I don't have much new to say today. Nothing funny happened. I did notice a few things I think are worth observing, however:

* Local disaster Union Station reportedly loses $100,000 every week. Now, I suppose Paris Hilton also loses $100,000 a week, but at least she has her own series. Come on, people. You don't even have to make money - just stop losing it!

* It never ceases to amaze me that the tagline "zoom, zoom, zoom" can actually sell cars. Kind of makes you feel a little Neanderthal, doesn't it?

* Dappled sunlight is probably one of the most beautiful sights in the world. That and the reflections from moving water. Really gorgeous, and I almost never notice either one.

That's all for today.

Yesterday I admitted I had interviewed a cleaning person. I don't know why this is such a painful admission for me - many, many of the smart, well-adjusted career women I know have cleaning services and don't feel one bit bad about it. In fact, most of the full-time working mommies I know have some sort of convenience service, be it cleaning, meal prep or what have you. However, I felt more than sheepish letting the purple-pants-wearing blond woman into my house yesterday to survey the goods.

As I led her through This Old House, with its cracked plaster and unscraped windows, I imagined what might be going through her head: "THESE people need a cleaning service? They need to slap some wood fill on that hole in the Overstock.com paperboard night stand, that's what they need to do. Or perhaps trim the huge snags in the apartment-grade carpet. It looks like a CAT has been playing with them. And speaking of cats, I wonder exactly what made that stain on the rug?"

I guess I always thought of people who had help with cleaning as being a) rich b) famous or c) executives. I fit into none of the above categories, so what was I doing trying to determine if the money was really worth not spending three hours a week disinfecting the little angel's environment? Perhaps there was also an eensy-weensy piece of me in dismay that I know in advance I will not be able to balance a full-time corporate job, a little angel, a three-year-old marriage and my dreams of getting at least one more short story published in a magazine with glue in the binding before I die with cleaning my ratty old house every week. Of course I always pictured myself being able to do all those things, but that was before I realized I have to spend at least fifteen minutes of every day watching the little angel's eyelashes grow and an hour of every day playing the game "Why Are You Crying?"

So I think I'm going to go downstairs and call Purple Pants back and tell her to start coming every other Tuesday. The little angel was born on a Tuesday, so it seems like an appropriate day.

Obesity is the last acceptable American prejudice. I know I have harped on weight issues in the past, and I don't want to become one of those women who always talks about food, but I am on a soapbox today about this subject.

We just had a cleaning person swing by This Old House to give us an estimate. Yes, I am returning to my office job (as we also already discussed - no Barry today and I WILL NOT CRY) soon, and I made a deal with my beloved that if I would bring home the bacon, someone else would be scraping the grease. Anyway, I digress. This woman came by, saw the little angel sleeping peacefully in her bouncy seat (and looking charming in her pastel overalls) and inquired as to her age. As soon as the words "eleven weeks" escaped my lips, a look of utter shock washed over her already pallid features. "She's HUGE!" said the evil one.

Now, a week ago, I had a friend from graduate school come by to visit the little angel so that my beloved and I could celebrate our three-year anniversary. J. and I have known each other since I got engaged, and she is familiar with my sensitivity to weight comments. Still, she told me upon our return that she had actually had to call her mother while babysitting to tell her how big my baby is.

Stop the madness.

Okay, so she's a big baby. Okay, so she weighs probably around 15 pounds at 11 weeks and has already doubled her birth weight. Okay, so she has a stomach the size, shape and color of a regulation volleyball. She is MY little angel and she is ADORABLE. What am I supposed to do? Not feed her? She eats the same as every other spider-monkey, ten-pound three-month-old - she just has superior food storage skills! She was breastfed for seven weeks! She eats less Liquid Sleep than some of her cohorts! SHE'S JUST A BABY, PEOPLE!

But then, I looked around today at the grocery store and realized that almost every magazine contained at least subject line about weight loss. There were more magazines dedicated to food and weight loss than any other subject. It's still okay to make fat jokes on national television. Poor Kirstie Alley hasn't had a break since the early '90s. Look how they tortured poor Oprah after "The Color Purple." Don't even get me started on Extreme Makeovers.

If the little angel is already a bit tubby and people are already this rude, what must she endure if she's an overweight middle-schooler? What happens if she hits puberty early and has hips in fourth grade? (I was, and did.) How will I raise her to have healthy self-esteem in a world where it's unpalatable to make a comment about school prayers but perfectly fine to torture the fat kid or the Iraqi, whoever happens to be handy at the time?

I realize all new parents have a bit of panic when they realize how DAMN MUCH there is in big, bad reality to filter out. Those fuzzy bunnies and Golden Books can't be strapped into the little angel's peripheral vision past the age of four. And even if I could protect her from all the freaks out there, how would she learn about the beauty of free speech?

I realize I must just do my best to set a good example and give her a solid foundation, then watch her experiment with atheism and extreme politics in college before settling down to turn out just like me. It's going to be a wild ride, though. Hopefully I'll be able to restrain myself from punching the next person who takes one look at her ample midsection, sucks in a deep breath and cries melodramatically: "What a chunk!"

The little angel has discovered her hands. They are tasty, apparently, because at this moment she is digging in with the gusto of a couch potato on SuperBowl Sunday. She kind of sounds like someone eating buffalo wings. I used to know a kid in elementary school who made slurping noises like that no matter what he ate. And my parents used to make these horrible smacking noises when they kissed each other that still haunt my sleep. I don't like to admit how disturbed I am by the mental comparisions I make when I hear the little angel feasting on her chubby little fingers. Am I weird?

Another outcome of all this finger slurping is that the fingers become sticky, thus attracting lint, string, fuzz and (que horor) CAT HAIR. Every morning, evening and bath time I pry the little angel's balled fists apart to find the daily treasure stuck in the cracks between her fingers. The very same fingers, I might remind you, that she keeps sticking in her mouth.

I read that you are supposed to actually boil the water to make Liquid Sleep. You are supposed to boil a gallon or so, then pour it into measured containers to use throughout the day to ensure a sterile food supply for your baby. This takes so little effort, of course. I love to whip up a nice Dutch Oven of boiled, already treated city tap water each morning as I make my toast. And it's so worth it to have a sterile food supply when your child is licking the germs she pulled off the wool rug five minutes after finishing her bottle!

So I ask the sterilizers of the world...why? Can we really protect our children from every germ in the world's food supply? And should we? Aren't they going to get milk that's been sitting out for three hours from the lunch ladies when they hit kindergarten? And won't they be using it to wash down the dirt they ate at recess? I remember eating fake dirt out of my mother's plastic plant when I was about three. (Okay, I don't remember, but I remember hearing about it.) I'm not saying we have to let them chug Draino. Lock up all of your leftover Darvocet from the first few floaty days after childbirth. But I think constantly boiling water may be a bit of overkill, and I resent the implication I should be doing so.

We all remember Beetlejuice, right? For some reason, I particularly remember the line about how suicide victims are made to be civil servants in the afterlife, because being a civil servant is such a special and unique treat in hell.

Today I think I saw the first level for those still living. My honey and I are the proud owners of a 1994 Geo Prizm (yes, they still exist), a 1998 Ford Explorer, and a 1974, 12-foot AMF Puffer sailboat (a gift from a family friend) and a 2003 trailer to pull that sailboat around. Yesterday, I went to AAA (did you know that if you are a AAA member, you can by-pass the peanut line at the DMV to get your tags and driver's license? Yes, you can!) to pay property tax and get tags for the Explorer, the boat trailer and the boat. Of course, the only "bill of sale" I had for the boat was an undated Post-It saying we'd pinched the boat for $10 and the price of hauling it away, but I was in a deep state of melancholy yesterday and thus out of my right mind. After waiting 45 minutes with an impatient little angel, the nice man at AAA told me I had to register the boat and the truck with the county or some such rot. Our conversation went like this:

Him: "You have to register the boat and the truck with the Jackson County tax roll before I can help you."
Me: "Where do I go for that?"
Him: "Somewhere downtown."
Me: "What do I need to take?"
Him: "I don't know."
Me: "Who can I call? Do you know the name of the department?"
Him: "I don't know."
Me: "Thanks for your help."
Him: "Next."

So today I went downtown to deal with it. The woman assigned to help me told me the state of Missouri doesn't have "sailboat" in it's categories. This was our conversation:

Her: "Is it a bass boat?"
Me: "No. It's an AMF Puffer. It's a sailboat."
Her: "Does it have a motor?"
Me: "No, it's a sailboat."
Her: "So Rachelle, are you riding with us to Ameristar or not? Do you have a VIN number?"
Me: "No, I just have the Post-It. I think VIN numbers are post-1974."
Her: "What? No, Rachelle, we are not coming back here once we go to the buffet. I don't know if you can register this boat today or not. I don't have sailboat."
Me in my head: Listen, you chipped-nailpolish, crooked-lipliner civil servant from the inferno, get your head out of your ass and help me before the little angel spits up all over this godfosaken hellhole!
Me for real: "Can you just check for "sailboat" again?

So after an hour and a half, I returned to AAA, where the little angel did in fact spew her venom all over the waiting room floor. I got the same clerk, who did not see the humor in the situation. This was our conversation:

Him: "Well, the fine for waiting this long to register your trailor went up from $100 to $200 last year, so your total bill is $350."
Me: "What do you know?"
Little Angel: "HA!"

God bless the frickin' DMV.

I'm in a rather melancholy mood today, perhaps due to the incessant partly cloudiness, perhaps due to myriad problems in my friends' personal lives, perhaps because I'm listening to Barry Manilow. Regardless, it's there, unable to be lifted even by a viewing of Along Came Polly last night. Usually Ben Stiller will do the trick.

I should really turn off Barry.

So I was looking at the calendar yesterday and realizing the little angel is 10 weeks old. Which means I have to go back to the D.C. (dreaded cubicle) in two weeks. I like my job just fine. It's not writing magazine articles, but after trying to make a go of that for three years, I'm tired of the fight anyway. I like the people with whom I work. The commute is short and lunch spots abundant. But there is no little angel there.

I always thought I would be rushing back to the office with relief, eager for adult interaction and the small sense of power and rightness one gets from a successful meeting or met deadline. I told people I would be a better mama if I could just get away from the baby for a little while each day. I'd make up for being gone by using all that money to pay people to clean my house and wash my car so I could spend "quality time" with my children. But who the hell am I, anyway? I tried to have my tubes tied at 18, certain I would never, ever want children to tie me down. I was completely and totally unprepared for the force of children. I feel like I have been hit by an emotional tidal wave that picked me up from nice, orderly and efficient life and plunked me down on Gilligan's Island, surrounded by dirty diapers, messy shacks and a lovable bunch of idiots I now do not want to abandon for the trappings of civilization.

I know I'll once again adapt. I've seen friends and family go through this transition, too. Six months from now I'll probably be relieved I fought through the sadness and returned to work. I know we need the money. I also know, deep down, that I need the ego boost that comes from paid work. I just wish I could escape this nagging feeling that I'm missing the point here. I've missed the point for years of my life at a time, only to discover later what was going on at the time. I now realize we have control over very little in life, and pretty much any road is an acceptable one if it is navigated carefully and with respect for the other weirdos on the island. So I guess in two weeks I'll have to get back in the boat. It's just unbelievable to realize that now that help has arrived, I wish I could hide from it.

Well, I've been gone so long because this past weekend we took our first Family Car Trip. Ah, yes, we packed up our one suitcase and the little angel's six bags, Pack 'n Play and bouncy seat complete with vibration, music and Sharper Image-style baby back massage. We decided after one screaming fit that Mama should fold herself into a little human origami and ride in the backseat with the little angel to pop back in pacifiers, perform a bit of softshoe and anything else it took to ward off the qualifying rounds for the Fussy Baby Olympiad.

Did I mention that I get carsick? Fortunately, during my first trimester of pregnancy (when walking into the produce aisle of a grocery store could make me dizzier than a preteen at her first rave), I discovered these little arm bands with platic beads in them that are supposed to control carsickness. They apparently push on some tendon or something that tells your body there is no such thing as vertigo. They did nothing for me during pregnancy, but they actually worked on carsickness. Nothing works on morning sickness. Don't believe those liars who say to eat a cracker. Saltines are to women with morning sickness as rubber duckies are to drowning victims. Right idea, but not enough. If you have morning sickness, ladies, eat a twelve-inch sub.

Anyway, I digress. We made the 6.5-hour drive to Minneapolis from Kansas City in about nine hours on the way up and eight on the way back. The little angel did quite well, staring happily at the Fuzzy Bee book and gurgling in her seat. My husband is the seventh of eight children, and we were en route to his grandma's 95th birthday party. When we arrived at his cousin's house, which was awash in grandchildren at all stages of early childhood development, my sister-in-law looked at me and said, "Oh, here are the cousins from Missouri with their barefoot baby!"

Wait a second - babies are supposed to wear footwear? Seriously? I mean, I really didn't know - her feet never touch the ground unless the rest of her does. She walks carefully on gravel and I always carefully label all the broken glass in my house. Hmmm. Shoes.

As I stepped on the scale for the third time since being declared "recovered" from childbirth, I anticipated weight loss. After all, since my doctor (who had broken his leg while roping calves since the appearance of the little angel - go figure) told me "go get, 'em, tiger," I figured this meant that I, like Kate Hudson, could pick up Pilates and suddenly lose massive amounts of weight, look fabulous and still be publically photographed eating pizza and drinking alcohol.

But oh, no. I am not Kate Hudson. I do not have a personal trainer, a nutritionist or a nanny. I can barely get my beloved husband to rip himself away from the lawn three times a week to allow me a paltry hour at the YMCA. Therefore, I have discovered that in the war I am waging against my pudge, my post-partum fat cells are the Green Berets of my body. My muscles apparently did a short stint in the Texas Rangers then went on to Ivy League schools for the duration of the war.

Why do celebrities flit around on magazine covers baring their still-hot breasts and noncorresponding slim thighs three months after having babies? Why do they wear Manolos on the way home from the hospital? Why, oh why, do they look so fabulous plugging an empty pram on the streets of London SIX DAYS AFTER CHILDBIRTH????? Why do I not look like that, too??

I'll tell you why. My fat cells are serious about staying. After a teenage eating disorder and ten years of vegetarianism, my fat cells were freebasing freedom fries and then passing out cold on street corners. They got foods they never dreamed possible from their carrot-stick cell walls. And they liked it. And now, as I dutifully admit to the evil whores at WeightWatchers online each and every Laffy Taffy that crosses my lips, they are laughing. No matter what I do, they are winning. After all, they have been training for this moment all of their lives. Can someone please send me a spa weekend?

A few weeks ago, my friend S. and I were in Z. Gallerie, which is a "pretty useless things" kind of a store. Right up front, positioned like expensive cereal, was an item called something like "banana chase with canopy." It was basically a chaise lounge made of banana-tree wood, and it had a canopy made of linen that went over the top. S. thought it looked v. comfortable, and I agreed, but what a useless furniture item. I mean, where do I put it? In my tiny bedroom? Next to the high chair in the kitchen? Perhaps in front yard, so the pirates next door can observe me peeling grapes? I mean, please.

Feeling righteously indignant, I swore I would never purchase such a silly thing. Then, yesterday, I found myself in Babies R Us staring at something called the Baby Cabana. It's basically a baby-sized pup-tent designed to protect the young'uns from sun exposure. I looked at the Baby Cabana. I looked at my fair-skinned, red-headed little angel smiling at me from the cart. I looked at the Baby Cabana. I thought of melanoma. I looked at the Baby Cabana. I looked at her mottled skin under the harsh lighting of a warehouse store.

You know how this story ends.

Banana Chaise with Canopy.