So now I have yet another idea for a book (suggested by my Smarty-Pants Husband) and yet another idea for an essay (which came from my own brain). I am pleased that I have all this creative energy floating about, and I feel like I am in a good place.
EXCEPT.
Suddenly, last week, three separate people contacted me to do some freelance grant writing work. Eerrrrrrrrhhhh…and somehow, despite the fact that I have a babysitter only once a week, I almost said yes to all three. It would be good to earn some extra money, yes. But what the hell?! I actually did say yes to one very short-term assignment, agreed to a meeting with an old client, and talked to a prospective client about possibly working 20 hours a week.
The problem is this: I am really interested in working with that last one. The client is an independent producer who needs to raise money to fund a new public TV series, which I think is right up my alley. But I don’t really have 20 hours a week to give her, and I know that. The producer is one of those types who works evenings, weekends, etc. She is not sure about what she needs – whether they should bring someone on staff, into the office, full-time, or whether they can even do their fundraising with an off-site person on a part-time basis. They are already in production and need to raise nearly a half-million dollars, under the gun. She needs someone to jump right in and work quickly and be focused. I don’t think I’m in a position to do this type of job right now. Clearly, this is a case of the right project at the wrong time. So what the bleep am I doing?
The real problem is this: I just can’t say no.
And I’m doing all this (taking meetings, reviewing proposals, and fielding phone calls) despite the fact that my Dear Husband told me to take this year off from the grant writing, concentrate on Lovey, and write my book. I should really just call my old client, who I am to meet tomorrow, and call it all off. Sweetie Pie Husband, who is really quite practical, says I should take the old client business since I know them, know their programs, and can write things fairly quickly for them. On one level he is right, because there is some sense in keeping my hand in so that when Lovey goes to school, I can get back into the grant writing thing. However, this client is slow to pay due to cash flow problems, and since they are a small non-profit, they only write a few grants at a time. Is it worth it to bring our babysitter in more than once a week for some projects that aren’t going to pay off?
Sorry to inflict my petty First World problems upon you, but that is where I am at the moment.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Of Aversion and Evasion
Earlier today, I got in a good solid block of writing time on my book. Since I am on a roll, I thought that I could work on it some more tonight. Well, evidently, my muse had other plans, because I’ve been working instead on my personal essay collection. The idea behind this is that I write one personal essay a month for an undetermined span of time and that eventually I’ll be able to either (a) collect them in a book, (b) send them out with query letters as proof that I need my own regular column at Salon or some such place or (c) failing all else, paper my walls with them.
Well, tonight as I was putting Lovey to bed, I had a bunch of ideas for essays and that’s what pulled me away from working on my novel. I should mention that when I put Lovey to bed, I stay in the room until I am sure that she is asleep. After the bedtime stories, the rocking, the singing, the rubbing of her tiny hot little back, I pray. And when I pray, I always get ideas. I don’t ask for them, per se. When I pray, I basically have a little talk with God, during which I thank Him/Her for all the good things in my life, and ask Him/Her to help me in areas where I’m having trouble. Since I am not very direct, this generally comes out as the all-purpose “help me to be a better person” prayer. I feel God already knows the specifics anyway. He/She is All-Knowing, right? I also pray for God to keep my baby safe and healthy and to give strength to various people who I know are having a rough time.
I find that prayer calms my mind. And as soon as my mind is free of all the busyness and craziness that is usually zinging around in there (what Zen calls monkey mind), all these great ideas come floating through.
Tonight, I sat down to write about my grandfather. I started at 7:45 PM. I have written a page and a half. It is 9:42 PM. It has taken me nearly two hours to write a page and a half because every couple or sentences or so, I start crying and I can’t stop. I miss him so much. I keep trying to make sense of a world without him in it and it’s just not make-sensible. And if you try and tell me that make-sensible is not a word, I may just hit you (I am already emotionally fragile). Language is a living thing; it is constantly evolving. Are we not adding new words to our everyday lexicon, well, everyday? Ten years ago, would you have any idea what “blog” meant?
And see! Again I am not facing what I really meant to write about. I decided to blog to give myself a break from the emotional juggernaut that awaits if I go back to my essay. You see, how I am blogging as a break from my essay, which I am writing because I didn’t have the energy to get back into my book tonight? So many evasive tactics! I might convince myself that it is too soon to write about this. But that would be wrong. I think it is high time to write about it, and cry, and work through it.
One more thing: that stupid Microsoft Office help icon, Clippit, is questioning my use of the word "awaits" in the third sentence of the last paragraph. Clippit seems to think that "awaits" must have a direct object to complete its action. I think any idiot will realize that [me] is implied and may be inferred following "awaits." I hate that damn Clippit. By the way, a synonym for juggernaut is steamroller; compare "That smug Clippit doesn't realize the juggernaut of my wrath awaits to crush him into an even more useless piece of metal!"
Well, tonight as I was putting Lovey to bed, I had a bunch of ideas for essays and that’s what pulled me away from working on my novel. I should mention that when I put Lovey to bed, I stay in the room until I am sure that she is asleep. After the bedtime stories, the rocking, the singing, the rubbing of her tiny hot little back, I pray. And when I pray, I always get ideas. I don’t ask for them, per se. When I pray, I basically have a little talk with God, during which I thank Him/Her for all the good things in my life, and ask Him/Her to help me in areas where I’m having trouble. Since I am not very direct, this generally comes out as the all-purpose “help me to be a better person” prayer. I feel God already knows the specifics anyway. He/She is All-Knowing, right? I also pray for God to keep my baby safe and healthy and to give strength to various people who I know are having a rough time.
I find that prayer calms my mind. And as soon as my mind is free of all the busyness and craziness that is usually zinging around in there (what Zen calls monkey mind), all these great ideas come floating through.
Tonight, I sat down to write about my grandfather. I started at 7:45 PM. I have written a page and a half. It is 9:42 PM. It has taken me nearly two hours to write a page and a half because every couple or sentences or so, I start crying and I can’t stop. I miss him so much. I keep trying to make sense of a world without him in it and it’s just not make-sensible. And if you try and tell me that make-sensible is not a word, I may just hit you (I am already emotionally fragile). Language is a living thing; it is constantly evolving. Are we not adding new words to our everyday lexicon, well, everyday? Ten years ago, would you have any idea what “blog” meant?
And see! Again I am not facing what I really meant to write about. I decided to blog to give myself a break from the emotional juggernaut that awaits if I go back to my essay. You see, how I am blogging as a break from my essay, which I am writing because I didn’t have the energy to get back into my book tonight? So many evasive tactics! I might convince myself that it is too soon to write about this. But that would be wrong. I think it is high time to write about it, and cry, and work through it.
One more thing: that stupid Microsoft Office help icon, Clippit, is questioning my use of the word "awaits" in the third sentence of the last paragraph. Clippit seems to think that "awaits" must have a direct object to complete its action. I think any idiot will realize that [me] is implied and may be inferred following "awaits." I hate that damn Clippit. By the way, a synonym for juggernaut is steamroller; compare "That smug Clippit doesn't realize the juggernaut of my wrath awaits to crush him into an even more useless piece of metal!"
Friday, August 20, 2004
Today started out like a Seinfeld episode. Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I took out my contact lenses and threw them away. This is because they are “disposable” (although I’m not really clear on what this means. Odd terminology, since that’s what you used to do with contact lenses anyway after you’d worn them a year, disinfecting them every day. Am I overanalyzing this? Not that there’s anything wrong with that…). I have been told to replace my contact lenses every three months, and I bought a year’s worth of lenses about 9 months ago.
So this morning, tra la la, I go into the bathroom to put my brand spankin’ new contact lenses in. Open the right-eye vial, shake it out, insert right lens. Ah! Beautiful! I can see that my bathroom sink needs cleaning. Open the left – ergh, ugh – open the – what the – ergh – what the bleeping blank is wrong with this thing? Although I am a reasonably healthy adult, I can’t for the life of me get the top off the left-eye vial. My left contact lens floats benignly in its solution, oblivious to my frustrated attempts to free it from its soggy prison.
Now, remember, I threw the old ones away. And – of course – these are the last contact lenses in the box. And because I have toric lenses and such a strong prescription, they have to be special-ordered from the Contact Lens Distribution Center for the Nearly Blind, where no doubt they are manufactured by hand by specially trained rhesus monkeys. Who are on strike.
So at this moment, I am wearing one new lens and one really old lens which I scavenged from a contact lens case I haven’t opened in nearly a year. Thank God I had the presence of mind to decide to keep these in case of emergency. Hopefully, my Big Strong Husband can open the left vial when he comes home for lunch. Of course, if this were a Seinfeld episode, he’d break his glasses at work and call me to come and pick him up, and while I was driving to get him I’d notice a homeless person walking down the street swaddled in my purloined sheets (see August 18 entry). And as I whipped my neck around to scream out the window, my left contact lens would pop out and roll down the street.
To add to the Murphy’s Law mix of today, the beloved fruit of our loins has not been sleeping well (again). Last night, she went to bed at Nine. O’Clock. Two hours later than usual. And woke up at Five. Ay-em. An hour and a half earlier than usual. And fell asleep in her high chair in the bathroom while I was taking a shower. At 9:15, instead of at 12, which is when she usually naps. This has totally screwed up my day, but that is life with a little one. Che será, and all that. She looks very sweet, all snuggled up with Mao, her little white stuffed cat, under her green gingham fleecy blankie. So I have decided to seize the moment and work on my book and stuff. Toodles!
So this morning, tra la la, I go into the bathroom to put my brand spankin’ new contact lenses in. Open the right-eye vial, shake it out, insert right lens. Ah! Beautiful! I can see that my bathroom sink needs cleaning. Open the left – ergh, ugh – open the – what the – ergh – what the bleeping blank is wrong with this thing? Although I am a reasonably healthy adult, I can’t for the life of me get the top off the left-eye vial. My left contact lens floats benignly in its solution, oblivious to my frustrated attempts to free it from its soggy prison.
Now, remember, I threw the old ones away. And – of course – these are the last contact lenses in the box. And because I have toric lenses and such a strong prescription, they have to be special-ordered from the Contact Lens Distribution Center for the Nearly Blind, where no doubt they are manufactured by hand by specially trained rhesus monkeys. Who are on strike.
So at this moment, I am wearing one new lens and one really old lens which I scavenged from a contact lens case I haven’t opened in nearly a year. Thank God I had the presence of mind to decide to keep these in case of emergency. Hopefully, my Big Strong Husband can open the left vial when he comes home for lunch. Of course, if this were a Seinfeld episode, he’d break his glasses at work and call me to come and pick him up, and while I was driving to get him I’d notice a homeless person walking down the street swaddled in my purloined sheets (see August 18 entry). And as I whipped my neck around to scream out the window, my left contact lens would pop out and roll down the street.
To add to the Murphy’s Law mix of today, the beloved fruit of our loins has not been sleeping well (again). Last night, she went to bed at Nine. O’Clock. Two hours later than usual. And woke up at Five. Ay-em. An hour and a half earlier than usual. And fell asleep in her high chair in the bathroom while I was taking a shower. At 9:15, instead of at 12, which is when she usually naps. This has totally screwed up my day, but that is life with a little one. Che será, and all that. She looks very sweet, all snuggled up with Mao, her little white stuffed cat, under her green gingham fleecy blankie. So I have decided to seize the moment and work on my book and stuff. Toodles!
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Sick and Tired. Oh, you too?
Well, ladies and germs, I have two things I wish to discuss today:
1. I am sick of myself.
2. And (I can barely stand to write this because, dear Reader, you are going to think “They must live in the ‘hood – they’re just frontin’ or something,” because) we had yet another unpleasant episode in our apartment building.
First, I am sick of myself, and I know you must be sick of me too. I am tired of my same basic uniform of T-shirt, cropped pants and flip-flops. I look in vain in my closet for some cute yet functional outfit; I pull out various items and reject them; I gnash my teeth and rend my garments. All of my former work clothes are just taking up space. And after one week of being on vacation, my mid-section, which was starting to trim down, has pudged back out. God, I am sick of myself.
In a similar vein, I am sick of our allegedly secure “luxury” apartment building. Yesterday, our babysitter Maria was here so I could go out and run some errands and then have some quiet time to work on my book (ratio of time spent on errands vs. time spent on book: easily 10 to 1). She was doing laundry, and she wasn’t finished when it came time for her to leave. She told me there was one load in the dryer, and she left the laundry basket in the laundry room, which is literally right next door to our apartment. An hour later, I went down the hall to get the laundry. It. Was. Gone. Desaparecidos! Like those unfortunate people in Argentina, whose plight was popularized and arguably exploited for commercial gain by Sting. So now I dance alone, with images of my best sheets and towels in my head (not to mention my laundry basket). If Sting is to be believed, one day we'll dance on their graves, one day we'll sing our freedom, one day we'll laugh in our joy, and we'll dance… Mutha truckas! If I catch whoever took my stuff…well, I just hope they know who they’re dealing with, is all. (Said in my most menacing, “I am five-one on a good day and a wind could blow me over” kind of voice.)
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
Our delightful little family of three has been on vacation for a few days. We decided not to travel this time, but to take vacation right here in Los Angeles, and to act to a certain extent as tourists in our own town. To that end, here’s a rundown of what we’ve down so far:
1. Had meals at Mimi’s Café (chain, but not bad), La Belle Epoque (lovely French food, croissants that must have each had a pound of butter in them), and Highland Grounds (our old standby; had to check in and say hello).
2. Went to the Lake Shrine (Pacific Palisades, serene, full of love, unity and gigantic koi), the beach (Santa Monica, beautiful, gorgeous, fantastic) and the L.A. Zoo (hot as hell; we gazed enviously at the sea lions gliding gracefully about in what appeared to be the coolest and most refreshing water on the planet).
3. Visited the Hustler store sans Viva (unspecified purchases totaling $58.41). Oh, come on, people, we’re all adults here.
4. Processed six rolls of film, necessitating activity #5.
5. Poked around at Aaron Brothers and bought picture frames to beautify our bodacious pad.
6. Made approximately 28 separate trips to the supermarket for stuff we needed/forgot (see activities #8, 9, and 10).
7. Had a family caricature done. This need never be done again, because I really don’t need to know what I would look like as a cartoon character. Viva, on the other hand, would make a fabulous cartoon. I’ll get to work on that project, soon, believe me.
8. Ate more steak than a family of mountain lions (barbecued and pan-grilled -- both were scrumptious).
9. Ate cookies and/or ice cream pretty much every night of our vacation.
10. Lay around feeling bloated and sick.
And there you have it. I hope you have enjoyed your virtual vacation along with us, thanks to the miraculous powers of this newfangled thing they call the Internet. Ahoy hoy!
1. Had meals at Mimi’s Café (chain, but not bad), La Belle Epoque (lovely French food, croissants that must have each had a pound of butter in them), and Highland Grounds (our old standby; had to check in and say hello).
2. Went to the Lake Shrine (Pacific Palisades, serene, full of love, unity and gigantic koi), the beach (Santa Monica, beautiful, gorgeous, fantastic) and the L.A. Zoo (hot as hell; we gazed enviously at the sea lions gliding gracefully about in what appeared to be the coolest and most refreshing water on the planet).
3. Visited the Hustler store sans Viva (unspecified purchases totaling $58.41). Oh, come on, people, we’re all adults here.
4. Processed six rolls of film, necessitating activity #5.
5. Poked around at Aaron Brothers and bought picture frames to beautify our bodacious pad.
6. Made approximately 28 separate trips to the supermarket for stuff we needed/forgot (see activities #8, 9, and 10).
7. Had a family caricature done. This need never be done again, because I really don’t need to know what I would look like as a cartoon character. Viva, on the other hand, would make a fabulous cartoon. I’ll get to work on that project, soon, believe me.
8. Ate more steak than a family of mountain lions (barbecued and pan-grilled -- both were scrumptious).
9. Ate cookies and/or ice cream pretty much every night of our vacation.
10. Lay around feeling bloated and sick.
And there you have it. I hope you have enjoyed your virtual vacation along with us, thanks to the miraculous powers of this newfangled thing they call the Internet. Ahoy hoy!
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Age Ain't Nuthin' But A Number. Yeah, Right.
Some haikus in honor of my birthday:
I am thirty-six.
“Middle age” doesn’t scare me.
I am still the bomb!
A good strong number.
Years enough to know some things
And still have some fun.
My advice to you:
Keep brain and body active.
Don’t sweat the small stuff.
What? Thirty-six years?!
Glad to be on this planet,
Though it moves so fast.
“Don’t deny your age.
Defy it.” And yet you’ve had
Plastic surgery.
Thirty-six years been
Very, very good to me.
Sweet Lord, I am blessed.
Be in the moment.
Practice true self-acceptance.
We all have a gift.
I am still a hot momma.
I am thirty-six.
“Middle age” doesn’t scare me.
I am still the bomb!
A good strong number.
Years enough to know some things
And still have some fun.
My advice to you:
Keep brain and body active.
Don’t sweat the small stuff.
What? Thirty-six years?!
Glad to be on this planet,
Though it moves so fast.
“Don’t deny your age.
Defy it.” And yet you’ve had
Plastic surgery.
Thirty-six years been
Very, very good to me.
Sweet Lord, I am blessed.
Be in the moment.
Practice true self-acceptance.
We all have a gift.
I am still a hot momma.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Of Pickaninnies and Predators
I believe I have made peace with the pickaninny doll. I just sat down and had a talk with her, got to know her a little better. She’s asked me to call her Annie. What I realized in talking to her is that she is just a doll, a happy little black doll who happens to carry a basket. She is not that horrible stereotypical racial caricature with the huge mouth surrounded by big red lips, eatin’ watermelon and buggin’ her eyes out. She is not trying to glorify slavery or rewrite history to make us all feel better. She is just a doll. So I am just going to chill and let her and Lovey have their fun. There. (But for those of you that are interested in an analysis of the history of the pickaninny, click here.)
In other news, I’ve been having some trouble connecting to the Internet today. I am not sure what the problem is. I have checked all the connections and everything is plugged in and on. So what the?? I am writing this offline and hope to post at a later time.
In even other news, let’s talk about this movie Open Water. I haven’t seen it, of course (I don’t really get to see much of anything in the theater, and the only reason I know about this is I saw the trailer for it when I want to see Fahrenheit 9/11). But I am so freaked out about it that I have spent hours looking up info related to it. It’s “based on true events”! What could be more compelling?? Here’s the basic plotline: a couple goes on a chartered boat expedition to go deep-sea scuba diving during their vacation in the Caribbean. Due to a bungled headcount by the charter people, when they surface from the dive, the boat is gone. They are stranded in the middle of the ocean, and nobody realizes they are gone. Bad enough, right? Well, they are in shark-infested waters, and they start to see fins slipping past them.
Errrrrr!!! This is the kind of movie that makes me freak out about getting into a pool, never mind the ocean. Why do sharks freak us all out so much? I think it has something to do with (a) the fear of being hunted and (b) well, yes, the sheer horror of being eaten alive. I guess that would bug you. There is a bit of controversy over this film, because most people assume it is based on one real-life story (the disappearance of the Lonergans in the Great Barrier Reef in 1998) in particular. But in researching this, I have discovered that this is not an isolated incident. Not. An. Isolated. Incident. That is to say, it has happened before. More than once. So, kids, for those of you who really love the ocean and might consider being dropped off by a boat in the middle of the ocean to go scuba diving – well, consider yourselves warned, is all I’m saying.
I don’t plan on seeing the movie, by the way. Because I am not the bad ass “sharks don’t scare me” kind of gal that can handle this kind of movie. Oh, and I should mention that I do have a fear of being in water over my head, which stems back to my early trauma in the shallow end of the pool at the Allston-Brighton YMCA…but that is a story for another time.
In other news, I’ve been having some trouble connecting to the Internet today. I am not sure what the problem is. I have checked all the connections and everything is plugged in and on. So what the?? I am writing this offline and hope to post at a later time.
In even other news, let’s talk about this movie Open Water. I haven’t seen it, of course (I don’t really get to see much of anything in the theater, and the only reason I know about this is I saw the trailer for it when I want to see Fahrenheit 9/11). But I am so freaked out about it that I have spent hours looking up info related to it. It’s “based on true events”! What could be more compelling?? Here’s the basic plotline: a couple goes on a chartered boat expedition to go deep-sea scuba diving during their vacation in the Caribbean. Due to a bungled headcount by the charter people, when they surface from the dive, the boat is gone. They are stranded in the middle of the ocean, and nobody realizes they are gone. Bad enough, right? Well, they are in shark-infested waters, and they start to see fins slipping past them.
Errrrrr!!! This is the kind of movie that makes me freak out about getting into a pool, never mind the ocean. Why do sharks freak us all out so much? I think it has something to do with (a) the fear of being hunted and (b) well, yes, the sheer horror of being eaten alive. I guess that would bug you. There is a bit of controversy over this film, because most people assume it is based on one real-life story (the disappearance of the Lonergans in the Great Barrier Reef in 1998) in particular. But in researching this, I have discovered that this is not an isolated incident. Not. An. Isolated. Incident. That is to say, it has happened before. More than once. So, kids, for those of you who really love the ocean and might consider being dropped off by a boat in the middle of the ocean to go scuba diving – well, consider yourselves warned, is all I’m saying.
I don’t plan on seeing the movie, by the way. Because I am not the bad ass “sharks don’t scare me” kind of gal that can handle this kind of movie. Oh, and I should mention that I do have a fear of being in water over my head, which stems back to my early trauma in the shallow end of the pool at the Allston-Brighton YMCA…but that is a story for another time.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Ah, the DNC
Okay, so my last blog entry got cut short. To expand upon my tirade about the black memorabilia, I wanted to get into the whole Golliwog controversy, but if I do that I probably won’t get to discuss other important matters which I promised to address, i.e. the Democratic National Convention. So if Lovey stays asleep, which admittedly is highly unlikely, I swear to you I will get back to that at the end of this entry. No, seriously.
Now, the most important things for you to know about the Democratic National Convention as it relates to my life (and yes, it is all about me, because, well, this is my blog) are that (1) my sister-in-law, the Diva, (holla atcha girl!) is a California delegate and is currently in Boston at the convention; and (b) Barack Obama is my new virtual boyfriend.
Let me explain a few things for those of you that are new. To be my serious virtual boyfriend, you must be (a) intelligent, (b) attractive, (c) funny and (d) completely inaccessible to me in real life. Mr. Obama meets at least three of these criteria; however, I don’t know if he is funny. And that is crucial. Because the thing is, other people might find him funny, but in my little corner of the universe, you need to have a quirky, unusual sense of humor to make me laugh. This is why my Darling Husband and I are so suited to each other, because we both find the same random things inexplicably and uproariously funny.
I have the usual not-so-serious virtual boyfriends like Taye Diggs and Blair Underwood. My affection for them is based pretty much on their physical attributes and their charm. But then there are the more serious contenders, like Owen Wilson (ironically, the “dark horse” in this race due to his lack of melanin), and Chris Rock. I am a sucker for a man who is both smart and funny. Well, no one can compete with my husband, because he is the funniest and smartest and sweetest guy around. But I do now have a thing for Sen. Obama, although I am quite sure that any actual conversation I might have with him would go something like this:
SEN. OBAMA: So what’s your take on the 9/11 report? Do you agree with the commission’s recommendations on governmental reorganization?
ME: Duh-uhhhh…I drank a lot of beer in college. Can you pass the chips?
Anyhoo, as for the actual convention: from all reports, my sister-in-law is having the time of her life. She even got to have lunch with President Clinton (not one-on-one. DUH). I have to admit, we were all a bit worried about security issues at the convention, but so far, so good. I am really looking forward to hearing all her stories when she gets back.
Once again, I have to end. Lovey is waking up. Sahr!
Now, the most important things for you to know about the Democratic National Convention as it relates to my life (and yes, it is all about me, because, well, this is my blog) are that (1) my sister-in-law, the Diva, (holla atcha girl!) is a California delegate and is currently in Boston at the convention; and (b) Barack Obama is my new virtual boyfriend.
Let me explain a few things for those of you that are new. To be my serious virtual boyfriend, you must be (a) intelligent, (b) attractive, (c) funny and (d) completely inaccessible to me in real life. Mr. Obama meets at least three of these criteria; however, I don’t know if he is funny. And that is crucial. Because the thing is, other people might find him funny, but in my little corner of the universe, you need to have a quirky, unusual sense of humor to make me laugh. This is why my Darling Husband and I are so suited to each other, because we both find the same random things inexplicably and uproariously funny.
I have the usual not-so-serious virtual boyfriends like Taye Diggs and Blair Underwood. My affection for them is based pretty much on their physical attributes and their charm. But then there are the more serious contenders, like Owen Wilson (ironically, the “dark horse” in this race due to his lack of melanin), and Chris Rock. I am a sucker for a man who is both smart and funny. Well, no one can compete with my husband, because he is the funniest and smartest and sweetest guy around. But I do now have a thing for Sen. Obama, although I am quite sure that any actual conversation I might have with him would go something like this:
SEN. OBAMA: So what’s your take on the 9/11 report? Do you agree with the commission’s recommendations on governmental reorganization?
ME: Duh-uhhhh…I drank a lot of beer in college. Can you pass the chips?
Anyhoo, as for the actual convention: from all reports, my sister-in-law is having the time of her life. She even got to have lunch with President Clinton (not one-on-one. DUH). I have to admit, we were all a bit worried about security issues at the convention, but so far, so good. I am really looking forward to hearing all her stories when she gets back.
Once again, I have to end. Lovey is waking up. Sahr!
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Black Memorabilia. It Ain't Kitschy.
I haven’t blogged in a while because I have been sick, and when I am sick I prefer to do silly things like lie down when I have free time (generally when Lovey is asleep).
I want to address two issues today: (1) historical ethnic dolls; and (2) the Democratic National Convention (yes, I am still a Democrat).
On the first issue, I don’t even know that I’m describing it correctly, but here we go. I have a grandmother who makes dolls, many of which are “ethnic.” When Lovey was born, my grandmother sent us a pick-a-ninny [sic] doll, with its own stand and a little tag stating that it was #46 in a series. The attached tag states:
“The dictionary defines the word pick-a-ninny as a ‘small Negro child.’ West Indian slaves used the word ‘pequeno’ referring to small children. In America, before Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin, the small slave children’s task was to sort through the cotton bolls and pick out any bits of bark, [sic] or trash. A ‘clean’ bale would bring a higher price when sold by the plantation owner. In America, the slaves referred to these children as Pick-a-ninny [sic].”
The doll itself is about six inches high, wears a gingham red dress and several plaits sticking straight up off her head. She carries a basket and has a cheerful little grin. Ah, slavery. Them was good times, suh!
Anyway, Lovey has just discovered this doll and is quite happy with it. She doesn’t know the significance of it yet, of course. My problem with it is that the word pickaninny has such a derogatory connotation. Ignorant people use it as a racist slur. My larger problem has to do with “black memorabilia” in general. You know, the weird racist shit that people pay money now to collect? What black person in his/her right mind would want something like this? It just seems so sick and self-loathingful to me (yes, I just made that word up). I really don’t understand that mentality.
An ex-boyfriend of mine, who was biracial (half-black, half-Italian-American), had the diagram of the inside of a slave ship tattooed on his arm. It showed these tiny little figures all crammed closely together, like so. I asked him why he would want something like that permanently etched into his skin. He said because we should never forget the horrors of slavery, and he wanted it there as a reminder. (In hindsight, I think he was really into the shock value.) I likened it to a Jewish person having the diagram of a concentration camp on their arm. It made no sense to me then, and, with the benefit of years of accumulated wisdom since, it makes no sense to me now.
The argument I always hear is about re-appropriating these words and images, that “owning” them takes back their power. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to validate something I see as racist. So my concern with the pick-a-ninny doll is that the doll itself is not offensive, but what it represents is.
Am I making sense? I know that I often don’t. And I’m going to have to leave you with that because my sweet cherub just woke up from her nap. More on this next time…
I want to address two issues today: (1) historical ethnic dolls; and (2) the Democratic National Convention (yes, I am still a Democrat).
On the first issue, I don’t even know that I’m describing it correctly, but here we go. I have a grandmother who makes dolls, many of which are “ethnic.” When Lovey was born, my grandmother sent us a pick-a-ninny [sic] doll, with its own stand and a little tag stating that it was #46 in a series. The attached tag states:
“The dictionary defines the word pick-a-ninny as a ‘small Negro child.’ West Indian slaves used the word ‘pequeno’ referring to small children. In America, before Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin, the small slave children’s task was to sort through the cotton bolls and pick out any bits of bark, [sic] or trash. A ‘clean’ bale would bring a higher price when sold by the plantation owner. In America, the slaves referred to these children as Pick-a-ninny [sic].”
The doll itself is about six inches high, wears a gingham red dress and several plaits sticking straight up off her head. She carries a basket and has a cheerful little grin. Ah, slavery. Them was good times, suh!
Anyway, Lovey has just discovered this doll and is quite happy with it. She doesn’t know the significance of it yet, of course. My problem with it is that the word pickaninny has such a derogatory connotation. Ignorant people use it as a racist slur. My larger problem has to do with “black memorabilia” in general. You know, the weird racist shit that people pay money now to collect? What black person in his/her right mind would want something like this? It just seems so sick and self-loathingful to me (yes, I just made that word up). I really don’t understand that mentality.
An ex-boyfriend of mine, who was biracial (half-black, half-Italian-American), had the diagram of the inside of a slave ship tattooed on his arm. It showed these tiny little figures all crammed closely together, like so. I asked him why he would want something like that permanently etched into his skin. He said because we should never forget the horrors of slavery, and he wanted it there as a reminder. (In hindsight, I think he was really into the shock value.) I likened it to a Jewish person having the diagram of a concentration camp on their arm. It made no sense to me then, and, with the benefit of years of accumulated wisdom since, it makes no sense to me now.
The argument I always hear is about re-appropriating these words and images, that “owning” them takes back their power. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to validate something I see as racist. So my concern with the pick-a-ninny doll is that the doll itself is not offensive, but what it represents is.
Am I making sense? I know that I often don’t. And I’m going to have to leave you with that because my sweet cherub just woke up from her nap. More on this next time…
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Sick Day, L.A.-Style
My Dear Sweet Husband came home Friday complaining that he was getting a cold. All weekend, he basically moved from the couch to the bed and back again, sniffling and looking sad. On Monday he wasn’t feeling well enough to go to work, and I was suffering from a burning sore throat too. What to do? Well, naturally, you pack up the whole family and go to the beach.
It was really a beautiful day. We stopped and had breakfast at Broadway Deli, and then traipsed down to the beach. We spent a lot of time knee-deep in the water with Lovey (her knees, not ours). She was unsure about this, crying at first from Daddy’s arms and twisting around and screaming for me. Daddy wants her to face her fears and learn that he will never put her in harm’s way, so they remained in the water. I admit that I was too tired at first to get up and try to rescue her, so I just waved half-heartedly from the blanket and drank up our water supply to soothe my throat. When I did get down to the water’s edge, she was happily screaming at the waves as they came rushing at her and even trying to get to deeper water. Score one for Daddy.
Here is the coolest part of the day: we were not far from a couple of surfers trying to catch some waves, and some dolphins came in close to shore to play with them. This is not the first time I’ve seen this, but this is the closest I’ve gotten to them. I could see them flipping around and slapping their tails in the water. How cool is that?!
Later on, after we came home, I lost whatever energy I might have been able to muster and could not even begin to think about making dinner. From my semi-conscious state on the couch, I couldn’t even think of what to order from the takeout menus. This led to us holding hands in the middle of the living room, chanting: “We are the Blah Blahs. We are hungry. Please send us some food.”
I ended up with a cup of tortilla soup and My Darling Husband had a burger with fries. It was truly a Monday Night Miracle!
It was really a beautiful day. We stopped and had breakfast at Broadway Deli, and then traipsed down to the beach. We spent a lot of time knee-deep in the water with Lovey (her knees, not ours). She was unsure about this, crying at first from Daddy’s arms and twisting around and screaming for me. Daddy wants her to face her fears and learn that he will never put her in harm’s way, so they remained in the water. I admit that I was too tired at first to get up and try to rescue her, so I just waved half-heartedly from the blanket and drank up our water supply to soothe my throat. When I did get down to the water’s edge, she was happily screaming at the waves as they came rushing at her and even trying to get to deeper water. Score one for Daddy.
Here is the coolest part of the day: we were not far from a couple of surfers trying to catch some waves, and some dolphins came in close to shore to play with them. This is not the first time I’ve seen this, but this is the closest I’ve gotten to them. I could see them flipping around and slapping their tails in the water. How cool is that?!
Later on, after we came home, I lost whatever energy I might have been able to muster and could not even begin to think about making dinner. From my semi-conscious state on the couch, I couldn’t even think of what to order from the takeout menus. This led to us holding hands in the middle of the living room, chanting: “We are the Blah Blahs. We are hungry. Please send us some food.”
I ended up with a cup of tortilla soup and My Darling Husband had a burger with fries. It was truly a Monday Night Miracle!
Saturday, July 17, 2004
A "WTF?" Moment
So I was in my local Trader Joe’s the other day, minding my business in the cheese aisle with my lovely Lovey in the shopping cart. An elderly gentleman came by and starting talking to Lovey in a heavy Russian accent. She was flirting with him in the way she does sometimes unexpectedly with totally random people, and she even smiled at him. The man said, “Oh, she looks like you, same smile, same face.” I said, “Oh, you think so? Thanks!” Then he leaned closer to her, smiling, and said, “You’re a blackie!” and then walked off. I was taken aback for a second, and then I shrugged and said to myself, “Well, yes, she is.” I guess the question is, as she gets older, what would she say in response?
Will says, “She is her father’s child. She’ll say, ‘And you’re a honky!’”
In all honesty, I do not think the guy meant anything bad by it. It is just one of those random encounters that take one by surprise. I guess I am generally not thinking about how people perceive us as I go about the mundane rituals of my day-to-day life.
Will says, “She is her father’s child. She’ll say, ‘And you’re a honky!’”
In all honesty, I do not think the guy meant anything bad by it. It is just one of those random encounters that take one by surprise. I guess I am generally not thinking about how people perceive us as I go about the mundane rituals of my day-to-day life.
Friday, July 16, 2004
Living with Lovey
Lately, I have been blogging offline – that is, typing my blog into Word when I can and then posting it later. Sometimes days later. So there will be times when you visit this page and there will suddenly be two or three blog entries where an hour ago there were none. What can I say – this is what works for me right now.
Lovey resents any time I spend on the computer because she can’t understand why I will not (a) let her push all the keyboard buttons to her heart’s content and (2) failing that, at least set the computer to “slide show,” so she can watch all the pictures of herself that I have stored here. Oh, yes, she is incredibly vain. Whenever she sees photos of herself, she crows, “I am the most gorgeous and entertaining creature in the land!” squealing and clapping her hands. At least I think that’s what she’s saying. So my moments alone at the computer are few and far between, which is why it is 5:48 a.m. and instead of lounging around in bed, I am blogging to warm up before getting back to writing my book. Lovey is in the living room doing “goga” with her daddy. She can do downward facing dog pose better than anyone you have ever seen!
Lovey resents any time I spend on the computer because she can’t understand why I will not (a) let her push all the keyboard buttons to her heart’s content and (2) failing that, at least set the computer to “slide show,” so she can watch all the pictures of herself that I have stored here. Oh, yes, she is incredibly vain. Whenever she sees photos of herself, she crows, “I am the most gorgeous and entertaining creature in the land!” squealing and clapping her hands. At least I think that’s what she’s saying. So my moments alone at the computer are few and far between, which is why it is 5:48 a.m. and instead of lounging around in bed, I am blogging to warm up before getting back to writing my book. Lovey is in the living room doing “goga” with her daddy. She can do downward facing dog pose better than anyone you have ever seen!
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Feel the Burn
I am having major body image issues lately. Am seriously considering investing in a corset. Would that be bad? Do they still make those? My Darling Husband, who exercises every single day, today came home and told me that he is fat. This is of course completely ridiculous, so I just said, “Uh huh,” to validate his fatness. Somehow he took this as insincere.
Until a few months ago, I could put Lovey in the stroller and go for a brisk walk for 45 minutes to an hour every day or so. Well, now that she can walk on her own, she will no longer tolerate that, so I am sad to report that my waist is starting to pudge. No one believes this (except of course, for My Darling Husband who has seen me en deshabille but says he likes me anyway). This is because I am still reasonably slim except in that one traitorous area. So I have resorted to putting on music and dancing around the apartment to work up a sweat. Lovey and I like to pretend we are in a music video. In fact, I think we should make a music video because I think she could teach those video hoochies a thing or three.
Until a few months ago, I could put Lovey in the stroller and go for a brisk walk for 45 minutes to an hour every day or so. Well, now that she can walk on her own, she will no longer tolerate that, so I am sad to report that my waist is starting to pudge. No one believes this (except of course, for My Darling Husband who has seen me en deshabille but says he likes me anyway). This is because I am still reasonably slim except in that one traitorous area. So I have resorted to putting on music and dancing around the apartment to work up a sweat. Lovey and I like to pretend we are in a music video. In fact, I think we should make a music video because I think she could teach those video hoochies a thing or three.
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