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Archives from 2002-2006

I’m glad to be done with long road trips for the remainder of this pregnancy, because not only is it generally uncomfortable to sit in one place for hours on end while a squirming badger attempts to karate-kick every single internal organ in my body, but the Jimmy Leg has officially set in, and the only thing more annoying than craning around backwards to find whatever object that has been purposefully thrown—then immediately, loudly regretted—from a cranky toddler’s carseat is having the Jimmy Leg and being unable to walk it off.

For those unfamiliar with the Jimmy Leg, you’ve probably seen the commercial for a medication purporting to treat oddball symptoms in the legs, like “strange sensations”, “creepy-crawlies”, and “tingling”. This is the same commercial my coworker joked about a while back when we were talking about those pharmaceutical ads where they never mention what actual disease the medication will treat, they just show an uplifting montage of random happy lifestyle moments then rattle off a list of potential side effects, the upshot being that you watch the ad and vaguely feel that hey, you might benefit from the drug, even if it’s for erectile dysfunction and you’re a 12-year-old girl. “Now they’ve even got a pill for something called restless legs syndrome,” he said, rolling his eyes and making those exaggerated air quotes.

I’ll admit that it does sound sort of ridiculous, but if you’ve experienced Restless Legs Syndrome, AKA RLS, AKA the Jimmy Leg, you know that shit is not only real, it sucks. It doesn’t suck in a major, life-threatening sort of way, like getting your leg caught in a bear trap or having it slowly gnawed to the bone by hungry, but myopic beavers. It sucks more in a really annoying sort of way, like having an tiny invisible non-stinging insect rammed up your nose. Where every now and then it buzzes its wings in an attempt to get free, and you have to sit there digging around in your nostril to alleviate the feeling. And everyone looks at you going, why the crap are you picking your nose like that? There’s nothing up there.

Wait, that’s a really bad analogy. It’s more like the sensation that if you don’t move your legs, like jiggle your foot wiggle your toes shake your leg up and down whatever, you will EXPLODE. In a giant bloody meat-spraying geyser of shiny gloppy innards. You can try and not move your legs, but then you will feel this growing freakout happening all over your body, this EXPLOSION IMMINENT feeling, and if you actually force yourself to keep your legs still some other body part will wig out, like your arm will fling up in the air and smack your own face, or accidentally hit “1-click” on a pair of Spanx maternity pantyhose (there can be no other explanation for that purchase).

Anyway, it tends to happen when I’m sitting or lying down, and being stuck in a car for seven hours definitely makes it worse. JB probably has two foot-shaped dents in his dashboard from my increasingly Cirque du Soleil contortions and toe-tappings, but fuck it, it was either that or get out in Central Oregon and jog alongside the truck all the way home.

Other than the travel-related discomfort, it was a really good trip. Riley was in fine spirits the entire time (which of course made it inevitable that once we returned home he would immediately develop a hacking cough, runny nose, and plant himself firmly in the Tantrum Zone for the remainder of the weekend), the weather in Bend was lovely, and our holiday was satisfyingly festive. I hope you had a good one too, hopefully Jimmy-Leg-free.

A view from one of Bend’s neighborhoods. I would really love to move to this town someday.

Mt. Jefferson, viewed from the road about an hour outside of Bend.

A cold, frosty morning in Central Oregon.

Speaking of cold and frosty, check out Mr. L.L. Bean here, bundled against the chilly weather. The hands in the pockets, could you just die.

I was really hoping for a semi-decent photo of the three (four!) of us to use in our holiday card, this was the best of the bunch. At least no one is crying or surreptitiously giving the camera-wielder the finger.

Lastly, some crazy shoe tree we spotted on the way home. There’s something sort of magical and awesome about a tree full of shoes that’s literally out in the middle of bumfucknowhere, you know? I guess a tree full of Nestle Crunch bars might be better, but this was pretty cool.

I’ve had my Touareg for almost exactly a year now, and for the most part I am in deep, hot, inappropriate automotive love with it. It handles like a dream, has tons of storage, and has some BEEF behind the accelerator (I like to drive it kind of macho-style when I’m by myself: motor growling, music blaring, my eyes narrowed in badass concentration . . . until that deflating moment when I take a tight turn and my groceries fall over in the back with a depressingly suburban-sounding thunk, and I’m like, oh yeah, I’ve got on MOM JEANS).

The only bummer is that the car’s had an extensive, creative variety of electrical problems, all of which have thankfully been covered by the warranty but still, in twelve months I’ve taken this rig into the dealership more than I ever did with my Corolla in the ten years I owned it. Apparently the Touareg is powered by a number of tiny robots, all of which are prone to failing, or thinking they are failing and thus triggering an internal alarm on my dash. I had a TYRE FAULT a while back, where my car worriedly informed me that I should CHECK TYRE PRESSURE and finally shouted that I had a FLAT TYRE! FLAT TYRE! (I was driving on the freeway at the time and about had a damn heart attack, luckily there wasn’t actually anything wrong with the tire tyre itself). There was a wonky headlight connection, something with the brakes, and now my car is intermittently telling me I have an AIRBAG FAULT, meaning there’s something problematic with the passenger seat sensor that comes and goes. When the car decides that yup, something’s definitely wrong with that there sensor, it sounds a brief alarm before flashing the FAULT message on the dash, which causes Riley to chirp, “Beeeep! Be quiet, car!”.

It’s kind of like driving KITT, except if KITT were maybe suffering from Alzheimer’s, or Tourette’s, or something.

Electronic hijinks aside, I do love that car. It is by far the nicest vehicle I’ve ever owned, and I feel guilty that I’m not better about shoveling out the kid-related detritus on a more frequent basis. I mean, a family of sparrows could probably live for months on the leftover cracker crumbs strewn next to Riley’s carseat. And just think, soon enough there will be TWO carseats back there, one with a halo of toys and crumbs, one with a radial spray of milk-barf.

Two carseats. Two. Oh my god I just totally freaked myself out. Hoo, boy.

In other driving-related news, we are motoring to Bend tomorrow to meet up with JB’s family for Thanksgiving. We’re going to stay in the same spot we did last time, and hopefully the neutral location will alleviate any holiday-host-related-pressure so we can all just chill out and eat massive amounts of stuffing and gaze at the mountains. JB’s parents are in charge of the tricky meal items like the turkey and gravy, while I got the relatively no-brainer cranberries and potatoes. It should be fairly low key but nice, I hope.

If you’re doing the Thanksgiving thing this week, what are your holiday plans? Where are you going to be, who are you going to be with, what are you going to eat?

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