We have a friend coming over at 7 am, ostensibly to help with the babies, but we are thinking that his primary duty might be "greeter." Or, more accurately, "deflector." Someone to firmly tell all the early-birds, while John and I are hustling to get everything set out, that the party don't start 'till 8!

There will surely be good blog-fodder emanating from tomorrow's sale. Stay tuned . . .

The Beauty of the Garage Sale. No, MOVING Sale.

Today was my last day of work and we are moving in only 10(!!) days. Yesterday, a PODS (a beautiful invention) showed up at our house. This week, we've been barreling toward our long-awaited Garage Sale. I've been mentally wrestling with the idea for, literally, years. Is it too tacky to put your crap out on the lawn for the neighbors to pick through? Well, yes, of course it is. But that's neither here nor there. It's all about framing it for yourself. Me? I like to think that my possessions are having a party in the sun. And maybe someone will pay me to take them out for a spin. And keep them. Win/win, right?

But the real genius of the garage, er, Moving Sale, is that it makes it OK for you to part with stuff that you wouldn't otherwise part with. It's like you're finding a good home for an old friend. We haven't actually talked about how much money we'd make until a couple days ago. If we made $200, I'd probably be happy, because that's just gravy. The beauty is that it gives you an end-game for cleaning your house, like when you have a party and it makes you fluff up the inside. Anyway, I'm pretty tired after this long week, and also out-of-practice with writing, so this isn't my best work. Just trust me on this one: the Moving Sale is a thing of beauty, for many reasons.

p.s. Not only is the POD a genius idea for moving (it shows up at your house, you pack it at your leisure, you lock it, then they take it away and it shows up at your new house in a week or so), but we are using it as a staging area for the garage, I mean Moving Sale. We don't actually have a garage.

Identicality

One question we seem to get over and over is whether our boys are identical twins. We have varying answers to this seemingly straightforward question, depending on how much we like the asker. Just kidding. But the answer definitely does vary with the context. If you are reading this, you are getting "the long answer." The short answer is "yes."

First, here's some background on twins . . . fraternal twins are essentially siblings born on the same day. They are the result of two separate eggs that happen to be released at the same time, which are then fertilized by two separate sperm (sorry for the biology lesson, but it will get worse from here on out). Fraternal twins tend to run in families, since it is related to the tendency of the woman to drop multiple eggs. Fraternals are more common in certain races (blacks are more likely, Asians less likely to have twins), older women, and those who use IVF or other forms of assisted reproduction. As a result, fraternals used to occur in about 1 in every 90 births. In the past 20 years, that number has doubled to about 1 in every 40 births. If you live in L.A. or NYC, where affluent, older women are increasingly tending to undergo assisted reproduction, you might think that there was a sale at Penney's on (fraternal) twins.

By contrast, identical twins are a completely random phenomenon in which one egg is fertilized by one sperm and then the egg splits within a few days after fertilization. Therefore, identical twins are carbon copies of each other. Identical twinning is a spontaneous thing that occurs at a rate of about 1 out of every 300 births, the world over.

When we had our very first ultrasound, at which we were told there were two babies brewing in there, the doctor assessed the placental biology and told us we were likely having identical twins. This was because it looked like we had two amniotic sacs sharing a single placenta (again, sorry for the biology lesson). This is the biology in about 70% of identical twins. However, what looks like a single placenta can actually be two placentas "fused" into one. Therefore, a pathologist looks at the placenta post-partum.

All of this is very boring, I know, so I'll cut to my point: three doctors told us we had identical twins, but we dug a little deeper and determined that it's really only a "best guess." The only way to know, with certainty, that they are identical is to a DNA test, something that insurance doesn't pay for and most people never do.

I know if I asked my (doctor) dad about identicality, he would say, "Look at them." I don't know. You tell me- identical or not?

Spaghetti Eating Contest

This weekend we went to Feast Days at Saint Anthony's of Padua Catholic Church in Endicott, NY. Around here, this is Big Stuff. The 2-day affair includes not only food and desserts and lots of live music, but also beer and gambling. This year, they added a first: 1st Annual Spaghetti Eating Contest. Two words: Pure Genius.


Contestants had to pre-register to participate. You know, to keep the riff-raff out. I mean, 1st prize was $300, so you want to get good quality contestants. Ultimately, twelve of them were deemed worthy. (And yes, that is a chick in the foreground of the 3rd photo posted.)


Contestants were presented with a big plastic bowl containing 6 pounds of spaghetti and sauce, and had 10 minutes to suck it down. I still don't understand why there was a ziploc baggie full of spaghetti in front of each contestant's bowl. Maybe it was just for decoration/atmosphere? I do understand the water bottles. Not pictured but referenced several times: the barf buckets positioned behind each contestant. Soooo awesome.


Guess what? It is really, really gross to watch a spaghetti eating contest. In order to get photos, I jammed myself into the crowd of sweaty, beer-fueled men who made up the inner circle of the audience. The "splash zone," if you will. I lasted there for exactly 3 minutes. Wow, I suck.



The last place contestant ate just over a pound of the slimy stuff. The first place contestant apparently consumed over 3 pounds. Of spaghetti. For $300. Oh, and don't forget the plaque.

Love your parents? or is it Stockholm Syndrome?

Now that the boys are 10 weeks old, we are starting to get substantially more feedback from them. They seem to orient toward our voices and recognize our faces. We have even been getting smiles for the past couple of weeks. All very reinforcing after so many weeks of nothing but dirty diapers and closed eyes.

But I started to think . . . I would smile, too, if I thought it would ingratiate me to the person who was solely responsible for not only my day-to-day comforts, but my very survival. "Yeah, you better smile at me buddy, or no milk for you!"

Then I remembered a psychological condition in which you identify with your captors: Stockholm Syndrome. Made famous by Patty Hearst when she was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army, and ended up joining forces with her abductors.

Apparently I'm not so far off-base, as Wikipedia explains the psychology of the condition as follows: "According to the psychoanalytic view of the syndrome, the tendency might well be the result of employing the strategy evolved by newborn babies to form an emotional attachment to the nearest powerful adult in order to maximize the probability that this adult will enable — at the very least — the survival of the child, if not also prove to be a good parental figure."

Note: People often ask us if they are aware of each other yet, and we don't think so. However, when I put them in the bassinet this morning, they ended up touching hands, as shown in the photo. It is amazing to think that we used to lie them down cross-wise in that same bassinet- now it's crowded even when we lie them down the long way!

Baby Clothes

Why are baby clothes so ridiculous? When we were pregnant and did not know the gender of the babies, people expressed their frustration with trying to buy us clothing, because everything seems to be gender-specific. Sure, there are a few items available in rubber ducky print (I think we own all of them, and I love them), and alligators and giraffes seem to be gender neutral. Good luck finding one-color items, much less white ones, or things with clean, geometric prints.

Thank God we didn't have girls, since pink starts to make me nauseous and the very thought of cheap lace makes me itch. Besides, the girl stuff tends to say things like "Mommy's Diva" or "Gold Digga" or even to have built-in bling.

Instead, we own lots and lots of things that have other kinds of ridiculous things printed on them. Why does a onesie have to say something like "Snugglesaurus" on it (with obligatory cartoon dinosaur)? or "Squeeze Me" (trust me, you don't want to squeeze a baby. Not unless you have a burp-cloth handy, at the very least).

The boy stuff tends to fall into a few categories: sports (see photo of hysterical matching outfits given to us by our 70-something landlords, and do not overlook the built-in track shoes), transportation, and police/fire.

What are the messages we are sending our children? Girls need to be self-absorbed divas and boys need to enlist in the fire/life safety professions?

p.s. Gratuitous baby photo: They are 10 thousand times cuter in real life than in these grainy, two-dimensional pics I've been uploading. You will note that they are wearing plain old white onesies, of which we have an entire drawer, since we go through several for each baby every day!

Who needs a birth announcment, when you have nosey neighbors?

Emerging from a post partum fog, 8 weeks out, some memories are starting to emerge as particularly funny. For example, the way some of my "public" came to find out that we had given birth.

Our next door neighbors/landlords are a couple in their 70s. They are very sweet and were quite excited about our pregnancy. When they noticed our car gone all day, one day in early April, they decided we were at the hospital (we were) and they called in (there are only 2 hospitals in town) to confirm that I was in labor/delivery. How the hospital is legally allowed to confirm that over the phone to a random caller, I do not know.

Once they figured out we were at the hospital, on April 1st, they were barely able to wait to come see us. And I do mean barely. Declan & Finn were born at 12:11 and 12:12 am on April 2nd. At 10:05 am that same day, I was groggy and still waking up in the hospital, when the nurse escorted our landlords in to my room. I know it was 10:05 am because visiting hours started at 10 am and they had to wait. Apparently they wanted to come see us at 7:30 am, when they woke up, but were barred.

When they walked in, I was certainly surprised to see them, but could not have been distracted from the fact that I had two healthy babies. I even had a joke for them: "I know, I know, we owe you the rent as of April 1st. But we're a little distracted, as you can see. You know we're good for it." They didn't even hear me, too busy cooing over the babies.

It gets even better, though. One day, a few weeks post partum, we were walking down the street and encountered one of our neighbors, who we know only from walking her dog. I know her first name and her dog's name, and that she's friendly and nice, but that's about it. She told us that she was so excited when her phone rang and the caller ID came up with that of our landlords. She told herself, "We have babies!" Apparently our landlords had started a phone tree to announce the birth, and Mimi was the neighborhood contact. Mimi told us that she then called "Susie, Mitzy, Meredith, Rick, . . . " Who are these people? I asked. Apparently, they are all the neighbors who we do not know, and who I cannot believe would be that interested in getting a phone call to announce the birth of our children.

Apparently our next door neighbor did not get the memo about the birth, because she came over to our front porch one day, a few weeks after the babies were born, to see if we had gotten a cat (or two). She heard the babies through the window, and they certainly make a feline cacophony sometimes. I guess my winter coats, coupled with the fact that I went to work and wore high heels up until the end, had fooled her.

Women=Interested in babies; Men=not so much

Despite being mostly-housebound, blogging has not been on my radar lately. Also, I'm even more boring than usual, so there's not a bunch to write about. That said, the few times I do get out with the boys, I tend to hear the same things. The funny thing is that now I'm able to predict what people are going to say, depending on their gender. It goes like this:

Women:
"Do you have a baby in there?" (we use these cool, stealthy slings to carry them sometimes)
"How old are they?"
"Are they identical?"
"Do twins run in your family?"
"How is the breastfeeding going?"
"You look fabulous."
"What are their names?"
"Did you have a c-section?"
"Which hospital were you at?"
"Who was your doctor?"
"How much did they weigh?"
"What do they weigh now?"
"When are you going back to work?"
"Do you have family around to help?"
"Can you tell them apart?"
"How do you tell them apart?"
"They are beautiful."

Men:
"Wow. Uhm, congratulations(?)"

How to make your ride look REALLY stoopid

I couldn't help but notice this faux bullet hole in a car the other day. Now, what kind of moron thinks it's cool to have a bullet hole in his SUV? The scary thing was that this was a relatively nice car.

I wanted to tell the driver that, if he wants a bullet-riddled car, he should just move to LA, since this happened to a friend of mine last year (yes, she was quite upset about it, especially as it happened right outside her condo).

Cruel jokes to play on new mothers

If these photos look overwhelming to you, think of how they looked to me, a new mother of twins, sleep deprived after weeks of feeding every 3 hours (or at least trying to), when I ventured out to Target a couple days ago to buy some baby necessities. Adding to the fun, each and every item I had to buy was something I'd never before purchased, therefore requiring a lot of product comparisons and label-readings. For example, who knew that pacifiers came in "sizes"? Cruel, cruel, cruel.

Vietnamese-to-Nail-Speak

The City of Binghamton's (population 45,000) racial composition is about 80% White, 17% Black, and a little bit "Other." Which is why I love the fact that, even with this tiny "other" population, I was still able to find a totally Vietnamese owned/operated nail salon (called "Diamond Nails," of course.)

I did make it to the nail salon yesterday, which went a long way toward making me feel more human, post-baby. The thing that strikes me about the Binghamton Vietnamese nail salon is that the people who work there speak waaaaaay better English than any salon I've ever been to. Not sure why this would be the case. Maybe it takes longer for the immigrants to trickle up to Binghamton from their original port-of-entry into the U.S? Sitting atop a stack of outdated "People" and "Marie Claire" magazines, this Vietnamese-English dictionary was a real find. I taught myself how to say, "Damn, I already ruined my toenail polish when I was putting on my flip flops- can you please, please fix it before I leave?" A life-saving sentence, to be sure.

Declan & Finn have arrived!

Declan & Finn were born April 2nd at 12:10 am and 12:11 am, weighing in at 4 lbs, 8 oz and 5 lbs, 6 oz. Small (although typical for twins) and perfectly healthy. We have been on a quite a steep learning curve for the past week but there has been no shortage of entertainment. A few disjointed thoughts, since my sleep deprivation is kicking in at this point and I'm not very good at long-range holding on to thoughts.

First of all, it's tough to tell the boys apart. Most of the time, we end up calling them "This One" and "The Other One," which aren't exactly catchy nicknames. In a pinch, they are still wearing their plastic hospital wristbands, so we better figure it out soon because those things are really going to be digging into their arms by the time they get to high school. Finn's hair is a little lighter than Declan's, which is lucky since "Finn" means "fair" in Gaelic (Note: approximately 90% of Irish names mean "fair," similar to the way 90% of Norwegian names mean "warrior" or "bride of warrior.")

Finn is skinnier (4 lbs, 4 oz. as of yesterday) so he looks a bit like a baby chimpanzee, with big eyes and flat cheeks. Or maybe he looks like Benjamin Button? Sometimes I call him Old Man Finn.

They are good boys, overall, but still so tiny that they probably require a bit of extra attention at night when they are fussy. We learned some tricks to activate their "calming reflex," such as swaddling (to mimic the feeling of being in the womb), rocking, white noise, etc. One night when This One (or was The Other One?) was acting up, I heard John say, in all seriousness, "I'm going to swaddle you like you've never been swaddled before!"

We took them to the pediatrician for their 1-week appointment this week, and the doctor made 2 comments that cracked me up:

"Their penises are looking great!" (why, of course they are!)- they got circumcised and she was commenting on how they are healing; and

"They are going to be big boys- they have big hands!"
OK, their hands are like 1-square inch, not kidding. I had to laugh.

How I know I live in a very Catholic region

In case there was any question, we live in a very Catholic part of the country. It's possible I just never noticed these things before, but I noticed they were selling something at the grocery store that I don't think I've seen before: a "fresh palm cross."

Terrible Catholic that I am, I had to do a little research to remember that the Sunday before Easter is Palm Sunday, so I guess these are to be used in connection with that. I think, though, that the fresh palm cross must be used in cultures that I haven't been around much. For example, wikipedia seems to imply that these crosses are more Eastern European, and not, say, Mexican, which would explain why I don't remember ever seeing them in L.A.

Note: in doing my research for this entry, I stumbled upon USC's motto, which is: "Palmam qui meruit ferat." This means in Latin, "Let him bear the palm who has deserved it." Apparently the palm branch is a symbol of triumph. Good to know!

Inappropriate stuff people have said to me while I've been pregnant

Now that I'm on full-time bed rest and about a week away from my April 4th due date, I thought I'd take a few minutes to reflect back on some of the . . . interesting things people have said to me in the past six months or so.

• "My son kicked so hard when I was pregnant, he broke my rib." I have spent months worried about this, of course.

• Random woman in line at the check-out of the cafeteria in my office, upon seeing I was pregnant. "My first baby lived for 2 days. Then she died. Heart problem." Thanks for planting that seed, random lady I've never seen before . . .

• At dinner with my 3 best girlfriends here, who - as though I were not present at the dinner table- were debating whether I'd gained enough weight at about 5 months along. Two thought I had not, but the third added, "She's totally gained weight. You can see it in her boobs and her face and her butt. Stand up, Anne, and turn around." WHAT? Good thing I love those girls . . .

• Very nice lawyer in my office, who certainly meant well, but described labor as, "The pain isn't that bad. You know, it's not like getting a stick in the eye." Note to self: labor is not as horrible as having a stick jabbed into my eyeball. Good to know. Encouraging, even.

• [As I walked into a historical society board meeting, I was greeted by a nearing-60-year-old man, with no children] "Hello, FATSO!" He apparently lived with his mother for most of his life, and married for the first time just a few years ago. Shocker.
  

P.M.P. Deli

For the past three years on St. Patrick's Day, we've been fortunate enough to be in Europe. You know how we always know it's St. Patrick's Day, even though we barely know what day of the week it is? Because there is always, always, always a parade. OK, maybe not always a parade. Sometimes just a bunch of drunk people wearing silly green clothing, hanging out of a bar. London, Rome, Paris- the whole world is stupid on St. Patrick's Day, it seems.

So this year, with little ones due in just 2 1/2 weeks, John was a little glum about not being in Europe this year, nor for the foreseeable future. So we decided to celebrate St. Pat's day with a virtual Europe trip: we'd find the best euro-deli in the area, get some exotic food and drinks we'd only eat abroad, sit on the front porch (now that the weather is getting downright lovely), look at our Europe photos and re-live the good ol' days.



Binghamton is full of (European) ethnic pride, as evidenced by all the summer festivals, and it actually has a lot of delis. But P.M.P. Deli is consistently mentioned as a favorite. When we pulled up outside, I could see why: who doesn't love a mural of a cornucopia of . . . meat products? That's a horn o'plenty you can really sink your teeth into. Clearly, we were in the right place.







Inside did not disappoint, either. The place was full of meats, cheeses, beers, and sweets from every country. And I mean every country. P.M.P. (Pimp?) Deli does not discriminate. Turns out the owner is Italian, and his wife was Polish, so they pretty much specialize in foods from the country of . . . Europea. Awesome- we can relive our time in London, Paris, Berlin, Ireland, Budapest, Italy . . . all in one-stop.


The result was great- a smorgasbord of treats from around the world. We just closed our eyes and it was like it was . . . St. Patrick's Day!

Children's Books

Just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The Wegmans Twins

We are expecting in less than 4 weeks, and I gotta admit, identical twins freak me out a bit. While I went to high school with several pairs of perfectly normal, nice identicals, living in Binghamton has somehow spooked me on them, and I think I know why . . .

There is a pair of ethereal identical twins who seem to inhabit Wegmans like the mythological unicorn. We had a sighting this evening, and I was able to give chase and capture these beasts for blog purposes, as I had been hoping for months!

First, a bit of background about our beloved Wegmans: Wegmans is the mother of all grocery stores in the area. Not only is it huge and clean and open 24 hours, it has everything one's stomach could possibly want (except pomegranates, out of season, but that's another story). It is so vastly superior to the other stores in the area that pretty much anyone who has a car (and therefore does not rely on public transportation or walking) goes there. As a result, about 99% of people I encounter on a regular basis shops there. Wegmans is a shared experience around here, much like driving in snow.

A couple of years ago, John said that some of his classmates had been talking and had referenced "the Wegmans Twins." Huh? What was he talking about. "You know, those identical twins who are always at Wegmans." I laughed. Surely there couldn't be two nameless young women who had gained widespread recognition simply from going to the grocery store! Oh yes, my friends, they had. Here's why . . .

The Wegmans Twins probably go there every day, and they are never apart. They walk in, briskly, never getting a cart or even a basket. They pick up some small amount of food (see photo), from which department I know not. There is no conversation between them. There doesn't need to be.

The best part? They are dressed exactly the same, 100% of the time. Keep in mind, these women are probably 30 years old, possibly older. Not only do they always dress exactly alike, they are always wearing some form of modified break-dancing outfit (again, see photo, especially black tracksuit pants). It always looks like they got dressed circa 1989, permed hair, scrunchy and all.

So I'm on a bit of a mission to find out what their deal is. Turns out, they grew up locally and work - yes, of course they work in the same place- at Pets Mart, doing dog grooming. That's about all I know, though. I've got my buddies in the Wegmans fish department working on getting some inside intel, gleaned from the employee lounge, but so far . . . nothing. Stay tuned.

Why I'm glad we aren't using the Catholic hospital

Among the reasons we are glad we aren't using the local Catholic hospital is that, well, it just freaks me out. We are going there for our childbirth education classes, so we end up getting lost in the halls each week (why are all hospitals so impossible to navigate?)

The best part is that we know we are in the correct (clinical, white, seemingly endless) hallway when we see . . . Jesus at the end.

Yup, that is Jesus at the end of that photo, arms outstretched, beckoning us to walk toward him, for the entire length of that freaking windowless, door-less, artless, soulless hallway. I feel like I'm arriving at the Pearly Gates or something. It's just creepy.