free stuff 4 u!

Recently discovered photographic evidence (see above) conclusively demonstrates that, way back in the 1980s, L played high school hockey. Which inspired me to do a contest slash giveaway.

Here's how to play:

1. Stare at the photo.

2. Figure out which one is L

3. Leave a comment by midnight-ish Tuesday, February 2 with your guess. (see how I've numbered the jerseys for your convenience)

4. If you get it right, you'll be in the running for one of two(!) GRAND PRIZES , namely, a $25 gift certificate to Amazon.com

One entry per day per person.

Note that since these are online gift certificates, the contest is open to everyone, everywhere and that if you win, all you'll need to supply me with is an email address.

And if you need a hint to which of these hockey gods is L: He's the one that's so hot that you wonder if they really needed a zamboni® to melt the ice.


eta: Just to make it a little easier. So far (that is, as of comment #5) no one has guessed correctly. If you've already guessed and gotten it wrong, feel free to try again.

edited even more to add: And, in case it wasn't clear (which it obviously wasn't), when I said hot what I actually meant was "hot." As in the guy you'd most like to have sitting next to you in AP Chemistry. So you could copy off his paper during tests.

Another hint: As of right this very minute -- 6:10 am on February 1 or febrúar 2010 06:10, if the Icelandic thing is still up -- only one person has guessed correctly. Remember, you get one guess per day. So, even if you've already guessed once, keep trying!

minor annoyances

• The cord to my camera is missing, meaning I can't upload any pictures


• I yearn for a new camera. With all my heart. And what's left of my soul.


• We haven't had a tv since August.


• An enormous bill just arrived from the exterminator guys. The good news: No more termites. The bad news: No more money.


• Sometime other people's news -- whether happy or sad -- is indescribably depressing


• Conjunctivitis.


• It's lose. Not loose. Trust me on this one.

If Phantom Scribbler hadn't already copyrighted the term, I'd call this Wednesday Whining.

What's vexing you?

horseshoes and hand grenades

Q: Why does this not quite qualify for Lori's Perfect Moment Monday list?

A: Because that's not my drawer.


Console me and soothe my gnawing pangs of envy (or perhaps hunger) by telling me what's your absolute favorite cookie (or, more accurately, bakie) in the whole wide world.


eta: Looking for tasty cookie recipes? Check out the comments. And try not to drool all over your keyboard.

what i really, really want

Is to see Frank (that would be Kym's Frank, aka, the world-famous Frank of the world-famous Frank's Big Ones) all dolled up in a sparkly dress and doing a super-sexy dance. Just for me. Well, me and everyone else on the internets. As they say in Paris: “ooh la la!”

But there’s only one way to make that happen. And it all depends on you. Just click on the link below and donate a buck (or a couple if you can spare them). It all goes to some do-good benefit thing related to infertility or something. Kym explains it all here. (Look, there’s a reason her blog is called I’m a Smart One, while my blog is called Dead Baby Jokes)

And here’s the important, nay, critical, aspect: for every dollar you contribute, you’re entered in a drawing to win a dozen of Frank’s Big Ones Cookies. Again, refer to Kym's post for the details, which I'm sure I don't really understand.

What I can tell you is that these munga-sized cookies are the most awesomest ever. Also, as the name suggests, they are, well, big. Very, very big. (Parenthetically, while, as always, I’m entirely open to bribes incentives, particularly in the form of tasty sugar-saturated treats, full disclosure requires me to reveal that for this particular post I have not received any. Yet.)

eta: an exciting update: Kym tells me that, if, for whatever reason, you don't have any spare cash money, just leave a comment on her post (click here!) and you'll be automatically entered in the FREE COOKIE GIVEAWAY! How great is that?

To recap: Click on the button below. Donate a buck. Cookies! Plus, Frank in a dress! Or, if we pony up enough: a g-string!

Hubba, hubba! Dance, Frank, dance!

The animation is from wikipedia. It illustrates objects experiencing different kinds of, uh, drag.
I totally crack myself up. .

parallel lines

When I started this blog, almost exactly three years ago, I'm not really sure what I was thinking. I was a few months out from the loss, able to go hours at a time without crying, even capable of a certain amount of ironic distance.

But, whatever I was looking for, what I've found over the last three years are many, many people who've given me love and support and hope. And I can't begin to express how grateful I am to all of you.

Still, until a couple of days ago, I'd never found someone who was, right now, right this very minute, almost exactly where I was three years and a few months ago.

I'd occasionally read Eve at Infertility Rocks, but it was one of those happily-pregnant-with-boy-girl-twins blogs that I could only manage in very small doses, with squinting eyes and clenched teeth. That all changed a week ago when, at her routine 24-week ultrasound, Eve learned that, while her little girl is doing well, her little boy is gone.

And, for once, I imagine I know pretty much exactly what she's feeling. I didn't write about it when it was happening to me. I wasn't blogging yet and I'm not sure I could have said anything that made any sense. But, reading Eve's beautifully crafted words, I remember crying for my little boy. I remember hoping with all my heart that my little girl would make it. And I remember that she almost did.

Please stop by Eve's place and give her all the love and light you can spare.

first impressions

photos of Alicante by a somewhat jet-lagged Gray

drive by

The other day I got a call from someone who I hadn’t heard from in a long, long time. Someone who I was kind of hoping I would never hear from again.

He had apparently managed to get himself in some sort of trouble stemming from an incident that sounded like a cross between a bar fight and an episode of road rage. And not in a good way.

Because let's just say that it was a long and complicated story and when he said he hit someone I wasn’t listening closely enough to figure out if he meant with his fist or his car.

When he was done, I told him that I couldn’t help him and gave him the names of a couple of people who might be able to. Then I tried to hang up, but he kept talking.

"So," he said, "I see you’ve moved to a new place."

"What do you mean?" I said. And what I’m thinking is: I haven’t moved since 1995.

"Well," he said, "I was driving by your house the other day -–"

"Mmmmm," I said. And what I’m thinking is: I live on a dead end street.

" -- and I saw a baby carriage on the front porch."

"Oh, yes," I said, "That must have been the day my friend, um, Ellen stopped by with her 18-month-old. She visits, like, um, all the time. Well, nicetalkingtoyougottagobye."

And what I’m thinking is: Here’s to long-lost friends. May they stay that way. Permanently.

Who’s been calling you lately?

the rain in spain

Someday, it'll make a great story. Sunday night, we dropped Gray off at the airport. He was carrying a brand new backpack and wheeling a small suitcase. He was on his way to Alicante, a Spanish Mediteranean port city, where he'll be living with a host family and studying Spanish for six weeks, before spending some time traveling around Spain and France on his own.

In theory, he was supposed to catch a connecting flight from Madrid to Alicante, but it's wet and foggy enough that the airlines have been cancelling flight after flight and Gray's been stuck at the Madrid airport for almost 36 hours.

Gray calls me at work. He's tired and hungry. He doesn't have much money and he speaks only a few words of Spanish. I tell him that everything will be fine and I remember when I, a couple of years older than Gray is now, arrived at the train station in Milan on my way to somewhere else, just as all the railway workers went on strike.

I had no nowhere to stay and, in those days before cell phones, no way to tell anyone where I was. A one-eyed pigeon pecked viciously at the ground in front of me and, as I checked my pockets one more time for my passport, I realized that the only person I could really depend on was myself.

Someday, it'll make a great story and later, Gray calls me back. "I waited in the customer service line for three and a half hours," he says,"Coincidentally, you know what else would have taken me three and a half hours? Taking the train to Alicante."

Someday, it'll make a great story. He's already working on the first draft.

Do you have a nightmare of a travel tale to share?

eta: If you like reading about other people's misadventures, be sure to check out the comments. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll vow never to leave home again.

twice told

This morning, it was snowing. Cole, sitting on the kitchen floor, dropped the plastic cups he was banging together and pushed himself to his feet to run after the cat. He screamed when the cat, tail twitching, vanished with a well-practiced leap over the safety gate. He screamed again when I put him in his high chair and screamed even louder when I put on his bib and tried to wipe his nose. Then he said "guh-GAH" and started making small munching noises as he picked up and carefully examined his breakfast -- a waffle, torn into pieces, and the remains of last night's roasted garlic potatoes.

A year ago, it was snowing. I was in the hospital with Kyrie, both of us trying to explain the concept of surrogacy to a series of sceptical nurses, who, despite the order signed by the court and a phone call to the legal department, couldn't make up their minds who should get the plastic bracelet that said "baby boy." On a table in the corner of the room, Cole was being cleaned up and weighed. I kept waiting for someone to say "I'm sorry," but instead, they put him my arms. I looked at him, then at Kyrie. I knew I was supposed to say something, but I couldn't string the words together.

Happy first birthday, Cole. And, Kyrie, though you're probably not reading this, I want to tell you that today I'm thinking of you with love and a heart-stopping gratitude for, well, everything. Just like I do every day.

join the counter-resolution!

So, it's been 2010 for five whole days. And when you're not thinking about how twenty-ten sounds all cool and futuristic, you're probably feeling guilty and anxious about those pesky New Year's resolutions you've made and, most likely, already broken.

But all is not lost. If you're tired of resolutions that you just can't manage to keep, there's still time to make a fresh start with counter-resolutions, a brand-new and exciting concept developed by yours truly.

Problem: New Year's resolutions

Solution: Niobe's Counter-Resolutions®

Those bad habits? Well, they're called habits for a reason. Instead of trying to fight them, embrace them. In other words, promise yourself you're going to do something that you're likely to do anyway. Here's how it works:

• Old-fashioned resolution: Work out three times a week.



• New and Improved Counter-Resolution®: Join a pricy gym in January. Buy lots of expensive work out outfits. Twist your ankle during your first spinning class. Decide to skip classes for the month of February so your ankle can heal. You'll start again in March April after Memorial Day. In October, call your credit card company to ask what the heck is this $89 charge that keeps showing up every month.





• Old-fashioned resolution: Carpe diem (literally "seize the day"). Live mindfully. Cultivate an attitude of gratitude. Count your many blessings.



• New and Improved Counter-Resolution®: Carp diem (literally "whine all day") Complain. Vent. Work on making that all-compassing list of the faults and irksome behaviors of your partner/relatives/friends
  /coworkers/kids/houseplants.

Basically, it's win/win. You'll feel good about making a counter-resolution that you can actually follow through on. And on the off chance you don't keep your counter-resolution, well, you can feel good about that too.

So, post your counter-resolutions here, anonymously, if you'd like. And, unless I forget, we can check once in a while to see how they're working out for you.

limited time offer

It was snowing. And it was going to snow. A pot of soup made according to jo(e)'s double super secret recipe* is simmering on the stove and I'm thinking about shoveling the walk. If you're twiddling your thumbs, at a loss for something to do, here are a couple of helpful suggestions:

First, if you know of any more 2009 babies for my list, please let me know.

Second, I'm finally kind of getting around to sending out holiday Christmas New Year's Epiphany cards. If you'd like one, email me your address (at like.niobe.all.tears AT gmail DOT com, if the link isn't working for you) and (until I run out of cards), I'll put one in the mail. eta: please put the word "card" in the subject line.

edited even more to add: okay, I've run out of cards for this year, but if you've already sent me an address, your card is on its way. Happy New Year, everyone!



*Which (shhh, don't tell anyone) you can find here. Although it's not really a recipe. At least not a recipe for soup.

no interpretation necessary

In my dream, I was standing in the checkout line at the supermarket, watching as the cashier loaded my purchases into eco-friendly reusable bags. I started towards the exit, when I realized there had been some dreadful mistake.

In my cart was a large and hideous monkfish, its teeth gleaming like pointy piano keys. Some wilted celery. A rutabaga. Five drippy containers of rapidly melting ice cream, all of them strawberry, my unfavorite flavor.

I turned around and explained the situation to the cashier, who gave me a full refund. Then I walked out of the store, a song in my heart and money in my pocket.

How much money? Why, $20.10.

Happy New Year to all of you! May it glow with light and love, and may your metaphorical grocery cart be filled to the brim with everything you could possibly want.