They're closing in.

So my friend G and I had dinner last night. She is 40-something, her husband, 50. She is trying to get pregnant, and she has not had much luck, even with medical help. She suggested that part of the problem is...

"We don't DO it enough. R--is always too tired," she made a face over her pizza.

I took a deliberate bite of a truffle-oil mushroom slice, chewed, and said," I'm asking you this because I'm your friend. Are you sure you want to have a baby? If your husband is too tired to have sex, how is he going to handle having a baby? Babies are exhausting, and if you end up doing all of the parenting, you are going to be a wreck. Plus it's boring as hell, and you, like me, have no attention span."

Babysitting for two weeks has made me a baby expert.

"I just want a child," G replied. "I know I'll probably be the one staying home with it. I need to find friends and family that want to help out, though." (G's mother died a couple of years ago.)

I remained silent. I'd previously made my availability in that department pretty clear, and I feel absolutely no guilt in telling my friends that if I wanted that kind of action, I'd have had my own.

My other friend, B, also wants a baby. She just turned 40 and she and her husband are not in the best financial situation, but she realizes that clock is a -ticking. I will miss her friendship when it happens.

I'm already planning my excuses for avoiding baby showers. I'll buy a gift, but I've sworn off the showers. If feelings get hurt...what? Will they drop out of my life any faster once the kid is born? Will they not invite me to come over to their house (because it's easier) and try to have a conversation in ten-second snatches? What's my motivation?

Then there's L, whose boyfriend lives on a whole other continent. The logistics are daunting enough, but when she announced she was considering trying to get pregnant on his next visit, it was all I could do not to scream, "IS EVERY FORTYSOMETHING WOMAN I KNOW LOSING HER FREAKING MIND?!?!?" Since when is having a baby the solution to your dissatisfying life? Have you learned NOTHING from Britney Spears and J. Lo?!?!?"

Thank God my SP can't become pregnant. Even though he's usually on the rag.

Maybe I have too much time...

Today Harry was sleeping on the blanket I'd put on the radiator cover for his snoozing pleasure. I watched him, listening to the slight snore he makes. He always looks so peaceful when he's sleeping.

I walked over, leaned in, and put my face next to his.

"I'm hungry," I said.

His ear twitched.

I touched his face with my nose, spoke into his eye.

"I'm hungry. Really. I'd like you to get up RIGHT NOW and get me a snack. Hmmm? How about it? I'm hungry. Right now. Get up. Get up. Getupgetupgetupgetup."

I poked his belly with my finger. By this point he had raised his head, drawn his head back in a "what the--?" attitude, and blinked groggily.

"I"M HUNGRY." I said.

He looked at me.

"How does it feel?" I asked.

He got up, turned the other way, and lay down again.

Call me Pip!

So this week:

Tuesday took Amie to the vet because she'd been drooling, which usually means she needs a tooth trim.

"Clearly," said my vet friend, "she's ignoring your 'no vet bills while I'm unemployed' edict."

While I was in the exam room waiting for my floppy little bundle of expensive love to have her teeth filed, the AT&T repair guy called on my cell to tell me that he was in my apartment with the super, and the problem with my phone line was caused by my cordless phone shorting out and messing with the line.

"So this means the problem was on my end."

"Uh...yeah."

"And how much will I have to pay?"

"Uh..let's see..it will be $91.00. They'll add it to your phone bill."

"Of course they will. Thanks."

The vet brought Amie back. "I also trimmed her nails, since we're still allowed to do that for free when they come in for something else," she said.

At the desk, the receptionist tallied the charges. "That will be $80.00."

"Of course it is. Thanks."

Yesterday I got up and was going to drive to Radio Shack for a new phone/answering machine. I tried to remember where I'd parked my car, but in a moment of more disturbingly frequent perimenopausal memory lapses, I blanked completely. Nothing. I knew I'd had to move the car because they were cleaning our street that day, but could not think where I'd moved it.

I decided to walk outside and just look for it. The good news was that I didn't have to look far; it was right there. The bad news is that I'd forgotten to move it, and it sat there alone, a disapproving wet street-sweeper trail tracing around it, a parking ticket in the door.

I took the ticket. Yep. $50.00.

So In two days I'd managed to rack up $221.00 in costs, $141.00 of it technically avoidable had I been a phone technician and in full possession of my memory. Fortunately, I had a babysitting gig today and will do more tomorrow, making me only net $100 in the hole. Making lemonade, making lemonade.

But I went to my mailbox today to find an envelope with no return address. Woooooo. Who could it be from? What a mystery! The only clue was a British postage stamp. I opened it and found a folded sheet of paper bearing the words ANONYMOUS DONATION. Inside, a ten and two ones. That's right, people: twelve whole dollars. So someone in England sent me twelve dollars. Given how many people live in the UK, this is going to take a long time to figure out. But it's nice to know I have a benefactor.

What larks!

I've figured out what it is.

People actually are impossible.

A whole new understanding of insanity.

So I think I'm heading into the emotional roller-coaster of perimenopause. Suddenly, I just want to fight everybody. Everybody pisses me off in an unbelievable way; it's like the minute they leave my presence I began to stew and create scenarios, and I'm a monster. This is unlike my serotonin-deficit days; at least, it feels different. Back then, I knew something was wrong, even though I couldn't seem to change it through an act of will; now, I just feel righteously, remorselessly outraged and combative.

The safety is off, people.

I created a survey on our laundry room because the Board asked whether I would look into our laundry contract, which expires later this year. Being a Good Citizen, I created a survey, which I left in the laundry room for people to fill out and put into a box. It was a pleasant survey, with an informative introduction at the top. It allowed for structured data collecting as well as for open comments. There was even a place to provide identification information if you wanted to be contacted about the survey or laundry room in general.

Today I found a note from the Inevitable Psycho In Every Group, ranting about everything they don't like, about everything BUT the laundry. I went back to my condo, typed a caustic open response, and posted it, with the rant, in the laundry room. Since the person had given no contact information, I said, I had no option but to respond publicly. My favorite parting shot was an invitation to attend a well-posted monthly Board meeting to discuss their concerns, rather than barking orders at unpaid fellow residents who volunteer their time on his/her behalf with no thanks. And I gave my full name, because I want this MF to confront me. Seriously. Bring. It. ON.

Now it's time for a hot bath.

Locked and loaded...

Once Again, Ladies and Gentlemen: Twins.

So today we began as we always do, with a rough game of knee-bouncing interspersed with quick drops. They love it, and as I tell them, "Whatever doesn't make you puke makes you stronger."

They seem to be coming down with colds, which means they are sleeping a lot, which is just fine with me; the routine here is to let them crash wherever they happen to, like puppies, so right now I have a baby on the hallway floor and another on the TV-room floor (the floor is carpeted). It's great.

Double Duty

It's a testament to the economy that I say what I'm about to:

I am babysitting 14-month-old twins.

A friend of a friend opened a pie shop, and things have kept her and her husband (who's been laid off since last August) very busy. I'd met the twins (fraternal, a boy and girl) before, and when I was approached about babysitting, figured it was good extra money while I job-hunted.

So this week I'm going over for about 6 hours a day, just a couple of blocks from my house. It would be more entertaining if I had horror stories about food in hair and destruction, mayhem and ulcers, but the twins (let's call them Emma and Daniel), are actually remarkably well-behaved and happy babies. They are also extremely intelligent. The only time they get cranky is when they are hungry or tired; any other time, there is virtually no whining or fussiness. Need to leave one baby in a high chair while you take the other upstairs? No problem - you return to a quiet, patiently waiting baby. Seriously, these kids are amazing.

So we spend most of our time in the baby-proofed upstairs, where a baby fence allows me to use my laptop in the office area and keep an eye open.

Yesterday was the first day, and things went well. After awhile I began to get bored, so I put on the TV. I'd like to say that I tuned in to kids' programming, but to be honest, we all watched Divorce Court. (I figure you can't start the cautionary tales early enough.) I did make sure there was no Language, since they are starting to babble.

Today we went out in the stroller, and I experienced firsthand what it's like to be the woman with the double carriage trying to get into the coffee shop for a take-out decaf mocha. The kids? Never made a peep; just sat there, taking everything in. I'd commented to their father that they were lucky to have twins, because they kept each other company. I mentioned previous babysitting horrors, where kids needed your attention all the time; this way, they have a built-in playmate. I don't think he gets how lucky he and his wife are that their kids are so mellow.

Lunch is also funny; they sit in their chairs and split a jar of something savory, then move on to something fruit; Daniel's favorite trick is to grab the spoon in his teeth and laugh at his clever practical joke. Afterward, I wipe their messy faces with a damp cloth, which they find kind of claustrophobic; I've taken to calling it Baby's First Gitmo.

I'm a whiz at diaper changing, can sing Frere Jacques to the musical toy, and give great knee rides, belly raspberries, and foot tickles. Still, I'm glad to not have my own. This is fine for the extra money and the kids love me and they are beyond adorable, but I have to confess it's kind of boring. At least I can surf the web and read while I'm there, although I feel obligated to cut this short so that I can spend time with them rather than ignore them. But even if I do, they content themselves with playing with their toys and cracking each other up. It must be nice to be a twin.