Breakfast of Champions

I found the cereal in my office today. Frosted Mini Wheats! Holla!

When I was a baby, I was gigantic. My pediatrician told my parents to feed me whenever I cried. He was wrong. I am convinced that the charming knee fat I carry to this day is a direct cause of this man's negligence.

I soon switched doctors and my parents started a "cry it out" regimen that got me back into happy chubby baby shape as opposed to National Enquirer freakshow shape. But because of my first few months of obesity, my parents decided to treat my childhood diet with kid gloves. This meant no sugar cereal.

My pantry growing up was stocked with Rice Krispies, Life, Cracklin' Oat Bran, Kix and Frosted Mini Wheats. In later years, we also added Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch (yum!), but that's as wild as we got.

Needless to say, I ate a lot of Eggo waffles growing up, and every time I slept at a friend's house, I ate my body weight in Cookie Crisp.

Despite my lack of cereals that turn your milk a nasty color, I have always had a deep appreciation of the cereal mascots and their rich history. I particularly enjoyed the Count Chocula/Franken Berry/Boo Berry gang. I guess all that Scooby-Doo desensitized me to monsters at a young age... and ascots.

Cereal characters today are just not as cool. Sure we still have the old standbys like Lucky Charms and Coco Puffs, but you’d think in 30 years of cereal development we could do a little better than three elderly chefs named Wendell. I weep for our youth.

The upside of the dwindling sugar cereal commercial adventures (ug, remember that smug toucan?) is that my child may not realize how lame it is to eat Honey Nut Cheerios over Sugar Smacks. Until my husband tells her.

CinS was allowed the full monte of sugar cereal growing up and is horrified to hear my parenting belief that our children should be turned on to Honey Wheat Chex over Apple Jacks. I think I am right because that’s how I was raised. CinS thinks he’s right for the same reasons. I’ve also seen video footage of CinS as a child and he was one hyper, annoying little man. I blame the Fruity Pebbles.

Choose Your Own Adventure

I am totally bored and unsatisfied with my current state of affairs. I'm sure it’s due to the tantalizing excitement of my baby and move that both seem so close, yet so far. And the lack of good summer TV.

So in a rare hip-hop reference, I've decided to brush that dirt off my shoulders and set out for some fresh adventures of my very own. On the 15th floor of my office building.

My LA office building is a beautiful zen oasis complete with a domed pile of cobalt gravel and cocoa shells as mulch. The guard desk downstairs is always stocked with helium balloons. I believe this week we are celebrating Flag Day.

Our elevator bank is in a comforting NYC style, with discreet sections for floors 1-10 and 11-21. My office is on the 16th floor and our lunch room overlooks LAX and the ocean, so you can watch the planes as you enjoy your chicken vindaloo.* We also have mad snacks available at all times, including cheese. OK, I think I need a cheese break now.

Yum. Cheese break.

To access my office is fairly simple, provided you arrive during business hours. Off hours require a badge swipe. I think this is a reasonable level of security. The folks on the 15th floor, however, disagree.

Something on the 15th floor is so top-secret, so death-defying, that you can't even access the elevator without swiping your badge. The 15th floor also requires a constant influx of likely IT drones toting bags of McDonald's in and out at all hours. There is a definite morning and night shift. They do not speak in the elevator - even when they travel in packs. The 15th floor has an air of mystery, and an air of paranoia as I ponder what I am sitting on top of day in and day out.

What is going on down there?

It is my desperate hope that they are working on the next Twitter or some other harmless project, and that their funding is tied to an impossibly condensed timeframe that necessitates the 24/7 attention. But I fear it may be something far more sinister.

The 15th floor could be the Dollhouse or the Company or Massive Dynamic’s LA branch. But with less telegenic help. I sure as hell hope so. Because I need something cool to happen to kill some time over the next 2 and a half months.

* Of the 60 people in my office, about 40 are Indian and here on work visas. Lunch time is an olfactory delight of curries and rices. It’s a good thing that my naturally hyper-sensitive snout did not go into overdrive during pregnancy and that I love Indian food – unlike CinS who likens it to “chicken soup that fell on the carpet.”

Moving on Up

It's been a busy few weeks for the Blogtaris. We had CinS's brother's wedding, Melissa's parents visiting, tons of work, pregnancy excitement, and a cold. You would think with all that's been going on, we would have a lot to say. But we don't.

We are approaching the final week of cohabitation with CinS parents before we bust out to our new place in Marina Del Rey. I am looking forward to the following things about our new place (in rank order):

• our giant bed
• our giant couch
• our giant TV
• sitting out on our balcony to read a book
• no more dogs

Had this post been written about 2 years ago, my list would have probably looked more like this:

• our giant bed
• our giant couch
• our giant TV
• being hungover in peace
• walking around naked

Before I wrote that second list I thought the discrepancies would make me seem really lame and old, but seeing as 3 out of 5 are the same, I feel slightly better about myself. Yes, like many pregnant ladies who came before me, I too can delude myself into thinking I'm cool when I've clearly lost my edge. My naked edge.

The highlight of our new place for CinS will be "his" room. We have a spare room that we'll be using as an office/guest room that CinS has carte blanche to decorate as he sees fit. It is a fantasy of his to have a converted garage to house his bar, Xbox, mini fridge, and neon signs, but since we are living in an apartment, I thought I'd throw him a decorative bone and give him the extra room to "man up."

Please remind me not to watch Juno at any point before we move. Jason Bateman's singular man room made me feel super depressed and Jennifer Garnery upon viewing, and any reminders may cause me to hang a 6-foot pub sign above the entranceway to my apartment.

CinS has gleefully decided to decorate his room with a concentrated wall of neon. He now has 11 signs that will live in harmony on this wall. It will either be rad or make my eyes bleed. Or if we are lucky, both.

CinS has promised to post pictures of the neon wall to this blog upon completion to make you all jealous. Until then, I leave it to your fine imagination.

Moving day is next Saturday (hurray!) and I expect all new maritime-themed adventures to report from our home by the seas. Yes, be prepared for even more pirate references.