Randall Ford

@ChefGruel Looks awesome, Chef. Appreciate you sharing the recipe. There's a great alt version you can make too with diced jalapeño and red pepper instead of pimento... Almost like a cold queso

Here is my full recipe if anyone wants to dive into a bowl of cheese: open.substack.com/pub/andrewgrue…

@Cernovich It's a great place to direct energy and effort. I'm working on making my mudroom more functional right now. Coat hooks down low have been so much better for kids jackets. Just need a shelf that spans those two cabinets and all the big pieces will be in place

Tbh I'm reading more about interior design than the Iran war today. Boomers are totally in control. The bombings are going to be intensified. You don't need secret squirrel sources to see where it's heading now.

@luusssso Agreed. Prefect 2nd existence for that building

@_FordR Honestly love it

We live in the ruins of a fallen civilization

@ChefGruel Great idea. I do this all the time to make sliders for my kids, since it's a little quicker and easier than forming individual parties. 1 pound works great for 12 sliders, too, so portioning is very simple

Ok, Here me out - BLT Burger Loaf. Instead of making a gaggle of individual burgers, you make one huge loaf and then scoop it onto buns, taco shells, or over a bowl. It's not just craveworthy, it's quick and easy to make.

@akirathedon was watching this cory wong video, where he documented his process of taking a song from voice memo idea to finished product and it got me wondering how similar this is to your process. At one point he mentions adding more "stuff" and it reminded me of your recent comment about how your songs are so sonically rich and layered that people should be hearing new stuff still on the 100th listen youtu.be/ti5hRWZMTxI?si…

@Cernovich Yep. Northern Virginia in particular is full of true believers. People in my neighborhood put this stuff in their yard with zero embarrassment

California gets the attention. Virginia is far more revealing. They had a Republican governor. All was well. “Moderate Republicans” threw a tantrum over Trump. They elected a “moderate Democrat.” Now they live on Poop River and will lose all Congressional representation.

@BowTiedBroke A week+ after the snow and sleet storm, my county busted out the skid steers to chew through the glaciers that were still blocking turn lanes and sidewalks. Perfect tool for the job

Out of all of the things I’ve purchased in life, I’m going to have to say this ranks as one of the best. The amount of “stuff” you can accomplish with a skid steer is mind blowing. The amount of stress a skid steer will relieve is also mind blowing. Every man needs one.

@davereaboi Yeah man! Always good to share good music

@_FordR Cool tune! Fun! Sounds like it’s taking from Funkadelic for the vocal line and adding in some late 60s soul horn arrangements.

Ok, holy shit this is totally killing. First track—“We can work it out”—should settle everything. And it’s got Mike and Randy Brecker! youtu.be/nOD2_OJP-1c?si…

@akirathedon We still have the technology, but do we have the will?

Changing the color was a big thing when I was a tiny boy... now no one seems to want to change the color... the question is... WHY

@thecaseywoodard @EXM7777 has a good thing going on Whop: whop.com/machines-lab/

Does anyone have a great course or learning resources on how to write better prompts? I feel I am under-utilizing AI heavily, not only for development but also for linguisitics, marketing, personal use, etc. Tag or link below.

@Mitch_Tischler There's one even closer to the east, too

Interesting note about the 49ers regarding injuries … The Commanders have two substations within a mile of their prax facility

@DagoSupremacy @SeedOilDsrspctr Right back atcha!

Take a break from ICE scrolling to gaze at this home made pizza.

@javilopen Congratulations! Great to hear that your wife and daughter, and you!, are doing so well after that ordeal. BTW, I tried your idea of feeding our 3D ultrasounds into Gemini. Fascinating output, and I'm so curious as to how well the prediction holds up

The nurse grabs them with a look like “what the hell” and hands them to Anna. Anna immediately starts squeezing them in both hands and then a brutal contraction hits that I swear I can feel too. “Aaaaaah,” she moans softly. Spoiler: my wife doesn’t scream a single time. The midwife examines her and almost instantly says: “Great, Anna. You’re doing amazing. You’re going to have a MAGNIFICENT natural birth. There’s no time for an epidural. She’s basically here,” he says in that steady, reassuring voice. “No epidural my ass,” I think. “Okay. When I tell you, you’re going to push hard. And then when I tell you, you’ll blow, and that’s when you stop pushing. Okay?” “Mmmmmmm,” my wife nods. “Push, then blow. Don’t blow when you should push. And me? What am I doing here? Push, blow…” that’s what’s going through my head, no longer capable of real thought: my brain is horchata. “Alright! NOW, PUSH!!!” the midwife shouts. “Aaaaaaahhhah,” my wife moans softly. “Push, my honey! Puuuuuush!” I say. “Very good! Incredible pain control! You did great!” the midwife encourages her. “Okay, now rest, and again as soon as the next contraction comes.” And she does. Brave as hell. “Okay, now don’t push. Blow, blow, blow!” And suddenly I see something down there. It’s not a head, it’s like a bush. “Oh wow! Look at all that hair!” the nurse says, surprised. “Is that my daughter? WOW. WTF,” I think. “Okay! Now push again! Let’s go!” And we all start cheering her on, the nurse and me at the same time: “LET’S GOOOOOO!!!” With each contraction and push, “that,” I mean my daughter, comes out a little and then goes back in. Thank God I’d already seen birth videos, because nothing would’ve prepared me to see a SMASHED head. Yes: when they’re being born, the head flattens to a level that feels insane, like unnatural… but it’s actually totally natural… I GUESS. “Okay, that’s normal. Gema said that’s normal,” I repeat in my head like a mantra. “She’s not going to give birth to a traffic cone: it’s normal,” I tell myself. “Come on! We’re almost there! Now! Push!” the midwife says. “Aaaaaaaaaaaah,” my wife’s last soft moan. [6:42 AM] And suddenly… Alisa’s head pops out, and it goes from being a smashed hamburger to a perfect round little head. I swear I almost heard a “plop.” “Don’t push! Now blow, blow,” the midwife tries to slow her down. But there’s no stopping this train. She comes out with a smoothness and lightness my brain can’t process. A shoulder appears and then, in a rhythmic movement, almost intentional, she turns, brings an arm out… and Alisa, my little girl, starts wailing. The midwife gets her the rest of the way out and places her on Anna, who, judging by her new moans, has reached nirvana. Alisa is born in record time: 22 minutes after we enter the delivery room. By the skin of our teeth. Absolutely unbelievable. And suddenly the world rearranges itself: everything that used to feel big shrinks, and what was small becomes enormous. I look at Anna, wrecked and radiant at the same time. My vision blurs, I’m crying, and I feel a new respect, a new love, a kind of happy fear. And there she is on top of her, wailing and alive: Alisa, a new life, our daughter. And then, the placenta, like an alien: a kind of jellyfish that peeks out, swells, half comes out, peeks again, swells, and finally comes out completely. A completely deranged spectacle. But we don’t care about anything anymore. My wife cries with joy too and holds her little girl. I feel renewed respect and love for my wife, the lioness. It’s absolute ecstasy. Manu, the midwife, is stitching up a small tear and she barely even notices. It feels cathartic for all of us… except Alisa, who is protesting at full volume, because hey, it was pretty comfy in there! Little by little she calms down and stops crying: they clean her, weigh her, and put her back on her mom so she can breastfeed. I could tell you a lot more about those first days. Maybe I will. But that’ll be another story. And as I write this, I remember this Bill Murray line from Lost in Translation that I want to end with: “It’s the most terrifying day of your life: the day the first one is born. Your life, as you know it, is gone. Never to return. But they learn to walk, they learn to talk, and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you’ll ever meet in your life.” I can’t wait to get to know Alisa for the rest of my life!

🐣 A man’s take on childbirth / Or how my daughter almost ended up being born in a taxi because at the hospital they sent us home / Or: first entry in Alisa’s Diary Pick whichever title you like. I can’t decide. My wife should be the one writing this, since she’s the one who actually gave birth, and I really hope she does. That way, beyond what we’ve talked about between ourselves, we could compare our versions with the added depth that comes from putting things into writing. But hey: as a man, I would’ve loved to read another man’s experience. So if you think you’ll become a dad sooner or later, or if you already are one and want a laugh, here’s the story of how Alisa was born. That said: I can promise you your birth experience will be COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, because, obviously, NO TWO BIRTHS ARE THE SAME. [December 23] My wife, Anna, is exactly 41 weeks pregnant, with an induction scheduled for the 26th (spoiler: we don’t make it). That morning, for the first time, she has contractions that feel different from the usual Braxton Hicks ones (the ones where the uterus does its little practice sessions on its own so it doesn’t show up out of shape on the big day). “Well, perfect, we have an appointment with the OB today anyway, so we’ll ask,” my wife says. [6:00 PM] Sure enough, we have an appointment with Paqui, our super sweet OB in Casillas, Murcia. An absolute top-tier professional who always explains everything with endless patience and warmth. “Go private first, then when you have your first appointment in the public system, compare and tell me,” my friend Emilio told me nine months ago with a smirk. He became a dad recently. And yep: comparisons are brutal, confirmed. Though I’ll say this: Dr. Alicia in the public system also treated us with a lot of kindness, same as most of the nurses and staff. But I’ve got some voodoo dolls ready for a few others you’ll meet in this story :) Anyway, Paqui, with her usual tact and skill, examines her that afternoon and tells us that her cervix is barely dilated and hasn’t “effaced” yet, only a tiny bit. Everything else looks great. “But careful, labor can start at any moment. Honestly, I don’t think you’re going to make it to induction day,” she says, smiling. “I don’t think so either,” I think. “I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air… my preciousss is on the way.” [7:00 PM] On the drive home: Anna starts having contractions about every 10–15 minutes. “Wow, looks like Alisa got activated by the checkup,” Anna says. “Maybe it’s the oxytocin because Paqui really put me at ease.” [8:00 PM] At home we eat dinner calmly, and the contractions, which Anna is diligently timing with an app, shift to every 8 minutes. “Okay, but it’s fine. Until they’re regular, every 4–5 minutes, and each contraction lasts about a minute, we don’t need to go to the hospital,” Anna reminds me. “Cool. So what do you feel like doing to kill time?” “Get Carcassonne and let’s play :)” So that’s what we do: we play a chill game of Carcassonne (gotta keep that oxytocin flowing), eating Mexican food, hoping the spice helps things along. We laugh a ton. And the whole time, Anna keeps tracking everything in her app. [9:00 PM] The contractions move to about every seven minutes and start to actually hurt. But according to Anna, since she can still talk normally, they’re still manageable. So I text my sister, who wants to be the one to take us to the hospital when things really kick off: “I think it’s getting close to time to go. Not quite yet, but it might be soon.” “Ooooh! Keep me posted,” she replies. [10:12 PM] Okay, now… it’s time! “We did this so well,” I think. Textbook. We waited until we were exactly where all the books say you should be. I call my sister: “Come whenever, we’ve got pretty regular contractions every ~4–5 min and about 40–50 seconds long, with pain.” And yep, that’s true. And you can tell without even asking Anna, because her face has already changed from the pain. It’s no longer “pretty tolerable.” [10:30 PM] A little later, in record time: “We’re here, come down,” my niece texts me on WhatsApp. She’s joining the party. “We’re waiting for her next contraction to pass and then we’ll come down :)” I text back, while I watch my wife grip a dresser, focused, riding out a particularly painful contraction. Not a single moan comes out of her mouth… yet. On the way out, I can tell my wife isn’t as cheerful as before. It’s hard for her to talk and she starts to zone out, focusing on each contraction with one hand glued to the app to keep counting them. But hey, we’re doing great. Everything under control. [11:00 PM] We get to the hospital. With all the movies, you imagine giving birth means walking in through the big entrance straight to the delivery room with trumpets and applause. Well, that’ll come later, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now we go through Maternity ER and start a process that, in total, takes a couple of hours. The Golden Doors of the Delivery Room are closed: first you have to get past THE GATEKEEPERS. 1/ Admissions: “What are you here for?” “Well I think we’re here to give birth, I mean, for my wife to give birth, or to… give… whatever you call it… look, she’s having contractions every blah blah blah.” “Oh, how nice, maybe you’ll have him on the 25th like baby Jesus. Okay, take this number and go to the waiting room. Next!” So there we go: sitting and waiting. This is the first time I start getting nervous. The contractions keep coming, the pain too, my wife talks less and less, and that feeling of “how long are we going to be waiting?” crawls into your head and won’t leave. It’s crushing. [11:20 PM] 2/ Triage After about twenty minutes, they bring us into a small room with two women. Same questions again. I tell the older one the whole story, show them the app, explain everything in detail. “Okay, sit there, we’re going to examine you,” says the other one, who is very, very young. I remember thinking something stupid like: “Did a baby roll out of the delivery room and they just put her in a nurse outfit?” And without any delay, she examines her. By the way, I didn’t mention it earlier, but the exam is… basically sticking two fingers up there and feeling around, and judging by Anna’s face, it’s pretty painful. But here’s the issue: as you can imagine, it’s very imprecise and depends a lot on the skill and experience of whoever’s doing it. And still, with that exam they assess a ton of things: dilation, effacement, consistency, position of the cervix, presentation and station. No big deal. “Wellllll, her cervix is almost fully effaced, but not all the way,” the girl says. “And barely 1 cm dilated.” “So what do I put then?” the older one asks. “Umm… intermediate,” the super young one says. And they explain: “Look, her cervix still isn’t effaced and she’s barely dilated. So this can still take even days. Now we’ll put her on the monitors and we’ll see.” “Okay, but the way it’s progressing looks like a countdown,” I reply, because I’m already smelling trouble. “Well, we’ll see on the monitors.” [11:30 PM] 3/ Monitors We step back out briefly and they call us in for the next level of the video game. Here they don’t let me in as a support person, and my wife stays inside about an hour (“with a calm, nice woman,” she told me later), lying on a bed while they monitor contractions and the baby’s vitals. She told me days later that by that point it was incredibly hard to lie down, because that position makes each contraction hurt more, unlike being on all fours on a bed or bouncing on a ball. [December 24] [12:30 AM] She comes out of monitoring, and I can see on her face that she’s exhausted and in pain. “How’d it go, love?” I ask. “Fine…” she says with a look that’s basically “Why am I still here and not in the delivery room?” “They’re going to call me again in a bit.” So we go back to waiting, but not for long. [12:35 AM-ish] They call us back right away to go into “the Box” (that’s literally what it’s called), the FINAL BOSS we can’t beat. 4/ The Box We walk down the hallway and my wife falls behind. I hurry ahead and tell them we’re coming, that my wife is having a really hard time walking. I go back for her and we finally limp into the little room. Inside are four women: three sitting at a desk (the sergeant in the middle) and another near an ultrasound machine. And I call her the sergeant because that’s what I nickname her: “The Iron Sergeant.” A young woman who I assume is a doctor, maybe a resident (but maybe I’m wrong, it doesn’t really matter). My wife sits in front of them, and I stay standing. It feels like the judging panel for a civil service exam… except in tone, manners, and the urgency of the “trial,” it feels more like the Spanish Inquisition. “So, her cervix still isn’t effaced and even though she’s having some contractions she’s not in labor… blah blah blah… prodromal labor… blah blah blah… this can take days… blah blah blah. So… GO HOME.” We go silent. I don’t want to speak for my wife, so I look at her to see what she says. She’s pale and kind of in another dimension, focused on her contractions. I don’t think she even processes what they just told her (she’s Russian and her Spanish is basically bilingual, but in a situation like this it can obviously be hard to understand everything). Since she can’t get a sentence out, I ask her: “But you’re having contractions every 3–7 minutes (at most) and they’ve been increasing over time, and the pain too, right?” “Yes,” is all she manages. “That’s not what the machine says,” the sergeant says, and shows me a paper that looks like a seismograph with only three peaks on it. “The machine says she’s only had three contractions in an hour.” I look at my wife again. She’s looking at her app, where even during monitoring she kept logging contractions diligently. “But you felt more than that, right?” I ask her. “Yes,” Anna says. “Way more.” Again, it’s hard for her to talk. “Look, I’m not saying she didn’t feel them, but the machine isn’t showing them,” the sergeant says. Her voice is cold as steel. And I’m thinking: “What’s the point of feeling them if the machine doesn’t show them?” “But…” I start. “Also, her cervix isn’t fully effaced and she’s barely dilated,” the sergeant reminds me. “But… but… but if the only way we have to know when to come is contractions every 3–5 minutes, regular and painful, lasting at least a minute… and we’re EXACTLY THERE, if we go home, how are we supposed to know when to come back?” I say through clenched teeth, frustrated. “Oh, trust me, you’ll know. They’ll be much more painful. I can look at her face and I know she’s not in labor,” she says boldly. I look at my wife again: she’s white as paper. Of course they don’t know my wife, and I don’t know anyone tougher or less likely to complain. It’s not just a Russian thing. Even among Russian women, she’s extra hardcore. My wife chews Chuck Norris for breakfast. With all due respect, I’m thinking these women are confusing “not complaining” with “being fine.” “Please, understand, I do not feel okay going back home. We can’t measure her cervix at home!” “You don’t need that, you just need to come when it’s time,” says another girl, the youngest one. “Sorry to repeat myself, but according to the textbook parameters, it IS time,” I insist. “Well no, it’s not every 5, if anything it’s every 2–3 minutes,” another one comments, and I swear her tone is almost annoyed. “A lot of times contractions stop and it wasn’t actually labor starting,” she insists. I look at my wife again, she has “contraction number one hundred and twenty” face. I don’t think she’s even processed that they’re sending us home. So I push again: “That’s not what we learned in Gema’s class, the midwife, who by the way works here too (aside: incredible professional who helped us prepare a ton, mental note: send her a ham)… and it’s not what any guide says!” And here I can tell I’ve lost them. Maybe it’s in my head, but I feel them instantly go defensive. The committee has given its verdict, and now they’d put their hand in the fire for what they’re saying. Nothing we say is going to change their minds. “We understand you’re first-time parents (this is the first pregnancy) and you have these fears,” now yes, the sergeant is clearly annoyed, or at least her brow is furrowed. “In fact, look, you’re the fourth woman we’ve sent home tonight.” And now I’m the one getting angry (internally), because… what does it matter how many women they sent home tonight? What does that have to do with whether my wife is close to giving birth or not? “Okay. Fine. We’ll go. But we’re not calm at all… and if we go home and my wife goes into labor there, then what?” (Smiles) “That would be the first time we’ve ever seen something like that,” says the youngest. Well, sweetheart, you’re about to. Or rather, we’re about to, because we never saw those women again: when we came running back barely four hours later, the Box was empty and only the triage staff were there… but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. [1:10 AM] We leave the hospital and head back. My wife can barely sit and she suffers in the car. Her only comfort is logging her contractions in the app. She’s very quiet but manages to say: “Those women stressed me out so much.” And then, as I watch her worriedly, one of those insidious ideas sneaks into my brain, the kind you don’t want to even think about, but it sticks like tar. I ask my wife: “Anna, before we left, did they examine your cervix again? After the monitors, I mean.” “No.” Meaning: they’re telling us to go home because she hasn’t dilated enough, but they measured TWO HOURS AGO, so maybe it changed in that time. I think that prudently instead of saying it. I’d rather not tell my wife, she has enough on her plate. But if I was already uneasy, now I’m doubly uneasy: they don’t examine her before sending us home, even with our fears, something that would’ve taken five minutes, even though two hours have passed since the last exam. And another question pops into my head: “No doubt these people are following ‘THE PROTOCOL TM,’ whatever it is, but… would they have sent a friend or family member home the same way they’re sending my wife home in this state, or would they have let her be admitted upstairs to be monitored?” [1:30 AM] We get home. I’m still ruminating, almost in denial that they sent us back. Anna is still having contractions every 5–7 minutes and instead of stopping, they get more intense. And here begins what I’ll always remember as the phase of… THE LIONESS Anna enters an almost trance-like state. She won’t let me touch her. She won’t let me talk to her. The world narrows. It’s just her, her movements, her pain, and her contractions. Every time one hits, a low, soft moan slips out, not so much a complaint as a slow thread of air released steadily for almost a full minute. She gets on all fours on the bed and rocks slowly, feeling around blindly, purely on instinct, for the position that hurts less. Sometimes she retreats to the ball, like she can redistribute the weight of the pain there. Between contractions she waits for the next blow, stronger each time, and when it finally comes she takes it almost silently, focused. And always, without missing a single one, almost like a compulsive tic, she logs each contraction in her app with mechanical precision. “Go sleep,” she tells me. “Go to the other room.” I think that’s basically all she says in four hours. “But…” I don’t even know what to say. She needs her trance. Everything we practiced together in Gema’s childbirth class, the partner exercises, the breathing, the positions… straight into the trash. She needs to be alone with her body, with the pain, and with the next minute. So I go to another room. I lie down. I get up. I come back. The lioness is still there, roaring. I go back, lie down. Get up. Come back. I pace the hallway up and down. And eventually I lie down in the room with the lioness. Every so often I sit up and ask: “Babe, do we go to the hospital now?” If I catch her mid-contraction, there’s no answer, just a quiet moan. And then later: “No… they’re still every 4–5 minutes. If we go back, they’ll kick us out again.” I lie back down. And so it goes for four long, brutal hours. I think I nodded off. I remember waking up with that ridiculous nightmare feeling: like it’s the day of the biggest exam of your life and you’re late to class. That’s the feeling. And again: “Babe, we have to go now… we’ve been like this for over three hours! How often are they now?” No answer. Focused. I lean in and look at her app: contractions every 2–4 minutes. “Fuck this,” I think. “If we wait until 2–3 minutes like they said, she’s giving birth at home.” “We’re going. I’m calling a taxi so it takes us straight to the ER entrance again,” I tell her. A moan in response. She starts moving in slow motion. She tries to put her coat on, she hasn’t even taken her clothes off. And every three minutes she has to stop, grab something or lean on the wall, moan, and ride out her contraction. Hers. No one else’s. [5:30 AM] I call the taxi. It crosses my mind that, by providence, it’s the 24th, but morning, not night. The streets are empty, so it arrives super fast. The hard part is getting downstairs. It takes us several minutes, with long pauses after each contraction. We try to wait for one to pass before leaving, but another hits her right before getting into the taxi. I open the door, help her in. And suddenly I see myself holding a piece of toast in my hand. Why am I holding a piece of toast? I don’t remember grabbing it, I don’t remember toasting it. I take a bite and toss the rest in a hurry. We get in and things accelerate. They accelerate a lot. [5:45 AM] Anna is in absolute hell trying to sit in the taxi. Sitting for her equals more pain and the feeling that birth is imminent. She can’t even talk. I think about how well we managed everything four hours earlier and how different it feels now: racing back, fear fully unleashed. The driver’s face says it all, he gets it. I’m sure he’s imagining movie scenes of tough women giving birth in the back seat. [6:00 AM] We arrive at the same door we walked out of four hours earlier. “Over my dead body they send us home again,” I manage to think. Anna gets out of the taxi on her own, but another contraction hits and she grabs the handle of her carry-on suitcase. I run inside to ask for help. Did I pay the taxi? I hope so. I don’t remember. The waiting room is empty. There’s only a security guard sitting there looking at his phone. “Hi. Can you help me please? My wife is having a really hard time walking.” “Aren’t the orderlies here?” he asks. We look toward their little room: empty. “Of course, of course, I’ll help.” Between the two of us we help Anna in, and right then an orderly appears and also gives us a hand. We take her back to the same triage room where they examined her earlier. And then the triage woman appears down the hallway (not the sergeant, we never see her again): “Oh, you’re back?” “Grrrr,” I reply. Another woman appears too, one I don’t recognize. The super young one from before must’ve gone to sleep. “Okay, sit here,” they tell Anna, who staggers into the room. A moan escapes Anna. “Ugh, it’s so hard for me to sit.” The thing is, sitting for her means seeing stars. Each contraction while sitting hurts way more and she also has that feeling that everything is about to happen. But eventually she manages to sit. “Okay, I’m going to take a sample.” We are beyond stressed. They are totally calm, like it’s impossible my wife is actually in labor. Though honestly, better calm than the opposite. “We’re going to do a test to see if your water broke,” she says in a tone like she’s sure it’ll be negative. And they proceed to stick what can only be described as a family-size swab inside my wife. They take it out and put the sample into a machine. “Oh. It’s positive.” “Positive for what?” I ask. “That her water broke.” And suddenly, as if saying it pressed a button, my wife’s water breaks for real: a gush runs down the chair onto the floor. “Well… if her water broke, she has to stay.” “Thank God,” I think. “Okay, I’m going to examine you.” Once again, fingers up there. My wife moans in pain. And then I realize she has a comb in each hand: during every contraction she’s squeezing them into her palms to relieve pain. I’m blown away. Where did she get the combs? “Three hours ago you said she was at 1 cm,” I remind her. “Well now she’s at eight,” the woman says, surprised. “Next time you need to come earlier,” she adds. I shoot her a murderous look. “What are you talking about? Your colleague sent us home less than three hours ago even though we begged her to let us stay,” I snap. My wife stands up, leans on the chair, and moans through another contraction. “For God’s sake, can you give her the epidural so she stops suffering?” I ask, remembering Anna wanted an epidural, but earlier they didn’t even give us the time of day. “I don’t know if there’s time…” “I just don’t understand why you sent us home before,” I say, frustrated. “Because before she wasn’t in labor,” the woman replies. “Yeah, sure. Fine. Okay. Whatever. Now what? Let’s go, please. Next step,” I beg. “Just stop it already!” my wife groans. She stands up, walks to the other table where she left her phone, and logs the contraction in the app. Like it’s the most important thing in the world, like not logging it would interrupt the next tick of the universe. And boom: right there, leaning on the table, more water mixed with blood spills onto the floor. Finally the woman stands up and picks up a phone. “Send one. And she wants an epidural no matter what,” she says. [6:20 AM] The orderly comes with the wheelchair. “Ahhh, I can’t, I really can’t sit,” my wife groans. But she does. Or tries. “Aaah, it’s coming out! I feel like it’s coming out!” my wife screams. And she grabs herself down there with both hands, like she’s trying to push it back in. I’m in shock, moving like a robot toward her, not wanting to look down there. We get her into the chair. I grab the phone from the table, the suitcase, coats, and even the combs (I don’t remember, but I must have) and we go flying down the hall. The orderly, my wife in the wheelchair, and me carrying all the crap. Full speed down the corridor. We pass the “Box” where they dismissed us four hours earlier, it’s empty, no sergeant, no nothing. We keep going, my wife moans with every contraction, but still not screaming, total control… but I’ve never seen her like this. We go through a door with a security code and… [6:25 AM] And finally, the Golden Doors of the Delivery Room open before us! Trumpets. Little angels on harps. We’re in! Can’t believe it!!! We enter a room that’s all ours. Almost immediately a midwife shows up (or is it ‘midhusband’? It’s a guy, Manu) and a woman (nurse?). “Hi. Come on, up on the bed, we’re going to check you,” the midwife says. He radiates incredible vibes: friendliness, confidence, calm. Such a relief. He almost manages to calm me down, but I am not in a calmable state. My wife, even less. (Aside: this midwife is an absolute machine, mental note: send him a ham.) Anna moans and tries to get onto the bed. It’s hard even with help (and she’s thin). It hurts so much she doesn’t even know how to position herself, so she gets on all fours first. Meanwhile, the midwife and nurse try to strap on a belt with a sensor to find the baby’s heartbeat. No luck. Nothing shows up on the screen. Another moan. Finally Anna manages to sit and get into the “movie position,” you know, legs open. Childbirth is so not glamorous. And then a terrifying moment: they can’t find the baby’s heartbeat. Still nothing on the screen. “It’s coming in r**ally b**d,” the nurse says. I don’t fully understand, but I freeze. What’s coming in bad? The midwife shakes his head, adjusts the belt again, and finally… there it is. Alisa’s heartbeat. Fluttering like a hummingbird. “Is everything okay?” I manage to ask, terrified. “Everything is fine,” the midwife says, totally calm. “Okay, Dad: stand right here, next to Mom.” He points to the head of the bed next to Anna, and that’s where I plant myself. And then: “My combs! Where are my combs?!” my wife blurts out. “What?” the nurse says. “There! They’re right there on the chair,” I say, pointing to where I apparently left them. 👇👇👇

@ChefGruel Love this! I made my 110th pizza of the year this week with a recipe almost identical to yours. Takes a little practice, but everyone can get great results right out of their oven at home

Lots of people asking for a pizzza dough recipe, so I thught I would share the story of Big Parm and share our award winning recipe. We opened a NJ style pizza shop in Southern California, served dollar slices, stayed open during COVID, fed veterans and families for free, and turned it into a charity kitchen. Closed when the lease ended in 2024 but the legacy can live on with this recipe: open.substack.com/pub/andrewgrue…

@SeedOilDsrspctr Originally called a Williamonaire. But saying it took too long, so we shortened it to Billionaire. Or, as you correctly noted, a Brazillionaire if from Brazil

She left a millionaire for a brazillionaire

@akirathedon You're very welcome! Hope you and the family have a very Merry Christmas 🎅

@_FordR Thank you Randall Ford!

In my Mum's lil cottage in the Welsh countryside listening to this for the first time since I made it Making it was a very hard and intense experience Separated from that experience, and with hindsight, it's quite astonishing The record really is a thing of rare beauty and wonder Absolute masterpiece Good work Me A Month Ago, proud of you 🥰

@javilopen Crazy. But also so funny that the CEO was just hanging out, knees locked, completely flat footed. I think he knew exactly what he was doing with this clip

Humanoid arms race just escalated → we reached the point where a robot kicks its own CEO on camera. Chinese company EngineAI let its new T800 send a front kick into the chest of founder Zhao Tongyang, who was wearing a padded suit, then calmly pose while he flies backward. The clip is everywhere. Why? Earlier videos of the T800 smashing doors and doing flying kicks looked so unreal that people yelled CGI. EngineAI answered with behind the scenes footage and this very physical demo, shot from several angles, to prove the hardware is real. Specs flex: • Full size, about 1.7 meters tall and 75 kilograms • Around 30 body joints plus dexterous hands with 7 joints each • Solid state battery and active cooling for several hours of intense motion • Multi sensor vision stack with LiDAR and stereo cameras and a heavy Nvidia compute module On paper this is one of the most aggressive humanoids right now. Combat tournament on December 24, factory work, logistics, maybe even service roles → all on the roadmap. But today the main story is a robot kicking the boss for marketing 😂. Humanoids keep getting stronger, the brains and real use cases still need to catch up. Will you allow a robot to kick your a**?