As the mother of twins, I am constantly asked seemingly stupid questions about them: Which one is the serious one? Which one is the outgoing one? Which one is the leader? Blah, blah, blah. And I always say, "They both are - it just depends on the day/moment/whatever." It's boring to be asked so many dumb questions all the time. This is, of course, in addition to the Big Two Comments: Whoa! Double Trouble! and You've sure got your hands full! Yawn. Please don't say either of these things to parents of twins. Just don't.

But there's one question that always makes ME feel a little stupid: Are they identical or fraternal? I always say fraternal, but I'm not 100% confident in that answer.

I had my first ultrasound at 8 weeks pregnant, which was when we found out that we were having two little hooligans, and I had a ton of additional ones after that. So I don't remember exactly when it was, but at one of those early ultrasounds, we were told that there were two placentas and that meant they were fraternal. It was never mentioned again and we never questioned it. Until they were born, that is, and there was only one placenta. I asked the delivery nurse about it and she said, "They must've fused together." Okaaaayyyyyyy.....

Twins are often different heights and weights when they are born - even identicals - and fraternal twins are no more alike than other siblings (except they are exactly the same age). Therefore, they should be even MORE different. But our girls were born at the same height and weight. They just had a check-up this week (16 months old) and they are STILL the same height and weight. As in, the same to the inch and ounce. The big indicator should be if they look alike, right? Well, most people think they are identical and ask me how I tell them apart. I can definitely tell them apart, but at least every few days they look exactly the same to me. Yesterday morning, they were sitting on the floor reading books. They were both in profile and I only knew who was who because of what they were wearing. I am their mother. Of all people, I should not think this about my fraternal daughters.

Then again, they look VERY different to me sometimes. But I don't know if that's because they actually look different or if their different personalities alter my perception of them. Ugh. The only way to know for sure is to do a DNA test. I asked the doctor about it at their check-up (their new pediatrician, by the way, assumed they were identical) and she said they can do it, but insurance will only pay for it if it is medically necessary. Since it isn't, I guess we're not doing it. I suppose I need to research it a little more, though, and see if I can find an affordable test online or something.

Now before you think I'm none too bright, look at these pictures (from teeny tiny to recent) and try to tell me they don't look identical.

I'm in the middle of losing a game of Scrabble on Facebook to my friend, Jillet. Seriously. Her score is exactly twice mine. It's not that I don't have an expansive vocabulary - it's that I have all Gs and Us and a pretty closed board. So I went to the official Scrabble website to look at the dictionary and see if they had any magical ideas. My oh my! What a word of the day!



If only I had those letters...

Dude and I took the girls out on a neighborhood exploration mission yesterday. We're meeting with a realtor Tuesday evening to start the house hunting in earnest and we wanted to be sure that we've seen all of the neighborhoods that we need to before that commences. I am psyched! I love house hunting! I love walking through a place and picturing our stuff in it. The problem is that I tend to really love houses that are about $50k above what Dude wants to spend. It doesn't really matter what the price range is - just add $50k and I will fall madly in love with the houses in that bracket, making the ones we can afford seem a little crappy.

Dude and I first hunted for houses together in 1999 or 2000 when we lived in Los Angeles. Housing prices at that point were definitely moving upward and we were looking in "fringe" neighborhoods because those were the only ones in which we stood a chance of finding something. Well, there was this sweet, sweet little house on a corner lot on Redondo Boulevard. I remember it in vivid technicolor. It was a two-bedroom, one-bath Spanish-style bungalow built in 1929 with birds-of-paradise growing by the front door. The floors were all a deep walnut-colored hardwood and there was a huge fireplace in the living room. Beautiful glass French doors led to the formal dining room and the kitchen had a lot of charming original tilework. The fenced-in yard was ENORMOUS with an orange tree and a turtle pond at one end (I even had a turtle - Ernesto - who lived in a stinky little aquarium). A small greenhouse jutted off the back of the garage. It was PERFECT for the two of us. PERFECT. PERFECT. PERFECT. I loved it so much I wanted to cry. It was the house of my married-single (no kids) fantasies. After drooling over every inch of the place for about an hour (including me exclaiming, "Ooooh! Look at this!" repeatedly), we sat in the realtor's car to crunch the numbers. Dude and this guy talked percentage points and down payments while I started decorating plans in my head.

I was trying to decide if the floor lamp we currently had in the living room would work or if we needed something new when Dude turned around and basically slapped me. "I just don't see how we can afford it right now." It was like the words didn't make sense because I had already decided this was our house.

Me: "What?"
Dude: "I don't think we can afford it. The monthly payments seem just out of our range."
Me: "What?"
The Realtor: "Let me go back to the office and come up with some different scenarios and bring them to you later. I'd love to get you in this house."
Dude: "Okay - but I really don't see how this works. It's just too expensive. If it was $50k less, it'd be another story."
Me: "What?"

My throat tightened. I had to fight back tears. I felt like throwing myself on the ground kicking, sobbing and screaming. Seems dumb over a house, right? Yeah, well - you didn't see this house. I made Dude promise that we'd never drive past it and he'd never so much as mention "the house on Redondo" again. I secretly drove past it a couple times over the next few weeks but had to stop because I felt so sad every time. We never did buy a place in LA because prices went so high so quickly that we couldn't keep up. A couple years after the fact, Dude commented that the house on Redondo now seemed affordable. I mentally punched him as hard as I could in the gut.

But Portland is filled with really sweet bungalows with built-ins and fireplaces and claw-foot tubs and backyards with trees. Certainly we'll be able to find one in any of our several neighborhoods-of-choice that is reasonably-priced enough for Dude and polished enough for me. Right?

Okay, fine. I am a little addicted to my new iPhone. But you would be, too, if you had that crappy crapster 3-year-old LG flip phone like I had that looked like it had been through a washing machine and then dragged behind a car for a day or two and which randomly turned itself off a few times a day. This feels very similar to when I sold my Geo Prism and got a Saab 9-3 convertable. Suddenly luxury is a way of life. MY life.

For reals, though - I love my iPhone. I google-map (that is so a verb) my way to destinations that I already know. I play sudoku with renewed zeal. I check Facebook constantly (of course). I suppose I could've been blogging, too, but I didn't. I'm still downloading all of the must-have apps (Lose It!, Shazam, Virtual Zippo, Public Radio Tuner) and playing with them.

Some happenings while I've been spending my time searching for the closest sushi restaurant (iSushi) and listening to the phrase-stylings of Mr. T (iPity):

• Dude declared that the incredibly delectable Monkfish Liver Pate & Sturgeon Caviar that we had at the sushi restaurant the other night tasted "like catfood" and then proceeded to eat the whole thing and use his finger to get every last bit of sauce off the plate and into his mouth.

• The Bug spent the better part of last Friday saying "HOOO-wah! HOOO-wah! HOOO-wah!" She sounded very much like Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman, but I finally figured out that she was just making kissy sounds.

• Belly has been doing much better while practicing walking. So I suppose I can stop obsessing and worrying that someday she'll be the only 3-year-old we know who still crawls everywhere.

• Both girls can correctly point to the various parts of the face when asked, and BELLY could do it first!

• Someone (um, me!) went out on Friday night and sang and danced to an 80s cover band, losing my voice along the way. SO much fun!

I will be a better blogger. I promise. I just need to become more adept at using the touch-screen keypad...

That doctor should have to pay child support:

http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5ilIx-PXnXPpwF1a_nlRYF00fzBIQD9669PMG0