Camera Kaput

I got the call from the service department this morning. For $160 minimum they can send my camera to the manufacturer, but there's no telling how much more it would cost me once it got there, so I don't think it's worth it. I'll let Brian take a look at it and maybe he can fix it, but it's also quite possible that I'm going to have to replace a digital camera that is merely 2 years old, and cost me $800 at the time. I can get a better camera for less money now, but this is still turning into an expensive habit. I'm used to 35 mm cameras, which last for-freaking-ever. This is my first digital camera and I guess I thought I'd get at least 5 years out of the thing before I'd want sell it for an upgrade, not take a loss on the thing. I feel like I've been robbed. And to have this thing break on me the VERY DAY I switched over to blogger pro so I could upload digital pictures...grrr.

Damn

I got a speeding ticket today. I am such an idiot.

But I also got a free cup of coffee because the guy at the window felt bad for making me wait...I was too busy thinking about my next blog entry and listening to Wilco to notice it was late, but hey, free is free. Thanks buddy.

Parenting in the Age of Anxiety

And what was I thinking about, exactly, while waiting for my coffee? The people who live for the next Right Start catalog to arrive in their mailbox so they can set about making the world safe for their petit enfant. For the record, I have never used outlet covers, toilet seat locks, cabinet locks, doorknob locks, car window shades (let the kid squint, for god's sake), gates, cat guards for the crib (in fact, my cats sleep with the babies and everybody's happy that way), special harnesses for riding in the shopping cart, leashes, I.D. bracelets, video baby monitors, bed rails, "snuggle beds", corner "cushions" for my tables or any of the billions of other "safety" products that are marketed to an increasingly anxious population of American parents. All my kids are still alive, still in one piece, and I don't have to struggle with the toilet in the middle of the night just so I can take a piss.

This is Gonna Get Long, So Grab a Glass of Wine



I didn't actually get to talk to my father on Father's Day because he was moving from the house he has lived in for 25 years to a condo in Cambridge. My dad is easily overwhelmed and stressed, and feels an intense obligation towards the people he loves the most, so even just a quick phone call in the middle of all that moving would have possibly killed him. Anyway, Father's Day isn't really his bag, and I guess I inherited his general dislike for and suspicion of the "Hallmark holidays." I'd rather celebrate his birthday with him and be done with it.

What I really want to write about, though, is the house he is moving out of. When his wife, my stepmother Polly, died suddenly two years ago of brain cancer, my dad went from owner to tenant overnight. In her will, Polly left the house and land to her three biological children, my stepsiblings, under the condition that my father could remain there for as long as he wished. I really don't have a childhood home -- I was born in New York, my parents moved to a suburb of Boston when I was 2, they were divorced when I was 7 and my mom and I lived in a couple more houses between 7 and 14, when I escaped to boarding school in Vermont and my mother fled the suburbs to go live on Cape Cod.

When I was 10, my dad moved in with Polly and her three children, who were living in a house on the North Shore of Boston she bought with her first husband in the early 1970s. When I was 12 my father and Polly were married in the living room. Back then it was a fairly modest, albeit charming, 18th century farmhouse sitting on 10 acres in a sleepy Merrimac Valley town. Over the years both the town and the house have been transformed. Boston's suburban radius grew exponentially in the 1980s, and now it is not unheard of to commute to Boston daily from New Hampshire, some 10 miles north (and that much further away from Boston) from where the house is located. The town my father lived in was transformed overnight into a pretty wealthy suburb, with some awfully valuable real estate. My stepmother, always an excellent gardener, got a degree in landscape architecture from Radcliffe and set about cultivating 3 of the 10 acres of land, creating a beautiful estate of flower beds, hidden nooks with benches and statues, a frog pond with a running stream, several storage buildings, and eventually a swimming pool, labyrinth and fire pit. Meanwhile the house burst out of its boxy farmhouse shape and gained an enormous, fully-equipped kitchen, and the addition of a large dining room with a pantry and basement underneath. The wood for the kitchen (and the refurbished master bathroom) was imported from South America. The dining room featured a heated stone floor. All the rooms were filled with Polly's paintings, beautiful light fixtures. The wide plank wood floors in the entire original house were resanded. A pergola was added to the front entrance. The pavement driveway was torn up and a new gravel driveway with a different entrance was installed. And on and on.



It is possibly my favorite house on the planet. And it's all about Polly. That house and land were her heart and soul, a full and complete expression of her spirit. Polly, if you haven't figured it out already, bore a somewhat frightening resemblance to Martha Stewart (except maybe for the insider trading thing and the reputation of being a bitch). She was a perfectionist in all she did, and she did everything. She was a ballroom dancer, a painter, a singer, a landscape architect, a gourmet chef, a healer, a historian. This was not always an easy parent to have, even step-parent. But I worshipped her and learned from her and emulated her and assumed, like everyone else, that she would live forever.

I don't know what will happen to the house now. The taxes alone will cost her kids an arm and a leg. The upkeep on the property just to maintain the landscaping would surely put them under. It was sinking my dad fast, and I know he was extremely relieved to finally find a place and be out from under the burden -- not just financial, but the burden of responsibility, of oversight, of knowing what to do, which Polly made seem effortless. Relations between my father and my stepsiblings are strained; the usual fighting over who gets what has been going on. I am far away, half way across the country from all of this, and removed entirely, in any case, from the decision making and the bickering and whatever else is happening. I try to know as little as possible about it all.

I don't know what I'm trying to say, except that I'm sad. I miss her. The house was a part of her, and now it's gone from me too. I wish she was still around to talk to me on the phone and to be a grandmother to my kids. I miss her cooking and her funny little anecdotes about the animals and the way she would look at me with such barely constrained mischief sometimes. I feel shut out from the house, and consequently shut away from her, and in a way it's like she's died all over again but no one knows this time.

It's a Good Thing

*When a certain someone who has been acting like a dick decides to stop acting like a dick just MOMENTS before you tell him to fuck off, which wouldn't be good all things considered.

*When you royally screw up at work but don't get fired because, for some reason, your boss likes you.

*When your 5 year old puts his head on your shoulder at story time.

*Money. In the nick of time.

*Dog snouts. Oh, and twitchy, dreaming dogs on the floor.

*Using some of the money to buy CDs and filling your house with Beck and Liz Phair (is "Chopsticks" not the funniest/sweetest/saddest song?) and Elvis Costello and Wilco and The Flaming Lips and, yes, Mozart too.

*Knowing that, no matter what happens, he loves you and it's going to be OK.

*Watching your 3 year old rock out to Regatta de Blanc.

*Roof/food/health/love.

Overload

The thing is, I can't write about it, at least not here. And this is when the blog fails me because it is public. So I'm thinking and thinking and thinking my little head off over this current, nameless (for you, anyway, dear reader) situation, and I'm left with nothing to write. I don't know. There are some of you who write about every last gorey detail of your lives, and others who keep it almost eerily impersonal, and most of you find some way to balance it all, but I don't know how you keep on writing when you're mid-dilemma. How you can write about other things while something really big is swirling around in your head.

My digital camera is broken (oh woe is me!) but I have a new scanner, so I might as well put it to use. And so, I give you...



Javier.

When in doubt, use the children for material. Right?

Kyle, my ferocious kitty is outside right now being dive-bombed by mockingbirds. She acts irritated if not indifferent, but I think she is secretly pleased that she holds such a fearsome status in the neighborhood. My other kitty gets no attention whatsoever from the shrieking birds, but Kyle is Public Enemy Number One. I've yet to see evidence of her destructive nature -- she hasn't once brought me a baby bird. But she couldn't have gained this reputation for nothing. I wish I could show you a picture.

I'll get back to my dilemma now.

Burning Passion

Sometimes listening to NPR can be thought-provoking, or amusing, or annoying, and sometimes it can make me crazy with lust and desire. Please, God, will somebody make me this cake?????

Why I Love My Boyfriend, Reason # 732:

He photoshopped this for me. Isn't he funny? Isn't he clever?

All Underwear, All the Time

Since it seems to generate so much traffic to my humble little weblog, I'm just going to keep on posting about underwear, underwear, underwear.

I know, quizzes are stupid. Bite me.


Your the boxers. You leave everything to the last minute. Never on
time for anything. And always caring about others before yourself.

Which underwear are you?

Yep, that's right, I'm a selfish bitch. Selfish AND lazy.

What Would You Do...

...with 7 pairs (6 white and 1 heather grey) of Jockey bikini underwear that your mother sent you in the mail?

Because I'm thinking: trash. And I guess I feel kind of bad about it, like I'm wasting perfectly good underwear. But exactly how do you give underwear away? I mean, does Goodwill even TAKE underwear? Would YOU buy underwear at Goodwill? It's brand new, never been worn, but these things are out of the package (they came that way) and now taking up precious real estate in my house, and I want them gone. Would anyone like some underwear?

Going, going...

Attention Wachowski Brothers, Vis a Vis Next Time

Please: more car chases, more fight sequences, more sex, more slo-mo bullets, more explosions, more octopussy evil machine robots, more sweaty earthy dance sequences, more Superman/Errol Flynn/Chow Yun Fat references, more long black trenchoats and tight-fitting shiny black outfits and hip sunglasses, more slamming of bodies into brick walls...and...

Less Philosophy 101. Please.

We do NOT want to sit in a theater while your actors, no matter how pretty they may be, yammer away about choice and fate. Especially when their yammering leaves us just as confused about choice and fate as we were when we came into the damn theater. And especially when they keep having the SAME FUCKING CONVERSATION OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

I have more to say about this movie, but I'll let it go at that. The sad thing is, as I said to Brian on our way out, I'll pay* to see the next one, too, because it's so damn pretty to look at. I only hope the script is better. Please.

*Yes, Brian, I do realize that you paid for my ticket. And thank you.

Just Wondering

To the guy with the mustache driving in front of me in the silver Ford Explorer Sport, blowing smoke out the window but flicking the ashes out your sun roof, which, when you were stopped, caused them to land on your head:

?

To my mom, who just sent me 12 pairs of I-only-wear-these-when-I'm-in-my-third-trimester Jockey underpants in the mail, with no explanation attached:

?

Too Cool for School

Maybe someday I'll be a popular blogger, and people will come to my website by the dozens. They'll come to read my witty posts and tell me how very cool they think I am, or how sorry they are that my kitten died, or whatever. They will come. They will read. They will leave adoring comments. They will go. Many, many of them will link back to my website, until I'm so famous and so popular that national newspapers and cable news networks will call upon me when they want to do stories about "blogging" and "the internet community" and "women in technology" and "diapers." I'll be a household name, like Dooce or Jodi or C. Monks or Mrs. Kennedy. People will obsessively watch their blogrolls to see if my website has been updated yet, so they can read my latest nuggets of wisdom and humor. I will get so much email I'll have to hire minions to read and respond to it all. Total strangers will purchase gifts for me from my Amazon wishlist.

Or, maybe not.

I guess, you know, it's still a little bit like high school, no matter what you do or how old you get. And there's a part of me that is still wanting in on this popularity contest. Even though I should damn well know better. Mostly I write this thing for me, and because I want my own little toehold of html code to call my own so I can tinker a little bit here and there and try to figure it out, and because I like keeping a journal, and electronic journals are fun.

But there's this other little part of me that really wants to be a popular blogger, like the rest of you. A girl can dream, yes?

Rickie Is My Hero, And Mrs. Kennedy Rocks My World

This is why I love her.

And hey, my first post from work! It's a slow day in medical transcription land, kids.

*Note, I'm referring to the "Adventures in child psychology" post, not the post about how much it sucks to read sad stories about kids after you become a parent. The link doesn't seem to be working right. Thank you.

**Not that I don't love the other post, almost just as much. But "Adventures in child psychology" made me spit Coke on my keyboard.

Rickie is my hero



It's good, every once in a while, to break out those old CDs. I mean those CDs which are really replacements for records which you had in high school and played and played so much that the vinyl finally wore away. Remember vinyl? Remember stylus needles? Remember Rickie Lee Jones? Why don't I play music in my house more often? It makes me so happy.

Once you find yourself
A Better man
Treat him special all of the time
Make him some catfish
Fry it up in bed
Don't leave him hangin' on the telephone line

Wow

Matrix Reloaded was sold out, and we only had three hours before we had to pick up the baby from his dad's house. We headed for the Harry Ransom Center because I'd heard something about a Gutenberg Bible. There was that, and SO MUCH MORE. They had paintings by E. E. Cummings and Arthur Conan Doyle's golf clubs and letters by Dylan Thomas and Gerard Manley Hopkins discussing words and rhyme and meter and a really funny memo from someone (Ernest Lehman? I forget now) to Jack Warner about the importance of securing Richard Burton for the lead in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf in part because it will keep Liz from worrying about where her husband is and a delightful little magazine created by Lewis Carroll for his family and a great Richard Rauschenberg print and a beautiful little Andre Kertesz photograph of a man in the street with a train going by in the background and a gorgeous painting by Diego Rivera of a slightly green-faced girl holding a doll and and and and...

I reached saturation point very early on, but kept on slogging through the collection trying to soak it all in. A great exhibition. Free, relatively sparsely attended, infinitely fascinating.

Look Out, World

I've got a scanner, and I'm not afraid to use it.

But really, how priceless is this picture of my grandparents?



I'm guessing 1972, Florida. God bless Rachel and Jack Johnson. The world just isn't the same without them.

And then there's this picture, circa 1979, of my sister Alex and me in a phone booth in Chicago:



I remember going to visit her. We took these pictures in a Woolworth's. Remember Woolworth's? We actually went in, had lunch at the counter (tuna melts and root beer floats), and then recorded the event in the booth. It was a good day.

Which Do You Want First?

The bad news: Brian's server is down
The good news: I've moved to blogspot and all my archives are saved
The bad news: But no one knows I'm here
The good news: Hardly anyone ever visited me before, anyway
The bad news: My digital camera appears to be dead
The good news: I have a new scanner so I can still put pictures on line and email pics of the kids to various relatives
The bad news: I have to pony up more $$ to blogger if I want to post pictures and lose the advertising
The good news: I can't think of any
The bad news: Brian's at his place and I'm at my place which makes us two lonely people
The good news: The kids are sleeping and there's 4 more beers in the fridge.

Foot Fetish, Anyone?

Apparently, people desperately looking for Sarah Kozer, of Joe Millionaire fame, whose 15 minutes have LONG since expired by now, have been visiting my blog in droves over the last couple of days. Why on earth this is happening, I do not know. So sorry to disappoint you all. You will find no kinky bondages pictures here. But click on that link above, yeah that one, or this one, they're all the same. And you can see that other Sarah all tied up and everything.

Raffi, Schmaffi

They're like a couple of teenagers up there, my boys. Staying up late talking and listening to CD's. I indulge them, because how cool is it, really, that my kids are staying up all night listening to The Police? It's way cool. Tomorrow we'll all be grumpy and sleep-deprived and some of us might even be a little hungover, but fuck it, that's tomorrow. Tonight we're staying up late and listening to records and having a good time.

Life is good. There's something of a melodrama swirling around me, but I'm riding it out. The thing is, none of it really matters in the long run. But it sucks to have to watch your back, to realize people in your life can't be trusted.

I Have No Decent Title For This Post

My 5 year old kid just called me from his dad's house to inform me that he was watching the Devils play the Senators, the game had just started, and the score was holding steady at 0 - 0. Thanks, kid. It's good to be informed. Meanwhile I'm sitting here drinking a beer and eating chips and salsa and thinking about how I SHOULD...BE...WORKING...BUT...I...CAN'T...MOVE..........

24 Hour Party People was loads of fun, by the way. If you didn't see it when it came around, go rent the DVD/video. It was good to see a decent movie for a change after actually paying good money for seats in a theater to watch the horrific dreck that was The Phone Booth. I still have a bad taste in my mouth from that one.

And, in yet more unrelated news, the baby is eating solid food now -- we've kicked things off with bananas -- and, as my friend Dana put it some months ago, "Oh yeah, I remember, solid food = solid poop."

I guess that's enough sharing for now.

All I can say about it is that some people will do amazingly stupid things in an attempt to deflect blame from themselves. I'm flabbergasted. And really pissed off.

THAT day

I've never been all that fond of mothers' day to begin with, but now that I've achieved motherhood status I especially don't like it. Before it was just a matter of remembering to call your mother (and in my case, your stepmother as well). Now everyone on the planet seems to want to wish ME a happy mothers' day if I happen to leave my house with any child in tow. I hate it that the Sprint PCS information operator wished me a happy mothers' day ("if you're a mother" she said. I felt like smacking her), and that the first place we went to for brunch (and bailed on) was packed with mother-daughter dress-wearing bourgeoisie and a scary Little Bo Peep clown.

Mostly I hate that this day is now just a painful reminder of mothers' day two years ago, when Polly collapsed on the kitchen floor and was rushed to the hospital, and we learned of the brain tumors, and everything changed. I spent the day two years ago not calling her, for the first time in 21 years or so, because I knew there was something wrong and I was afraid to talk to her on the phone. The day before had been my sister's graduation from acupuncture school. Polly had arrived wearing some sort of long-sleeved wool getup, and I asked her aren't you hot in that? It was an exceptionally hot day in Boston, for May. And she just smiled wanly at me and didn't reply. She hardly spoke all day. That evening she drove us to the restaurant but forgot what she was doing and started heading back towards her house before my dad gently reminded her which direction to go. Weird things like that had been happening for a few weeks. She seemed distant, quiet, maybe even angry, definitely not herself, but if you asked her what was wrong she always said "nothing." We all sat stiff and anxious in our chairs, watching her study the menu while the waiter cocked his head, anticipating her order, which never came. Finally she managed to get some words out -- I think she ordered duck. She spent the evening holding her head, looking pale, like she had the worst headache of her life.

Of course, when this kind of shit is going on, no one ever thinks "oh, there must be a growth in her brain that is impeding her speech center!" Instead, you think she's angry, she's nuts, she's lost it, there's something wrong with her mentally.

But if we had only known.

We found out too late, though, and three weeks later she was dead.

OK, so that was a downer of a post, and I'm sorry. On a happier note, I ordered "Brian's Favorite" for brunch at the Austin Diner, and when the waitress came to the table and said "Brian's Favorite?" and I said "Yes!" well, it was just priceless. You had to be there. Brian's Favorite, by the way, is scrambled eggs mixed with cheese and bacon bits, a biscuit and a side of grits. It was righteous.

Totally

It's so obvious, it's almost embarrassing. I am:


Switzerland -
A neutral power for as long as most can remember,
it has avoided war for several centuries.
However, it is still considered highly advanced
and a global power.


Positives:

Judicial.

Neutrality.

World-Renouned.

Powerful without Force.

Makes Excellent Watches, Etc.


Negatives:

Target of Ridicule.

Constant Struggle to Avoid Conflict.

Target of Criminal Bank Accounts.



Which Country of the World are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Thanks to Jack.

21 lb 8 oz

No wonder my shoulders are killing me all the time, I've been lugging a monster around with me. Javier is six months old today and weighs plenty more than either of his brothers did at their 12 month check-ups. The shots sucked, but he recovered fairly quickly, and then fell into a deep, Tylenol-assisted sleep. Apparently when he woke up he had the best day EVER at day care, and couldn't stop laughing and smiling. So go figure.

WARNING, PARENTAL BRAG BELOW

We stopped for pizza tonight after checking out the local karate classes (Jack is extremely interested). I told Jack I delivered pizza once.

Jack: How old were you?
Me: Oh, it was a long time ago, I was 19 or so.
J: Before I was born?
M: Yep, long before you were born.
J: Yeah, I was a negative baby then.

I love this kid.

At the karate class he was reading the backs of the kids' uniforms and providing a play-by-play: "Sydney is fighting Jessica. Xavier is all done, he's going to sit down now. That's Jessie, she's wearing a red helmet..." And then doing math problems at the pizza place, just for fun. Subtracting the number of slices from the total number of slices in the pie. That sort of thing.

Yeah, he's wicked smart for a five year old.

END BRAG

In other news: Working full time and raising three kids is really fucking hard. I'm going to bed now.

Ping?

Testing.

Uh Huh

Working from home in your underwear totally ROCKS.

Of course, later I have to take the baby in for his six month checkup where he will get stuck with needles and cry like a banshee, and that will really not rock. But for now I'm half naked, eating a cinammon raisin english muffin and doing my work. Not bad.

Green

Yeah, I hated that template. Red and grey...all wrong. Actually, I have more ambitious design ideas for this site, and the upcoming photography site, but I need to learn a few things first...but still, had to change to green. Green is where it's at.

Would you like a poem? Of course you would.

THE GREEN PLANT

Silence is a shape that has passed.
Otu-bre's lion-roses have turned to paper
And the shadows of the trees
Are like wrecked umbrellas.

The effete vocabulary of summer
No longer says anything.
The brown at the bottom of red
The orange far down in yellow,

Are falsifications from a sun
In a mirror, without heat,
In a constant secondariness,
A turning down finality --

Except that a green plant glares, as you look
At the legend of the maroon and olive forest,
Glares, outside of the legend, with the barbarous green
Of the harsh reality of which it is part.

- Wallace Stevens

May Daze

Worrying, for no good reason, can just eat a person right up. And really, there is nothing to worry about. Life is complicated. Love is complicated. But all that really matters is whatever is happening RIGHT NOW. Not what happened yesterday, and not what you think might happen in five years, and not what would have happened if you'd stayed home from the party or applied to Harvard or failed to notice that your two year old was perched next to an open window on a fast-moving ferry 20 feet above the surface of the cold, grey, Atlantic in the middle of March. Worry is pointless. Being, living, breathing, accepting, delighting, suffering, playing, working...doing...is what matters. Why is it that this simple lesson is so far out of reach, so much of the time?

Here comes Mother's Day, and I'm thinking about my stepmother Polly who died two short years ago at the end of May. I'd like to get this month over with and just move on to June. Here's an excerpt from something I wrote about it:

Smooth and handsome Dr. Park, brain surgeon, meets us in a tiny room. We squeeze together to hear the news – it’s malignant. I watch as he describes the tumor as being like a starfish, a spider, extending it’s tendrils deep into her brain tissue, impossible to cleanly remove without removing precious brain. He splays his hand to demonstrate. It feels almost unkind, this gesture. I see in a flash how every new tumor is for him a chance to improve his skills, a chance to be a better doctor, a good thing. He talks about radiation, chemo, oncologists. Three to five years tops. This is what he tells us. We cry and eat our sandwiches and wander around the hospital, lost stars. Then she is in recovery and we come to see her, watch her fingers wander up to her scalp, touching the bare patches, feeling the bandages. It’s really only two more weeks to go. None of us knows this.

I miss her.

Hellooooooooo

Wow, talk about withdrawal. I'm so glad to be back.



Bluebonnet season is basically over...now the cacti are blooming.

Texas is pretty.

Bear With Me

I'm still figuring all this stuff out.

But here's a picture...

Testing, Testing

In the Fridge

Bad meat
Withered up strawberries
Picholine olives
Sliced cheese

Random

Comments make me happy. What is up with you people? I KNOW you are coming in here and looking around, but no one hardly ever leaves a note.

My boss told me today that she spent years of her life with "Frosty the Snoman" stuck in her head. She didn't tell anyone at the time because she was afraid they would think she was crazy...which, of course, she was. I think I would prefer Chinese Water Torture to an endless loop of Frosty.

What else can I tell you. It feels like a random day. I'm learning to spell things like cholecystectomy and synechiae. Such is the life of a medical transcriptionist.

I have a head cold that I just can't shake so I've been hopped up on Sudafed for the past several days in order to keep working. I'm as high as a kite, but I'm keeping that sinus infection at bay.

Easter didn't really happen this year. We went to church, but that was it, and I'm feeling guilty for cheating my kids out of the bunny and the chocolate and the egg decorating. I just couldn't get myself together to do it. I'm really bad at holidays, I resent taking on all that extra work -- shopping for stuff, cooking special meals, decorating things, wrapping presents, the whole production just leaves me feeling inadequate and tired. So I bailed. And then my 5 year old cried in the car on the way to day care yesterday morning, saying what a terrible Easter it had been, and I felt like the world's shittiest mother. I guess there won't be any more shirking of holiday duties from now on -- the boys are too old for me to get away with it. But damnit it's HARD doing all that stuff with three kids and a full time job! How do people do it? I just don't get it. I can just barely manage to feed my kids and keep them in clean clothes, let alone make a holiday happen.

Please, leave a comment.

What Makes me Happy

Brian
My kids
Foot rubs
Fastlane
Good hair days
Anne Lamott
Mangos with lime
Uninterrupted sex
Uninterrupted sleep
Horseback riding
Matisse
Flowers for no reason
Pozole, plantains and sangria on Saturday morning
Al Green
artichokes with melted butter and lemon juice
The Ranch
Little black dress + strappy shoes + fancy restaurant
Singing in a chorus
Sand in my toes
Japanese food
Driving fast
Letters from friends

What's Good About It?

I mean, it's the bleakest day on the Christian calendar, right? God is dead, right? I've never understood the "Good" part.

That's What it's For

So I had one of those dreams the other night. Dionne Warwick was singing with a bunch of cute backup girls, and when I woke up I realized, hey, I made up an entire song! How cool! And then I stopped and thought about the lyrics for a minute, which start out:

He just made love to me
That's what it's for

...and only get worse. I busted out laughing. Actually, that dream has had me chuckling for a good 3 days now. Whenever my boss gets really testy I threaten to sing the song and she immediately starts behaving.

Nachos

This is the funniest damn thing I've read in ages. Aaron Kinney rocks the house. I'm talkin' bout the April 8th entry.

Old Friends


Well, he didn't really remember me, which was something of a blow to the ego, but I finally did hear back from Kevin Platt (see "Where Are They Now?" below) so I could tell him this:

I don't even know if you remember this thing you said one day to {name
withheld to protect the innocent}, in defense of our teacher at the time, Mrs. Levin.
Said classmate had been bitching and whining and moping around for Jake whom
we all missed terribly...I believe he was rather unfairly fired from the school for being
a somewhat renegade teacher, thus depriving us of what should have been our
Second Year of Jake. In his place we had acquired Mrs. Levin, who I can
barely recall except to say she was fairly unremarkable. Mystery girl that day
said yet another bitchy little thing about how Jake would have done things
differently, and in my version of this event you raised your little self up
out of your chair and told her in front of the whole stunned and silent
class of 5th graders that she should cut it out, we all missed Jake, but he
was gone, and Mrs. Levin was our teacher now, and we'd all heard just about
enough from her about Jake this and Jake that. And then you sat down.

At the time, I felt like applauding, but I was instead pretty much stunned
into silence like the rest of the classroom. Years went by but that scene
has always stuck in my head and I've always wanted to say thank you to you
for speaking out, and doing it so well. The chick in question was bossy and pushy and
difficult, and even though she was my friend she was also intimidating. You
put into words that day what I had wished all along to be able to say to her
but was unable.

So this is what inspired me to hunt you down. You probably think I'm a
nutcase, you might not even remember this thing you did, but there you go.
I remember.

Naturally, he didn't remember the incident either. But it felt good to tell him, and it's lovely to be in touch.

Seriously Ill

And it's no big surprise. Cutting down on my sleep and adding a 180 mile round trip commute to my day has been hell on my immune system. I've been shuffling around the house all day in my bathrobe, very feverish and fucked up. I think I have SARS. Well, OK, I don't have SARS, but it's some kind of flu and it sucks. Add to the suckiness that my new job is a contract job, so I don't get paid if I don't show up. Sick days do not exist. Brian has pneumonia and he is home and feverish and fucked up in his own house. Every once in a while we call each other on the phone, wake each other up, mumble something inchoherent, and hang up.

Sigh.

Working

The reason for my extended absence (admit it, you missed me, all none of you) is that I have an actual, honest-to-goodness JOB. And I think it's even a good job. Time will tell, but it's seeming that way. Still, I now have to get up at 6 in the morning, haul my kids out the door by 7:15 at the latest, drive them 25 minutes south, deposit them at day care, and then turn my car around and go 45 miles north to work, arriving by 8:45 or so. I work until 4:30, get back in the car, make it to day care by 5:30, pick all the kids up, get back home by 6:15 or so, make dinner, administer bath, read stories, tuck in, collapse...interrupted of course by the one or two or three middle-of-the-night cries (only Eli could bump his head at 2 in the morning while SLEEPING). This schedule has me and my car feeling just a little bit flattened out, but it's still better to be earning money and feeling tired than the alternative, which was starting to scare the shit out of me. I'm still, of course, scared, as the work isn't yet paying what I'm hoping it will, and I'm desperately behind on some of my bills, but at least things are looking up.

Javier is doing marvelously in day care, he hasn't skipped a beat. And the big boys are growing bigger and more wonderful every day. I count my lucky stars, I do. Of course, with this new schedule I'm seeing much less of Brian, and that's hard. I'm lonely for him.

The war has me down. I'm waking up and driving and going to sleep to NPR, and when it's not NPR, I'm surfing the web for news of the war while at work. When I think about those Iraqi soldiers, most of them conscripted into service very much against their will, coerced into taking up arms and then getting blown to pieces for it. When I hear the words "collateral damage." When I think of the hundreds of thousands of children who are scared and hungry and hurt. When I think if the havoc we are wreaking on this country in the name of oil freedom...it all makes my head hurt.

Other news...I finally had "the talk" with my mother tonight. It felt good, actually, to get it all off my chest, even though my initial plan was to not get into it with her. I told her I thought she was worried and anxious for no reason, and had an unhealthy attachment to my children, and that she should tell me in person how she's feeling instead of waiting and sending a letter on the eve of her trip to Europe, and that she was most definitely NOT welcome to come back in May, as she was hoping to do. Parents. Can't live with 'em, can't leave 'em by the side of the road. I wish she'd just learn her lesson, but it never happens. Anyway, it felt good, for me anyway. I'm sure she's feeling pretty horrible right now, but she brought it on herself.

I've been doing a lot of shooting with my Nikon in the last few weeks, getting ready for the wedding which I'm shooting the first weekend in May. I'm so excited about this professional photography job I can hardly stand it. I've got film in my bag to be taken to the lab -- shots of Maida and her beautiful dog Violet in front of a more-wisteria-than-thou wisteria bush. I swear, this plant was definitely trying to make a point. I can't wait to see the pictures.

Here's a timely poem for you.

The "Where Are They Now" Edition

Inspired, as always, by Mrs. Kennedy (whose new banner, although quite fetching, gave me a sudden shock today), I thought it might be fun for me to see what happens when I Google the names of my old (and I mean OLD old, like Fourth Grade old) friends.

Yowza.

First we have Brenda Herschbach Jarrell, whose achievements are frightening:

Dr. Jarrell is a patent attorney with Choate, Hall & Stewart, whose practice is focussed on biotechnology. Dr. Jarrell followed an unorthodox path to the law, starting life as a Chemist (AB Harvard 1987; AM Harvard 1988) and then pursuing a Ph.D. in Biochemistry (UCSF 1993). Dr. Jarrell joined Choate, Hall & Stewart in 1993 as a Staff Scientist, continued to work there while pursuing her law degree (Harvard 1998), and is now an associate.

Of course, that sort of thing is to be expected when your dad is a Nobel Laureate. All I remember about her dad is that he was hardly ever home, and when he was, he was in his office. Brenda had long, beautiful straight blonde hair, Barbie Doll hair, which I was endlessly jealous of and fascinated with, having myself some pretty strange, frizzy and totally unruly brown curly Jewish hair. This didn't exactly help me to fit in in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Together, Brenda and I pretended to be alien children adopted by our human parents but needing to get back to the space ship, which we decided was going to land in Chicopee, Massachusetts. We spent hours devising our plan for getting back to the ship and thus to our true home in outer space. It all made perfect sense at the time. And yes, we lifted the entire story line from a certain Disney movie, but what the hell. We were eight.

Liz Dewey is absolutely nowhere to be found on the internet, but that's OK. I'm actually somewhat in contact with her family as her sister lives here in Austin and her mom and my dad are still in touch for business reasons. I don't think I ever need to see Liz again, actually. She broke my heart when she dumped me during the summer between Fourth and Fifth grade. I haven't been the same since. Anyway, I know she's living in Vermont and working for her dad.

I'm also still a little bit in touch with the beautiful, ephemeral Laura Heijn, although it's horribly sporadic. She, too, lives in Vermont. The only mention of her name on the internet has to do with some hut in the Appalachian mountains, and an award she got from high school. I don't think Laura even owns a computer. She's an artist, and all that. I miss her.

The shocker of the day was Kevin Platt. I pined like a lovesick puppy dog for Kevin Platt for years, enduring all sorts of horrible taunts involving his first name and my last (which was Zevin at the time), and the whole "Sarah and Kevin kissing in a tree" thing. And now he has his very own homepage. He sounds happily married and all that, so I guess I missed my chance. Kevin was tall, dark and handsome, and a total geek. While the other kids were playing outside at recess, Kevin and I would sit in the back room and READ TOGETHER. I'm still the same old dork I was back then, I guess. But Kevin really did something amazing once, by standing up to a very bratty classmate of ours, and I've always wanted to tell him how much I appreciated that. I guess now's my chance, huh? Wow.

I know I had other friends in fourth grade, but honest to God I can't remember their last names. So this will have to do. Thanks, Mrs. Kennedy!

Dear Texas Drivers;

The lane on the far left is called the passing lane. If you are driving in this lane, it should be because you were driving in the traveling lane (that's the one in the middle), but came upon someone who was driving more slowly than you, and so decided to pass that person. Once you are finished passing the person in the traveling lane, you should then return to the aforementioned traveling lane until such a time as you might encounter yet another person traveling more slowly than you. Then you should again follow the instructions above, and pass that slower person. If you are a very, very slow moving vehicle (like, anything less than 70 miles per hour), then you should be in the slow pokes lane. That's the lane on the far right. Please, for the love of God, if you are a truck driver going South to Mexico or North to Canada (never have I hated NAFTA more than since I moved to Texas), you should STAY THE HELL OUT OF THE PASSING LANE.

Thank you very much.

Love,

Sarah

P.S. Please stop riding the brakes.

Pray for Peace

Pray to whoever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching heat,
Yahweh, Allah, raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekinhah, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.

Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper
of time before, time now, time ahead, pray. Bow down
to terriers and shepherds and siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work,
pray on the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus
and for everyone riding buses all over the world.
If you haven't been on a bus in a long time,
climb the few steps, drop some silver, and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM,
for your latté and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: Water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already a prayer.
Skin and open mouths worshipping that skin,
the fragile case we are poured into,
each caress a season of peace.

If you're hungry, pray. If you're tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.
Pray to the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else's legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheel chair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves
we will do less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail
or delivering soda or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard
with yellow chalk, twirling pizzas, pray for peace.

With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds for peace, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth, another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your VISA card. Gnaw your crust
of prayer, scoop your prayer water from the gutter.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.

-- Ellen Bass

12 Years Ago...

More or less...

I wrote this:

Monday 14 January 1991
Jass Oberoi Hotel
Khajuraho, Madhya Pradesh
India

Tomorrow is the final day for Hussein to pull out of Kuwait -- midnight, eastern standard time, which is actually 10:30 the following morning here. Many people here and abroad seem convinced that there will be a war, although we are all hoping that some alternative will be reached. I'm a little nervous about flying back in two weeks -- I had a dream last night that British Airways cancelled all its flights...

Tuesday 15 January
Hotel de Paris
Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh

It's really hard to tell what will happen in the Gulf -- war could break out immediately, or later, or not at all. No one knows, really. I'm feeling somewhat frightened. I don't feel comfortable about being overseas.

Thursday 17 January
Hotel Fairlawn
Calcutta, Bengal

At 3:20 this morning, India time, war broke out in the Gulf. I was sleeping in a train headed for Calcutta. Michael was just finishing up with work. All I've heard is something about an air strike, & 18,000 tons of bombs being dropped. But really, who knows. I just hope it's over quickly and not too many lives are lost. I don't like being over here -- I'll feel much better when/if we touch ground at Heathrow & especially Logan. I'm feeling a real need to go home.

On the minibus to the hotel our guide informed us that war had broken out. None of us had much to say -- it's difficult to react to such news. I felt like crying, though. Meanwhile, life really does go on here in this bustling, crazy city...1/2 an hour ago, at 2, a number of us gathered around the t.v. to watch the Hindi news, but it was difficult to ascertain any real info. English news is on at 3, so I'm sticking around for that. I desperately want to speak to Michael. Dad's calling the office tonight from the Grand Hotel, around the corner -- if he gets thru we'll have some clearer news.

Suburbia

It scares me sometimes, truly, the people in my development. Today I asked Theresa who lives two doors down from me if her son's girlfriend could maybe babysit for me this Saturday night as I have a birthday party to attend. So this sends her spinning off into a huge and strange riff about her son, Brad, and his friends. And how most of his former friends have started to do drugs (they're so close, Brad and Theresa, he just tells her everything), so he doesn't hang out with them anymore because he doesn't want to be seen with them. Although, they're still invited to the house as long as they are clean. Oh, and they can't be wearing those baggy pants. You know the ones? That hang down below their butts? Because they know how Brian and I feel about those clothes, and if they want to come over to our house they have to dress real nice. And Brian was out in the backyard and he left his cigarette burning on the porch railing (cigarettes are OK, after all), and he forgot all about it, and Brad's friend was over and Brian saw the cigarette and pointed at it, and said, "what's that?" Only the kid thought he was pointing at his pants and he said, "Oh, yes sir, I'll go change." And this kid had brought a CHANGE OF CLOTHES to their house so that he wouldn't offend Brad's parents with his baggy pants. So he went right into the house and changed into some tight jeans. Well, not tight jeans, just jeans that fit right, you know. Yeah, let's go hang with Brad and his parents. Of course there's a urinalysis test at the door, and you have to be in dress code...but still...

OH. MY. GOD.

This was the woman who coerced me into attending a candle party when I first arrived in the neighborhood, and tried for weeks to get me to come to a Bunko game. I think now she's finally figured out I'm some kind of liberal pinko commie new englander freak, with blue toenails and a nutty boyfriend and lots of dandelions in my front yard, so she gives me lots of space.

Happiness Writes White

So what good is it? Let's be sad,
wear melancholy like an old brown sweater
patched at the elbows and smelling of our own funk.
The coffee cups pile up on the little table,
pages turn, electric lights come on --
it would be good to have a dog, you think,
one with grave eyes and an understanding of life,
it would be good

to go down to the docks and watch the freighters
idly listing in the oily water,
to smoke cigarettes and look out at the sea
and then walk home in the gathering evening,
at a measured pace, still hearing the voice of the sea
that speaks to you like a friend, of serious things
so simply and quietly
you barely notice the sky blanch after rain
or the woman coming out of the subway
carrying an immense bouquet of white lilac
wrapped in white tissue paper, like a torch.

- Katha Pollitt

Clams For Peace

This is political activism at its finest.
Thank you Brian for providing the link.

Peace out.

Miracle

Javier slept through the night last night. 8 straight hours. There is a god.

Good Weekend

Lots of good things...Saturday we went to BookPeople in the morning and there were 3 books on the sale table I wanted. I got Liar's Club by Mary Karr, Stolen Lives by Malika Oufkir, and Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell. Then on to our usual brunch at El Sol Y La Luna with Honoria and Knut. Sandy and Cymbe came too. It's becoming a Saturday tradition, this pozole brunch -- who knew I'd be eating hominy grits on a regular basis, and loving it. It's the SXSW Music Festival here in Austin, so South Congress was just teeming with musicians and important looking people with badges, and strange looking people from out of town, and a whole wonderful music vibe was happening. After brunch we went to Mansfield Dam where Brian and Knut flew their planes and Honoria and I watched them. Watched the buzzards catch the thermals, watched the clouds float by, watched the traffic down on the highway, thought about air currents and felt very, very peaceful. Had a nice Italian dinner after that and headed back home.

Sunday morning I stayed in bed until something ridiculous like 10:45 (if you don't count getting up at 4:50 and 8:10 to nurse the baby). Then headed off to yet another brunch with Maida and her mother at Fonda San Miguel, which is just the best fucking brunch on the planet. Their ceviche alone brings tears to my eyes. I only get to go there about twice a year, but DAMN is it good. Maida's mother is too cute for words, too. Later we had our own little family peace vigil -- we lit a candle and took it on the dog walk to the park. (There were people lighting candles and having vigils all over the world tonight, but we weren't in a group hug sort of mood.)

I'm home now, and well fed. And tired. And I've got a lead on a job, so keep your fingers crossed...

Want Some Apple Juice, Little Girl?

I can so completely relate to the flight attendant who spiked a 19 month old girl's apple juice with Xanax on a flight from Amsterdam to New York. Of course it was a really, really bad thing to do. But I can relate. Still, it was a pretty bad career move.

Indulge Me

I just -- finally -- installed a comments program on the blog. So please, if you're a regular visitor or just passing through, don't be a stranger! Identify yourself. And by "identify yourself" I mean tell me your favorite fruit.

Thank you.

Poetry and Peace

Coming out of my jobhunting thing for a while, poking around my favorite blogs, and everywhere I go I'm seeing poetry, and this fabulous quote:

"Naturally the common people don't want war; neither in Russia, nor in England, nor in America, nor in Germany. That is understood. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country."

Hermann Goering, at the Nuremberg Trials April 18, 1946

War Verse

Something there is that sure must love a plane
No matter how many you kill with what kind of
bombs or how much blood you manage to spill
you never will hear the cries of pain

Something there is that sure must love a plane
The pilots are never crazy or mean
and bombing a hospital's quick and it's clean
and how could you call such precision insane?

Something there is that sure must love a plane!

- June Jordan

It's the Oil, Stupid

It's about oil, it's about money, it's NOT about terrorism and it's not (exactly) about weapons. The peace movement, such as it is, needs to change it's tune.

The cry to "Let the inspections work" not only fails to explain Bush's designs for the region, it leaves us with little to say if the Security Council approves war based on Hans Blix's findings.

Speaking of Peaceniks, check out some amusing signs from last week's rally here in Austin. You really need to click on the thumbnails to read them.

End of today's political commentary.

Vive La France!

I was reading this article in the Boston Globe today, while perusing the out of town newspaper section at BookPeople. It's from last Sunday, and I'm too cheap to pay for the Globe archive online services, but here's the teaser they let you read on the web:

(begin quote)

WINE BUYERS DO THEIR PART
Published on February 23, 2003. Author(s):    FARAH STOCKMAN

A sign of the times? Best Cellars on Boylston Street makes it clear: they are in no way boycotting French wines. They are merely welcoming their customers to taste grape varieties that have been grown outside of France. The idea to highlight non-French selections came after irate customers asked the company to stop selling wine from a country that has turned up its nose at US plans for war in Iraq. A few doors down Boylston Street, the owner of Abe & Louie's Steak House was far less...

(end quote)

Well, that's all the quote you get. But anyway, I'm reading this article and thinking to myself, I'm thinking, what can I do to support the French in the face of this absurdity? And then, by pure serendipity, Brian goes shopping next door at Whole Foods and picks out two French cheeses for us to eat. In fact, it was an entirely French night, since we drank a lovely Cotes-du-Rhone to accompany the cheese. The organic Reblochon was particularly scrumptious.

I only wish I was back home in Boston so I could march on into Best Cellars on Boylston Street and tell them exactly what I think of their lame-ass policy of "suggesting" wines from alternate countries to their customers. Puh-lease.

So get out there, friends, and show your support for France, a voice of reason on the UN Security Council. Get out there and buy some cheese and wine. Stop the war. No, seriously. Wear a beret, while you're at it.

Writer's Block

What with the impending war, and my horrific financial situation, and the ghastly visit with my mother compounded by the ghastly letter she sent to me...what with all of that, and my recent divorce, and my kids who are alternately fantastic and maddening, with my yard full of dandelions and the bill collectors beating down the door and this feeling of never, ever, ever being able to get it all done, to do it all right, to live like a normal person. And yet here I am still, walking and talking, applying for jobs, taking my kids to school, serving up green beans and pork chops and rice. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to keep it up. Honestly. All of this makes it hard to write, or even to think about writing, even though writing is probably the best thing for me.

Random and surreal...kinda like my life!

Seen first on Fussy...

Sad...

I honestly thought Mr. Rogers would live forever.

The Sensitive Kind


-Sensitive- You're Sensitive, and you'd like to
stay that way. Sorry,listened to a bit too much
Jewel there. You're sweet and very emotionally
charged. You definitely love the person you're
with, and always want to know how they're
feeling so you can make sure they're happy.


What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Ripped off from this place.

Sweet Talk

You are not the Mona Lisa
with that relentless look.
Or Venus borne over the froth
of waves on a pink half shell.
Or an odalisque by Delacroix,
veils lapping at your nakedness.

You are more like the sunlight
of Edward Hopper,
especially when it slants
against the eastern side
of a white clapboard house
in the early hours of the morning,
with no figure standing
at a window in a violet bathrobe,
just the sunlight,
the columns of the front porch,
and the long shadows
they throw down
upon the dark green lawn, baby.

- Billy Collins

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

Shutterbugs

Brian and I are engaged in a contest. Stop by the website and see what you think.

Mommie Dearest

I was maybe a third of the way through a diatribe about my mother's recent visit, Calphalon, unwanted gifts, etc., when I decided to bag the whole thing and spare you the gorey details. I'm just glad it's all over with and I can get back to my life. Until she comes again...in May.

Meanwhile, the dog peed on the mailman's bag today. Can you say mortified?

Yessssss!

I laughed at myself in Best Buy this morning when I decided to buy Quicken 2003 Premier Home & Business. Sarah, I said to myself, who are you kidding? A home you have, but a business...hardly. A mere 4 hours later and I have two job prospects lined up! Two! Things are looking up.

I'm the Guy from High Fidelity


Which John Cusack Are You?


And you would be...?

If I Ever Get Married Again...

...it will have to be in an inflatable church.

Hell On Earth

Hell On Earth would be a birthday party at Peter Piper Pizza, 45 minutes from your house, on a cold and rainy January day. At this party the noise level would be so bad you would be practically having seizures. The pizza for which you paid twenty bucks would taste and look like crap. The grown ups would offer you unsolicited night time potty training advice and inquire (twice) as to whether your boyfriend "helps out" with the kids. Those are the grown ups that talk to you. Most of the grown ups wouldn't know you and haven't seen each other for a long time so immediately form a tight circle and talk about their own bad marriages while their husbands take the kids to the horrible arcade-cum-playland-cum-torture chamber. Except for the one child who remains IN HER MOTHER'S LAP while her mother proceeds to recount the tale of her separation and reconciliation, complete with details about marital counseling her husband cheating on her. Eventually, having had enough, the child would crawl away under the table as her mother screamed after her, "Get back here this INSTANT!" Your children would be alternately whiny and irascible. Your baby would be alternately poopy and hungry. Oh, and you would not have had any coffee that day and so be working on a first class headache.

I deserve a medal.

Movies I Would See if I Didn't Have a Two Month Old Baby

Adaptation
Chicago
Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
Far From Heaven
The Hours
Morvern Callar
Narc
The Pianist
Rabbit Proof Fence
Spirited Away
Talk To Her
25th Hour

Why is it that there was nothing worth seeing during almost my entire pregnancy, when I could have gone to the movies, and now that the baby has arrived there are movies galore??? Why???

RSVP is not French for "don't bother calling me"

I would like to invite all the assholes parents of Jack's classmates to mind their manners. Jack's fifth birthday party would have been a total loss if it hadn't been for Jack's friend Aaron and sister Briana, who were 45 minutes late, but at least they SHOWED UP. I don't think he was upset, but I sure was. Still am. Seething. Perhaps This site might help in the future.

Eyes Wide Open

I'm all for preventing ridicule in the cafeteria, but a retina scanning device? Isn't that a bit much, people? We always got along fine with ID cards. Tell me, anyway, that all the kids won't know exactly who the poor kids are, cash or no cash.

Oh, Yasmine

I'm having more fun than I thought humanly possibly perusing the mug shots on The Smoking Gun's website. Check out this gem. Lookin' gooooood, Ms. Bleeth!

Radio Blech-o

Well, after three sucky songs in a row, I'm going to have to rescind my endorsement of Radioio. Still in search of good internet radio...if someone has a station they love, please let me know.

Things I Do When Brian is in Houston:

*Chew ice
*Watch football
*Clean the pantry
*Pine

Oh, please, it's only 24 hours. Get a grip!

I gave To Catch a Thief another stab, this time sober, and it was (surprise!) a lot better than the other night. Loved the fireworks-as-metaphor-for-climax scene. Loved Grace's white ballgown with her too-perfect breasts perched so jauntily over her cinched-in waist. Loved Cary Grant in every scene. He's so gay, but who cares?

Today's Thought:

Robert Mitchum. Sexy.

So Far, My Favorite Quote of the Week:

By mid-December, when North Korea's stinky madman started making nuclear threats against us, and the administration wouldn't even admit it was a crisis, everyone I know felt like Alice on the other side of the looking glass. Wait, it wasn't a crisis? It looked pretty crisis-y to me. But it seemed to freak Bush out, because the North Korean made it ever so slightly less likely that he'd get to bomb Iraq. It threw them, Bush and his uncles, because they can only hold one resentment at a time. You could see in Bush's face: It was deeply confusing that two things could be in the same space at the same time -- Iraq, where they tried to shoot his dad, and may have nuclear arms someday, and North Korea, where they already do, and where the leader won't bathe, or brush his teeth.

That was Anne Lamott, in Salon. Man, am I ever glad she's back.

Oh, By the Way

I'm getting divorced tomorrow.

What Are the Odds?

So yesterday was a kick-ass, beautiful day, and Brian suggested we head out to the ranch and hike around, a delightful idea. We pack up the baby and the dogs and drive on out there at about 3 p.m. We put on our hiking boots and started climbing through the woods. We headed over the creek and up towards the cliff. And this is when we lost the dog. Again. No dog. Chickendog, of course, being her wonderful, dependable, well behaved self, is stuck to us like glue. Hamish is gone, gone, gone. We kept on hiking up to the cliff, and stopped for a bit to take in the lovely view. The sun was starting to go down so we headed back towards the car. All this time, of course, we're calling out for Hamish, but there's no sign of him. You have to picture very dense Cedar trees, on rocky, hilly terrain. We couldn't see very far in any direction because of the trees. In fact, we got lost on our way back because it's so hard to find your way around in this stuff. When we went through the fence and shut the gate behind us I was in tears, thinking of poor Hamish stuck back there all alone, but there was nothing to be done. We had the baby with us, no flashlight, it would be totally dark in less than an hour, we had to go back to the car.

As it was, we barely made it back before the light was gone, and we drove over to Brian's aunt's house feeling worried and dejected. They were all gearing up for a nice meal of black eyed peas, which was what we had been planning for dinner also. We headed back to town. Of course, driving away from the ranch back towards the highway, what should we find but someone else's loose dog..."what are the odds?" I said to Brian, as we picked him up and headed back towards his house. We deposited him (he was a sweet black lab, I wanted to take him home with me) with his doggy friends and went on to Brian's place.

I cooked up some fabulous Hoppin' John, Brian mixed up some margaritas, we both got hammered and started watching To Catch A Thief. Which, by the way, just didn't capture my interest. Maybe it was the margarita or the missing dog, but I just wasn't digging it.

The phone rang at 12:26. It was Brian's aunt Pam. Her dogs had been going crazy so she headed outside and heard barking far away. Bless her heart, she grabbed a flashlight and went down to the creek where she retrieved my dumb, skinny, scatterbrained, beautiful Border Collie.

One of these days we'll drink that champagne.

Really, Really Good

The very instant I hit the "Post & Publish" button, who did I see on my front lawn? That's right, Hamish himself. He's muddy, but otherwise looks none the worse for wear. We are two very relieved people right now. Happy New Year!

Really, Really Not Good

My dog is missing. He took off last night, spooked by the fireworks, and that was the last we saw of him. Brian and I spent the night driving around the subdivision, asking happy drunk people if they'd seen our dog. I'm so worried for him...I can't even really write about it. We're saving the half bottle of champagne for his safe return.

BIG CITY YEAR IN REVIEW:

Best movie I've seen this year: Sexy Beast

Sweetest movie I’ve seen this year: It Could Be Worse

Hottest movie I’ve seen this year: Time Code

Worst movie I've seen this year: It's a toss up between Vanilla Sky and Kiss of the Dragon. Bridget Fonda needs help.

Best book I read this year (fiction): Oranges are not the Only Fruit, Jeanette Witherspoon

Best book I read this year (non fiction): Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey (make that the only non fiction book I read this year).

Best book I read this year (poetry): The Splinter Factory, Jeff McDaniel. And hey, I went to college with the guy too! But I don't really remember him. But I have his picture in my yearbook and stuff.

Best CDs I bought this year: Radiohead, Amnesiac; Lucinda Williams, Essence; Jonathan Richman, Action Packed: The Best of Jonathan Richman.

Song that never failed to make me tear up, all year long: "The Luckiest" by Ben Folds. It's our song, and everything. Awwww.

TV Shows worth setting the VCR for: The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Mind of the Married Man, 24, and, surprisingly enough, ER.

Proudest Moment: Well, that would have to be giving birth to the 9 pound, 4 ounce, 21 and a half inches long Javier Sebastian Vela in the comfort of my own bedroom. Did I mention yet that he weighs 17 POUNDS as of this morning? At 8 WEEKS? Astonishing.

Second Proudest Moment: Jack, while we are on our way to preschool, calls to me from the back seat: "Mama, can you put on Radiohead?" Melt my heart.

Happy New Year, and all that. The big plans for the evening are to mix up a batch of margaritas and put together something yummy to eat, dig out a DVD or two, and have a big smooch at midnight. Perhaps we'll meet the neighbors in the driveway with sparklers so we can pop corks and celebrate together right at the stroke of midnight. That's life in the big city, folks.

Calling the Saint of Lost Voices

Several weeks ago I lost my voice. Not completely, I can still carry on a conversation, talk on the phone, whatever. But I can't sing, can't really talk to someone in a noisy restaurant, can't call my dog over from the neighbor's yard, can't yell at my kids in a threatening manner, and I sound pathetic. Not gravelly and sexy like Lauren Bacall, just pathetic. And it isn't going away. This was before the strep kicked in, mind you. Did I mention the strep? My entire family, not to mention boyfriend, ex husband, and friend, has come down with this lovely ailment. And I have had it not once, but TWICE, in rapid succession. I was two days off the amoxicillin when I came down with it again and had to call in the troops (Brian) to come all the way back from Houston so he could drive to the pharmacy and get my drugs (Z pack this time! Love that stuff) and then put my kids to bed. Brian gets a big gold star for coming back to save my ass. I had to tear him away from his mother and grandmother. Really, the only good news in all of this is that babies don't get strep. Or, at least what I've heard is that they very rarely get strep, so I'm still ever watchful over little Javier.

But wasn't I talking about my voice? Oh, yeah. So, I'm becoming paranoid. I'm not given to hypochondria. If anything, I'm given to whatever the opposite of hypchondria is -- lackadasia? Whatever. I don't freak out when I get sick. I don't think this mole which has appeared on the side of my torso is a sign of cancer (unlike SOME people I know, whose names will not be mentioned, you know who you are). But this loss-of-voice thing is freaking me out. And no one else seems very concerned about it, even the previously unmentioned one. He's not worried about it. My father isn't worried about it either. People who I talk to on the phone seem totally oblivious to the fact that I sound TOTALLY different. And no one's rushing up to me in church to exclaim, "what happened to your lovely dulcet tones?" Of course, we haven't been to church much lately, so that could account for something. Anyway, I'm having this terrible feeling like it's never going to come back, and I'm going to have this voice forever. This voice which apparently makes me sound exactly like one of Brian's ex-girlfriends. And not an ex-girlfriend I'd particularly like to emulate, either. No, an ex-girlfriend I've pretty much snickered over. Apparently we sound exactly alike, especially on the phone, and he wishes he had a recording of her voice so he could play it for me. That would be fun. Is there a Saint of Lost Voices? I want mine back.

Wow. It's been a long time I guess. Nothing like the holidays and two bouts of Strep in a row, visiting relatives, impending divorce proceedings, a newborn...what am I leaving out? Well, there's nothing like all of that shit to just slow you waaaaay down and pretty much destroy your ability to maintain anything like a normal schedule, not to mention a blog.

Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Rollicking Chanukah or Hannuka or whatever, to all of you folks out there. Or, as they say in Texas, to all y'all. I'm four days from D day. The court appointment is scheduled for 15 whopping minutes. It doesn't take long to get divorced in Texas, just thousands and thousands of dollars. And that's an amicable divorce, with a mediator and everything.

Big day today -- I was on my own for the first time since the birth, having sent my anxious boyfriend, who didn't believe for a minute that I'd behave myself and stay in bed -- off to Houston to see his mother and grandmother (and no doubt collect some nice birthday presents). It went OK. I can't believe how long it's taking me to feel normal after this birth. I'm quite sure that after Eli was born I was shuttling Jack to and from daycare within a few days, and doing pretty well. Now I get shaky after heating up a bowl of soup. That was lunch, and had me worried about picking up the boys, etc., but everything went well. I picked up the boys -- Jack's teacher Carla helped me get everything downstairs and into the van -- and we headed off to Chili's, because there was no way I was going to be able to cook a meal for these kids. Of course, Jack fell asleep in the back of the van on the way home and I had to wake him up to come inside. Normally I would carry him in and upstairs, but there was no way I was going to be able to pick up a 40+ pound boy and carry him up a flight of stairs. Poor thing was so tired, he collapsed at the bottom of the stairs and said he couldn't make it to the top. But I threatened and cajoled him and he got himself to bed. Of course at that point he immediately perked up for stories, and then he held Javi while I put Eli in his crib (he climbed in). He was SO cute holding his little brother, who fell right asleep in his lap. These boys are just knocking me out, they are so affectionate with the baby. Every time he fusses they tell him, "it's OK, baby Javi!" Awwww. Quite the contrast to when Eli arrived on the scene and Jack pulled him off the couch! Anyway, both boys fell asleep within minutes and I came down here and got in bed. Javi's asleep now so I think I'll go do some last minute picking up around the house and then go to bed for good. I feel surprisingly OK, not wiped out like I was day before yesterday, so I guess I really am on the mend. Finally!

It's Technical Difficulties Day, otherwise known as Brian's birthday. Poor man is spending the whole day resolving issues with the NEW HIGH SPEED CABLE (woo hoo!) which is now up and running, and with my little ol' Palm, which keeps getting sick. Every time I change the batteries the f******ng thing crashes and I lose everything on there. So he's working on these issues while I sit here in bed like a helpless ninny, periodically nursing my child and doing stretches and stuff. Mostly I'm surfing the web (so quickly! so efficiently!) and reading emails and wishing I could just get out of bed and do things. I'm a terrible, terrible patient. But I'm trying not to be cranky because it's Brian's birthday and he shouldn't have to deal with Cranky Me today. And I really need to heal, already.

A very cool homebirthing blog has recently been brought to my attention. Check it out.

Yesterday I left the house for the first time, and oh what a mistake that was. Well, not a huge mistake, but enough of a mistake. We went up to Austin for our bi-weekly writer's group, then on to Central Market for some shopping. Within a few minutes of shuffling around the store I was light headed and shaky and tingly and stuff, and Brian had to escort me back to the car. Oh well. We did go out for sushi after that, so all was not lost. Mmmmm, maguro.

The boys will be back with me today after being at their dad's since Saturday afternoon. Brian picks them up from school in a couple of hours. I hope they're not too disappointed to find me still in bed...

Cable guy's here! Cable guy's here! I owe Brian (whose birthday it is today, by the way) a quarter (My daddy always told me never bet more than a quarter. Best financial advice I ever got). because I thought for sure he'd be late. Nope, right on time, right smack in the middle of his four hour window. He's oddly nervous and seems devoid of a personality, but who cares? I get high speed cable! No more 56K modem for me, baby!!!

I'm back after taking a little break to, you know, have a baby and stuff. I think he's the best thing since sliced bread, or at least the best thing since his two older brothers. Yes, I am now the mother of three boys. God help me. For those of you who like gory details, here's a link to the birth story. I'm not sure how long that link will last, though, since it's a message board. Try it, anyway. I suppose I could put the whole story on the blog, but we'll just see how it goes doing it this way. Javi was born at home, and it has been such a wonderful experience for us. I'm really thrilled I got the opportunity to have a baby in my own home.


So, I'm stuck in bed and terribly bored. I spend the day emailing and surfing and playing solitaire on my Palm. The baby spends the day breastfeeding, pooping, burping and sleeping. We're quite a pair. I'm on this classic movie fans list which I usually only pay a tiny bit of attention to -- most of the posts go directly to the trash. It's not that I don't think the discussions are interesting, but who has time? I guess I have time, now, because I'm reading EVERY post, and this is a prolific bunch. We've been talking a lot about silent movies this week, as we're having our own Oscar contest for the silent era. My vote goes to Janet Gaynor as best actress for her work in F. W. Murnau's "Sunrise." I know of no more beautiful film than that. Murnau was a genius. I'll let you know who wins, I'm sure you'll be on the edge of your seat.

Poor Winona Ryder. But didn't you just love her defense? "My director told me to do it...it was all in preparation for a role!" Uh huh. I'll bet that went over REALLY well with the judge and jury, sweetie.

The boyfriend suggests that I write about my voting experience because yes, of course, I voted today. Always get a little thrill about doing my civic duty, even when there's hardly a soul worth voting for on the whole ballot. I grew up in Massachusetts, where they are still filling in little ovals with Sharpie pens, according to my sources in Leominster. Me, I got to punch a ballot today, which was mighty exciting. You can be sure I held it up to the light afterwards to make sure all was clear. Nothing hanging or pregnant, unless you count yours truly. Speaking of voting issues, there was a good little article in Salon lately on the subject of high tech voting. I think sharpies and punch ballots are just fine for now, thank you very much. Anyway, so it looks like virtually everyone I voted for will lose -- this is par for the course for me. Funnily enough, I cast my first-ever vote for a Republican candidate today (County Commissioner Susie Carter), and she may be the ONLY candidate to win from my ballot. But it's close. The guy she's running against is an absolute joke and had to be stopped.

Turns out someone does read my blog, and she noticed the severe lack of posting recently. So Betsy, this one's for you. Halloween was really very fun this year. The kids had coordinating dragon/dinosaur costumes, made by their Abuelita who can sew ANYTHING. I am in awe of this woman. I can sew a button back on after it has fallen off, but that sums up my abilities. She made these incredible costumes with sticky-up eyeballs and stuffed tails and everything. The boys had a fabulous time (once they got over being shy) running up to the doors and ringing the doorbells. Say what you will about my weird, suburban, subdevelopment, Truman Show-ish neighborhood, the place was just made for things like Halloween. I have an absurd amount of candy left over, but that will all go into Jack's birthday pinata, so not to worry.

I'm one week away from my due date now. Just waiting. The nights are the hardest -- every night I think maybe, just maybe, I'll go into labor. Anything to relieve the pain, pressure, and trips to the bathroom.

Apparently, my 4 year old has been watching a little too much Sex and the City lately. This morning he pitched a fit because his shoes didn't go with his shirt. Should I take him shopping for some Manolo Blahniks? Do you think they have those at the San Marcos outlets?

Jack said, "I'm too tired to come upstairs to bed." So I called his bluff and started story time without him, figuring he'd drag his sorry butt upstairs once he heard all the fun and excitement. Eli and I read our usual 4 stories, I tucked him into his crib, filled up his sippy cup and looked downstairs to see Jack, fast asleep on the couch. He'd made a little bed for himself with a pillow and the throw blanket. Poor pumpkin, he wasn't kidding. It's really fun carrying a 40 pound kid upstairs when you're 37 weeks pregnant. Really, really fun.

Did I mention we went to see Igby Goes Down? Go see it. I've always really liked Claire Danes, I used to watch My So-Called Life religiously -- I just have a thing for teen angst. Anyway, she's all grown up but in a good way. Also, I just really like the name of the director: Burr Steers. That just has to be a made-up name, don't you think? Oh wait, I found him! And he looks oddly like Bill Pullman, who plays the schizophrenic dad in Igby. Kinda cute, actually. Gore Vidal's nephew, too. Ya learn something new every day.

It's bad enough that no one reads my blog. I mean, what do I expect, really? But the thing is no one CAN read my blog because of this FTP problem I'm having. I won't go into detail, let's just say it has to do with broken pipes or something. Whatever that means. Meanwhile, I'm delighted to report to no one in particular that the midwife came for a visit today. She does one home visit before the actual homebirth, mostly so she knows her way here and doesn't get lost at 2 in the morning trying to find the place. Anyway, she agrees with me that I am, indeed, carrying a long baby. We both came to this conclusion after being able to feel the baby's cute tiny little feet poking out from behind my collarbone. I am so, so ready to be done with this particular pregnancy.

The children and I had a delightful evening. One of those evenings, you know, where nothing goes right. Jack started things off by breaking his Jemimah Puddle Duck bowl because he was playing with it and let it spin off the table and onto the floor. (Have you tried reading any Beatrix Potter books lately? The ones we were raised on that we thought were so great? Take it from me, they're really very strange.) Then he and Eli basically fought over every toy they could get their hands on between then and dinner. While Jack whined about being hungry and wanted to know when dinner was going to be ready, anyway. He asked me this question about five billion times. After dinner, we continued with the fighting and the not sharing until bed time, when we had fun delaying and procrastinating. Then there was all the crying at bed time. After that I settled down for a good long hour of ER, which made me feel better. I took a few years off, and now the show feels all fresh to me again. Nice and fresh and bloody.

It's actually COOL today. I mean, I'm still wearing a sleeveless dress, but there's a cool breeze, I can feel it when I walk outside. Amazing. Makes all the difference, really, when you're 36 weeks pregnant and the temperatures drop from high 80s/low 90s to high 70s/low 80s. Now if only the little munchkin would stop kicking me in the ribs. Sigh.

I love laptops.

So my church had its first worship service in the new, big space today, which is just beautiful. The ceiling must be 30 feet high, the whole place smells like cedar, but not too overwhelming. It's sort of modern Mission style. Tile floors. And a really fabulous color scheme. The chairs aren't in yet, so we sat on plastic folding chairs, but otherwise it was all good to go. This is an Episcopal church which means we worship from the Book of Common Prayer and use a hymnal that goes back, like, a million years. But that doesn't prevent anyone from introducing new, horrid, soft rock-y Christian songs into the worship service. You know, "contemporary Christian music." Gag me. I'm sorry, I try to be tolerant, but PLEASE can we stick to the organ and the old, fussy hymns and throw that guitar OUT? Gives me the willies, that music. Sigh. Oh well, they're good people and they mean well, and they've been nothing but sweet to me since we started attending services last winter, so I'll cut them some slack.

Oh Captain, my Captain! Thanks for saving the day.

Fear not...captain is here to save the blog....

Oh, and my blog still isn't posting. Time to call in the technical experts.

What HAPPENED to Cameron Crowe? How could the person who brought us Fast Times At Ridgemont High, Say Anything, Jerry Maguire and Almost Famous have created the dreck that is Vanilla Sky? I hope he's working on something better, is all.

My blog isn't posting. I click post and publish, but it's not coming up on the page. I don't know why I even care, since no one reads this thing, but I care, and I'm frustrated, and I can't figure out what to do about it. Sigh.

Well, so much for daily. A two week trip back East really threw me off my blogging game. I've been feeling a wee bit disorganized and a huge bit anxious about money lately. There's nothing like being pregnant and unemployed. Nothing. So anyway, here's what's happened in the last month:

A two week trip to New England with two very cranky kids. We were supposed to go to NY, also, but the kids just weren't going to handle that well, so we changed our plans and stayed in Massachusetts. I managed to fall and hurt myself, pretty badly banging up my elbow and my face. When I heard my front tooth hit the brick I thought for sure I'd lost a tooth, but luckily it held up OK. Then, about a week later, I put my elbow through a pane of glass in a moment of pure idiocy. Everyone got sick. But we still had a good time. My cousin's wedding was a smashing success, and, as the official photographer, I think I did a good job. The prints await me at the photo lab...I'm afraid to look. What if they're bad? What if I suck? Oh, and a new addition to the family -- Amelia Ruby was born on September 8th. I'm a Great Aunt! Really great!

Back home. Hamish did quite well at the kennel for the 2 weeks we were gone. And chickendog lost some weight and was trim and spry. We were glad to be back, and to see the doggies.

My neighbors across the street moved to Oklahoma and took the last two remaining kittens from the litter with them, so now I'm back down to 2 cats from an all time high of 7. What a relief!

I've been working on my new career -- drafting a mission statement and a business plan. Flyers are up all over Austin advertising my services. Of course there's little I'll be able to do with a newborn, but it feels good to get some work done. I have beautiful new business cards, too! Time to network.

Reading: The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. About to read: The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen which is FINALLY out in paperback.

Watching: Rented The Talented Mr. Ripley on Saturday night. Good movie, really, although Gwyneth Paltrow always makes me want to gag. The Sopranos are BACK. My Sunday nights are full. I'm watching Six Feet Under too, of course. That's the best two hours of entertainment in my week.

Oh, and I lost some more of my back molar, so it's time to bite the bullet, so to speak, and go to the dentist. Appointment is for Wednesday. I have serious dental-phobia, so I'm mildly terrified.