"We're taking the truck."

"Why?"

"Because we're going to the Habitat for Humanity Restore. Why on earth would we not take the truck?"

Example #8,499 of Me Being Right

Beloved had a Groupon for the Habitat for Humanity Restore. That sentence alone is some crazy shit. Charities are on Groupon now? The premise is pretty much like Goodwill -- people donate stuff and they sell it and give all the proceeds to Habitat for Humanity. It's a giant junkyard -- nothing has been shined up unless it arrived that way -- and I am so totally going back to get some wood blinds as soon as I measure my windows.

While I was waiting for a huge cart (not a cart, more of what in Iowa we would call a lowboy), I spotted one of the workers putting a price tag on a sink.

A stainless steel sink.

With all of its hardware attached.

I let it sit on the ground for approximately FIVE SECONDS, because it was $40 and my old cast iron sink looks like this:

It's chipped. It's beige. It defies cleaning products. And it stinks.

I was wheeling this baby over when I heard my name being called. I looked around to see Beloved standing protectively over a Bosch dishwasher with stainless steel innards. It's beige, not white like I wish, but the old one threw ground-up bits of disgusting all over my dishes and looked like this:

New dishwasher  = $35.

So then Beloved walked over to the TV section and grabbed himself a huge TV for the garage for $15. We walked to the checkout. I pulled out the Groupon.

A woman approached me with something like rage in her eyes.

"Are you sure you want those?" she asked, eyeing my dishwasher and sink.

"Yes."

"Are you sure you're sure?"

"Yes."

Man, people.

So I hand the cashier the Groupon. It's $19 for $50 worth of stuff. Our grand total is $90.

Beloved piped up, ever the negotiator. He's like William Shatner, that boy.

"Can you cut us a deal?"

She eyed our stuff, eyed the Groupon.

"$27.50."

My mouth fell open. So we already paid $19 for the Groupon and another $27.50 is, um, $46.50 for a perfectly fine and functioning stainless steel sink, dishwasher and television?

As we were pushing our lowboy out to the truck -- YES, THE TRUCK! WE SHOULD TAKE THE TRUCK! -- two different people stopped me and congratulated me on my find. It may have been the shit-eating grin on my face.

It only took poor Beloved three trips to the hardware store and six hours to install them both. There was that moment where I had to borrow a large pipe wrench from a neighbor whom I've met once, but don't worry, I gave him two Summer Shandys for his trouble. Oh, and it might have been 110 degrees outside.

He loves me. He hates me. He loves me. He's handy!

But it's in, it's done, and it's so pretty.

Only countertops, cabinets, floor, dining room table and window treatments to go!

Thank you, baby.

Hey, there! I wrote this post about connections between eating disorders and postpartum depression last week, but I didn't get the chance to tell you about it. Here's an excerpt:

Pregnancy brings on a lot of changes quickly -- both physical and mental. It's no surprise to me that women previously diagnosed with eating disorders are at a higher risk for postpartum depression, but recently Stephanie Zerwas of the University of North Carolina flipped it around and looked to see if women who came in for postpartum depression and anxiety had previously suffered from an eating disorder. Thirty-five percent of them had -- compared to seven or eight percent in the general population. Eating disorders, then, could be a risk factor for postpartum depression.

Stephanie is the associate research director of UNC's Eating Disorders Program. It comprises both research studies and treatment programs with inpatient, outpatient and partial hospitalization programs. Her special interest is eating disorders during pregnancy and postpartum. She and other researchers have studied 100,000 moms and babies in Norway, looking at moms who had eating disorders right before becoming pregnant and the later outcomes for both the moms and the kids.

Read the rest at BlogHer.com! Back tomorrow to tell you about last weekend's accidental home improvements.

It may have been six weeks ago now when I was finishing up some work in my home office around 5:30 pm. The little angel was watching iCarly like she incessantly does now even though she has seen every episode on streaming Netflix at least six times. Beloved was making dinner. Homemade french fries, to be exact. With a mandoline slicer that looked something like this.

I heard some obscenities, but quiet ones.

"What's up, babe?"

"I cut myself. Bad."

"Do you need to get stitches?"

"Yup."

I swear. I can't believe how calm the conversation was. I turned off the TV and stuffed a baffled little angel in the car as he went back into the house to grab a rag, which he wrapped around his pinkie finger.

I drove him to urgent care. When we walked in, I told the receptionist he was bleeding.

She looked at him. "Can you see bone?"

He nodded.

HE NODDED.

My mouth dropped open. They took him in the back behind a curtain, where they pronounced it too serious for urgent care.

At this point, I was really trying not to vomit and totally glad he hadn't shown it to me. And I was also getting pretty concerned about the pain that would kick in at any minute when the shock wore off.

Back in the car, I drove to the closest emergency room, which was packed to the gills with coughing people who looked like they'd been there for hours. He sat down, and I put a piece of paper in a black box, which seemed like quite possibly the most archaic method of telling someone your husband had sliced his finger off known to man.

I thought about giving him Advil, but dude, what if they gave him narcotics later? So I didn't. Argh.

By 6:30, the little angel was starving and Beloved insisted I take her to get something to eat. I poked my head back in the back, where the nurse eyed me disdainfully. "My husband is still bleeding," I said. Aren't ERs supposed to triage Massive Headwound Harry? Seems like every time I take the little angel to the ER for an ear infection, we get in line behind people currently losing platelets.

As I opened the door to go outside, the skies opened up with a downpour. So I ran to the car while the little angel stood under the overhang. I am not kidding, by the time I got to the car, I was literally able to ring out my t-shirt. I am telling you, this experience was fun for everyone involved.

We drove home, and I made three things of Easy Mac. In the car. Back to the ER. This time I brought reading material.

Still there at 8:30, when Beloved insisted I take the little angel home and give her a bath. So I did. And we went back when he texted and said he was behind the curtain. By the time they released him, it was around 10 pm and he had four internal stitches and four external stitches and an open wound because apparently he had lost the tip of his finger. Actually, I think I lost it, because the first time I came home, I put all the potatoes down the garbage disposal and threw away the evil slicer and most likely PART OF MY HUSBAND'S THUMB.

So that was like six weeks ago. Every time we go to the pool, he has to wear what I swear looks like a finger condom.

Yet another product I didn't know existed.

Practice safe showering.

I could go on.

As the finger healed, the open wound grew shut and this crazy hood of dead skin started separating from the new finger. It was like he was molting. I was watching the entire series of Battlestar Gallactica during this process, and let me tell you, I was all this is how the cylons evolved. Totally creepy yet fascinating and really a miracle -- the healing process is pretty amazing.

Then the other night, it either fell off or he cut it off but he didn't tell me and I really don't want to know.

But it's almost healed. And now that pinkie is almost perfectly square at the top and a few millimeters shorter than the other pinkie.

So I bought him these.

He wore them last night. Chop, chop!

The end.

I started working with Erin, who's known in the blogosphere and perhaps circles other than Spain as Queen of Spain, in November 2009. We only got to work together for a few months before she had to go on disability because she kept having organs removed. I only wish I were making that up. Because she has lupus.

We never got to be face-to-face co-workers, since she lives in LA and I live in Kansas City, but I talked to her every day and we chatted about kids and balance and making lunches, and so it was such a huge shock when suddenly the chats were about hospitals and treatments and her having to pretty much stand still for a long time to get her health back.

She doesn't know I'm writing this, and she probably won't figure it out for a few hours because Erin's in Washington, DC, today, back in the White House where she belongs, talking policy and Twitter and all things social media. I'm watching eagerly from the sidelines hoping she feels well, hoping her meds hold, hoping she gets enough rest, hoping nothing goes wrong.

I hope it most of all because Erin deserves to play professionally again.

There are all kinds of people, and most people I know aren't crazy enmeshed with what they do for a living, but Erin is one of those people who makes me want to try harder because she is so incredibly passionate about what she does and what she believes in. I think in many ways though lupus is not the best thing to happen to Erin, Erin may be the best thing to happen to lupus, because if anyone can get the word out, she can.

BlogHer '11 is in a month, and I'm signed up to give blood at the BlogHer '11 blood drive. I'm hoping I can finally, finally hug Erin instead of carrying a picture of her head around on a stick.

 
(Get your own damn badge this year, lady.)

I'm so happy for you today, Erin. I hope you're feeling your power. Because we are.

We've had a lot of hail and strong wind this year, and our roof has been suffering.* We had an insurance adjustor out last week to discuss things like the ping-ping-sized hole in the plastic thingie that covers the basement window, the hits and splits on the wood shake shingles and the water spots inside the house.

But last night -- LAST NIGHT -- the neighbors had a kickin' party with lights, a DJ, about fifty people and at least a thousand dollars worth of firecrackers. Though I'm a fan of firecrackers myself, when we pulled back into our driveway after annual trip to see the local professional display, I thought our normally quiet cul-de-sac had been bombed. Chunks of reinforced cardboard lay scattered across my lawn and the cement was littered with casings and mortar chutes. The haze made it difficult to see the children racing around holding lit punks and shouting with pyro-induced glee. I saw another of my neighbors who I knew better standing across the driveway.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"I think they have a half-stick of dynamite in there somewhere," he muttered.

After they set off some rockets that blew straight for me, we took shelter inside, where I shut off all my lights and waited them out, until they finally took a leafblower to the cul-de-sac to clean up the mess.

This morning, the little angel led me outside to show me all the parachutes she'd spied while eating her breakfast. I looked up to see at least six more parachutes on my roof.

I want a new roof, people. But, like, not that bad.

* A source of anxiety for sure, but not *the* source

This week, some stuff happened that caused me great anxiety. As the stress washed over me, I tried to ride it out like a wave. I tried to put it in perspective. And actually, for one of the first times, it worked. Not to say I haven't gone back and forth a bit, but life is like that, and human beings aren't static -- nothing about us is static.

I talked to a few friends and family members about my reaction, which I have learned in the grand scheme of things is actually more important than the event -- the repercussions of my reactions last far longer than the crises. The general consensus seems to be that 2011 Rita is really handling things far better than 1992 Rita or even 2007 Rita. Wow, 2011 Rita, they said. You get down with your bad self.

I thought this morning as I was driving home from dropping off my girl at summer camp that great friends are like that: They are our mirrors. My friends reflect back to me not a glamorized version of myself flawlessly executing under any degree of pressure, but the real version, the version who sometimes wins and sometimes loses but is always someone they regard with love.

Because they accept me with all my flaws, it means even more when they tell me they are proud of me. Because they have seen every iteration -- in one case, every iteration since I was three years old -- they are even better judges than I am of my progress or lack thereof.

Having these people in my life -- my husband, my family and friends -- brings forth the best me, better behavior than I would exhibit left to my own devices in the depths of my psyche (which would far prefer a bag of Doritos and a stack of John Hughes movies or perhaps a baseball bat and some windows). I recognize all the time that wanting to show these people I love that I can do it keeps me moving forward most of the time.

It's weird that I was thinking all this before this latest series of events occurred when I wrote my review of Terry McMillan's Getting to Happy (it's the sequel to Waiting to Exhale) for BlogHer Book Club. Even then, I wrote:

And that's what I found with the women of Getting to Happy. You get to happy, then you get to sad, then you fight your way back to happy again. The triumphs don't last any longer than the falls, but the reverse can also be true.

Normally I would've tried to find some witty way to tie back this post to a review that I wanted to tell you all about anyway, but today it's so organic as to be shocking even to me. We are all trying to get to happy. And it, by definition, is elusive, because it, by definition, is relative.

We've been going through the annual hatred of summer camp at the Arens house. She hates bowling. Rather, she hates the fact that her team never gets any strikes. She's sick of swimming with the babies and hasn't passed the swimming test yet. She doesn't want to get up in the morning.

And she blames me.

"I promise I won't bother you," she says, noticing for the 800th time that my office is in our house.

Beloved reinforced it had nothing to do with that. "You know why you have to go to summer camp."

She splashed water up the sides of the bathtub. "Because Mommy thinks I'll bother her here," she said, making the mad eyes at me. "But I'll be really quiet. I just want to be home like a normal kid."

"What are you talking about?" I said. "Almost everyone you know goes to summer camp. All your friends from your old school, all your friends from this camp, nearly all of your cousins. You are not the only child in the world who has two parents with jobs. You are completely normal."

She started crying. "I just want to stay home with you."

I didn't react well. For a variety of reasons, yesterday was a shit day, and that sort of knocked me over the edge. I picked myself up, put myself in time out in my bedroom and sobbed into the pillows.

She knocked on the door after a little while. "I'm sorry I made you cry," she said.

I tried to tell her it wasn't her, but I could see she didn't believe me.

In the wee hours of the morning, she woke up with the pirate nightmare and I woke up with puffy eyes and a crying hangover.

I don't know what normal kids do. I just know what we do, how we adjust and react.

I'm pretty sure it's normal to want whatever it is you don't have.

This morning, a friend alerted me to an article on NPR's Shots blog. The headline: To Curb Childhood Obesity, Experts Say Keep Fat Babies in Check.

It immediately pissed me off, of course. This formerly disordered eater worried incessantly about my fat baby girl. The girl people stopped me on the street to comment about. I've been watching with interest the comments on a post on BlogHer about fat talk around children. Some people are adamently opposed (as am I) and some people think it's our job as parents to limit kids' eating and make sure they don't gain too much weight.

My daughter has been "normal" weight since she was about two, and she's always been able to stop eating when she's full -- even if she's halfway through a chocolate shake. I've always praised her for stopping when she's full, but I've never stopped her from eating dessert. I don't want her to have a weird relationship with food. I just want her to eat when she's hungry, stop when she's full, and mix in some vegetables.

However, the NPR article was talking about babies and toddlers, and here are some of the tips they gave:

Cut down the time children spend watching TV or using the computer or cell phone.

We are talking about babies and toddlers. My baby was off the charts for her first full year, and I swear to you that she only used the computer or her cell phone for an hour a day.

Make sure kids are getting the right food portions for their age.

I monitored my daughter's milk intake like a hawk for that first six months. I don't care how hungry she was! I pulled that bottle or boob out of her mouth the second she hit her age-appropriate limit.

So parents and child care providers can do small kids a favor by not letting them get too big, even if that means turning off Nickelodeon.

I'm working on a post for BlogHer (I'll share a link here when it goes up) regarding an interview I recently did with a PPD/ED specialist at UNC. We got to talking about body types and how they impact eating disorder recovery. She told me some of her patients have had to eat thousands of calories a day to recover from anorexia. I gained weight very quickly just by returning to 1200 calories a day -- what would be considered dieting for most women. "I'm a very efficient food storer," I told her. "I would do well in a survival situation. I'm just not often in them."

We talked about how every body is different; every body processes food differently. And I am really sick of the media admonishing new mothers and bequeathing upon them personal responsibility for every aspect of their children's health. The degree of personal responsibility is getting ridiculous.

Yes, duh, parents shouldn't give their toddlers a straight Diet Coke, tequila and Spam diet. Yes, of course we should encourage our kids to get outside and play. But hello, world -- some kids are genetically hardwired to be a little bigger. Sometimes they slim down naturally with age, sometimes they don't. It may have everything to do with what they eat and! It may have nothing to do with what they eat. Weighing them and admonishing them and making a big deal about their weight when they are eating the same or less as the stick-skinny kid sitting next to them in the cafeteria is not helpful. In fact, it can be extremely harmful.

And. Telling a nervous new mother that she holds the keys to every aspect of her child's health -- that it is all her fault if the baby is fat -- is a great way to program a weight-watching, harping mother who will ultimately give her child a complex about food.

I really wish the media would take more responsibility for objective reporting when it comes to health news. In politics, we generally get two sides of the story. These health studies are so one-sided, so judgy. Yes, there is a childhood obesity problem in the U.S. -- I acknowledge that wholly. But I look around my racially diverse but economically homogenous neighborhood, and I don't see one obese child. Not one. I go to Midtown Kansas City, where it's racially diverse and economically diverse, and I see tons. In addition to genetics and diet, childhood obesity has a lot to do with economics -- whether kids have access to sports and camps that allow them to run and play, whether they have access to yards and bikes and streets safe to ride bikes on. Whether they have access to fruits and vegetables that don't come out of a very salty can. Whether they have something to do besides watch TV while mom and dad work.

Childhood obesity isn't necessarily something we can blame on personal responsibility of the parents. We, as a nation, owe kids safe streets and bikes and subsidized, exercise-and-fresh-air-oriented childcare and camps. We as a nation put everything on working parents -- we don't help out with childcare, we don't help out with healthy food, we don't help out with transportation to camps and sports for kids whose parents don't have cars or can't get off work to take them.

There are two sides to every story. One side of this story is personal responsibility of the parents to not let their toddlers exist on a steady diet of Ho-Hos. The other side of the story is access. We like to ignore that side, because it's a much harder thing to face. The media needs to start covering that side of the story, because until we acknowledge it, we won't do anything about it.

Despite the fact that I didn't have time to do it, I met a long-lost friend for a chat today.

I was twenty minutes late because my GPS took me to a house seven miles from the coffeeshop.

I burst through the door, beyond stressed, to see her cheerfully sitting there waiting, looking as chill and summery as a blossom.

We ended up talking for about an hour, and as our conversation wore on, I felt my pulse slowing from the being-late thing and the never-enough-time thing and enjoying the breeze and the sunshine and thinking how wise this friend was with all she had learned over the past year.

We talked about our ex-mutual workplace and the trade-off between time and money. Sometimes money equals time and sometimes time equals money and sometimes, though very rarely, they have nothing to do with each other.

While I still very much like money, I like it mostly because it means I can pay someone else to do the stuff I don't want to do so I have more time. It all keeps going back to time. I want time. I crave time. There seems to be no time. How does that happen? I looked recently at how I spent my day and tried to figure out what I did that was unnecessary. I came up with watering the flowers. Of course, if I stopped, they would die, but then I have to figure out how much I value the flowers -- which I think is a lot, because they bring me happiness and a sense of accomplishment.

So really, not that much is unnecessary.

So I'm starting to think time is the new money. What do you think? Which is more valuable to you right now?

Is this because I'm getting close to forty?