One kind of liberation.

The other night I had dinner out with two friends -- like me, mothers of young children, though we knew each other Before All That -- who live a couple of towns away. Family schedules can make it tough to find an evening we're all available, but we make it happen every couple of months. This time we met at Bopha's Stir Crazy, a Cambodian restaurant which, Cape Cod/southeastern Massachusetts readers, you should absolutely visit if you haven't. (Note to self: remember this place when next lamenting the relative lack of really good, fairly casual, not-American-pub-food restaurants on the Cape, as compared to the Pioneer Valley from whence I moved, which has a giddy and delicious abundance thereof and which I sometimes heartily miss.) (Another note to self: who the hell uses "from whence" and "thereof" in casual writing?)

Ahem.

Anyway one of my friends arrived a few minutes late. Sitting down, she said she'd just come from the garden center, where she'd had to exchange one kind of hose for another, and that it had taken much longer than she'd thought it would because the cashier didn't know how to conduct the transaction, got the register all muddled up, had to call a manager over, etc., etc. Evidently the cashier behaved very rudely, as well. My mild-mannered, good-natured friend eventually said to her, "hey, there's no need to be that way with me. I didn't mess up the register," and that the cashier, while still gritting her teeth, at least knocked off the overt snippiness.

We all agreed that ten years ago -- even five -- none of us would've likely said anything, however justified. There's something about... what, turning 40? being somebody's mother? ... that has kicked in, and we just don't put up with stuff like that any more.

Looking at the menu, we thought about getting three different entrees to share. "Actually, I'd like to have that to myself," my friend said. Fair enough. If a mommy gets a night out with her friends, the last thing she should have is someone taking unwelcome bites of her dinner. Another thing we're not going to feel sheepish about. There are lots of things like this. I won't share popcorn at the movies. I never liked to, but I won't fake it any more. I want it all myself, and I want to eat it with my tongue, like a frog, if frogs ate popcorn. It's a small thing, but it makes me happy.

So we're feeling changes in our sense of self as we move into middle adulthood. But it's not just about rude strangers and popcorn. Although I still worry about it sometimes, if I'm perfectly honest I have to say I care less and less about whether people in general like me or not. I've realized that the things people might not like about me are really unlikely to change, at this stage of the game. I am who I am. There are six billion people on the planet to choose your friends from... don't choose me, if you don't want to. It's okay. We're both better off. Peace.

(My inner puppy would like to interject at this point that none of this means I'm not a likeable person or a good friend, and that you'd probably like me if we met. OK, puppy. Back in your crate now.)

However, I must not be all grown up yet because I'm still taking crap from people in doctors' offices. For example, take my recent annual ob-gyn appointments. The medical assistant who does the initial stuff -- weight, blood pressure, asking if anything's changed since last time, saying "you can get undressed, the doctor will be with you shortly" -- has become pointedly unfriendly to me. She didn't smile, didn't respond when spoken to, didn't look at me or call me by name. It is weird and unpleasant, and I was really taken aback by it. I have been a patient of this practice (is that the dumbest home page ever? No links!) for ten years now, through two pregnancies and various other bumps in the road that I won't bore you with (you're welcome). That assistant has been there for many of those years, herself, and she hasn't always been such a sourpuss. Something has distinctly changed. I have to wonder, and I'm tempted to ask her, "did I do something to piss you off? or is there just something uncomfortable up your ass?" -- because I don't deserve that.

But I haven't, and I probably won't, because 1) I would probably word it just like that, and become Part of the Problem; and 2) it's very hard to find a new doctor, and I'd hate to burn that bridge. There are only a few places to storm out of in high dudgeon (!) before I'd be out of local options altogether. Doctors around here have really got patients over a barrel. Still, basic civility doesn't seem like it should be too much to ask.

At any rate, this knowing who you are, and not feeling apologetic about it must be what people mean, in part, when they talk about how aging is "liberating." I suppose there's a fine line between "What you think won't hurt me because I'm OK with who I am" and "I don't care what you think because I'm kind of an asshole that way." Here's to achieving the former without coming off as the latter.

Movie Night: Appaloosa

Shown in the Sandy Shoes home theater last night: Appaloosa.



I don't usually dig Westerns, but did mostly like this one. Ed Harris (who also directs) and Viggo Mortensen star as Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch, two hired guns who sign on to police a small New Mexico town being terrorized by a powerful rancher (Jeremy Irons) and his men. Enter Renee Zellweger (can someone please tell me what's appealing about her? Is it the piggy little eyes? The faux whisper?) as a widow of uncertain motives, and things get complicated.

Good: pace, performances, dialogue, overall cool factor.

Bad: I just don't love Renee Zellweger as much as most people do. That aside, her character is problematic... not because she complicates things, but because there's a "this would all be going fine if it weren't for the dang woman" flavor to the whole thing, which is a cheap, cheesy cop-out of a plot device.

I haven't made up my mind about Viggo Mortensen. History of Violence (also Mortensen and Harris) was sooo bad, and his performance in this wasn't much different; just, the Everett Hitch character was perfectly suited to it. I can't remember seeing him in much else; Hidalgo didn't make any impression whatsoever, and I never saw the Lord of the Rings movies.

Anyway, Appaloosa is worth seeing. For those keeping track at home, Mr. Sandyshoes liked it too :).

Heh heh. Let's pee in it. Heh.

It appears Beavis and Butt-head are alive and well and living in Wyoming.

And as much as it pains me to admit it, I thought that was pretty funny.

Though it would have served 'em right if the timing of their antics had been off. Old Faithful blasts thousands of gallons of scalding water 150 feet into the air every hour and a half...-ish.

Ah well. These two will have to get their Darwin Awards by some other inglorious route.

The Mommy Survey

This was going around several weeks ago; I just got around to posting mine.

1) What is something that your Mommy always says to you?

Peanut: She loves me.

Bean: I love you.

2) What makes your Mommy happy?

Peanut: Please and thank you.

Bean: Me.

3) What makes your Mommy sad?

Peanut: I don't know.

Bean: When I don’t listen.

4) How does your Mommy make you laugh?

Peanut: By saying "Peanut, why are you so sad?"

Bean: Tickling me.

5) What was your Mommy like as a child?

Peanut: Me.

Bean: You hated skirts.

6) How old is your Mommy?

Peanut: I keep forgetting.

Bean: 42.

7) How tall is your Mommy?

Peanut: I know you're not small.

Bean: almost six feet

(I’m 5’ 4” – ed. )

8) What is her favorite thing to do?

Peanut: I think you like to listen to the news.

Bean: Love me.

9) What does your Mommy do when you aren't around?

Peanut: I don't know.

Bean: Play with Peanut.

10) If your Mommy became famous, what would she be famous for?

Peanut: Maybe flowers that you really like!

Bean: Being President.

11) What is your Mommy really good at?

Peanut: Loving me.

Bean: Writing.

12) What is your Mommy not very good at?

Peanut: I don't know.

Bean: Hm. Climbing trees?

13) What does your Mommy do for her job?

Peanut: Take care of me and Bean.

Bean: Take care of us.

14) What is your Mommy's favorite food?

Peanut: There's a squirrel in our yard. Egg salad?

Bean: Things that you cook.

15) What makes you proud of your Mommy?

Peanut: When we go places that me and Bean really like.

Bean: Cooking something that you never did before, like the tofu.

16) If Mommy was a cartoon character, which would she be?

Peanut: Serabe.

Bean: Kermit.

17) What do you and your Mommy do together?

Peanut: Read books and walk to the bus.

Bean: Go to the bookstore.

18) How are you and your Mommy the same?

Peanut: We both love each other.

Bean: We’re in the same family.

19) How are you and your Mommy different?

Peanut: We don't have the same shirts.

Bean: We’re different sizes.

20) How do you know your Mommy loves you?

Peanut: You say you love me.

Bean: You say it a lot.

21) Where is your Mommy's favorite place to go?

Peanut: I don't know.

Bean: The beach.

Mother's Day recap

Sunday morning Mr. Sandyshoes said to me that... um, er, he didn't plan anything for Mother's Day... because we don't do that kind of holiday, right?

And he's right, we don't, at least not the way most everyone else does. So, while most everyone else was stuck taking/being taken by their families out to eat at crowded restaurants, I happily abandoned my lovely offspring in the care of their lovely father and ran off to the movies. W00t!

And:I am happy to report that everything good that's being said about Star Trek is true.

It. Is. Awesome. I just wanted to sit there and watch it again.

Also, I got a rock. Peanut painted a rock at preschool, glued a clothespin to it, and voila, I have a paperweight/clip thingy. Bean presented me with a lovely yellow flower, which she had planted at school and brought home. Like an idiot, I lifted it gently out of its cup to see if there was drainage or I should repot it... I should've just asked her, because she knew how it was supposed to drain, and I would've saved her from bursting into tears at all the potting soil I inadvertently dumped on the floor. Sigh.

Yeah whatever. That is a damn good movie. It hit all the right notes -- just campy enough.

Go. See. Report.

R.I.P. Dom Deluise

I just read that Dom Deluise died in his sleep yesterday, at 75.

He was terrifically funny in many things of course, but I'll remember him best for this:



I have a special love for funny people who performed with the Muppets in the Jim Henson days. Thanks for the laughs, Mr. Deluise. Merdlidop!

(I'm so sorry, but:)

It has come to my attention that today is Star Wars Day.

May the Fourth be with you.

3PO: "I think she might think that's even a little bit funny."
R2: (sad whistle)

Because I know you're wondering and just don't know how to ask...

...the new lawn mower works great. The self-propelled part takes some adjusting to -- it *really* wants to go forward. Even without that feature engaged, there's more resistance to backing up than there was in the old one. My previous lawn mowing strategy involved a lot of dragging it backwards instead of turning around. So it's faster, it's easier, it STARTS, hurray! -- but it'll take some getting used to as well.

...and I turn 40something again. But we'll get to that soon enough. First, I have to cut down a tree.

When the weather turns warmish, and sane people start thinking of planting things, it is my instinct to get out there and chop stuff the hell down. I don't know why. To me, destruction pruning is the most satisfying yard work there is.

For a long while there had been a branch dangling from one of the scrappy useless oak trees along the side of our driveway. It hung right over where a person would have to walk if they were getting in the passenger side of a car parked where visitors usually park. My brother visits us every few weeks, and he and I usually go out to lunch or something while he's here. All winter long I've been walking into that goddamn branch. When decent temperatures finally arrived, I was ready to do some damage. That tree was coming down, baby. Why not just go after the branch, you ask? Well. One of my yard jobs is to rake leaves in the fall. If you're a tree in my yard, you'd better be lovely enough to warrant cleaning up after you. This one didn't qualify by a long shot.

So I went to get my favorite hand saw. We do have a chain saw, but it isn't working. No - it is stuck in Mr. Sandyshoes's particularly excruciating brand of should-I-fix-it-or-buy-a-new-one limbo. Also, I don't love chain saws overmuch. I know a lot of tree guys with too many scars and accident stories. Besides, I am not the most coordinated person you'll ever meet.

My favorite hand saw is now kept, along with all the other implements of outdoor destruction, in our new shed. Mr. Sandyshoes built the shed last year, all by himself. Not from a kit, but "from sticks," as they say. He is pretty damn cool, even though I am about to make it seem otherwise.

Once I got the shed door open (which, note to Mr. Sandyshoes, needs to be made easier to do), I could not get to the saw because there was a brand new lawn mower, still in its box, blocking the way. Now, regular readers may remember that Mr. Sandyshoes and I have had something of an ongoing discussion about a new lawn mower. In brief: although I agreed to do most of the lawn mowing, trying to accomplish it with a machine that doesn't reliably start or continue to run once started was beginning to piss me off something fierce. And as the old saying goes, ain't Mama happy, ain't nobody happy.

So - why the new lawnmower tucked away in the shed, without a peep from my lovely husband about having chosen and bought one? Why, indeed.

I pondered that some, as I sawed away at the object of my wrath and hauled it in pieces onto the brush pile.

When he noticed a couple of days later that I'd cut down the tree, and deduced that I'd have had to go into the shed before doing so, a look passed between us. Later that evening, I showed him this little video:



Nevertheless, the lawn mower appeared on my birthday. Note the sort of smooshed purple bow on the box (top right. It's a small bow. A humble bow. An am-I-sleeping-in-the-shed-tonight sort of bow).

My friends' opinions are about equally divided (and not along gender lines) between "Cool! A lawn mower!" and "What, he couldn't have got you some earrings?" Me? I'm psyched to finally have a new lawn mower (self-propelled! GUARANTEED TO START!), and frankly glad to have been spared the process of choosing one. I'm not overjoyed that my birthday coincides with the onset of lawn mowing season, but whachagonnado.

And won't he have a nice Christmas the year the vacuum cleaner needs replacing?

Birthday Season I, in which the Peanut turns 5...

We have two birthday seasons in our little family: the Peanut and me in April, and the Bean and Mr. Sandyshoes in August.

Peanut just turned five (5!). She'd been counting down to her birthday for so long that I thought she might go nuts with excitement as The Day approached. There was some confusion as to how many days remained until her birthday party (which we had on a weekend), vs. her actual birthday. Either way, the counting was exciting.

The birthday party scene is changing a bit. We always just have them in the backyard and hope for the best, weather-wise. But before Peanut was in preschool, her birthday parties were as much for us as for her. We’d have a couple families over and hang out. This year she wanted to party with her own school friends. So I said what the heck, took a deep breath, and invited all of 'em. When the final count was in we were expecting some 15 preschoolers. That could easily have fallen into the "what the HELL was I thinking" category, but it turned out perfect. They all played outside like maniacs. Our swingset looked like something out of an advertisement, except that a professional photographer might've spaced the kiddos out some. We had a bit of a backup at the top of the spiral tube slide. Kids came flying out of that thing all afternoon and climbing back up for more. Mr. Sandyshoes had wiped it down with furniture polish beforehand. Heh heh. That is one fast slide.

For a party activity, I repeated my sand art triumph from the Bean's 5th birthday two years ago. Briefly: kids scoop colored sand into clean baby food jars to make pretty patterns. I highly recommend it for a party of kids this age. It’s just right for their coordination and attention span, it’s creative and fun, and gives them something pretty to take home. Boys and girls seem to love it equally. Most importantly, it’s easy to clean up.

Then it was cake time. Peanut had requested blue icing with pink letters, which sounds simple enough but sometimes I’m not too good at coloring icing. I ended up with something that looked to me like smoked salmon at the bottom of a swimming pool, but she thought it was cool, and that’s all that matters.

So, the weather was gorgeous, the kids were happy, the sand project rocked, the cake made the Peanut even happier than usual, and all was well in partyville. Ten seconds before the party was scheduled to be over, it started to rain. Incredibly perfect timing.

At bedtime, in the spirit of the countdown, I said, "Peanut, tomorrow is the last day you'll be 4!" -- and she just broke down in tears. Oh, did she ever sob, and I felt sad for making her feel sad. "Oh Peanut," I said, “you really liked being four, didn't you?” Nod, sob, sob. “Well,” I said, “the only thing that changes when you're five is the number of fingers you hold up when someone asks how old you are. Everything that's good about being four stays just the same when you're five.” And we counted some of those good things that won’t change.

Part of me is sad to see four go by, too. But she loves her childhood. That makes me feel really good.

Nothing else really explains it.

The Bean and the Peanut are usually pretty tight. They like each other a lot and play together like peas in a pod. However, I sometimes wonder if they have an actual biological need to scream at each other every so often until one (doesn't matter which, sometimes it's both) of them is crying. There doesn't seem to be anything I can do to prevent it. If I see it coming and separate them, they just wait till the next available opportunity. It's like a necessary, inevitable letting off of steam.

I have learned to just send them outside till it's over. Let the neighbors wonder. "What in hell is that racket? Where on Earth is their mother, and why doesn't she do anything about it?"

Back AWAY from the steak knives.

I am dropping EVERYTHING lately.

I'm not normally like this. I'm not the most coordinated person ever, but if you throw me a ball, I'm more likely to catch it than not. I generally don't drop stuff more often than the next guy. But the past few days have been messy.

Among other things, I dropped (broke, and spilled) a huge bottle of juice in the checkout at Trader Joe's. I knocked over my own (full, natch) glass of water at the table. I spilled the Peanut's vitamins all over the kitchen floor.

This reminds me of an article I read as a kid, about "biorhythms." I have no idea where I came across it. Did my mother subscribe to Psychology Today? Was it in a magazine in someone's waiting room? Who knows. All I remember is that it said that we supposedly each have emotional, intellectual, and physical cycles, with peaks and valleys (think sine wave). When you have a few days like I'm having, during which everything you pick up seems to be making an independent effort to crash to the floor, it's an indication that your physical biorhythm is at its "critical point," and it's not an optimum time to attempt, say, brain surgery.

It's all crap, of course. People have emotional, intellectual, and physical up days and down days for any number of reasons, but (hormonal cycling aside) the idea that they would be spaced on some kind of predictable frequency based on... what, anyway?... and starting at birth, is hooey.

Still, the phrase cracks me up now as it did then. "I'm sorry, but I probably shouldn't _____. My physical biorhythm is at its critical point."

Needless to say I won't be handling any sharp objects until I can make it across the kitchen with a few more glasses of water. Sheesh.

Amazon fail

This is upsetting. In case you haven't heard -- the internet has been all abuzz about this so forgive my repetition -- here is my understanding of what's going on:

Over Easter weekend, Amazon.com appears to have removed sales ranking information in its listings for some books it deems to be of "adult" content. No listed sales rank on Amazon means those titles don't always come up when their subjects are searched for on the site. If the book isn't in anyone's search results, it's not likely anyone's going to come across it and buy it.

Now, that alone should really piss you off. Who is Amazon to decide what is and isn't "adult" content? The way the site works, masking sales rank information becomes, effectively, a form of censorship.

But it's worse than that. The deranking has been shown to have happened preferentially to books about homosexuality, transgenderedness, rape, or feminism; or with gay characters, or by gay authors.

A biography of Ellen Degeneres was deranked; sexually explicit biographies of famous heterosexuals have not been.

The official word from Amazon is that this is a "glitch" and they're working on it. That seems implausible for a couple of reasons: 1) At least one gay author had his memoir deranked back in February, and the explanation wasn't "oh, sorry, our mistake"; rather, he was told his book had been deemed "adult" and that the action was deliberate (it was subsequently reversed, and he dropped the issue). 2) In a response to a concerned author this past weekend, one Amazon representative stated outright that it was a deliberate decision.

There's a ton being written about this, and updates are happening faster than I can read or copy links. Google "amazon rank," or "amazon fail" if you're interested. On Twitter, the hashtags are #amazonfail and #glitchmyass.

I have deleted my wish list at Amazon (fear not, you can buy me Fiestaware at Macy's) and won't be doing business there unless and until this is appropriately resolved. However, even if the whole debacle proves to have been a huge mistake/fuckup/misguided effort by an overambitious homophobe in middle management, and even if a probable explanation and sincere, convincing apology are issued, it's been kind of a wake up call as to how much influence Amazon has; how one corporate entity can effectively block any book, or genre, or type of author it decides it doesn't like.

Unsettling, at best.

Update: a reasoned take on this is presented here. It does seem likelier that this is an artifact of some outdated filter, ineptly effected, than that it is due to institution-wide homophobia on the part of Amazon.com. (My favorite quote: "Indeed, I suspect that dozens of Amazon executives and PR professionals will be having hurried meetings in Seattle this Monday morning, and that consumption of antacids at those meetings will be at an all-time high.") Still -- it bothers me a lot. When all of a sudden the top result of an Amazon search for books on homosexuality is some crap book for parents about how to prevent it in children -- something is wrong. Granted, I don't know for sure what that top result would have been on Friday. But color me skeptical.

Sick Days (in which I get to use the word "hornswoggled" in a sentence)

Back when I had a paid job, I found it hard to take sick days. To stay home due to illness involved agonizing over whether to call in, resigning myself to the fact that I needed to, making the call, and feeling a bit better as soon as I'd hung up... leading to hours of second guessing myself, thinking maybe I should've just sucked it up.

Now I'm responsible for deciding whether my lovely children need to stay home from school. I've found that while it's easier to err on the side of caution on their behalf than it was on my own, the second-guessing part hasn't gone away.

Thankfully neither of them are school-averse; so far, they both love to go. The Bean hates even the idea of missing a day, and gets very upset if she thinks she might have to be absent. I can see that for her, taking sick days could someday involve the same tortuous process it was for me. But it's easy for me to make the decision for her: if she's that upset, she's probably that sick.

With the Peanut, it is harder to tell. She's so happy about everything that her mood isn't a good indicator. This past weekend, she had a fever on and off, some coughing and congestion, and not much of an appetite. But she seemed much improved by suppertime yesterday. We'd figured she was OK to go to preschool for Pajama Day today (the kiddos got to wear their PJs and bring a favorite stuffed animal along). The Peanut thought so too, and had her horse pajamas and stuffed horsie ready to go.

This morning, she stalled out during her Cheerios and banana. It came down to this: if you're not feeling good enough for Cheerios and banana, then you're not feeling good enough for preschool, Peanut. Usually, if she's dragging over breakfast (she's always taken a verrrry looonnnng time with meals) and I hint that not eating it might cause her to miss preschool, then she eats, pronto. Not today. She put down her spoon and said she thought she should stay home. But could she still wear her horse pajamas all day?

Hm.

I decided to keep her home. It's possible I'm being had because she doesn't love Cheerios and banana as much as, say, raisin toast and apples, but no matter. She can use an extra day to rest and get past whatever she was fighting off, and missing a day of preschool (even Pajama Day) is certainly not going to set her back any.

Aside from two seconds' sadness when she realized she wouldn't "get to see what the boys' pajamas looked like," she is regret-free. As I type, she's in the living room stringing plastic bead necklaces and singing something to the tune of "if you're happy and you know it."

If her nose weren't stuffy, I'd be feeling hornswoggled.

What? Oh, yes. Fine, thanks. You?

We are alive and well and our shoes are still sandy, here at Noted and Blogged. Just... wandered off for a bit, I suppose.

Since my last post, the first crocuses have pushed up, we took the cover off the sandbox (and replaced it, when it snowed again -- sigh), and the Peanut and I have had the first picnic of the season, albeit a chilly one.

Spring is truly here, even if it feels like fits and starts just yet.

M. and the girls planted seeds for the vegetable garden, and the seedlings are sprouting. M. is shopping around for a mid-size rototiller; that is, he is in agonizing perpetual indecision over whether to go ahead and get one. In the meantime, I am supposed to be researching new lawn mowers.

The girls are taking swimming lessons, and we're looking for a piano instructor.

So, life. It goes.

How are you?

A minute's diversion

I don't usually love watching animation as much as a lot of people do, but I thought this was totally fun. Click "play" ... I bet you'll watch it more than once.

machine go "boom"

Will it be too loud? Absolutely.
Will it be woefully underlit? No doubt about it.
Will it have myriad unforgivable flaws? Yeppity yep yep.
Will the plot be kind of... how you say... stupid? Perhaps.
Also, isn't Christian Bale an arrogant prick? Yeah probably.

But am I going to see this movie ASAP?


Yes, yes I am.

I tell ya, there's a quiz for EVERYTHING

h/t: The Presurfer

More than the sum of the parts

This has been a tough month for bad news. There's all the economy stuff, yes. But beyond that, I've had too much news of long ago friends and acquaintances having died recently.

I'm not old enough yet to be scanning the daily obituaries for familiar names. These are people in their 40s and 50s I'm hearing about. Lives cut short by alcoholism; cancer; sudden, inexplicable heart failure; accidents.

On one hand, they are people I'd lost touch with, or didn't spend time with independently of other, closer friends, or barely knew at all except to say hey-how-ya-doin' in passing. Still, each one feels like a loss, and given the close timing of their unrelated deaths, it's been a strange and unsettling month.

I feel disoriented and inarticulate and sad.

The latest news came in today's paper: a friend of my former husband just died in a chain saw accident in a town I once lived in and loved. My ex, my former brother-in-law, and several other friends were (are) loggers as well. The possibility of that kind of accident was a constant background anxiety in my life for a long time. It was a tough headline to see. The microseconds before I got to the phrase "...and father of five" -- ruling out my former spouse -- were tense.

I am thinking of those guys now; of how, when I knew them, they'd gather in one or the other's driveway after the day's work, sometimes just to touch base, sometimes for hours-long storytelling sessions. How they'd known each other since they were boys, and had years and years of stories on hand. How you wouldn't go two continuous minutes on the road without seeing one of their trucks, and each man had his own style of offhand wave as you passed. How news of any one of them spread to the others through the package store where they all got their Budweiser. Cases, upon cases, upon cases of Bud. How there would be pissing contests -- figurative and literal. (One of the guys could pee over a Suburban, the long way. It was legendary.) How working partnerships sometimes formed between them, but always dissolved eventually. It seems that men drawn to tree work are often those who work most happily alone.

I am picturing them gathering now, and I imagine the Bud is flowing as it did in younger days.

RIP, Marc.

winter whining... almost done edition

Waiting at the bus stop to pick up the Bean after school yesterday, the Peanut and I greeted a friend as she jogged past. She said, "Well! Summer must be coming, if you're outside!"

It annoyed me then, and it's still annoying me now. Partly because, hello? We walk at least to the bus stop and back twice a day, every school day, no matter the weather or temperature. Partly because her being outside running from dawn till dusk 365 days a year doesn't mean the rest of us are plopped on the couch watching soap operas or something.

I just hate feeling so observed, and inaccurately at that.

And yes, I'm fed up of not being outside very much because it's been so goddamn cold. I've been cold inside, cold outside, cold, cold, cold. It's gotten so I especially look forward to doing errands, because at least I'll be comfortable in the car, once the heat gets going. Sometimes I do turn up the thermostat at home, but the sound of dollar bills on fire gives me agita.

I'm tired of artificial heat, and static electricity, and air so dry my nose bleeds. I'm sick to death of fleece and closed windows. I'm sick of drinking a dozen cups of tea a day (fear not, it's mostly decaf) mostly for the sake of getting my hands around a warm mug for ten seconds... until they're cold again, and so is my tea. I wear warm socks, and my feet are sweaty... but still cold.

Fed up, I tell you.

The good news is that this week has been practically balmy, and Spring is around the corner. Hopefully my mood will catch up. If we get down to n-teen degrees again, I might have to point the car south and not stop till the thermometer reads 70.

And another thing:

Obvious natural disaster irony aside, why do these asshat Republicans think scientific research is a waste of money? Scoff at the fruit fly (or whatever) all you want -- we won't trouble you with the value of all this pesky "knowledge." But hello -- laboratories employ people and buy things... and isn't that business stuff right up your alley?

Someone please to explain.

A lesson he didn't learn, I guess...

photo: Danny Bourque / The Times-Picayune

Is Governor Bobby Jindal so profoundly stupid as to preach unto us a lesson from Hurricane Katrina, then moments later in the SAME SPEECH, sneer about how the government ought not to be monitoring volcanoes?

Evidently, yes.

You don't have to be a geologist to see how dumb that is. Volcanic eruptions = natural disasters = loss of life and property = bad news.

As freaking Governor of freaking LOUISIANA, Mr. Jindal must have attended a hearing or two on disaster preparedness.

This is the GOP's rising star? Wow.


Edited to add: More at Scientific American's 60-second Science blog. Read up, Bobby.

Open to suggestion

My scalp is itchy. Why? Because I just heard that someone else has head lice.

Those emails that circulate, with heart attack and stroke symptoms described so that we can all be aware and save our own and others' lives? They give me heart attack and stroke symptoms.

I should send myself an email detailing little recognized symptoms of happiness and well-being -- conditions that I actually, for the most part, have.

A phone call I am on the verge of making

Good morning, Ashley!

I don't know... 6:30? Too early? Sorry! I'll make it quick, OK Ash?

May I call you Ash? I feel we know each other personally, if only through our several mutual acquaintances. These are recent acquaintances of mine to be sure, and some less pleasant than others, frankly. You may know this already, as they are people who have been urgently wanting to talk to you for several days now, and some of them may have succeeded. You know what they say about monkeys, typewriters, and Shakespeare...

...well nevermind, it isn't important.

Anyway, Happy Birthday! ...oh, just a hunch. Sweet Sixteen, am I right? ... no, I wasn't at your party. ...no, I am NOT your Dad's new girlfriend! What? ...fine, I won't mention it, but I don't know your Mom either, so it's not likely to come up. ...no, not your teacher, either. Patience, dear, I'm coming to it.

So how do you like the new cell phone? ...mm hmm... yes. Oh, I am glad. The shiz. Yes, they are.

Say Ash, what's your number? I know I called you, but humor me...

...right, thanks. So that number, when dialed, makes YOUR phone ring.

...what, now? No, I don't know the Beyonce tune. Mine rings like a choo choo train, but only because I haven't downloaded the Star Wars theme yet... what? Look, I don't care how lame you think it is. That's not why I called.

Why I called is because my phone number is just one wee digit different from yours. I know, right? But you can check when we hang up, just look at your received calls list.

...actually no, it's not that weird. Unfortunate, yes, but not weird. Think of it as kind of neighbor-like. And since you're the one who just moved in -- I have had this number since you were in kindergarten, Ash -- I bid you fair welcome...

...no problem...

...and also fair warning. Because listen up, kid: I'm giving you til this weekend to give your various pals your correct number, before I start seriously fucking with their heads. OK?

OK.

Buh-bye.

Inadvertently wrecking your holidays since 2002!

Mr. Sandy is in New Hampshire this weekend, sledding with friends. It's an annual thing they do that sometimes coincides with Valentine's Day, about which we don't much care anyhow (especially now that Russell Stover no longer makes the Elvis Presley collector's tin of chocolates).

Yes, I said sledding. I should add that they aren't sliding down little golf course hills like school kids. They take several hours to hike up a mountain, then sled down the whole thing at great speed. I went myself a couple of times, before we had children. It's really, really fun.

Anyway, I have the girls to myself this weekend, which is also fun. Yesterday they had friends over, then we chilled out and watched March of the Penguins (which, if you haven't seen, do. It's a stunning movie.)

All of a sudden it was dinnertime, and I decided on the spur of the moment to go out to eat. We opted for a local casual place we like. It was very busy, but we waited just a few minutes for a table. Getting settled, I overheard from the table behind us: "Omigod, I would NEVER bring kids. They WRECK holidays."

It took me a minute to realize what "holiday" we had wrecked by our mere appearance. I'd forgotten it was Valentine's Day. So sorry! But you know... if you want a quiet Valentine's Day dinner, maybe don't choose to go at 6:00 PM to a place with a children's menu? Just a thought.

Valentine's Day notwithstanding, there are times when I take the girls to a restaurant (and I promise you I'm not talking Le Cirque; we go to appropriate places), and I register that unmistakably dismayed eye contact between people dining at adjacent tables as we sit down.

I do understand. Lord knows I have had my fair share of meals/flights/whatever disrupted by obnoxious whining rugrats and their inept parents. But here's the thing: I have well-behaved kids. Yes, I am biased in their favor, but I also work very hard to rear children with good manners, and the consistent hard work pays off. They know what's expected of them. They say "please" and "thank you." They do not shriek in restaurants. They know that if they pull something like that, we will leave.

What often happens is that people who expected to be put out by the girls' presence end up complimenting them on their good behavior. Which is nice, but those not-so-subtly exchanged looks can be demoralizing, even if you eventually decided we didn't warrant the eye rolling after all. The benefit of the doubt would be a nice change of pace.

We're not the only ones. There are lots of well-behaved children out there, and lots of parents working hard to make it so. Our families don't deserve your preemptive scorn.

So please, fellow diners. Save your obvious displeasure for when kids actually are being brats -- at which time, I'll join you. Unless they're my kids, in which case we've already left.

tapped out

What do you mean, "happier"?

At preschool, the Peanut's class will sometimes be asked an opinion question, and each child will write their name on a chart under their answer. At the beginning of the school year, they did a taste test of different kinds of apples; they each tasted three varieties, then wrote their name under the variety they preferred. The poll results make a very basic bar graph which gets discussed, and then posted for parents to see as we retrieve our offspring.

As we go through the year, it has become clear that some kids are more likely than others to stray from the pack, opinion-wise. Today's poll question: Does Smiling Make You Feel Happier? In the YES column was the name of every child in the class, except one.

I was amused to see my Peanut's name carefully printed under NO.

No, smiling does not make her feel happier. Because how could she be happier? She doesn't get it.


I'm sort of in awe of her. What a cool personality trait!

In my defense, I've never bought the parsnip chips.

So I stopped at Trader Joe's for extra virgin olive oil and inexpensive hormone-free milk today, and also picked up a bag of Savory Thin Mini crackers that I don't, strictly speaking, need, but which will come in handy.

I noticed that they still don't have soba noodles or chocolate gelato -- are these things gone forever? why? -- and that they newly don't have the fruit roll-up "ends and pieces" I had just started buying for the Bean. Sigh.

Then I came home and saw this:


Excellent.

Fortunately, our local Trader Joe's doesn't have that cart-stopping force field, or whatever it is (what is it, anyone know?) Unfortunately, it also doesn't have wine.

We do have more elderly ladies in bright white sneakers than beautiful Moms in yoga clothes, but that's probably a Cape Cod thing.

Why I need to be online for adult conversation every so often during the day

Peanut, drawing: Mommy, what are your favorite colors?
Me: I like purple, and green, and blue.
Peanut: NO, your FAVORITE!
Me: Purple.
Peanut: JUST purple?!?

(deep breath)

Me: I like purple, and green, and blue.


Bob & Ray would be proud.

Recently Read: The Phony Marine

This is Jim Lehrer's 16th novel. Yes, the PBS news guy. I didn't even know he wrote novels. Anyway, it is a quick, quirky little read. Our hero is the bland, middle-aged Hugo, an able suit salesman at an expensive men's clothing store in Washington, D.C.. Recently divorced, he spends his free time online. On an eBay impulse, he buys a Silver Star won by a Marine in Viet Nam. When it arrives, he goes for a walk wearing the lapel pin that accompanies the medal, and thus begins weaving his peculiar tangled web. Hugo finds out that all kinds of things are different when people think you are a Marine... but that you don't have to be a Marine to make all kinds of things different.

I think it is supposed to be funny; I know some readers thought it was a hoot. To me it read more like a basic morality tale. A little trite, but sure, something to think about.

Top this, friends.

I am recently awoken from a dream in which Owen Wilson was doing bra fittings for me and some friends of mine in my downstairs bathroom. Expertly. He was really good at it.

This was not a sexy thing. I find Owen Wilson to be very funny in his one trick pony kind of way, but I've no interest in seeing him naked.

Still, maybe the man has talents none of us ever imagined.

A bummer and a mystery, however minor.

I hate when I make myself a cup of tea, forget that I made it, and let it sit until it's no longer hot enough.

Reheated tea is never quite right.

Why is that?

Also, why is tea better when the water is boiled on the stove, than when it's boiled in the microwave?

Don't tell me it isn't.

hakuna matata, baby

My Peanut is obsessed with The Lion King. (I myself had never seen it until about two weeks ago. It was a good long run -- but actually, as these things go, The Lion King isn't too bad. It's Hamlet! Sort of.)

When she is not watching The Lion King, the Peanut is pretending to be Simba. She doesn't want her hair in a ponytail because it "isn't a good mane" like that. She crawls around and roars a lot. Pride Rock is in our basement somewhere. The Bean gets home from school, and as soon as her homework's done, she has to be Nala.

When the Peanut isn't pretending to be Simba, she is singing this song:

In our house, lyrics get changed a lot. When I get sick of telling the girls to do something, I sing at them to do whatever it is. "Caaaaan you feeeeel the looooove toniiiiight" has already become "Yooooou must eeeeeat your suuuuupper nowwwww" and "Gooooo put yooooour pajaaaaamas onnnnn." and whatever else. "DON'T SING!" they holler. Well, kids, when you get done what needs to get done, I'll quit singing.

Desperate measures.




(Is it any wonder that as soon as they are in bed I head downstairs for a dose of The Sopranos? Fuck no.)

Yes, I know other people's dreams are boring, but it's what I got going on.

I'm going through one of those times during which I can't seem to get enough sleep, partly because I'm always having crazy dreams like these:

Two nights ago: I had three daughters. There was the Bean, the Peanut and another girl, who in my dream took the form of one of the Bean's real-life classmates. We were on a family vacation in California, and attending some kind of informal outdoor sporting event. The girls were going off to sit on their own, and I was telling them have fun, and where to meet us later. Bean and Peanut ran off, and the middle daughter (she was younger than the Bean and older than the Peanut, an impossibility in real life) gave me a quick kiss and took off with them. I turned to my husband, alarmed, and said, "I have no memories of her as a baby!" and he said "me neither." I could vaguely recall having been pregnant with her, but it was like remembering a story I'd read about someone else. I felt terribly sad at not really knowing this child, and horrified to be that detached from my own daughter. How could I know the oldest and youngest girls so well, feel so closely bonded to them, and completely blank on the whole history of the middle one? Yet I knew I must've had her, because there she was, calling me Mommy just like the other two.

Upsetting!

Later that same dream, the three (!) girls and I were asleep back at the hotel, and Mr. S. finally came in at 4:00 AM. He'd been out with friends, and told me that one of his friends had asked him to play soccer with them, and he'd said sure, why not. He never gets time with his friends, he said. His life is work, and home, and the girls, and never any time out with friends! Fine, I said, but you don't even like soccer. Then I realized two things: that he was having an affair with this friend of his, and that I didn't care. If you want to play soccer, go ahead, I said. But I don't see why you had to drag us all to California to do it.

Yeesh! Granted, I don't think of infidelity in the absolute terms I once did -- older and wiser, I can see how it comes about in some relationships, and why some couples don't make it a deal breaker -- but still. If Mr. S. were having an affair, it's safe to say I would not be wholly indifferent.

Then last night: I was living with my parents in the house I grew up in. One morning we opened the front door to find that our neighbor across the street (nobody I ever knew in real life) had begun building himself a three-car garage with an apartment above and a cupola on top, right in our front yard. It cast a great shadow over our house. The neighbor was sitting outside in his car, supervising the construction. I was furious, but my mother insisted we couldn't say anything to him about it. BALLS! I yelled. I HATE THIS! I stormed out of the house and up to the guy's car. He rolled down the window, and I sputtered to him about the building. "What, you don't like it? Fine. It comes down. Brick by brick, I'll take it all down" he said, full of mock surprise that I didn't think it was the best thing ever. My mother still chided me for talking to him, and I yelled at her, SCREW THAT! I'M TIRED OF NOT SAYING WHAT I THINK! and then marched away up the street.


Well. Who the heck knows what that's all about. Maybe my inner teenager still has some hollering to do.

Someone said that dreams are us "whispering in our own ears." What are you saying to yourself these days? Are you making any sense, or just churning up emotion, or both?

Blogging for Choice 2009

This is my second year participating in NARAL-Pro Choice America's annual "Blogging for Choice" Day. This year's topic: What is your top pro-choice hope for President Obama and/or the new Congress?

In my post on last year's topic, why it's important to vote pro-choice, I wrote about how frightening and horrifying it is that government deliberately intrudes on one of life's most personal and intimate decisions, one that through the gift (or burden) of biology, ultimately belongs to a pregnant woman, her own self. In recent years we have seen our government take sinister steps, some more subtle than others, toward denying women basic control over their own bodies and pregnancies.

During the 2008 campaign, we faced the possibility of continuing down that path. In responding to Barack Obama's answer to a debate question about abortion, Presidential candidate John McCain openly sneered about abortion being a women's health issue. He used his fingers to put "women's health" in air quotes, to emphasize his disdain for the concept. I will never, ever forget it.

Thankfully, having inaugurated a pro-choice President this year, we can be less fearful, if not less vigilant, looking ahead.

My top hope for President Obama and the new Congress is that the people they will nominate and confirm to the Supreme Court will not be inclined to overturn Roe v. Wade. Do I believe in a "litmus test" for nominees? Not exactly. Like most things, it's not that simple. Cases that come before the Court are not yes-or-no position questions, but questions of interpretation of our laws and Constitution. I do believe in questioning nominees about their beliefs about women's rights, and in rejecting nominees who don't think we have any, whether that's about pregnancy, or equal pay, or suffrage, or military service, or any of the myriad issues about which women have had to fight merely to be treated fairly.

This does not mean I am "pro-abortion" (how absurd). It means that I believe women rightly have power over their own bodies and their own pregnancies, and I believe we should not allow government to legislate otherwise.

President Obama, at last.

From The Huffington Post.

If I were to attempt an eloquent essay about this, it would take me till the next inauguration. Words fail. I'll list some thoughts, instead:

I'm glad that the President and the Chief Justice managed to get through the oath, eventually (!).

I'm relieved that Rick Warren wasn't too atrocious, and that I can now go back to being completely unaware of him.

Dick Cheney in a wheelchair. That fits.

President Obama's speech kicked W around a fair bit, and rightly so.

How lovely, and right, and true, to hear America described as a country of Christians AND Muslims AND Jews AND Hindus AND unbelievers. (I wonder why "unbelievers" and not "atheists"?) Obviously some folks were left out of the list, but the point was made, and about time too.

How lovely, and right, and true, to hear a declaration to our people and the world, that the United States is "ready to lead, once again" by our example.

Finally, I'm not a teary person, but it melts my cold cold heart that my 4 year-old daughter, sitting on my lap while President Obama gave his inaugural address, will not remember a time when there had never been an African-American President.

President Obama, of the United States of America.

Awesome.

God keep him safe, please.

Buh-bye now.
Saul Loeb/European Pressphoto Agency, from L.A. Times website

(Now what do you bet there's at least one Supreme Court Justice doing a little happy dance and finally printing out that letter of intent to retire? John Paul Stevens will be 89 this year. 89! Maybe he wants to go fishing, hit the National Parks, tour the wine country, something like that. That is, if Ruth Bader Ginsburg, no spring chicken herself, doesn't beat him to the White House with her own letter in hand. In any case, won't it be a nice change not to dread the nomination process?)

Teeth: Incisive -- or just a grind? har!

Teeth (2007) is an indie "comedy/horror" that I watched by myself because it's safe to say Mr. S. would've hated it, and very safe to say it is NOT OK for kids to see, or even to glimpse in passing. Although I can't say I enjoyed every moment of the film, I think it was pretty good, thematically.

Briefly: Dawn (Jess Weixler) is a pretty teenager and purity-ring-wearing spokesperson for the local chastity club. Her growing sexual feelings are increasingly at odds with what she claims to believe. Before she can make sense of this, she is raped, and it becomes clear that she is living one of humankind's most ancient horrorific myths: vagina dentata. Her vagina has teeth! Sharp ones. There is nothing ambiguous about the consequences of violating Dawn.

A lot plays into Dawn's emerging womanhood. Home in the shadow of a nuke plant. Sympathetic, ailing mother. Weak stepfather. Truly evil stepbrother with a particular sexual quirk. Nice boys who really aren't. Grown men who can't be trusted.

Everyone, um, affected by Dawn's intimate incisors has it (ahem) coming. Any woman who's ever been taken advantage of, especially as a teenager, could say that frankly, that's a satisfying change of pace. But purely as a moviegoer, not so much. Once you know the drill, well, that's what there is, and you sit through more of it while you wait to see how things might resolve. So that's the "horror" part. The "comedy" is because it's so ridiculous (chastity club! toothed vagina!) that it had to be at least partly campy. But it didn't make me laugh.

Dawn's awakening is an interesting theme. Now that it's dawned on Dawn what she's made of, how will she manage it? Will she be afraid? Ashamed? Empowered? Is she a monster, or kind of a super-heroine?

Lots to chew on.

Sorry.

I could've sworn there was a Toblerone around here somewhere.

Hands up anyone who still has any Christmas or Hanukkah chocolate left.

Who are you, and how do you do it?

Mr. S. is one of you. He has a nibble of chocolate every so often, and it lasts for weeks. The man can sit at his desk and concentrate on his work with an open bag of Hershey's Kisses not three feet away. He has an "off" switch.

My Christmas chocolate was gone well before the New Year. I've been very good about not pilfering anyone else's though. And come to think of it, since I did some of the chocolate shopping, maybe he had more to start with.

Right. That must be it.

Two movies that werent what I thought they'd be.

From Netflix, we had I'm Not There (2007), in which six actors portray different facets of Bob Dylan's life and character. I was intrigued, but it turns out it's just not my thing. I prefer stories told in a more linear, less fragmented, way than this film did. I like the narrative to make more ( some?) sense. Which isn't to say I need hand-holding, just... well, I don't have a lot of patience with the incomprehensibly artsy. In retrospect, the words "stylized portrait" in the Netflix blurb should've tipped me off.

In retro-retrospect, maybe this is why I'm not a huge Dylan fan anyhow. I thought his story would be interesting to learn, but I'm Not There is much better suited to people already familiar with it, who are fans of it, and who want to see it portrayed by great actors. Cate Blanchett is a great actor, no doubt. So I was doubly disappointed when I had to declare "this is just dumb" and quit watching the movie halfway through.



On the other hand, I was ready to be disappointed by Yes Man. It seems like one of those comedies that puts everything it's got into the trailer, so there's no need to see the whole thing. Jim Carrey plays Carl, a divorced, depressed bank loan officer who likes to tell people no, he doesn't want to [whatever]. He runs into an old acquaintance (John Michael Higgins, familiar from Best in Show, A Mighty Wind, et al.) who seems Really Into Life, and who hands Carl a flier for a self-help seminar called YES! Carl goes to this thing, has some kind of epiphany, and starts saying YES to everything he's asked or offered to do, with amusing results (only one of which is actually, um, disturbing, and if you've seen the movie you know the one I mean).

Yes, you can predict much of what happens, and it's not ingenious or anything. But fun! Cute! Entertaining! Sure, all that. Yes.

Forget the EpiPen, it's all in your head. Not mine though, I can't keep anything in there.

Joel Stein, L.A. Times opinion columnist, thinks that nut allergies are a "yuppie invention."

Really! Kids with food allergies are just victims of their parents' mass hysteria! Kids who don't live in "rich lefty communities" don't have these wussy conditions! (Never mind that families in poor communities might not have the money or the health care to discern such a thing... more entertaining to posit that only affluent liberals would come up with such a problem in the first place.)

I don't know what causes nut allergies, or why they appear to be on the rise in recent years. I'm just glad my kids don't have 'em. However my Peanut is allergic to shellfish. Does this mean I'm a "parent who needs to feel special?" If so, why didn't this need affect the Bean, who has no food allergies? Oh crap, there I go again, with the pesky reasoning. So sorry.

But wait, what about my friends whose kids have celiac disease? They must be real prima donnas. Hard to reconcile that with their laid-back personas and conservative politics. Reverse psychology, you say? Oh, those tricky attention seeking yuppie friends of mine!

So, yes. Stein's column today is jackassery. Before I read it, I was more familiar with his work for Time, where he comes off as -- guess what? -- an attention-seeking self-absorbed yuppie food snob. Go figure.

I miss Time, though. I used to pay for subscriptions with unused not-so-frequent-after-all flier miles. Just as the subscription ran out, Delta "actually, you haven't flown with us since the 20th century, so would you just get rid of these miles already?" Airlines would send another solicitation, and I'd renew. Sadly though, Delta's last magazine offerings did not include Time, or Newsweek, or U.S. News & World Report. To fill the weekly news niche, I opted for The Economist. It was that or Cigar Afficionado, and I think it's safe to say that for better or worse, we've all had enough of the Clintons to last us a lifetime.

So The Economist comes to the house these days, and like Time before it, piles up in a basket in the downstairs bathroom. However, it's not a good fit, because I don't want to live in the downstairs bathroom. Turns out The Economist has a lot of, you know, words, and stuff. You can tell how serious they are about all the words by the tiny margins. (As anyone knows who's ever tried to force five pages of prose into two, the first step is to narrow the margins.) Also, they place one impenetrable article right after another, with barely a blank line, let alone any celebrity gossip items, between.

I liked Time for its mix of news and fluff. Although I'm giving it the ol' college try, I fear The Economist is a bit too unrelentingly substantive for my gnat-like attention span and diminished capacity to retain anything I read (blame for both is assigned to my lovely offspring). Parents with children older than mine assure me that both these things can be recovered. In the meantime I have no time for The Economist.

After all, there are allergies to invent.

Are we stupid?

Yes. Yes, we are.

On the upside, environmental geologists will never be out of work.

Why so serious?

So, yes... when they said The Dark Knight was a dark movie, they weren't talking about the lighting. It was dark, and unrelentingly so. If you don't like unrelenting darkness, or dark unrelentingness, by all means don't see it.

Heath Ledger in the role that likely contributed to (certainly couldn't have helped) a state of mind that required prescription help and led to death from accidental overdose? Insanely good. Spooky good. I'd say chills, but it's more like shudders, good. There were no clunkers among the other performances... Christian Bale and Maggie Gyllenhaal were fine, Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine were pleasures, as always... but it's Heath Ledger's movie.

It was so dark I'm not sure when I'll want to see it again, but it was awesome. Complex, scary, thrilling, bizarre, intense, awesome.



Speaking of Christian Bale, I do know when I'll want to see The New World (2005) again: Never. Nevereverever. This was the worst piece of crap movie I've seen in I don't know how long (maybe since A History of Violence?). It's writer/director Terrence Malik's alleged epic masterpiece about the founding of Jamestown in 1607. Colin Farrell -- who I'm starting to think shouldn't be allowed to open his mouth -- plays Captain John Smith, and Q'Orianka Kilcher makes her debut as Pocahontas. Bale plays the guy who marries Pocahontas after Smith goes back to England and she's told he's dead.

I'd originally feared this was going to be just a sappy romance, and made shameful jokes about putting the "poke" in "Pocahontas," but it really isn't like that (unless you count a fourteen year-old dressed midwinter in seductively torn and slitted deerskin -- but that's not romantic, it's stupid, and -- when you later hear the costume person going on about how "authentic" she made things -- insulting). I think Malik really thought he was trying to do history. Baffling. The dvd extra about "the making of" shows how they went to all kinds of great lengths to assure the authenticity of the structures and layout of the settlement and the Native encampments. What they ended up with, though, was two and a half hours of embarrassing, clumsily arranged shots narrated in cryptic (yet dumb!) whispers. Was the film edited, as it seems, by vandals? We shall never know, but we were actually laughing at it by the time the damn thing was over.

Holy Racist Revisionism, Batman, is this ever one to miss.

Happy New Year!

A quick post before festivities get underway, to wish one and all a happy, healthy 2009.

Thanks for reading :).

(Festivities = watching The Dark Knight! Woo hoo!)

piano

So we got the family a digital piano this Christmas. We'd been thinking about a piano for a while... at least one of the girls shows strong signs of musical inclination ("talent" might be a bit braggy, but she floors me sometimes).

This morning the Peanut sat down on the bench with a flourish, in her deep rose velvet dress and matching cape, and I said "and now she's going to play you a little something she wrote herself." We went back to what we'd been doing while the Peanut noodled around on the keyboard, playing about six minutes of not-unpleasant nonsense. After she'd finished, she turned to the family and said "that was called Runaway Snail."

I think she's a genius.

Yep, this thing's still on.

On the off chance I still have readers, I thought I'd check in:

Hi there.

Things are OK. Looking up a bit, even. I always get in a foul mood before Christmas, and it always lifts eventually. Knowing it goes away doesn't stop it from coming, though. I still think that someday I'd like for my very own Christmas tradition to consist of getting the hell out of town about 15 December, and returning after the New Year. It would be nice to have this few weeks surgically removed from Real Life.

In the meantime, here I am. The Card is sent. We don't subject our loved ones to a dressed-up list of everything we've bought and accomplished over the year (honestly, I'm glad you love your new car or whatever, but doesn't a Christmas letter strike you as a peculiar place for that sort of news?), but we do subject them to a picture of the girls. As luck would have it, most of the people we love in this world live hundreds of miles away, and still more are headed that way. We don't see some of them even annually. Hence, The Christmas Picture of The Offspring. I've taken some great ones over the years, so the bar's set pretty high. And of course the photo card places keep discontinuing the template I like best, resulting in an hours-long online research project involving multiple, overlapping and largely forgotten usernames and passwords (about which rant forthcoming, if I have the energy, which is to say insert your own rant here because I'm probably not going to bother, except to say that I have HAD IT with having to have usernames and passwords for every damn thing I do). It can add up to an ordeal, albeit self-imposed and potentially bizarre to outside observers (thank you Catherine, it did help). This year Mr. S. figured out a very simple (now that it's set up) way to get it done precisely how we like it to be. He's good at that sort of thing. I think I'll keep him. Why he'd keep me, who the hell knows.

I digress.

In the other room, the Peanut is singing, to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb:

I'm grateful for my family, family, famILY
I'm grateful for my family
And for my friends at school.

Must be a preschool Thanksgiving song. Works for me.

I'm trying, really I am.

Another heavy gray day -- basically dark by 4:00 PM, again.

There are so many stupid little things I have to get done; even with no paying day job, I have not much opportunity (or motivation, frankly) to do them.

My calendar is full of one obligatory event after another. Not that any one of these is unpleasant... actually, they're mostly all fun... but they are obligatory, and they are one after another after another.

Sort of a manic treadmill o'fun. Which, you know, isn't.

Christmas cards are rolling in, and instead of delight at the greetings they represent, I feel the weight of obligation to take the Christmas photo and get my own cards ordered, written, addressed, sent.

Merry, merry, fa la la...

... this really, really isn't my favorite time of year.

I'm trying hard not to say out loud that I hate it... but I do.

(Yes, I know the real Meaning of Christmas isn't about any of the stuff that I hate. But since it seems Jesus was actually born in June, I'd happily dump all the crap that has to happen in December.)

Oooh, look!

Today's Astronomy Picture of the Day is especially gorgeous. I'm not posting it directly because it's not a NASA picture, so the copyright is private. Go see! Of course, that link will be to a different picture tomorrow, so if for some VERY odd reason you don't check this blog daily, go find the APOD for December 12 2008.

Nice, hm?

Tonight's full moon will be lovely too, if we can see it, which seems unlikely because it's been overcast and raining for about six months now. OK, a few days. But still.

The good ole days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems...

Recently I went to my ophthalmologist for a regular exam. It's a large, busy office, with a dozen different doctors providing everything from basic services like my contact lens prescriptions to LASIK and other surgical procedures. I go there because it's in town, I like the doctor I've been seeing, and, above all, they take my insurance.

Looking around for a place to sit in the expansive but full waiting room, I realized with sudden minor anxiety that I hadn't brought a book. I hate having nothing to read. In the same moment I remembered that though I like this doctor, it's always at least 45 minutes' wait to see him. With a book, the built in reading time is actually a bonus. Without, it can be a frustrating waste of time.

As you'd expect, ophthalmology practices are particularly busy with elderly patients. Every table in the place had multiple copies of the AARP magazine ("world's largest circulation." Really? wow) and precious little else. Sitting at one end of an empty couch, I scanned the room to see what people had in hand. I would've circled a People magazine like a buzzard, but didn’t see one. A gentleman across the room perused something I didn't recognize. I squinted (note to self: mention to eye doc that I am unable to read titles of other people's magazines from across a large waiting room). Aha! Wait that can't be right. Reminisce magazine -- really? Is that a spoof thing -- The Onion for octagenarians? Well no, actually. It's the real deal.

It’s real, and it isn't even one of a kind. The magazine I eventually got my hands on is called Good Old Days ("featuring stories, photos, illustrations of the happy days gone by"). Between its covers lies more sap than I've ever seen in a publication aimed at people over, say, 6. It is childhood tale after childhood tale, black-and-white photographs and deeply rose-colored memories. Pictures and stories of kids sledding on streets ("before 'global warming,' some of those streets stayed snow-covered for days...") and of couples embracing, reunited after World War II. Lots of wistful statements about how much simpler, happier, more loving and better tasting things were, back in the 30s and 40s. All this between advertisements with aggressive taglines such as “HAVING TROUBLE WIPING?”. I'd never seen anything like it, and for a good while, I was hooked. “Every night when Sis and I walked into our bedroom, there it was – a lid of melted skunk grease on top of that old heating stove.” Fascinating.

Eventually a woman and her elderly mother sat down with me. The mother was there for eyelid surgery. She wasn't looking forward to it, she said, but planned to have a nice big muffin in the car on the way home. I told her that sounded delicious, and that I hoped everything would go very well. She said she had some good music to listen to while recovering, and I told her about some books on tape she might like. All very pleasant. Then she leaned in and whispered "my doctor is Japanese, but really she's very good."

Now, this lady was clearly in her 80s, about to undergo surgery and anxious about it, so it wasn't the time or place for "Um, why would being Japanese interfere with her being a very good doctor?" I just agreed that it's great to have a doctor you trust. Then my name was called, and we said good-byes.

The magazine and the conversation both left me with mixed feelings.

Some of the stories in Good Old Days, including a woman’s account of visiting her old childhood home, long abandoned and about to be demolished to make way for a new subdivision, were really touching. Most of them, though, were pure deluded saccharine.

Then here’s this nice lady, bearing up for something scary, then assuming total sympathy in revealing her Good Old Days era prejudice to another white person. It would be less dispiriting if I didn’t hear versions of the same statement so often -- "s/he's [race/ethnicity], but [positive attribute]" -- from people I know much too well to make excuses for.

Good Old Days has a website. On it, a letter from the editor:

The era of the Great Depression and the war years could really teach life lessons to younger folks in these tough economic times of the 21st century. I call it the lesson of Daddy's Belt.

I'm not talking about the times Daddy's belt was applied amply to my well-deserving posterior. I assure you that I learned plenty of life lessons from that use of Daddy's belt, but I'm talking about a more abstract application...

Ah, yes. Beating children was so simple then.

Subdivisions notwithstanding, I think we've come a long way since the good old days, thank you very much.

We have Japanese eye surgeons right here on Cape Cod, for one thing.

"You wouldn't buy our shitty cars..."

Seen on boing boing, originally from buffalobeast.com.

How Dangerous a Driver Are You?

I guess the premise is that you can't be a totally safe driver, but you can be less dangerous than everyone else.

Created by The Car Connection

I think I scored "above average" instead of "excellent" because I answered honestly the "have you ever driven under the influence" question. Not in the last 20 years or so, but....ever? I'd have to guess, if I'm perfectly honest, that there was one time in my very early 20s when I maybe shouldn't have driven home.

As to speeding... not so much anymore. Before marriage and kids and the overall transformation to Boring Middle-aged Person, I did like to drive pretty fast. Even then, though, I didn't tailgate or weave in and out of lanes or pass people on the right without giving them ample opportunity to move over first. Tailgaters all suck, and the tailgaters who come up close behind you and flash their lights when it's perfectly clear to anyone paying attention that there is absolutely no opportunity to move out of their way -- they suck most of all.

It's Thursday. What Day Is It? I don't know. (!!!)

This afternoon my four year-old Peanut was sitting in the next room drawing a picture for her daddy and singing "I'm a teeenaaaaager in love." She gets it from Connie Stevens singing "Why Must I Be A Teenager In Love" on The Muppet Show, but she hasn't seen that in a long while, so the tune was coming out rather differently. Better, I think.

She really is unbearably cute sometimes.


Earlier today, I was beyond angry with her, over something really, really dumb: She knows the days of the week. She knows which of the days are her preschool days. This morning I asked her, what day is it? Dunno, she said. I told her: it's Thursday. What days do you have school? Dunno, she said. I reminded her: Monday, Wednesday, Friday.

So, do you have preschool today?

Dunno.

What day is today?

Dunno.

I tell her, again.

What days do you have preschool?

Monday, Tuesday...

Wait, do you remember what we just said?

Dunno...

Repeat, repeat, repeat, and despite an inner voice that said let it go, leave her alone, for whatever reason she can't handle this simple thing right now, I just could not. A louder voice said what the FUCK, she KNOWS this, and even if she didn't, I just TOLD HER, and she needs to PAY ATTENTION! And I got really angry. I don't know why this simple, inconsequential thing just set me off. I tell her something, and then two seconds later she's incapable of repeating it back to me? I am probably not getting across how infuriating it was in the moment, but even if I could get it across, there is no reason it should make sense. There's no getting around that my feelings were out of proportion to this stupid interaction we were having.

When I got back from bringing Bean to the bus, Peanut was happily reciting the days of the week with her Daddy, and I apologized for being too mad at her, and we forgot about it. That is, she forgot about it. I'm blogging about it. In any case, all is well.

I take small consolation from the fact that I'm still a better mommy than the one I saw dragging her little girl into the liquor store tonight (wine is 20% off on the first Thursday of the month, dontcha know) so she could get a bottle of vodka. It was 8:30; both of them were in pajamas. I guess there's fucking up, and Fucking Up.

More Words and Phrases Forbidden for 2009

In the forehead-slapping, how-could-I-forget department:

6. "maverick"
Never again. Unless in "team of mavericks," used in context of faux nostalgia.

7. "Drill, baby, drill."
It was dumb, baby, dumb, and now it can be done, baby, done.

More?

Words and Phrases Forbidden for 2009

I'm going to think of more, but it's not too soon to get started. What words or phrases should we ditch with the year 2008?

(Granted, some of these should've been banned in 2008 or earlier, but have stuck around like Owen Wilson in You, Me and Dupree.)

1. "threw up in my mouth a little"
or any of its revolting equivalents

2. "baby bump"
This has caused me to bring back the phrase "gag me," which was originally and righteously banned sometime in the late 1980s.

3. "[media, Hollywood, anything] elites"
Oh, please.

4. "purity ball"
Let's ban the phrase, the events, the pretext... the whole creepy concept, shall we?

5. "beeyotch," "biaaatch," &c.
Quit it. Just... quit it.

OK, that's my first five. More to come. Add your own!