The Thinking Mom

Material

2011-09-13T11:27:00.001-07:00

The "Top 10 Emailed Articles" on the New York Times web site today:

1. An Immune System Trained to Kill Cancer

2. In Study, Fatherhood Leads to Drop in Testosterone

3. If It Feels Right...

4. A Child's Nap Is More Complicated Than It Looks

5. The Stone: The Meaningfulness of Lives

6. The Trouble With Homework

7. In Suburb, Battle Goes Public on Bullying of Gay Students

8. An Impeccable Disaster

9. A Squirt of Insulin May Delay Alzheimer's

10. Well: Is SpongeBob SquarePants Bad for Children?

America, I think we may need to up our meds.

Pretty for you

2011-07-31T21:39:00.000-07:00

Not to take the place of words, but sometimes you just need pretty.

This is a picture I took in 2003 in Barcelona of the floor in a house designed by Gaudi. The shadows are cast from a lace curtain.

Old moon, new moon?

2011-05-27T22:35:00.000-07:00

Last night, at 10:38pm, I was quite a sight to see. Sitting on the leather couch in the basement, wrapped in blankets, a giant metal bowl which had contained my dinner-- 10 cups of popcorn dusted with nutritional yeast-- sobbing.

Sobbing because I was tired and didn't know how to just go to sleep. And because my husband has been gone almost a week to a conference in Poland. And I know it shouldn't make a difference where he's gone to, but the further away he is, the harder gravity pulls the tides up within me.

I am always shocked by this occurrence: it seems so out of character for me. But I actually know it very well. It's the straw widow peeking out. The straw widow comes out only when the moon is new, and everything is quiet and dark.

It always seemed strange to me that the new moon is called just that-- new-- because we experience it as an absence. New suggests, somehow, presence.

Then again, sometimes for the new to appear, room must be made. Reminds me of the haiku by Mizuta Masahide:

Barn's burnt down --
now
I can see the moon.

Sobbing by yourself in your finished basement while watching an episode of a teenage musical drama while your two beautiful, perfect children sleep two floors above you is inane. Yes, I was sobbing because I was tired. And overwhelmed. And unable to let go. And missing my husband desperately.

Which is actually, in a sense, redeeming. I was crying-- stupidly, gulping for air and (though it was dark and I was alone) with a speckled, hottening face-- because in that stupid, stupid teenage love, I could feel the stupid feeling that I needed to feel. Out of control and desperate for the love of someone I could not have (at least for the moment).

It's embarrassing to feel you've become untethered. It's embarrassing-- even in your own basement (perhaps especially in your own basement)-- to let go. To sob.

But, to my surprise-- I did just that. I let it go. The sobbing did something for me.

Should that surprise me? Actually, maybe it shouldn't. Funny, that thing. It's like as a baby, all you know is unravel unravel unravel and need the world to swaddle you in. Then you become that binding for yourself; you become the binding for others.

Sometimes that unravel unravel unravel is okay. I really am OK. Sad, but OK. I can unravel sometimes, even if just to the floor. Then I can be retrieved. I can retrieve myself. Weave, unweave. Weave.

Rainbow Connection

2011-05-21T19:37:00.000-07:00

In this blog post, MamaH exposes her bedtime tropes, which include mash-ups of AA Milne stories and the Three Stooges, as played by vegetables. Very small vegetables.

Baby Broccoli (whose name was a sad attempt at trying to get my son to respect vegetables) cohabits with Pooh and Piglet in the Hundred Acre wood. Baby Broccoli's sidekick is Baby Corn, and the two little imps are always off on some adventure that Pooh and Piglet have to extricate them from.

Usually, the stories end up in some sort of slapstick race where one unlikely thing happens after the next. My son thinks they are hilarious. In fact, they are so hilarious that he ends up jumping up and down in the bed, squealing at the twists and turns in the story, and waking up his little sister who had inevitably *just* settled down to sleep.

I haven't figured out exactly what these two "boys" look like-- do they look like broccoli and corn? Because that's sort of creepy. Anyhow, my son doesn't seem to mind. The main thing is that they are funny, single-word-with-exclamation-point-screaming boys. They appeal.

However, they don't necessarily serve the purpose of a bedtime story to CALM and RELAX. At the end of the story, my son is inevitably:

a) Belligerent

b) Crying

c) Shouting continuations "...and then they get in a rocket ship and go up up up to the moooooon!"

d) Crying from having laughed so hard

Tonight was "movie night", so that necessitated a shorter version of events, and preferably one that did not involve keeping up the already-past-her-experation-date sister.

Tonight Baby Broccoli and Baby Corn witnessed a quadruple rainbow in the field across the street, and ran over to catch it. They ran and ran, feeling like the closer they got to it, the more it receded. Until they stopped and looked around and realized that they were actually IN the rainbow. The rainbow enveloped the entire field and became a sort of glowing blanket that skimmed over the surface of the ground.

The two boys found that they could run and slide on it; they could arc around as though ice skating; the slightest of pressure with their hands or feet could steer them one way or another, as if swimming, or weightless in space.

There need be no end to this story. No closure, no resolution. Baby Broccoli, Baby Corn, my son and the rainbow. Sublime.

I came, I saw, I said too much

2011-05-16T17:36:00.000-07:00

Even though my days as a poetry graduate student are far, far behind me, I still seem to have some of the self-perception issues that plagued me in the day. You see, the job of a poet (at least as I see it) is to say something essential; say it with an economy of words-- only the right words; transmit messages that are encoded and decoded, so they are sort of an app that shows up and opens itself to the reader-- enacting, running the program.

The problem is, I don't have the will to be a poet. I have the ideas; I have the language; I have the spiritual desire to make things. I am just afraid. I am also inconstant. I distract easily. I am a magpie of ideas and images. Oooooh! Look at the pretty over there! And zap, moving on.

Except, recently, after a long blogging hiatus and exorbitant facebooking, I signed up to audition for "Listen to Your Mother". LTYM was started last year by Blogstress with the Mostess and Jewish Humorista Ann Imig, who also happens to have a son with the same name as mine, and who is a parent at my son's former preschool.

Last year I did not read at LTYM. I feared "I am woman hear me roar" or, worse, Hallmark theater. When I dared peer into last year's video of LTYM, I was blown away. Nothing of my fears. But fierceness. FIERCENESS. And people I couldn't have imagined listening to, I listened to. They had something to say to me.

So when I saw the call for auditions this year for LTYM I said to myself SHIT. I don't want to do this I do NOT WANT TO DO THIS. But my mother self said Screw you it'll be good for you. Mother knows best, doesn't she? Crap.

I struggled and struggled. What did I have to talk about? What DIDN'T I have to talk about? Fret fret fret frette. Frette is a bedspread. A yucky bedspread. Write anything.

So, on the urging of a friend, I wrote a poem. I fell back on writing a sestina, because I love sestinas (I particularly love this sestina from Elizabeth Bishop called "One Art"). I love the repetition of the end words. So, here was my sestina. Not perfect, but not half bad:

Sestina for Six AM

I woke up at six.

Through the monitor, my daughter was having a serious word

with the assembled animals in her bed.

What I understood was only a fragment,

some misbehavior. Some laughing. Stop!

The wards were getting restless. I the mom! I mom!

Then the rankling, like a cup against metal bars. Maaaaaaaamiiiiiiiiiiii

as if suddenly she were reminded of my existence as the six

o’clock alarm clicked on at five past to stop

her machinations. She utters THE word

which makes all things happen; which lifts her from her bed

into the morning which continues like a fragment

of some conversation from the night before, not rested, but embedded

and continued. Even Dora calls out from the infernal talking dollhouse, “Hola, mama!”

as if we must be surrounded by things that fragment

our thoughts to not let us get too deep; The six

year old slumbers on. Sometimes I can hear the murmur of unintelligible words

through his door, a flow that doesn’t stop

even when it seems like all motion, all thought should stop.

It’s like constant traffic, even in bed.

Syllables being hatched and born into words.

What is that like? To be born into words, like mom

came to mean ME six

years ago (I have to count on my fingers), as though even that fragment

of control, of time, escapes me. I peel fragments

of the orange and place it on the tray, in front of my daughter and stop

in thought. Or out of thought. Then she counts back to me-- to six

though she does not-- cannot-- understand numbers. She sings No more beeeehd

because it makes sense, doesn’t it to her? Mom

is the beginning of word.

Words

are just a convenient way of taking fragments

and making sense. Yes, slivered, mom

is elemental, full-stop.

Developed or grown from seed in the world’s flower bed.

In the beginning, God created six

days and rested on the seventh. Mom has a word

for Six AM. It is eternal. It does not rest; it fragments.

Stop. Go back to bed.

But that was just what got me started. Now I was furiously trying to find something else-- I was NOT going to read poetry in front of an audience again. N-O-T, as in NOTHANKYOU. Then a friend-- Jen over at the Checkered Chicken-- encouraged me to write about my relationship with my mother.

So apparently that's how I ended up reading on Mother's Day in front of 350 people at the Barrymore Theater in Madison with 12 other amazing mothers. I still can't believe I did it-- mostly because I can't believe what I said IN FRONT OF 350 PEOPLE, including, apparently, former Wisconsin Senator Russ Feingold. Really? Did I really have to clue in the Feds in front of Russ freaking Feingold?

I guess I did. I will post the video as soon as it is up. In the meantime, believe me that it was great and awful and freeing. And now I'm here doing the blog thing again because what more can happen to me if I don't try? Nothing. Nothing will happen if you don't try. Things may happen TO you, but they won't happen FOR you.

So listen to me. Pretend I'm your mother. I'll make you eggs. Now get out of here.

Sweden, You Taunt Me So

2010-05-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

Sweden has given the world IKEA and Astrid Lindgren and Meatballs. All things that are somehow so elemental, so simple and smart you can't help but slap yourself on the head and say, "Now why didn't I think of that?!?"

Yes, Sweden is, to my mind anyway, the gateway to the collective unconscious.

It's also an absolutely absurd language which seems to at once make sense to the native-English speaker and also make total nonsense.

Exhibit A:

From the Swedish Website Barnvanligt (If you want to see the English website, click on the British flag at the top left of the page).

Simple. Iconic. Functional. Swedish. They call it a Nyckering. Well of course they do! Not sure what the heck it really means (probably key ring holder, I suspect) but Nyckering really satisfies, doesn't it?

Just like all the names of products at IKEA: Malm and Halsa and Barnslig Randig. All those umlauts dancing atop vowels like the bouncing ball in a child's sing-along video.

I guess it also doesn't hurt that Swedish maintains more than a passing resemblance to Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. To wit:

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Okay, perhaps I should have rather said, "Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky maintains more than a passing resemblance to Swedish". Still, there's truth to it.

So yes, Sweden. You are home to my linguistic and design unconscious. And I deign to say, your meatballs are irresistible.

What I do when I'm trying to avoid meaning

2010-05-01T19:53:00.000-07:00

Knit
Trim cuticles
Put too many books on my library queue that I will never have time (or energy for that matter) to read
Woot-off!
Come up with Byzantine plans for:

The next social gathering that I am going to host because I love being around people but hate hosting but will host anyway
An art project that will go awry, perhaps in the planning stages, but after having purchased all supplies
The yard, including an orchard, a pagoda, 1000-lb. boulders and no weeding
Controlling the unstoppable decay of my house, car, and everything I touch
How I can best torture myself about some social commitment that I really don't want to fulfill but can't say no to. Because I can't say no to it, OK?

Oooooh! Recipes from the New York Times! I'd LOVE to try and use pomegranite molasses again.

People.comUsmagazine.comTMZ.com-- OK, that makes me disgusted. There's avoiding meaning and there's gossip-porn. Let's not go THERE.

Baby Gap. Because your baby looks cuter in clothes that have been assembled by her contemporaries.

Doesn't it seem like it's been an awful long time since something was recalled? I should check and see if the crib/medicines/toys/clothes/food has been recalled. It HAS! Oh crap. I'm a bad mom. I shouldn't waste time on meaningless things and I should hug my children more. Really, what's more important than a hug?

Cereal. In front of the computer.

File Not Found

2010-04-23T09:37:00.000-07:00

I've been MIA from the blog for-- scarily enough-- almost two years now. In-between I've been busy gestating and then raising my adorable baby girl... a worthwhile cause, as you can see.

Did I mention that said baby girl hasn't been the most stellar napper in her almost 1 year of existence on this planet? I mention it now because, like clockwork, she has awakened. Babies must hear some special high-pitched frequencies when their mothers sit down to do anything of meaning.

And so, there goes my start. At least I've dipped my toesies in the pool again. Oh, and at least while I finish typing this sentence the baby's syllables sound slippery-sweet.

Welcome back to the world...

VOTE for all GET-OUT!

2008-11-03T19:31:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to say that I'm feeling excited, uneasy, crazy, wild and hopeful (with a dash of cynicism) about tomorrow's election. The one thing you have to give to Obama-- even if you're not an Obamaniac like we are in my family-- is that his campaign is ORGANIZED AS ALL GET-OUT.

They've been calling us, we had a knock on the door this afternoon, we've had emails and facebook updates galore. GOOD! I hope they bug all of us out of our Bush-induced lethargy. It may take years of therapy for the people of this country to come to grips with all the nastiness that has gone on the last eight years. I can think of no better leader than Obama to help us back to sanity.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my husband and I are going to raid my son's sidewalk chalk bin and chalk the streets in our neighborhood for Obama. Part of me wants to do it naked as an ultimate act of defiance, but I'll spare everyone the sight and thought of that ;)

GO OBAMA!

MOTHERlode

2008-10-20T14:07:00.001-07:00

I've composed this blogpost in my head probably fifty times in the past week or so, so here goes. You, my dear blog reader, whoever you are still (and who are you, by the way, who burns the candle at both ends and checks back with me even though the last lame thing I posted was a Matt Damon video in September?) will surely excuse my delinquency in posting. I'm keeping it on the down low (as should you, ahem, fellow facebookers) that I am now 9 weeks preggo. Assuming I make it through the next three weeks (which I sometimes doubt), I will be due to drop another youngling into this world in May of 2009.

You see, I've had so much time to contemplate this blog post because I've been nauseous (AGAIN-- I know, I can't believe it either) as all get-out. Luckily, apparently all get-out is still not as nauseous as I was with the last one, so that's good, right? Anyhow, a big shout out to mommy brain for me conveniently forgetting how boneachingly boring and annoying and, well, sickening being nauseous all the time is. Seriously. How could I have forgotten?

Anyhow. Beside the point now. I'm fighting it as best I can with the cooperation of my baby-daddy, the professor. He makes me only the food I ask for, never makes any suggestions, cleans the kitchen, loads and unloads the dishwasher (which makes me very funky and gaggy). In short, he's been amazing. What a godsend.

My son, still clueless, has been very sweet as well... coming into bed for cuddles; making me wooden sandwiches from his play-kitchen. Nodding without complaint when I tell him that Tootsie Rolls and Starburst are special mommy-tummy food.

Still, even the second time around I am really struck with how foreign my body already feels. I feel like I am one day away from being announced as this year's newest balloon for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I feel like my breasts alone could take over an entire Manhattan city street, buffeting up against the skyskrapers.

Anyhow, enough about me and my bosom. I have to go find something to eat before I get nauseous again.

Remember... shhhhh!

Walkin' with the Dinosaurs

2008-09-10T13:39:00.000-07:00

OK, you gotta love Matt Damon for this:

Counting to 4

2008-07-16T18:44:00.000-07:00

Love. This.!

Mc... Mc... Mc...

2008-06-27T09:40:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Ted for unearthing this little gem.

Wordle

2008-06-24T18:36:00.000-07:00

So now you can create a word "cloud" of all the most frequently occurring phrases in your blog. I just copied my whole blog pageview, and this is what I came up with (click on image for larger view):

...guess I talk about chocolate a lot!

As is

2008-05-02T12:55:00.000-07:00

I woke up early this morning (before the toddler voice screamed bring me juice! through the monitor). Not sure exactly what woke me up-- be it the veritable Everest of blankets, tossed on top of me by an overheated husband-- or the annoying cat mouthing his grievances from the playroom downstairs-- or a fleeting itch, forgotten in the waking.

However, I think it was probably far less poetic than that. I think it was the subconscious remembering-- today is the annual McMansion neighborhood garage sale. Garage sale!

Most of the year, those two words hold no sway for me. I have so many of my own outdated knicknacks nesting in my closets, why should I go and browse those of others? And, might I add, those "others" inevitably are of the dried-flower, not-my-taste variety.

Last year my girlfriend and I packed her minivan full of stuff that has actually been very useful this past year-- the kids' table and chairs, the pop-up tent, the train table, the cardboard bricks. In one fell swoop I populated my giganto-basement with things that make the toddler heart go boom-boom. And somehow, in it, is some measure of pride.

I have thought about this a lot recently... I've caught myself bragging about how good of a deal I got on something.

Beautiful necklace. Yeah, $10, can you believe that? With matching earrings, too... though I wouldn't wear the earrings. I don't like matchy-matchy.

Nice chair cushions. Where did you get them? Homemade. A deal on the fabric, too.

That shirt is really flattering on you. Thanks. $4 on total clearance at Target. You can't beat that, can you?

And the list goes on and on and on... What does it say about me-- am I deflating myself? Or am I somehow trying to make myself look smarter, i.e. I'm no schlub and I won't pay retail?

I'm not sure that it's either. Or perhaps it's both. All of the above. With a little dash of hunter-gatherer thrown in for measure.

Whatever it is, I'm not sure whether I inherited it genetically or via conditioning by my mom (she who spends 2-3 hours mozeying around Target humming and talking to herself and getting "ideas"). (Translation: these "ideas" usually cost money, be they expensive or cheap.)

Yes, buying is the opportunity to add a little patch of something onto reality. It's just important to realize it's only a small patch (ergo, it should probably be as inexpensive as possible), lest one become convinced that it actually changes something.

***

When I finally hit out for the garage sales (after the child was at school), it started to look ominous out. Ominous, quickly followed by torrents of rain. I made mad dashes in and out of the car. I found a few cute little odds and ends, but not large victories like my friend, who pulled up with her minivan packed to the gills again. Her "scores"? A drum set. A small motorized ride-on jeep. (Excuse me, but what the f%#k was she thinking? These sound like mother torturing devices...)

Then, as she drove away, I swore I could hear the drumroll. Man those things are loud, I thought, and was disappointed when I realized it was only the thunder.

Cuckoo

2008-04-16T18:02:00.000-07:00

I loved my psychiatrist in Germany. He was a tall, thin man with a long, white coat and short white hair. The kind of glasses you push to the tip of your nose.

In Germany you had to go and see a psychiatrist if you wanted your health insurance to pay for therapy. I had an American therapist (Jewish to boot), but I had to go to this German psychiatrist quarterly to have him ask me the kind of questions I thought were once reserved for eye doctors: Better, worse or the same?

But usually he wouldn't get to those until the end of our 20-some-odd minute appointment. Once my German became proficient enough, we talked art. We talked politics. He was a fan of Woody Allen movies (should this surprise for a shrink?) and wanted to know if Woody's voice in English sounded like his dubbing actor's voice. (It doesn't).

During one of our conversations, I told him that I had started to realize a pattern: when spring started to spring, I started to get anxious. My two major depressions both started late-spring. Just when the flowers popped and the leaves popped and everything got that intense color of green they only get in spring. Was this normal, I asked? I mean, what time of year, generally speaking, do most people go nuts? Spring. Apparently.

I've always considered myself a sensitive person. Most things I've ever found a talent at doing in my life have been an exploitation in some way of this sensitivity. I'm a soft-shell gal who has to sometimes walk around with very heavy coats to keep from sucking up my environment too directly, too liberally.

So there are things that I have learned not to do. I never watch the local news, no matter where I am. Never. My friends have to call me and tell me when school is closed for a snow day because otherwise I will have no clue.

I won't go to movies where there is violence or suspense because it gets me spinning. Whenever someone mentions Harry Potter my husband has to mention that we were reading it aloud to each other for a time but had to stop in the middle of book 3 because I started having nightmares.

Obviously, though, there are some things in life you can't control, you can't select out. And for me, the highly, so sensitively cat-gut strung that I am, I cannot stop the earth's rotation. I hibernate like it's nobody's business and then springtime comes and, even with all the devices in the world, I go anxious. My energy goes furious. Everything goes spinning faster, as though the little cuckoo inside the clock must come out every fifteen minutes instead of the hour. Every hour is fifteen minutes and are we crazy yet?

Perhaps this is the way we humans are supposed to be after a long winter. There's shit to get done, you know? Though, life and weather not always cooperating, without the survival push, it is almost an autoimmune disease. Fifteen minutes until the next pecking. Anyone hungry for a little bird?

Creepy, Crawly, Crawdaddy?

2008-04-08T11:57:00.000-07:00

Via an article in the NYTimes today, I found this amazing illustrated book-- The ABCs of Invertibrates. It was illustrated by a mathematician who had a rare progressive brain disorder which, amongst other symptoms, manifested itself in a heightened artistic drive.

Since I'm all excited about brain disorders in general (I think I nurse some myself), I of course find this fascinating. Reminds me of a lot of the writing of Oliver Sacks who, by the way, is an avid collector of all sorts of weird stuff himself (and not just stories!)

Anyhow, go and browse these interesting and creepy illustrations. Perhaps it will inspire you (or someone, anyone, please!) to do something about the doggerel rhyming texts.

Bye Bye Birdie

2008-03-30T11:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it's official: Green will come. The tulips are pushing their dumb little heads up through the crusty gray surface of the earth. The garden hose, left out to freeze, is now uncovered. If it still works?

We all are beyond cabin fever. We take every small sign of spring as a miracle. We may believe in the eventuality of the calendar, but this winter tested our faith in it.

Should that hunger for spring lead us to the aisles of the grocery store, however, we must beware. The fruits of springtime are not yet here.

To wit, this article in the NY Times today tells of a disturbing connection between all those healthy, fresh foods we crave even on the darkest and shortest of days, and how they are killing songbirds. Yowza.

So, regardless of whether you think it doesn't matter for your health if you buy an organic or a conventional banana (after all, it's peeled anyway, some say), take a look at this article. Then, if you're so price conscious that the extra 10 cents a pound kills you, go buy your organic produce at Trader Joe's, which won't sting so much as buying at Whole Paycheck.

Half past Easter and down the path to Passover, it's a particularly a good time to think of those eggies that we love, dye, coddle and roast: don't let the hype fool you. The birdies, they not so happy with your spring.

Domestic (and otherwise)

2008-03-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

The sun is shining today. The temperature gauge in my car reads a desperately hopeful 59 degrees. I kept the sunroof popped (except when driving by the two-day-old skunk roadkill, which requires a hermetic re-sealing).

Mostly idyllic. Yet somehow, the domestic discontent has come home to roost.

Last night, my husband sported home one of those white parcels which I know-- the second he walks in the door-- is from my mother-in-law. Don't get me wrong. I love those parcels. In terms of gift-giving folk, my mother-in-law is tops on my list. Always thoughtful, never in bad taste. Most often using chocolate as packing material. What could be wrong?

The package was addressed to my son, who almost leapt from his skin in excitement. We opened it to find a cartoony, old-style dinosaur lunch box. Inside, full and I mean FULL of easter candy... Oh, of course the good kind. All those deliciously multicolored, foil-wrapped little swiss eggs-o-love. A Lindt chocolate bunny. On a bed of wood-spun, naturally-dyed easter grass. Beautiful. Stunning. It's 6:15pm, my son's hungry, and I haven't started dinner.

We tried a sneaky approach. We said "Oh, those are dinosaur eggs." (Hey, not totally improbable... we had just been playing with dinosaurs expertly crafted out of Play-doh who were sitting on a nest of dino-eggs. Anyhow, not as outlandish as you would think.

My son cries out, as if in pain, "That's chocolate! Those are chocolate eggs!"

Do you think he could smell the chocolate through the wrapping? Jesus. OK, plot failed. Three-year-old cannot be outwitted on this count (and, sadly, on fewer and fewer occasions).

We let him have one, with the promise that we will bring them out again in the morning.

He isn't having any of it. He's tugging furiously at my husband's leg as my husband robs the proverbial easter nest of its loot and transfers it into a ziploc bag. My son begins to bay and squeal: "They're stealing my chocolate! They're taking it from me!"

At once so desperate, so unjust a situation. I couldn't not see it from his perspective. I have to admit: I am the bad guy. My husband looked at me with a sad, yet entertained look and I said, "OK, one more, and then they are going away until tomorrow morning."

And here I sit, evil mother. Sometimes I don't seem to know when it's right to give in, and when it's right to stick to my guns. I mean, come on! My heart (and eyes, and thighs) delighted at the haul just as my son's had. But then, being the adult, I had to say no. I had to make the wise decision that if I let my son eat to his heart's content he'd bounce around like a baby on crack and then get so wound up that at the end of the evening there would be a giant temper tantrum, tears, and my feeling like I needed to be checked into a mental institution.

And in the hopes of avoiding all such occurrences, I reined him in. I keep everyone on even-keel, even though half the time I'd like to join them on a bender or two, be it staying up late or playing the music loud or shoving my face with chocolate.

I could tell you that it all probably stems from my childhood, and it probably wouldn't be wrong. Still, somehow I feel like I have to find a little more of an erratic balance sometimes. I don't know-- maybe it's the weather, the little tulips workin' hard for a livin', the promise of tomorrow's backhand slap of snow-sleet-crap.

Or maybe it's the smell of that chocolate that's got me all worked up-- and, if you'll excuse me, hold that thought. I must attend to my moronic cat who is trying to barf up a little piece of foil he found on the floor.

Oh yes.

2008-03-18T12:10:00.000-07:00

"Let us find that common stake we all have in one another, and let our politics reflect that spirit as well." -- Barack Obama 3/18/08

'nuf said.

BICADIBL

2008-02-25T12:45:00.000-08:00

No, it's not an acronym for some prehistoric reptile with only two teeth. It's the founding of a new blog! Anke and I have had so much fun coming up with nonsense definitions for the Captchas on Blogger that we've decided to take it to the next level.

Thus, the founding of the BICADIBL, The Bilingual Captcha Dictionary Blog, at http://bicadibl.blogspot.com ...So go on over and enjoy some of the first juicy tidbits and join in the fun with a morsel of your own. It's meaning-making on a useless (but highly personally-rewarding) level!

Every cloud has a...

2008-02-20T20:29:00.000-08:00

...microbial lining?

Fascinating and apparently true, there be little critters up in the mesosphere (ahem, that's above the stratosphere, for those keeping score).

So, perhaps we should think twice about whether that white, untouched snow is really that much cleaner than the yellow snow....

Go read. It will do your brain good!

It's a Snowmergency!

2008-02-18T14:35:00.000-08:00

OK, well maybe not really a "mergency" (as my son calls them), but we are all pretty much going bananas up here. Not only have we pulverized our previous snowfall total record (which, I may add, was set in the notoriously noxious winter of 1978), but we are apparently getting a little too loopy up here.

I would call it cabin fever, but, being that we all live in some form of modified suburbia, I'm not sure that that keeps to the spirit of the phrase. All I can say is that my gas fireplace (controlled by a switch, thank you very much) is workin' overtime.

I just went out a while ago to shovel the 10 feet from my driveway to my front door of its 8" of snow (underlayed with a stunningly beautiful 1/2 inch of ice) and it took me over a half an hour. After which time, aside from being in a slightly surly mood, I couldn't feel my fingertips.

Well, I had planned to go out and take pictures this morning of the gorgeous trees, branches encased in ice (they looked like wonderful, weird tootsie-roll lollipops) but alas, it was too cold. I was too much of a wuss. I could say something deep about the fleetingness of beauty and change and blah blah but truth is, most of what I can think of is "Thank God for the Attached Garage".

Then, I stumbled upon this post on the Isthmus (a local Madison free newspaper) web site titled, "We're one snowstorm away from anarchy" (make sure to read all the way down, it gets better and better) and almost peed my pants. I said almost, friends. Thank God I didn't. No one likes peecicles.

Down to Earth

2008-02-16T18:02:00.000-08:00

So I know it's been a while since I've written a "real" blog post... and suddenly, kapow! I have ten million things I want to write about. And, of course, very little time to actually sit down and do it. Better that way than the other way around, I suppose!

Today I was reading a Richard Scarry book to my son for the umpteen-millionth time. (I say that with all love, because I do truly love Richard Scarry books, and I love that my son loves them). He requested a story that hasn't been on our top ten Scarry radar, called "The Accident". Now, there's nothing grand about "The Accident" per se. It has the usual Scarry cast of characters who get into an unfortunate pile-up because they were not looking where they were going. Then a fellow named Greasy George comes along and he does a predictably bad job at putting all the cars back together, equally combining the parts from all the cars and the motorcycle until each vehicle is absurdly cock-eyed.

Again, cute, but we've seen this kind of thing before. And then, in an aside, you see a voice coming out from under an engine hood. It's Seargent Murphy's radio. It says, "Come in, Seargent Murphy! Your little girl Bridget will not take her nap. Come home immediately!"

I've seen this page probably zillions of times, but today this little snippet just made me heave a happy sigh. I'm not sure when Richard Scarry wrote this story, but it was probably at least 30 years ago. And apparently back then mothers were getting fed up with their kids some days and calling in the big kahuna.

Sometimes I feel like a wonderful mother. Sometimes I feel like an hysterical knit-wit who doesn't even know how to garner the cooperation of someone 1/3 of her size. And sometimes I feel like I'm insane for getting frustrated and saying to my husband (as we all do, I suppose?) "Here. Here's your child. Now you deal with him!"

Somehow it's the collision of all these feelings that gave me some moment of clarity today. That, and the fact that, suddenly, my little guy is saying things like, "Hey mama! Come here! I have an idea!" and wanting to have his hands cleaned and even eating gasp! stir-fried chicken and vegetables over rice at the table and trying bamboo shoots and liking them. "Bamboo! Bamboo! Bamboo!"

Yet for all the progress today held, I still must type with the strains of evening protest in the background (doesn't want diaper on, doesn't want this set of pyjamas, wants those pyjamas) which makes me so annoyed and yet amused. Seargent Murphy, we have a problem indeed. Come in immediately!

O-bama-rama

2008-02-14T19:50:00.001-08:00

Give this Barack Obama widget a fly...

Juvenile but satisfying!

2008-02-01T11:41:00.000-08:00

Sarah Silverman's song "I'm F**cking Matt Damon"

Brushmasters

2008-01-31T17:53:00.000-08:00

My husband is an inspiration. He has figured out how to play the national anthem on our electric toothbrush-- simply by by varying how open or closed he has his mouth.

He is also the source of the following little ditty we sing to our son at toothbrushing time. Sung to the tune of "Take me out to the ballgame":

Take me out to the bathroom
Take me out to the sink
Bring me a toothbrush and some toothpaste
I don't care if the paste goes to waste
Let me brush my molars and canines
If they're not clean it's a shame
For it's one, two, three strikes you're out
At the toothbrush game!

Something makes me think that, aside from science, he has multiple callings in life.

Aah, it all becomes clear now...

2007-12-29T17:56:00.000-08:00

From the NYTimes about the unseen, long-term effects of binge-drinking (italics are mine):

On a microscopic level, Dr. Crews has shown that heavy binge-drinking in rats diminishes the genesis of nerve cells, shrinks the development of the branchlike connections between brain cells and contributes to neuronal cell death. The binges activate an inflammatory response in rat brains rather than a pure regrowth of normal neuronal cells. Even after longstanding sobriety this inflammatory response translates into a tendency to stay the course, a diminished capacity for relearning and maladaptive decision-making.

I wonder who this makes me think of... hmmm....

More Heave-Ho, Less Ho-Ho

2007-12-19T17:13:00.000-08:00

Since I can't bear to dissect the fact that I spent a good 6 hours of today working on presents for others (I knitted, bought, wrapped, packaged, carded, addressed and mailed... for SIX stinkin' hours!), I will supply you with some joyful distraction and some things that have given me a chuckle in the past few days.

1) This web site for snow blowers. I got a good giggle out of the copy on this one. "The snow will shiver in fear, not you!" Uh-huh. Go out there and show that snow who's boss. Er... or just finish clearing the path, you over-testosteroned dolt-freak!

2) Oh. My. God. Nothing says Christmas cheer like this. Make sure to watch the video clip. Hey, don't blame me. I wasn't out there looking for that special gift for the hunting enthusiast in my life!

3) "What they did to us was hard-core. Man, was that scene rough." A review of the earliest episodes of Sesame Street, now available on DVD. Elmo is DEFINITELY prozacky. Read on.

4) Slimey Worm's MySpace page. Yup. A 38-year-old male living in Oscar's Trash Can. Notice the "friends"... Some people have way too much time on their hands! (Though if you ever see a copy of the book "Slimey to the Moon" snag it for me... I'll pay you back!) ;)

5) This gal kicks some major butt (see above comic)

Happy Holidays, y'all!

Too fine a point

2007-12-06T19:01:00.000-08:00

Not sure where to start this, so I guess I'll start with the drive. Tonight, amidst the falling snow, I left my house, husband tucking present-crazed child into bed, mother and stepfather watching television in the basement. At almost 9:00 on a Thursday evening with two inches down in the last hours upon the almost foot of snow on the ground, did I really need to be out driving?

A girlfriend of mine is out of town for a few days and I promised her that I'd go by her house and pick up her mail and any packages that might have been dropped there. In fact, even when she goes out of town for only a couple of days, I always volunteer to do it. And I don't mind doing it. Somehow, perhaps, by visiting her house while she's gone I feel like I'm tending the friendship or visiting just a little.

Anyhow, as I drove into her neighborhood, I noticed a young man walking on the other side of the road. I was struck by such jealousy (though jealousy isn't the word)-- I wanted to be him. Suddenly I could read this stranger's gait and I knew: He's young, he's working something out as he slices through the snow. Sometimes you just need to escape into an outside where you can march the stupidity out of yourself and your thinking.

As I pulled into my friend's driveway, I noticed three hulking boxes which looked like elephants trying t0 "hide" behind the fake doric columns of her front porch. They looked so insipid! And somehow so sweet as well, like they were trying so hard.

I feel like that often myself, especially around my son. I am so filled with love for him, I could just be him. Then I remove myself and say this is the adult voice I use and the sensible thing I say to make sure you're safe and know boundaries all the while thinking Ha! If he only knew how we are all just pretending.

I loaded the awkward boxes into the back of my car, quickly rearranging my daily detritus (grocery freezer bag, pair of son's rubber frog boots only worn inside the house) and tossing them on top. Haphazard, but out of the snow. Not so silly and alone on the porch at least.

On the way back, I started to drive even more slowly, more deliberately. And I'm not sure it was out of a sense of safety, but rather, as though my wheels were working through something for me. I realized that I was listening to a classical piece that siphened me into it, and everything I saw was an extension of that listening, that movement of the car, the music. The snow is piled in drifts reflecting tangerine-colored light from the streetlights. All somehow so cozy and perfect and piled it seemed out of a movie, or a thought about winter, not actual winter itself.

Passing all the strung-up lights, the white deer were silhouetted and illuminated at once as they grazed upon the snow-wrapped yards. Dwarf pines swathed in frenetic dancing lights looked like little overdressed chihuahuas, blinking to themselves in that nervous way. All this man-made love and the snow arranging themselves together, working it out.

And that, perhaps, is exactly it. Working it out is beautiful and human and sometimes forced. And sometimes loveliness and grace just happens to settle up upon it-- upon the intention and the ritual and the routes of dailiness. Grace upon work. Work in the hopes of grace.

More! More! More!

2007-12-03T17:49:00.000-08:00

There's a point at the end of Sesame Street where Slimy the Worm, bedecked in a sleeping cap (when did we stop using those?) implores to Oscar the Grouch: "Read more, read more! Read more Trash!" Oscar replies, "N0, Slimy. That was enough excitement for such a small worm. We'll read more tomorrow!"

Now when my son starts whining at us for something (yes, much of the time, books, but other stuff, too), we call him Slimy. "More, more, more!" we croon. It always makes him laugh. Now he's starting to use this mantra as well, and his two-year-old approximation of Slimy's voice, whenever he whines. Somehow it makes the whining more fun for both of us.

Now that it's getting dark out so early, we are often driving after dark, when Christmas lights are in their full bloom. He's in the back yelling, "More Christmas lights! More lights!" and I have to point them out to him as we pass. To tell the truth, I like looking at the lights, too. It's one of the least conflicted feelings I have about the season which is upon us.

***

I was somewhat dumbfounded by this rant on Slate.com by Christopher Hitchens, the notorious God-hater. I mean, I can understand the instinct to want strict separation of church and state. No government-sponsored Christmas trees or holiday programs or whatnot. I, personally, am not offended by them, but do acknowledge the criticism that they can be seen as endorsement of one religion over another.

Still, this guy really strikes me as joyless. And that's about the harshest thing I can say about anyone. He seems like a miserable human being. And his arguments, while some of them are not altogether without merit, are mirthless and unhuman.

Well, now he's taking potshots at Hanukkah. Not that I should be surprised, but I am taken aback. I wonder if it's because in general, I think public criticism of anything Jewish or even mildly Jewish is usually pounced upon and torn apart by the media. And while I think that some of that instinct is perhaps a little overdone (especially when it comes to legitimate criticism of Israeli policies or politics), I am also adamantly opposed to protecting hate speech. Period. That's why I could never join the ACLU.

Now, mind you, I know that this opinion is a controversial one. "Where do you draw the line?" people ask. Truth is, I'm not sure. But a line does have to be drawn somewhere for the health of our society, and it behooves us to think about this issue and debate it.

Anyhow, whether or not this rant constitutes hate speech (which I think it doesn't), it is still shocking and disconcerting. After reading it I felt horrible. Just horrible. Partially because I felt that he used an arithmetic which is not humane in its logic.

Then I found this response and felt better about the world again. Yes, thinking and feeling and knowing. Not to be warm and fuzzy about it, but looking for the light isn't that bad.

More light! Want more, MORE!

MamaH has not approved this ad

2007-12-02T10:42:00.000-08:00

...but she still thinks it's freakin' funny. Good thing Huckabees is too conservative to get elected. At least he's making a joke of himself in more ways than one!

'Tis the season...

2007-11-29T11:41:00.000-08:00

Let the games begin!

Ahem, let me rephrase that. As of November 1st: Let the games begin!

If you're confused, that is a true sign of your mental and fiscal health. You see, November 1st is the day that all things Halloween go in the bargain bin and wide swathes of nearly every store automatically pop up with tinsel, trimmings and light-diode-impregnated fake northern spruces.

Aah, the joys of the season that starts too soon, lasts too long, and drives the folks who work retail into lifetime Christmas music haters. Or is it "holiday" music haters?

Yes, as you can see, there is serious debate going on about whether the Wisconsin State "holiday tree" (dubbed so in the 1980's in a conniption of political correctness) should be renamed the "Christmas tree". Serious debate. Did I say that already?

Well, speaking as a resident Jew, I can plead... PLEASE return it to being the Christmas tree. Holiday tree is just ludicrous. Unless, that is, some wild roaming sect of Jews actually does have a penchant for felling small trees and bedecking them with oil lamps or candles. If there is such a case, my bad. Otherwise, let's just take down the whole ruse of egalitarianism. Trees have nothing to do with Hanukkah, nor to my knowledge, with Kwanzaa.

Then, go ahead and put up a menorah, or a kwanzaa candle thing, and maybe a festivus pole for good measure. (Festivus-- what an awesome stroke of comic genius!) Just don't waste our time pretending that the 50,000-pound elephant in the room is not indeed a towering elephant. In a whispered tone: We know about Christmas. It's OK. You can have that. Just don't expect us to decorate it with stars of david and play dreidel beneath it.

***

OK, on from the substantive debate. Now it's time for the real meaning of this holiday, er, christmas, er, shopping season... prezzies! Lots of 'em!

Including these dumb presents and these all-time most dangerous present s. Yep, they're real, folks. Reminds me of the cornballer from Arrested Development.

***

Yes, that's about as substantive as it gets these days... I've been running around trying to get everything done, knitting everything I can get my hands on (gee, can't guess if that's displaced mothering instinct, can we?) and almost ran a stop sign the other day (no kid in car... keep your pants on!) because I had a very surreal Luis Bunuel kind of image in my head of knitting eyelashes. Very strange. Perhaps a few too many lattes in the pot?

100% More Cheese

2007-11-19T11:28:00.000-08:00

OK, OK...

Let me just lick off my fingers from these natural Cheetos (No preservatives, No artificial flavors, No artificial colors) and type a couple of minutes....

Yes, the glamor life in the intervening month or so (or longer?) since my last little snippet has trodden by and I've had only the impulse to write, never the follow-through or the subject matter, for that matter.

Life has just been strings of little whack-a-doodle details with no coherent storylines and it sort of reminds me of an episode of the show "Dirty Jobs" on the Discovery Channel. I saw one the other week when my husband was out of town about conch farmers who have to go out and harvest kelp to feed to the conch. They scoot out on this little dinky motorboat and haul all this slimy, long, rope-like kelp onto the boat and have to cut it with sharp knives (that stuff is actually amazingly strong). Does this sound like a good idea? Wielding sharp knives on a wet, slippery boat? One of the cameramen ends up puking.

Anyhow, nothing nearly as risky, but perhaps as dumb. My 2 1/2-year-0ld son had to have eye surgery and was on all sorts of drops and steriods. I believe this was the beginning of my downfall, because in order to keep him content (and from rubbing his eye all the time), we coaxed him into short bouts of mania with new toys, stickers, books, even the odd blue lollipop or two. It's been more than a month where I have had to physically catch him and hold him down for 5 eyedrops a day (during the day mostly by myself). And let me tell you, that ain't fun. Not woeful, just not fun.

Let's see now... Umm... There's been the fact that my son is 2 1/2 and thinks defiance is uproariously funny... that's been a good one. Then there has been the cold that has been passed along and has taken up residence at the farthest crevice of my sinus system (sort of like the solar system without any of the cache) and makes anyone who talks to me on the phone want to immediately get off because it's too obnoxious and/or painful to listen to me snort and snuff through the conversation.

Plus, the only freelance job I've had in a while is a five-hour whopper writing copy about acrylic bathtubs. Now with 100% new American acrylic!

Yes, all these things. And not knowing what to do with my life (how is it that everyone is doing something important with a capital "i" and I'm knitting an itchy scarf and eating "natural" Cheetos at 1pm?) and also not knowing if I will have another child (bigger, scarier, let's-not-go-there-because-it-could-get-messy).

Yup. The world of meaning, knock- knock- knockin' down my (OH-- mustn't forget... Oh crap. Whatever it is, I forgot it). Door?

Hello?

How do you say "Ass-in-nine"?

2007-09-25T20:51:00.000-07:00

A little late night nugget for your reading pleasure:

Bush's copy of his UN speech was accidentally posted on the Web, along with "idiot-proof" phonetic spellings. How do you say, "Doh!"?

Cue the Angels!

2007-09-19T18:35:00.001-07:00

This has been a beastly week, but at least there's some redemption in the world: Apparently the New York Times has made all of its internet content free. Yes, that's right. Free.

I was one of the suckers who paid the $49.95/year to have access to all the blogs and goodies the NYTimes hid behind its little Times Select icons until this summer when I decided I would use that $49.95 to buy myself a cute bracelet in Germany. So much for my intellectual prowess...

Still, now I can freely graze among the lilies. You can, too. Go check it out.

***

And, in other news, my toddler managed to give himself a gigantic goose egg on his forehead sunday night. He attended preschool Monday morning wearing his bike helmet (to stave off further possible injury on the playground).

Classy.

And apparently they blew the shofar on Monday for the kids to hear. Now he's obsessed. He runs around saying, "Shofar outside! Woman blow it!" Today he came home with a decorated paper-plate facsimile of the shofar and even tried to take it to bed with him. Cue the angels, indeed!

Tendering Words

2007-09-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

One of the things that I'm amazed about with my son at this age is what he does, thinks and says when he's playing by himself.

This afternoon, as our iTunes picked an interesting mix of Vivaldi, REM, Keb Mo', Ray Charles and Coolio (yes, Coolio), my toddler guy was playing contentedly by himself.

At one point I heard him say, "helmet guy, we share with our friends!"

Last week, after he awoke from his nap, everything was cool. "Cool helmet, helmet guy!"

Today, he kept referring to himself as "Sweet boy."

You see, it's almost impossible for me at this point to have an independent thought from my son. I'm so enraptured with his language development that apparently I've turned into the parrot.

***

...And some sad news in the parrot world: Alex, the grey parrot, is no longer amongst the living.

He was, according to his obit, one of the world's most developed bird-brains: He knew over 100 words.

Apparently, the night before he died, when "his" researcher put him back in his cage, he said, "You be good, see you tomorrow. I love you.”

Papa Guy

2007-09-03T12:03:00.000-07:00

I've been quite a stress kitten lately. I'll admit it. As my husband prepares to teach his first graduate class and simultaneously is falling prey to the rigors of organic lawn care, I have been minding the home front and trying to figure out what the hell to do with my toddler. Truth be told, my ideas usually run out around Thursday. And, with the end-of-summer hole (no swimming lessons or playgroups) to fill in the desperate blanks, I've been fit to be tied.

But enough about that. Bitching ain't going to solve it. Instead, I want to talk about why I am going to go down in the pantheon of bad (but inventive) moms. Why, you ask?

Well, with my verbal dexterity underchallenged as a stay-at-home-mom, I've resorted to playing small linguistic tricks on my son.

For instance, take last week. My husband was obsessed with the lawn. He thinks we have grubs, which are hatching into Japanese beetles and eating up our plants and planning the demise of our lawn ecosystem. Since using pesticides are out of the question (and, no irony here) I am in agreement with that, we have to find another way to get rid of the grub-a-dub-dubs. Enter the beneficial nematode. A boon to the lawn-obsessed, this little microscopic critter (which supposedly resembles a worm when you get one close enough to see) seeks out the grubs and eats them. Yum! Now that's some good Grub!

So, aforementioned husband waffles back and forth. Do we order them? D0 we not order them? Enough to cover our lawn will cost $50. For those of you keeping track, $50 buys you 50 million beneficial nematodes from the Internet. Finally, after much back-and-forth, he decides to order them. They show up a day later, packaged in a white styrofoam cooler which needs to go directly into the fridge. (I bet you're not eating at my house after you heard that!)

So, given the huge amount of care and interest the beneficial nematode has inspired in our house, I decide to tell my son that papa is getting nematodes. Can you say nematodes? "Nee-man-toes!" Shakes his head knowingly. I ask, "Do you know what nematodes are?" "Yup!" he says cheerily, shaking his head. I left it at that. As long as he thinks he knows what they are, who am I to spoil it with the actual (and perhaps icky) explanation?

Since my little chatterbox is actually an old chatterbox with a skipping record, it has been taken up into his vocabulary stew. It is not unusual to hear a string of words like this one: "Helmet guy goes up there up the ladder nematode. Jet engines!"

And, upon overhearing a conversation I had on the phone with someone last week, he has also picked up another little ditty. Someone we know just found out that they have two spleens. No matter how funny that may sound, it apparently isn't very funny if you're that person. Two spleens-- not so fun. So when I heard it, I said in a loud voice, "He has TWO SPLEENS?" and started laughing hysterically. Suddenly, my son was orbiting the couch at great velocity yelling "Two SPEENS!"

To make matters that much worse, I have two languages to mess around with. ONCE, mind you, months and months ago, when my son pointed to a picture of a parrot in one of his books, I told him that the German word for parrot was papagei. Then I thought to myself, giggled, and said it as two words: PAPA GUY... which is apt, for my -guy obsessed child ("Where helmet guy go?" "Guy over there and up a ladder!") And, ever the little parrot, he's stuck on repeat.

Where Mama go? To hell, apparently. Mama go where she not warp minds of small children.

Stories

2007-08-29T20:10:00.000-07:00

The past couple of days I've fallen asleep while telling my son a bedtime/naptime story. Picture me laying on the floor (beige carpet-- awful suburban plague), me sticking my hand through the slots to hold my son's hand. (The command comes from behind the blanket: "Mama, hold the hand!") and so I do. It's a concession. A weakness, perhaps. Still, it seems a godsend to have him fall asleep behind the bars of the crib as compared to the wild late-night air mattress surfing that he practiced while we were in Germany. So, I'll throw him a bone.

And truth be told, the storytelling does me good. It's like those beginning creative writing workshop exercises where you get to pick disparate words or phrases out of a hat and have to craft something out of them.

Only mostly what you got from those exercises was a bunch of crap with maybe a funny line or two. (Don't apply for the poet-laureate position just yet...)

Yet somehow, despite the common constraints, dictated by a 2 1/2-year-old with certain predelictions, shall we say, to "Papa, Max and Elmo with helmets on!" or "Helmet guys!" or "Duffy train driver and ice cream truck!", it's amazing the amount of variety I've mined.

Take for example, my masterpiece from last week, "Papa, Max and Elmo take two modes of transportation (helmets on, for safety, of course) to visit the Helmet Guy Convention". Now that was a finely crafted piece of oral literature. And there are other favorites (of mine, not of his-- I can safely say that my stories put him to sleep. Does that count as being "good"?) Like when my son got to take his nap in the back of a dump truck while the "helmet guy" drove him to sleep, or when the firemen had to come and pump out our flooded backyard (we woke up to ducks swimming around in it!)

But, perhaps like all good children's stories, there are certain predictabilities (see the aforementioned child falling asleep portion of the program). However, I am apparently too good of a hypnotist. Telling the stories is so relaxing to me that I have woken up drooling, with carpet-rash over half of my face. This afternoon when I awoke after an hour, I was still holding my son's hand, and I couldn't feel most of my arm because it was asleep.

Aaah, love. Is it terrible to say that I am good at this thing love? That I am good at talking? (Consult any elementary-school report card for confirmation).

The other night I had a dream that I had to take over teaching my husband's class when he went on a trip. I remember: I was overcome with joy!

And I remember why, I suppose. When I most loved teaching, I got to tell stories. In them, we were all awake. We learned things. Them and I. Completely engaged in love.

Dispatch from Abroad

2007-07-26T00:25:00.000-07:00

Greetings from the land of the bizarro keyboard. It's been a year since I've typed on one of these, and it shows. A tutorial: y and z are switched. The @ symbol is hidden on the 'l' key and only accessible by hitting the alt key simultaneously. Then there's the beautiful ü, ö, ä with their little follow-the-dancing balls breaking up the monotony of the normal asdf jkl;. It's more like asdf jklö. Even these (non)sense combinations are an order of sorts. A discipline which fingers forget and remember again just long enough to forget. A constant deja vu.

§§§

And just the same, it's amazing to me how much knowledge is stuck inside of me, leaping to the surface as if it were there all the time (it was). Yesterday we had some friends over and they were talking about the moving sidewalks in the Paris underground. Instead of the conveyor-belt technology used in most airports, they are apparently comprised of many cylinders which propel you the minute you step on them. There are two lanes- slow and fast, and the fast one accelerates you at impressive speed. Our friends said that no matter how prepared you are for it mentally, it still comes as a physical surprise. Something about all those small cylinders causing such momentum seems as though it can't be true.

I wish that for the three years I lived here, I had kept a blog. I can only imagine what things I had said as I return to the thoughts, walking down the streets. It would be interesting to see the persistence of perception or the slight kant as if walking up a slight incline. Today, here. Three years, a decade from now, head cocked a little to the side.

§§§

Before leaving home, my husband and I both had a feeling we did not want to leave. We weren't ready to come. There's always so much in motion that it's hard to feel like it's possible (even preferable?) to leave it, stop-motion. Perhaps we crave a more episodic handling of our exposition. This is the point in the plot where we wind things up. Although we live in simultaneousness as a point of being (breathing AND looking AND thinking AND biting nails), our minds trick us into thinking that it is not so. Focus and selection is an amazing coping skill.

Yet when we arrived, our arrival was immediate. Here is our bank. There is where I always bought the plums (much better than the stand right next to it) and money is money, not some computation of this is how much? (If you've looked at the value of the Euro recently, you'll know how dangerous of an automatism this is!)

At the same time, life at home is whole and constant, even without us this period of time. The fruit flies that swarm around half-eaten bananas here are the same that are digesting our compost at home. The process (though unseeable: when will our compost finally yield DIRT, for God's sakes?) is ongoing.

§§§

I can tell you where I am now because I do this blog anonymously. Therefore I am not worried that you will go to my house, foil my security system and steal my dirt. I can tell you where I am, but never who I am. That's the riddle that keeps life rolling forward.

Makin' it hard out here for a pimp

2007-07-09T12:34:00.001-07:00

So I'm not a joiner. I'll admit that much. Never really toyed with the idea of joining a sorority (they're just for pretty girls, and I'm pretty and smart, or so the rationale goes). Never, never wanted to be friends with everyone I met. Nor do I expect to be liked by everyone. That would require me to actually talk to all people, which I have always viewed as an acute waste of time and energy.

Elitist, perhaps. Protectionist definitely.

Still, I apparently every once and a while feel the need to ride the preverbial mechanical bull of social organizing. I was president of my women's club in Germany (smart women, mind you!) and now I've taken on neighborhood organizing. Apparently, I am a glutton for punishment. Still, it seems to me that especially in the burbs like where I live, it's important to know your neighbors.

It's especially important to know your neighbors if you live down the street from a pimp/drug dealer.

So, I suppose my organizing bug is a fair part survival instinct. Still, it always seemed to me to work better with the carrot than the stick. So I decided to organize a 4th of July picnic for the neighborhood. I delivered flyers in every mailbox (even the pimp's!), I bought foamcore and made signs. I even bought american flags, for God's sakes, and streamers, and patriotic tablecloths. Not something that this mama would ever really do. I'm just not the "garden flag" type.

Anyhow, out of 60 houses, 12 showed up (including us). It was certainly an interesting group. We have lots of diversity for such a small, relatively new neighborhood in what I consider to be a relatively white, American state. We had our older paranoid gossip couple (the woman totally reminds me of Lynette's babysitter on Desperate Housewives), we had our good christian family with four daughters (I think the woman was taken aback when I hinted that we were Jewish. Bizarro).

Yet, I couldn't help but feel let down that there weren't more people there. It felt as though the whole neighborhood was posing like those monkeys "See no Evil, hear no evil, speak no evil." Suffice it to say, no pimps or even neighbors of pimps showed up.

***

My husband and I have had many discussions on how to get people motivated to care, and look out for each other. We have this (call it idealistic) thought that the more people know each other, the more uncomfortable it will be for the pimps.

I've even had fantasies of surreptitiously delivering welcome packets of flowers and brownies to the pimp's mailbox. If caught, I could simply shrug and say I wanted them to feel welcome in the neighborhood (of course hoping for the exact opposite effect). These people want to operate with a fair amount of anonymity. The less you allow them that, the more likely it is, perhaps, that they will move elsewhere.

That having been said, my husband wants me in no way, shape or form to be leaving baked goods in the pimp's mailbox. Still, I love the fantasy of it.

***

Do you out there have any ideas of what might work for us? How has your neighborhood worked on building community? Have you dealt with any safety concerns or difficult neighbors? Any good (or even off-the-wall fun) ideas on how to go about fostering community and at the same time making the pimps feel unwelcome?

Write to me. Otherwise, I might be driven to greater lengths of social gregariousness. And we wouldn't want it to come to that now, would we?

Methinks that Booty Smelleth Not So Fresh...

2007-06-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

And the recalls keep coming, folks. Just a day after being warned to throw away ANY toothpaste made in China, hospitals and mental wards are finding hordes of tubes of the possibly toxic goo.

Then comes the news that the FDA is banning certain kinds of fish from being imported from China unless they can prove that they are NOT contaminated with: Carcinogens, Illegal antibiotics, Unidentifiable "filth" and/or Salmonella. Yum. And, via the NYTimes, I found out that the US apparently gets almost 80% of its seafood from China. Yikes. Back away from that fish stick!

And, if all that isn't wacko enough, they're now saying that Veggie Booty (snack of choice for the Toddler set) is causing a rolling outbreak of Salmonella in kids across the country. Is nothing sacred?! Where else are our kids going to get their fill of rice flour puffs dusted with broccoli and kale?

While I have always sort of giggled under my breath at moms who think that Veggie Booty actually counts as a vegetable (I actually overheard someone saying, "If my kid didn't eat Veggie Booty, I don't know HOW we'd get him to eat his veggies!") I still think it can have its place as a (relatively) innocuous treat on occasion. No longer. I am livid that last week at playgroup I could have been feeding my friends' kids (and my own) Salmonella Puffs.

***

Today my son was insistent that he wanted to go to the "train store", a local toy store where they have four different train and vehicle tables in a small space. I have to say that I still feel uneasy about the Thomas the Tank Engine thing. Even though the company theoretically has the whole lead issue under control with their recall, I'm still uncomfortable having my son play with the Thomas toys.

***

I think I saw a bumper sticker once that read something to the effect of "It's not paranoia if they really are following you." However, if your paranoid behavior does land you in the loony bin, don't brush your teeth or eat the shrimp. That'll teach them a lesson.

PB kids, and I'm not talkin' Pottery Barn here

2007-06-19T12:13:00.000-07:00

I read an alarming article today in the NYTimes about the case of the Consumer Product Safety Board (CPSB)-- the government group that's supposed to make sure that consumer products are, well, as the name suggests, SAFE for consumer use.

Now, anyone who has kids can tell you the pandemonium that has broken out amongst parents about the latest recall action of twenty-some-odd Thomas the Tank Engine pieces. They can probably tell you which pieces are affected and why: Lead (chemical symbol Pb) found in the red and yellow paint.

What most of these parents don't know, however, is that despite the fact that recalls of consumer items (and, scarily enough, many many toys) has seen a huge increase in the past years, the CPSB is actually less and less able to do its job because of cuts in funding. Witness this:

In the last two years, the staff of the consumer product commission has been cut by more than 10 percent, leaving fewer regulators to monitor the safety of the growing flood of imports.

Some consumer advocates say that such staff cuts under the Bush administration have made the commission a lax regulator. The commission, for example, acknowledged in a recent budget document that “because of resource limitations,” it was planning next year to curtail its efforts aimed at preventing children from drowning in swimming pools and bathtubs.

Yikes. I hate to sound like one of those anti-foreign harpies, but given recent events with all sorts of whacked-out shit showing up in products proudly Made In China (Now! With Extra Little Oversight!), I am seriously in a quandary.

Even many of my favorite toymakers, including European firms, are outsourcing their work to China. China seems to be either unable or unwilling to police itself. (Heck, if we can't manage to do it, either, how can we expect them to?)

And, given the fact that so much manufacturing and production has moved to China, it seems foolhearty to think that A)We can avoid all products made in China and that B)Despite recent events, that all Chinese-produced things are inherently tainted. There is just a huge unknown.

However, it's appalling that we have to wait for kids or parents to start noticing lead poisining or choking hazards in order to have something actually done about it because of a lack of resources and oversight.

One thought: Perhaps it's past time to start holding stores accountable for selling these products. If retailers hear that their consumers are p.o.'d because they stock items that could potentially kill or critically injure their children or themselves, perhaps retailers will be more responsible consumers, themselves.

How's that for a moral to the story, Thomas? Peep peep!

Foiled Again

2007-06-11T13:06:00.000-07:00

This will have to be quick, as a plaintive "Paaaaa-paaaaaa" escaped from underneath my son's door, and the babble is beginning to trickle.

I have officially joined the ranks of the Security Moms, having successfully allowed the Security People to bore holes through my doors and install cat-insensitive motion detectors and very sensitive glass breaks throughout the house. I am now officially ready to accidentally set off my own home security system at any time that is inconvenient to me or my sleeping toddler. Let the fun begin!

And speaking of defenses, I read this awesome article about captchas (see visual above), those wacky little letter/number puzzles that web sites use to authenticate that you are, indeed, a human. Apparently they are getting easier and easier for computers to solve, and harder and harder for humans to solve. Which means that the security mavens have to invent even more interesting ways to tell humans from their malice-seeking technological counterparts.

And, in closing, a remark on the frailty of human perception, brought to you by the letter X:

Yesterday I heard various stories of people cracking up. It seems the coo-coo bird has been hovering ravenous over distant relatives, family friends and old neighbors. And it seems, somehow, whether you describe people as "functioning" paranoids or alcoholics or mourners, "functioning" is really only cushioning that you give yourself to not feel as though people are one step away from falling into the abyss. Because if they are only one step away, are we only two steps, maybe three at most? Enough to give anyone vertigo.

Still, I must think of my alarm here, poised and ready to serve (or perhaps, rather, to swerve?) Safety sounds permanent, but is really an incomplete thought better left unfinished. Too much else interesting going on in the world to be worried about your boundaries, lest you inscribe them too tightly and then there you sit. The abyss-- in a dot.

Reinventing the Wheel

2007-05-29T17:40:00.001-07:00

There's nothing like raising a child-- watching it progress from a squirmy little bundle of nerve endings and crying to a thinking, talking, plotting human being-- to recharge your wonder and frustration in the world.

One of the most bizarre realizations I remember having was when my son was about 10 months old and started showing a clear preference for anything with wheels. Why wheels?, I thought. (Is this mystery, perhaps, etched on the Y chromosome?)

Since then, we've gone through love affairs with every be-wheeled thing that touches the earth with its magical orbs. Each has been named, counted, described. Routes have been altered to see the absolute most of them we can see in a given drive.

Yet their magic is difficult for me to feel vicariously, the same way, for instance, I revel in every new word and word combination expressed. (This weekend he woke up insisting "Book store. Book store." Boy are we in trouble!)

Yet the image above, taken from this wonderful article from the NYTimes (where else), captures for me the amazement of wheels. This article talks about a design show in NY which is focused on low-cost design solutions to some of the world's most pressing problems. It features this water containter, in the shape of a wheel, which can be pulled even by a young child.

Hallelujah.

What a beautiful form! What a beautiful function!

I would like to start a practice where I take maybe one hour a week to generate new ideas. I invite you to join me. They could be ideas from your own realm of work, or they can be far afield. Take one hour a week (doesn't friday seem the best day for this?) to actively daydream and see what you come up with.

More to come...

Open Wide

2007-05-22T18:35:00.000-07:00

I normally feel the weight of the world on my shoulders just as a regular precaution. This week, it's enough to keep me even busier.

You see, just before my husband left for a conference in Alaska (of all places!), he found out in a casual conversation with our neighbor over lawnmowing that apparently our teensy little neighborhood is home to not one, but two houses of ill-repute (of the red-light variety) and one suspected drug dealer.

Now, I cannot attest to the veracity of the claims. However, I certainly know that people had their panties in a gather a while ago because someone got a laptop stolen from their car. (For the record, the car was unlocked and parked on the street at the time. Doh!)

At any rate, apparently there has also been a car stolen, multiple car break-ins, and an as yet uncorroborated account of a neighbor hearing someone in her house.

Still, true or not, it can scare the living daylights out of you.

My husband is known to all of our friends as a safety fiend. I think if my son would suffer no ill feelings from other children because of it, my husband might have him walk around in full protective headgear.

Yet we are both of the conviction that oftentimes even talking about "security" (as in, say, the "homeland" variety) makes people feel, ironically, unsafe. We scoffed at the folks who felt unsafe without a security system out here.

AND, we are now installing a security system. It can be hooked up to the fire alarms so that the fire station is called instantly. There are panic buttons and all sorts of things that can keep you safe (though thinking about them makes you feel unsafe).

Still, I wonder. Safety itself is one thing. Feeling safe, parodoxically, is a state of mind that is not always related to actual safety (and in fact, is sometimes diametrically opposed to safety. Why else would women stay with their abusers, etc.?)

Perhaps we need to study the idea of a fair amount of preparedness with a large dose of denial. How does that sound?

***

In the meantime, there's all sorts of change going on. The semester has ended and our dear babysitter has graduated and been let out into the wild to change the world as she sees it. In her stead, her roommate, sorority sister and elementary ed. major has taken her place.

With such singing credentials, I should be on the moon. Yet I was still nervous today when I left her here. Even though last week when she visited I saw my son through the window give her a big hug. (And where does he get off hugging women he hardly knows and saying no to me?)

Of course, everything went fine. When I came home, everything was in order and my son barely noticed I was back. He hugged the new babysitter three or four times with verve.

I was thinking about my nervousness as I was doing my errands. I guess change is just like that. Sometimes with things that have to do with my son (like his first swimming lessons alone, and in this case) I am nervous for him. He ends up doing fine. I'm the one who is having the problem with change, because I am anticipating it. I am rehearsing what I have to do to intercede on his behalf. My motherly nature causes me to pace the floors in my mind. And the babe sleeps quieter than ever, tired and satisfied by his conquests.

***

And in our final installment, I bring you the latest in food news.

Apparently (though I didn't hear the gruesome details firsthand and I am glad I didn't), a baby died recently because its parents kept it on a vegan diet. Their idea of "vegan" meant giving the baby regular soy milk and applesauce. It goes without saying that this is an absolute perversion of thought. Why wouldn't mother's milk (the most natural thing in the world) be acceptable as baby food? Just thinking about this bizarre case makes me want to get up and punch someone.

I mean, I'm all for animal rights and humane treatment of animals. During college I was even a vegetarian for a while. Partially because of conviction, partially because I was always a veggie and carb lover. But veganism itself is an absolute extreme position to take (and, in my eyes, an unhealthful one.) My only calming thought is that perhaps the baby's parents were themselves so self-imposed malnourished that they couldn't think straight. This Op-Ed from the NYTimes expresses sentiments about this case much more eloquently than I can.

And, just in case you were looking for toothpaste with that "extra special something," look no further than China. Under the brand name "Mr. Cool", a chinese company was producing and exporting toothpaste that contained diethylene glycol, known to most of us as a poisonous component of antifreeze.

What's more, this toothpaste has shown up in at least three countries under some other names and toothpastes marketed specifically for children.

***

Perhaps the question is... is the old adage true: "The second you become comfortable on a ladder is the one right before you fall." Or does fear beget mostly only fear?

We'll see you in the next round of "Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Pimp!"

The weather with you

2007-05-15T12:55:00.000-07:00

I've always felt particularly attuned to the weather. Today it's absolutely pouring gobs and gobs from the sky, and I feel relieved. Somehow, I've always felt that crappy weather gives you the excuse to let down your guard and just BE for a while. When I lived in particularly sunny places (Arizona, Colorado) I always felt like I was living in some sort of strange suspended animation. Perhaps like butterflies feel-- their wings reach an optimum temperature and then they start flying-- are compelled to fly-- by their appetites, not necessarily their desires.

The past two weekends I've been furiously busy feting (missing the carat above the 'e' but don't know how to make it) two toddlers and a cousin. Not that I get to feel some Oh woe is me. Love moves us to action when we perhaps otherwise would be the slug. Still, as much as I love people, love creating the environment where people get together and laugh and trade barbs, I also need the shut-down. Anyone who tries to have a conversation with me on the telephone while my son is napping can attest to my need to slip into that trance-like state. I can range from snippy to sleepy to disinterested to ornery. I bristle at any mention of being productive or accomplishing specific tasks.

I've alternately never quite understood my Dr. Jekyll/Mrs. Hyde personality and yet celebrated it. I can be no other. Just like a playful juxtaposition of motifs, it's how I keep my edge.

Mostly I am discomforted by my huge range of personal quirks when they are embodied in other people-- specifically, friends. My friends range from the very earthy to the very intellectual to the sharp dressers and professional shoppers. I can find myself at home with people in multiple combinations of these qualities. I more fear what happens when physically I get them all together.

This past weekend, spurred on by Toddler Birthday Number 2 (my own toddler this time), I dropped the perverbial mechitzah and allowed the species to intermingle. And doing so told me more about myself than it did about them, oddly enough.

Primarily, it made me think about the expectations I have about myself and what my comfort zone is.

I love new, beautiful, highly-designed things. Yet I also love and crave things that are deals, that are old and used, that have a history.

I feel most comfortable when I look "put together", yet I always want to have at least one thing that jars just a little bit, be it a little strange match or a pop of color. I never want to look trendy or overdone.

I want to be taken seriously and seen as an intellectual, yet I love potty humor and People magazine. I want to be simultaneously earthy and above it all.

All of which means some sort of a balance. Unfortunately (or fortunately, not sure which) life and feelings don't work just "in the middle". Life is all across the spectrum, and we're along for the ride. Sort of like the weather, I suppose. When there's too much sun, you need a dose of rain. So much external, you need the internal pulling you back in.

That balance also isn't always elegant. It makes me think of all those wonderful two-word film titles...: "Bread and Tulips" (wonderful film!), "Strawberry and Chocolate". Perhaps for my life, a more appropriate title would be the contents of my plastic bag this morning as I emerged from the Bavaria Sausage Company store on one of my frequent Teutonic binges: Chocolate and Sausages. Forecast: more of the same.

DIY (Destroy It Yourself)

2007-05-03T19:07:00.000-07:00

I was bitching on the phone yesterday to a friend of mine about a certain husband who shall remain nameless. This certain husband (Let's call him Dr. X) is pretty handy about the house. Have a picture that needs to be hung? He's your man. Sink spigot leaking? Look no further.

So when I was out surveying our gardening progress (and the progress of a certain wascally tenant of the rabbit persuasion who has taken to digging holes in interesting places), I noticed that in the corner of the house's eave a little piece of siding was bent askew. This image recalled in an instant images from my childhood living in a big ole house that was frequented by bats and, famously, a family of quarrelling raccoons who got particularly frisky in the middle of the night the week of my senior AP exams.

Needless to say, it was the first thing out of my mouth to Dr. X when he walked in the door from work. This, however, he informed me, would require a ladder. Not just any old ladder-- a big honkin' outdoor ladder. Leading the busy lives that we do, it took a couple of days for said ladder to be purchased. Fine. No problem.

After an afternoon at the playground with my son, I called home to find Dr. X already there. I asked him to put on a pot of water and boil some pasta for our voracious toddler-- it was, after all, already 6pm and I had just worked for over a half an hour to drag him from the playground.

But I was going to get up and fix that siding, said Dr. X. No problem on a normal day, but with an already disgruntled, now hungry and dirty toddler, I asked him to delay until the boy was fed and taken care of.

By the time the boy was in bed, it was just shy of 8:30pm. The sun was going down. And Dr. X was going up. The ladder, that is. Granted, he had all the right intentions. He is a conscientious homeowner and father, and didn't want to leave that hole up there for inquiring minds who want to know the inside of our attic.

Still, two minutes before total sundown is not particularly the greatest time to go up a 20-foot ladder. I pointed this out to him and (perhaps not politely enough, I've realized in retrospect) told him in no uncertain terms that he should not go up that ladder. Not a good idea. Period. No.

To which he responded, Well thank you. You have been extremely helpful at every step of the way here.

I will spare you the details of the just plain dumb back-and-forth we had (involving empty threats about someone sleeping on the couch). The next morning, as promised, we put the toddler into his playpen to further disassemble his favorite pop-up book and Dr. X scaled the ladder to snap the offending piece of siding back into place.

Then, with much satisfaction, I read this article from the NYTimes today about the various and sundry ways that (I'm just guessing here) male DIY-ers find of disassembling their bodies (primarily hands) in the name of home improvement.

That's not to say that you can't do many things yourself, it's just that you shouldn't do them in a hurry and, (gloating here) perhaps not in the dark.

**

And, while we're on the subject of DIY disasters, there's the Iraq war. So I come to read this blog over at Salon.com where they're talking about a hearing of the US Armed Services Committee of the Senate on "Defense Department language technology and training and cultural awareness". There I found this little jewel from Retired Major General Robert Sales, Jr.:

'I think we can all agree that most of our shortcomings in the recent wars have been human and not technological, Scales told the committee. "And the list is long; cultural awareness, the ability to influence and shape opinions, soldier conduct, information operations -- the list goes on.'

Changing this state of affairs, said Scales, is 'going to require a real transformation in how the Department of Defense views war, that we move from a technocentric view of warfare to a cultural-centric view of warfare, and that the human, behavioral, cognitive, and cultural aspects of warfare become as much a part of our lexicon, our research and development, our training and education, as learning how to operate machines is today.'

Scales finished by noting that the U.S. fumbled its early successes in Iraq, 'because of our penchant to find technological solutions, as I said, to human problems ... I suggest that the lesson from Iraq is, we should have started earlier to apply human sciences to solve the human problem ... We Americans view war as a science project, and we tend to find technological solutions.'

Yes. The problem "over there" is that for all the little handheld translation devices and strategies for "winning hearts", we never knew who we were talking to. Hand me that hammer, will you?

Who is like You?

2007-05-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

This morning, I was thrown into the water... or rather, my son was. I was on the other side of a glass wall, watching. This morning my son took his first swim lesson without me similiarly suited up, cheering wildly at every purposeful gurgle of bubbles or kick of legs.

I normally pride myself on my mommy-restraint. I don't have existential fits about leaving him with a babysitter. I want him to go forth and experience the world. Still, this qualifies as his first foray into the world where mom isn't in charge and must sit on the sidelines.

I think my girlfriend must have thought I was nuts. Every time he started to wander away from the ledge where he was to wait while his friend practiced with the teacher, I fidgeted, called his name. It became embarrassing that I was unable to stymie this knee-jerk response. My son would look over to me, sometimes eliciting a wave. He obviously understood that I was separated. Apparently, I didn't.

**

Cognitive dissonance. Simply said, it's when something that rubs you the wrong way. Makes you experience psychological discomfort.

Apparently, not only do we feel this on an individual basis, but on a collective one as well. On a psycho-social level, like attracts like. Like moves to the suburb. Likes follow. I blog, and I like your blog because we think alike, so I link to you. You link to others that think like we do. We are all hard-wired, apparently, to avoid situations where we are the clear minority.

This new NYTimes blog called "Our Lives as Atoms: On the Physical Patterns that Govern Our World", Mark Buchanan (a theoretical physicist) talks in his first post about how both racial segregation, and the whole red state/blue state dynamic of the blogosphere come into being and perpetuate themselves. As he says:

This spontaneous segregation of opinions on the Web is one example of a social outcome that really has very little to do with individual human intentions, and more to do with patterns that arise automatically through natural feedbacks. We often don’t see these feedbacks, but they can strongly influence our lives

.
Yes, I think. Are such preferences hard-wired? You betcha. Can we do something about them when they become so divisive as to make us want to throw the other (political) half into the ocean? Perhaps. Knowing what hand you've got is the first step to doing something about it. Perhaps we're all not so different after all, we're just not talking to anyone else.

**

An X by any other name would smell as sweet...

And with mother's day just around the bend, perhaps it's time to shed some light on the almighty X chromosome and what she does for us. That's just what Natalie Angier does in her ode to the X called "For Motherly X Chromosome, Gender Is Only the Beginning". She starts with a job description:

Must be exceptionally stable yet ridiculously responsive to the needs of those around you; must be willing to trail after your loved ones, cleaning up their messes and compensating for their deficiencies and selfishness; must work twice as hard as everybody else; must accept blame for a long list of the world’s illnesses; must have a knack for shaping young minds while in no way neglecting the less glamorous tissues below; must have a high tolerance for babble and repetition; and must agree, when asked, to shut up, fade into the background and pretend you don’t exist.

It turns out, this is not only a damned good description of what moms do, but also what the X chromosome does. Since the Y chromosome is primarily responsible for sex differentiation, the X has to pick up the slack in most all ways.

Therein lies the struggle of the mother and the X: We must be all things to all people, and all things to ourselves. It's an onus that is the cause for myriad and sundry bitching. It is also something we wouldn't (and couldn't) trade for the world.

Practice and Reward

2007-04-30T13:00:00.000-07:00

I've been watching little bits of Sesame Street with my son for the past few days in order to rid him of his Elmo (and general muppet) aversion. My feeling is, he doesn't have to like Elmo (or own the doll, for that matter), but he shouldn't be scared of Elmo. He shouldn't cry and run screaming from the room anytime he glimpses the little red guy.

It just so happens that the sort of moralistic thread through this particular episode of Sesame Street that we've been watching is that most things worth doing require practice. And of course you can't expect to do something perfectly the first time you do it. You have to work at it.

So Tully works on his cheer for the Grouch parade (consisting of drumming on his garbage can lid chest protector and yelling Grrrrrrrrouch! simultaneously) and a little girl in Mongolia has to learn how to do the aptly-named Mongolian bowl dance where, guess what, she has to balance bowls on her head.

As I watch this with my son, I am actively wondering what of this he gets. Does he follow these little equations? Does he store these little nuggets in his squirrel brain? If so, how does he see them as relevant to him? Or does he not... does he simply store most of what he encounters and then only index it later on as he has more experience which makes this knowledge appropriate or important?

***

Another thought about practice making perfect... My husband and I have been Tivo-ing The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and watching 2 or 3 episodes on the weekend. Of course, this being too soon after the Virginia Tech shootings to make most jokes, Stewart instead focused on the media coverage, most of which I was happy to miss. Somehow seeing all the coverage put into his wry perspective cures me of the pain that it would have caused to actually watch it. One of the things he pointed out was that in order to fill dead airtime (and to make the whole thing more sensational and compelling, ick), the tv pundits and analysts were speculating as to what allowed this shooting to happen.

Apparently, it was guns, lack of parental involvement, xenophobia, violent movies and video games (not necessarily in that order).

Well, as far as the video games go, they may have been half right. That's not to say that every kid who plays violent video games will become violent, but it is to say that for whatever reason, as this Slate article discusses, there seems to be a correlation between kids who play violent video games being more violent themselves. Now, that's not to say that the video games cause the real-life violence, or whether kids who already have violent tendencies or traits self-select such games. Still, it seems to me that correlation should not be overlooked. Go read the article for yourself and see what you think.

***

So I was over at Feeding Time at the Zoo and N. was talking about money and about wanting so many things (as we, I suspect, all do). Since neither I nor most of the people I know are of infinite means, it seems we all have to develop some strategy to not constantly feel like we want to buy things.

I started to think about the coping mechanisms I've developed to quell my need to spend and to have (which, as a public service and in the name of truth in advertising, I will admit that, according to my DH, I'm not nearly consistent enough with).

Drumroll please...

I do my laundry. Yes, ladies and gents, that is coping mechanism #1. Many times when I feel like nothing in my closet fits or I am sick of everything I see, I simply have to wade through the veritable oceans of dirty clothes that never ever, despite my best efforts, are all clean at the same time. Most often I find some (or, ahem, many) long-lost and forgotten items that just so happen to fit and aren't so god-awful hideous.

I garden. (This of course really only works during the warmer months, but this one's a goodie). I don't know what it is about gardening that gets me off the comsumer treadmill. If I were totally idealistic, I would think that it's some loosey-goosey connection with God and the world, mother nature, etc. pp.

However, I suspect that more likely than not, it's a combination of other things: physical activity, sunlight, distraction. Weeding is an extremely cathartic activity which somehow seems to take care of the same obsessive activity needs that would otherwise require shopping or knitting or compulsive internet surfing. Also, I think gardening allows you to buy things with your eyes. You don't really own flowers or plants. They are somehow gracious and generous all at once. And let's face it, some colors just look much better in nature than on your ass in a pair of jeans.

I un-shop. I go into stores with specifically the caveat that I must leave empty-handed. Again, I shop with my eyes. I get ideas for things that I can make or do inspired by what I see. Now, granted, many times when I do that I pick up things along the way. I carry them around. I try and justify in my mind why I need a particular item. Then when I get up to the register, I abandon ship. Yes, I am the bane of every store clerk's existence.

The only thing I will say about this last method is that sometimes it has the unintended consequence that I actually feel guilty as though I did spend the money. (Try that one on for size, Herr Freud).

Still, in general, my best practices are the ones that keep me out of the stores, out of the market so-to-speak for temptation, self-improvement, vanity and bought fixes. In fact, I think most of my impulses to buy new things are actually signals to pay attention to myself, to take time out, to feel connected or indulged.

Now, that's not to say that one should never buy new things. Or, occasionally, expensive ones, even. It's just that most often, it's not really the solution to what ails me. Yes, I know, all this stuff is easier said than done. But, then again, as Tully says, Practice makes better.

Odd Ends

2007-04-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit too loosey-goosey at the moment to put together a coherent narrative, yet I've got lots of material I'd like to pass on.

Like this article by Michael Pollan about why twinkies are cheaper than carrots. Frightening and fattening!

This article, also from the NYT dining section, about the joys of processed foods.

And also this article, about how you know if your dog likes you.

My speculation: Your dog would like you even better if you fed him twinkies. But not for long.

Call and Response

2007-04-18T17:51:00.000-07:00

I don't need any excuses to fear the blank page. I am almost always (mostly at once):

1) Too tired
2) Too distracted
3) Feeling too guilty
4) Procrastinating
5) Having too much going on in my head that I'll eventually (on some perfect day) magically figure out and THEN write
6) Feeling like an imposter
7) Checking people.com and rating celebrity fashion disasters
8) Trying to get the lyrics of a Raffi song about a guy with a ladle out of my head
9) Feeling overwhelmed by the disaster that is my home at the end of a toddler-filled day
10) Just wanting to cuddle up with my hubby and his laptop
11) Overwhelmed by the sorry state of affairs in this world (and especially this country!)
12) Doing NY Times crossword puzzles

Yes, it's the old blank page as an existential mirror routine. I seem to be at once too deep and too shallow for this world to communicate something, anything, of meaning.

Yet it seems like there are always these things-- events. Disasters. Crackpots and the media that stick their proverbial hoses into anything and pump it up like a big old fat bike tire. So many whack-a-doodle (good and bad) things that taunt me into the realm of words.

Of course this Va. Tech shooter thing is just one of them. I am so infuriated about needing to write about this! And about having to read about it everywhere. I guess it's the way I ended up feeling about Columbine, Timothy McVeigh, 9/11... I guess Katrina being the only exception... I don't think there's been enough about the aftermath and the failure upon failure upon failure to do anything right about it. But pretty much this thing ranks with me amongst the rankest moments of recent history, and the beastly media who, as my dad put it today, "Treat it like it's one big reality TV show".

At this point, I should mention that I DON'T EVEN WATCH TV. I never watch the evening news. I haven't since I left this country in 2000, and upon our return, a sage friend of mine said, "You'll be ok going back. Just whatever you do-- DON'T WATCH THE NEWS." And yet I still feel the media spinning and spinning like a Jackson Pollock painting, spewing out details here and there with hopes that one little bitty bit will grab you, shake you. Just for the sake of shaking you, not for some resolution, some better end.

Truth is, at this moment I am irate enough. I wish I could go back in time and BE that idiot kid's creative writing teacher and not only boot him the hell out of my class, but lock him up and throw away the key.

As a mom, I think about how much time and energy people put into their kids. Yes, even the parents who aren't perfect. Most people try and do the best job as parents that they can. They want their kids to be happy and succeed. They want their kids to make the world a better place. They nurture and save and send their kids off into this world with all that. And then this jackass comes in and thinks he can unravel the world... and does a pretty decent job of it.

Except, of course, that no one wants to let him have the last say. The problem is, that in our crazy mourning and disbelief, we start spinning tales around it. He was a sicko. He was mental. The system failed us. Guns are the problem. Someone should have known beforehand and done something. And none of that is enough or is right.

At this moment, the one thing that I can say is that, youth aside, someone should have nailed that kid to the door and not let him go. This kid was mentally aggressive and threatening to others from about as far back as anyone can remember. And somehow it was never enough to get him. We shouldn't have to wait until crackpots physically carry out on their threats. Hatred and intimidation are not tantamount to free speech.

I suppose, if anything, I can hope that what comes out of this is that people (that means me and you!) don't let aggression, be it pubescent, ideological, religious, political or otherwise, go unchecked. If someone is doing something to you personally or to us universally, nail the f*cker to the wall. Don't be afraid to stand up.

For Looks

2007-04-15T13:10:00.000-07:00

It's amazing to think of the proliferation of ways we males and females of this species work to make ourselves attractive. In fact, many people can put food on the table in this world simply because we're succeptible to the latest wrinkle cream, shade of blusher or hot rod. The thing is, it's not just about mating or attractiveness to a mate.

Behold, my Sunday afternoon: Head covered in brown goo to cover my ever-burgeoning grays, wearing an unflattering, too-tight button down shirt gapping between the buttons, eating a kosher bologna and mayo sandwich. Can you think of anything less attractive? I'm not sure that I can. The funny thing is, my husband always tells me to leave my hair alone already. He likes the little cruella gray streak that I've had since I hit 28 and he could care less about the vanity. So why do I do it? I guess I feel like I look better with my original hair color which was described to me by a friend's mom as "about as black as a white girl can get". It's not fear of aging per se-- I just feel like I look much more tired with grays. And looking tired makes me feel tired.

Still, the goofy things that we do for vanity (or, I suppose, attractiveness to the opposite sex) have nothing on the penguins. They're apparently really turned on by rocks. Simple rocks. Apparently at the Shedd Aquarium, they introduce them over a weeks' time and watch the birds get to it... building nests with the rocks, stealing particularly appealing rocks from others' nests.

I don't know enough about penguins (though I did see "March of the Penguins"), but perhaps the appearance of rocks in their displays (just where, do you suppose, the penguins think these rocks are coming from, I wonder?) signals springtime for the penguins because as ice and snow melt, more rocks should become apparent. And, truth be told, if you're going to lay some eggs, wouldn't you rather do it on rocks than on ice?

I guess similarly, having a well-appointed boudoir could be more inspirational than, say, staring at milk crates piled with graying socks.

Still, what about the penguin who prefers his mate a little pudgy around the edges? What of a female penguin that likes the guy with the small rocks because those big rocks are just way too hard to climb up?

In love as in life, there's just no telling.

A Bad Case of the ________.

2007-03-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

It's allergy season again. (Isn't that the beginning of one of those "Ask your doctor about Zertinase" -type ads?) But aah, yes, the marketers know how to launch their volleys just at the time temperatures in the half-tundra part of Wisconsin hit springlike mid-sixties. (Heck, mid-fifties would even do it). The same way stores can alternate their stocks with rubber boots up front or snowshovels, depending on mother nature's current whim.

Aside from advertising, I could tell you that it's allergy season because my poor (and until now, unaffected) toddler had watery eyes and a runny nose in addition to his spring fever which kept him cumulatively at the park for four hours the other day.

Somehow, allergies seem to be a particularly American problem. It seems like almost every suburban child I know is allergic to something (ranging from the annoying to the life-threatening). It seems to go along with Americans' ever-present stomach and heartburn issues (the year-round target of those drug ads, along with E.D., which will not be discussed here).

I remember my husband telling me that when he came to this country, he kept seeing all these ads for heartburn relief. He didn't know what heartburn was (I think he's also probably never had it in his life, which also means that it ranked lower on the list of vocabulary to know). He thought to himself, "What is this terrible plague of heartburn that Americans have?" Until he realized what the translation of heartburn was, that is, and thought we were all cuckoo.

Aaah, the American epidemics. In the interest of self-disclosure, I must admit that I am a frequent sufferer of heartburn (that was, until I started on Protonix, which I love, though not as much as I love my Zoloft) and I have many known allergies (like to dust, mold and mollusks-- don't ask) as well as mere sensitivities-- like to green peppers and cooked onions.

So my question is: are we all just whacked? I mean, I know I'm somewhat whacked, but come on... I can't be just making this shit up in my spare time. And, while I'd like to blame it on the ancestral inbreeding of my tribe, I come up short given the fact that it seems like all Americans-- whether Jew, Gentile or Athiest-- seem to have similar issues, albeit perhaps not all at once. (I consider myself abundantly gifted in this and so many ways!)

I've heard people explain that the rise in allergies is partially due to people over-cleaning, having super-fastidious homes, using antibacterial agents to do everything from sanitize their hands to their toilet bowls. Let me debunk this at least in my particular case: Love my mom as I do, she was never, I repeat never a good housekeeper when I was a child. Doting, interesting, funny, creative? Yes. Clean and organized? Not so much. I mean, everything looked OK, but I'm not sure I would have eaten off her floor (though, wait a minute-- I guess I did eat off her floor). Well, you know what I mean.

And I certainly won't win any awards for housecleaning, either.

Which leaves us with a few other options: other environmental factors, and genetics. Well, I've got the genetics one down pat. And I don't think in environment we're winning anything, either. Despite the fact that midwesterners seem to feel immune to big bad urban pollution, we've got lots of other pollution (sometimes worse pollution!) of our own in the form of pesticides, herbicides, fungicides, fertilizers and god-knows-what-else floating around in our air and water. (I wish I could find the study I'm thinking of, which I saw a while ago, but apparently men in the midwest have lower sperm counts than those in big cities precisely because they have higher exposure to these environmental toxins).

All else aside, I wish that I could say that aside from medicating ourselves to the next side of kingdom come and hermetically sealing ourselves in bubbles, I'm not sure what there is to be done about all of this. I was intrigued, though, and somewhat horrified by this article that I saw in the NYT about a chain of hotels offering purified, anti-allergenic, ozone-blasted rooms.

On one hand, what total overkill! How absurd! On the other hand, a small dream fulfilled! I always suffer when I have to stay in hotels. My suffering is twofold: The curtains, carpets, linens, the mattresses and pillows (especially bad) harbor dust mites which make me stuff up, have a dry itchy throat and not be able to sleep; I also suffer from extreme cootie-sensitivity. You don't have to show me some infrared light to convince me of all the small particles of human skin, fluids (oh my lord let's not go there) that are flying around in your typical hotel room. I am a human infrared light. I know it's everywhere.

Which reminds me of my friend Elyse, who is also a big cootie-phobe. She told me that she went with her boyfriend to a hotel and she was having a big cootie-freak and was standing, paralyzed. He asked her what was wrong and she told him she was freaking out about cooties. This being early on in their relationship, he didn't know about her cootie issues, and being German, he didn't understand the word cooties. She explained, "cooties are invisible, non-existant germs that give you the skeeves." (She then explained the skeeves).

He knew just what to do. He took out an imaginary can of anti-cootie spray and sprayed down the bed. "Does that help?" he asked. "Actually, sort of," she said. "Now can you do the couch?"

Bee-hind

2007-03-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

You might think I've been sitting on mine for a while now. Or perhaps you understand me more than I think, and you know that I haven't been doing the let-mommy-eat-bonbons routine. (Who invented that one, anyway? Where are all these supposed bonbon-eating mommies, FOX reality-show programming aside?)

Partially I have been keeping busy. Partially I have just not been feeling artful. Partially I have been feeling awful. Cycling through all of that on a daily basis exhausts me enough that I'm back at the crossword puzzles again in the evening, much to the dismay of my husband (I sometimes call him my "Hals-band", which is German for collar).

Somehow the beginning of spring is often like this for me. It's like you feel as if you have all these things to do (spring cleaning, change your life, do something meaningful, be everything to everyone, garden) and yet it's still too early to do most or many of them. And when the time comes to do them, you're too overwhelmed to do any of them.

Apparently, despite the popular notion that people go off the deep end at the holidays, more people go off their rockers in the springtime, or so my German psychiatrist once told me. We mused about why that would be: is it simply an evolutionary attunement to the seasons gone haywire? I.E., our bodies are gearing up for a period of increased activity for survival (establishing new crops or searching for fresh food after a long, sparse winter)? Could it be the sudden surge of color into the world and into the veins? (Our appointments were often spent talking about things like this, or politics or art. Much better than "How crazy do you feel today? Crazier than last week?")

This morning as I turned out of our street I saw a telltale sign: The first horsefly of the season holding on behind the side mirror as I accelerated. Last year, after moving in in August, our house was full of the suckers. We postulated that they proliferated in the presence of the actual horses that live at the nearby actual farm. Their entrance was facilitated by the open doors for the movers who stowed our lives up to the rafters.

Now outside it is variably warm, apparently warm enough for the first resurgence or spawn. I guess with flies you speak of generations. Still, it's hard to see spring quite yet. We're still overlooking a few grayish piles of snowy slush that my son likes to trample through on his way back from the park. The snowdrifts left glacial deposits of sand, glass, wrappers and glass, which rim the sidewalks and lawns that are trying, trying to think about a start.

Mini-me

2007-03-05T11:41:00.000-08:00

This morning it felt as though I had passed through some invisible wall and glimpsed a parallel universe. Parallel truly-- I was watching and listening to other moms who I know casually from mom'n'tot music class and the like. We were sitting there at the open gym on the fake turf as our kids swooped around us like seagulls-- snapping up organic cheddar bunnies and stealing lacrosse baskets from one another.

One of the women has twin boys who are 21 months, but developmentally a bit behind because they were preemies. Last week she started to notice that one of them was crossing his eyes. I told her that I'd call the doctor if I were her. She seemed to shrug it off then-- denial? This week she says that she called the ophthalmologist and they got her in right away. Good thing she had listened to us. (I am thinking to myself: OK, your son suddenly shows signs of what could be a severe neurological disorder, and you are wondering whether to take him to the doctor?). Oh, I forgot to add that she is married to a doctor-- a resident, actually, as are all these women.

Another woman comes up. I know from one of the other moms that she just had a miscarriage at 13 weeks. Ouch. I sat down next to her. Although I don't know her very well, I tried to engage her. I told her that I, too, had a miscarriage, and tried to give her the opportunity to talk about it if she wanted to. On the edge of sobbing the entire time, she told me that she was upset because she felt like she wasn't going to have another child (her boy is 2 1/2) and she didn't want to come to terms with that.

I said, "Well, you don't know that. But that's not to decide right now. You have to take care of yourself and your son right now and heal physically and mentally. Could it be that you won't be able to have another kid? Possibly. But as much as you want it and feel like you have to have another kid, you were a person before you had a child. You need to get back in touch with that person and see that there's a lot of life worth living, no matter what happens. And you have a beautiful boy right now."

She looked at me like I had ten heads. I think I lost her around where I said that she was a person before she had a child. You know, like a person with interests. With things she's good at. With a pupose and with humor and knowledge. It pierced me that she absolutely did not feel that way. Not at all.

She had to follow her child, who was a bit too forcefully trying to impose a frisbee as headgear on another child. She walked away.

***

After she walked away another mom who was sitting there said, "OK, how about a thank you for the flowers I sent? All I can say is that I'm the bigger person. I'm the bigger person. She may have problems with me, but she could at least say thank you for the flowers I sent." She continued, addressing me: "Don't listen to anything she says. She's just looking for attention. For people to feel bad for her. She doesn't have many friends, so she wants people to feel bad for her. Well I don't. I've done what I should have done, and now I'm over it."

I didn't get it. I obviously didn't realize that I was in the "other" universe. I tried to reason, "Well, maybe she felt uncomfortable here because you're pregnant, so many other women here are pregnant. Maybe that makes her feel weird. I can understand that."

The woman replied, "Well you know what, if she has a problem with me being pregnant, she should just get over it. Me being pregnant has nothing to do with her miscarriage. And I've tried to be nice to her. I'm the bigger person, you know."

Yeah, I know, I thought. You're the bigger person, I get it.

***

As with most things, the events described above are not as simple as they seem. Yet there must be some strong protective, almost animalistic reason that all three women (the mom of twins included) acts so self-involved.

I saw the patterns before, but today sort of solidified it when at moments I tried to connect their stories, to empathize with one or another. To show interest for their concerns. To inspire them to some sort of solidarity. We're in this together, I thought.

But we're not in it together.

Of course there's the element of reproduction that, by definition, means furthering our own genetics and our own interests in the world. No one sits at home and glances down at their pregnant belly hoping that the child resulting will turn out to be of the opposite political party. Pacifists don't wish for war-mongering children. Stiff-upper-lip types don't wish for pansies just in order to add a dash of diversity into the world.

Yet, beyond that, I think there are two very prevalent, and very basic drives behind having progeny: having something of one's own that one can shape, control, and care for. And, perhaps even stronger: insurance that one will never be alone.

I would argue that, no matter how cultured, how aware, how intellegent one is, these basic elements are somehow present in the drive to have children. Kept in check and dealt with consciously and purposefully, I think these things are simply part of a natural instinct. However, when someone is not conscious of these elements, in denial or acting out of pain or fear, these drives can be dangerous.

Children, as we all know, are not necessarily a healing salve for a broken relationship. They are not a replacement for having thoughts, feelings, ideas, skills and plans of our own. They are not us. They are not, nor should they be treated as, a stand-in or a replacement for our own feelings or ambitions. The more we project on them, the more disservice we do to ourselves, to our relationships, and to them.

***

My son, like most of his contemporaries, loves Thomas the train. Last week when he was feeling like doo-doo I took him to Target and got him the Ginormous Book of Thomas Stickers. He picks out a few a day and puts them on his chest, upside down, so that when he looks down at his chest he can see them right-side-up.

Of the over 700 stickers, there are only two of his favorite character. (Ironically, his favorite Thomas character is Harold, the helicopter). I must admit, even though it irks me that Thomas stuff is so prevalent (and highway-robbery expensive), I always like to see Harold. Partly because when I see him, I always think "Don't be a helicopter mom". Don't try to solve all your son's problems. Don't expect him to solve yours. Be present, but don't hover. Helicopters are alone-goers. Because of their blades, they can't get too close to anyone.

Ausnahmezustand

2007-02-21T08:11:00.000-08:00

Yes, that giant (of course it's German) word means emergency situation, out of the ordinary: a time for suspension of rules, where everything you know can come into question.

Such was the case yesterday in this house-o-fun. After days of being sick, my son has seamlessly descended into teething hell, all four canines pinching their way up through swollen gums at once. If there were any rules yesterday, they were written by my son. They were, to the best of my knowledge, as follows:

1) Everything is wrong.
2) You think you're funny? You're not. You're wrong. (See #1)
3) Anything you do to comfort me will be rebuked and scorned.
4)Food must be masticated, ejected, then flung.
5)Sleep is bad, unless it is achieved using some position that immobilizes and deadens one of mom's limbs.
6)Trucks are torture.
7)Books are torture.
8)When shopping, make sure everyone in the store thinks mom is torturing you.
9)When mom's not looking, do something dangerous.
10)Get upset when she stops you from doing the dangerous thing.
11)It's your day. Make the most of it!

Yes, it was a true version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Someone came and took my affable, gentle, funny, intellegent child and replaced him with a war-like Klingon (sans trilobite forehead). Those teeth coming up are actually alien probes.

He seems to be in a better mood today. That is to say, he only ended up crying uncontrollably in our bed at 5am this morning, and seems to be content to whine, nag and grouse at his dad instead of just me. (It helps that his dad was requisitioned on the homefront to babysit the carpet installers who are currently paving wide swathes of the basement with cut pile as this is written). Instead, dad has been drafted into kiddie-diversion at the mall playground, to be followed by child haircut-torture at 11am. Right now mom rules the roost, and mom is going to eat a peanut butter cup. It's her manifest destiny.

***

And speaking of martial law, in case you weren't paying attention... Bush has apparently buried another one of his nuggets (and I'm not talking the kind of gold) in a bill that allows him to declare martial law just that much easier.

As the NYT puts it: "Beyond cases of actual insurrection, the president may now use military troops as a domestic police force in response to a natural disaster, a disease outbreak, terrorist attack or to any 'other condition.'"

Yes, enter Bizarro World. Or just continue Bizarro World. As I said in an earlier post, it almost takes my breath away the scope of imagination and malice that the Bush administration has in repealing important parts of our democracy. I mean, is there even any even vaguely plausible exuse for trying to do such a thing? I don't think at this point they even feel like they have to justify anything with a rouse of explanation. They just do it. Period.

Though I have to wonder: if Bush (oh, let's get real here-- it's Cheney) really wants to turn us into a fascist state under his martial law, who is really going to go along with that? I must reiterate what Jane Smiley says on the Huffington Post here:

I have to point out that with this as with other legal maneuvers like the Military Commissions Act, I have to wonder who Bush, Cheney, Rove, etc. think they are governing. Were they planning to spring these things on us? One day, we were supposed to wake up, and martial law would be declared, and we were supposed to actually pay attention to it? Where are they keeping the troops who were going to patrol our neighborhoods? Who was it who was going to disarm the population? Who was their base going to be, when they sought public support for martial law? Who was going to round us up and where were they going to put us?

Umm. Yeah. So the 20% of nutjobs who still approve of Bush are going to marshal the rest of us? I don't think so. Too many malls to conquer.

Perhaps Bush is simply playing by some of the same rules as my toddler. (Ever seen that t-shirt with the official Toddler Property Laws on it? What's mine is mine and what's yours is mine.)

In other words: It's your day. Make the most of it!

Funny- Haha

2007-02-20T11:24:00.000-08:00

I came across this interview with Bill Maher on Salon.com that is really worth a looksee. Some wonderful nuggets like this one, where he's talking about Bush's upcoming "surge" in Iraq:

Most of the people in his own party are against it, even though many of them wouldn't say so out loud. But George Bush, he knows better. That is a kind of arrogance that is very hard to swallow at this point, especially when it's costing this many lives. Even the pope -- remember he said something bad about the Muslims a few months ago? The infallible pope came out and said, "Geez, my bad. That came out wrong. I didn't mean that." Yeah, the pope can say he's sorry, but this recovering alcoholic from Midland, Texas, he can't even say he's wrong.

He goes on to this really funny and true characterization of what the Democrats need to do to reframe the debate about patriotism and our course of action in the war:

what the Democrats need, I think more than anything: [is] the confidence to make the case, to say, "If I disagree with your policy, it doesn't mean I oppose the troops." If you have an exterminator come over, and he starts hitting the vermin with a hammer, individually, and you say, "I don't think this is the way we should go about this" -- you're not for the rats.

Really true, witty stuff. He also has a really funny description of Al Gore and John Kerry's failed campaigns. Well, anyhow, stop reading my writing about it and go look at it yourself. Oh if we only had HBO... who am I kidding? We still wouldn't watch it. We're just lame like that. But maybe we'd read about someone else watching. Now that would be fun!

On Time?

2007-02-19T11:31:00.000-08:00

Oh my God- I just looked out the window and saw a mottled patch of grass peeking out from below the arctic tundra that is our front yard. Grass! Brown. Hmmph.

The markers of the passage of time can get all rearranged, so that you think that up is down. If you've ever had a kid and been supremely sleep-deprived, you know this in your bones. You can perform amazing feats in your sleep and not remember having done them in the morning. You can also be totally awake in the middle of the night and yet unable in the least to rise to any challenge whatsoever.

There are times when you are sicker than a dog and you think Oh Lordy, this is it. Take me now! and then something that is so feather-light lifts up from you and you have the first lucid thought in days, or your hand doesn't ache when you reach for a sip of water.

Very tricky business, this time thing. It reminds me of this William Carlos Williams poem:

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

That is to say, everything depends on everything. Vividly. Essentially. Time depends on who you are at an instant; on how the spheres and orbits are calibrated-- or are they focused like a lens? Shoot! Blink. It is past. Up can be up and down can be up. Or, as my son agrees: All things can be white. All things can be red. They can also be wed or right. Such is time.

We Are the Yeti

2007-02-16T11:06:00.000-08:00

My son woke up this morning looking like he had slept with a giant snail. I know it's not a pretty picture, but if you can imagine, this is the polite way of saying that he has an abominable cold. For those of you keeping score at home, I think we are at number 6 or 7, depending on whether you believe the third base coach on the last one.

Nothing can inspire you to the heights of parenthood than a miserable little guy. I'll try just about anything. We read all the favorite books over and over and over again. I suspend my whole grains dogma and feed him whatever tastes good. (I mean, excuse me to all those amazing saint moms with their Omega 3s and whole grains, but when the kids are SICK? Who thinks brown rice is appetizing when they're SICK? Actually, who thinks brown rice is ever appetizing?)

So, in a stroke of inspiration, I decided to bring the little guy upstairs and sit in front of the computer. For some reason our television (which goes through our computer-- don't ask, it's a sore situation) doesn't pick up PBS very well at all. Of course, PBS is pretty much one of the only stations that can be really kid-friendly without veering off into marketing mayhem in its extreme. Sure, Sesame Street is a brand, but it's got lots of good things associated with it as well. Anyhow, I digress.

So I bring my son up, sit him on my lap and go to the Sesame Street web site. We click on a link called "Elmo's World". And no sooner does the little red critter appear and start to talk, then my son starts shrieking and crying his "get this freaky thing away from me!" cry.

Let me explain. My son is now a few months shy of two years old. He does not watch television. At all. No Sesame Street, no Wiggles, no Thomas. Nada. Zippo. Zip. Zilch.

His exposure to TV (though he's seen it occasionally at other people's houses or when we zip by the Target media department heading towards the baby-bottom department) is basically nil. Which means that he's apparently pretty freaked out when little red monsters start to talk. Then again, isn't that really a rational response? Think about it from a totally clean slate. You're this innocent in the world and you look up one day and there's a little red monster talking. Indeed, I think it probably is upsetting.

And truth be known, for as much as I myself enjoy television here and there, I think a lot of stuff on it is upsetting. And somehow, just not useful. Not interesting. Not imperative.

I was talking to my mom this morning and she had CNN on or something else and she said there was footage of an elephant going berserk trying to roll over a minivan in Hong Kong. I mean, excuse me? What is this, "When animals attack"?

And when I see how much coverage there is just in print and on the web of Anna Nicole Smith, I thank my lucky stars that I don't even have to change the channel, because I'm not watching.

Still, for as much as I love not watching TV (or rather, what I do with my time other than watching TV), there are definite moments where it makes me feel somewhat retarded. Take for instance, this FedEx package that I've been awaiting since Wednesday. "Free Upgraded Overnight Shipping!" the web site said.

Here it is friday, and I still don't have it. The web site showed the thing sitting in Indianapolis for two days (reminds me of a certain ice cream package that took a side-trip to Minneapolis for two days).

Nevermind that I have spoken with all my family in Ohio and they've told me about the superiority of the ice storm, about the fat shiny casings of ice around each tiny thumb of a branch. I'm dense. I made no connection whatsoever.

Finally, when I called customer service today, they said "Sorry, ma'am, it's the weather." Well, duh. Don't mind me. I'm living under a rock. Sometimes it's cozy warm down here, don't you know?

Happy Valentine's Day, Charlie Brown

2007-02-14T11:30:00.000-08:00

I feel somewhat like my life is a plotline to a very silly Valentine's day special. Last night I got sick (yet again! this has got to stop!) and ended up most of the night in the bathroom. I think that makes five times this winter that I've had some sort of stomach bug. :( Poor me! I've GOT to stop hanging around with these toddler types... they're simply ruining my appetite.

This morning my husband graciously stayed home so I could sleep it off. Until, that is, I heard him yell "That's not a good idea, my friend!" followed by a loud crash. Then he called me "Come In Here Now!" I burst out of the bedroom to find my grinning toddler and my husband, bent over the side of our table picking up the shards of my favorite vase that had been full of tulilps.

A minor soliloquy: This was the most wonderful vase for tulips! Made in the 1930's by the McCoy pottery company, it was pale yellow and had these elegant tulips in relief on the side. I had picked it up at a Goodwill store in Colorado and I trotted it out every springtime. It was (cheesy as it sounds) my little altar for spring's return.

A quick search of Ebay shows no hits-- thus, no pics. Probably irreplaceable.

I picked up the grinning toddler (who by now was even more entertained by the reaction his little antic got) and placed him, protesting loudly, into the playpen. My husband and I cleaned up the mess and I tromped off to bed.

Now I am slowly nursing myself back to life with Sprite and oyster crackers and watching someone's shoveling service load their tools back into a dulled red pick-up. Perhaps I'll go back to bed and start all over again. Groundhog's day, anyone?

Fruit Porn

2007-02-09T11:54:00.000-08:00

Yesterday evening I was invited by a friend to a jewelry party. Not usually my bag, but I like the woman, so I decided to take the opportunity to get to know her.

The party is beside the point (and yes, I did end up buying things I don't need.) The point is that in less than two (2) days I have stuck my foot in my mouth talking about pornography at two separate social functions. Now, you may ask: why talk about pornography at social functions? Good question. I suppose it's because I feel like good conversation is lively, and that in the realm of intellegent social discourse there should be very few taboos.

You see, it all started with this book I had to read at lightening-speed for my new book club. As a recovering English graduate student, I have shied away from discussing literature for fear that I might become physically a)violent or b)sick. Graduate school has cured me of any desire to talk about literature for the past seven or so years. Somehow, the whole experience sucked every bit of enjoyment I got out of literature. I suppose it's like the old adage that if you enjoy cooking, you should never open a restaurant.

At any rate, so my newfound interest in discussing books again met an opportunity with this new book club, made up of insanely smart and talented stay-at-home-moms. The book is called "The Piano Teacher" by Elfriede Jelinek, who is an austrian writer who won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Not a bad pedigree, you might say.

However, this book so pissed me off that after spending days forcing myself to read it, when I finally finished I threw the damned thing across the room. Basically, it's about a woman (a piano teacher, hence the title) who is totally controlled by her mother (with whom she still sleeps in the same bed-- eeew!) and who is totally incapable of any emotion except pain and disgust.

She ends up trying to seduce a student of hers (though seduce is not actually correct-- perhaps a more accurate description would be to dominate her in many very imaginative, painful ways). Without going into more detail because you'll either get disgusted or I'll start looking around for something to throw, perhaps you can see why the book lit my ire. The characters were all miserable, self-serving and impossible to one another.

But what's more, it was annoying as hell to be teased by how unfulfilling any of the relationships were (with always the vague promise or notation that they should be) and on top of that, no good sex! None! Nada! Call me crazy, but at least if I am going to be reading some version of a romantic thriller, I do want a little action!

Now, intellectually, I know that that sublimation, that inability for the story and its characters to be redeemed (whether by love, by sex, or perhaps by one freaking kind word or thought about humanity) was exactly the point of the entire exercise, but somehow it still doesn't matter to me.

At any rate, that got me thinking about why I indeed was able to finish the book, given my scathing assessment. And the truth is, it really to me has to do with being nosy, having my interest piqued by the lives of others. In literature, you may have glimpses into the interior monologues (and yes, sex lives) of others... where you, in other words, under normal life circumstances, would never be allowed to tread.

It reminds me of one of Judith Warner's NYT blogs where she talks about the chick flick "The Holiday" as so-called "mommy porn". That movie really upset her because she felt like the Jude Law character (a widower and father of two young, impossibly cute girls) was so idealized that in some way, he was being objectified, the same way that many feminists claim that idealized women characters objectify women in general.

She argued that such idealized visions of fatherhood, and romance in general, were not helpful. She felt betrayed somehow by it. To which I responded in the comments that I am not at all against "mommy porn".

I think chick flicks exist for a reason: that watching a movie or reading a book that expresses our ideals for relationships can be cathartic. I am the first to say that romantic movies, as long as they're well-hewn and not insipid, make me feel romantic. I don't leave a picture and sigh and say, "Oh, if only my husband were more like Hugh Grant."

Being around and thinking about love makes me also vicariously feel love. Now I am not saying that relying only on such images and thoughts is a good thing-- you could definitely fall down the slippery slope of expectations only to live your life in dire disappointment.

But perhaps, in small doses, we have a need for vicariousness, for envy, and for a kind of pornography. I mean, People magazine, according to my definitions, is definitely a form of pornography. So is Martha Stewart Living, any travel magazine, and the Harry and David catalog, for amazing-dewdrops-on-lucious-plums' sakes!

I think, in that sense, that pornography (and yes, even the kind that depicts sex) serves a very elemental, very human purpose. I am not saying that I condone the really nasty and abasing stuff-- that's not pornography, that's abuse. I am simply saying that pornography, in the form of idealized representation of things and people, is understandable, is available in a mind-boggling array of degrees, and is in most capacities, not immoral. It is human, and it serves important human needs.

So there. I said it. Not that this is going to help me live down my reputation as an intellectual porno-apologist or as a self-professed fascist (long story. you don't want to know.) But now at least it's in the realm for you to think about, perhaps without attaching all sorts of nasty words and (heaven forbid!) pictures to what I'm talking about.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a marzipan-apricot scone to eat.

Who knows?

2007-02-07T10:20:00.000-08:00

This one will have to be quick as I must must must vaccum the downstairs-- it's my only shot while the kiddo sleeps.

So, here goes:

Who knows...

-Why icecubes are sticky?
-Why moisture in the air can make us colder or hotter?
-Why my son went to sleep with a small tin cup in one hand and a train in the other?
-What toxic goo is on movie popcorn and why people want to replicate this taste at home?
-Where all the scissors have gone and why I end up cutting things with nail scissors even though we own 5 pairs of normal ones?
-Why we are so addicted to bubbles in our beverages? (I mean, I drink carbonated water, for God's sakes)
-Why I read People magazine even though I don't give a rat's ass about most celebrities?
-Why real letters, left in the mailbox, are so gratifying?
-Why two separate people who we don't know shoveled our walk this morning (one with a shovel, the other with a snowblower)?
-Why untouched snow is so satisfying, and why disturbed snow is almost repugnant?
-Why boys are so attracted to things with wheels almost as soon as they set foot outside the womb?
-Why I continue to eat things at the computer even though I've already ruined one keyboard?
-Why anyone would read the book "The Piano Player", enjoy it, and then want to see the movie?
-Why the two hours my son is napping a day are more delicious than any other time by myself?

You should be so delicious, too. Try it. Who knows?

Catch and Release

2007-02-01T11:21:00.000-08:00

My husband told me the other day that President Bush (in honor of Molly Ivins, who recently passed, let's call him "Shrub" for old time's sake) signed an executive order which basically requires all branches of government involved in making and interpreting regulations to have the oversight and the rubber-stamp of a political appointee. Read about it here.

This is preposterous!!!

Basically, Shrub is sick and tired of having to fight the "scientists" and their "facts". These "facts" are compelling folks at the EPA and OSHA to issue regulations that "hamper" business.

While the question of whether regulation puts undue burden on businesses (and therefore, that hardship gets passed on to consumers in the form of higher prices) is not unreasonable, what IS unreasonable is placing a political appointee in the position of being the judge of this.

Like one of Shrub's favorite tricks, this one takes a perfectly rational idea (that business should be one of the considerations in any passing of regulation) and gives a perfectly assinine, inappropriate, and downright corrupt response.

I've thought over and over again: How is it that he can keep doing this? How is it that we aren't rising up against him, at least putting some sort of pressure on him to stop doing this kind of crackpotty stuff?

I think what it is is that his corruption, his perversion is so pervasive, so often, so egregious we don't even know where to start. I feel like every other day the man is knocking the wind out of me.

It's all a cheap trick, and I know it. We all know it. And no one has been seemingly able to reign it in, though we all know what's going on. My only hope now is that we get a president into office next with a long memory and an axe to grind.

***

While we're in the realm of fantasies, I have a kvetch-- a bone to pick, shall we say.

Last week I had a babysitter in the afternoon and went to see a matinee. A "chick flick", if you will, called "Catch and Release" starring Jennifer Garner.

Up until this point my main knowledge of Ms. Garner was from the pages of People magazine. (My friends often tease me that I know so much about celebrities without having seen almost a damned thing they've been in). But I digress. Anyhow, so I always sort of had this feeling about Ms. Garner that she looked like a little girl. Since I haven't ever seen Alias or anything else she's been in, I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Boy was I wrong.

And, apparently, so was the New York Times! One of the reasons I thought seeing this movie would be a good idea is because it actually got a decent review! Gadzooks.

So here it is, you ready?

The story is: Ms. G is engaged to a guy and the day before their wedding he dies in some freak accident. Poor girl. At the visitation she escapes because she can't handle the outpouring of grief and she goes to hide in the bathtub of the upstairs bathroom. Where, not a second afterwards, the dead guy's best friend comes barging in and "does" the catering chick right there. After they're done and the girl leaves, Ms. G jumps out, horrified and annoyed and confronts the guy, then storms out.

So, where does that leave us? With a budding love affair of course! She starts to learn things about her fiancee (like an affair he had, a stash of money he's hidden from her) and starts to see that he wasn't so great after all, and she was duped. Meanwhile she gets closer and closer to the funerary copulator and ends up falling in love with his smarmy ass.

And this is a happy ending? Excuse me? Really, you lost me when the supposed love interest in this flick was having a quicky with the catering chick. Not redeemable.

To top it off, the film was set in Boulder, CO, one of my old haunts. That's all well and good-- they showed lots of parts of Boulder which is always beautiful and fun to see... but the way they "set" it was so obnoxious: one of Ms. G's friends works for Celestial Seasonings choosing the inspirational quotes for the sides of the tea boxes... everyone is running around in Bolder Boulder t-shirts (a famous 10k race held yearly) and with the posters adorning their walls... everyone drinks from Celestial Seasonings mugs. It's enough to make you puke.

And what's up with the fact that every Hollywood actor and actress seem to have these gargantuan white-out white teeth? All I could think of while Ms. G and the smarmy guy were having these romantic kisses was eeeeeeeeeeeewww! How's there room for anything else in their mouths with those goddamned beaver teeth?

Yes, I am a sucker for the chick flick. The chick flick done well. The chick flick that does a convincing job making us identify with the woman (in this case, a pouty five-year-old?) and the amour (a smarmy, beaver-toothed "artist"?). The chick flick that makes you feel more human, more romantic, more hopeful.

This one? Throw it back in the water.

***
From a children's poem:

One, two, three, four, five;

Once I caught a fish alive.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten;

Then I let it go again.

Why did you let it go?

Because it bit my finger so.

Which finger did it bite?

This little finger on the right.

The "not" flu

2007-01-24T18:25:00.000-08:00

Just a quick message from the land of the sick. Yes, it's fun in Wisconsin's winter wonderland and we are quickly stamping our passports full of every exotic bug known to humankind.

My son has a cold. I have some sort of dry cough/irritation and am feeling draggy, and my husband does "not" have the flu. He just felt nauseous this morning (he, as opposed to me, NEVER gets nauseated, and NEVER, I repeat NEVER throws up. ) and is currently cocooned in bed with a bevy of symptoms including headache, aches, shivers... in short, "not" the flu.

The son of two doctors, my husband never went to the doctor as a kid. Bust your head open? Come here kid, let daddy sew it up. No need for a doctor.

The funny thing is, when I woke up two mornings ago with this dry cough and he was annoyed because I asked him to get up with the child (who has been rising at 6:30 instead of 7:30 in this house of sleepers), he snipped, "Well if you're sick, go to the doctor. Otherwise get up."

This is not meant to be critical of him (lord knows I say some pretty outrageous things either to garner more sleep or in protestation of not enough sleep). It's just funny that he who never goes to the doctor is telling me to go.

So off I go downstairs to crack open a can of chicken soup. I had delusions earlier that I would make my famous matzoh ball soup, but I realized: Oh, wait a minute. I'm sick, too. And tomorrow is another day of (perhaps) sick toddler (who still has more energy than ten of me combined) and possibly the "not" sick husband.

Gesundheit. That wasn't a sneeze.

Cup Overfloweth?

2007-01-22T18:34:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning while outside did its best immitation of a Wisconsin winter (net 6 inches of snow and one SUV in the ditch down the road), our house filled up with friends for brunch. Afterwards, my cousin (also in attendance) remarked that she thought it was so interesting that I and the other women in attendance seem to have made similar decisions. That is, having married highly-educated husbands and being highly-educated ourselves, we are all stay-at-home moms.

That made me sort of scratch my head. Mostly because I think that staying at home with children is no longer a sign of inequality in marriage, nor is it a thing most women are doing because "that's what we do" or "I don't have anything else to do, so I might as well do this." I guess that's why we are thinking moms. We take our job seriously. Not that it is our only job, but it's definitely a calling. And that's not meant to dis any woman who decides to continue to work. It's just another principled option.

So I was reading this article which was the #1 most emailed on the NYTimes called "Why Are There So Many Single Americans?" mostly out of curiosity. For me, it elucidated why people who are married are and stay married. It's apparently because, more than ever, like is marrying like. Not in the sense of beautiful people marrying beautiful people or the bald marrying the bald, but in the sense that educated people are marrying each other.

What's so interesting is that a generation ago, oftentimes educated, highly-successful men were married to less-educated women. It's the old stereotype of the doctor marrying the nurse or the businessman marrying the secretary. Now the trend is: the more educated you are, the more likely you are to be married, period. From the article:

“The way we used to look at marriage was that if women were highly educated, they had higher earning power, they were more culturally liberal and people might have predicted less marriage among them,” Mr. Martin said. “What’s becoming more powerful is the idea that economic resources are conducive to stable marriages.”

So perhaps there goes the stereotype of the bitchy intellectual woman with the chip on her shoulder and no one in her bed? Naaaah... that one's just too fun to do away with.

***

Are you positive about the future? Does tomorrow look brighter than today? No, this is not the introduction to some free Scientology personality test. These are the perennial questions of whether you are an optimist or a pessimist.

If you're like me, your answer is probably: "Well, that depends." On the day, what my mood is, whether we're talking about the world at large or what my personal life is like.

Are you better off having high expectations and therefore creating a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or are you better off having low expectations and being surprised and excited when things in your life are even a modicum better than you had feared?

I've always sort of thought that I'd be better off being more of an optimist than I am, though sometimes I purposefully lower or dissolve my expectations so as to not be disappointed. Apparently, so do many people. In this short, fascinating NYT article it talks about how we human beings balance our optimism and pessimism. From the article:

...when it comes to the still bigger picture — the fate of civilization, of the planet, of the cosmos — pessimism has historically been the rule. A sense that things are heading downhill is common to nearly every culture, as Arthur Herman observes in “The Idea of Decline in Western History.” The golden age always lies in the past, never in the future.

and yet...

Research shows that we systematically exaggerate our chances of success, believing ourselves to be more competent and more in control than we actually are. Some 80 percent of drivers, for example, think they are better at the wheel than the typical motorist and thus less likely to have an accident.

A couple of decades ago, the psychologist Shelley Taylor proposed that “positive illusions” like excessive optimism were critical to mental health. People who saw their abilities and chances realistically, she noted, tended to be in a state of depression.

I really like the conclusion of the article, though, for its synthesis: "The Viennese satirist Karl Kraus came up with a formula nearly a century ago that remains the perfect blend of optimism and pessimism: Things are hopeless but not serious."

Get annoyed globally. Get drunk locally.

***

And FINALLY... to steal something from the article I just quoted, “Progress might have been all right once,” Ogden Nash said, “but it has gone on too long.”

When we were in Chicago over New Year's, my husband and I tried hard to not be seduced by our friends' HD tv. We found ourselves sitting in front of it for hours on end, mouths agog at the sheer beauty of it. We would pretty much watch anything, as long as it was in HD. We reveled in the little dewdrops you could see on a tiny fist of a crocus. You could veritably see each little fern-blade of moss growing atop the old thatch on the church-steeple!

Apparently, though, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Take for instance, porn. Not just your average porn: Porn in HD.

While one might think that porn in HD would be "even more of a good thing", bringing one "closer to the action", there are definitely some things that are even in this medium a little too close for comfort. Now you can see the unfortunate razorburn which heretofore had been just distorted enough by the limits of media so as to not interrupt your enjoyment of the carnal romp. Directors are having to be creative with angles so as not to feature the faint ripple of cellulite. Not to mention the advances in lighting and liposuction which will have to be invented to cover up the most human failures of the flesh...

***

The upshot of all of this-- the marital bliss, the optimism and pessimism, the porn: You can have your cake and eat it, too. Just look at it from the right angle.

Hopping Mad

2007-01-20T12:15:00.000-08:00

Aside from the general background of the world going awry (Iraq, Bush stupidity, global warming, the Donald vs. Rosie) I've been rather distracted by the smaller dramas in life.

Missing the preschool deadline. Dreaming of an orange Stokke Tripp Trapp from which my son can toss his food in modern style. The unexplicable hatred of our postal delivery mistress who seems to have a pre-printed slip for every sin imaginable (trash cans blocking box, someone parked too close to box, this time: a diagram for the 30-foot arc of snow that must be cleared for her easy approach and egress from the box so as not to require her to GET OUT OF THE CAR).

Yet today in a matter of hours I've got my ire up again. Where should we start?

How about with the 34th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Before you stop reading, don't. This is not about abortion. In Salon.com's blog, Broadsheet, Tracy Clark-Flory discusses an article from the SF Chronicle called "On the Anniversary of Roe vs. Wade Creating a true 'culture of life'" by Lynn Paltrow. Basically, what Paltrow and Clark-Flory say is that the US does a miserable job at supporting "maternal, fetal and familial health". Amen. Paltrow,

...argues that lawmakers have failed to actually legislate for a "culture of life" by avoiding support of pregnancy and parenthood. Their consideration "of more than 600 abortion-related bills a year creates the illusion that the only aspect of pregnancy that needs attention is abortion."

Double Amen. Like the liscivious old dodgers that they are, lawmakers seem obsessed with regulating abortion, cutting funding for non-biased family planning, restricting access to birth control and other services here and throughout the world. Excuse my language, but missing the entire fucking problem.

The true "culture of life" respects and supports men and women and provides options and support far beyond a prayer and a free baby car seat.

Got my goat #2 goes to the New York Times who today on their main Web page have a picture of Hillary Rodham Clinton and Barack Obama with the caption "Senators Hillary Rodham Clinton and Barack Obama, seen in July, are vying for favor from the same groups, including women and blacks." What kind of a statement is that?

It's as though some numbskull was looking at the pic, scratching his head and said, in the manner of those "you got your chocolate in my peanut butter" commercials, "well, I see a lady and a black. They must be trying to appeal to ladies and blacks!" I mean, I could totally understand the kind of duh commentary from the Cincinnati Enquirer or some other bastion of mediocrity, but the Times? No. Hillary and Barack are (hopefully) going to appeal to everyone who feels disenfranchised and fed up with the Bush government and its catastrophic handling of every situation from A to Z. And that means even white men. Even pickup truck owners. There's pretty much no one that Bush hasn't screwed over. Take a number.

So, my third annoyance is as follows: After issuing a blistering report about the failure of infant car seats to protect babies, Consumer Reports has rescinded its report because its testing methods were faulty. Am I mad at CR? Sure. They need to be RIGHT. They need to get it right. They play too important of a role in making sure that manufacturers' claims are true and push for higher accountability and safety. However, my true ire is reserved for the fact that the current safety standards for infant car seats are insufficient. And, what's more, the LATCH system, which is now required on all new cars to help ensure proper installation of child safety devices, is jinky at best. Anyone who has tried to put their kids' car seat in using LATCH knows what I'm talking about.

Here's a thought: Why not make car manufacturers responsible for working with child car seat manufacturers to make sure that they come out with products that WORK TOGETHER to ensure the best fit and safety for our children. How's that for a revolutionary concept?

Now, back to your regularly scheduled domestic bliss.

Overachieving in Stupidity Since 1974

2007-01-17T11:05:00.000-08:00

Yes, ladies and gents, last night's antics were a pinnacle of stupidity (see previous post "Bad Mom" if you don't know what I'm talking about and before I spoil it for you). Nay, they were an acme. Stupidity cum laude.

I did not awaken when my husband arrived home from his brief but meanigful visit to the Milwaukee airport post office. Staying true to my title as reigning Champion Sleeper TM, I did not let my silver-medal performance in the Annoying Hysterics grand slalom keep me up a second past midnight.

This morning my son had plans of his own. At 5:30am he awoke shrieking and, despite handholding, gentle hair-stroking, or even the granddaddy of them all, the full-court press into mommy and daddy's bed, he was not going to be convinced of going back to sleep.

Somehow at 5:30 in the morning, I must be forgiven. My limbic system, not fully awake yet, goes into a test mode similar to how those pesky smoke detectors seem to go off either a) when your boiling rice overfloweth or b) when the battery is dying. Except my version of the annoying, deafening peep is muttering a stream of expletives. In fact, I think I probably inherited this charming skill? predisposition? from my father's side of the family. Which makes it none the more charming.

Anyhow, after my son and I had hung out on the living room couch for a while, followed by breakfast (and his first little taste of guilt-ridden rice krispy treat), my husband emerged, bedraggled from the bedroom. Poor poor man. He said he had to drink one of those gallon-sized gas station cokes to stay awake. Then, in a moment of piercing lucidity, he said, "I was just thinking. We probably could have faxed it." Dagger through the heart!

We both dissolved into a pile of laughter.

***

A recent report found a correlation between longer lifespan and higher education. My husband and I, we are out to prove them wrong.

Bad Mom

2007-01-16T20:45:00.000-08:00

I forgot to take in my son's preschool registration this morning. It has only been on my mind for months. I had him all signed up in my mind.

But then there was the dazzling light this morning kicking off the snow. I was trying to photograph it through the glass sliding doors (foolish). Then I was rapt in an appreciation of the warm light being cast into the house through the high windows. I took pictures of the oblongs of light skimming just below the stairs. I took pictures of the shadows of my son's play kitchen utensils.

Then it was hurry, hurry, pack ourselves up warm for playgroup. There was the car-bound reverie of a mix cd my best friend from college had made for my son. I was overjoyed to hear some of our old favorites from then (Michelle Shocked, Bob Dylan's "Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues") with his new ears. How wonderful to sing about making jam, having picnics, octopusses gardens (what do they look like?)

My son got obsessed in the afternoon with one of those pedantic Baby Einstein books that he discovered (purposefully) hidden at the bottom of a pile somewhere. I read it at least six times in a row. Baby Einstein, you're no Richard Scarry. I know Richard Scarry. You're no...

You can see how it went. From my obsessions to my son's. Then dinner dinner hurry (son said "crayon" and wanted that same thing, then when I agreed to get them he said "Coming! coming! coming! coming!" which is what I say when he's being impatient. I almost bust a gut).

Then husband home, son in bath, son's laundry downstairs, a momentary cuddle and conversation with the hubby who was trying to convince me to do something useful instead of hiding in the bedroom all night. (Mental sanity isn't useful?)

He got up to reheat some of the chinese. Then it hit me. Blam. All that, all that whole day of here and there and dally-dally-ho! and I missed this thing I have been obsessing about for weeks. The upset started to eat at me. My husband was understanding, "I'm sure there's still room for him if we take it in tomorrow."

Me: But you don't understand: He Must Go! He Must Go to That Preschool! I had it all planned out!

A quick check of the USPS web site confirmed that the last open post office in Madison was closing in six minutes on campus. No way in hell to get it postmarked in time. Worry and resignation and rationalization and internal whack-a-mommy kicked into high-gear.

Then my husband, God bless him, decided to take one for the team. He is, as I am writing this, somewhere halfway between Madison and Milwaukee heading towards the only post office in the state open until midnight to postmark our little man's preschool application.

It goes without saying that I love my husband. His ability to just DO things boggles my mind sometimes.

Bad mom cleaned up the kitchen, took out the garbaggio and made a long-delayed pan of rice krispy treats (and ate 1/4 of them before they cooled).

It occurred to me: Perhaps bake sales are simply mother guilt orgies. We fail. We goof. We bake. "Eating it" takes on a whole new meaning....

Sweet Machines

2007-01-15T18:47:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like a snow day. Nevermind that today was Martin Luther King day and we all had off. We played "cut off from the world" without actually being cut off from the world. We cooked my son's meals from the bounty of our freezer. We ate chinese at 8pm by the bounty of the chinese delivery man.

Today was my husband's birthday, as well. There was no cake. My son scribbled something that I interpreted as a black hole, then I scrawled a formal dedication across the page and left it on the table. My husband accepted it as though it were actually meant to be, hugged our son who was a bit dumbfounded and somewhat preoccupied with a train book.

I was thinking back to how many of my husband's birthdays my son has been with us (the answer: two, today included). (I am notoriously bad at remembering such numerical milestones-- I often forget how old I am). This is a salient fact because I was remembering my husband's birthday three years ago while I was pregnant.

I had a somewhat complicated pregnancy and there were questions about the baby's health. On that birthday we didn't do anything particular either, but I remember sitting down the day before and writing a card to my husband from my in-utero son. He said (in his broken German) that everything would be OK. That he knew that my husband's worry was a sign of his love. There was a kind of recognition that was written through me, of which I was not the author.

The note ended, "Anyway, you shouldn't worry too much. I've heard that's bad for old people like yourself."

***

My husband has been obsessed lately (and no, that's not an exaggeration) with two things: the new iPhone from Apple and selling crap on eBay.

His obsession marks our lives far beyond the twenty times I have to ask him to do something simple like throw me down a new pair of socks.

The iPhone has affected us indirectly: My husband has been waiting with bated breath for weeks, watching Mac rumor pages on the Web and sharing with me their wild speculations about what Steve Jobs would announce as the new developments at MacWorld. "Apparently he's invited all of his personal friends to come to the keynote," he shares with me enthusiastically. Which is to mean what? "There's something big cooking."

Let me explain: It is because of Mr. Jobs and my husband's zeal for all things Mac that we do not have a television. More properly, we have a computer upstairs, right outside my light-sleeping son's room, with something called Eye TV installed. That means we get "television" "through" our computer. That also means for all intents and purposes that aside from sitting on the concrete floor in our basement, our "television" is located in the most uncomfortable, impossible spot in this entire house.

There have been discussions about moving it downstairs, which causes its own problematics: Where does the G5 go then? Should we wait and get an iMac? What offers the best recording quality? HOW MANY FREAKING YEARS IS IT GOING TO TAKE ME TO GET SOMETHING THAT WORKS LIKE, SEEMS LIKE, AND IS A WORKING TELEVISION IN A ROOM WHERE I CAN ACTUALLY USE IT?

Mr. Jobs was supposed to have the answer. Instead, he announces the iPhone. He has not made any of this easier. Thanks, Mr. Jobs.

The second preoccupation-- selling shit on eBay-- was inspired by our friend in Chicago who bought himself a sweet midlife crisis car from his eBay sales. Now my husband is hell-bent on ridding our lives of all sorts of things we never used, used, or have no use for. He is currently cleaning out the battery holder of his old SLR with Qtips (my favorite cleaning implement) and a mild rubbing-alcohol solution.

He has already gotten rid of a few things that way and it does seem to work: there is indeed somewhere a buyer for almost anything under the sun. From our loft-office overlooking the uncleared streets of West Madison, our lives are slowly being rid of their clutter.

Technology: It's that easy. Something for everyone. Everyone loves a perceived deal. Automation makes the world go round.

Who says there's no suffering for great art?

***

I gave my husband the Silver Spoon cookbook for his birthday, and I ineptly wrapped it in a piece of my son's drawing paper upon which I scrawled some of his many different qualities in crayon. Of course I had neglected to check and make sure the page was the right size (which it wasn't by a long shot) and so as neatly as I could, I tucked the paper around the hulking book and left it laying on his side of the bed.

He didn't see it until I started hopping up and down and pointing to it. Not sure if he overlooked it or if he's just graceful like that-- never falling over himself to "get" something. He loved the paper. He loved the book.

What a truly sweet day. I love it because it's the anniversary of the day this amazing person came onto the planet. His obstinate, over-cautious, over-excited, amazing self.

Welcome to the world again.

"Sweet Machine" is the title of a wonderful book of poetry by Mark Doty. I have merely stolen the title here for my own purposes.

I was talking to our friend from Germany the other day and he said that he had considered starting a blog, but decided that he didn't have enough going on to write about. Which made me think: What the hell do I write about? It's one of those questions that annoys me because any answer I could give would either be reductive or absurdly vague. I write about light bulbs. I write about life. How's that? Answers aren't so satisfying, are they?

My cousin seems to know what I write about. She's a writer, after all. We were both poets together before I took the big dive and came out a mom and a blogger (sounds so unsatisfying-- blogger-- almost a derogatory term). She will say things to me like "Oh-- that was a very you piece". It seems to me that not only do I have this thing, this way about me and my work, but that these little pieces of me are circling about in the atmosphere, landing like dust in the most innocuous places until I come to sweep them up.

(Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not a freak for order, but can be for cleaning. My favorite cleaning tool in the world is the Q-tip. I don't mind avalanches of books but I despise and cannot overlook the gook in the emergency overflow hole in sinks).

This scattering about and my utter glee for detail sends me scampering off into the woods-- sometimes not coming back for a long while. In a sense, all of my life is like my art. Which is in many ways highly inconvenient.

Take for example now. Now my son is asleep, it's a beautiful cold and sunny day and my husband has taken off to paint our bedroom a deep eggplant color. Inspired by his success in transforming the bathroom, he's onto bigger and better things. I can barely clean up the kitchen after a meal. All I want to do is think.

My babysitter came back into town last week and I had her on Thursday afternoon and I went to the bookstore. The BOOKSTORE! I was returning the book "Running with Scissors" which I had thought my husband had liked (and, in search of a new good book, I had bought) but it turns out he thought was pretty f**cked up. I'm not necessarily against f**cked up, but it has to be a certain transformative kind of f**cked-upedness for me to be able to stand it.

Anyhow, so I went to the bookstore and ranged around. I read titles, remembered things about authors, zig-zagged, layed books where they don't belong (and didn't pick them up again! The horror) and generally went into the flow-zone until my phone rang. It was my husband, asking me if we needed anything from the store on his way home. What time was it? Three hours later than when I arrived. I could have been there for six more hours, easily. And then gone back the next day.

Getting shit done, yeah, not so much my strong suit. Being? Yes. Definitely being. Its correlative? Nothingness. Which is to say if I am not in the form of being, I am lost. Perhaps that is what drug addicts feel like: they need this perfect spell to make themselves more real than real.

That is not to say that I can't get shit done, it's as I said before, not necessarily my strong suit. I was out with some girlfriends last night and we were talking about how we will know it's time to send our kids to preschool. I said I know my son is ready not only because he's ready, but because I'm ready. Finally I've come to a point where he's old enough that I can take back that one little dogeared corner of my self for myself. He's going. Oh yeah.

If I don't have time to be, I don't seem to have anything left over to muster to be able to do. I sometimes feel the world dancing around me, teasing me with its motion like a fly might tease the nose of a sleeping bear. There's an elixir, a deliciousness to being off thinking, somewhere far away in the head which is somehow only more heightened by its compactness and its limitations. Even the annoyance of getting interrupted can make it more delicious if you can return to it again and again.

Like everything, life doesn't necessarily lend itself to the fine orchestration or calibration of time and ebb. Perhaps writing is, for me, the way to do that: to suspend time, a thought, rotate it through space, stare up through its structure, admire its lines, fill it and empty it over and over again.

Greetings from the big woods. Wish I am here.

Bulb by bulb

2007-01-02T11:31:00.000-08:00

Well, I survived another New Year's, much thanks to our friends in Chicago and five kids in a ball-filled pool in the middle of the family room. The evening's entertainment didn't require fancy dress or cheap champagne and only a couple of us were still up by midnight. Now that's what I call New Year's (though I did appreciate Becky's addition of sparklers. I'll keep that one in mind. Sparklers are definitely an underused and underappreciated party favor.)

So, onto the New Year, back to the fold. No more baklava binges (there are still ten pieces left, but they're at that not-so-fresh stage), out with all the blasted wrapping paper, tissue paper, ribbon, crapola.

In with... what? Well, I'm not predisposed for making New Year's resolutions (see previous post "Great Expectations"), but I'm always a sucker for making life a little better. Who ain't?

***

My husband, the Brainy and Beautiful (and he deserves to be called beautiful, because he is), performed a determined act of mercy before we left for the weekend and painted our bathroom slate gray. Now, mind you, we've had that can of paint in our closet for almost the whole four months we've lived in this house. It was serving the important purpose of creating asylum for the dust-and-hair bunnies seeking exile from the bathroom floor.

Still, after all the deliberation and comparison between fifty gray paint chips and finding the chosen one, the gas went out. It was probably the combination of relief about living in a new house with the experience of having to paint my son's room three separate times that did it. My husband was so hopped up on paint fumes by the end of that tale that he needed to have four solid months of only organic, whole-grain products to clear his system.

Somehow, though, he got a bug in him last week that he wanted to do it and did it. Hallelujah! My bathroom has gone from a generic experience to an adult, cool place to be. And I can't say enough how important it is to have an adult place to be. It feels like this house is busting at the seams with everything for and by the Kid. Our love for him sometimes smothers us and we end up saying goofy things to each other like, He's so sweet. So adorable! Let's go wake him up!

(Don't worry. We don't go wake him up. We may be nut jobs, but I at least am a very sleep-loving nut job. More baby sleep, more mommy sleep. Only then is the world in its intended order.)

Now my husband has set his mind to painting our bedroom, and none-too-soon. The previous owners painted it the faintest, shittiest, nothingest yellow that makes everything just look shabby. Oh, and it looks absolutely horrific with our beige carpet. Let's paint the town red!

***

On a related note of "a little can make a lot of difference", two ideas to ponder...:

Apparently, cattle contribute more to the greenhouse effect than emissions from cars! I mean, I knew that Germany, in its energy-consciousness, had thought of harnessing biogas from cows (not exactly sure what that looks like, but I'm sure it ain't pretty: think cows with afterburners?) but I never took the next logical step to think that eating less meat could also impact global warming. I am resolving to eat a bit less meat. Perhaps you could consider it, too?

And secondly, Wal-Mart (yes, Wal-Mart) has decided to do whatever they can to promote the use of energy-efficient light bulbs. Holy slave labor, batman! I've talked before about my husband's zeal for those soft-serve looking lightbulbs and the compromises we've reached (using them outside, in the garage and basement). As we look to add and replace some lighting in the house, we're now looking into LEDs, which also remain cool (and look cool!) So there are more options out there for saving the environment and at the same time saving yourself some dough.

***

In the meatime, I am realizing what a difference it can make when two people (or more) decide to do something together. As I said above, my New Year's this year was so much better, much because everyone and everything distracted me from owning and rebelling against outside expectations.

And both my husband and I are prone to stasis. His recent brave charges into doing things (whether it be cleaning up the kitchen after a long day of toddler food fights or painting the bathroom) inspires me to be more determined to get off my bum and do more.

Move it, sista.

Great Expectations

2006-12-28T11:44:00.000-08:00

I ended my last post with a teaser about why I hate New Year's Eve. I have been thinking about it during my convalescence, and I've come up with my only, truly, flatfooted feelings about New Year's: It's dumb. Why do I think it's dumb? It seems like a truly arbitrary thing to me to celebrate.

I mean, regardless of whether you think that many holidays have been overcommercialized (Valentine's, Halloween, Christmas)-- and they have-- I think they somehow serve some deep emotional needs we have as human beings: respectively, the need to love and be loved, the need to play with social roles and identities, and the need to commemorate the waning and waxing of light.

And New Year's? I suppose it's to mark the passage of time. Somehow that one just doesn't work for me, however, because every holiday helps mark the passage of time. That's why people get giddy or married or suicidal around holidays.

Yes, somehow New Year's is one of those things that seems to be particular to only some of our species. Sort of like cruises. I went on a cruise once, with my dad after graduating high school (ok, not the greatest idea for a cruise date, but nonetheless). I never before and certainly never since have thought the idea of going on a cruise was fun. It's meant somehow for a target group that I don't belong to, never will. Same as New Year's.

In fact, the more of a non-event New Year's is, the better. My fondest New Year's Eve was the most forgettable-- watching "Blazing Saddles" with my (then) soon-to-be husband and falling asleep at 10pm.

The other New Year's where I allowed myself to be coaxed into black-tie events, setting off fireworks (well, watching fireworks being set off), or getting drunk and simultaneously hopped-up on rum and cokes were all variously forced disasters.

But perhaps I not only have a distaste for New Year's but actively hate it is because it comes with so many expectations. Particularly: The New Year's Kiss. Think When Harry Met Sally. Think: Romantic Love that rides in on a white horse and Saves You. And I've never bought that. I was never the little girl playing wedding. I was the little girl whose barbies only had a Ken around to get it on. Then he was discarded, back to the bottom of the pile to await his next romantic engagement.

That's not to say that I feel that men are to be used and discarded. It just means that I have a general distrust that Love Can Save You/God Can Save You or that there is anything Miraculous from On High that must come in and Transform you.

Ask my cousin. Even the holidays that I celebrate with glee are peppered with play and antithesis. At one Passover Seder that she and I jointly held which was mostly attended by non-Jews, we convinced two men that the traditional hunt for the piece of matzah called the Afikomen had to be done in the manner of a three-legged race.

And why not?

The problem is that New Year's has everything to do with glamour and triumph. What's to do about that? The only thing I've figured out is to slink around and do my best to act as though it doesn't exist. Maybe make a cheese fondue if I must.

So, you out there-- yes YOU! I'm not saying that I'm going to become an avid New-Year's-celebrating, cruise-going fool, but on the off chance that I decided to do something about my New Year's attitude problem, what should I do? That's what that little comment doo-hicky is for at the bottom here anyway, in case you were wondering. Comment away...

Why the Jewish People don't decorate more

2006-12-22T11:51:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to wrench myself out of a day-and-a-half-long humbug. Or should that be capitalized? Humbug. Post-wretched-stomach-ailment, you'd think I'd be simply happy to exist. But noooooooooooo.

Today I took a few of my son's "extra" Hanukkah toys to drop off at Toys for Tots because last night I got almost physically sick again seeing all the wrapping paper strewn about and him ignoring yet MORE toys. I mean, this kid has TOYS. He doesn't need more toys. Good toys, perhaps. He is a quick little guy and very curious. But not in terms of sheer number. We don't need another dump truck. Or another yellow dump truck, for that matter. We have three of those.

OK, so you see where I'm headed. To be perfectly honest, the kid is 1 1/2. Either send some money to his college fund or make a donation to UNICEF or Heifer International in his name. But apparently that would spoil the fun. Hmmmph. Fun. Humbug.

Not that I am into denying my child things or fun, for God's sakes. I'm all about fun! I love things! I am not one of THOSE people! I put up little twinkly lights! I love those pasty sugar-laced red and green christmas cookies!

It's just, somehow, like Aunt Bettye used to say, "Genuf"-- yiddish for enough already! Quit the crap!

I can't tell you how good it felt to drive my car up to the door of the mall, put on my blinkers, and liberate my car from those toys! And to know that they were going to kids who will be thrilled to pieces-- no shit!-- with those toys my son would not pay attention to.

I'm actually wondering if I can make this a sort of tradition for the holiday season. As Jews, we get the benefit of often celebrating and opening presents before the rest of everyone, so perhaps we should take that extra 'leg-up' and use it to re-gift.

I'm not saying necessarily the terrible toys only, I'm just saying, maybe as my son gets older, we make a purposeful decision to have him participate in giving on to other kids at the holiday season and at his birthday. Perhaps things he thinks other kids will like. Sort of like tzedakah or tithing. But somehow, for a kid, I think this is also more real than if you did it with money (at least while he's this small).

***

...And speaking of the "holiday" season, there was a funny article in the NYT about a Jewish woman in L.A. in a predominantly Orthodox neighborhood who has been raising eyebrows because she does a huge holiday light display on her house. (Go read it-- the pictures are nice of the display). My favorite is when they ask one (also Jewish) neighbor about whether it bothers her and she says:

“I think it is just wonderful. I don’t know why the Jewish people don’t decorate more.”

Love it!

***

Next, perhaps we will turn our eyes to "New Year's Eve: The Night I Would Rather Stay Home Watching 'Blazing Saddles' and Falling Asleep By Ten". Ho Ho HO!

Slim City

2006-12-21T11:40:00.000-08:00

I must take a short aside and apologize for my non-presence in the past week: On Sunday night, after a third-night latke-fest, I got really sick and have been trying to get back to zero ever since. It wasn't the latkes, in case you were wondering. No one else got sick from them (thank God! After the incident a few years ago when I almost gave everyone at my 30th birthday party whooping cough, I don't need any additions to my Typhoid Mary resume).

In the meantime, and in various states of consciousness, I have had a lot a-buzzing in my head, much of which will span over multiple posts, lest I spend all my little hard-earned whack-a-mole and skiball tickets too quickly.

***

Since I am still in a period of official recovery, I would like to take a moment and thank our Sponsors: namely The Husband. The Husband is Amazing (TM) at marshalling the troops. For three days he did the Mom and Dad deeds and with Such Panache! And, Bless His Heart [sic] last night he went out in the pouring rain to Target (TM) to fetch this poor organic mama some good ole Campbells Condensed Chicken Soup (TM)-- the kind where I'm presuming it's better to add your own water because lordy knows, given the chicken they use, what the water is like! It was Deee-licious (TM) and oh-so-worth it. Highly Recommended. I'd definitely take this class from him again (Oops. I was using a #3 pencil. Do I have to start over?)

Love.

Documentation, Please!

2006-12-15T12:25:00.000-08:00

My family growing up never set foot in an Olin Mills, JC Penney or Sears photo studio. In my childhood pictures, there were no poses, no props. The only nod to formality came once a year when school photos were taken. I had to lobby my mom to actually buy them.

I always sort of felt sleighted by that-- the fact that other kids' parents would go through this strange ritual of primping and propping and buy tons of wallet-sized pics while my parents never carried wallets with those little plastic sleeves, so why go through it all in the first place?

At some point I just figured it was something we didn't do, like the other things we didn't do. We didn't have the ubiquitous green bean casserole at Thanksgiving either and lord knows that was a blessing in disguise. Perhaps these things are just things that other people do, I reasoned-- people who are more normal than we are (and by extension, probably less interesting).

Yes, somehow formal portraiture which can sometimes be cheesy, but sometimes really sweet, became in my mind a declasse event. That shit was for people with ten kids and a single, cave-like staircase to the second floor where the portraits would hang for eons, leaving their marks on the wallpaper discovered when the family home was disassembled when the parents finally kicked it.

***

I may have one or two stray childhood photos tucked in some box here or there, but the majority of them are stuffed into a never-used writing desk in my mom's home. That's where photographs went. They were never put into books or annotated.

And our poor ancestors... they haven't fared so well either. Their identities are precarious as we rely on my mom's generation to identify them, if it is at all possible anymore. My father thought for sure that my mom still had his childhood photos in a box somewhere until family conferencing made it clear that they were actually in a box in my aunt's attic. Yeah, good luck with that one. After finding out, he seemed relieved. I don't believe there has been any attempt to retrieve them.

***

Half of my son's relatives live across the ocean. Every couple of months or so we try (try, try!) to remember to send them some pictures via email. The problem with emailed pictures is that they somehow never seem to materialize. They don't end up on the fridge or in a book unless someone goes to pained efforts, straddling the technological divide between JPEG and paper.

And somehow it just doesn't seem satisfying. For them, I think, or for us.

So, in my season of challenges here, I decided to take my son to a portrait studio... a cute one at the mall (Oh lord he repeated after me when I said mall this afternoon- frightening!)

Now don't go worrying here that I've really lost my marbles-- there were no cutesy props, no child riding a prop choo-choo train. My son's hair was tossled and he was his little imperfect self. Which is all that I wanted.

There will be pictures. Just don't expect them wallet-sized.

The Blues

2006-12-10T11:31:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, while my son was asleep, I made my husband cut a good 2 1/2 inches off my hair. I was just sick of it. Here I am, 4 months into living in a new town and I just couldn't face going to a hairdresser to get what I REALLY wanted-- a medium-length bob. I've been talking about it for months. I've been complaining about my shoulder-length, half-assed chunky-whispy-crappy hair.

Mind you, I was at the hairdresser nary a month ago. I wanted him to transform me. To excavate me from under my hairy mop. He ended up mostly talking about himself and telling me that one of my eyes was more open than the other and then switching my part. He styled me and spritzed me to within an inch of my life and I left feeling like a very coiffed cyclops.

I've been battling the blues off and on for the past week. That's normal for most folks, but something that makes me particularly sit at attention. I have a bit of history, shall we say, with the blue bug. And somehow with me, the blues are particularly marked by a strange combo of stasis (inability to move or change) and these wild spurts of impulsiveness. It's sort of like having your fuel injectors clogged. It makes the ride jumpy and weird.

It also makes me for some reason want to cut my hair off.

Until I got married, I pretty much had pixie-short hair almost all of my life. The main prerequisites for being my hairdresser were as follows: 1) You must be a gay male 2) You must not give me little curlicues or licks or whispy things. I want it straight and clean. It helps if you have a cute accent.

I suppose I always saw my ability to wear short-short hair as a strength. I didn't have to hide behind a pelt of anything. Then, somehow, I discovered a form of patience that grew within me slowly, which allowed me to let my hair be. That patience over the past year has turned to a sort of passive armor. I'm not as skinny as I used to be, I'd reason. The flowing locks go with the flowing body.

Yet somehow, the longer my hair gets, the more attention it requires: it has a tendency to go lopsided or for the curls to wildly spring about and then take a dive. In short, it became high-maintenance.

And then yesterday it just hit me. I needn't make an appointment. Or an excuse. Or explain the way I want it to anybody. I just need a pair of scissors. I was already stripped and ready to get into the shower when I approached my husband in the living room. I said, do you want to cut it or should I? I think I freaked him out. He said what it if is uneven or lopsided? Curls, I said, are forgiving. And to be honest, I don't care if it's even. I just want it cut.

And wouldn't you know it, as soon as that thick brown hair began to fall into the sink, it was like years were being stripped away from me. While we were at it, I convinced my husband to lean over the sink and let me excavate his lovely strong face from the throngs and waves of hair that he has been too lazy to make an appointment to shear.

This haircutting thing took two hours. By the time we were both done and satisfied with the shape and length of each other's hair, my son began to stir upstairs in his crib. The bathroom floor was covered in dark brown hair.

***

My next turn may be one I've put off for a while: blue.

My hair is raven-black. It is the antithesis of color. And, in the past five years and despite the fact that I'm only 32, I have acquired a frosting of white. Actually, not so much a frosting. More like streaks. Think cruella.

My husband thinks they're bitchin'. I did, too, until they began to spread. A half a year ago I started to cover them. But what I really wanted to do (and want to do) is keep my hair color the same. And color the white blue. Not just a little blue. A lot blue. I want a blue streak.

Since my hair is predominantly black, I think I can get away with it without looking like a total misfit. I just want to look a little bitchin'.

Then I stumbled across this little blurb in the NYT sunday magazine with a wonderful drawing. It talks about what one psychology researcher calls "psychological neotony" which perhaps explains whole hosts of unfitting, rebellious or immature behavior in otherwise mature adults. (Umm, like dying your hair punk blue). He states:

...Social roles have become less fixed in modern society. We are expected to adapt to change throughout our lives, both in our personal relationships and in our careers, and immaturity, as Charlton added, is “especially helpful in making the best out of enforced job changes, the need for geographic mobility and the requirement to make new social networks.” In fact, he speculates, the ability to retain youthful qualities, now often seen as folly, may someday be recognized as a prized trait.

So perhaps if I've got the blues, I should flaunt them. Look out world, here I stutter.

Overflowing

2006-12-06T08:05:00.000-08:00

In Maira Kalman's most recent sketchbook blog for the NYT, she has this wonderful sequence where she finds out that something she had done before contains an accidental message. She once embroidered the German words "Ich habe genug" onto the front of a dress, thinking that they meant "I've had enough. I'm done. It's over" when in reality they mean, without irony, "I have enough".

It reminds me of before I knew German and was trying to be sly and say little things I had looked up from a dictionary. At one turn, I was insistent that someone had a new "-room suite". Of course, no one knew what I was talking about. I assumed that they were just trying to give me a hard time. They weren't. The entry was under 'bed', and '-room suite' obviously required the word bed in front of it. They laughed their asses off at me. I did too.

It just goes to show that often our most studied and emphatic answers undermine our real meaning. There's nothing like a foreign language to take us down a notch from intention. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I love foreign languages so much. Too often in our own language we are so tightly construed that we assume that we say what we mean and that everyone else does too. But language (and people) are much more slippery than that. Slippery in a good way, if you're open to it.

***

This past weekend I was in the Colorado mountains helping my sister with her newborn twins. It's amazing how quickly those little beings develop, and how quickly one forgets what it is like to tend them day and night, for all intents and purposes, to be them, to fulfill that part of them that is so undeveloped that it requires your constant maintenance.

When I returned I was shocked by how much my son weighs, by his seemingly gargantuan hands. Had he grown while I was away? Possible. Was I simply shocked by the so near comparison between what he had been and what he is? Perhaps. But also on a more elemental scale, it was as if the tides of two separate planets met and filled a lagoon in a sort of eerie, snow-filled moonlight where he and I exist.

Again time is not just subjective, it doubles up on itself like a sort of cats' cradle string game. It is veritably enmeshed, all wonderfully stringed and strung.

***

I felt so much relief to come back to my life, my house, even the seat of my car. My car-- I know how to drive it.

I do battle against boredom, against stasis. Sometimes it seems like childcare (caring for my child) is simply that-- it's a position I fill, a description that staves me against uselessness. Yet there is so much that requires investment, so much that I put into him, so much in evidence beyond intentionality. Day-to-day that can get lost in the crush of pattern and competence.

Perhaps I must assume my competence, for starters. I am enough. Everything I do above that, that is art.

Full of Light

2006-11-28T18:47:00.000-08:00

In John Waters' movie Pecker there is a crazy grandma who thinks her doll version of the Virgin Mary keeps trying to say "full of grace". However, since the grandma is not very good at vantriliquism, what escapes from her pursed lips is "full of grease! full of grease!"

That's how I often feel after a good latke binge at Hanukkah. Nevermind that I've abdicated the making of latkes to my non-Jewish husband. The smell of onion, potatoes and grease is so pervasive, it can winnow its way under closed doors and infuse towels and sheets with its eminence. It's the kind of meal you can burp up for days.

I talk about this because every time this year I start on a guilt binge about the Holidays (capitals intended). I grew up in the age of the Jewish family that had a Christmas tree, which morphed into a Hanukkah bush and then totally disappeared. Yet Hanukkah is a poor replacement for or facsimile of Christmas. (Well, DUH, you say).

By dint of its timing, Hanukkah has been subjected to the seasonal humiliation built by America, for America. Like many 'intermarried' couples, we decided to parse and diagram the situation as we've seen fit. That meant that we didn't celebrate Christmas ourselves... we always went to Germany to 'help' my husband's family celebrate while we variously either lit Hanukkah candles at home or schlepped the menorah with us.

This year, we're staying put. Finally. Not by choice, mind you. If we hadn't just bought a house and a car and a washer and dryer, we'd be all over going to Germany. Stocking up on good chocolate and lovely shoes. But this year it's just not in the cards.

And for me, staying home has brought up all sorts of thoughts. Heck, having a home, knowing that we are 'staying put' for potentially the rest of our lives has added a whole new dimension to my philosophical meanderings and led me to interesting tight spots on many issues.

The deal is: I love string lights. I love them. I love funny glass-blown snowmen and pigs and taxi cabs so thin that even breathing on them can cause them to shatter like a lightbulb. Do you see my quandary? I cannot do these things or have these things because they are so totally owned by Christmas.

I love my neighbors' gaudy holiday displays. I can do without the manger scenes, but otherwise, I really do love them. They make me chipper driving home from the store at 5:15 in the evening when it's already pitch-black and raining sideways.

I've been going through these huge contortions on whether or not I think it's ok for us to string white lights around the little tree outside our front windows. I remember growing up that downtown the trees had white lights on them all year round and I loved that illumination. All the little indirect halos and shadows they threw. Can I not have them? Those lights? The lights that are those wonderful glittery night things?

***

Garrison Keillor has a short piece on Salon.com called "Don't Like Christmas? Get a Life" in which he exhorts:

There are people who feel "excluded" by Christian symbolism and are offended by the manger and the angels and the Child, but there have always been humorless, legalistic people. Complaint is an American art form, and in our time it has been raised to an operatic level. To which one can only say: Get a life. When you go to France, you don't expect a stack of buckwheat pancakes for breakfast or Le Monde to print box scores. You're in France. Now you're in America. It's a Christian culture. Work with it.

In true Keillor fashion, he starts the article in one of his run-on descriptive, windy kinds of ways which sort of lull you into feeling whistful and accepting, then drops that little ditty in for good measure. What? Excuse me?

I mean, I'm all for the gingery cookies that he describes. Singing? Check. Gift-giving? Check. Philanthropy? Check. Little lights? Double check. I'm just not for the Christian part of it.

***

For however half-assed I always feel about Hanukkah, I've come to realize that it's a false bill of goods that I've been selling myself. Any self-respecting Jew knows that Hanukkah is supposed to be a minor holiday. It's a feisty little holiday about perservering. And, may I add, light.

Yup, folks, you heard it here first. Hanukkah is the festival of lights. We start by lighting one candle, then two, and by the time you get to the eighth night your menorah is so caked with crayola-covered wax that it may just take you until next Hanukkah to scrape it clean. And it's fun. You eat lots of fried stuff, exchange little presents. Not a bad little holiday.

It was never meant to compete with the big dogs. The big dogs are so totally beside the point of Hanukkah. Hanukkah is about the small stuff that builds up. The oil in the temple that was only supposed to last for one day and ended up lasting for eight. The little engine that could. The bottomless reserve when we think the little light is going to go out.

***

I was reading in the NYT about this prayer book from the middle ages they found and discovered that, like many other books of that time, that the physical book was originally another text alltogether, a palimpsest. Because the materials used to make books were so valuable, instead of pitching them when their circulation went down, those ever-crafty monks would scrape the surface of the vellum and literally scrape off the text and write a new one. (Palimpsest is greek for "rubbed again").

Now they are spending tons of money and using all sorts of great technology to "read" and translate this "lost" text, the text behind the text, for its insight.

Perhaps the same is also true with Hanukkah. There is some elemental truth to the winnowing of days, to the losing of light, which makes us crave it that much more. The impulse is ancient. The technology may be different. All sorts of other things have gotten magnetically attracted to the concept like shiny wrapping and Jesus babies and the like. But the light is really where it's at.

Hanukkah is not some sort of overblown Jewish answer to Christmas. Christmas is the overblown answer to Hanukkah.

Reclaim the string lights!

Destination Anywhere

2006-11-26T18:56:00.000-08:00

I went blitz-holiday shopping this afternoon while my son and husband were tucked into their respective beds for a winter nap. I came across a book of dirty quotes that I bought for my sister-in-law, a hip young thing. I found one I especially liked:

"I tell you, we are here on earth to fart around, and don't let anyone tell you different"- Kurt Vonnegut

***

Just about the time I tucked this book into my purse with its receipt, I was receiving a call on my home answering machine from Northwest Airlines telling me that my package had arrived at the Madison airport. The guy said It's leaking pink and green. We're not sure what to do with it. Please call us and let us know if you are going to pick it up.

Pick it up? Wasn't it the fools at Delta who were supposed to have A) gotten it on the right plane in the first place and B) at least try to deliver it or call me begging for forgiveness? It's enough to make you want to lie a bit... tell them the ice cream was for your Aunt Bessie in the nursing home and how disappointed she'd be.

But no, I called and told them to throw it away, as long as I could use their name to corroborate my loss report so I didn't have to jackass across town with my digital camera to photograph the pink and green puddle (Wicked Witch of the West after consuming Pepto Bismol?)

***

I returned home to find that my ever-industrious across-the-way neighbor had been at it with the holiday decorating. His house is quite primped and lit and symmetrical with its garlands and bows and lights. I can only think he must look over to our darkened house with disappointment (or, perhaps, relief-- my husband installed energy-saver flourescent bulbs outside and we mostly forget to turn them off, which means that our house is forever bathed in that pale, flickery light most often reserved for the outsides of jails and big-box parking lots).

Now that it is dark just before 5pm here, my son is quite captivated driving around town, especially now that people have begun the bedecking of their houses with all manner of lights and snowmen and tableaus of white deer in silhouette. The poor thing-- he almost doesn't know where to look, there's so much going on.

***

The other thing is that we have been patching my son's strong eye for the past three weeks, hoping that we can strengthen the weaker one. Apparently it's pretty effective, and many kids end up doing it at one time or another. Still, there's something almost sad about having to do it. I know that he will be better for it, he will see better for it, and it is better to do now than when he is 7 and some dopey kid gives him shit about being a pirate or something.

In order to get him to stay still while we put the patch on, we give him two M&M's minis which he joyfully chomps on before revealing a green or blue grin. I ordered these special patches online which are decorated with, variously, stick figures, ladybugs, dalmation spots and the like. Other kids seem to think it's just a big sticker. Though apparently a 5-year-old at the playground this morning accused my son of being a pirate and said that he must be slain. Umm, ok. Get your wacko kid away from mine.

He seems to see not too badly (or at least compensates for it well enough) out of the unpatched eye... obviously, though, his peripheral vision is affected. In some ways he compensates almost too well, which makes me let my guard down. At a playground the other day he walked directly into a woman carrying an infant carrier because he simply didn't see her.

At any rate, he seems much less self-conscious about the whole thing than I do for him. At the very least, he seems to have no concept of how long he's been patched or how long into the future it will continue. He seems to measure things by the pairs of M&M's which come twice daily like tides. Vision is the least of it.

***

I've always loved people and things that are a little off-kilter. That's one of the reasons I love nicknames-- real nicknames, the earned ones.

I met up with a girlfriend this afternoon and she told me that she had given her daughter an unfortunate haircut. Her new nickname for her daughter is McGuyver, after the eponymous TV show.

My son's nicknames are of an evolving nature. There's the diminutive of his name. Then we turned to Muck-a-muck, which is one of the nonsense syllables he ran around saying at 12 months "muck-a-muck-a-muck-a-muck-a-muck". Today he is I HEART MUCKABEES, a combination of the previous Muck and the wonderfully helium-inspired movie I HEART HUCKABEES where Mark Wahlberg and Jason Schwarzman end up beating the crap out of each other with inflatible pom-pom balls.

One day my son will be able to pronounce his own name. He will stand behind it with all seriousness. I remember giving him that name and at first being so shocked that this little being had this serious, official existence. Now, the shock of the arrival has faded and we are left with this little muck (muecke is the german word for mosquito) who buzzes around us and points out the lights.

Inventories

2006-11-25T10:41:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we returned from our Thanksgiving sojourn to Cincinnati.

Cincinnati is not one of those places that has a cache. Even someone from Oregon is more interesting than someone from Cincinnati.

I spent the years from the time I left for college until I had my son trying to avoid Cincinnati like the plague. To me, that's not a manner of speaking. Whenever I landed I was overcome with physical and emotional torpor. What more can one want from a homecoming, a relaxing vacation? Here, have this coma. No thank you.

Part of it comes from the physical layout of the city. It's built on seven very steep hills (like Rome, everyone said) that rise up from the Ohio River basin. The peculiar geography is both a protection and a trap; it means that tornados can only skirt around the city and hit outlying areas; it also means that air is basically trapped down in the valley, causing pollution and the adored Cincinnati sinus infection which perpetually haunts its inhabitants.

I remember early mornings if it was foggy standing out at the bus stop and smelling the Proctor and Gamble plant making Tide. P&G not only dominates business in the city, it dominates the very air.

***

I'm not quite sure why the birth of my son has changed my feelings about the city, though I think it is because it has fundementally changed not the city, but who I am.

Somehow before he arrived, every time I went back 'home', I couldn't help being re-haunted by old ghosts. Perhaps it's that same stagnant air that pushes all change to the outskirts. One might call it resilience, one might call it being stuck.

The other thing that comes to me now is that the birth of my son realigned my family. It signalled the final dissolution, interruption of the old order. Somehow the people who spout family values are unable to understand that not all families can be healed by the wave of a magic value wand. My family has been most healed by its dissasemblence, by the fundamental change and growth that has gone on by the parting of ways and the disruption of the old.

Now when we talk about old times, it is almost as if we talk of other people. Lost people, lost places.

***

There was an article in the NYT today about Cincinnati's inner-city renaissance. The oldest extant part of the city, settled by German immigrants in the mid-1800s and called, fittingly, Over-the-Rhine, is being repopulated as a hip arts neighborhood with condos and cafes.

I actually went to school in an extension of that neighborhood before the school fell into such disrepair it was demolished in the '90s. My school was right across from the high-rise projects, and its students were half from the neighborhood, half bussed-in. It took me 45 minutes on the bus each morning to get to school.

It's probably hard for most people to imagine why I would long for something similar for my son. He will more likely than not go to a brand-spanking-new school which is being built just a mile away from our home out here on the far edge of Madison. Perhaps its the same reason why I adore that he will grow up down the street from a horse farm. Like a palette, a little bit of all things, some sweet, some bitter, some sour, some salty, seems to me the balance most kids achingly need.

As a parent, we wish to spare our kids pain and exposure to unpleasantness. Yet in the process of protecting them, I think we sometimes over-protect them from things that won't necessarily do harm. Perhaps protecting them is really a guise for us protecting ourselves. It is we who have construed our lives so carefully to avoid unnecessary pain.

***

Yet I know it is foolish... my son's life is only partially mine to construct, and only for a while. The more I get to know him, the more I am aware that he is a being with ideas, instincts, predispositions and, yes, faults all his own. In the same way I have stopped looking for family resemblances behind his face, I have started to accept that he acts as he is, not as I was or his father was or are. And no matter how permanent he seems, he will change. He will not always fight sleep like this or wake up in the middle of the night to be held. Somehow I lose sight of this when it's the middle of the night or the next morning when I can barely see straight and I say to myself, I cannot wait until this is over.

More likely, it will be over and I will miss it. He will be different, and I will be different. We won't be able to resurrect those needs or those people. We will configure our lives and our emotions around a different center. Things that are irksome or difficult or painful lose their charge, reorient, begin their orbit around some other star.

While it is almost self-evident to me that this process stretches far ahead of me, of my son and my family, it is still so strange, so foreign the idea that the past can do the same. Without our conscious knowledge it gets up like those mice in the Nutcracker and walzes around in the middle of the night. No matter how much we know the past by rote, we forget it. Or, having placed it like a pair of old slippers at the side of the bed for so many years, its position has moved slowly, achingly and without our knowledge, a millimeter at a time.

***

Yesterday on the way to the airport, I hopped out of the car at the Graeter's ice cream factory to pick up 12 pints of ice cream I ordered packed on dry ice. I did that once before when I was pregnant with my son and subsisted on high-calorie milkshakes. Those pints of black raspberry chip and mint chocolate chip were the best I had ever eaten before or since.

At the airport I carefully inscribed our address on the styrofoam cooler with a blue sharpie, making sure to write on the top and sides, in case the two should be separated.

Upon arrival in Madison, the cooler was (you guessed it) nowhere to be found. It was packed with an optimistic 4-5 hours worth of dry ice. Currently, the automated Delta baggage tracking system shows that it has been sitting in Minneapolis-St.Paul for the last twelve hours.

The lost baggage form innocently asks whether the contents of a lost bag are (check one of the following): male, female, child or other. No place to write in a more appropriate description: melted. Shape-shifted. Irretrievably and deliciously gone.

Identification

2006-11-19T13:21:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when you drink too much coffee. This morning we went over for brunch at a friend's house, and the second cup of coffee awaited (I normally only drink one). I remember when I was taking creative writing classes and we had a deadline ("one new poem a week") my writing buddies and I would drag ourselves off to a coffee shop called the Daily Grind (apropos) and try to caffeinate ourselves into inspiration. Often we could get something going, but the question is whether it would hold up at all the next day or next week in the light of full posession of our faculties.

That's the problem with coffee-- and with writing. They are fully compelling and enthralling while in the midst of them. Their ardored anticipation (laying in bed in the morning wishing someone else had already done it for you) and the dissolution of their state and effects, not so much. And more seriously speaking, it was never writing itself that I had a problem with. It was always what came in between writing, the before-and-after stuff that dragged me down.

So now it's the afternoon, the child crashed into his nap headlong and as we drove home from the brunch, the across-the-street neighbor had finally surrendered to his task: He had already plucked all but the topmost t.p. streamers from his shade tree. The whole shape of the thing had changed. It maintains its diameter only if seen from above. The concept has discintegrated.

***
I was catching up on reading and found an article in today's NYT Magazine about good old Paul Muldoon. For those of you unfamiliar, Paul Muldoon is an Irish poet who won the Pulitzer prize for poetry. He also judged the Graduate Poetry contest at U of M while I was there and chose my poems to receive the prize.

This single event was such a strange mixed blessing: It was at once a huge recognition of my poetry and at the same time drew me into the competitive crosshairs of the other grad students. The day after my prize reading, I had an anxiety attack that led to prolonged depression. I left two weeks later and never returned to complete my degree.

Before my prize reading (though after they had announced I had won it) I had the honor of introducing Paul Muldoon at the U of M. Afterwards I had volunteered to drive him to his hotel which was near Georgetown, in the D.C. area affectionately called "Foggy Bottom". For as much as I should have been able to (or wanted to) discuss with him (how often do you get to chauffeur a Pulitzer-prize winner?), I just couldn't. He seemed so tired to me. And also not quite a little concerned about being driven around by some random grad student.

It turns out that he should have been a bit weary of being in the car with me: I didn't know my way around D.C. well at all, limiting my flight patterns to a tired groove which spanned the Beltway between Bethesda and College Park. As anyone who even knows about D.C. knows, there are lots of parts of D.C. you should manage to avoid. I had picked a route that made sense on paper (though I didn't manage to bring that paper with me) and was abandoned to a mere directional sense. As evidenced by the NYT article, all's well that ends well. Paul Muldoon is still alive and kicking, despite my failure to perform.

And yet my graduate poetry award lands on my resumes, it lands on my web site. It seems like something someone should know about me, the me that's on paper. The me that is qualified, the me that's uncomplicated by failure.

As I was reading the article, I started to think: Who is it that I associate with this writing? Who is this other person who has the backstage access, who dispatches the words? She's certainly not the idea I have of myself. There would be too many expectations.

***

When I was at Trader Joe's last week, there were no balloons. That's a big deal for someone who uses the promise and posession of said balloon to partially tame an explorative toddler into shopping cart submission. I asked at the checkout why no balloons. The guy told me-- I lie not-- there's a helium shortage. I began to ponder what that might mean. Where did helium come from, anyway? Are there helium manufacturing plants with little cleansuited guys running around? The cashier boy suggested that there were Helium mines, pockets of it trapped in the earth. Hmm...

A few days later I was listening to NPR and there was a listener letter responding to a story they'd apparently done on said helium shortage. The listener admonished the reporters for inhaling helium to affect their voices, saying it could cause your lungs to overinflate and burst.

Not that I took that danger vary seriously. Nor do I think it will keep small kids from sucking helium from balloons (once they return). It did make me think, however, about how many small things we take for granted, all of which make up our ideal concept of a balloon.

There is the tensile surface of an inflated balloon which causes a light source to be reflected just so; there is the long strand of ribbon (seems far too puny as a tether for something so buoyant); and there is the weightlessness, the suspension. The top of the balloon like the perfectly-defined arch of a question mark, posed mid-air for the asking.

So many of our concepts are like that: So fragile. Often we can only start to parse them if something is awry. Then we ask: What is wrong here? What is askew? Even slight violations of form or function can catch us off guard (as a helium balloon which, losing its luft, hovers sort of halfway between up there and the ground).

Maybe we should grant even the partial things their wholeness, their own gestalt. The trees half-decked, the laundry partially folded. The writing and the people somewhere hovering in the middle.

Nature and Nurture

2006-11-16T11:50:00.000-08:00

Last friday it snowed here. We woke up the next morning, the world bedecked in white... toilet paper. Not on our house, mind you, but on the house directly across from us. Our neighbor's small, fledgling trees all aflutter with very careful, deliberate, equal-sized lengths of toilet paper.

Our neighbor is one of those guys who is always out there tending to his lawn. He bags instead of mulching. He edges, for god's sake. He owns a leaf vacuum. Need I say more?

Every day since the snow/draping he's been out there with a bucket dispensing with the soggy toilet paper which has been torn asunder and landed on said lawn. My husband and I have been shocked, though, at his general patience with the grand display: He has not touched it.

We're not quite sure, given his general predisposition for fastidiousness, why we are still gifted by the presence of our neighborhood act a la Christo, even long after the snow has melted away. My playgroup moms agreed-- it looks really cool. Gives some lovely shape to the shade tree which has stood nude and prone since the leaf drop. Even the plumber yesterday was impressed (and he should know from t.p.) He remarked a mess to clean up but damn neat what they did there.

Has our neighbor given his yard up to the expression of communal whiteness here in suburban Wisconsin? Has it driven him to madness? Can you even use a leaf vacuum on wet toilet paper?

***

My son still isn't talking yet. Or rather, again?

Mind you, he spoke at 12 months. He said trrrrruck! (That's how you'd know when he had woken from a nap).

Then we spent the summer in Germany and he decided (we suppose) Oh, to hell with you people. Truck was just fine with me. Now you want me to call it a Kraftfahrzeug? A Lastwagen? Excuse me??

Now when we look at books with him, he can identify almost anything by its German or English name. By pointing to it. If you ask him what something is, he says ba. Not just ba. Ba! Enthusiastic ba! Take that, you bilingual yuppie academic fiends!

Yesterday I said, is that a squirrel? Quirl, he repeated after me. Today again, quirl. Not that I am expecting much. He's done this before... had a word for a couple of days and then abandoned it to never-come-again.

This word, however, holds particular meaning for me. Long ago when I was in grad school for my MFA in poetry, I got into a knock-down drag-out exchange in a workshop with an eminent poet over squirrels in poems. An avid birder, he didn't like squirrels. Apparently they were always knocking over his birdfeeders and causing general havoc. That was enough to piss him off.

And, as an eminent poet, he could pretty much say whatever he liked. After his comment to me that I should get that f*#ing squirrel out of my poem, he told another woman that she shouldn't write about her children. Squirrels, kids, nobody cares! he said, throwing his arms in the air.

By that time, my ire had boiled up into my head and I said just because you haven't managed to have kids doesn't mean this is a bad poem. Boy did I piss him off! Not that I cared. He deserved it, old lecherous coot. Poet or not.

So, I throw down the gauntlet. My son will say squirrel. Someday. Life is uncontrollable. He will speak in his own time and will probably say things I don't agree with. Perhaps some teenage girls will someday t.p. our house. And I will think back to the beauty of the white tree and the squirrels that stole small sheets to pillow their nests.

Thundersnow

2006-11-10T14:10:00.000-08:00

Transitions are sometimes difficult, as from not-knowing to knowing. You would think, given life, that we would be much better at this in-between-becoming business, but it still knocks us for a loop.

And so today the clash of the seasons is upon us. Two days ago it was 65 degrees and we played in the park until 5:30, well past dusk. Today it is thundersnow.

When my son was just a few months old we were awoken at almost point midnight by the loudest thunder crack ever, the bolt simultaneous with the lightening. So loud, so present it rattled my teeth. My son slept through it. Not a peep.

We thought, how could this be? This little being, so present in his needs, and yet so totally absent to the shaking of the world.

Today the thunder started before the snow. He was in his high chair and we were consumed with the delicate balancing act of corn on a large spoon.

He seemed to react to the thunder almost before it shuddered, like some animals do. I have to wonder: what did he think he heard? I quickly made sense of it for him: it was like a big truck. A big truck starting up its engine of snow.

Taken

2006-11-09T08:23:00.000-08:00

It's an odd thing to try to describe a phenomenon that happens to many people at once, practically simultaneously. In disease, you have epidemiologists who work to trace outbreaks of illness in order to quell their spread and perhaps predict their occurrence. In politics, you have the ubiquitous pollsters. Then there are the social scientists that try to explain things like how we associate in groups or act as individuals within groups.

Somehow I have a great fascination with how we swim in and out of associative groups without ever knowing we were in them, and at the same time feel great skepticism as to the reach of our scientific understandings about how such things take place.

I think it's because there's some elemental emotional or spiritual element to what impels people to think, speak and act that is not accounted for, perhaps by definition cannot or should not be accounted for.

Take for instance the recent midterm election. No matter how much the media was abuzz before the election about how we said we were going to vote, I had to ignore it. I can too easily be swept into a rapture thinking that the world will be righted, that it is just around the corner. And yet, something did resonate in many individuals at once. (Hallelujah!) At the same time I celebrate this, I must steel myself against thinking that in two years we will do the same. There is something about particular moments in time that synchronize us in thought and feeling with most if not many. Who knows the whims that will grip us then? Why count on that?

***

On a related note, there was an article in, where else, the NYT the other day about speaking in tongues. Neuroscientists have imaged the brains of people in both devotional activities and then in those trance-like states where they are said to "speak in tongues". The results? It seems that there is a loosening and a deactivation of many different parts of the brain which seem to suggest they are indeed giving themselves up to something. Is it perhaps a learnable sort of neural programming, the way that meditation is?

It makes me also think about the mystical nature of language-- especially foreign language-- and its place in worship. There are many Catholics that rue the disappearance of Latin from the mass. I find myself, despite my liberal leanings, yearning for more and more Hebrew in my religious practice. What is it about another language that opens us up to the devine? Or is it that it activates a different "I", a different speaker, a different self?

Helicopter Mom

2006-11-04T19:54:00.000-08:00

My mother arrived five days ago to visit and since then my son has been practically surgically attached to my leg. Not sure whether it's just the cold he has been battling or if he is taking a man-on-man defense in order to assure that the mama does not abdicate to big momma.

Sometimes I wonder whether there will ever be a time when I don't feel like I am a mother to everyone and everything.

Being a mother is such an intense thing-- it's at once the most powerful and powerless position to be in-- responsible for, though not in control of, others' happiness.

When I am exhausted (as I am now) I can almost not believe what I do in a day. It goes well beyond the creative (putting it kindly) meal planning and cooking required for a toddler, well beyond the preparation and the clean up and the staging of every practical transaction. It seems everything holds an emotional weight. Everything is learning (for him and me). There is the sweet predictability and the onerous predictability. There are the sweet moments of discovery and the excrutiatingly slow practice for discovery.

And all the while trying to both serve and stifle the instinct to make everything kind and good and better than it was growing up. In order to give your child the framework for hapiness and let him invent his own content, follow his own kite-strings.

And yet trying to not turn into the mother of all mothers; take too much responsibility everywhere else where it is unwanted, unasked or unnecessary. Like a bird thinking a mailbox is its nest and waiting for those chicks that will never arrive.

As my therapist once said, who do you think you are, Jesa?

The Color of Hunger

2006-11-02T10:00:00.000-08:00

Two days ago was my son's first real Halloween-- though even that may be hyperbole. At 1 1/2 he did seem amused at being costumed, ran with bated breath every time the doorbell rang and was quizically interested when we took him to two neighbors' houses and they put all sorts of colorful little packages into his pumpkin bag.

Yet, he's 1 1/2. He doesn't know he's getting candy. He doesn't know the kids are all running around out of their minds in anticipation of a massive chocolate-and-sweets binge. I've tried to construct what his perspective might be, and I'm bluffed. What kind of meaning can you string together from these events?

***

So my son was a pumpkin for Halloween. My reasoning being that this is perhaps the only Halloween when I alone will have a say in what he dresses up as. Given his predeliction for all things automotive and truck related, lord only knows what we have in store for us once he starts talking and asserting his will backed up with the specificities of words.

It's interesting to me that universally it seems that small babies are dressed up as food or food-related items. Let's not forget that the pumpkin is in fact a vegetable. Then you have the babies dressed up like pea pods, carrots with tops, hot peppers. Of all the stinking cute animals in the world as resources for costumes out the wazoo, I beg of you, why dress him up like a vegetable?

***

Probably the same reason we find little babies so delectable. Did it ever strike you as odd that one of the first ways that many people "play" with babies is to act as though they are eating them? Have you ever felt the twinge or desire yourself to nibble on an opportune little ear or stray toe?

Though it may all have somewhat cannabalistic overtones, I think the truth of it is probably much more honest to come by: feeding is the most essential activity of nurturance for a small being. In a NYT article from Valentine's Day this year there was a fascinating discussion on where the idea and practice of kissing comes from. The most compelling explanation in my eyes:

A few anthropologists have suggested that mouth kissing is a "relic gesture," with evolutionary origins in the mouth-to-mouth feeding that occurred between mother and baby in an age before Gerber and still takes place in a few parts of the world today. It can hardly be a coincidence, they note, that in several languages the word for kissing is synonymous with pre-mastication, or that "sweet" is the epithet most commonly applied to kisses.

So kissing is a kind of feeding and a kind of feasting. Children are the apples of our mouths.

Scatology Today

2006-10-30T17:50:00.000-08:00

...could be the name of any recent political reporting. Just goes to show how close things are getting with the midterm elections coming up. Whether it is Rush Limbaugh dissing Michael J. Fox for having Parkinson's (view MJF's response here) or Lynne Cheney going wacko on Wolf Blitzer (was that really a good idea?), it's not hard to follow the excrement back to the animal that... er... made it. Let's just hope that the majority of Americans who bother to vote realize who "dealt" it.

If some of it weren't so hilarious, it could put you into a really foul mood. But apparently, according to a recent study in Britain, those of us who are members of the fairer sex don't need any other excuses to be in foul moods in the morning. I know I don't. I would say it's in my nature, but it's apparently also in my nurture. See what I mean here.

And finally, what would fit Scatology Today better than "the bomb" itself: The Miami Zoo is hosting an exhibition on what birds and bees really do. Want to know how long it would take an elephant to excrete your weight in elephant dung? Find out here.

Sugar Rush

2006-10-27T18:22:00.000-07:00

There is a certain unhinged glee that ricocheted forth from me upon reading this most recent Op-Ed piece in the NYT from the linguist George Lakoff about George W. Bush's attempt to call a "do-over" on the phrase "stay the course".

It appeals to the same side of me that laughs hysterically when my husband commits a typo. I find wordplay-- whether accidental or intentional-- deviant-good-fun. I suppose it's the kind of deviant good fun that some people feel about putting up gory displays on Halloween. Me, I'm just in it for the candy.

Speaking of candy, I had a date with myself last night and went to go see Sofia Coppola's new movie "Marie Antoinette". The whole thing felt like being drunk and overdosed on tootsie roll pops at the same time. It's amazing how adept she is at conveying atmospherics. The entire time I watched "Lost in Translation" I felt that kind of dizzy-headiness of jetlag which sets the world atilt. However, after leaving "Marie" I felt a bit ravenous. I had lots of interesting thoughts during the movie, but I'm not quite convinced they came from the movie itself. It probably had more to do with having almost two hours of time to myself and being hopped up on Raisinettes.

What's in a name?

2006-10-26T11:43:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the long silence... my sister delivered twins the other day and every spare second that I have not been pelted with broccoli I have been scrounging for more information and kibbitzing with my relatives.

I have also been working on a pet project called sleep-deprivation, as my son has for three nights in a row been waking up every two hours or so and screaming at the top of his lungs. Sometimes the only thing that will calm him is bringing him into the bed with us, but that doesn't do much for my sleep... He seems to think that rhythmic kicking certainly was fun back in the womb, why not try it out again?

I have been having two goofy name-related thoughts rattling around in my head which I wanted to share.

The first is highly inspired by recent events (i.e. the little stinking cuties who arrived this week). Of course in Jewish tradition, you name a baby after a dead relative to honor their memory. The sephardim (Jews from southern Europe and the Middle East) name their kids after a living relative. (Seems much more confusing to me, given that you don't have Jr. and III and the like in Jewish tradition). That means that someone's name could be "Moishe son of Moishe", but I digress.

Anyhow, two fun/interesting name-related thingies:

The Baby Name Wizard actually graphs a name's popularity over time. I spent way too much time graphing names (mine was peak in 1974-- duh) of everyone I know. It makes you wonder why names can fall out of such favor. My grandfather's name is Seymour. I think that is one of the dorkiest names alive. But then if I think about it too long it starts to become really, really cool. Perhaps that is how it happens. It's some sort of coolness dyslexia where everything jumps out of order in front of your eyes.

The second fun with names resource is from a Salon.com message board called They Named that Poor Kid What??? For those too lazy to follow the link, I will reprint some of the names here, though you really need to see the commentary over there because it is pee-in-your -pants funny.

Galaxie Loucynthia
Chanceity
Trentaysia Zykia Nyann
E'zion-Nicademus Gabriel-I'mari
Biggs
Miss Jule`
Ja'Hyghness
Spandana
Tiliest Morgan
Meadow Cloyce
Crescin Leander
Synesis
Veranda
Jakeup Donald
Kanedance
Oak Daniel Vance
Alebrick Eugene
Wrigley Herndon [girl, on Cubs blanket]
TheiLondaxiya Harmony
Deighton Alee [girl]
Rhodzyn
Dazlyn
Chelstine
Neliaj
Tanzen Chancellor
Wiley
Adyleny
GaeBriel-Lee Scott
Davida Waynetta [Dad is Michael]
Shanley
Bryline Hope
Richter Sean
Darmonie
Shyneilya Tynise
Ora Knox
Zoron [Siblings Deborah, Darren, Tyler, Brianna, Zion, Saffiya]
Manjaleigh
Ken' Swayla

As Juliet asked: "What's in a name?" Would a rose by the name of Chanceity smell as sweet?

Fabuloso! Or, why it pays to read the small print

2006-10-23T12:25:00.000-07:00

There are many instances in life where trial and error are the only way to arrive at new knowledge. There are also just as many (if not more) situations where reading labels, keeping your cool, and following instructions can save your life. I submit for your perusal three of the latter situations.

1. Read labels, and don't drink anything blue for God's sakes!
2. Microwaves are not going to kill you. Eating too many chips may.
3. Whooping cough is not endangered. Whooping cranes are. Know the difference.

On Snow

2006-10-23T11:13:00.000-07:00

Just resurfacing after a lost weekend. The first snow has come and popcorns the fields with little hints of whiteness. At moments the sky turns over and there comes a dash or two-- an over-attentive cook trying to mask an uneven attempt.

I lost this weekend to at least 36 hours of sleep. I was down with a flu again, but luckily this time on the weekend, and with my mate in town. Looking back on it I can hardly believe that anyone can sleep that long.

My sleep was so long, so vast that it was at once euphoric and menacing. Sweet and deep and somehow crackling and rough at the edges. I left it feeling a kind of remorse. That is strange. I wonder if coma patients feel the same way, as though they have committed or done by their undoing.

I finally climbed out to peek over the edge last night. As any small animal can tell, night time is a perilous time to first come awake. I had a short bout of shouting around, I am told, I said everything is wrong and you NEVER... you ALWAYS (pretty audacious things for a girl just waking up)...

I am puzzled by the effects; it is not the first time that upon awakening I have started a fight (started is perhaps generous-- it is as though the fight has been going on and at once my eyes and lips are open pronouncing it, like my body has transformed into one of those crawling text headlines, the LED displays perched above our heads in cafes and in taxis... always running).

I apologize for my dinosaur-like qualities. I profusely realize that my head is ancient, full of teeth and thoughts that are remainders of threats and defenses past. I hope you can love even my most ancient, flawed drafts.

Cleanliness next to...

2006-10-17T11:08:00.000-07:00

There was an interesting article in the NYT today about the fact that parents are spending just as much if not more time with their children than they did almost forty years ago. (Now, mind you, forty years ago dad was the sole breadwinner and mom was inevitably home with the tykes-- a far cry from today's more likely scenario where both parents work outside the home). So, where is all this extra time coming from?

Well, for one thing, papas are more involved than they have ever been in child-rearing, toy-organizing, teeth-brushing and to-bed-getting. Oh, and then there's the rest of the housework. Well, they do some of that too.

Fathers have picked up some of the slack. Married fathers are spending more time on housework: an average of 9.7 hours a week in 2000, up from 4.4 hours in 1965. That increase was more than offset by the decline in time devoted to housework by married mothers: 19.4 hours a week in 2000, down from 34.5 hours in 1965.

***

Still, picking up the slack doesn't a clean house make. Take my house as a tiny example. Last night, with all good intentions, my husband and I laid down in our bed to "rest our eyes" (this usually results in prolonged periods of eye-resting, as one can imagine), which meant that when our little guy woke up this morning at a quarter to eight, the house was still a wreck from the night before, and the first playgroup members would be knocking on our door in less than an hour. Panic? Not I.

I have developed a new cleaning strategy to manage the unruliness in my life: regrouping.

Instead of cleaning up my son's toys, I make interesting groupings of them around the house. The first step on our staircase may be transformed some days into a parking lot for every ilk of truck and tractor. All balls group and await instructions from the mother ship.

It's much easier than trying to hide it all. Perhaps it might even pass as an art installation?

Still, when one of the women in my playgroup arrived with her mom, she said that in the beginning of our playgroup, I had set the domestic bar high: I baked muffins. From scratch.

Now, I did notice that every time someone hosted after that, they also baked. From scratch. I remember thinking (and knowing me, probably saying) that this was a wonderful extravegance that they need not go to.

Yet I, myself, was hell-bent this morning, unshowered, on baking again. Even if my hair were still standing in its morning rendition of the famous Ukiyo-e print of the crashing wave when the first guest arrived.

***

It begs the question: What do I really have at stake in this domesticity?

The answer didn't come to me until late in the afternoon. I had an appointment with a headhunter who was hired to help the spouses of new professors find career opportunities after relocating.

It was alright, but she was a perky 20-something asking me questions that to her were probably not existential, but to me were very much so. What kind of position was I looking for? What would its title be?

I ended up saying that I didn't really know and talked about how hard it is to think about rejoining the work force after being a mom (AFTER being a mom?). I love the work I do, but I need more stimulation, I said.

She said I can imagine there are a lot of people who after meeting you would think wow- yay- I'd really like to have her on my team!

And then I thought oh my lord get me out of here. Not this team crap again.

***

On the way out of the office, passing by a bank of decrepit computers where a man with a turban was viewing online temp positions, a wave of relief started to drain through me. I had been holding my breath.

The truth is, the reason I am so invested in domesticity is because for me, it's about people and comfort and connection. My people. My bevy, my tribe.

I bake the muffins, hell, I even scrub the toilet if I have to, because it makes me feel like I am a center of connection. People very directly feel comfort and connection by the things I do.

And there's a certain continuity to it. Just as monkeys and apes enjoy hours and hours of social grooming to maintain their social relationships, I apparently need (and want) to perform certain tasks in order to nurture my relationships.

Given my own nature, that means that I have my own special ways of doing things. And it means that generally, the house is not pre-emptively clean, but rather, is cleaned when it is dirty, or when the piles get high.

***

The downstairs of my house as I write this is a true disaster. Believe me.

Four children tore through boxes of toys, piles of books, fistfuls of cheerios and the downstairs has taken on truly Vesuvian proportions.

The domestic goddess has returned to her perch far above the fray. She awaits the arrival of the male of her species to build them a bower made from the trucks and crumbs.

Who Do You Think You Are?

2006-10-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

In recent days, my inbox has been filled to the gills with returned SPAM. Apparently I have been very busy sending out those obnoxious BUY BUY BUY!!! IT WILL GO THROUGH THE ROOF!!!!!! stock emails. Given the number of Make you girll happy emails I've been receiving, I may be contemplating branching out in the coming weeks.

I also received a very humble response to my latest email marketing campaign from someone in Texas imploring me with no capitalization please stop sending me your emails i am getting very tired of them.

Needless to say, the whole thing is a bit disturbing. Someone trolling around the web looking for a new disguise has found my url and is having a field day with it. I've contacted my internet folks, and there is already an authentication piece in place so that theoretically other servers know it isn't really me.

***

Assuming Identities

I guess that's one of the "great appeals" of the internet-- and its achilles heel-- is the ability to be anyone, anywhere. To construct a representation of oneself in an almost automated way by filling in blanks and uploading artsy pictures. Then using our representations of ourselves to make "friends" on MySpace and find "partners" on match.com

The temptation is to actually believe that we are who we say we are, and others are who they say they are.

Stress gets put on representation rather than experience.

***

I live a block away from a 3-year-old suburb of McMansions. I was talking to our real estate agent about that neighborhood, and she told me that the majority of the houses there she's been in have not a stick of furniture in the downstairs.

In some sense, that's understandable-- it takes a boatload of furniture to fill one of those places. In another sense, what? huh?

See, it's all a matter of projection. Here in my house I look real big. The latest jeans make my ass look small. Visit my blog. GET ON BEFOR IT GOS THROUGH THE ROOF!!!!!

Forgive and Forget

2006-10-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

Is the motto of the Amish. Members of the Amish community affected by the horrendous shootings of two weeks ago have made a point to mention this again and again. They have already forgiven the perpetrator. They have set up a fund for his wife and children.

This concept of forgiveness is something that for me (and I suspect many others) just doesn't compute. Lip service is one thing. In practicality, how does one actually do it? Especially in the face of an incident so jarring and shocking?

It occurs to me that one of the reasons I have such trouble grasping this concept in practice is because of so many things I have read about human behavior and the architecture of the brain. While it can indeed be psychically advantageous to block out traumatic incidents, it is nearly impossible for them to be erased.

That is, there is a high likelihood that while the specific memory of the incident may itself be displaced or buried, it is likely that the person's behavior and mental state will reflect the trauma caused by the incident.

Indeed it is actually advantageous in many circumstances (or at the very least understandable) that one's behavior would be altered because it is a survival strategy. Our brains react very strongly to imprinting by negative stimuli for a reason: If we see Joe Caveman eat some berries and quickly die in agony, it's a good bet that we'll steer clear of that berry patch, if not all foreign berry patches.

So why do these two concepts of forgiveness and forgetting hang out together so much? And how do they really work together (or not)?

Social Beasts

One answer to at least the Amish portion of our inquiry can be elucidated by a recent NYT article from Daniel Goleman (of Emotional IQ fame). In it, he describes mirror neurons in the brain that are said to be responsible for our feelings of belonging with other human beings and within social frameworks.

In a nutshell, it seems that there are complex networks within our brains that allow us to synch up with one another in both our physical and emotional states. This is at least one explanation of the recent findings that people with established social networks of belonging (religious and otherwise) seem to live longer, healthier lives.

So at least within an Amish framework of not just shared values, beliefs and practices, but also shared physical labor and space, such forgiveness is not performed by the individual, but rather, through the collective. The strong ties that bind the Amish to one another allow them to carry out such herculean feats of forgiveness (not to mention physical labor!) which most people outside of their communities would find next to impossible.

In the same way, they are also able to draw their collective memories away from traumatic events. Indeed, for their society and social ties to remain intact, they must do so as a matter of survival for their way of life and their values.

Forgiveness for the Common Man

The question remains: are those who are not members of tight belief communities like the Amish able to achieve forgiveness? Is it even desireable to do so?

Given my understanding of the way this all works, complete forgiveness and forgetting probably doesn't work outside of such a framework. Nor perhaps should it. While many Amish values may seem to us as ideals or altruistic, it is important to view them in context. Amish communities are very small in scale, and exist within the larger framework of a society that by and large provides a system of justice and law enforcement that enables them to enjoy the ability to maintain their lifestyle and belief system.

Yet the compelling point of all of this is not necessarily how we can also forgive and forget as they do, but rather to look beyond that. It is fascinating to me that our brains are so wired as to require social and communal participation not only in matters of physical survival, but also in matters of emotional transcendence.

How many of us does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Gone to Seed

2006-10-10T11:30:00.000-07:00

I've returned home after three days of sitting in a sukkah and the trees all changed while I was gone. The tallest tree around, framed by my backyard windows, has lost its leaves entirely and stands like an ancient mannequin with only the architecture of a hoopskirt between her thighs and the elements.

Lots of things have been whirling around in my head, but I haven't really had time to distill any one of them. At the moment a few links and ideas will have to suffice.

This image is taken from a wonderful and short NYT article about an entymologist who makes wonderful images using a photocopier.

Then there's the sukkot discussion of the art of the yiddish insult "go take a crap in the ocean!" which lead me on a winding path through the internet to find this site which has wonderful resources to insults of many kinds-- historical, foreign language, etc. (Also check out the yid-o-matic English-to-Yiddish translator at The Yiddish Radio Project).

I've ruminated about the ideas of forgiveness and memory, discussed the emotional truths swirling around debate of the death penalty (ballot initiative in Wisconsin to reinstate), and taken an hourlong planeride sitting next to someone that I vaguely knew from high school (which is much more traumatic than it sounds).

Yet right now I must attend to the miniature rubber bus tires I squirreled away in my pocket when my toddler began chewing one like gum during playgroup this morning, as well as cook up some sort of yummy nuggety treat for when the boy awakens from his early fall slumber.

Gone to seed indeed. We're just getting toasty!

The Science of Sleep

2006-10-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

There's an idiom in German that describes the state of being alone when your partner is away: Strohwitwe-- literally, Straw Widow. I always liked this turn of phrase, though I never knew exactly the image it was meant to conger: A bird sitting on an empty nest? Perhaps a reference to the days when beds were made of straw, and the woman woke with a clenched handful, rather than her partner's warm side?

I find that when my husband is away I stay up late at night putzing around. At first being "up late" is liberating. I alone control the computer. I make myself full meals and sit down at 10:30pm to eat them while leafing through trashy magazines. I sprawl in the bed and toss his pillow into the corner where it mutters quietly to its allergen-inducing self. I revel in the novelty of it all. It is amazing how quickly that novelty wears off.

After a summer of displacement (a month in a sublet, one month in California, two in Germany) all either of us want to do is be in our own house, together. We've even found a babysitter (Hosea!) and actually have money to pay her. All of our attachment parenting and sleep training has paid off, and we have a well-adjusted and well-sleeping young boy.

Yet my husband is in his first year of a tenure-track position (committees, teaching,...) and our lovely new house needs a whole lot of inventive childproofing. Often by the time he comes to bed I'm already in there, having fallen asleep with my NYT Crossword puzzle book on my chest, and am in some form of drooling, snoring, or some other unseemly mid-slumber state.

***

For almost a week mid-September there was an article about sharing sleep in the NYT that was consistently at the top of their most-emailed list. I found the article itself relatively unremarkable in terms of what it said.

But somehow the subject matter is so intimate and yet so banal that apparently nearly everyone was rapt.

This article is hovering again in my consciousness as I fight sleep with the thousand things I have to do tonight before retiring to my bed. Not just because my husband is away at a conference (see Strohwitwe, above), but because sleep is one of the primary topics of conversation amongst newer mothers.

In recent days I've had multiple conversations with other moms of kids younger than mine about how to convince their children to sleep, as well as the various creative sleeping arrangements that have come about in order to accommodate all the household beings that must sleep in some constellation or another (mom, dad, baby, cat, dog).

At one time or another almost everyone has resorted to someone sleeping with the baby-- in the parents' room, in the parents' bed, in the baby's room. Then there's the tale of the displaced-- of the partner or the animal who becomes jealous or resigned.

It seems that sleeping defines primary intimate relationships for human beings. (I assume it comes from our primate selves, though I can probably elaborate more on this once I read one of the 10,000 books on my nightstand, one of which is titled "Our Inner Ape: A Leading Primatologist Explains Why We Are Who We Are").

That's why sleeping is also such a divisive issue. I know that for the first six months after my son was born, our sleep revolved around his sleep. He slept in a bassinet attached to our bed, often migrated into our bed by morning, and by the time we hit six months, I needed him to leave my bedroom. Not because I didn't love the sighs he made or his little scrunched up face when he sleeps. (I still love those things and often have to fight the urge of checking on him at night just to watch him sleep).

I needed him out of our room so that we could have our own sleep again, just my husband and I. There are so many wonderful things that happen in bed- goofy conversations, cuddling, holding the other to help them fall asleep, and, of course, the other things one does in bed, not the least of which is sleep.

Sharing a bed is sharing a life. Wrinkled sheets and all.

Bodies in Motion

2006-10-03T10:41:00.000-07:00

A fascinating article appears today in the NYT Online which offers explanation to out-of-body experiences as the result of stimulation of certain centers in the brain.

From the article:

These multisensory processing regions also build up perceptions of the body as it moves through the world, Dr. Blanke said. Sensors in the skin provide information about pressure, pain, heat, cold and similar sensations. Sensors in the joints, tendons and bones tell the brain where the body is positioned in space. Sensors in the ears track the sense of balance. And sensors in the internal organs, including the heart, liver and intestines, provide a readout of a person’s emotional state.

There is so much compelling in this even beyond the impact that such knowledge could have on the identification and treatment of mental disorders such as phantom limb and schizophrenia. It seems to me that this sort of sensory input, bundling and processing which goes on in the brain can perhaps offer new insights into the way practices like accupuncture may function; New understanding could also perhaps shed light on the connection between our emotional landscape and our physical state in a far more complicated fashion than has yet been revealed.

It always seemed to me to be absolutely logical, for instance, that someone who was heart broken because of the loss of a loved one could have a heart attack because of it. (I explored this in one of my poems from "back in the day" called "The heart is more organ than we thought").

***

Department of Venison Security

In an addendum to my previous blog "Deer in the headlights", I was told by a friend today that common wisdom is indeed that one should not swerve when a deer runs in front of the car.

Additionally, you're not supposed to brake unless you have a significant distance between you and the deer. Apparently when your car brakes abruptly, the nose of the car (or whatever the hell you call that, the front I guess) dips down, making it more likely to catapult said deer onto the windshield.

If you don't see the deer before you hit it, however, all bets are off. Just hope that you're not carrying more than 3 ozs. of shampoo in your car when it happens.

Zealots for Bad Causes

2006-10-02T10:36:00.000-07:00

On Yom Kippur, Jews read aloud an alphabetic litany of our sins.

My favorite sin this year, as it were, is the last one in the litany: "We are zealots for bad causes"

Let's pause for a moment and appreciate the co-occurrence of the words "favorite" and "sin" in the previous sentence.

What I mean by that, I suppose, is this: Every year we read the same text. Aloud. All together. Whether you've been greedy or not, promiscuous or not, a xenophobe or not, you read the text aloud. What never ceases to amaze me, is that every year the list is new to me. In it I find something that surprises me, that makes me reconsider how I operate in the world.

This year, I am especially a zealot for bad causes.

Actually, that is disingenuous. Of course I think that I'm a zealot for good causes. But when I heard that one, I laughed. My eyes met the eyes of another congregant and we exchanged a knowing grin.

Then I started to think more about it. What is the meaning behind saying this every year? Catching those who are the real zealots for bad causes? Making them do penance on a new reality show? Zealots for Bad Causes this sunday at 9 on UPN.

After savoring the sugary coating of the words, I started to get an ache in my teeth that wouldn't go away. What am I a zealot for? How can the causes and ideas that I hold dear be bad?

I was immediately confronted by an example. Ask and you shall receive.

A woman stood up to talk about the constitutional amendment against same-sex marriage which is on the November ballot in Wisconsin.

It has already been on my "to do" list to get a yard sign urging people to vote against the ban. Good cause.

She talked about the political implications, then drew a breath, and started to talk about how she felt scared. How she, personally, would lose her health care coverage if the ban passes. Whoa. Hold it a minute. We're talking about real people here.

That may sound like a dumbshit response. But it made me realize that of all the causes that I hold dear, behind them are real, individual, people. These things are not just about human rights per se, but are about people. People in particular.

I can construct a sound intellectual argument as well as the next guy. In fact, I relish it. It's something that I do well. And it is also, perhaps, something that I do a little too well. While I fancy that it enables me to reach out to other people, sometimes it does so without considering the very people who I am arguing for.

And boom, there I am, a ZBC. Not that my causes are really bad, but sometimes, like everyone, I need some self-reflection or a generous kick in the rear to reassess not just what positions I maintain, but how and why. I have to keep my connections to these causes real and tangible so that they (and I) do not drift off into the dogmatic ether.

So I invite you to contemplate with me, fellow Zealot for Bad Causes. Get out of your rocking chair and go take a walk. Do the opposite in a situation of what you would normally do. Talk to strangers. They might be you.

***

For those of you still keeping score, the Book of Life has officially been closed for the 2006-2007 season. We look forward to greeting you next year in our fully-remodeled facility.

Reclaiming Good and Evil

2006-09-29T11:44:00.000-07:00

I wanted to recount a story our rabbi told on Erev Rosh Hashanah.

Basically, the story goes that some townspeople tracked down and trapped the yetser hara, the evil impulse, and imprisoned it in a big lead pot so that it couldn’t get out.

For three days it stayed there. For three days, none of the town's chickens laid eggs.

The townspeople figured out that not only was the evil impulse truly evil, but it was also the root of creativity and fertility. While they didn’t want to let it out because it would create evil, they also couldn’t kill it, because that would be the end of the human race. So they ended up blinding it and setting it free.

The idea is that at the root of many evil things can be good things, and vice-versa (going to the point that someone made above earlier about the fact that many folks who do evil do so in the name of something ‘higher’).

In this sense, at least from a Jewish perspective, it is impossible to do away with evil. That which is truly evil must be broken down, debilitated, refashioned into something good.

Now that’s what I call recycling!