Be still my beating heart

Yesterday marked the beginning of week 12 of Trish's pregnancy, and something really, really, really, really cool happened. We got to hear the baby's heartbeat. It was great timing, too.

It is so very easy to lose sight of how amazing all of this is. I can get caught up in financial worries, preparation worries (everything from can I get the nursery ready to can we train the dog to go easy around the child to just how good of a father am I going to be), Trish worries (is her energy level going to increase, is her nausea ever going to get better, etc.), everyday job stress and film project needs. Add to that just being dog tired and a high 90's heat wave, and excitement goes quickly out the window.

And then we hear a rapid heartbeat (162 beats per minute; which we are told is just right), and excitement flies right back in the window. Here's hoping I can keep it around, at least for another 6 weeks when we get another ultrasound. Not just any ultrasound, either. The gender discovery ultrasound. Which is the only thing I can think of that would make me more excited the hearing my child's heartbeat.

A Piece of Pavement Pie

So I had a birthday recently. The original celebration plan was that Trish and I would meet after work at Elliott Bay Book Co., and I would get a birthday shopping spree (well, a minor spree, but still). For a number of reasons, we changed the plan at the last minute and decided to have a romantic dinner at home.

So immediately following work, I went down to the Pike Place Market and bought some wine, handmade cheese, fresh strawberries and peaches, smoked salmon, fresh bread and mini chocolate cheesecake. All the makings of a light summer dinner with my sweetie.

Feeling pretty good, I headed up for the light rail station at Westlake. I was walking north just before Pine Street on the west side of 4th Avenue, and I wanted to cross 4th Avenue to get to the Westlake Mall and the station entrance, but the walk light was starting to blink. So I cut the corner slightly and ran to get across. And in so doing I caught my foot on the rim of a tree planter and took a face first dive into 4th Avenue. In front of the rush hour traffic waiting for the light to change. Cheese, cheesecake and salmon spilled out of my bags onto the street. And the light changes. Horns honk. I am trying to catch my breath and figure out what just happened. I make it to my feet with half a dozen people asking right on top of each other, "Are you ok, buddy?" I grab my stuff from the street and hustle back to the sidewalk.

A quick check shows scrapes on my hands, no holes in the knees of my pants, but I can tell I did a number of my knees from the pain, and - thank God - the wine bottle was not broken. (Priorities, people, priorities). A woman walks up and asks me if I am all right. I tell her, quite honestly, that I am fine except for being deeply embarrassed. But it wasn't embarrassed enough.

It turns out I just had to keep going north on 4th and the station entrance was on my left. No reason whatsoever to cut the corner and cross the street and taste a little pavement birthday pie.

The Best of the Worst

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is named after Edward Bulwer-Lytton who wrote the opening line "It was a dark and stormy night...." (Turns out he also gave us the phrases "the pen is mightier than the sword," and "the almighty dollar" but he is remembered for a lousy opening line. Talk about no respect.) The idea behind the contest is to intentionally create the worst opening lines possible. The 2009 winners have been announced and there are some doozies. Some of my favorite results...

The runner up:

The wind dry-shaved the cracked earth like a dull razor--the double edge kind from the plastic bag that you shouldn't use more than twice, but you do; but Trevor Earp had to face it as he started the second morning of his hopeless search for Drover, the Irish Wolfhound he had found as a pup near death from a fight with a prairie dog and nursed back to health, stolen by a traveling circus so that the monkey would have something to ride.

The winner for the detective category:

She walked into my office on legs as long as one of those long-legged birds that you see in Florida - the pink ones, not the white ones - except that she was standing on both of them, not just one of them, like those birds, the pink ones, and she wasn't wearing pink, but I knew right away that she was trouble, which those birds usually aren't.

And the winner in the purple prose category:

The gutters of Manhattan teemed with the brackish slurry indicative of a significant though not incapacitating snowstorm three days prior, making it seem that God had tripped over Hoboken and spilled his smog-flavored slurpie all over the damn place.

New classics all.