I don’t know if they’re planning a sequel (or prequel, I suppose) but should it ever get off the ground, wee Owen will be a shoo-in for the part of Max Goldman in Grumpy Old Men: the Squishy Beginning. That little guy is a dead ringer for the late Walter Matthau! Oh, dear me. Dead ringer. How inappropriate was that? Anyway, getting born must be some seriously hard work because my nephew looks so kissably, snuggably, sneak-him-home-in-my-purse-ably PUT OUT in every single photo I’ve seen. Even the shots of his itty bitty feet send the message that he’s so over it. Which really only confirms that he totally belongs in our family – moreover, that he totally belongs to his mother. God, she was cute. Cute and angry. And now, completely head-over-heels.

My nephew is being born RIGHT NOW!  More after I’ve had my morning coffee…

Whew! What a day! Last night, I didn’t sleep a whole lot after the text message came shortly after midnight announcing contractions. Twenty minutes apart. The next message, at 2:45 AM, was simply, “Laborin’”, but boy did that keep me from falling back into any kind of meaningful sleep. It was like the night before Christmas only instead of Peaches n Cream Barbie, there was going to be an actual, for really real BABY in my stocking. I was twitchy with excitement. The little fella, Owen, finally arrived this morning at 9:12 (Mountain time) and holy cow, he’s a cute one. I can’t wait to meet him in three weeks!  This was how Owen looked last week – I hope to have a more current photo of the little imp for you later!

You’d think all that missed sleep would have wreaked at least a little havoc on the job interview I had today. But, so far as I can tell, it did not. All went swimmingly! If I can keep this energy up through my blind date/friend date tonight, I’m going to feel like a freaking rock star.

Commence nap in three, two… 

Today (insert chorus of trumpets here) is Day 30 of my foray into the sweaty, gut-busting, eye-bleeding world of The 30 Day Shred. I figured, since I’d talked it up so much here, I’d give an accounting.

The program has three levels – I am nowhere near Level 3. Truth: I am nowhere near not wanting to throw up after finishing 20 minutes of Level 2. But I give it all I’ve got every single time and I am happy to say, it’s paying off. I have triceps! And svelte shoulders! And… and a gay dude dressed as a condom at the Big Gay Halloween Party told me I have an amazing ass! And I am not inclined to question the authority of someone parading about as a prophylactic. Safe sex is no joke. The bathroom scale is (freaking) finally on board with my success, too. Thirteen pounds*, it says! And above all, I kind of love how I look in my navy blue polka dot bikini. What? It’s Texas. We lay out in October.

Thing is, either I started off with a serious muscle deficit (totally possible – I couldn’t do a single girl-style push up. Don’t judge. I’m the brains – not the brawn – of this operation!) or 30 days is not nearly long enough to complete the program. Looks like I’m gonna need at least another couple weeks of Jillian Michaels telling me, “I want you guys to feel like you’re GOING TO DIE” (um, mission accomplished, lady). I have every intention of mini-puking my way all the way through Level 3. Because I love the pain. And the abs. But mostly the abs.

If you’re still playing along at home, I want to hear about it! And if you have compliments to offer on my ass, I want to hear about that, too. Still needy, people. Still needy.

* Probably not all to do with the Shred. I try to jog 2-4 miles a day and pretty carefully watch what I eat. That cholesterol test next month? Yeah, oat bran and I are going to kick its ass.   

On Wednesday, they told me I was perfect! Everything they were looking for!  But on Thursday morning, it turned to sorry, they had to go with the internal candidate. I don’t have to tell you how well that went over. It was the only job opening currently listed in my field in all of Dallas/Fort Worth. In fact, the same company would have a spot for me if I wanted to move to Chicago, Columbus or Boston. Just not here.

“That sucks. What’s your plan of attack?” My brother, he is very practical.

Plan of attack? My head was spinning, my chest was tight and despite it being 70 degrees in the apartment, I felt hot and panicky. I stripped off my sweatshirt and took a deep breath. Okay, what was my plan of attack?

“I’m going to vacuum. Then I’m going to go for a run. Then I’m going to send out five resumes to places that don’t really match my job, but what the hell. Then I am going to call another temp agency. Then, I am going to take a nap because all of this is just way too much.”

I don’t know how in as little as seven months, I could have forgotten how exhausting and terrifying this whole process is. I guess last time I had the cushion of unemployment, so there’s that.

Anyway, enough about pauperdom. I’m tired of talking about it; you’re tired of reading about it. Let’s move on to the Three Things That Make Me Smile.

• Thing Number One: Krissa will be here tomorrow. The only way I could be happier about this is if a) she was staying more than one night and b) she was bringing everyone else I miss right along with her. You know who you are.
• Thing Number Two: I have a blind date/new friend date combo coming up on Tuesday. The odds here, they are good. See, even if the fella and I experience no sparking action, the gal and I are sure to fall wildly, platonically in love – because that is how the Interweb works.
• Thing Number Three: The Nephetus will be my nephew in a matter of days! And in four weeks, I am going to snuggle him, and sniff him (baby smell!), and tell him stories about how I used to do the very same thing with his mom. He’s young, so I will use small words. 

Don’t get your hopes up or anything, but I have a job interview today. Okay, you know what? Do. Do go right ahead and get your hopes up if you’re so inclined, and wish and hope and pray (if that is something you do) that I knock their argyle socks right the hell off (for some reason, I like to imagine that men in positions of power wear argyle. And elbow patches on their sports coats. Like my dad did to church when I was a kid). Baby needs this job.

For extra added Wow Power, my ex-boss wrote me a stellar letter of recommendation, and I have a few on file from previous jobs. But because I am who I am, I’ve been fighting the temptation to take Brandon up on his very kind offer to vouch for my… awesomeness,

“If you ever need a spectacular – albeit fake – reference, I am willing to sign my name to the document attesting to your prowess as Vice President of Brings Awesome to the Table.”

Pretty sure I’d be hired on the spot with an additional week of vacation. And a company car.