At my office, we have a great alternative to 1,000 people each occasionally sending "that really funny link I found" to everyone else who works there. It's a list-serve you opt-in to, and you can auto-filter the messages into a folder. So when you need a break from the monotony that you get paid for, you can wander through your Work Spam folder to see what inane things people are chattering about while they, too, are getting paid for not working.
Today's topic of interest: Baking Edges
I have guiltlessly consumed way beyond my fair share of baked goods ever since I acquired myself a fetus. (It's the easy out for anyone looking to over-indulge, in case you've been looking for a way.) And so the concept of the Baking Edge drew my attention.
There are, you should note, Edge People and Middle People. It's best to hook-up with your opposite: When my husband bakes a pan of brownies, I go for the crunchy, chocolatey edges, while he devours the soft middley goodness. It's why we got married and can stay that way.
Now, it seems, there's a pan designed to eliminate my husband from the equation. The Baker's Edge pan, which makes every piece an edge piece...on at least two sides.
I can't wait to get one of these so Kevin can bake brownies for Lyric onday. I'm actually half hoping she will take after her daddy and be a Middle Person, turning up her tiny button nose (I'm hoping she gets his nose, too) and leaving those icky edge pieces for Mum.
Some people at work were not only nonplussed by the Edge concept, they were confused why anyone might want one. "Who among you," someone asked, "would want the edges?"
"Are you the people who eat the crusts cut off a PB&J sandwich?" asked another.
And one of my brethen replied for us all:
"We," he said, "are the muffin top people."
Yes, yes we are. And so that pan is an Edge Person's dream. But I'm not so sure it will be fair to my husband, a middle-man.
My perfectly oval, deeply innie, belly button is about to flip inside-out.
I'm not sure why this is devastating, except that it might be the one thing I didn't think of ahead of time. The texture feels exactly...exactly...like the rim of a balloon, the place where you would put your lips to blow up said balloon: Slightly inflated, rubbery.
At any moment, without knowing it's happened, I'm going put my hand down there and BAM. I'll have an outtie.
Although it does kind of hurt, so maybe I will feel it as it happens.
SUGAR. I made my near-weekly (that's right) trip to the doctor, this time for a glucose screen. Had to layoff the sugar for "just a few days," which was like laying off the crack for "just a few days." (Meanwhile, Kevin, my dealer, buys a Vanilla Frappaccino, and when I scowl, he says "Come on, you can have just one sip." Bastard.)
Then I drink a sickeningly sweet orange-sodaish thing on an empty stomach to get my blood sugar soaring. Then they take another three vials of blood.
And now the Interweb tells me there was a jelly bean option!? Whether I passed I don't know, but I can go back to eating fudge again daily...at least for now. :)
SUGAR. MAMA. We spent another trillion hours shopping this weekend at places brimming with fat (OK, pregnant) women and screaming kids. I think this is part of the parental initiation: can you handle the pain of being bumped into more than 200 times a minute amidst the relentless, earpiercing whines...without inflicting a similar pain on others?
We bought the fetus some furniture...because every 8 pound human needs a bedroom set, right? I suspect in the last month we've spent more on the Invisible One than we did on our last two trips to Europe. I'm not entirely sure because doing the math makes me a little queasy. Instead of morning sickness with pregnancy, I get money sickness.
Many things we've bought are designed to last until she's 18 (ok, maybe not the car seat), and perhaps I'll turn out to be a stingy mamma, so hopefully Lyric already knows to be excited about Her Brand...New... (said in gameshow host voice):
CAR! (Maybe we'll keep it long enough for her to drive when she's 16?), complete with baby-barf-resistant seat coating.
A crib that turns into a toddler bed and then into a fullsize-bed and its matching combination dresser/ changing table/ hutch thingie. Both are made from radiata pine (a softwood that acts like hardwood) and in antique black, of course! Heck, who knew we are so hip? Dammit. Next thing you know, every kid in preschool will be named Lyric or Harmony. (And the boys: Fret and Bassline.)
This lovely hard plasticy gray/red/black car seat. (No all-black version available for this ubersafe brand, sadly. But it's still kinda cute and the little blanket is so very soft.)
To make space for the baby crap, er, stuff, we sold the 20-year-old hand-me-down sofa and loveseat (cat dander, rips, dust, and assorted sticky stuff included free of charge), and my poor little futon. We replaced them all with this more compact, black sleeper sofa (made from anti-babybarf microfiber) for the visiting relatives, and a matching chair (in lieu of the standard, overpriced mommy-glider, which everyone seems to want to toss after the baby is no longer cuddly) for me. Space is the highest premium in San Francisco, and in our apartment. Lyric's main function thusfar seems to be making us do and buy grown-up things. (Did I mention I now own a crockpot?) No fair!
and our favorite, the highchair that turns into a toddler chair and then a little kid chair and then and adult-chair. I sent this pic of it to my mum-in-law, who said only "Um, what is that exactly?"
Oh, Mrs. McCarthy....it's awesomeness, that's what it is.
Truthfully, the the spendathon has been so disconcerting mainly because what we really, really, really want to buy is a flat,, but each time we save some money...Lyric happens. We are getting a few hand-me-downs and avoiding non-necessities, but my months of research indicate that for an extra $100 here and there, you get kid stuff that lasts a lifetime instead of it heading for a landfill in two years.
Still, it means we might not be traveling again in 2007, except perhaps at Christmas time to see the families. Sigh. She'd better be really cute.
We saw 300 this weekend and it was, to be totally inarticulate and non film-criticy: pretty awesome.
War battles in the only way I can tolerate (comic book style gore, torture-free), the right amount of offbeat humor, superbly airbrushed men's abs, a nice dose of history, and a king who adored his hot and ever-wise wife. But then, I've had thing for Spartans since I first read about them in 5th grade.
Now Kevin calls me The Spartan Queen and he wants to do more sit-ups. Whatever you say, sweetie.
The Baker's Edge pan, which makes every piece an edge piece...on at least two sides. 
