The little angel is what my pediatrician's nurse calls "a spitter." She spits up constantly, sometimes going through six bibs a day. She spits up when you jostle her, when you put her in or pull her out of her new, baby-sofa convertible car seat, when you change her diaper, when you burp her, when you don't burp her and sometimes for absolutely no reason at all. I wasn't concerned with this until recently, when many, many people started commenting that she is awfully old to be spitting up so much. Now, the strangers were probably confused by her size - she is almost 18 pounds at five months - so she looks older than she really is - but people who know her well are also surprised by this. So I started to worry a little.

Of course, if you are worried, the last thing you want to do is call the pediatrician. Not only does the act of calling add credence to your fears in the first place, waiting for the dang nurse to call you back six hours later is pretty much just torture. Especially when they say something like "well, maybe you are feeding her too much." This is how my conversation with the nurse went yesterday:

Me: "I'm a little concerned that my five-month-old is spitting up too much."
Nurse Ratched: "Well, how much does she spit up?"
Me: "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes not much, sometimes five or six times a day."
NR: "You say she's spitting up more than she used to?"
Me: "No, not more, just not less. I thought it would drop off as she got older."
NR: "You say it's getting worse?"
Me: "No, not worse. Just not better. She's awfully big, so I don't know if I'm feeding her too much?"
NR: "How much does she weigh?"
Me: "Oh, she was 17 pounds, 10 ounces at her four month check-up."
NR: "She's HUGE! Maybe you are overfeeding her. You could be making her tummy hurt by forcing too much food, then she spits up." (Subtext: This is all your fault, you naive ho.)
Me: (panicked) "Oh my goodness! How do you know if you're feeding a baby too much?"
NR: "You don't. Some just keep eating forever, like horses. They'll eat until their stomachs explode. Or you could just have a spitter. You say it's getting worse?"
Me: whimper
NR: "You'd better bring her in for a weight check."
Me: "I'm worried about starting solids."
NR: "Well, she certainly doesn't sound like she needs more food. Bring her in."

So, now I'm concerned I've been stuffing my baby like a Thanksgiving turkey, have set her up for diabetes and obesity and will never be able to give her real food. She'll be on a liquid diet for the rest of her life, toting around a little mini-blender in her Superwoman lunch pail. She'll never know the joy of a cheeseburger, all because I, foolish new mother, FED HER UNTIL SHE PUKED.

I hate not knowing what I'm doing....

My sister, her boyfriend, my beloved, the little angel and I had a wonderful weekend. Saturday night, we went out to get wings (the little angel loves them - just kidding) and my sister and her bf ended up doing a shot of Jager (she looked at me soulfully and said, "I didn't think you liked Jager - do you want me to go get you one?" ha ha ha) to celebrate his band's latest album (I love saying that). Though I'm not normally a huge fan of the heavy-metal genre, I am impressed that his band is consistently touring and getting ink touting BoD as being a band "that would make your mother scream." I can't wait to see him on MTV, even if he does think the Grateful Dead suck.

Sunday it was dry, and so off to the Ren Fest we went. The Chicagoans were shocked into silence at the sheer elaborance of the set, the availability of giant turkey legs and the abundance of fat-lady bosum capped off with a rose. The only problem was the heat - my sister is not capable of tolerating much over 75 degrees, and it was probably closer to 90. I kept dousing the little angel with cold water and watching carefully for signs of heat exhaustion, which would have been hard to tell from her normal exhaustion (she slept through most of the event). We did buy her a fairy wand, which I'm sure she'll use later to beat the heads of other family members. But I did stare fondly for a long time at the fairy wings, imagining her little, red-headed self dancing around the lawn sporting a pair, and, of course, her wand. Ah, the imaginings of a new mother. Tra la.

This weekend marks the beginning of the annual Kansas City Renaissance Festival. It's one of the biggest in the Midwest - I'm not sure how big Ren Fests are on the coasts - I'm not sure if I imagine they would be bigger or smaller. Swilling dark beer in the middle of the woods seems more like something we German- and Scandinavian-descended fly-over state types might like to do, but folks are weird on the coasts. I'm sure the New York Ren Fest has a lot of takers, for instance.

My beloved and I have attended almost every year we've lived here, despite our better intentions. Despite the fact that after paying $15/head to get in, it still costs a dollar to walk through a poorly constructed clothesline maze. Despite the fact that wares in the shops remind me of things in the drama kids' lockers in high school. Despite the fact that I've never cared for dragons, plebians or knights. And despite the fact that every year it rains right before we attend Ren Fest, turning the entire village into a swill-pit that not even a good quaff of ale can make you forget.

My sister and her boyfriend are coming in from Chicago this weekend to see us and, more importantly, the little angel. I recall last year seeing a hapless couple at the Ren Fest attempting to push a stroller through three-inch-deep mud. I recall (as I was pregnant at the time) thinking I WILL NEVER GET MY STROLLER THAT DIRTY ON PURPOSE. However, it does seem only appropriate to expose my favorite Chicagoans to a bit of good old country weirdness for the mere price of $11 and five cans of food. So, we will watch the weather report. My beloved threatened that if EVEN ONE DROP of rain falls on Saturday, we will not be attending on Sunday. There's a 40% chance. Stay tuned. Huzzah!

This morning, I rushed back from the gym (but not TOO fast, after my $85 speeding ticket two weeks ago, damn those PV pigs) to take the little angel to Oz. My beloved had dressed her in an orange-and-yellow striped outfit (not as unfortunate-looking as one might think on a red-headed baby). I thought the outfit could be accessorized with these funny-looking Tigger booties I'd found in the four tubs of hand-me-downs bestowed on us by my beloved's seven brothers and sisters. Lo and behold, they were ADORABLE.

Not two seconds after I had them on her, the little angel noticed them (how could you not? I mean, really - these are a five-month-old's version of Jimmy Choo) and began laughing, waving her arms and flailing about the crib. Then she'd look down, see they were STILL THERE, and do the whole routine again. Most of this flailing would then result in her kicking off the booties and being sad. We went through this routine in the crib and in the car, getting out of the car and at Oz, until finally I put her down in the coolest Exersaucer they have and went to leave, booties in hand. She didn't notice. I figure it is probably the first in a long string of bait-and-switches I will pull on her. Darn, though, they are cute.

Not much time to tell you this great story, since I have missed two and a half days of work and am down to only 88 new e-mails in my inbox, BUT...

I am a third-string juror. Yes, after reporting to the jury room at 8:30 yesterday morning, I watched a video on Civic Duty and proceeded to sit for a total of six hours before being told I am a "juror on call." Basically, I have not been asked to serve on any panels or actually serve any jurorial duties, but my ass is theirs any time between now and Friday at 5. Now how do you like that? I am the government's bitch.

However, they did give me a nice certificate. It reads: "This is to acknowledge the above-named citizen of Jackson County satisfactorily served as a juror the week of August 30, 2004 thereby materially contributing to the maintenance of liberty under the law through the fair and impartical administration of justice." Find the subordinate clause in that bad boy! Makes sitting in a room for six hours sound pretty important, though, eh?

Also, one other thought on government buildings - since when are they Harbingers of Inappropriate Footwear? I saw more stiletto heels in the City Hall than I have ever seen in my life. Who told these people reporting to court means masquerading as a streetwalker? I am so confused...

I have been summoned to report for jury selection on Monday, following a weekend spent watching my dear friend L. finally get hitched in Omaha. I don't have the actual selection card with me today, but as I was perusing it yesterday, I noticed several facts worth noting:

* There is no parking provided in downtown Kansas City, urban boscage devoid of parking lots.

* You may bring your own food. Gee, thanks.

* This taken from the 16th circuit Web site: Federal and Missouri laws prohibit an employer from penalizing you while performing jury service. However, the laws do not require your employer to pay you wages while you are on jury duty.

Oh, and there's more. If you're interested, read all about it.

So why am I not thrilled with my opportunity to perform my civic duty? How could I not be excited after learning I will have to truck my business-casual rear downtown to sit all day, mentally counting the e-mails racking up in my in-box after missing two days of work while some attorney decides if I look malleable? Can't imagine why.

I like court television. I even like CSI, though I don't often admit to watching it. Somehow, though, I doubt I have been selected for a murder or arson case. No, I will probable get to try someone who had too many speeding tickets or didn't pay his plumber. Or maybe They (whoever "They" are) will decide I look a little bit too dumb, too smart, too happy, too sad, too blonde, too young, too old, too rich or too poor. That's the glory of our criminal justice system: it's completely random. Long live America!

Yesterday, my friend K. shared an alarmingly long list of personal facts her work traveling companion told her on the plane on the way to their destination. I'm not sure if it was worse that she said all of that stuff, or that K. could actually remember each and every fact. My first reaction was, "Good Lord. What an annoying woman." Then I stopped to think about it...

Every day I log in and share every little annoying idiosyncracy of my life, here, just for you. I also have a bad habit of sharing meaningless factoids with co-workers, elevator companions, strangers at the gym and people waiting in lines. I have done this since I was four years old and told an entire department store that we were buying a cover for the couch because we couldn't afford to buy a new couch. I never stopped to think that MAYBE PEOPLE AREN'T INTERESTED.

Hmm. Perhaps I should curtail my running commentary. It could be that I do this because all the child-development books say to talk incessantly to your little angel so that she develops good language skills. Nah, I found that part to be easy, because I've always been a motormouth. I am one of the few people in the world that has to make an effort to be quiet when in a class. If I know the answer to the question, I want to say. If I read something interesting, I want to tell you about it. If it is raining, I will probably comment on that, too, even if the person standing next to me is dripping. What is wrong with me?

I'm reading in a wedding this Friday. All of my friends who are in the wedding are the sorts of people who develop a deep, bronzed body after approximately 30 seconds in the sun. I, on the other hand, am German. Germans are not known for their tanning abilities. They are known for a fondness for dark beer and their bad decisions in the '40s, neither of which are things I particularly care to brag about. Anyway, when I go to buy make-up, I buy the second-lightest shade, the lightest shade being reserved for albinos. I am as white as white girls get. However, despite knowing this, I still bought a pale-yellow dress for the wedding, which makes me look horribly pasty -- maybe even sick -- but it was on sale for $25 and it had pretty beading.

So, self-tanner.

I haven't attempted to apply self-tanner since my junior year of high school, almost 15 years ago. Silly me, I suspected they might have idiot-proofed the product since then, so after showering on Friday, I had my husband do my back and then sort of hastily slathered it on before going to attend to the little angel. Mistake. Bad mistake.

The next day, I awoke to a pleasant shade of just-golden-kissed on my skin. I specifically chose this product because it built a tan gradually. I didn't want to end up looking like an Oompa-Loompa. THANK GOD FOR THAT. Somehow I had missed huge swaths of skin, ending up with a self-tan that looked somewhere between "dirty" and "melanoma."

After sporting a SWEATER IN AUGUST to my husband's 31st birthday party on Saturday, I resolved to try again on Sunday. This time, I donned surgical gloves and spent about 15 minutes rubbing it in with circular motions. It looks fabulous, just in time to wear off by Friday. I'll have to try this whole routine again on Wednesday.

Why did I buy a yellow dress? The things we do in the name of fashion.

One of my dear friends and college roommates had her baby today, twelve days after her due date and after apparently 24 hours of labor. We have been anxiously awaiting his arrival, as we do the arrival of all friends' little angels. This one I awaited with especially baited breath because I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS. Well, that's not true. I did know that it was human, obviously. But I didn't know the gender. He's a boy.

Which brought me to the subject of "finding out." It always drove me nuts when people would ask me while I was pregnant if I was going to find out if my baby was a boy or a girl. What a silly question. I mean really, what mother is walking around with her adult child thinking "Is it a boy? I really just can't tell." We all find out. And guess what? Unless you're psychic, it's also always a surprise. Sometimes the surprise happens, oh joy! In the doctor's office. Sometimes it happens, oh my! In the delivery room. But who really knows ahead of time? God. God knows. And not you.

Another funny thing I noticed was my dear friend's husband's surprise at HOW LONG IT TAKES TO HAVE A BABY. He said, "You know, I thought it would take five or six hours, but it actually took more like 24." I've heard stories about those women who have a little gut-gurgle and ten minutes later are giving birth in a New York taxi, but I tend to mentally lump them with teenagers who "didn't know they were pregnant" until they went into labor at the prom. If you are that out of touch with your innards, you have issues much larger than pregnancy to deal with.

However, I will stop my ongoing rant against Strangers Who Ask Stupid Personal Questions to say Huzzah for the new baby! Hooray for Libertyville! Thank you, God, that everything came out okay in the end! Another miracle happened today.