...where I have root and the fare is liberally seasoned with pith and vinegar.
| The Digital Hausfrau ...where I have root and the fare is liberally seasoned with pith and vinegar. |
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It's been raining here for days. Good for the flowers, bad for my walking.
Have I ever mentioned that I love getting late presents? See, while it's great to get, you know, birthday presents on your birthday and Chanukah presents in December, it's that much better to get a present when you don't expect one. To that end, although not a present, one of you should be watching her mailbox. Think better late than never. Debt paid.
I hate my health insurance company.
I broke two nails int he past 24 hours and now have to cut the other 8.
Lots of fun on the calendar this monrth...new friends for dinner, new friends out for dinner sevearl times (once to the yummy sushi place!), trip to the nursery with Karen, and a visit from Sam, which is sure to include some fairly heavy drinking.
Weird story: An old friend of Andrew's called this week. Andrew was inthe basement, and I answered the phone. It was the first time I'd spoken with this friend in about 2 years. Somehow, the conversation turned political very qucikly and, next thing I knew, he was ranting his conservative rant at me, spewing about Muslims, something to the effect of "those people don't value human life." I tired to explain that mine were the politics of compassion, that I am less interested in powerful extremists of any flavor than I am in making sure that mothers all over the world, who are exactly the same as I am, do not have to worry about getting gang raped while going to the stream to get clean water to keep their babies from dying of dysentery. He told me that's because I haven't studied Islam the way that he has, and then he called me ignorant. Ignorant. Hello, two years later, and, by the way, you're ignorant. I told him to hold on, that I was sure Andrew would be thrilled to speak with him.
My car had no gas in it today. None. Yellow light on all the time. Gauge parallel to the road. $50.29. Do you think that, given gas prices, I should give the cleaning lady a small raise? Seems that it's pretty tough for her to have to buy gas drive all over the county to clean other people's houses. Hang on, baby, November's coming.
What about Duke? What a mess that case is going to be. And, for once, I have no gut feeling. Someone is telling a whopper of a lie here but, unlike in many recent notorious cases, it's not really obvious to me who that is.
And now, I'm off to Bed, Bath & Beyond, Staples, Walgreens, the mall, dinner, and a Girl Scout parents' meeting.
Later, dudes.
For quite some time, like years, I've dealt with, well, I can't even tell you what I've dealt with. Let's just call it The Embarassing Symptom, or TES for short. When I went to the naturopath about my foot cramps, i mentioned TES, and his eyes kind of lit up, like he'd just won the Quack Jackpot. It's some kind of excess of Ying or deficiency in Yang or something. He recommened a $250 blood test, not covered by insurance at all, to determine its cause. I bit.
I put off going in for the results for better than a month, mostly because he'd expressed suspicion that the culprit was a sensitivity to dairy, which would mean no cream in my morning coffee for three months. But, finally, today, I went.
The test showed extreme sensitivity to Flaxseed oil (my morning cereal?) and MSG (not too hard to avoid, as I don't eat too much processed food. It also showed moderate sensitivity to apples, which I can trade for pears or oranges (They are not quite as portable, but I'll live:; some chemical found in glue and nail polish (I'll do my best, but, like, come one...I'm hardly skipping pedicures all summer, and I'm not eating the polish either way); egg whites (ok if they're baked -- phew!! -- just not scrambled or is, say, creme anglaise); FD&C Blue Dye #2 (ok, skip the blue m&m's. whatever); and, get this, red grapes in all forms, including the fermented one!
I need to find out which white wines are made from green grapes. Anyone know??
This. Is. Important.
My morning coffee, much to my relief, has remained sacrosanct. Really, anything else I can survive.
I went to the library to donate blood today. I thought it's, you know, one of those things a person should do. But I'm kind of scared of the whole thing because, when I was 19, I went to donate blood with Alan and Dave, and the phlebotomist pierced my vein and left me with a 5-inch navy blue hematoma that lasted for weeks.
I got there, and they gave me a whole bunch of stuff to read, and it turns out that I am forever ineligible to donate blood because, when I was 26 and had mono, I also had hepatitis and, apparently, that puts you on the DQ list for life.
So, on one hand, I would have liked to help. On the other hand, I am kind of relieved at being able to cross "donate blood" off of my list of Things to Feel Bad for Not Doing.
Surprisingly, the doorbell rang at about 7:20 last night. Before we even knew who it was, over the protestations of her parents, Emily jumped up and opened the door. You'll never guess who was there.
As Andrew explained to Emily that it is completely inappropraite for an eight year old to open the door to strangers while her parents are yelling "No! No! No!," I spoke to the pair of very White young men, in their very black overcoats, standing on my stoop.
"Gentlemen," I said, I have a long history with Mormon missionaries and, while I wish you luck, and I know that you are far from home and not talking to your mamas, I cannot invite you in. We're just finishing dinner, and I'm cutting some cookies right now. If you'd like a snack, I'm happy to give you one but, other than that, I have to send you on your way."
Elder Whatever (Elder! That cracks me up!!) said that he didn't need a snack, that he hoped that my history was a good one, and then, before they left, asked if there was anything that they could do to help our family.
That was the point when the little devil on my shoulder said, "Ask them to come back tomorrow to clean up the entire winter's worth of dog shit now uncovered by the thaw and stinking up the backyard."
But I didn't.
(Thanks to Alan for the hilarious image, by the way. It's from postsecret, which is totally worth a look.)
Ok, so I don't have a coterie of friends at my elbow like Carrie Bradshaw. But, this week at least, I'll have something better.
I'm off to Florida in the morning (at 5 am....I don't know what I was thinking!) for a week in the sun with my mom and sister. Other grandparents, eager to see the kids, will be having them for overnight visits (overnight! the luxury!), and we will be taking our newly-slimmed asses for hours and hours of shopping pleasure. We'll eat lobster, and generally have ourselves a wild rumous.
Except for the part about actually, you know, spending three hours with my kids on a plane, I can't wait.
The magpie picture is courtesy of my sister who took this on her recent trip to Australia.
Yesterday afternoon, I was driving back from the coffee shop in the tiny town a little way away. On my left was the river; on the right, a row of houses. Traffic coming toward me had stopped, and I realized that cars were allowing pedestrians to cross the road. I stopped, too.
It was an elderly couple, maybe 75 years old or so. They were dressed exactly alike in black shoes, bright red pants and robin's egg blue coats. Their gaits were alike, and their hair was the same color white.
Then I realized it wasn't a couple at all. It was two men. Brothers. Twins. Elderly twins, dressed identically, making their way across the street like a pair of ducklings, turning up their driveway and going home after their afternoon walk by the river.
Twins can be some weird shit, man.
Darling! It's been forever!
I know. I suck. I've been busy! I've been shoving food in my face, making a road trip to Jersey and NYC, and generally entertaining children for the past week, as it's school vacation. I'll be back to make a real entry in the next few days, but in the meanwhile...
Same rules as ever. You get your entry to me via the link above before the Oscars telecast on Sunday March 5. No entries will be counted after the show begins. Winner gets a batch of cookies of his or her choice. Staying dormant for so long has been part of my brilliant strategy to reduce the number of entries, you see...now we're down to only the most dedicated of readers! No cookies for strangers this year! And, in an effort to reduce the number of winners, I've included every single category on the form.
Good luck!
Karen asked how the corn thing came out, so to speak. Well, since she asked...
I ate the corn, and I waited, dutifully recording every, um, digestive event. And no corn. But then, about 20 hours later, came a digestive event that I was unable to inspect. It sank too far. (She asked!)
I tried again. And 25 hours later, the same thing.
So I figured that the corn was weighing everything down and went back to the naturopath who agreed that those were the corn poops and thinks that I have a very fast transit time and wants me to get tested for food sensitivities.
The thing is, I feel good since I've started on his vitamins and all, but this does seem a bit like a never-ending money pit. We'll see how far it goes.
I know it's been forever! I'm sorry! Mea culpa and all that. We went to Florida and had a great time. I did yoga or pilates every day, and we loved our three days in a hotel on the beach. I ate sushi and went to movies, and it was all very fabulous.
Until the morning we were supposed to go home. Andrew woke up with terrible pains, and we had to go to the ER, and he was in the hospital until the next night, and we didn't leave until two days later, and they never really figured out what it was. That all sucked. I did, however, get to see what happens to a person when the nurse puts a hit of dilaudid directly into his IV, and that was so amusing as to make the whole this worthwhile.
This event has led us both to make some efforts toward lifestyle change. For Andrew, this means less junk food, more rest and some exercise. For me, it means a second yoga class each week, recommitting to my now very boring diet, and contemplating a trip to a naturopath to find out what's behind the foot cramps that have been plaguing me for months.
I asked friends about this. Those who had never been to a naturopath pretty much called it quackery, and those who had actually been pretty much said that it was the best thing they'd ever done, so I figured I'd check it out.
I filled out my pages and pages of questionnaires and showed up bearing my bottles of vitamins, pills, etc. He asked a lot of questions. He felt my pulse in some funky "Chinese" way that ostensibly clues him in to the workings of my organs. He probed my feet. He asked more questions and wrote stuff down. He had me lie down so he could listen to my belly. And then came the questions.
Did you eat lunch yet?
What did you have?
Have you had a bowel movement today?
How long was it?
Did it sink or float?
Very personal questions, indeed! The guy is like my long-dead Euorpean grandmother with his interest in the workings of my gut! I was embarassed and, let me tell you, I don't embarrass easily.
So, ultimately, we agree that I will change multi-vitamins, start taking some magnesium to address what he believes to be a mineral imbalance that is causing the cramps, and do some homework. I have to write down everything that crosses my lips for a week (no big, since I do most of it for Weight Watchers, anyway), and do a Bowel Transit Test.
A what? A Bowel Transit Test. A Test to see how long it takes food to move through my system. Want to know the first step?
Oh, Karen and David are going to love this!
Eat corn.
I'll let you know how it all comes out.
You can take the Girl out of the City but, as we all know, you can't take the City out of the Girl. This must explain my unshakable belief, after all those years of tipping, that goodwill at the holidays comes back to me all year long. Everyone, and I mean everyone, gets schmeared at the holidays. The list includes gifts for not only teachers, but teachers' aides, dance instructors, speech therapists, and anyone else who has regular contact with my kids; the mail carrier; the librarians; the yoga instructor; the Weight Watchers leader; the cleaning lady; and the garbage people.
Gifts range from small Starbucks cards to cash, candles, fuzzy socks, and cookies, but no one gets left out. I even have a couple of extra thingamabobs just in case.
Come on over...I'll give you a present!
I'm pretty sure that, as I write this, our friend Cori is in a hospital somewhere in New York, serving eviction papers to a little person who has been far to reluctant to join our party. I'm dying for news, and logging in to echo compulsively, but nothing yet. I feel biblical, like my pal is in the birthing tent, and all I can do is wait.
Sending good thoughts your way, Cori, and waiting for little Aragorn or Amidala to show up.
As long as we're on the topic of the British Isles, let's talk about Riverdance. Another embarassing confession, but here it is: I've actually seen Riverdance.
It was 1998 or so. Emily was young. My grandma came to New York to visit, and I wanted to take her out for a full-blown Manhattan Adventure. I made reservations at Union Square Cafe and, against my better judgement, bought tickets to Riverdance. At full retail.
It would have been fine but, the night before Grandma got to town, my very first -- and very worst -- ever anxiety attack broke open. I was shaking; I couldn't sleep; I was puking. I hardly knew what it was, only that I very much wanted it to stop. But it didn't. It went on for two days until I had the sense to call a doctor for some meds and a shrink for some help.
Our Riverdance tickets were for the evening of the second day. By this time, I'd convinced Grandma that I had a stomach flu, so we'd cancelled our dinner reservations, which meant more to me than to her, anyway, but those tickets were use-or-lose. So we went.
It was just what you think it was...lots of big-haired tourists wearing jeans to the theater, topped with sweatshirts that said things like HO! HO! HO! on them. I was horrified. Then the show began. A booming voice, the Celtic God, I suppose, began narrating, telling us about the history of Ireland. Not, you know, actual history, more like babble and drivel and mythological crap about people crawling from the sea and falling in love. And for two hours, punctuated by the booming voice of the Celtic God, boys, girls, and Michael Flatley danced. Oh, how they danced! They danced faster and faster, but only ever from the waist down, more and more of them, in their tap heels, on a miked stage.
The racket of it all was deafening. And I was barely on the other side of the anxiety attack. That I didn't throw myself over the mezzanine, flinging myself to the stage in a desperate plea for mercy, is nothing so much as it is a testament to my inner strenght. I sat through the whole show grinding my teeth and cripping my chair, dying, waiting for it all to be over.
Michael Flatley was on the Today Show this morning. He and his troupe were dressed like airling pilots, complete with medals and aviator glasses, tapping and shouting something about "WORLD TRADE!". For so many reasons, I felt a little queasy just watching.
I don't know where I've been, really. Everywhere. Nowhere. Folding the laundry. Going to Weight Watchers. Taking a really hard yoga class.
Andrew's computer crashed. The hard drive croaked. We had to send it out for data recovery. Then I had to learn how to rebuild a Windows system from scratch...reinstalling the system, drivers, software, and data. Twice. Then he got a virus. My ultimate sentiment on this whole experience? Come on, kids, you can guess. I know you can. Ready? Here it is: Holy mother of god, the apple OS is so totally superior to that piece of crap that it is a complete fucking mystery to me why Windows has the dominant market share. Ok. Rant over.
Nothing new on my mind, politically. Same old. Boo on Harriet Miers. Hey, George, I'd like to be a brain surgeon. My qualifications? Well, I own a brain and I've been to doctor's appointments. Will those do?
Shlomit got a new job. She's now a big rich corporate whore. Go, Shlomit!
Alan has been doing The Sound of Music in his community. Despite his uncanny resemblance to Rolf the Telegram Nazi, he's playing Captain von Trapp, and bringing down the house with his emotional rendition of Edelweiss. Sadly, I haven't been able to go see it. Boo on Friday afternoon dance class and Sunday School.
Jonah has toilet trained himself! Literally, in one week, we went from diapers 24/7 to underpants all day long. It's so totally excellent.
Here's a survey question: is it gross to reuse a pull up that hasn't been peed in? Do I need a fresh one every single night? Those things cost, you know!
The big diet...down seven and a half pounds. But I think they have fat scales there. I weigh less at home. I think that the scales should be in little phone booths with privacy-promoting black glass, like gay bars have. Then I could strip, which seems only fair. As it is, I refuse to eat or drink on Tuesdays until I weigh in. I'm like a wrestler. Only, yesterday I had to, because it felt like my blood sugar was way too low and I thought I was going to faint or puke or something, right htere in the kitchen. So I had an orange and a granola bar, and I'm sure they added a pound and a half to my total.
More chicken for dinner tonight.
But the holiday baking has begun!! Macaroon brownies in the oven right now.
I'll try to be here more this week.
Love and kisses.
Some dates of note:
Twelve years ago yesterday, I was married in a lavish affair in New York City. Incredibly, here we are, still together, two kids and a dog and a minivan and a house in the suburbs. On one hand, it's not how I thought my life would go; on the other hand, it's exactly how I thought my life would go. Funny that way. Here's something good, though...out of one sister, one sister-in-law, and four friends who stood up for me, I still talk to five at least a couple of times a month. And the sixth? She's still around, just not so much.
Ahoy, mateys! Today is Talk Like A Pirate Day! So, I ask, What's your pirate name? I am Captain Jenny Kidd.
Even though there's no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you're the one in charge. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!It's also Picture Day at Jonah's preschool. This did not, however, keep me from sending him in wearing his paint-stained camping shirt. I have to drop off something clean on my way to the dentist, but I'm totally sure he'll refuse to change.
Weight Watchers continues. So far, so good. But I'm on, you know, the adrenaline high of something new. The compulsiveness of it all appeals to me. As does the ability to eat whatever I want, if only in the most minute of quantities. Exercise helps. I can earn more food! What a motivator! No one ever put it quite like that before. Exercise, Terry, and you can eat. Talk about the proverbial carrot on the stick. Only it's not a carrot. It's half and half in my coffee.
I've come up with my very own reward plan. Ten pounds and I get a new trinket from Me & Ro. Plus, all I have to do is suffer until Thanksgiving, and I can have a totally off-program day, and stuff all the starch, fat, and sugar I can grab into my happy mouth. Of course, the next day, it's back on the wagon. But if I can just make it to then...
In an effort to amuse you all, my adoring public, and to shift our focus only briefly from the topic of Homeland Despair, I offer you: The Great Treadmill Saga, or How Terry Humiliated Herself Before the Neighbor Men.
So, I mentioned a while back that I'm starting Weight Watchers, remember? My sister, who has been going for three months, has lost 17 pounds, and I will be eight different kinds of goddamned if she's buying clothes in a size 6 and I am a big fat fucking cow who has to loosen her jeans after dinner not. I start meetings next week, as, Praise Jesus and Pass the Mashed Potatoes, Jonah starts school tomorrow.
Well, I figured that, in addition to dieting, you know, maybe some exercise, Sarah says so, blah, blah. I found a nice treadmill on sale in the local pennysaver, and I paid for it two weeks ago. When I looked at it, the man warned me about electrical issues. Don't plug it into a GFI outlet he said. It kept tripping when I did, and a guy came out to look at it, and he said the outlet was the problem, and we ran an extension to another outlet, and it was fine. I did my best to look all smart and like I knew what the fuck he was talking about (beyond knowing a GFI switch from a non-GFI switch), tried it out, paid careful attention when he showed me the features like the incline and the dead man's switch (plot point! plot point!!) and wrote him a check.
Fast forward to Sunday. Andrew and Bob go to pick up this thing, which weighs about 700 pounds, get it from the man's basement and haul it up the stairs to my office. I'm so excited! I plug it in and whammo! It trips. Not the circuit breaker, but the thing's internal switch. It won't turn on. It immediately flips to off. Grr. Rassa frassa goddam fucking shit wiring. Nothing's goddamn fucking easy. Fuck. I call the man, who says it was just serviced, and here's who to call to ask questions. I call Julie's husband Paul, who knows about electric stuff. I talk to Kurt, the other neighbor, the plumber-cum-electrician, who knows about all kinds of stuff. You see, the manual suggests a 20-amp circuit breaker, and mine are all 15. The internet even suggests 20-amp! The internet says a 15-amp breaker might not work! And the internet knows everything! Oh, no. Now the treadmill was going to be a very expensive project, indeed! And I'd already purchased a vcr/dvd player for my "home gym." This is not the plan I'd had in mind at all I thought, as I left messages for electricians to get quotes.
Then, yesterday, after bringing Jonah home from the Nature Center, where he fell and hit his head on a rock and got a goose egg that made it look like someone should call DFS on me, just to be sure, I found Kurt and Bob talking in the driveway, pondering my strange electrical situation. We talked. I sounded all butch, talking about GFI and amps and draw and shit.
Finally, they said they'd come over and look. We went int he basement. They peered at my circuit breaker boxes. We went upstairs. They took the cover off the motor on the treadmill. We looked and talked and looked and talked, and then Kurt put the deadman's switch where it actually belonged and plugged the treadmill in and turned it on, and voila!
Problem: user error.
The worst part about all of this is not that I mind having made the mistake...it's that it's a total RTFM mistake, and these guys already think I'm a pretty flaky broad, WHICH I AM NOT, and I hate having done something so grandly stupid for them to see. Don't you just hate when, despite your best efforts, you just go right ahead and confirm someone's unfounded negative perception of you?
Oh, well. I didn't care about their perceptions when I was plodding along on the treadmill at 6:15 this morning. I can tell you that.
I have joined the world of podcast listeners! Well, I will tomorrow morning when I listen to some All Things Considered clips while I walk. What other fun podcasts am I missing? Recommendations are welcome!
Wasn't the last episode of Entourage disappointing? Nowhere near as good as the Jerry Maguire ep that came before it. But, oh, how I love Jeremy Piven! He's my favorite part, like Susie on Curb Your Enthusiasm, which will be back on the 25th, for those of us who pay for cable instead of waiting a year to see it on dvd after everyone else is so done talking about it. (hmmm...I wonder who she means?)
I stopped in at Yankee Candle yesterday (with Jonah -- note to self: don't do that again). I don't go often, but once you get over the initial shock of the stench of the place, it's ok. I just get the votives to use in the kitchen. And they send me coupons! It's like Bed, Bath & Beyond...never go without a coupon!
Anyway, if anyone's interested, they're having a good deal. Register here and they'll send you a coupon for $10 off a $25 purchase and add you to the mailing list for future specials. Use store number 033.
Look...it's better than reeling from the stink of salmon when you get your coffee the next morning.
My most trusted advisors have suggested that I take down the post that was here. We've all seen it by now, anyway.
More later, hopefully.
Have we ever talked about the scene on Sex and the City, after Miranda has committed to buying the house in Brooklyn, but before she goes, where the girls are out for dinner at Ruby Foo or some such, and they are explaining to her that she will never see them again becasue she's moving to -- gasp! -- Brooklyn, and she says "What's the big deal about Manhattan? Why does everyone think that Manhattan is so great?"
The first time I watched it, before Carrie'd had the chance to get her line out, I said it for her: Because it is.
God, I love New York.
We got in on Friday and got a great parking spot right across Fith Avenue from the zoo. The kids had a terrific time, despite the massive crowds and high temperatures. Jonah about lost his mind at the polar bear exhibit. From there to the carousel for the first, but not the last, ride of the weekend. Jonah and I shared a pony.
We dropped Emily off at my in-laws', and took Jonah off to the apartment of the other in-laws, who summer in the Berkshires, conveniently leving their apartment empty for us to mooch. The babysitter arrived, and we hailed a taxi for the traffic-free ride down to the restaurant.
All praise Pam! Her recommendation of Bianca was dead on. We met Shlomit and Mike -- she cracks me right up, that girl...remind me to tell you the story about the stink some time -- and had a delicious and unhurried meal, free of hissy fits, sippy cups, french fries, or crayons on the table. The food was terrific, the service was fine, the wine cheap, and the front completely open to allow the cooling evening air to come in. No dessert for us, though. Not there, at least. Nope. I'll take half a pound of pignoli cookies from Veniero's, thanks.
Then, The Aristocrats! What to tell you without ruining the fun? I'll leave it at this: it was so goddamnmotherfucking funny and so goddamnmotherfucking smart. But. You have to go into it knowing whether or not it's for you. If you're not sure, go see Must Love Dogs. And take my mother.
The next morning, we picked up some lobster salad from Sable's -- Julie called me mean names when I told her that, but its the best stuff in the world and, if you'd ever had it and then found out that your best friend had had some at the very moment that you were eating, like, a bowl of oatmeal, you'd call her names too, so I don't hold it against her -- and headed over to my in-laws' to have breakfast and visit. Back to the zoo for Jonah and Andrew and Marty and to the paint-your-own pottery place for me and Emily and Dionne.
And then, next thing we knew, home again. Or maybe I was home again for those couple of days. Either way. It's confusing.
Tragedy was narrowly averted this weekend. When we got to the apartment and I was dressing for dinner, I couldn't find my makeup brushes. No big, you say? Screw you, I say!! My makeup brushes are expensive, and replacing them would have cost a couple of hundred dollars at a minimum. And, no, Ic an't do without them. I took everything out of the cuitcase, and couldn't find them all weekend. I had to go see Shlomit wearing eyebrows that I'd applied with a q-tip! The horror! Eventually, I figured that they had fallen out of the suitcase when I'd opened it on the street to get Emily's stuff for the weekend, and I resigned myself to spending the money. It was only after we got home that I found them, wedged into the interior of the suitcase, somewhere between the lining and the inner frame.
The moral of the story? I don't know. But I do know this: If you're putting your makeup on with q-tips, spend some cash and buy some decent brushes. You won't be sorry.
I had the strangest experience last night. I went out with Karen and Tina (That's not the strange part -- that's the great part. I love hanging out with those guys. They crack me up, and it was great fun.) to see Must Love Dogs. This is the first time in I don' t know how long, maybe ever, that I've seen a movie like that in the theater, and, let me tell you, that was the strange part.
A movie like that?
You know...a movie intended for a female audience. An older female audience. A chick flick for soup hens.
The strangeness began as the theater filled and Karen said, "You think there are any men in here?" I looked around and damn if she wasn't right. The audience was about 90% female, with a few really older men sprinkled throughout, no doubt part of couples whose children have left the nest and who have time for weekly movies and who will just go see anything. Karen tried to get one of them to give her some of his candy but either he was ignoring her or his hearing aid was turned off.
The trailers began. I think there were four, but I forget one. What I do remember is one trailer for In Her Shoes, starring Cameron Diaz, Toni Collette, and Shirley MacLaine playing Aurora Greenway, yet again. Oddly, Curtis Hanson directs. Even more oddly, although I didn't read this book, I did read Jennifer Weiner's first book, and when I did, I imagined that the protagonist was more or less Jennifer Weiner on paper, and I don't know what Jennifer Weiner loks like, but I don't imagine it's a lot like Cameron Diaz. But maybe the sister is the Jennifer Weiner part in this one. Anyway.
Then there were two trailers for animated children's movies, which pretty much blew me away. Clearly, the message there was "Not only do we have great movies coming for you to see, Minivan Mom, but for you to take your kid to, also!" That kind of bummed me out, frankly. I was out without my kids, and the last thing I wanted to contemplate was my next animated experience.
Then, the movie. Girl loses first boy and gets her heart broken. Girl gets dirty and wears pajamas a lot, but still looks like Diane Lane. Helpful family members help girl find new boy. Girl meets boy. Girl loses boy. Girl re-meets boy. Girl likes boy. Girl meets Bad Boy. Girl finds boy again. Girl chooses Bad Boy. Girl loses boy. Bad Boy is a Mistake. Girl is sad. Boy is more sad. Girl starts wearing pajamas again but somehow continues to look like Diane Lane. Girl realizes that boy is The One. Girl dramatically finds boy once and for all. The end.
My mother's going to love it.
I'm off the New York this morning to take the kids to the zoo. Out for dinner tonight with Shlomit and Mike, and to see The Aristocrats. I couldn't like the company or the food any better than last night's, but I'm holding out hope for the movie.
It's so rare that my personal fashion sense (jeans, black t-shirt, boots) and actual, you know, fashion intersect, and I'm always so pleased when they do. This year's big Western trend is not so much for me...I gave away my bloved and worn-out Justins years agoand I can't really see donning cowboy boots at my age, anyway.
These beauties, however, are another story entirely. I almost ordered the tan, but I went with the black in the end. It matches my leather jacket and the bag I just bought for fall. I full expect to wear these into the ground, and for many years after the trend is over.
We're off tto the City this weekend. Ostensibly, it's for some quality time with the kids at the Central Park Zoo, but that's really just the cover story. We're having dinner with Shlomit and Mike on Saturday night, and going to see The Aristocrats.
If anyone has a thought about someplace reasonably priced for dinner in the Union Square/East Village area, let me know. But bear in mind that Shlomit won't eat Indian (her big culinary character flaw) and I don't eat suchi (mine).
Oh, for the goddamn love of god.
Can someone please tell me what is up with people who have nothing better to do with their time than google themselves and then yell at me? And, can someone please tell me what is up with threatening legal action as your first line of defense in asking someone to do you a favor, like, say, to remove your name from a website, especially when that person has said nice things about you?
And....ooooh...I'm so scared by the use of big words like "liable" [sic] and "slanderous," which, for the record, refers to something someone says not something someone writes. It's easy to remember, kids: S for Say and S for Slander.
Further, for something to be libelous or slanderous in these good old United States of America, it has to be false. Everything I said about the person in question, whose whole name I won't post here, but who saw fit to use it in his comment when threatening to "seak [sic] legal representation," was totally and completely true.
Finally, I especially liked "Failure to abide with this directive..." Can a person even abide with something? Don't you have to abide by something? Either way, there is only one possible response to a threat like that one: You are so not the boss of me.
As. If.
Have I ever told you about our family motto? If we had a crest, I'd have it translated into Latin and put it on there. It's simple: We are not the assholes. Let me clarify. I never base my decision about what to do in any given situation based on what another person -- usually an asshole -- would do given a similar set of circumstances.
For example, suppose, hypothetically, that my first boyfriend shows up out of the blue after twenty-five years. Then suppose that, rather than sending me a nice note -- which even Blair did! -- saying how much he enjoyed reading my blog and seeing the pictures of my kids and hoping that life had also been good to me and, finally, asking me to please edit a post that included his name, he just jumps right to baseless and foolish threats of expensive legal action that he would never follow through with.
So, then, I have a choice to make. I can ignore him, but we all know that, of the options, that's the last one I would ever pick. I can explain to him that, unless I woke up this morning in Moscow, my right to free speech is constitutionally protected and that, on my blog, I will say whatever the fucking fuck I please, just so long as it's true, which, as I explained up there, it was, and I can then tell him that what he did was both unnecessary and rude, and go on to suggest that he perform an anatomically impossible act of auto-eroticism.
Or, you know, I can just edit the stupid post. Which I did. But not because I really gave one moment's credence to his stupid little rant. Just because I don't want him around here again.
So, if you've come back to check, now you know. You've been edited out, even if google hasn't caught up with me yet. Check the original post if you want to. Whatever. Just keep clicking.
I am so stupid. I have three bills that have to be paid, by check, not electronically, RIGHT NOW, and guess how many checks I have left? One! In the whole house. Somehow, I never reordered when I started the last book, so it's off to the bank to beg for counter checks.
I've been teaching cooking all week. It's decent money but, more than that, it's been fun. We've done cookies, fondue, and pies, crisps, and cobblers so far. Today is lots and lots of noodles -- basil pesto, sun-dried tomato pesto, sesame noodles, raw tomato sauce, and chow mein noodle cookies for dessert. Now, if I could just figure out how I'm going to keep 12 (12!) kids engaged while we do this for two hours...
Andrew and I are off to Boston for the weekend tomorrow. My mom and sister are so excellent. They're staying with the kids so we can go shack up for a couple of days. As we haven't done this since last summer when my mom kept the kids so we could go to Boston, we are mighty grateful.
I started a new book...it's a collection of early short stories from the guy who wrote Life of Pi. I haven't updated my sidebar in forever, I know, but it's pretty good so far. If I like it, I'll put up a link.
Oh, here's something...I've been listening a lot to the new album by a woman named Lizz Wright. I first heard about it on NPR, and I love it. Allegedly, it's jazz of some sort, but not really. It's just quiet and beautiful and mellow. They're pushing it at Barnes and Noble,l so you can check it out there before you buy, if you want.
My poor mom. She came to visit and spend time with us at the beginning of the week, only this is the week that Jonah has camp in the morning (and I drive carpool!), Emily has camp in the afternoon, and I teach. We've spent a lot of time in the car. She's a good sport, my mom.
See you all Monday or so, relaxed, refreshed, and knackered.
At the moment, I'm feeling lame and provincial and out of the loop. I don't know the joke about The Aristocrats. I left a message for an old friend, with whom we've been out of touch for many years, in the hope that he will call, catch up, and amuse me for a bit.
Does everyone else know the world's funniest dirty joke? I'm tempted to just google it, but I know that reading it on the screen just isn't going to be funny.
I often use this space to crack wise about Andrew because, well, I use this space to crack wise about so many things. But you know, or you should, that I love him and that I married him because he is a totally decent guy.
One of favorite things to love about Andrew is that he knows that, while I am a smart person and I am interested in lots of different things, I kind of tend toward shallow and flighty, and I don't like periodicals with too many words and too few pictures or exclamation points. Think Marie Claire and People, not Harper's and The Nation. A former journalist who has been known to enjoy three different newspapers over a turkey triple decker with fries and a Diet Coke, (all writing about THE SAME BASKETBALL GAME -- it's not as if the outcome is different in the Post -- I just don't get it), he is fairly mystified by my tragic flaw.
But! Andrew loves me! And, when he comes across something that I would like -- a Sports Illustrated article about Scrabble competitions, a new Adam Gopnick piece in the New Yorker, or this article (registration required) in the Times, he makes sure I read it. It's like having my very own clipping service.
If you're not paying to get HBO (Lisa, this means you) and watch Entourage, you're missing out on all the fun.
A funny story and another request for your input, please...
Yesterday, I asked Andrew to please stop at the grocery store and get some turkey for sandwiches. We were out, and I have to pack lunches for Emily while she's in camp. Those of you who recall the great produce debacle when he proudly handed me a bunch of scallions and proclaimed that he had procured the cilantro, as requested, will know that Andrew is not much of a grocery shopper. He doesn't spend much time at the old Big Y and, when he does go, hilarity inevitably ensues.
So, I'm doing something when he gets home from the store, but he tells me that he has very cleverly obtained two packages of turkey, and "a big container of cole slaw," since he likes some with his sandwich. I assumed that he meant the tall container of stuff from the deli. You know which one I mean? You assumed that's what he meant, too, right? Nope. He bought a three pound prepackaged tub of cole slaw. It's as big as his head, and he has a big damn head. It's like something you'd send for a shiva dinner...a platter of tongue, some nice bulkie rolls, and this thing. And prepacked! Since when do we buy food that was made six weeks ago in Muncie?!? The best part is that, late last night, when he sat down for a snack with a fork and his bucket o'slaw, it was hermetically sealed, and he couldn't get in it. He tossed it back in the fridge in disgust. I'm going to have to take a plier (can I use the singular there, or is it like saying "pant?") and a screwdriver to it today, I'm sure.
Now, the question:
I'm working on a movie for girl scouts. It's going to be presented at a very large state-wide affair. Big props for me. The theme is "brilliant women." I'm going to open with a rapid-fire montage of brilliant women, and then cut to the slide show. So, who do you think of when you think of "brilliant women?" Alive, dead, short, tall, fat, thin. Politicians, scientists, musicians, courtesans, whatever. Bonus points if they're gay, disabled, or non-white.
Sorry to the echoids reading along; I know you've been asked already.
Thanks for the help, folks.
I'm back again, after another trip with the kids. I hadn't really meant to do these back to back road trips, but there were constraints to each that meant they had to happen exactly when they did. So, it was three days on the road, two days at home, and three days on the road again. Yikes! I still haven't finished the laundry.
This time, it was off to Taconic State Park, in Copake Falls, New York, to meet up with my friends Mike and Sue, and their daughter Sara. We rented cabins in the park, packed coolers full of food, and headed off for a few days in the woods. Remembering how Emily had felt a bit lonely, stranded in a no-man's land between the adults and the toddlers last week, we invited her friend Monica to join us. The girls were most thrilled to arrive in the cabin, see me claim the downstairs bedroom with Jonah, and tell them they could have the upstairs all to themselves. They found it very "teenager-y."
The big revelation to me about this trip was how much fun the kids had just hanging around our campsite. We had a big lawn and a stream running behind the cabins, and I'd brought a giant ball and a whole bunch of paint, and mostly they just wanted to collect rocks, invent games, run around, and paint each others' faces.
However, as that was not quite amusing enough for the adults, we did do a bit more, including a hike to nearby Bash Bish Falls (made extra-interesting to the kids by the fact that the path actually crossed the state border, a fact which is noted in big letters on a couple of signs) and a drive to Lake Taghkanic State Park for a swim. There were campfires each night, and s'mores ofr desserts.
More pix for the grandparents:
Goddamn motherfucking hell. Sometime between the checkout at Wal-Mart and loading my groceries at the Big Y, I seem to have lost my brand new fucking cell phone.
That said, I am having a very good week!
On Thursday, at the very second that school let out, I tossed the kids in the car and drove to visit Sharon, one of my very very oldest friends in the world, and her almost-three year old daughter Liza at Sharon's in-laws' home in Westport Point, Massachussetts. It's a darling little town with historic homes, an old inn, and a wharf with real live fishermen. We spent the next three and a half days going to the zoo and the playground, playing in the cold, cold surf, climbing on dunes, and chowing on lobster rolls and ice cream.
Note to anyone heading that way: the better of my two lobster rolls was not, in fact, in the fancy little sit down cafe in Tiverton, RI, but was at Handy Hill, a shack at the corner of Route 88 and Something Road. Check it out.
Have a peek at our fun:
Very irritating news from Jonah's school today...he's can't go on the days we'd planned, so now I can't put him in the other school on the off days, because they're not off days, which has me very irritated.
This is, however, mitigated, by the following hilarious bit of news:
A while ago, I was interviewed by a Reader's Digest writer for a report on personalized media -- do you customize your Yahoo page? Do you use a DVR? Do you have an ipod? Yes, yes, yes. And I told him about how I love taking my ipod to the grocery store...that it's all much more pleasant if I listen to music as I cruise up and down the aisles.
Well, today, I got a call from a Reader's Digest photographer (!!) who is going to come here (!!) next week (!!) to take pictures of me (!!) in the grocery store (!!) wearing my ipod (!!).
Isn't that going to be funny?
I'd better get a haircut, but I just don't know when!
Finally yesterday, a taste of the summer that is just around the bend. The sun was shining...hot, not just warm. Andrew, of course, put the air conditioner on, but I'll turn it off later this week while he's at school. It was hot during the day, but some fresh air would have been nice at night.
Andrew's school was having a fair yesterday morning, so we split up -- my father-in-law and sister-in-law are visiting -- and the men took Emily to the fair while Pam and I took Jonah and Pierre (the dog you wish you were) to breakfast and for a walk along the river. A quick trip to the bookstore, and we all met back up at home. Well, all except Marty and Emily, who went off on a magical mystery tour and came home hours later.
Pam and I were bored waiting for them to materialize, so we tossed Jonah in the car and headed off to the lake club. It was a very excellent and relaxed hour of reading, playing in the sand, and keeping an eye out to make sure that Jonah, who, despite having no idea whatsoever how to swim, has morphed into Aquaboy this summer, didn't drown.
Back home again for a quick shower and -- hooray -- happy hour, and let the drinking begin! I went to the liquor store earlier this week and bought several bottles of sauvignon blanc, my white wine of choice. Actually, my white wine of choice is red, but it's summer and Marty prefers white, and so. Anyway, I got a couple of bottles of the Cakebread that I love, but I wanted to do a test to see what else, at a lower price point, I might want to pour this summer. Pam preferred the Groth, but I liked the Charles Krug better...not as sharp and acidic. By the time we got to the Sterling, well, I don't really feel qualified to offer commentary on that one.
But what to eat with all that wine? Why, God's Perfect Summer Food, of course. What season is it? Wabbit Season? Why no, Silly! It's Lobster Season! I unceremoniously dispatched four 2 1/2 pounders to their demise in my big black pot. Pam and Andrew both don't touch the body, if you can believe it! Legs and tails only! Must be a Great Neck thing. Man, you don't want to see me eat a lobster. It's Scorched Earth when I'm done.
Happily, Tina's husband is away this weekend, and Pam and I had been invited over there for evening cocktails with her and Karen. In the afternoon, we stopped at the fancy chocolate store and brought some goodies with us and, amusingly, Tina had the same thought, because she put out cut up fruit and some kind of prefab chocolate dip that we all loved. It was so nice, out on the deck, just girls, enjoying the evening, drinking, and eating chocolate.
I love summer.
This (New York Times, registration required) is an amazing story of a woman who helped create Japan's constitution after WWII, and about how she is still fighting to protect some of the rights that she helped ensure for women.
It's really worth reading.
My friend Sarah emailed me yesterday to ask if I'm still blogging. The answer is a definite YES! But it's been so crazy here since I got back from Camporee...the diabetic dog getting his insulin adjusted and peeing non-stop in my house...Jonah stuff...an unexpected visit from my mother-in-law, and, last but way not least, a MAJOR computer crash following an attempted upgrade to Tiger. And, of course, it being the end of the school year, it's like Christmas all over again, with buying and wrapping presents, making the Brownie videos, and who knows what all else.
On my mind today? Mary Kay Latourneau. I happened to be watching Entertainment Tonight while I did dishes last night, having finished watching Ken get his ass definitively whipped in the Jeopardy tournament, and I could not believe what I was seeing. Footage of the happy couple's wedding reception, complete with white dress, goofy first dance, and the bride and groom smearing cake on each other's faces. Forget tossing the bouquet...I thought I was going to toss my cookies right there in my kitchen sink.
All I really have to say is this: how does it work that Roman Polanski fucks a thirteen year old and spends the rest of his life in exile, but Mary Kay Latourneau does it and ends up getting paid a million bucks?
More about last night's sweeps week tv viewing: Carrie? Feh. And, ok, it's mean, but...every time I look at that girl, I think to myself, well, she's cute and all, but it's like I can just see her inner Kirstie Alley struggling to get out and grab a box of Ding Dongs. Mark my words. She's not going to look like this for long.
And: Lost! It was goooooood! I love that show. If you haven't been watching, catch up over the summer. It's like a great cross between the X Files, Gilligan's Island, and Melrose Place. All the good stuff in one yummy prime time casserole.
I didn't watch Desperate Housewives this season. Should I bother adding something new? Soon enoough, it's going to conflict with the Sopranos, and that will be a problem, so what to do?
A strange influx of religion here lately...
First, I get a call from Shlomit. You'll never guess where she is...Salt Lake City! Is that a true friend or what? She didn't want to be in SLC and not share it with me! She asked what I was doing, and I told her folding more goddamn motherfucking laundry, and she said she was looking at the Great Mormon Temple or Tablernacle or Whatever! She denied that she was on her honeymoon, claimed business travel, but I am skeptical. She might be joining a large polygamous family, just to get some other bitch to fold some of her laundry.
I was interested to learn that, while Salt Lake City is, in fact, the Whitest place on Earth, it's not a dry town. Apparently, in the hotel lobby, you can get a cosmopolitan that will knock your socks off. Go figure...Jerri, in Kentucky, can't buy a bottle of hooch, but Shlomit, on her sojourn in the Land of Joseph Smith, can get as rip-roaring drunk as she pleases. But she says, really, she can't, because when the waitress asks if anyone wants a drink, all of the clients smile and decline in their LDS way, but look at her as if to say, "Do you care for some alcohol, Jewess?" so she has to decline as well so that they think she is decent and upstanding and properly in fear of eternal damnation. Obviously, the lack of alcohol and caffeine has caused them some kind of communal brain damage, as she is faking it and they are wrong on all counts.
Then, I get this story, which, in the spirit of Sharon and Dr. Gaybash, I am deee-lited to share with you. The groove is in my heart, people.
Ok, so. I have this friend. She's single, and she dates. By this, I mean, she sees a variety of men for a variety of reasons. Some she sees with the intent of exploring a long-term future, and some are shorter-term relationships. So, anyway, she meets this guy and they go out. And over the course of the evening a few significant and clearly defined flaws become apparent, including the fact that he is a born again Christian. This would be a deal-breaker for me but she, I guess, is more tolerant, because it wasn't a deal-breaker for her (yet!) and, despite the apparent flaws, she took him home with her. Or she went to his place, I don't know. And she gives him a shot. A girl's got needs and, you know, he was ok, as far as brief relationships go. And they have sex. Or at least they start to have sex. But then the guilt gets to be too much for him and he needs to stop. Mid-act. It would seem that Jesus doesn't want him getting his joint wet.
But, she goes on to tell me, apparently, Jesus has nothing against a good blow job (she would offer no other kind, I am SURE!). How did the Lord feel about Mr. Jesus Wants You to Suck My Dick feel about getting you off, I ask her, and she tells me that God was kind of on the fence on that one.
Can you believe that?!? I mean, I know you can, you're all worldly and sophisticated people, but wow. I feel like Sherman and Mr. Peabody and we've just stepped out of the Wayback Machine and into the Year of Angie Takes It Up the Butt and Still Thinks She's a Virgin.
Clearly, my friend did not see this particular gentleman again. End of sad story.
Yin: Slick made it through last night without peeing in the house. Yang: he's so lethargic that I seriously thought he was going to die before I got up in the morning. This whole ill-but-not-terminal dog thing is excruciating. The vet says that, if we get Slick's blood sugar right, he will be happy and peppy and bursting with love. That would be an improvement. Yoo hoo: my dog is a goddamn living biochem experiment. And I'm a goddamn English major.
Yin: I take my Girl Scouts to Camporee tomorrow! Yang: the forecast. Not quite rainy, but not quite not, either. Gray and drizzly and COLD at night. Yoo hoo: I'm packing lots of polar fleece and the wool socks. Actually, the whole thing is going to be a grand adventure. On the agenda: cooking, campfires, s'mores, singing, and a cake baked in an oven made of a cardboard box covered in foil.
Yin: book club at my house last night. I love book club. Yang: Our next book is very popular, and will be hard to get at the library. Yoo hoo: Does anyone have a copy of The Kite Runner that they're done with? I will happily reimburse for postage.
Yin, no yang: Lisa sent me the most excellent t-shirt in yesterday's mail, proving once and for all that I am, in fact, the most digital hausfrau in the county. I am sure that no one else will even get the joke. Yoo hoo: Please refrain from sharing your thoughts on the combination of a baby-doll t-shirt and my bodacious ta-tas or the fact that, at the time I tried it on, I was wearing one of my many black bras, standard uniform under one of my many black t-shirts. Also, please note that, in the rear view photo, I am holding my bluetooth mouse and pressing the button to take the snapshot. Nifty, huh?
Here's a secret about me and my bluetooth mouse....I will reveal to you all a little tiny flaw in my various superpowers: I like it because it's all cool and juiced up, but it's a regular old one-button mouse. I am too e-tarded to handle a mouse with more than one button on it. Similarly, when it comes to shoe tying, I am a two-looper.
Interestingly, I am not without compassion for this Runaway Bride woman. I know more people than not who have had some kind of really significant reaction to stress over the years...people who have needed medication, people who have heard voices, people who have, in their own quiet way, flipped the fuck out. Like she did. Only the rest of us somehow managed to do it without Matt and Katie on the case. My own little freakout was a nightmare, my own private corner of hell. How much worse must it be not to be able to go out and buy a box of tampons while it's going on?
I totally think that Michael Jackson is going to be found not guilty. Mark me down now.
I spent almost $150 at Wal-Mart today on pots and pans and spatulas and colander and hot mitts for my girl scout troop to take camping next week. You would not believe how much crap you can buy for $150 at Wal-Mart.
Hey...I'm almost famous. I was interviewed today by a writer working on an article for Reader's Digest. He wanted to know about the ways in which I use personalized media (ipod, dvr, blog, etc.) in my life. He offered to publish this url, but I turned him down. I don't think that the spike in traffic would be worth the exposure to psychos. Too many details about my life are here. If a psycho wanders in, that's one thing, but I don't think I need to let them know I'm here. If you are a psycho, could you please let me know that you're already here, just as a point of information?
The writer seemed very interested in the fact that I take my ipod to the grocery store. I guess that's unique but, for the life of me, I don't understand why more people don't do it. It's so much more tolerable picking my cereal off the shelves with Solsbury Hill blaring directly into my head. I just hope I remember not to "boom, boom, boom" too loudly. I was mostly interested to realize that my much-anticipated dvr has not been the boon I'd hoped it would be. For that to happen, I'd have to start watching tv in the family room instead of the kitchen. Of course, that would entail dedicated tv watching, rather than viewing while in the midst of washing dishes and packing lunches. The very notion makes me roll my eyes and snort.
The President is on the television, and again I am reminded of how irksome I find having to listen to him say "nuc-u-lar" and "Vlad-uh-muhr."
Big night for me tomorrow night, which is, more or less, why I've been away. It's the town-wide Leader-Daughter Dinner, and it's mine, mine, mine. I've coordinated the whole thing on my own, from the date to the theme to the flyer to purchasing everything we need. 91 people on my watch. Woof. But it's going to be great.
Bo Bice, cocaine user? Shocking, simply shocking.
My boy, he loves me.
And what? Lots.
All is cool, but I'm kind of preoccupied these days, and not with Michael Jackson. I'm around, but I'm out in the sun and dealing with stuff. I haven't forgotten about my blog, but just bear with me for a little longer.
Where the fuck have I been?
I swear to God I don't know, but it's been outside. Last week was so hectic...book club and Emily's dance class and a million other things but, since last Friday, I've just been plain old On Vacation. The weather up here has been shockingly gorgeous, and I've been taking as much advantage of it as possible.
Alan came up to visit over the weekend, and we walked and hiked and played in the yard. After he left, we took the kids on our first official visit to the new Lake Club, a recreation area with lots and lots of trails, so: more hiking. Then a picnic dinner and playing on the beach. Too cold to go in the water, unless you are a three year old who wants to do nothing these days but throw rocks in water. Any rock, any water.
Big treat on Monday! After I took the kids to the library and the playground int he morning, Andrew took them for a seven-hour jaunt to Ikea, leaving me ALL THE FUCK ALONE. I barely lifted my ass off my desk chiar but, by God, everything was caught up by the time they got home.
Tuesday was the big Family Day. And, if you can believe it, we went to the beach! We packed everyone up with yet another picnic and headed for the shore. It was packed there. More people than the last time I went, and that was in August! It was a perfect day there...sunny and warm, but not hot, no breeze, and no clouds. We brought a friend for Emily and the kdis played and played and played. I even go t in a long walk. Heaven.
A loser of a field trip yesterday. Off to this butterfly garden place about an hour and a half away. Every time I mentioned it, someone said, "I heard that's good!" But no one had ever personally been there, and it wasn't good. Too small, too hot, too crowded. Bah. Shopping after that with four antsy kids. No small wonder we left before we'd planned.
Passover on the horizon, and a trip to the in-laws.
You know what I really dn't get? I really don't get all the liberals wringing their hands over the new pope. Personally, I couldn't give a shit who they pick. Ok, so he's conservative. Whoop-de-fucking-do. If it hadn't been this white guy, it would have been some not-quite-as-much-of-a-fascist white guy. And if it hadn't been a white guy, it would have been some fascist non-shite guy. Who cares? Tom Hayden wasn't on the ballot either way.
So, fine. All this pope business is finished, and it's time to get back our regularly scheduled hell-in-a-handbasket business.
Here's friendly tip for the large-breasted among us. And, yes, I am one of us, and no, I won't tell you how large, because for all I know, today is the day that some fetish guy manages to find his way here and then I'm stuck with some drooling pervert knowing specifics about my bodacious tatas.
Anyway, like many of us, I am a Wacoal Girl. I have moved off the Body Suede and on to a different model, but I remain firmly and forever (or at least until someday when I pay a fortune to have them, you know, lifted and separated) a Wacoal Girl.
You can get (drum roll for the googlers, please) Wacoal bras at a 25% discount. Get out your handy-dandy credit card and call Bras and Loungewear Unlimited at 954-975-5770. It may take a couple of weeks to get your preferred model (read the style number off your old tag) and size, but they'll send them right to you.
They're in the Festival Flea Market in Pompano Beach Florida which, if you've never seen it, is worth a trip someday. Miles and miles of crap, punctuated by brief bursts of decent bras, Essie and OPI nail polish in every color of the rainbow, and knockoffs of whatever necklace Gwyneth Paltrow was last seen wearing. Someday I'll go and bring my camera, just so I can treat you all to pictures of the long beach t-shirts with the bikini bodies air brushed on them, the copious quantities of appliqued "jogging suits" (no one at the Flea has been jogging since Nixon was in office), and my personal favorites: the oversized gold lamé restaurant bibs.
Tonight, in honor of Betsy, I give you the story of Sharon and Dr. Gaybash. It goes like this:
My friend Sharon, who lives in Seattle, has been in my life maybe not since conception, but for at least as long as I've had any self-awareness at all (think pcitures of the two of us, naked in the tub, shining our tushies at the photog). She was my last single friend and I guess it sucked for her, but it was kind of fun for me for a while, because she always had these very Sex and the City tales of dating hilarity. This reached its pinnacle on a blind date with a guy who, on paper, was a dream.
The blind date was, I don't know, a pediatric neurosurgeon or something. One of the Operation Smile Doctors on the weekends. A Doctor Without a Border on every third Thursday. Like that. Jewish. Loved his mother. Liked to do the active things that she liked to do -- windsurfing, skiing, all that. Sharon likes to be outside. And, when she met him, he was gorgeous.
He took her to a nice restaurant, and the sparks began to fly. But then, sometime after the entrees, when they ran out of light banter and moved on to more serious conversation, he told her what was wrong with this country: the homosexuals. It seemed he had a problem with our gay brothers and sisters, all the way down to believing that they should not be allowed to be teachers, if you can believe that. Incredible. Who knew there were still such people? And in Seattle, no less!
Poor Sharon almost gave up on dating after that but, happily, she didn't, and now there's Steve and there's little Liza, and I'm going to get to see them all this summer! Yay!!
Remind me, and another time I'll tell you about Sam and the Aerobics Instructor.
Speaking of gay people and what they should and should not be allowed to do, and I know this is a terrible tragic story, so shut up about that and all, but can I possibly be the only one who experienced just a teensy bit of schadenfreude last week when the news about the pedophile in the Boy Scouts corporate headquarters broke? I didn't think so. You know what I have to say about that? Karma, you motherfuckers. That's what you get for going all the way to the Supreme Court to perpetuate the mistaken public notion of a corollary between fags and perverts. I hope it hurts.
So much of interest in the news.
The Pope, as we all know, is Not Dead Yet (tm the Pythons). This prompts me to keep checking my news sites, wondering.
I've been thinking about the Pope; the whole thing kind of interests me. Ultimately, I don't have a lot against the Pope. He chose to follow what he believed was a righteous path and probably did a lot of good along the way. We just disagree, he and I. Except that I think he's misguided and he probably thinks that I am eternally damned. There is that. Either way, I hope his death is peaceful and painless, and that the next guy is not a total asshole.
But why on earth should a Jew be interested in the Pope's death and the eventual process which will name his replacement? That, I can tell you in three words: The Thorn Birds. Blame it on Ralph DeBricassart. And, for the record, I mean the literary Father Ralph, not Richard Chamberlain's television version, who we all know only went into the pristhood to escape having to confront his own tortured sexuality. Gay, gay, gay.
Enough about literary, let's move on to literal.
Ms. Wheelchair Wisconsin has been stripped of her title. She was (gasp!) photographed standing up! The odd thing is that it's not as if it were some kind of scam. She mostly needs a wheelchair, but her legs work a little bit. Apparently, in the eyes of pageant officials, either you're a cripple or you're not. Way to advance the cause of the disabled, folks. Make sure everyone is clearly labeled. That's important.
A college student threw salad dressing on Pat Buchanan as he attempted to propagate hate and division give a speech in Michigan this week. Bad manners. Naughty boy. That said, I must confess that I am sufficiently amused to hope that the dressing in question was made by Newman's Own, just to add a bit of insult to the injury.
Poor dead Terri Schiavo. But let me just say that I was so sure she was going to die on Easter, and then we'd have to hear all about her going home to be with Jesus on His Special Day from the fanatics out front. Guess god's not on your side every single second, folks. Put that in your censers and smoke it.
I have to bring an appetizer to a party tomorrow night and I have little time to make one. (It's Famous Chef day for me...my Brownie co-leader is hating my guts, as we have the girls signed up for a big outdoor event, and torrential downpours are expected, and I'm totally not going.) I'm making this thing I saw on tv. It doesn't even merit a recipe box, but it sounds delicious...
Get a tub of little mozzarella balls, a container of grape tomatoes, and a bunch of basil. Using skewers (I have nifty short bar mitzvah-length ones that I got at the Asian grocery), stab a ball, then a basil leaf, then a tomato. Arrange attractively on a plate and sprinkle liberally with olive oil, kosher salt, black pepper, dried oregano, and hot pepper flakes.
Doesn't that sound good? I want some right now.
Happy April Fool's Day, people.
My friend Shlomit called this weekend to tell me that the new Sunday night HBO series, premiering this summer in the coveted Sex and the City/Sopranos Sunday night slot, was to star Chloe Sevigny as one of three wives living in a polygamous Mormon family. Too good to be true, I thought. But a quick google shows that not only is it true, but that, understandably, some of our LDS friends are good and pissed about it.
In other religious news, I am an ass of the first order. I'm the one planning this year's annual town wide Girl Scout leader-daughter dinner. I ran into one of the leaders at Sunday School yesterday, where her daughter is in my class, and asked if she was going. That was when I found out that I had scheduled this potluck event smack in the middle of Passover, effectively marginalizing the more observant members of my own tribe. For a million reasons, it's close to impossible to reschedule the whole thing at this point, so I've been making phone calls, apologizing, and offering accomodations.
On today's agenda: big grocery shopping trip with whiny three year old in the pouring rain. Fun, no?
A miracle of modern science, those antibiotics. Happy to report that the boy is back to his usual cheerful self, still sleeping.
On today's agenda: a little something for everyone...a quick trip to the Beloved Flea for bras, nail polish, and, if I can find it, a knockoff of the necklace I saw some girl wearing yesterday. Likely, Princess Emily will find something to cadge out of her grandmother while we're there.
Then an excursion to South Beach. If the kids are lucky, the weather will be good and they'll actually get to the beach. The truth, however, is that we're really going to check out Me and Ro to look for a birthday present for me. Maybe some lunch, maybe a little time walking...like that.
On the list of interesting crises I have to deal with today: somehow, a BIG deposit got lost in the mail or wasn't, but was never credited to my account. Given that I haven't opened banking statements in several months, I never knew. My bad. But we got a call yesterday that a BIG check was about to bounce. I'll be working on fixing this one, away from my files and my computer, from the car this morning. Gotta love cell phones. Right up there with antibiotics.
Apparently, Robert Blake is free for lunch tomorrow. Perhaps he's going over to O.J. Simpson's for tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. They'll have lots to talk about.
In other, less lurid, news, we took the kids to the zoo today. Jonah spent his time identifying the animals. Everything was either A Elephant or Not A Elephant. And, if Not A Elephant, it was usually A Goat. A very large yak-sized goat perhaps, but a goat nonetheless.
My mom and I scooted out to Nordstrom for a bit tonight, and I got the Cutest Jeans Ever. For some reason, they're not on the Nordstrom site, and mine are slightly different...they have an extra something sparkly on the bow. To die for, really. I got a nifty new boho top and some cork wedge sandals to go with them, but they're not on the web site and I'm too tired to poke around anymore.
Tomorrow, the Flea! New bras, a necklace for the new outfit, and some nail polish. God, I love the Flea. Julie, if you need anything, IM me in the morning.
Can't sleep. The clown has been eating restaurant food non-stop since Friday. This wouldn't be so bad except, and I can't be all that unusual in this, well, my colon has this bad habit of shutting down for a few days when I take it away from its home. Let's just say the Thai food finally roused it from its brief hibernation and here I am.
I'm in Florida at my mom's this week. Or, in Heaven, as I like to call it. My mom's house is big and comfy and full of swank amenities like plasma tv and a swimming pool of our own, and there's a little convertible for me to drive if I ever get a chance to ditch the kids which, this being my mom's house, I sometimes do. Nice. Also: Florida.
Can someone please explain to me why I live where there's winter? I mean, I know that people say that the summer here is like winter up north, only opposite, but it just can't be true. You can wear shorts 12 months a year here, and not ever dress your kids in snow pants! There is nothing on the earth that's going to convince me that the hassle of constantly putting sunscreen on your kids is equivalent to the hassle of snow pants, boots, hats, and the dreaded mittens.
And you can walk every day here, even in the summer, if you just get up and go early enough. Semi-somniac freak that I am, that's usually not a problem. In Connecticut,it doesn't matter how early or late it is, I am not walking when it's 12 degrees out. I'd rather bake. Here, at least I'm walking every morning, putting at least some tiny effort into mitigating the tremendous quantities of food that I'm shoving into my pie-hole, despite the painful and potentially gangrenous crack on my heel (this post is full of gross personal body information, huh?) which makes every step feel like a mile along the route of the Bataan death march. I like the pain. It's a reminder every step that I feel like a cow these days and that I'd better do something if I don't want to put back on every single pound that I lost two years ago. I'd walk better if my foot didn't hurt, but the walking feels better because it does, if that makes a twisted kind of sense to anyone.
Of course, I'm taking my ipod walking, which is good. Even better is having it out by the pool with my new speakers. They are very excellent.
Someone please tell me that it's going to be July when I get home on Sunday.
Please.
Who is this year's big Oscar Contest Winner? Watch this space for the announcement later today.
Just think, even if you don't end up on top, you still get to spend the morning thinking about what kind of cookies you'll pick if I open the envelope and read your name. It's kind of like PowerBall, only on a microscopic scale.
...whoever you are!
The full write up of the incredible birthday celebration that Andrew arranged for me yesterday will follow later, when I can grab a few more files. However, I did promise the folks seated next to us at dinner not only that I would take a picture of their birthday guest, but that I would email it to them for whatever nefarious purposes they had in mind and that I would post it here so that they could show it to other friends who, presumably, would then point and laugh.
Nice hat, don't you think? Click to enlarge the image.
I can hear the snickering from here.
This is one of my most treasured possessions. It's me and Penn Jillette after the grand finale of the Penn and Teller show at Bally's in Las Vegas, late September or early October 1993. I was on my honeymoon. My hair was very red. I was heavier then, but I was also younger. You win some and you lose some, I guess.
Emily thinks it's gross. She's right.
Oh, you know, the usual...the East Side, the West Side, the top of Belvedere Castle, the model boat pond, the carousel, the Temple of Dendur...
Details to follow when Jonah's not pulling on my ankle.
What I hope was the biggest disappointment of my week was this: Julie didn't spontaneously call me today between about 12:00 and 12:45. If she had, the conversation surely would have gone like this:
Hey.
Hey.
Whatcha doing?
Entertaining a couple of Mormons.
(raucous laughter on her end)
No, I mean it!
Julie and I share a mutual obsession with interest in the Mormon church, especially since we both read Under the Banner of Heaven last year and I was so sorry that she wasn't able to share my experience today.
I swear, I don't know exactly how it happened. My doorbell rang while I was in the middle of baking cookies, and I opened it to find these two very clean-looking young men dressed in black overcoats, wearing name tags that said "Elder Something-or-Other," which was very amusing as they were not my elders at all. I gave them my pat missionary blowoff speech about how we have a faith in our home and we are not in the market for a new one and I wished them well on their adventures. Then, for what reason I can't tell you, I asked if they needed drinks of water or restroom visits or whatever. I don't know...I just think it would be hard to go door to door all day without a beverage or a potty break. And they seemed so nice. One young man asked for some water and I was about to bring some to the door, but instead I invited them in. Perhaps they'd like to get off their feet for a few minutes?
They sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and I apologized for taunting them, since they wouldn't eat the chocolate, I was sure. But they told me that their prohibition against caffeine was only beverage-based and chocolate was a-ok. So I fed them cookies and we passed the time, enjoying some nice social discourse.
They seemed surprised by the things I knew about the Church and confused as to why I knew them. I dunno. I read. I know how to google. We talked about their families and about what it's like to be on mission. We talked about their experiences and whether they had brought anyone into the church (they had). One said I reminded him of his aunt. Later, when talking of faiths, he asked if I would tell him what my faith was. I told him that we were Jewish, and he asked if I was a practicing Jew. I told him that I was a practicing Democrat who happened to also be Jewish. It was funny. We talked about Utah and BYU and Joseph Smith. We talked about Petaluma and New York and Salt Lake City. We talked about the difference between the Church and the Tabernacle. We talked about how I think that the Council of Elders has the whole marketing thing down cold. I tried to talk about the garment, but they avoided that one.
I think one fellow was glad for the break. He'd been at this for twenty-one months. I think that the other fellow was new. He kept trying to turn the conversation back to his Message, and I kept thwarting his efforts. He would kindly offer me a copy of the Book of Mormon, just for, you know, informational purposes, I guess to further my education about Mormonism, and I would politely decline.
Eventually I packed them a bag of cookies and sent them on their way. Later they came back as they were leaving the block, to say goodbye and to express some confusion: if I wasn't interested in their Message, why did I know so much about Mormon, and why had I been so kind. I explained that I was not over-informed but that I thought that other people were fairly ignorant. Say what you will about the Church and its beliefs and methods, it is a real force in this country, and a basic understanding is no more surprising and no less useful than a basic understanding of Christianity or Bhuddism or any other major religion. As to my hospitality, I just figure that they are young men far from home and their mothers and that, maybe if I did them a kindness today, someone might do the same for my children some day years from now. We spoke briefly about what I knew of the Church, and they explained where my facts were wrong. I learned that it's "The Angel Mo-ro-NEYE," not "The Angel Mo-ro-NEE." Think Leonard Bern-STINE, not Bern-STEEN. The new guy offered me a Book of Mormon once more, and I said no, thank you once more and wished them luck, even though I wasn't I buying what they were selling.
Like I said, I don't know what came over me. But it was a pleasant visit, and I was pleased that there was room for that generosity in my life and my heart and my schedule today.
I am wildly, unreasonably blissed out.
The sun is out here. It's about 50 degrees out. I ran errand today in a t-shirt, flannel, and light sweat top, and then I walked (walked! with my ipod!). And the sun shining on me! I swear, if I lived in Boca, I'd be a size 6.
But wait! There's more!
I'm taking Emily to New York to see the Gates this weekend. Just the two of us. We'll meet my sister-in-law for some time in the Park, and the meet up with Lisa and Adam and their friends (she called! they're going the same day! happy coincindence!) for dinner someplace, and then sleep in my in-laws' place (they're in Florida! it's like a hotel! for free!), and then meet Sarah for brunch on Sunday. It won't be 50 degrees out, but it won't be raining, and I'm just tickled about the whole thing.
If I have a good weekend (and how could I not?), I think that my mom would like to get me one of these as a birthday present (did you notice the countdown clock? it's getting CLOSE!). I'm leaning toward XXVII and XIX and XXI. Who likes which one?
And I feel like eating salad for lunch...it doesn't sound like punishment at all. This is a good sign.
It's here! The second annual Digital Hausfrau Oscar Contest!
Same rules as last year...you put in your guesses here. The winner gets a batch of the homemade cookies of his or her choice, sent within some reasonable period after the Oscars.
Lurkers, I know you're there, and you have the same chance as everyone else, so play with us!
What else is in my little head to share with you today?
Well, apparently, setting your son on fire and disfiguring him for life is good for about 7 years in the big house, but owning a gun can get you life. Oh, those wacky three strikes laws.
And those wacky punks, too! I thought scalpings went out with, like, the roaming of the wild buffalo.
Andrew is cracking me up lately. He's got some sort of plans in motion for my upcoming birthday, and he's told me so. But he keeps opening up my browser window to all sorts of odd event locales -- swingers' clubs, gun clubs, male dance revues -- and leaving it there for me to find when i sit down at my machine. It's so funny. And sweet.
Less amusing is my son. I posted about him at dotmoms last week. He's rather undisciplined, and the Naughty Stool has betrayed me. On the up side, he has gotten a Big Boy Bed, one giant leap toward the end of toddlerhood. On the down side, he's figured out that he's not contained in it. Hello, midnight! Hello, 6:10 am! My already-deprived sleep schedule is suffering.
But we have moved into the basement! If anyone's ready to visit, just let me know...your bedroom and private bath (still sans tv and shower door, but they're coming!) await.
Please note this picture (click for larger image) of my grandma, who, it must be noted, I love fiercely and with my whole heart, at my sister's recent wedding.
The next time you read something in this space and think to yourself That bitch is out of her fucking mind!, think of this picture and know that it's not my fault. It's in the genes.
I'm feeling pretty stressed. Winter is relentless. My feet are cracked and bleeding; my arms are itchy and flaking; the house is cold, even with the heat turned up. The contractor, who is 95% done with the basement job, has more or less flown the coop, and requires constant nagging to show up and work. Jonah is totally out of control...he won't eat, won't nap and thrashed so wildly at his most recent haircut appointment that Andrew had to leave with him before a single hair was snipped. Emily throws herself to the ground and cries every time things don't go entirely her way. The level of drama surrounding that sweet girl exhausts me. The numbers on the scale just keep going up and up and up from lack of exercise, no matter what I eat, so I eat whatever I want.
I made it to yoga this morning, which was good, but I fell asleep on the mat for a change, which was bad. I am chronically under-rested.
But then! Oh, joy! After yoga, I took myself across the street to the cafe for a minute. I got a big cup of hot (but not so hot that I had to wait to drink it) cup of coffee and an egg sandwich. I sat at a table, reading, surrounded by other silent readers, even the couple who sat down together but read their papers independently.
My egg sandwich, fried egg on a buttered roll with cheese and lots of salt and pepper and a bit of ketchup, tasted like home. It tasted like youth. It tasted like irresponsibility. It tasted like a New York City morning, on my way to work, with nothing to worry about but making my train at rush hour and getting through the day despite my hangover. It tasted good.
And for a few minutes, my storm was calmed.
Things that would be intense calorie-burning activities if there were any justice in the world:
What's on your list?
I just got off the phone with the Big Cheese. Despite the fact that the National GS Board has offered an exemption to the prohibition against scouts fundraising for outside organizations, our Local Board is not bound by it, and they don't meet until the end of the month. Furthermore, the ban on fundraising during cookie season is not the Big Cheese's policy, but that of the Local Board.
So, no go.
But! Here's where it gets mind-boggling. While my girls cannot have a fundraiser, they can have a service project. If we can get, for example, the Junior League to sponsor the bake sake, we can bake the cookies and sell them. It just can't be our bake sale.
It's so stupid and semantic, but I'll be able to pull it off.
What's the matter? Didn't you see anything? Neither did I.
First there was this, sent back to I-don't-know-who. Some concerned soul, I guess. Concerned, but clueless. Does it surprise me that it's an aol account I sent it to? Not so much.
Dear Friend:Then this. I seem to find myself embroiled in my second self-created scout-related controversy. The first, for those of you who may remember it, has been purged from these files and I've removed identifying information on this. But I am pissed.I don't know who you are, or how I came to be on your email list. Here is a link to a site which will let you know that this email, like all spam, is a lie and serves no purpose except to gather email addresses and spread viruses. This is especially true when the sender doesn't strip previous addresses of the forwarded email.
http://www.snopes.com/crime/warnings/carjack.asp
Please do not forward email to me again.
Thank you.
Dear [Big Cheese] --I mean, is that WACK, or what? So sorry little girls! You can't sell any cupcakes to help the thousands of orphaned children on the other side of the world because it's more important that you sell THIN MINTS this month! Um, hello? Priorities? Values? GLOBAL DISASTER?Earlier this week, [Not As Big Cheese] came to you on my behalf, as I had spoken to her about an exception to the cookie season [other] money-earning-activity blackout. My troop would like to have a bake sale to benefit tsunami victims. The [Town] Library is having a puppet show for families and children on January 29. It is difficult to ask 2nd grade Brownies to do an outdoor event in the winter, and the puppet show, which will be widely attended by local families, would be a wonderful venue for us. We asked the library's Board of Directors, which normally prohibits fundraising events at their programs, for an exception to their rule, and they granted us a dispensation. However, at this point, we cannot accept their kind invitation, as [GS Governing Body], our sponsoring agency, will not do the same.
I am writing to you today to ask you to please reconsider that decision.
I understand that the cookie season blackout is, generally speaking, an inviolable rule. It is a fair and reasonable rule. If we were planning to raise funds for our own activities, or even for a worthy cause in which timeliness was not a factor in support, I wouldn't even think about asking you to consider an exception. Those things can wait. However, the recent tsunami is Asia is a disaster without precedent, and the need for relief is immediate and without limits.
I believe that it is antithetical to the spirit of service that we are working to instill in our girls to tell them that we have to postpone taking part in the tsunami relief effort, that cookie sales come first. These two projects, my troop's participation in cookie sales and a one-time special bake sale, are not mutually exclusive. They aren't even really relevant to each other. The proposed bake sale will neither diminish my troop's participation in cookie selling nor cause any families at the puppet show to think twice about buying Girl Scout cookies.
So, once again, I ask you to please think about allowing us, this one time, to proceed with our service project...to allow me to allow my girls to respond quickly and in their own small way to a tragedy that is affecting thousands of children their age across the globe.
My troop and I appreciate your consideration.
Sincerely,
[The Digital Hausfrau]
I will report further, but I am not optimistic.
Scroll down. You'll figure out which one is me. (hint, if you need one, is to be found in the banner graphic on this page)
I'll be at dotmoms later today. Between that post and last night's rant, I'm feeling kind of spent.
Slick's diagnosis was confirmed right before the end of the year:
Slick had an Electroretinagram (ERG) today to test the function of the retinas. It indicated that he has no retinal function consistent with a condition called SARDS (Sudden Acquired Retinal Degeneration Syndrome). This condition results in a sudden and total retinal cell degeneration leading to permanent blindness. Fortunately, the degeration is only limited to the retina and Slick should adapt very well to his blindness. Unfortunately, we cannot treat the blindness.We're all adjusting, but it's a challenge. He needs to be walked on the leash more often, and his lack of vision doesn't stop him from being the sniffer/weaver/puller he's always been. He stumbles on the stairs occasionally. He gets stuck in corners and can't figure out how to get out.
On the plus side, he's still cheerful, sweet, and wants a bite of whatever we're eating. As he's put on 20 pounds in the past 18 months (a lot for a dog who's weighed between 37 and 42 pounds his whole life!), he's been switched to diet kibble and he's not getting much by way of people food these days, but he is getting a lot more love and pats on the head.
I read the greatest quote today. It was in Spanish, but the translation is this:
Happy new year, friends. Don't make any resolutions you know you can't keep. It's bad for your self-esteem.
I love you all, and I thank you for reading along. My wish for you is the best of everything -- health, happiness, and prosperity -- in the coming year. I hope that the best day you had this year is the worst day you have in 2005.
I am so not above laughing out loud at this.
Merry Christmas, Christians. Everyone else, just give up and watch A Christmas Story. Again.
It's what we get for invoking the name of Mary ingalls, I guess.
For the past few months, more or less since the fall, our beloved dog Slick, not even ten years old, has been having trouble. It started with difficulty getting up on our bed, his preferred spot in the house. Then he seemed to have a hard time on the stairs, mostly going down. He put on a huge amount of weight, becoming a fat, lethargic dog. It got worse. We went to the vet. Arthritis was diagnosed, a result of age, and expensive anti-inflammatory drugs were prescribed.
But things didn't get better.
He started bumping into things, not getting out of the way when we walked past him. Then he couldn't find the piece of turkey that I was trying to feed him. I practically had to smack him in the nose with it. If you knew Slick, and you knew what a Food Hound he is, you would know how totally bloody wrong that was.
So it was time to go to a second vet. I went today, and we have a tentative diagnosis: Sudden Acquired Retinal Degeneration. Slick has gone blind.
Next up is a trip to the veterinary ophthalmologist to confirm the diagnosis. If SARDS is, in fact, correct, it's permanent and irreversible. But it's not a brain tumor.
I'll post more details as I have them.
Where I live, in semi-rural Connecticut, there are many small old cemeteries along the roads. For the most part, the stones are clearly very old and worn down. Yet, twice in the past two days, I have driven by funerals taking place in two of these cemeteries. Freshly dead people being buried. I'm not sure what it means, but it feels ominous.
I'm guessing that Death is also on Scott Peterson's mind today. How disgusting am I for still thinking that, except for the part about being a murderous psycho, he's actually kind of cute? I know. Very. Shut up.
From the New York Times:
Christmas chocolates were recalled from schools in the northeast French town of Coudekerque-Branche because they violate the country's ban on religious symbols in schools, Le Figaro reported on its front page. The 1,300 chocolate figures, depicting St. Nicholas, were recalled earlier this month after an elementary school teacher unwrapped them only to discover that there was a cross on the miter worn by the saint. Christian crosses, as well as other religious symbols, including Islamic head scarves, Jewish yarmulkes and Sikh turbans have been banned since September. For more than a decade, the mainly Flemish region has celebrated the saint's day, Dec. 6, by delivering chocolates to schools. André Delattre, the mayor, called the incident "a politically unhealthy incident," Agence France-Presse reported. He added: "St. Nicholas was a bishop. He is always portrayed with his cross."Seems the the stupid fucking French got bitten in the ass by their stupid fucking hate laws, which they have oh-so-cleverly positioned as legislation to protect oppressed minorities. Serves them stupid fucking right.
I happily returned to yoga this morning after a three-week hiatus imposed by Thanksgiving, pediatric health crises, and the Dreaded Month of Hectic. Have I mentioned that I've been twisting myself into pretzel-like shapes at least once a week for a while now? I don't know exactly when I started, but the leaves hadn't turned yet. I love it. I go to this very low-key place, and the instructor is beautiful and strong, and older than I am. She has gray hair, and is not a teensy little tattooed Yoga Waif. Plus, I am in favor of any athletic activity that provides me with my own little mat on which to fuck up without hindering anyone else's experience. The legacy of my childhood gym traumas extends to a fear of aerobic-style classes in which my failure to move right instead of left at any given moment is likely to garner me the hairy eyeball from the nymph standing next to me.
Unfortunately, I forgot to eat before class this morning. I was starving and I spent most of my 90 minutes meditating on the scrambled eggs that I would get across the street when I was done. In my visualization, they were fluffy and soft. In reality, they ended up kind of burned and dry, but we were alone with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, so we got along just fine, thanks.
There's been an unusual spate of births around me lately. First, of course, Charlie. Then, my echo friend Deirdre had a baby this week, and today my friend Meg is having a scheduled c-section. In fact, they may have her uterus on show and tell right this very minute. All of the babies are boys.
Anyway, I've been thinking about nicknames for them. little boys do well with nicknames. There's a little Patrick at Jonah's school who is known as Patch; I once knew a Philip who was Flip; a friend here has a Something Something the Third who is called Trey. You know, like that. But those are so mundane. I've been trying to help my friends by offering up a nickname that was interesting and unusual and, finally, I think I've found it: Dimebag. A nickname a mother could love. First one to comment gets to claim it for her own.
Oh, for God's sake. Of course I know that I'm not supposed to make fun of people who've been tragically and brutally murdered in public. Whatever. Shut up. It's still a stupid nickname, even if he is on a slab.
Bah. No one offered up any ideas for a treat for me, but I ended up deciding on my own, so don't let it keep you up tonight.
I picked a really cool-looking pair of Ugg clogs (the black ones, obviously) and, tomorrow I'm finally calling that skin doctor and making an appointment for some kind of acid peel. Blotter, preferably.
I made those lemon-pine nut biscotti tonight and oh my god are they good. But the pine nuts on top didn't stick very well. If I make them again, I'm skipping that part and just putting them all inside.
It turns out that I won't be provided with cookie recipes for the class I'm teaching on Sunday, so I have to come up with them on my own! By Sunday!! And, me being me, type and format the recipes!! The boss gets to pick, but I'm thinking that I need to vary flavor and shape as much as possible, so I suggested
I talked to Julie tonight. Charlie's doing really well, and the end of their first tunnel -- the transport from the NICU where they're stranded to the one at home -- is in sight. Charlie will have to stay in the hospital for a while, but it looks like Julie and Paul will be home for Christmas, which is great news.
I just looked at the countdown on the right and nearly fell off my chair. HOLY MOTHERFUCK. ELEVEN WEEKS!?! How did it get to be eleven fucking weeks left? That whoosh you just heard was my youth, speeding past your head.
I know, I know...I've been gone for most of a week. Not. My. Fault. It's the Dreaded Month of Hectic, remember? And on top of everything else, my sister went and got herself married! Since I was here last, I've done one rehearsal dinner; one beautiful wedding (I looked good for an old hag who did her own makeup, don't you think?); two plane trips with children, suitcases, carry-ons, and car seats; one pap smear (thanks to Julie for providing me with sufficient obstetrical fodder to last through the pelvic and the rectal -- she's so helpful, that one!); two nights of Chanukah; one trip to the pediatrician; one trip to Home Depot, and a fucking partridge in a pear tree.
The wedding was fabulous. Emily was the flower girl and was appropriately honored, dignified, and entirely goofy. More incredible than her outfit, however, was Samantha's. Who the fuck is Samantha, Terry? We don't know any Samantha. Why, Samantha Parkington, American Girl, of course! Samantha has moved into our house and, with the magnificent additions of a wardrobe hand-sewn by Emily's Grandma Mary (bridesmaid's dress, Brownie uniform, surgical scrubs, raincoat, and more!), a new trunk, and a bed of her own, is here to stay.
I got myself some of this cool black cocoa from King Arthur Flour, but I'm kind of on the fence about it. I used it 50/50 with Dutch cocoa, as recommended, and made Regan Daley's glorious Chocolate Cookies with Dried Cherries and Toffee Bits. The thing is, they tasted great, but I thought they looked kind of like cow pies. Less of the black cocoa next time, I think. You know, it's one of those things where everyone else (see: the guys working in the basement who taste-tested for me) will think they're fabulous. I put most of them in the freezer for the cookie platters. If I get my act together, I'll still make some lemon-pine nut biscotti and some rugalach before I'm done. If I get my act together. Defrosting and platter-building will take place on Sunday night December 19 or thereabout. I'll document and blog. Read it and drool, suckers.
Tentatively, I'm teaching my first cooking classes this weekend -- a gingerbread house decorating demo session and a cookie swap. I'm nervous, but excited! I'll be sure to report.
Word is that Charlie is doing well. I'm not hearing much from Julie, which I take to be a good thing. I think it means that she's spending more and more time at the hospital, which means that Charlie is spending more and more time out of the isolation booth. Oddly, since he wasn't due until February, I have a Christmas present for him, and it's excellent. I'm looking forward to shipping it out, or maybe driving it over.
I've recently had a nice windfall, and I want to get myself a treat. Here are the criteria: it can be an accessory, an electronic gizmo, or a kitchen toy; it has to be just for me (I was thinking about new sheets, but ruled them out) and it can't cost more than $200. Suggestions are welcome.
I'll be back, but I haven't been to yoga in almost three weeks and, if I get an opportunity to go, I'm blowing off writing and standing on my head.
Love and kisses and latkes and applesauce.
Oooh! Say that like Peter Brady! Lat-kes and apple-sauce!
Hee.
I'm off to Lisa's wedding tomorrow, so I have to go pack.
Quick news: I've met Charlie and he's tiny, but seems really fine. Julie is in great spirits, and her toenails look much better than when I arrived. I adore her. Pictures to follow. I'm not allowed to post them yet.
I'll be up at dotmoms on Saturday, writing about the amazing day I had with the three of them.
I've been absent, I know. And I have things to say. But no time to say them right now. Chalk it all up to the dreaded month of hectic and a strike recently staged by my intestinal flora.
Terrific news: Our friends Julie and Paul were recently surprised by the early arrival of their new son Charlie. He's in the NICU, and Julie's still in the hospital, but everyone's fine and, since the surprise came only an hour from my home, rather than the almost-five to where they usually are, I get to see everyone tomorrow! Hooray! And welcome, Charles!
Other big news...Lisa gave me the coolest Chanukah present ever. Please redo your bookmarks, everyone. I am now the proud owner of digitalhausfrau.com!
It's a present for Jerri. I love the lame animation.
Hey, Jerri. check this out. It's a riot. As in so many places, the boards are the best part. Those people are extreme.
I'm at dotmoms again today, talking about my mammogram scare.
The holiday baking is in full swing. Theoretically, seven batches down and three to go but, realistically, once I finish those three, I'll just keep going. Andrew and Emily are going to New York this weekend...it's her big trip to the American Girl store with her grandparents, so she's pretty much in seven year old Hog Heaven. It should give me the break I need to put the house together and finish the baking.
I teach at the library this afternoon...we'll be making some craft turkeys, eating cranberry muffins, and reading Cranberry Thanksgiving, the best kids' Thanksgiving book ever. If there's time, we'll get to Rivka's First Thanksgiving, my second-favorite.
My holiday shopping is about two-thirds done. Still remaining are my dad, who is always hardest to shop for; Jonah, who really doesn't need much more than he's got; and my grandma, slippers or a picture frame, slippers or a picture frame, year after year after year. Here's a true confession: a few of the people on my list share similar interests, which probably has something to do with why we are in each others' lives, and here's the thing: sometimes, if I find something really nifty, I buy several of the same thing and give them out across the board. It's cheating, but it's clever, and everyone likes their new toys.
Listen to the song that Emily wrote today. I love it.
Beautiful Night
Clear night,
moon light
shining from miles away.
Planes fly,
while moms rock-a-bye,
under the tall oak tree.
While you go to sleep,
car horns might beep,
on this clear sky night.
Yesterday I went for my regularly-scheduled biannual mammogram. Squish this, squash that. No big deal.
Except that my phone rang yesterday at about 4:00 and the lady on the other end told me that the radiologist wanted a better look at something and that I needed to come back in. A better look at what?, I asked, and she kind of said, Oh, you know, a better look. I most surely did not know, but I looked at my calendar and suggested a day late next week, and she suggested today. Today.
So I got up this morning, took Jonah to speech therapy and the library, and went to find out whether or not I had breast cancer.
A different technician did the job this time, and it involved measuring things with a ruler and making marks on my breast with a red felt-tipped pen. It also involved shooting a much more specific area of just one breast.
I kept asking everyone who would asking just why I was there, and they were all rather reassuring-ish, but every scond I was choosing between remaining quiet and compliant and shrieking like a madwoman. Should I raise my arm when she asked, or should I scream WELL, AM I GOING TO FUCKING LOSE MY TITS AND DIE YOUNG AND LEAVE MY KIDS ALONE, OR WHAT? A hard choice, really.
In the end, she came back and told me that everything was fine and I should go home and come back in a year.
Fine? As in, no biopsy, no cancer, no chemo, no nothing?
No nothing. Go home.
You have never seen anyone get out of an office as fast as I did. I'm sure the women at the front desk were asking themselves what that black leather jacket-clad blur was. It was my breasts, is what it was. Safe and sound, and heading home to bake.
Ok, true confession. Stop me if I've told you this before. Or, better yet, don't.
Every week, we get the New Yorker and, every week, Andrew reads it. I guess that the lack of big! bold! type! doesn't bother him, nor does the glaring omission of any information whatsoever about lip liner or this season's black. Sometimes I flip through and find something interesting, and sometimes he points out something that he thinks I'd like (my own personal vetter!), but mostly I look at the cartoons. They amuse me. Not like, say, Mother Goose and Grimm amuse my mother, the only smart person I know who actually cracks up at the Sunday funnies, but usually I manage a smile in there somewhere.
This week, I laughed out loud. Oh, how I do love Roz Chast. Share the joy. This means you, Alan. (Oh, my! I almost just made the most interesting typo! Do you know what Alan spelled sideways is??)
That wailing sound you hear, all the way from here to where ever you are? That's me.
Tomorrow, October 19th has been the scheduled date for the town-wide hayride for, oh, two months now. And it's been GORGEOUS here for about a month, beautiful crisp New England fall weather, leaves on display, nary a rain drop in sight...the whole deal.
I'm the hayride event coordinator. I have 277 girls and adults signed up to go. Two hundred and seventy seven. I've put hours and hours into planning this event, and we've laid out money. Real money.
And the weather report for tomorrow? Crap. Total crap. Chance of rain, a million percent.
So we've moved it to Thursday, the rain date, when the chance of rain is only half a million percent. But it's just not as convenient for everyone, and they're none too pleased, but I can't hand back money, and I'm totally waking-up-at-five stressed about the whole thing.
And I'm sick again. Sneezing, hacking from the post-nasal drip, feeling warm and cold and warm and cold, throwing off the blankets, asking Andrew for more blankets, all of it. Apparently, my immune system has a big old VACANCY sign hanging on the door, and all sorts of beasties are coming to investigate the new and exciting hospitable environment.
Bleah.
I wanna go to Florida.
I had completely forogtten that, months ago, Carollynn asked if she could use a picture of Andrew and me, with no names attached, for a project she was working on.
She linked to the whole thing today, and there we were (scroll down), having, apparently been abducted by something like a cross between the Blair Witch and Junior Man, the resident evil legend man at Camp Lakeland (or was it Centerland? Alan?), where I spent enough summer days to know that I hated it there.
Odd to see yourself that way.
I picked up my dress for the wedding today. Alterations cost $12, and then Jonah found $15 on the ground outside, so I made a profit on the enterprise. Good boy.
Speaking of profits and enterprises and such, can you believe that Pamela got fired on The Apprentice last night? Wrong choice, Donald.
Oh! And speaking of tv and such, I got a new cable box this week. It's got a DVR built in to it. My life is already changed for the better. More on that as time goes on. In the meanwhile, four words: Nap Time Wife Swap. (Won't that make for some excellent googling, huh?)
I'm off to Baltimore for the weekend...big family wedding, doncha know. These things are what pass for family reunions in my family. It'll be fun, I guess. Plus, I get to wear a fancy dress and drink on someone else's dime.
See you all when I get back.
I have a body image problem. I don't know what it's called, but it's the opposite of the thing that makes anorexics look in the mirror and think that they are fat. Twigalomania? Delusions of willowosity?
I am five feet tall if I stand up straight. I wear a 36DD bra. I am 22 pounds from my fantasy weight, 12 pounds from the weight that would look great on me, and three and a half pounds from back to feeling unequivocably happy in the morning. I will be 40 on my next birthday.
Yet there is a creature on my shoulder that whispers sweet nothings in my ear. Spaghetti straps, it says. Empire waist. Short-waisted bouclé jacket.
Short-waisted bouclé jacket?!?
And I listen! I take these ridiculous things off the rack and I go in the dressing room and I try them on. And I look in the mirror and think to myself, Well, maybe with the right foundation... As if they make wee strapless bras in my size!
You'll all be relieved to know that I did not, in fact, buy a blazer this morning, which, by the way, is not only absolutely wrong for me, but absolutely not my style. Instead, I found a great pair of knee-high zip-up you-wouldn't-know-they're-not-leather-if-I-didn't-tell-you black boots with high heels, overstitching, and silver buckles. In what actually is my style, they do a nice job of walking the not-quite-slutty line.
I figure it's better that I put the wardrobe money into fabulous footwear than poorly made clothing that won't lay right. I'll wear them out to dinner on Saturday with something that's already in my closet. The good news about the pneumonia is that it knocked off the four pounds I wanted to drop before seeing every relative I have on the planet.
Now, if only I could find the right earrings. I returned everything this morning.
Tomorrow is Jonah's first full non-transition eat-lunch there day of preschool. Between the Jewish holidays closing school and pneumonia keeping us home, it's been a slow month getting up and running.
I can't wait.
Of course, me being me, I've got about 5 hours of errands planned for the 3 hours he'll be there. I'm going to the new Panera for some decent bread on which to serve the crap sandwiches I'm dishing up for supper (think they'll notice on either count?), heading to Kohl's to look for a third pair of cheap earrings to not match the gorgeous vintage necklace I'm wearing to the wedding on Sunday, going to TJ Maxx to return the first two pair if I find a third, and checking out the crop of knockoff bouclé jackets at Marshall's so I have something to wear Saturday night. I think I can just about pull it off.
Anyone know why my toilet keeps making water-running noises, even though I've replaced the flapper? The noise sounds like it's coming from the stand up pipe farthest to the left and, when I raise the ball thing by hand, it stops. It's like that hinge between the stand up pipe and the arm the ball is on is sticky, but I can't see any hinge! Of course, the stupid plumber was in my house all last week working on the new bathroom, and he could have fixed it without the charge for the house call but, if he comes now, bingobango $100 gone! So I'm going to live with it until he has to come back to finish the bathroom.
I have not done any holiday baking, and frankly I just can't seem to get it up to get started. I'm thinking about a mad November rush. Anyone starting yet? Not you, Miss Off-My-Feet-Until February. Anyone else.
The book club book is set in India and those India books just don't do it for me. I'm taking the month off and rejoining our regularly scheduled reading with Plainsong, which I've already read, next month. And I've decided not to beat myself up for it. So there. The only problem is that I can't remember if I'm supposed to host this month, which would be problematic. I think I'd best get on the horn there, huh?
Go convince someone to vote Democrat.
I was standing at the deli counter today, ordering our usual weekly pound of turkey and pound of American cheese, kind of bemoaning the expense in my head, and I heard, but didn't see, the person next to me ask for "four slices" of something.
Without looking up, I knew what I'd see: an old lady, alone, ordering enough meat to put between a couple of slices of bread when she got home and nibble on while she watched tv. I thought of my grandma, who, after fifty-some years of marriage, has eaten alone most nights since the week that Emily was born. No grandpa to fight her over the remote or hear her commentary while she watches the news. Solitaire, not gin rummy. A silent clink when she raises her glass.
Sometimes I think of some of the people I know, male and female, who still live alone...the people who live Sex and the City while I live thirtysomething, only with less drama. They spend their money so differently than we do...trips, restaurants, gym memberships, electronic toys. Our expenses are in different columns...the never-ending stream of birthday presents for other peoples' kids, high electricity bills to heat the playroom all winter long, copays at the pediatrician every time someone sneezes. And never less than a whole pound of turkey at the deli.
But I'm glad not to be buying "four slices." I'll remember that at the grocery store next week.
In the midst of the fever and the phlegm, both of which are subsiding, thanks for asking, something quite wonderful has happened. Call it what you will...what goes around comes around, or chickens coming home to roost, or the love you take is equal to the love you make.
My mom came up from Florida to take care of things while I was too sick to get out of bed, and drove me to the doctor three times (and Jonah twice!) in six days. My mother-in-law is on her way up tomorrow to help us finish out the week. My friends have gathered around me, and it feels great. My husband and kids were invited to celebrate the Jewish holidays at the homes of friends. In the past week, I have gotten get-well emails and calls, calls inviting Emily on other families' outings, phone calls from Girl Scout leaders I hardly know, and dinners brought hot to my home.
So, being sick has been awful, but I have managed to find a silver lining in this. It's taken three years, but I guess that where I live is finally home.
Very boring here. Pneumonia sucks ass. I cough all the time. I'm on 4 or 5 different meds, plus the inhaler. I have the energy level of a jellyfish. Or maybe not even that. Since Thursday, I've only been out of bed long enough to go buy the new stove, and that little excursion had me heading right back for the covers when it was over.
Did you know that Chuck Woolery has an infomercial hawking some $29.95 "Make a fortune on ebay" book/cd/videotape system? It's only on very very late at night. I am nearly hooked on the codeine cough syrup now, a la Janis Joplin, but when it wears off at night I wake up and watch tv while I wait for the next dose.
I wish I had a laptop and a wireless network. Oh, well.
See you all when I see you.
Surely by now we all know the story of Aron Ralston, right? He's the super-hiker-dude who ended up getting his hand caught between a canyon wall and a boulder, and cut it off to save himself. True confession: last week, I watched him interviewed for two hours on Dateline and, honestly, it was fascinating. What was most interesting about it was how this particular man was so uniquely suited to survive this particular ordeal, a situation that would have killed pretty much anyone else who found himself in it.
Anyway, here's the point: in all of the interviews, all of the articles, he said that he made one critical error: He never told anyone where he was going. No one knew he was in trouble and, when they figured it out, no one knew where to look for him.
I thought of this today as I dropped Jonah off at preschool and set out for a solo hike at my local park. Hike. Ha. I would be in the woods, but on a blazed trail, and probably within shouting distance of a dozen homes, although they would be invisible to me. Hardly Aron Ralston material. But I thought of Aron and his hand and, as I left the school, I called my friend Karen to say, "I'm heading off alone for [the Park]. If you hear that I'm missing, that's where to send the dogs."
I've learned from Aron's mistake, and I'm grateful for his wisdom. It's likely cold comfort for him if he ever googles his way here, but I just thought I'd offer my thanks.
warning: this post contains language which may be considered by some to be unkind or not 21st century sensitive to the mentally disabled. if that offends you, just move along now. there's nothing for you to see here.
Julie and I were talking yesterday and, to make a long story short, we invented a new word. It's a perfect addition to the English language.
You know someone who is otherwise intelligent, but who can't program the vcr? The person who we mock and deride because he or she can't use a computer for anything but simple word processing, or who thinks that "AOL" means the same thing as "the internet"? The person who claims to eschew all things digital for aesthetic reasons, when we all know that it's because of terror of change?
You know how we never really had one single word that summed those people up? Well, now we do. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:
Really, it's perfect. Think about it. Use it in a sentence.
"I had to explain to her how to use Yahoo! to look up a phone number. What an eTard."
"It turned out that the problem was that she had somehow disconnected her mouse from the keyboard and didn't know it, because she is totally eTarded."
"I was sleeping in their guest room and their alarm clock went off at 3:42 am! Turns out that it does this all the time and they couldn't figure out how to stop it. eTards."
"Oh my god. I handed my eTarded father-in-law my camera to take a few pictures and I don't know what button he pushed, but he managed to erase everything on my CF card!"
Works well, doesn't it? You heard it here first. Now, if only we could invent a word for that woman who sits somewhere on the fence between "acquaintance" and "friend." The woman who I hang out with, but don't confide in and may not even like that much. Men have "golf buddy" for such a relationship, but we girls are left with a void.
I think I have some kind of foot obsession. No, no, no. Not that kind. The kind that leaves me completely revolted by the feet of strangers and near-strangers. My feet are fine, and my family's feet are fine, mostly, but I am totally grossed out by other people's.
There I was last night at McDonald's. My friend Denise and I took the kids for some nuggets fries, and go-play time. And, like the big sign on the door says, we had our kids take off their shoes but leave their socks on before entering the play apparatus. So, then, why was I treated to the sight of some fat 9-year-old's bare, sweaty, linty feet touching the very place where Jonah would put his hands only moments later? It's not even like the kid had sandals on, and spontaneously showed up at McDonald's, and had to be barefoot if he wanted to play. No! The little bugger donned his foul socks and footwear when it was time to go home!
I was once at Chuck E. Cheese's. That place is the most disguting ever. Every child but mine was barefoot, spreading tinea pedis and god knows what else on every conceivable surface before eating their nasty pizza with unwashed hands.
My foot issue goes double for acquaintances (like I said, it's not really friends) who show up at my house wearing leather shoes without socks, and then take them off upon entering. Now, on one hand, it's nice that they are attempting to observe what is clearly, judging by the piles of shoes at every entrance, the custom of my home, but, please take note: if your feet leave sweaty footprints on the tiles of my kitchen floor, just leave your shoes on. I'd rather deal with the tracks.
I remember my first Dead show --July 4, 1986, but not my last. Sometime between when I got married in September 1993 and when Jerry died in August 1995, I guess. But I went again last night for the first time in 10 or more years, and it was great.
The show was at the Meadows Music Centre, somewhere in Hartford, but I don't know where. It doesn't matter. You don't want to go there. I wish I could have found a picture of this place online, because no words can adequately convey how absolutely unattractive it is. Bumpy lawn increasingly covered with detritus; flat, ugly exterior; bright corporate ads everywhere. Hideous.
The set list is here, if you're inclined. The first set was good, but a lot of the songs were not very familiar to me, and the crowd was way too talkative for my taste. It was better once the sun went down. The second set was, as they say, blistering. Lights, etc. were minimal. Not as fun and trippy as I remember from back then.
Here are some selected vignettes:
At one point, while it was still light out, some guy bumped in to me. When I looked up, I realized that he was large, bearded, about 25, wearing a grass cowboy hat and a hula skirt, and missing one arm.
I spent the whole breaking talking about movies to some cute guy, like I was a single gal again, and that was fun.
Later in the evening, this very sweet kid, about 20, came up to me. Excuse me, ma'am he said, and already I'm dying because he ma'amed me, and I am the old hag that I've been fearing I've become. I don't want to interrupt, but I left my ATM card in the car, and I'm so so thirsty, and please, could I have a sip of your water? I figured the poor kid was dosed out of his head and I gave him the rest of the bottle. Oh, wow! Wow! That's so nice of you! You're so great. I have some pot. Do you smoke? I told him I was fine and sent him on his way, but I was pleased to see that, 10 years later, Deadheads still share. Even with old hags.
All that water I'd been drinking made me have to pee, and I was thrilled when Kelly asked if I needed to go with her to the bathroom, because, me being me, I was afraid of getting lost on my way back, but on our way out, the band broke into Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, and I got brave. I told Kelly to go on without me, that I was heading into the crowd, then to the bathroom, and I'd find her. (We were set up right near the tapers, so I figured I couldn't get too lost.) I made my way down to the front of the lawn and found a spot on a big cement platform at the top of a wall. I danced with strangers until drums/space, and it was great.
I saw a woman wearing a gauze dress and angel wings taking a shower in the bathroom sink. Then she (and her husband, who did not stop bombasting about George Bush at the top of his lungs all night long!) were very near us, and she was twirling about, and then, later, we talked, and it turned out she was really nice, and kind of like me, and we ducked the rope into the tapers' section, got away from her blabby husband and the chatty folks I'd come with, and happily danced quietly through the encore. She asked where I live...maybe we live near each other and could hang out? But we don't and so we wished each other long and happy lives and went on our way.
Here's all I want to know: How long until next summer?
Please disregard both the fuzzy quality of the picture and the glimpse of me at my 9 pm finest, wearing my pink flannel pajama bottoms, Andrew's t-shirt, and hair that had been at the pool all day, and note the groovy jewelry that Lisa's sporting on the third finger of her left hand.
No firm plans are yet in place but, fortunately, it seems that there will not be a purple organza dress in my future. I am pleased by this. I'm not quite sure how Emily is going to react to the news of a lack of a purple organza dress in her future, although I figure that Lisa can tell her that herself.
Best wishes to the happy couple!
Every quarter, Staples sends us a dividend check, based on our recent purchases. This often adds up to a tidy little sum.
This morning, after perusing a circular full of crazy back-to-school specials, Emily and I went pillaging at our local store, and came away with:
The loot will be split between home, Sunday school, Andrew's classroom, Brownies, and the local Department of Social Services, which will gladly deliver one new Bratz backpack, laden with supplies, to a little girl in need.
Don't miss Spiderman: The Peril of Doc Ock. It's a perfect companion to your study of The Brick Testament.
Poke around and have a peek at the Monty Python bit while you're there. It's a riot.
You've all seen this, right? It's totally not a joke. Word is that it's replaced the traditional bottles of Heinz in the dining rooms of the Republican-controlled Congress.
Speaking of the President, here is a very excellent quote from Ann Richards (who said of Bush, Sr. Poor George, he can't help it. He was born with a silver foot in his mouth!) about the upcoming election:
You know, for American women in a Republican majority, their president has been like a marriage that's gone from bad to worse. You know the story. The guy has a great line, he's sort of cute, he tells you that life together will be bliss, and then in a few years he's snoring on the couch while the TV blares on the fifth football game of the day and the neighbors are screaming about the yard that never gets mowed, and there's a car up on blocks in the driveway, and your household budget is just stretched to the limit, and he's spending all the money on hunting trips, a new shotgun and a camo jumpsuit, and you're standing there at the sink thinking, 'I must have been out of my mind!' So here we are, almost four years past our shotgun wedding with this White House, and like we say in Texas: Honey, it's time to split the sheets and sign the legal papers.Isn't she excellent?
I want to put a bat house up at the back of my yard in the early spring, which is apparently the time to do that. I think that bats are cool, and they have the added advantage of eating mosquitoes. Anything that eats biting bugs is ok with me.
Do you know how to tell a bat from a bird when you see them in the sky? Emily's answer to that question was that birds fly during the day and bats fly at night, and I fear that she's right, but I have a more complicated solution. Birds can glide. They go flap, flap, gliiiiiiiiiiiiiide, but bats can't, and they go flappa, flapp, flappa, flappa rather frantically. It's funny. I can tell you exactly who taught me that and when. There are only a few things like that in my head. Kim taught me to inhale cigarette smoke in the garage on Ranch Trail by showing me to gasp and say "My mother's coming!". My grandma taught me to fold a fitted sheet in her apartment in Florida. I can think of another, taught to me by Dave's friend Dan in a dorm room in Lehman Hall, but I don't care to share it.
On folding sheets, Julie promised me $10 if I could explain how this works, and teach her, but I can't. $10 to anyone else who can, because my life would be better if I could do it.
I've been walking every single morning all summer, and often after dinner as well, and I haven't lost a pound or an inch, so, other than the pleasant time with my ipod and the mellifluous voice of Frank McCourt, why am I fucking bothering?
I'm starving, and off to eat some leftover egg salad. I put some dill from the garden it it, and that was GOOOOOD. Alan, give it a shot.
After dinner, I went for a walk. We've been doing this a lot lately, my ipod and I, around the neighborhood, as part of my ongoing booty-shrinkage plan.
Often, to pass the time as I listen to the music, I scrutinize the neighbors' landscaping. Tonight, I was really admiring someone's front bed...large, lush, mulched, well-planted with pachysandra, rhododendrons and small evergreens shielding the house from the street, when I saw it...a forgotten Christmas reindeer, white wire and lights, lying dead on its side in the middle.
Sad, that.
Pam and I took a walk last night.
We started out at about 8:00 and, when we left the house, it was raining just a bit. Not drizzling, not misting. Actually raining, but so slightly, and with so many clear spots in the sky that we said Oh, the hell with it. It's going to clear up in a minute. And it did. By the time we were about halfway down the block, the rain had stopped, the air was still, and things looked promising.
We walked another block. Skies still clear, but distant thunder rumbling. Distant. We got back to my corner. Should we keep going? If we do, we're committed. There's a creek between the houses, and we can't just run through the yards to get home. Think we can beat it? Yeah, sure we can beat it.
Can you see where this is going? I thought so.
We were about two thirds of the way up the last block when we realized that the thunder no longer seemed quite so distant, and it was getting dark. Not just evening-descending dark, either. Noah-and-the-ark-storm-impending dark.
We picked up the pace.
Two houses from the end of the block, the thunder was overhead and the lightning was blinding. But still no rain.
One more house, and the rain came. Hard and fast. We yelped, but laughed, and walked along under the shelter of the overhanging branches at the side of the road.
It was time to turn, and walk the one block that we would have to cover on the busy street. The street that, every time I'm walking, I worry about. The one that makes me think If I trip, someone is going to squash me like a squirrel, and I am going to die.
The rain was coming down in sheets and shipping across the pavement. The lightning was so bright, and the thunder was so loud, and there were no more branches overhead. Completely soaked, we started jogging, if you can believe that. And we were hooting like a couple of loons.
We finally made it home, drenched and dripping. Andrew looked down at us from the top of the stairs, tossed us some towels, and asked Did you two have a nice walk?
And you know what? We did.
Tuesday was something of an anniversary for me, as my first menstrual period began 28 years ago that day. How do I know this? 7/6/76. Hard to forget.
This was back in the days of sanitary pads with belts and, I swear to you, I had them. If you can imagine, I took them with me to summer camp! Then came Tampax were even better than that!
By the way, who knew that there was a Museum of Menstruation? The internet really does have it all.
But still, I must say, I am not a big fan of getting my period. I thought that the whole no-period thing was one of the big advantages of pregnancy. There is really nothing redeeming about the entire process. It's messy and uncomfortable; I don't need it to know I'm not pregnant; and that whole part about it connecting me to womanhood through eternity is all just so much crap.
About two years ago, just after I weaned Jonah, I found the answer. Menstrual suppression through continuous birth control. I've always been a very happy and successful oral contraceptive user, and now I just skip the week off. Voila!
Now listen, I know that some of you are going to say, Hey, Terry, that can't be good for you! All I can tell you is that my doctor is supervising the entire thing, that there is lots of research available indicating that it's perfectly fine to do, and that there's even a new pill on the market designed to give women only four periods a year, as opposed to thirteen.
And I'm not the only one who's doing it.
Read the sites; check it out. It might change your life, just a little.
Incredibly, for the first time since idontknowhen, I have more to blog about than I have time to blog. I think I'll save the menstruation post for later, and give you these two things:
First, take a look at the blooming of the rare Amorphophallus Titanum at the University of Connecticut. It's only about an hour away, and I was tempted to go see it, but the description of the "aroma" has kind of put me off.
Second, something cool happened today. There is a vintage auto show in town this weekend, and everyone who owns a cool old car is tooling around in it this week. As I was pulling away from the pasta shop, red pepper pesto in hand, a man pulled into the spot next to me, and I hit the brakes. He was driving a lovingly restored 1965 Barracuda, the Dadmobile of my youth. I stopped and chatted with him for a bit. He was pleased to show off the leather interior and the elegant engine. Then I called my dad and we reminisced about the old car and he told me about a picture of it that he still had.
I as in my email when I got home. Isn't it excellent?
When I lived in New York, one of the great joys of my life was the New York Post. I didn't read it much, unless Andrew brought it home for the sports, in which case I took a peek at Page Six, but I loved walking past a bodega and catching the headline in 400 point type. That would tell me pretty much everything I needed to know about what was on the minds and lips of New Yorkers on any given day.
Today's wood, however, was not to be missed. See for yourself:
Somewhere, someone is going to be using all his powers and all his skills today, trying to turn
this: 
back into this:
.
RIP, Marlon Brando, the embodiment of incredible genius and off-the-scale wackassitude living in uneasy alliance.
Ok, you can say it: I suck. I have not been doing much of a job keeping up around here, but it's not my fault. Really!
I went to Baltimore on the 22nd, and spent most of a week there with Lisa and Adam and the kids and my mom. We went to the National Aquarium (great) and the National Zoo (not great), and met up with Karen and her kids and the much-anticipated Carollynn (big fun).
A flight home and a couple of batches of laundry later, Andrew and I got in the car and headed for three days and two nights in Boston without the kids. Really, what's better than free grandparently babysitting?
We saw Fahrenheit 9/11 (a review to follow eventually) and an interesting but not particularly compelling documentary about Al-Jazeera called Control Room. We ate clam chowder, lobster rolls, and Indian food and, one night, lobster and white wine at 10 pm. We slept late, threw our towels on the floor, and took long walks.
The most interesting thing we saw? The Holocaust memorial. The coolest? The winged death's heads on the grave stones in a churchyard cemetery. The most gorgeous? The place that I'm willing to grant almost-Paris status on my list of locations visited in this lifetime? Easy. The Boston Public Garden.
Don't I look happy and relaxed in that picture? I mean, we had internet in the hotel room, but would you have been blogging if you'd been me?
A shockingly happy and satisfactory tale of consumer satisfaction, for a change...
Ages ago, around 1988, I bought myself a table in a bag from Crate and Barrel to use during my Tanglewood picnic evenings. Best invention ever. Makes picnics entirely civilized. I even have a little tablecloth for it, with musical notes on it, courtesy of Mary and her sewing machine! But it never did work 100% right. One leg was always kind of hinky and hard to get into place properly.
In preparation for a couple of upcoming evenings at the Talcott Mountain Music Festival (think Tanglewood, but not), I went online today, ready to buy a new one. But, as I was checking out, I thought to myself Wait a minute! This is a large multi-national corporation that prides itself on customer service!
Fifteen minutes and one nice phone call later, a free new one was on its way. I was so pleased that I even asked to talk to a supervisor to put in a good word for my nice phone lady. If you ever need help from Crate and Barrel, ask for Nancy.
I'm taking the old table in a bag over to Karen and Bob; he can probably figure out some way to jigger it and make it work.
This is the message I got on echo this morning from Julie. I think she loves me.
[ ...YO!!!!!!! This message comes from dreaming @ 08:05...What can I say? I have been busy, busy, busy and don't have much to tell you, except to report on that little mash note and other miscellany.
hey, and go blog something, lazy cow.]
We took the kids to a cool thing this weekend...a historical-recreation baseball game . However, they did seem to like the playground best.
Other than that, it's been Brownies, Brownies, Brownies. We're having our first-ever Court of Awards tomorrow...a ceremony where we give them their badges and such. We had to write one up (ed: I'm not posting the whole ceremony because it's not interesting to my regular readers, but if you're a leader who googled Court of Awards and ended up here, feel free to email me and I'll forward a copy. It's nice.) I made a cool ceremonial candle ring for them to use, which should be fun. They dig pomp and circumstance. It's hiding in the garage.
Speaking of the garage, it's currently full of stuff for Saturday's tag sale. Mostly, I'm just hoping that people pay me a little money to haul off some of my crap before the basement gets finished. The only down side is that Emily has decided that she wants a little sale table of her own, which severely restricts how much of her stuff I can try to sell out from under her. But it's cute. She's really into it. She's going to sell cookies (I had to make a double batch yesterday. I seriously need the 6-quart KitchenAid. I should sell mine at the tag sale and use the money toward a new one!), Kool-Aid, and abandoned Happy Meal toys.
Only two weeks until my horde descends on Lisa's otherwise orderly world. I wonder if she really knows what she's in for. Speaking of which: Rachael, do you still have a port-a-crib in your house that Lisa could please borrow for the week, so I don't have to drag mine from here? Or is that part of your life way over and gone? I'm not really clear on how old your little one is now. Somewhere between 4 and 14, I think.
I have Ronald Reagan on the brain. All this propaganda has me confused. Was he really a bad man? Was he really a terrible President? Do I just hate him because he was a conservative Republican and therefore to be hated without further consideration? I am going to contemplate these things this week, away from the television. Either way, I'm kind of grooving on the governmental grandeur of it all. And Lisa gets a free day off!
Am I glad that we have no cicadas here, or sad? I think that I wish we could have them for a day or so, but the interminable buzzing would make me go all VanGogh.
OJ Simpson is still looking for Nicole's killers, but not as hard as before. Apparently, they were not on the 16th green, and that was that.
I'll be around...
Big day yesterday, but I can't really offer more than pictures, because I'm afraid of hurting someone's feelings via google.
Here are the salient points: Emily's dance troupe performed. She was, obviously, fabulous, and cute as can be. See those pants? I had to take them to the tailor to get shortened. No mere mortal can sew on super-stretch green polyester.
Emily won a round of the cakewalk. The kids walk in a circle and, when the music stops, each kid is on a number. Then, I guess, a number is pulled from a hat and, if it's your number, you got to choose a cake from the PTO room. She picked a giant frosted soccer field (the pretty cakes are one of the advantages of going early) and we left it at school for her to share with her class today. Made her a superstar, I did. She brought home the leftovers, which were very well-received.
Then came the moment for which I will surely burn for all eternity. Remember when I was all bummed because I couldn't show you all the quilted jacket because I had no camera in my bag? Well, this time, I was there to take a picture of the dance recital! When this woman, who I am sure is a fine and kind and decent human being, crossed my path, I pretended to take a picture of Emily, just so I could share the vision with you. I wonder if you can appreciate the full beauty of the sneakers, which were not just pink, but pink and white checked. And it's a running suit! Where do you think she ran last? Anyway.
So much news from Matt and Katie this morning! Civilian deaths in Iraq, a court martial for Jeremy Sivits, some kid who nearly got eaten by an alligator, and coverage of the 9/11 Comission hearings in New York City.
Rudy Giuliani testified and, apparently, was heckled by members of victims' families. They felt that he was being thrown softball questions and that he wasn't getting to any of the tough stuff. Most notable to me, however, was his appearance. Notice anything different than it so famously used to be?
Wise decision, sir.
Rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated. I have not, in fact, fallen off the planet. I have, however, fallen into the black hole that is end of May/beginning of June. Oof!
The weekend in New York was at least as fun as hoped. We spent much of the time saying, "I am having the best time!" "No, I am having the best time!" Much purchasing and eating ensued.
The weekend was marred only by a phone call that started with "Don't panic. Everything's fine. But we're at the emergency room." Nothing good starts that way, really. Turns out that Jonah fell down the stairs and needed three stitches in his forehead. They're out now and he's fine. My friend Karen took Andrew and Jonah to the hospital and walked them through the whole thing, which was a great comfort from 200 miles away. Rarely have I been so grateful for any given friend at any given moment as I was for her that night. Thanks, Karen.
When I got back, I hit the ground running...Emily's dance recital is coming up and her polyester costume needs shortening; I had book club; two rounds of speech therapy; we had a Brownie meeting and participated in a Walk for Hunger (fun!); there was the last instructional day at Sunday School and a teacher appreciation luncheon; I made an end-of-year slideshow for the town-wide Girl Scout leader dinner; I volunteered to cook a meal for a school family that has a dad (31 years old...pleaseGodkeepitawayfromme) with colo-rectal cancer; I have a freelance project due at the end of the month; oh, and I've invited 27 people for a barbecue on Memorial Day weekend.
But on to bigger and better things...
Gay people are full citizens in Massachusetts today.
Gwyneth Paltrow has named her daughter after a fruit pie.
This guy is way crazy and ready to go to jail.
Other people didn't, but I loved The Sopranos last night. Especially the part when Tony reached behind the toilet tank for a gun that wasn't there.
I had an excellent wine in New York that is, apparently, not available in the U.S, and I'm pissed.
That's it from here...Keep an eye out...I'm around and I'll be writing more here soon.
Forgive my absence. I've been, and still am, ill.
It started with a big puffy red eye, remember? Well, according to the doctor, that was an allergy attack. Some pollen in my eye.
It then morphed into a full-blown sinus infection, complete with swollen glands and fever and all that, and requiring giant horse pills, which gave me, shall we say, digestion issues.
From there, it moved into my throat, inflating my tonsils like balloons, and inviting some viruses (not bacteria, which would have been killed by the horse pills, oh no!) to move in on said tonsils, creating giant pustulent colonies! You do not want to know about my breath, despite the constant and compulsive brushing of my teeth.
The worst part? The insult to my injury? The swollen uvula. Uvula? You know, that hangy-downy thing in the back of your throat. Something in my freakish genetic code makes mine swell to about four times its normal size a couple of times a year. It's the most unpleasant sensation. Makes me feel like I'm choking on my own flesh. I googled "uvula" to put up a funky picutre for you guys, but all I got was either medical diagrams or photos of freaks who, for reasons unfathomable, found it necessary to have their uvulas (uvulae?) pierced and/or bifurcated. Be glad I did this for you. Now you don't have to do it for yourself.
But I do seem to be on the other side of this. Fever's down, eyes are white, uvula is near normal size, and I haven't needed a nap yet this morning. All of this is critical, as I am spending the weekend in New York with a friend, and that is non-negotiable. On the agenda:
Scroll down the sidebar for some updated information on the fun and games in Iraq.
Someone needs to tell Senator Lautenberg that chickenhawk has more than one meaning.
Even I wouldn't call Dick Cheney that!
I have another new phrase for us all today, and I love it. It's shamelessly stolen from a clip of Janeane Garafaolo that I saw this weekend.
First, you should know this: I swear a lot, and I have a fondness for vulgar penis-talk. I'm sure that this horrifies my parents to learn, but it's true. I prefer the phrase "pain in the balls" to "pain in the ass," and I think that there are times that "dicksizing" is just the verb I need.
I once had a friend stop speaking to me because I told him to suck my dick. Probably I shouldn't have done that, but believe me when I tell you that, even though I don't remember what led up to it, I'm sure he had it coming. In fact, he has it coming again! If I ran into him on the street today, I'd tell him the same thing. (ed: Blair, whose last name has been edited at his request, if you google yourself and end up here, [well, we've all seen it and know what it said].)
So then, imagine my mirth when the joke ended with someone being referred to as low man on the scrotum pole.
How funny is that? Let's all try to make sure we say it sometime soon.
David Stern and Ted Turner are in cahoots againts me.
You see, Mondays are big housework evenings around here. Usually, I fold the laundry while standing at the kitchen table, watching Law & Order reruns on TNT for the umpteenth time (it really was the brother! he wanted the diamonds!), as Mondays are a wasteland in the primetime network lineup. I think that the programmers are scared to get us hooked on anything in the off-season, sure that we will defect as soon as Monday Night Football returns. It's alright. As previously noted around these parts, you can do worse than Jerry Orbach. But now, these two rich men, who don't know jack about women who need mindless entertainment in order to do chores, have colluded to poison my mind.
For the past several weeks, and I'm sure for months to come, TNT has been showing NBA playoff games every single night of the bloody week, and in prime time. This means that tonight, it's back to The Swan.
It's not my fault. Really. I'm like Malcolm McDowell at the end of Clockwork Orange.
It's been gorgeous (gorgeous!) here since the sun came out in the middle of the week, and clearly everyone is feeling it. The whole neighborhood is hopping with people at work on the exteriors of their homes for the first time in six months. The next door neighbor put in a big cement slab and a fancy basketball hoop, so the guys have been rejoicing all day. At about noon, there were no fewer than seven children and four adults in their driveway, watching its erection (heh heh erection heh heh).
We went out for ice cream last night...the farm stand has not only opened for the season, it has expanded its windows from two to four. Woo hoo! Jonah flatly refused his cone until I finally threw it out. Then, in the car, he took a look at Emily's and started shouting "CWEEM!" Ah, life with a two year old.
We're off to picnic in the park with two other families tonight, but I'll be bringing some warm layers. When the sun goes in, it's chilly. Sleeping is good.
I figure it should be about one more week before Andrew starts whining about wanting to turn on the central air.
I am going to try to fit two new phrases into my conversations today.
The first has to do with my well-publicized politics. I was thinking last night about Presidential elections and what I came up with was this: the Democrats could bloody well run J. Fred Muggs this year and I would vote for him. Most years, really.
I'm not so much a Democrat as I am an Anti-Republican.
The second phrase on my mind today comes from Mimi Smartypants, who says that she finds the term all day mom "[vastly preferable] to 'stay-at-home mom'---it's a baby, not a house-arrest ankle bracelet." Yes, yes, yes, I know that the moms who go to work are also all-day moms, but in a different way, ok?
Big tv night last night. Bill! Whoda thunk it? I had Kwame picked all the way. And the end of Kathy! I think Boston Rob is going to go far, for those who care, but that the big jury speech scene on the finale is going to be more vicious than Sue having at Richard at the end of Season One. I'm planning on sticking around for the rest of Survivor's season just to see it be Lex who fucks Rob in the end, not the other way around. Good old Rob, so smart to last this long, but so stupid to create a jury of people who hate him. And the end of Jon Peter Lewis, too! now if they can just pick off that redheaded kid, who seems very nice and all, but who just should not be singing on television, I can take my fingers out of my ears. God, why am I watching all this crap? I should shoot my tv and read War and Peace instead.
Well, whatever. A person can only think so many thoughts in a day, you know?
Speaking of television...how weird is this? One of the guys who I see on tv each morning, reporting from Baghdad (!!) is David Wright from my AP English class. Sort of disorienting, that.
And from High School, the mind jumps to this factoid...Jasper, the AFS student from Denmark who lived with my dad and mom and Lisa in 1985 or so (I was off at college), spent this past week visiting my dad and Mary at their retirement condo in Florida, with his wife and two kids. Obladi, oblada, indeed.
And finally, from Jasper, the mind takes me to Denmark and from there to danish breakfast pastry. I'd like one, please. Cheese. Alone, in a café, with a book, my ipod, a pack of Marlboro Lights, and several cups of steaming coffee. See that hot young French guy at the next table? I think he's cruising me.
Hausfrau, out!
Good news. I no longer have to prattle on about the utter stupidity of the nation's current diet craze. This guy has done it for me.
Click on the Fat-kins link, and thank Alan for the pointer.
Oh, and did I show you all the link Lisa pointed me to last week? Satan, vomit, and bunnies. What more do you need to know? See for yourself.
The internet is like the yin to Ivory Soap's yang. Where Ivory is "99 44/100 per cent pure," the internet is 99 44/100% bullshit, this site included. But once in a while, something transcends.
We all know, a million hours of combined lost time later, that it's impossible to tell where following a series of links will lead you. Porn, usually. But last night, one thing led to another, and I ended up in Chernobyl, on a motorcycle ride with a woman named Elena.
Follow this link when you have a little time. It's one of the most fascinating things I've ever seen.
I forgot to tell you all about the foot-in-mouth experience I had over the weekend. It was awful, kind of.
We went out for dinner with a couple from temple and their kids. We were looking forward to it...they have a daughter Emily's age, and a young son, and they are our age, and Jewish, and from L.A., which I figured meant they were, you know, oovy-groovy, and like minded and kind of funky.
So there we are, eating our chips and drinking our margaritas, and I make some crack about how there are "no Republicans in L.A." And she kind of looks at him. I should have stopped there, I know. But I couldn't believe it. And I said, "Well, surely, you must be like our friend Sam, who is a Republican, but mostly because he agrees with their economic policies."
Nope.
At this point, the door is opened, and I can't close it. For the next 20 or so minutes, we are engaged in dialogue with a man who pretty clearly has gotten most of his points of view while listening to conservative talk radio in the car. I heard about "family values," "bootstrapping," and why Jews are better than "those people." (Strong families and value on education, apparently.) I heard about why Affirmative Action is a joke, why abortion is abhorrent, and why we don't owe anyone anything for something that happened to their ancestors 200 years ago. This Nice Jewish Guy has no issue with his party of choice being completely aligned with the Christian right. He sees it as having no effect on him or his family. Or on the party's policies and practices, I think.
It reminded me of this date that Sharon had once, back in the day. She went out with this guy who, on paper, seemed perfect...he was Jewish, a doctor, liked the sports she liked, all that. Then they went out to dinner (to a nice place, she was excited!) and he proceeded to tell her about everything he thought was wrong with homosexuals, including his opinion that gay people should not be allowed to be teachers. He will forever be known between us as Dr. GayBash.
I really am trying to learn from this experience, and to believe that it would be best to avoid politics in causal settings. But there's a part of me that thinks that maybe I shouldn't change. I mean, what if we had gone on three family dates with this couple, fallen in love with them, and then found out he was a Nazi?
Nothing good in the news today...
First, I have to worry that, if I move to Georgia, I can't get my labia pierced.
Next, the Senate has apparently decided that fetuses are people, at least during the commission of a crime, which makes me wonder how long until they're people during the commission of a medical procedure.
Then, I have to worry about Tom Cruise, who is apparently in the midst of some L. Ron Hubbard-fueled housekeeping frenzy and has broken up with Penelope Cruz and dumped his long-time publicist, all in one month.
And finally there's this.
I can barely speak.
At a meeting last night, I was gifted with a free copy of One World, One Heart, a book of healing and inspriational poetry by Susan Polis Schutz. She's the same woman who writes most of the insides of those watercolory cards with long missives about how things wil get better if you just listen to the quiet silence of your heart. That stuff. I think that this book is her response to September 11. Allow me to share a sample:
We all cry the same tears
tears of fright
tears of sadness
tears of loss
tears of frustration
tears of dissapointment
tears of lonliness
Lands are flooded with our tears
We need one another's
kindness, cooperation, trust and respect
to survive
My favorite part is how there is no punctuation at all, except for a random Capital Letter. It's kind of like Emily's poetry that way.
In the end, over a watercolor of two happy people, at sunset, of course, enjoying a campfire, we are reminded:We must make the world
a place where
love dominates our hearts
nature sets the standard for beauty
simplicity and honesty are
the essence of our relationships
kindness guides our actions
and everyone respects one another
So, let us go forth into the world with love in our hearts today, my dear readers, changed for some free inspirational poetry.
An all-around ok day today. I took Jonah to his baby gym class, despite the giant goose egg that he got on his head yesterday when he took a flying leap off of the ottoman and into the edge of the coffee table. Janna called tonight, and she says, "If your kid gets bumped and looks like Barney Rubble, that's a good thing."
Other than that, i've been working on the Sunday School class Passover Cookbook all day. A thrill a minute around here.
I got pointed to a couple of nice links today, and thought I'd pass them along.
The first offers instruction to old-time mac users about how to make your finder create a new folder with the good old apple-N command. If you want to do it but can't figure out the apple script stuff, send me some email.
The second is just internet weirdness, sent by Lisa. Don't miss "Amy's Diary."
Alan dyed his hair red. I sent my mom the link, mostly so she could tease him about the time in high school or college when he wanted to dress for Halloween as this obscure weird British singer and accidentally colored his hair tangerine.
Anyway, I'm around this week, but so so busy. Story time and speech therapy for Jonah; Brownies and a library class for Emily; and a dinner party on Friday night.
Later, gators.
For those of you reading along, yes, I did call Whitney Houston a crack whore in the previous post. But then I had this weird daydream in which her manager or her cousin or something saw it and called her and she sicced her legal eagles on me, suing me for slander or libel or defamation or whatever, freeing my children from the burden of studying for final exams, and rendering me homeless.
So I edited it.
Whitney, if you're looking, I don't really think you are a crack whore, but you do pretty much look like a rich one these days.
Scary billionaire multi-platinum crack-whore-look-alike Whitney Houston has checked into rehab.
Just thought you'd want to keep up.
John Ashcroft is in the hospital with an "extremely painful and sometimes dangerous, but rarely life-threatening" condition. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, say I. Mostly, I'm just hoping that he's completely hooked on smack by the time he gets out and has to contend with a lengthy and public stint in rehab, scrubbing Betty Ford's toilets with his toothbrush.
Thursday is now officially the best night of television, except for the part about ER sucking. And The Apprentice is better than Survivor. It's excellent. Check it out if you haven't yet.
Did I mention that my digital camera got dropped to the floor and is now off at Canon Camp, being examined and, likely, repaired at an exhorbitant price? well, it is. Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because, today at the coffee shop, I felt its absence so agonizingly. Rather than being able to pull it out of my bag and snap a photo for you all to see what I saw, I now have to rely on my descriptive superpowers (Form of an adjective! Shape of a modifier!) to share the moment with all of you.
There was this woman. I only saw her from the back. I guess she was about 60, but she might have been one of those suburban matrons who look either better or worse for the wear. Let's say somewhere between 55 and 75. Her hair was "blond" and sprayed so that it wouldn't have moved in a hurricane. She was wearing a quilted jacket. The back was made of four squarish panels, each sewn in a "crazy quilt" kind of way...not much rhyme or reason to it. All of the fabrics were in the cool-but-hot family of colors. One had big royal blue flowers on it. One was -- I don't know what to call it, not batik, but batik-like, probably done with salt -- with something that looked like a cascading magenta waterfall on it. The binding at the collar, waist, and wrists, was all bright violet. And, here's the best part: she was carrying a bag to match. It would seem that one accessory in this look was not adequate. She needed two.
I was trying to imagine my self, harumphy-rumphy years from now, having traded in my jeans and black t-shirts for a look like that and, well, I couldn't. I think they're going to wheel me into the dining hall at the old folks home in a pair of Levi's and a black t-shirt. Although, hopefully, by then, my shirt won't have splatters of oil all over it. Maybe just a little drool or some oatmeal.
All I can say is that, if you ever see me dressed like that, you shoot me. Because it's not me. The pods have arrived.
Not Shlomit, who at only 7 correct responses, brought up the rear of the pack this year. To her credit, however, she was one of the only people who got the Best Live Action Short Film correct.
drum roll, please....
This year's big winner is Cori, who, as the only currently lactating one among us, can most afford the extra calories.
Lisa and Sarah each went for 17, but that was not good enough to beat Cori, who got 18.
Cori, send your address and cookie choice via email at your convenience. With a little luck, I'll bake on Thursday and get them in the mail before I leave for Florida this weekend.
Everyone who has ever forwarded me anything knows how violently opposed I am to internet humor. But once in a while...
While attending a marriage seminar on communication, Wally and his wife Carolyn listened to the instructor declare, "It is essential that husbands and wives know the things that are important to each other."Meanwhile, in other humor news, Andrew is obsessed with the commercials for Cialis, a new erectile dysfunction medication. The part that's tickling his funny bone is the list of possible unpleasant side effects, which apparently can include anything from a headache and a stuffy nose to an erection lasting more than four hours, for which emergency room treatment is recommended. Andrew says that a four-hour erection sounds painful, indeed, and that his longest erection was one whole math period in 8th grade when Russet Lederman wore a new sweater.*He addressed the men, "Can you describe your wife's favorite flower?"
Wally leaned over, touched Carolyn's arm gently and whispered,
"Pillsbury All-Purpose, isn't it?"
And thus began Wally's life of celibacy.
*ed: That's a punch line, not the gospel truth.
What I was thinking: It's too fucking cold, my father-in-law might need chemotherapy, and my kid just crapped his pants.
What I said: Fine, thanks. You?
Yesterday, I was trying to pry apart some plastic containers, and they were stuck, and finally they separated with a thwack!, and the top one, which had a hard thin rim, not a thick rolled rim, whacked me in the face and gave me a line-like bruise above and through my upper lip. It looks either like I am dirty or like I had a cleft palate repaired, depending on the light.
Loved Sex and the City last night. Loved it. Totally satisfying (whenever I say "satisfying," I hear John Malkovich doing that over-the-top Russian accent in Rounders). Best final episode since Newhart (I looked for a link, but either you get that or you don't. Your problem, not mine). About halfway through the pre-game show, during the segment about the City as the "Fifth Lady," I begged Andrew to take me home, much like Carrie would in about an hour. Mostly when I do this, he rolls his eyes. New York is like the Newhart joke that way: either you get it or you don't. Mostly, he doesn't. The funny thing is that, since we moved, he's been back about a million times more than I have. No fair, but probably better for our bank account, as the City brings out the Spendy in me.
Great news! Phone just rang! No cancer!!!! What a relief for everyone.
I've put on nearly 10 pounds and feel like a sausage in my pants. That internet Phentermine is sounding better and better every day.
Later, gators.
Hey, everybody...time for the 2004 (or is it 2003, since it's the 2003 movies? whatever.) Oscar Pool.
Here's how it works. Make sure your picks are in my inbox any time before the actual start of the Oscar telecast at 8:00 Eastern time on Sunday night. You have to make a pick in every single category, even if you don't have the slightest idea with it really means. You only get one chance, so make sure you're happy with your picks when you hit that Send button. No waffling! I hate waffling. I love waffles, but that's different.
The winner gets a batch of cookies of his or her choice (make it reasonable, I'm not making any goddamn tuiles) sent next week via Priority Mail, a mention here on my ultra-popular and widely read website, and bragging rights for the next 364 or so days.
We got back from Boston (details about that to come later, when vacation is over and my life is once again my own) yesterday at about 3:00. By 3:30, I had walked into a chair leg so hard that I am reasonably certain that I broke the fourth toe on my right foot. Now, nearly 24 hours later, it's become a veritable rainbow of a hematoma, has swollen like one of the Queen's sausage rools, and remains excruciating.
As you gaze upon the stunning lividity of the bruise, please be kind enough to realize that I was not expecting to share photographs of my feet this week, and skip the comments about the raggedy state of my pedicure.
In other words: sympathy comments only, thank you.
It's Julie's birthday today...
I got you something special.
Various internet noodlings today brought me to a website at which we can watch One Got Fat, one of the trauma films of my youth.
Officer Friendly showed us this film year after year, or maybe it was just one mind-searing year that felt like more, at the Maple West Bike Rodeo. Here's the upshot: a bunch of kids dressed like monkeys take sack lunches and go on a bike ride. One by one, they do stupid things and get hit by cars and killed until one cautious little monkey is left and he gets to eat everyone else's lunch. Not one monkey, even the cautious one, is wearing a helmet, preferring instead such interesting chapeaux as porkpie hats and watchcaps, but it was the 70's after all, and no one thought to put something between their heads and the pavements back then.
The monkeys are hideous and frightful, and right up there with the minions of the Wicked Witch of the West.
Enjoy the show.
Remember when Alan turned 40? I sent him a boring present, but made up for it with flowers.
Sometimes the right thing comes along at the wrong time. Here (not work friendly) is what I should have gotten him.
Happy birthday, Glen.
Andrew's employer reimburses for birth control every six month. What this means is that, every few weeks, I lay out about $35 and then, twice a year, I get a check for $250 that feels like found money.
So, on my bulletin board is this check, and it's been calling my name. Last night, for what reason I can't really tell you, I decided to use most of it to buy the bread and butter plates for my china set. I'm not really planning on serving anything formal in the next fifteen minutes, but we never did complete our set, and the pattern is discontinued, and I figured better we spend $185 now than more down the road. Bye bye check.
Then today, after going to the party store for some Valentine's Day paraphernalia, I was driving along, daydreaming about what on Earth am I going to get Andrew for Valentine's Day?, when
I hit the curb so hard that it rattled my teeth in my head.
I got out of the car and took a look, sure I had knocked off a hubcap or something. But no. I had torn a gash in the side wall of the tire. It wasn't punctured, but even I could see that it was problematic, this new flap. Fortunately, Town Fair Tire was nearly across the street, so I brought them the car, paid them $158, asked them to drop me off at the grocery store so I could shop while they fixed it, and that was that.
I spent my windfall twice.
You know what? Winter is boring me to death. I am sick of putting coats and mittens and boots and hats and scarves on my kids, sick of scraping the ice away from the garage door, sick of shoveling the walk, sick of hauling up the wood for the fireplace, and sick of being cold and in the dark. I am sick of soup, sick of rock salt, and sick of citrus fruit. I am sick of socks, sick of dry skin, and sick of screwing under the blankets.
So, goodbye, cruel northeast. I've decided to take off for Bora Bora in the morning. I'll be flying first class and staying at the Hotel Bora Bora, which I don't really know anything about, but it looks nice on the website. I'm going snorkeling every morning, getting a spa service every afternoon, and eating and drinking like a complete horsepig every night. I'm charging the whole thing.
I'll send you a postcard.
Small news, but good news. It's a new West Wing tonight. Even though it sucks now that Thomas Schlamme and Aaron sorkin have left, it still beats the pants off of more Law and Order reruns.
Rerun-wise, you know I keep the tv on a lot during the day. A lot. Like the entire time that Jonah's napping. What can I say, I am not a solo flyer. Anyway, I have given up my soaps lately for TNT's (dare I say it? I dare!) Primetime in the Daytime lineup. I've seen all of the NYPD Blues and the ERs several times, and almost all of the Law and Orders. But now they've added Judging Amy, which, since it's on the Geriatric Network CBS, I had never seen. It's not bad, really. Mostly what I like about it is Tyne Daly, who plays a social worker filled with rage and righteous (is there any other kind?) indignation. If you need some filler at noon while you're washing dishes or nursing a baby, you could do worse.
Fuck Mapquest. I took Jonah on an excursion to a library two towns over this morning so we could take out a copy of Ric Burns's brilliant documentary Coney Island. I want to show the part about the preemie babies at book club next week. (Alan, remember the night we first saw this? I do.) Of course, between my crappy sense of navigation and Mapquest's crappy directions, I got royally lost. I was running on empty for miles, but happily found a gas station. Incredibly, not only could I not stick my credit card in the pumps, but they had dials on them. Ah, life in the country. At least the man there got me back on track.
The cleaning lady is here as we speak, which is more good news. Keeping the salt and sand off of my floors has been a Sisyphean task. At least if I lived at the beach, that wold be a task worth doing. I spent my entire childhood tormented by my fear of my mother's desire to get the hell out of Buffalo, which would have destroyed my life as I knew it, not that it was so worth keeping, but it was all I had. Now, every day between about December and April, that desire is so utterly clear to me that, really, I can't figure out why, except for the crappy schools, we don't live in Boca. I think about moving every day. Of course, if I think everyone here (including me) dresses like a slob (think denim and Merrells, 9 months a year) compared to the girls in Manhattan, there it would just be worse. I think I'd wear my same ripped denim shorts every single day. But I'd be tan and thin and have a decent pedicure, so who would care?
A few points of interest to share:
After hearing what L. told Andrew last night and then checking in at Howard's blog today, I need to say two things:
1. Having a two-year old with a broken femur must just suck...hope he's better soon.
and
2. Don't miss this one.
This is a true story.
Last night, I was making miso soup for dinner. Oddly, Emily likes it. Don't ask me how this came to pass, because I don't exactly understand, but it has something to do with my friend Kelly. Andrew was taking Emily to her 5:15 dance class, which is right next to the smallest of the local groceries -- not a place to do a week's worth of shopping, but fine to grab a couple of items.
I gave him a list: roast turkey breast, garbage bags, broccoli, and scallions.
"Scallions?"
"Yes, scallions. Green onions. You know what they are. They're about a foot long, green at one end, white at the other, kind of hairy at the root."
"You want one?
"They come in bunches. I want one bunch. Scallions! You know, green onions. They look like this," I said, making a rudimentary sketch on the grocery list.
"Oh, green onions! Why didn't you say 'green onions'"?
So, off they went. And, eventually, they came home. And he hands me the grocery bag.
Turkey? Check.
Garbage bags? Not our usual brand, but check.
Broccoli? Check.
"What's this?"
"Green onions."
"No."
"It's not?"
"No, honey. This is parsley."
Curly parsley, to boot.
Here are some ways that you can be sure that it's a whole new year, aside from just taking a peek at that new calendar on the wall:
I had one today. Or at least what passes for one around here. I think that what constitutes a really excellent day varies so much from person to person, and from year to year, but here was mine:
The earache woke me at about 7:30, but it wasn't too bad. Plus, I'd had some of my beloved Tylenol PM at bedtime, so I'd slept like a log for about 7 hours, and I was fine.
The good part about being up at 7:30 was that I was alone. Emily had spent the night at her grandparents', and Andrew and Jonah were sawing wood. Now, this may not sound like much to you but, let me tell you, around here, solitude is at a premium.
I had been meaning all vacation to get caught up on cutting my Brownie video, but hadn't gotten to it, and it was nagging at me. Each year, I take a series of digital photos and some video and, thanks to the magic that is iMovie, iTunes, iPhoto, and iDVD, I make a movie for my girls. It's truly a labor of love, as it takes easily 50 hours of work to produce, and it's much easier if I keep up with it over the course of the year. But, like so many things, that's easier to intend than to accomplish. So, after dressing for exercise (also easier to intend than to accomplish), I sat down to cut my film, just for a few minutes. And a few more, and a few more, and a few more.
Three hours later, I stopped. The sheer luxury of three uninterrupted and totally focused hours to work is hard to describe. At one point during this, Lisa called to talk to me about her various aural ailments, but I mostly grunted at her and then hung up. I was concentrating, Man. It was great.
Jonah was still sleeping, so I woke Andrew, who was interested in some daytime nookie, a commodity even more rare and precious than 60 consecutive minutes to do as I please without interrruption. Also great.
Soon it was time for Andrew to pick Emily up from Bobbie, so I plugged in a tape for Jonah and cleaned the upstairs...put away laundry, generally caught up on chores. This always lowers my stress level and makes me feel like I am not too behind the curve, so I was pleased to do it.
When Andrew and Emily came home, I fed the kids, and then, somehow, incredibly, they both managed to play cooperatively or independently and not bug me too much all afternoon. Shelly called, and we talked about everything and nothing for an hour or more while I cleaned and reorganized the freezer and my spice pantries. Boring chores, yes, but I was please to cross them off my mental list. Shelly was cleaning out files. We both agreed that the chitchat made the jobs go faster and tried to figure out how to schedule regular time for this new activity.
A couple of days ago, Andrew and I decided that we wanted to have a date tonight. We were going to have the sitter come at 7 or so, but then I had a brainstorm...why pay her to come after we've already done all the work? We rescheduled and had her come at 4:00, so she could play with the kids, feed them, and put them to bed. Perfect!
We went to the 5:20 showing of House of Sand and Fog. It was great. Great. Stop reading this and go now great. It was so so so sad, but just my favorite kind of movie -- about tremendous things happening in the lives of tiny people (average folks, not midgets, for the literal-minded among you). Events get set in motion, and people get carried along, despite their efforts to effect change. The performances were terrific, especially Ben Kingsley's, which had me sobbing in my seat, but not in that Terms of Endearment Lump Under the Young Mother's Arm kind of way. Only Ron Eldard didn't do much for me, but maybe the part was kind of shallowly written. Or maybe he's just bland.
We got some Chinese takeout, paid the sitter, and ate dinner. Andrew went up to work for a while, and my mother-in-law called. She was very complimentary about Emily's behavior, which was nice to hear, and didn't seem to get offended (even laughed at the joke!) when I told her that I thought no possible good could come from her now owning a home with an alarm system, technospacker that she is. It's only a matter of time before the police show up, guns drawn, while she and Mike frantically punch at the keypad.
Soon after she hung up, Alan called. Perfect! With last season's Sopranos finale in the background -- not too much attention required -- more blabbing took place. Andrew wandered downstairs and found me on the love seat, dishes done, one pillow behind my head, another under my knees, lights down low, headset on, gabbing away.
I feel like I've had a 14 hour massage.
Turns out I gave myself Swimmer's Ear, known in more fancy circles as Otitis Externa.
If you scroll down, you'll note that this particular ailment is most often found in frequent swimmers and "chronic q-tip abusers." Guess which one I am.
Apparently, I scraped away too much of some kind of protection and made a bacteria-friendly environment.
Meanwhile, I feel like crap, I think I'm getting a fever, and it's hard to eat or sleep. The best part is that, apparently, I'm not only uncomfortable, but an idiot as well. I did it all on my own.
The thing is that I love a good ear fucking q-tip experience. I love it so much that, somehow, a couple of years back, I developed excema in my ears. And the excema itches. And guess what's the best way to scratch that particular itch? Right! More ear fucking q-tipping.
That whole "don't put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear" thing means nothing to me. I know better, oh ho.
The other night, after a particularly enthusiastic reaming, I noticed that my ear hurt just a bit. By morning, it hurt A LOT. And it felt like it was filled with fluid.
For once, I took my husband's approach and ignored it. I figured it would just somehow miraculously fix itself. I don't understand why, but that approach only works for Andrew. His ear would have healed on its own. Mine just got screamingly worse.
Thank God for my friendly bottle of Tylenol PM and a 3:15 appointment at the doctor's office today.
I don't really have anything that witty or pithy to share today, but it's been more than a week, and I do want you to know that I'm alive.
The holidays have been bu-sy. The good part is that, mostly, I've managed to call in a lot of entertaining chits, and we've been going to other people, rather than having them come here. For me, a Hostess with the Mostest, that's a nice change.
I got not one, not two, but count 'em three fondue sets as gifts this year. There must be something in the air.
The kids are still working their way through the pile of Chanukah gifts, as we didn't want to give them too much too fast. Julie, that's why they haven't thanked you yet.
My freezer is entirely devoid of baked goods. Shocking, I know. Everyone seemed to enjoy their gifts, even my friend Mary, who referred to my cookie tray and the accompanying card as "anal," which I thought was Not So Nice.
Our friend Alan (the Other Alan, not our buddy here on the blog) came to visit and brought his 18 month old Golden Retreiver named, not too aptly, Einstein. That dog is sweet, but is pretty much 90 pounds of "Hey, what's that? I'd better put it in my mouth and investigate."
Andrew's dad was here overnight last night. Always nice to see him, and enjoy a nice restaurant dinner in the process. I think he likes hanging out here, which is a nice feeling. His step-children and their families live fairly upscale and rarified lives, and I think he likes how normal and homey it is here. I feel kind of validated when he's around. (Ed: How many times can I say "nice" in one paragraph? Excellent use of vocabulary, Terry.)
Nothing doing here tonight for New Year's Eve. We called in all those chits just a bit too soon, I guess. It's fine, really. Although Andrew did suggest cleaning out the basement, and I do feel like I've got to draw the line there. There's only so lame I can stand being.
Anyway, I'll be here sporadically for the rest of the week.
Come back Monday for discussion of how I am determined not to be such a big fat blob in 2004.
There can be no other possible explanation for this:
By Ian MohrNEW YORK (Hollywood Reporter) - Lesley Ann Warren (news) is teaming with an ensemble cast that includes Jack Klugman (news), Michael Lerner, Shiri Appleby (news) and Mili Avital (news) for the indie comedy "When Do We Eat."
The story revolves around a Passover seder at which the family patriarch is slipped a dose of Ecstasy by one of his kids, "igniting conflict and chaos on the way to healing and redemption," said producer Steven J. Wolfe ("Twin Falls Idaho").
'Tis the season...for teacher gifts. Here's what I've gotten, from various Brownies and Sunday school students:
I've gotten two...Julie sent me a much-desired fondue pot, which I am very excited about using.
But, last night, as I was wrapping all the presents for shipping and putting them in their boxes, and complaining about what a hassle it is to get all that into the post office with a two-year old for a playmate, Andrew volunteered for the job. It's a total crap detail, and I couldn't be more grateful to get off the hook, especially since they were all for my friends and family.
On the other hand, I did all of the shopping for his, but still.
What a guy.
Holiday presents are entirely wrapped, except for a couple of outstanding orders that I am still awaiting shipment on.
Tonight is the big Brownie Sock Hop, and I am ready to go, with everything packed up and on the dining room table.
The laundry is caught up and, if you can believe it, put away.
I'm getting a haircut tomorrow and, if I get to it, making the latkes for next week tomorrow night, then freezing them. Karen says it works fine.
Sunday is, Sunday school and then the Mountain Farms Cookie Swap. My cookies are made and in the freezer, and the cheese and crackers have been purchased.
Sunday night, I'll be moving the diaper table in front of the tv so I can watch the second half of Angels in America while I pack the boxes that need shipping. Lisa, by the way, says that she has "so many freaking cookies in [her] freezer," and I shouldn't send her any. If anyone else on the shipping distribution list (you knwo who you are) wants out, just say so. More for me.
So, in a nutshell, I seem to have gotten ahead of the Dreaded Month of Hectic, at least for the moment.
But you don't want to know what our calendar looks like.
If it were up to me, I'd remake the calendar. I'd eliminate the last week of November and all of December, and just rename that time period The Dreaded Month of Hectic.
Meanwhile, I have not forsaken you all. I have just been living in The Dreaded Month of Hectic. Let's see, when last we spoke, it was Thursday. Let me take a few minutes now to catch you up on what's been going on...
On Friday, I went grocery shopping. Only I forgot my wallet. Incredibly, I was able to use my superpowers to convince the store manager, who sees me there every week, that this was not the week that I was planning on stealing my cart full of groceries, that I really did know my credit card number by heart, and that they should just let me key the fucking thing in, as there was a blizzard on the way and a cranky toddler in the cart with all of the groceries.
Speaking of the blizzard that was on the way, my other main occupation that day was to angst about Emily's birthday party, scheduled for 1:00 on Saturday. Would we have it? Call it off? Have it? Call it off? Have it? Call it off? (You get the idea.)
After whatever I made that passed for dinner Friday night, I went to Tina's, drank a great bottle of wine and watched the snow fall. And fall. And fall. And fall. (Again, you get the idea.)
Saturday morning, the choice was clear. We got Emily up and broke the news. To her credit, she took it like a cowboy. Her pain was eased by a few early birthday presents and the two friends who came over to play and bake cookies. I used my paste coloring to make them a rainbow of icing colors, and taught them how to blend colors with sharp pointy sticks (fear not: no eyes were lost), and they made some rather psychedelic treats.
That night, Karen and Bob had my family and Tina's family over for an impromptu blizzard party. She clearly went to some effort to make a nice dinner and entertain us in style. What a treat for me to be the guest for once, showing up with nothing more than a wheel of brie, a bottle of wine, and a tray of the aforementioned cookies.
Later, Karen and Tina and I hung out at Tina's house. We tried to play some Trivial Pursuit, as I had the new edition, only guess what: Trivial Pursuit is a boring game. So we quit.
Lazy day on Sunday: shoveling, playing in the snow, wathcing Brigadoon with Emily, making dinner, blah, blah, blah.
Monday, fortunately, the swiftly rescheduled birthday party. It was great...18 little girls descended on Michael's, made jewelry boxes, ate a Powerpuff Girls cake, and went the hell home. Voila! Instant party, and happy kid.
Yesterday was Tuesday, and I swear I was on my feet for 18 hours. I picked up my whole house, anticipating today's visit from Chelsea the Cleaning Lady, who, apparently, was unable to work her key in the door and didn't make it; made Emily's birthday cake; made cupcakes to take to Emily's classroom today; wrapped presents; cleaned the kitchen three times; tested the disgusting no-cook fudge recipe for next week's library class; cleaned the playroom; paid the bills; organized the first of the Christmas cookie platters; made little cards to go with the platters, to show recipients what they're getting, kind of like the map that comes with the Whitman's chocolates, critical in ensuring that you don't actually eat the pineapple creme one; and made a half-hearted attempt to read more of my book club book (see the right hand column of the page). As the book sucked was not to my liking, that particular attempt failed. They're going to have to make do with my companionship tonight and go without my insights this time around. Although, maybe not. it's not like I have to actually read to have opinions, after all.
I got my anniversary ring today! It's a tiny band of white gold with little teeny weeny diamonds circling my finger I love love love it. (Note: that's a picture from when we shopped for it. My nails do not look like that in The Dreaded Month of Hectic.)
What else? Emily's birthday dinner tonight, girl scout sock hop on Friday, cookie swap (I'm hosting, of course) on Sunday, two Chanukah dinners at my house next week, a million presents to wrap and ship, the grocery shopping for my Christmas charity project, girl scout holiday meeting...
Happy Dreaded Month of Hectic, Everybody!
See you around these parts when I see you.
Yesterday, I had a silver Sharpie in my hand. Today, despite cleaning my entire house, I can't find it.
Can someone please tell me where it is?
So, what to do about the in-home "party" invitations that come my way?
My friend Karen asked me to join her and our other friend Tina last night at a "jewelry party" at Karen's sister-in-law's house. I was glad to accept, as I like to hang out with Karen and Tina, and I figured, well, jewelry, there's got to be something there I'll like, right?
Well, the jewelry was pretty enough, just not my style. And my holiday shopping was done. Of course, everyone says "No pressure, no pressure," but, me being me, I don't need anyone to put pressure on me. Oh, no. I handle that all very nicely on my own, thanks.
I ended up saying "Very pretty, but not for me," and leaving empty-handed, but it was hard, and I felt bad.
That's better than I did at last month's Pampered Chef party. Why I went to that, I don't know, except that it was kitchen stuff, so I thought I'd find something I'd like. You know, it also was just not for me. That one, I didn't manage to say No, thank you, and, $32 later, I left with some small decorative cookie/garnish cutters and a thing that's supposed to seal a sandwich without crusts, but doesn't work. I don't know. I don't need gadgets, and my pots and knives are better than anything they have to sell, so that party was the beginning and the end of my relationship with my Pampered Chef consultant.
And, the month before that, my friend Tina became a Mary Kay consultant, and invited me to her big launch party, and I did say No, thank you to that one and just didn't go. I really am pretty arcane-brand-loyal when it comes to my cosmetics and skin care. But, again, I felt bad.
So, ultimately, the moral of the story seems to be that, when I get these invitations, I end up feeling bad! Either I don't go, and feel I've let a friend down, or I go and buy something I don't really want, or I go and don't buy anything and now we're back to the whole letting my friend down thing again. Feh.
How does everyone else handle these invitations?
On the other hand, I had a fine time out with Karen and Tina. We went to the party and left quickly and then went out for a dink and it sure had been a while since I'd done that.
I say next time we skip the party and get straight to the partying.
This whole LP thing reminds of a story Alan once told me...he was in a record store (yes, a record store) and one teenager said to the other "Who are the Beatles? I've never heard of them," and the other replied, "Oh, they were Paul McCartney's first backup band. Before Wings."
Alan overhears the best things. One time, when he was at Yentl, he heard this grizzled old Jewish man turn around to his wife and say "If dat's a boy, den I'm a peeze bekkin!" It doesn't translate into print that well, I fear. If you see Alan walking down the street someday, ask him to tell you the story.
I am whipped. Up before 7 to shower and dress. My Brownies began arriving at 8:30.
Got everyone into cars.
Drove an hour and a half to the Eric Carle Museum of Picturebook Art, listeing to all of the verses of On top of Spaghetti (there are more than you think).
Took the girls into the art studio to decorate teddy bears, the gallery to look at art, the library to hear stories, the auditorium to see some Russian folk dancing, and, god help me, the gift shop, where I learned just how little 6 year olds know about money.
Led the caravan to the restaurant/farm stand where, yesterday, I had confirmed our arrival with the manager, found it closed, went to another place. Helped 12 girls eat lunch, decide between a bakery treat and ice cream cones (11 chose ice cream and there was one scooper), clean up, and pee. Think that sounds like a breeze? Try it sometime.
Drove an hour and a half back home, thankful that On Top of Spaghetti had lost its appeal.
Called the late parents, paid the sitter, and got everyone out of here.
Hung with Jonah and waited for poor Emily, who went from the field trip directly to a birthday party.
Bathed children, put on video.
Put both children to bed, marvelling at the fact that this was the first time in recent history that Emily asked to go to sleep!
Worked compulsively on Brownie video.
Tomorrow? 4 hours of Sunday School teacher training, followed by 4 hours of Brownie Leader training, now that you ask.
Today seems to be the day to post for other people. In case Julie hasn't seen this, I offer it up for Lunch.
Big news! Cori is having her baby on Friday. We know this because the little miscreant has decided to firmly lodge him or herself in Cori's pelvis, butt-down and head up, necessating some "minor surgical assistance." (ssh! don't scare her!)
Anyway, incredibly, at this very minute, Cori is at work. She is clearly super-human. And she needs to get out of there.
Because she is my friend, and because, for now, when it comes to life with kids, I know more than she does, I propose the following schedule for her next day and a half instead:
Now imagine what it will be like to share this experience with a stroller, a Baby Bjorn, or a hungry, cranky, and or bored little person. Imagine what it will be like to go to these places knowing that you're paying a sitter $10 an hour to be there. Then revel in the the things that most please you.
However much you think your life is about to change, it's more. A lot. And for the better. But take a day to say goodbye to the freedom that you hardly even know you have now. You deserve it.
I'll be thinking of you on Friday. Say hi to the little critter for me when it gets here.
Love.
This might be the funniest thing I have ever seen.
Remember how goofy Sarah Ban Breathnach wants us to be grateful for something every day?
Today I am grateful for not one, but two, things: the happy little ploop noise that my bottle of vodka (which is lying on its side) makes when I open the freezer door and tomato paste in a tube.
It's the little things, folks.
See the woman on the right? if I knew anything about Photoshop, I would have stuck my face on her body and then uploaded the image to this entry. But I don't so you'll have to use your imaginations.
At noon, I leave my humdrum life here in sub-rural-urbia for 48 hours of complete decadence...my sister and I are joining my mom in celebrating her recent 60th birthday at The Inn at Saybrook Point on the Connecticut shore.
Plans include facials, salt scrubs, seaweed wraps, scalp treatments (whatever the hell that is), manicures, pedicures, waxing...the works. One dinner in the dining room, one dinner in the room, enjoying the patés, cheeses, and other assorted yummies I picked up this week. And some of the wine I hauled back from California this summer. Yoga class, reading, maybe a dvd if we get around to it.
No children. No housework. No nothing.
Lisa's bringing her laptop, so I may check in to gloat, but don't fret too much if you don't hear from me for a couple of days. I'll be busy not being busy.
There's a bit of a debate going on in my head right now.
On one shoulder, the devil says "Go ahead! You could WIN 50 POUNDS OF LOBSTER!
On the other shoulder, the angel is reminding me that it's all a big scammer's ploy, and I will be innundated with junk mail for the rest of my life.
I know she's right, and yet I am tempted. Oh, how I am tempted.
Four things with nowhere else to go:
1. Please everyone, notice Julie's new banner. It's rather stunning.
2. I heard the best new phrase ever tonight. one person was posting to another, joking and teasing, essentially calling her a pussy, and then told her that she'd better "cowboy the fuck up" if she wants to cut it in this world. Isn't that great? I am going to have to try to work that into my repertoire whenever possible. At least for the next two or three weeks.
3. Sam took me for an autumn sunset cruise in his fancy schmancy BMW convertible tonight, thereby reinforcing my 50 year plan to someday drive a cool car. For a car like that, I'd even learn to drive a stick.
4. Emily went nuts tonight and called the babysitter "stupid." Anyone wants a piece of her, come on by tomorrow morning around 8. She'll be in the stockade around then. Bring your own rotten vegetables.
Here is today's Fifty Dollar Purchase I Don't Need to Make:
With this nifty piece of software, you can use your handy-dandy Palm Pilot to take care of such vital and impossible-to-handle-on-your-own-with-a-piece-of-paper-and-a-pen tasks as:
and, best of all,
My mom's 60th birthday is next week and, truthfully, Lisa and I have not yet decided what to get her. For the record, in case my mother is reading this, it's entirely Lisa's fault. The conversations, like so many I've had with Lisa in my lifetime, go like this:
Me: How about this?
Her: No.
Me: How about this?
Her: No.
Me: How about this?
Her: No.
Me: Well then, what?
Her: I don't know.
At this rate, I'm going to give my mother Lisa's head, wrapped in a box, like Gwyneth Paltrow's at the end of Se7en. No, no spoiler. If you haven't seen it by now, tough crap.
Anyway, now I'm thinking we should get her one of these. The fancy one, of course. Perfect for the woman who's already bought anything it's occurred to her to want, don't you think?
From this week's issue
of the New Yorker,
some 21st Century
books for kids.
Click the cartoon
for a bigger image.
I hear she's going to be all the rage at the holidays in Utah this year, despite the fact that she's clearly a Glamour don't.
Check out the new Emma Smith Barbie.
First, in a conversation this morning, a pregnant acquaintance confides in me the story of her first pregnancy, before she had the daughter that I know. It ended in a stillbirth and was all very traumatic.
Later in the conversation, I talk to her about breastfeeding, and tell her about J., who is a super-terrific breastfeeding consultant.
Then, a couple of hours later, I meet J. at TJ Maxx. She introduces me to her friend D., about whom I've heard much, but apparently not everything. I start telling J. about how I've been trying to drum up business for her...I tell her about my pregnant acquaintance, and then launch into the story of the stillbirth, from which there is no turning back.
J. clears her throat.
Again.
And looks at D., who looks back at her.
"Ok," I ask, "what did I do?"
Get this: before her first daughter was born, D. had a stillbirth. Under circumstances very similar to this other woman's. At around the same time. And they both went on to name their next children the same thing!
Unbelievable. Like, there are what, maybe 100,000,000 conversation topics that I could have chosen? And I had to pick that one. None of the other 99,999,999 would have done, apparently.
I can only beat myself up a little, because really, there's no earthly way I could have known, but jeez.
This one is even better than the time I ran into someone I hadn't seen in years, and asked "Hey, didn't I hear that you were getting married?" only to have her burst into tears and tell me of her bitterly broken engagement.
Julie took at look at kingsize.com and says it's nothing.
I give you this instead, peepers.
So there I am, happy as a clam, baking away at my kitchen table with some Law & Order rerun on the tv, and this ad comes on that I've never seen before.
In front of some really crappy-looking blue screen action, a couple of happy fat guys are extolling the virtues of the "King Size Catalog," telling us about all the problems that "guys like us" have at the mall...nothing comes in our size, the dressing rooms are uncomfortable, stuff like that. Fortunately, the King Size Catalog is the solution to our problem, because they have all kinds of stuff (even underwear!) in sizes up to 10X.
The ad mentioned that their website can be found at www.kingsizetv.com. It's worth taking a look at, if only to chuckle at the section where they ask you what you were watching when you saw the ad...choices include not only TNT and FX, but also Cheaters, World's Wildest Police Videos, and Rocky II (or, as they put it, "Rocky 2").
The part that cracked me up was the part where I imagined the cheerful Christian wives of the jolly fat guys forgetting the "tv" part of the URL and typing www.kingsize.com into their AOL browser windows.
I personally haven't followed that particular link, but I can pretty well imagine where it goes.
I just want to say that, whenever I tune into some awards show and I happen to see an actor crying over his statue, I watch with skepticism because, well, he's an actor.
Today is my 10th wedding anniversary. To kick off the celebration (which, incidentally, is continuing tonight as Andrew and I attend two separate parents' open houses at two different schools), we watched our wedding video with Emily last night.
Thanks to my parents' imminent divorce and his parents' never-ending animus, greedy vendors, inexperience, naivete, and my own delusions of the possibility of perfection, planning our wedding was one of the longest, most stressful events of my life.
Despite my best efforts, things, of course, were out of my control and went awry. The seating chart required military-style precision and a crash course in diplomacy. The florist brought the wrong chuppah. The restaurant provided the wrong cake. After the driest summer in a decade, it rained for the entire week before the wedding, cancelling our plans to have the ceremony on a pier. (Funny about the hurricane to celebrate our anniversary, huh?) And on and on and on.
On our honeymoon -- four weeks and 4,000 miles in a rented car through New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and California -- it took us two weeks to talk about anything but the ceremony, the reception, what went wrong, and how so many people behaved, if not badly, at least oddly.
And yet, as we watched the video, playing MST3K with each other through the whole thing, I said to Andrew, "You know, last night at the concert, we heard one single sentence that sums this all up perfectly."
Funny what time will do.
Finally, last night was the big Bruce Springsteen concert! (Editor's note: I'd link to the Hartford Courant review for you, but you have to register to read it, and it's only notable in the fact the the reviewer gets the set list for the encore wrong, which you wouldn't know unless you'd been there.)
Here is the correct September 16 East Hartford setlist from the friendly and compulsive folks on the Backstreets boards, who talk to their friends on cell phones during concerts and post live set lists as the show is going on (!!), for anyone who might want to see it:
1) THE GHOST OF TOM JOAD
2) No Surrender
3) The Rising
4) Lonesome Day
5) LEAP OF FAITH (last time 26 June 93 NYC)
6) Empty Sky
7) You're Missing
8) Waiting On A Sunny Day
9) Spirit In the Night
10 Human Touch
11) She's The One
12) Badlands
13) Mary's Place
14) 41 Shots
15) BACKSTREETS!
16) Into The Fire
17) The Promised Land
End main set
1st Encore
18) Bobby Jean
19) Ramrod
20) BTR
21) 7 Nights To Rock
22) LET'S BE FRIENDS
2nd Encore
23) My City Of Ruins
24) Born in the USA
25) Rosalita
26) Dancing In the Dark
After compulsively checking the forecast all weekend, we got an incredible weather night and were happy to be outside at the stadium. We had, as you know, great seats, about 30 rows back on the floor and just slightly off center. It felt like a great way to end the summer. It really was a terrific show. I've been to a lot of concerts along the way, but this was my first time seeing Springsteen live. I don't know if it was one of the best concerts I've ever seen from a musical point of view (I thought the sound was kind of hinky at first) but it certainly was one of the most memorable, for several reasons:
Please.
Happy news today, folks, courtesy of Lisa's blog and the Washington Post.
Take a few pounds home to the wife.
This is hilarious...really...I am laughing out loud...
LOS ANGELES, Aug. 5 Hustler magazine publisher and would-be California governor Larry Flynt has been sued for sexual harassment by a former employee who claims she found sex toys in the company dishwasher.
Get the rest of the story here.
Warren Zevon died yesterday. He was 56 years old.
Note this exchange, shamelessly cribbed from an article at MSNBC:
Ten years later, the problems that Andrew and I had at our wedding reception (the chuppah was wrong, the cake was not the flavor we'd requested, all of the parents were divorced and the seating plan took military-style cunning...whatever) have faded in the light of the many memories that we have built together as a couple and a family.
