So I was sitting here at my desk, with nothing left to do, and it was Friday afternoon before a long holiday weekend (we don’t get Monday off, but pretty much everybody is taking Monday as a vacation day, so I will be one of three people here since I am new and thus have no vacation time to take. It will be me and one person from Payroll. Seriously.), and anyway, I decided to blog, and the. Power. Went. Out.
It’s back on, but it’s 4:12 PM. I think the power outage is a sign that I should pack up and go home, but there seems to be a crew of diehards hanging about.
Before I go, let me tell you that I had a couple of “meet and greets” today, with a couple of department heads, and I was feeling a little unprepared, but they both went well. I was well-pleased with myself, and went strutting down the street back to my office building a la John Travolta back in the Saturday Night Fever days. “Well you can tell by the way I use my walk…”
And then as I was nearing my building, an incredibly sweaty man with wacked-out eyes passed me, drinking an orange soda, and screamed, “Well, that mu’fucka was SLOW!” as I passed him.
Sometimes I think the universe just lobs you one to check your reflexes if you’re getting too cocky.
Have a delightfully unbalanced weekend…
P.S. Someone just came over the PA system and said, "Please be advised...we are having...electrical problem." And, end scene. Well, that's helpful, thanks.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Tip for the Newly Employed
When heating up Trader Joe’s Middle Eastern pizza in the employee kitchen cube*, do not get so distracted by the person you are talking to (because you are talking about shoes! On sale! And the sale may still be going on! And she bought a pair of cute pumps for 20 bucks at the outlet store where the sale is happening!) that you put the pizza into the toaster oven on a Chinet plate and press “toast.” And, even after your co-worker leaves, either not noticing your gaffe or not telling you, do not get so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t even think to check on your pizza until right before the smug little toaster oven “ready” bell dings.
Chinet does not smell so good when it’s been browned.
For more helpful tips on returning to the work world, send your check or money order for $19.95 to:
I am a Moron
P.O. Box 00
Los Angeles, CA 90000
But act now – supplies are limited! (Mainly because we haven’t figured out yet how the photocopier works.)
But wait, there's more! Tip #2: Do not finish your lunch at your desk, eating Pirate's Booty and scattering cheesy Booty dust all over your black pants. It does not add to the über-professional, "I can handle anything" appearance you are going for.
That's right, only $19.95. Act now! You don't have to be a moron!
* We have an actual break room in one portion of the cavernous office space we lease, and a cubicle with a sink, toaster-oven, mini-fridge, and microwave in another portion of the cavernous office space we lease.
Chinet does not smell so good when it’s been browned.
For more helpful tips on returning to the work world, send your check or money order for $19.95 to:
I am a Moron
P.O. Box 00
Los Angeles, CA 90000
But act now – supplies are limited! (Mainly because we haven’t figured out yet how the photocopier works.)
But wait, there's more! Tip #2: Do not finish your lunch at your desk, eating Pirate's Booty and scattering cheesy Booty dust all over your black pants. It does not add to the über-professional, "I can handle anything" appearance you are going for.
That's right, only $19.95. Act now! You don't have to be a moron!
* We have an actual break room in one portion of the cavernous office space we lease, and a cubicle with a sink, toaster-oven, mini-fridge, and microwave in another portion of the cavernous office space we lease.
The Bell Tolls
My brother-in-law Big Mike’s grandma passed away yesterday. A few hours later, we learned that the mom of one of Sweet William’s cousins (I think she is his cousin, too) had a stroke and passed away as well.
This is all sad enough, but they say these things come in threes. I dread the ringing of the phone.
This is all sad enough, but they say these things come in threes. I dread the ringing of the phone.
Friday, June 23, 2006
No Mickey Mousin' Around
I don’t have time today to write something altogether witty which will change the lives of everyone who reads it. What I can give you is my fallback position, to wit: my ongoing Vivamentary (Viva + commentary, or Viva + documentary, or, oh, whatever the hell).
Viva is going on a field trip today to, of all places, Chuck E. Cheese. I have never in my life been to a Chuck E. Cheese, nor has she. She is beyond excited and it is all she could talk about for the past 24 hours, which brings us to this morning:
Viva: Are you going to be with me at Chuck E. Cheese?
Mama: No, I have to go to work, baby.
Viva: Oh. Are you going to have fun at work like at Chuck E. Cheese?
Mama: Honey, there is no way I’m having as much fun as you are today.
About twenty minutes later:
Mama: You know, I’m not even sure where it [Chuck E. Cheese] is.
Viva [solemnly]: That’s because Chuck E. Cheese is a far new land.
I forgot to mention that she woke up screaming at 2:30 this morning, having a nightmare about bugs, and when I rushed into the room, the first thing she said was, tearfully, “I’m going to be late for Chuck E. Cheese!” presumably because she realized she wasn’t going to get enough sleep.
I hope that it’s all that she thinks it is, and more. It is, after all, “where a kid can be a kid.” I kind of think preschool itself is where a kid can be a kid, but maybe I’m just a killjoy.
Viva is going on a field trip today to, of all places, Chuck E. Cheese. I have never in my life been to a Chuck E. Cheese, nor has she. She is beyond excited and it is all she could talk about for the past 24 hours, which brings us to this morning:
Viva: Are you going to be with me at Chuck E. Cheese?
Mama: No, I have to go to work, baby.
Viva: Oh. Are you going to have fun at work like at Chuck E. Cheese?
Mama: Honey, there is no way I’m having as much fun as you are today.
About twenty minutes later:
Mama: You know, I’m not even sure where it [Chuck E. Cheese] is.
Viva [solemnly]: That’s because Chuck E. Cheese is a far new land.
I forgot to mention that she woke up screaming at 2:30 this morning, having a nightmare about bugs, and when I rushed into the room, the first thing she said was, tearfully, “I’m going to be late for Chuck E. Cheese!” presumably because she realized she wasn’t going to get enough sleep.
I hope that it’s all that she thinks it is, and more. It is, after all, “where a kid can be a kid.” I kind of think preschool itself is where a kid can be a kid, but maybe I’m just a killjoy.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
A Cautionary Tale
Oh, and by the way, Banana Republic's shoes are quite seriously not worth the money. I own at least three pairs (bought specifically for office use, not for any serious walking) and each pair gives me blisters in a different spot. I am sitting her at work putting a band-aid on my pinky toe, thanks to the cute wedge slides I bought a few years ago but have rarely worn. And the most walking I have done today is from my cubicle to the restroom. What the hell?
I think Amnesty International denounces Banana Republic in its latest reports on brutal torture around the globe. Were my shoes made in Guantanamo Bay?
I think Amnesty International denounces Banana Republic in its latest reports on brutal torture around the globe. Were my shoes made in Guantanamo Bay?
Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay (or not)
So clearly, this job thing is cutting into my blogging time. Who would have thought?
For now, I have decided I will compose brief blog entries at work in Word, as a break in between doing the very important work that I do. I will then e-mail said entries to my personal e-mail address. And then I will post later, at home, whenever I can get access to my computer. Since I have a work event tonight, it doesn’t look very hopeful.*
I wish I had some dirt to dish which would make this more interesting, but so far, work is going well. My colleagues are delightful – they work hard but have fun doing it. Of course, because it is right now so perfect, it may not last. We are all worried because the company is doing some restructuring, and the laid-back, really cool, totally together boss** of our department is moving to a new position. They will begin looking to fill her current position at the end of the summer. She will be on the search committee, thank God, and I think she has good instincts (after all, she hired me). So maybe this will not be a bad thing.
Other than that – oh, my dear friend Cee has started her own blog, and much to my shame, she has actually been writing regularly. She has realized that you can pretty much blog about anything and she dreams of writing about toilet paper and the like. Check her out rightchere, discussing her deep love of U2.
Okay, back to work. Tune in again later, when I count paper clips in real time!
* I lied, I’m posting from work because I actually have the time. See what a slacker I am?
** Who, by the way, is a published novelist, I just found out -- getting ready to release her fourth book. Told you she was cool.
For now, I have decided I will compose brief blog entries at work in Word, as a break in between doing the very important work that I do. I will then e-mail said entries to my personal e-mail address. And then I will post later, at home, whenever I can get access to my computer. Since I have a work event tonight, it doesn’t look very hopeful.*
I wish I had some dirt to dish which would make this more interesting, but so far, work is going well. My colleagues are delightful – they work hard but have fun doing it. Of course, because it is right now so perfect, it may not last. We are all worried because the company is doing some restructuring, and the laid-back, really cool, totally together boss** of our department is moving to a new position. They will begin looking to fill her current position at the end of the summer. She will be on the search committee, thank God, and I think she has good instincts (after all, she hired me). So maybe this will not be a bad thing.
Other than that – oh, my dear friend Cee has started her own blog, and much to my shame, she has actually been writing regularly. She has realized that you can pretty much blog about anything and she dreams of writing about toilet paper and the like. Check her out rightchere, discussing her deep love of U2.
Okay, back to work. Tune in again later, when I count paper clips in real time!
* I lied, I’m posting from work because I actually have the time. See what a slacker I am?
** Who, by the way, is a published novelist, I just found out -- getting ready to release her fourth book. Told you she was cool.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Dilbertitude
I know how enjoyable it must be for you to read about what a weepy mess I am since I started this new job. But if I didn't have this new job, I couldn't tell you about what happened at work yesterday, and how giddy I was at the sheer Dilbertness of it all.
About mid-morning yesterday, this e-mail went out to all staff in our building:
Jesus is moving any left items on the refrigerated that have not been removed by now.
For a moment there, I thought the Messiah had come and was removing the "left items," in which case, I can see why this would be a message of HIGH IMPORTANCE. That would be kind of cool, especially because 6/6/06 just passed without anything truly unusual happening. But sadly, no.
Ah, the work world. I see now what I've been missing...
About mid-morning yesterday, this e-mail went out to all staff in our building:
Good morning!
After a complete service check on the refrigerator in the staff lounge of
Jesus is moving any left items on the refrigerated that have not been removed by now.
For a moment there, I thought the Messiah had come and was removing the "left items," in which case, I can see why this would be a message of HIGH IMPORTANCE. That would be kind of cool, especially because 6/6/06 just passed without anything truly unusual happening. But sadly, no.
Ah, the work world. I see now what I've been missing...
Monday, June 12, 2006
New Job, Day One. Teetering on the Edge.
First day of work: not bad. Simply exhausted from the preparation and organization leading up to it, so I am sitting down to blog rather than making Viva's and my lunches as I should be. Get off my case!
Sweet William was supposed to pick Viva up from school today, so I called him at 5:05, as I was leaving work. "So, you're on your way to get her, right?" he said.
"That is so not funny," I said. "Where are you?"
"We're in the elevator," he said, meaning that they were already home. I heard Viva's sweet little voice piping up in the background. "She says to tell you we got you a flower to celebrate your first day of work," he said.
"That's so sweet," I exclaimed, and then we got off the phone and I started bawling as I was trying to negotiate through traffic in Koreatown. By the time I got home, fifteen minutes later, I had pulled myself together. I walked through the door and my family greeted me with cries of exuberance. Viva showed me the flower, and I kept my shit together and told her it was beautiful, and then she said, "Mama, I am so proud of you for your first day at work!" and I said, "Thank you, sweetie!" and I had to walk away because I was starting to cry again.
Sweet William hovered about me in wondrous disbelief, and then went back to the living room figuratively if not literally shaking his head, while I stayed in the bedroom, blubbering onto my new green shirt.
I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I have never been much of a cryer. Since Viva's birth, I do tend to be more weepy than before. And right now, I am just a frickin' emotional mess.
On to Day Two.
Sweet William was supposed to pick Viva up from school today, so I called him at 5:05, as I was leaving work. "So, you're on your way to get her, right?" he said.
"That is so not funny," I said. "Where are you?"
"We're in the elevator," he said, meaning that they were already home. I heard Viva's sweet little voice piping up in the background. "She says to tell you we got you a flower to celebrate your first day of work," he said.
"That's so sweet," I exclaimed, and then we got off the phone and I started bawling as I was trying to negotiate through traffic in Koreatown. By the time I got home, fifteen minutes later, I had pulled myself together. I walked through the door and my family greeted me with cries of exuberance. Viva showed me the flower, and I kept my shit together and told her it was beautiful, and then she said, "Mama, I am so proud of you for your first day at work!" and I said, "Thank you, sweetie!" and I had to walk away because I was starting to cry again.
Sweet William hovered about me in wondrous disbelief, and then went back to the living room figuratively if not literally shaking his head, while I stayed in the bedroom, blubbering onto my new green shirt.
I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I have never been much of a cryer. Since Viva's birth, I do tend to be more weepy than before. And right now, I am just a frickin' emotional mess.
On to Day Two.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Classic Class Notes
I went to an all-women’s college, and my classmates are all full of energy and gumption. Our alma mater is a place where young women with agile minds explore what engages them intellectually and become the news-makers and world-shakers of tomorrow. No, seriously. My fellow alums are intense, self-directed, ferociously smart and funny women.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I receive my alumnae magazine on a quarterly basis, and I read the “Class Notes” section with great interest. I don’t only read the notes for my own graduating class, because it fascinates me to see what other women of different ages and stages are doing with their lives. Usually, class notes go something like this: “Hannah Smythe’s acclaimed one-woman show has been extended until August 31, 2006. After winning an Obie Award and being featured in Dramaturgica Magazine, Hannah says she is overwhelmed and gratified by the response to her performance…” or “Gillian von Schmidzel writes in from Guadeloupe, where she has been pioneering radical advances in pediatric heart surgery. She reports that her eight-year-old twins are whining about being back in school after a six-week family backpacking trip in Croatia…” or “Valentina Morales has opened a bed-and-breakfast in Vermont while working on her PhD in Economics and raising her three children (Zoe, 5, Chloe, 4, and Ned, 2).”
But I was recently reading my alumnae magazine, and in a class that is not my year, read what has to be the Best Entry Ever. Excerpt below:
------------------
In other news, I was saying something to Will the other day about my new boss and how cool and understanding she is, and he said, “That’s because you’re the bomb!” Viva immediately and furiously said, “NO! I’M the bomb!”
And since she really, truly is: Can’t argue with that.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I receive my alumnae magazine on a quarterly basis, and I read the “Class Notes” section with great interest. I don’t only read the notes for my own graduating class, because it fascinates me to see what other women of different ages and stages are doing with their lives. Usually, class notes go something like this: “Hannah Smythe’s acclaimed one-woman show has been extended until August 31, 2006. After winning an Obie Award and being featured in Dramaturgica Magazine, Hannah says she is overwhelmed and gratified by the response to her performance…” or “Gillian von Schmidzel writes in from Guadeloupe, where she has been pioneering radical advances in pediatric heart surgery. She reports that her eight-year-old twins are whining about being back in school after a six-week family backpacking trip in Croatia…” or “Valentina Morales has opened a bed-and-breakfast in Vermont while working on her PhD in Economics and raising her three children (Zoe, 5, Chloe, 4, and Ned, 2).”
But I was recently reading my alumnae magazine, and in a class that is not my year, read what has to be the Best Entry Ever. Excerpt below:
[Discussion of attaining doctorate degree, then:] Meanwhile, I got ordained to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church a year ago and am serving part time at a local [Big City] parish as well. I embarked on a gender transition about four years ago and took some extra time in both of my vocational tracks at that point…[Other Classmate and I] just celebrated our 13th anniversary…which was kind of confusing because now we have another anniversary: we got married this past October! What can I say: I’m grateful that [All-Women’s College] helped me become the man I am.Who can top that? Certainly not me. My life seems rather beige in comparison.
------------------
In other news, I was saying something to Will the other day about my new boss and how cool and understanding she is, and he said, “That’s because you’re the bomb!” Viva immediately and furiously said, “NO! I’M the bomb!”
And since she really, truly is: Can’t argue with that.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
On Hair
So Blogger is still down, which is very frustrating and actually made me start looking at other free blog hosting options. You see how fickle I am? 1:58 PM . Switched from Firefox to Internet Explorer, tried again. "The page cannot be displayed.” Frickin’ frickety frack!
At any rate, I have the feeling that I will be blogging much less these days, now that I am working, so moving the blog might be a moot point. We’ll see.
I am once again writing this in Word and hoping to post later. If I can’t post today, I’m definitely moving the blog.
The reason I wanted to post was (of course) because of the sheer cuteness of Viva. This morning, I was doing her hair. Earlier in the week I had sectioned it off into little square and triangle sections and twisted her hair into Bantu knots, but when I went to pick her up Tuesday afternoon they had all come out, so her hair was just in these really cute kind of curly twists. I have not been able to replicate that, naturally, but I didn’t want to start from scratch. And even twisting the knots back in takes at least half an hour, depending. So this morning I took each section, did a double-stranded twist, and then started piling all the twists on top of her head and kind of entwining them with one another, then clipping the ends of two twists at a time with a tiny butterfly clip – ending up with about 8 multicolored clips all around the crown of her head. I neglected to take a picture, but it looked cute*, and most importantly, it only took about 15 minutes.
At any rate, Viva then said she wanted to be “the barber” and proceeded to put butterfly clips in my hair as I was trying to get her shoes on. This pretty much was as awkward as it sounds, almost akin to playing Twister. Then we fed the fish, brushed her teeth, grabbed her lunch bag, and left the house.
After I dropped her off at school, I went to the bank and the drugstore, and got back home about
* At some point here I will broach the importance of hair in the black community – specifically, how important it is that you do not allow your child to go around with her head looking a mess or you will be in for a talking-to, or at the least, people talking about you behind your back. In my case, it is even more fraught with meaning, as it is quite possible that people think Viva is adopted or at the least has a white mother, the implication being that I will not know how to take care of her hair properly.
The more hard-assed among you will ask why I even give a shit what people think of how I take care of my child. It’s not that easy. I like to do Viva’s hair. She likes to sit in my lap as I do her hair, and it’s a nice way for us to be close in the mornings (or Sunday evenings, when I wash it and comb it out and try to work out a style that will work for the whole week). And I love to see other little black girls whose parents take the time to do their hair. On some level, I do buy into the idea that taking the time to make your kid look nice is an expression of how much you love your kid.
Hey, this is threatening to get longer than the original post. How did you trick me into that?
NOTE: I was able to log into Blogger at
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
On Writing
I clicked over to Blogger today to put together a post and found that it was down for maintenance – some database problem that they are trying to fix. I was already feeling a bit lethargic and out of sorts, so I decided to write something else, and then I got bogged down in what I was trying to write, so I went online to research a little bit, and then I got suddenly sick of the whole enterprise, and that led me to wonder why I do all this in the first place.
NOTE: Posted on Friday, June 9, 2006 at 1:04 PM: two days after my first attempt. Grrr.
Why do I write? I write because that is the only way I can make sense of my world. I write because if I don’t, my head gets all muddled, and writing helps to clear it out. I write because if I don’t, I start to get irritable and distracted.
I started writing when I was just a kid, and I was fortunate to have teachers who encouraged me – much love to Miss Johnson at Martin Luther King, Jr. Middle School, who told me my stories were good enough to be published – and a family who would actually read my stuff out loud with great enjoyment. I had grandparents who allowed me to use their old manual typewriter, banging sporadically away with glee. (I shudder to recall some of those early efforts, which were blatant ripoffs of Judy Blume themes.)
Now, at times I read through my blog archives, and I think, “Oh, that was pretty funny,” or “Hey, that was clever,” but not lately. I find myself less witty these days, more critical of my own writing, and that takes away from the sheer fun of it.
I do not aspire to great literary lionhood here. The blog is here for fun, to help me get my thoughts down somewhere and let me stretch my writing muscles. I was working on a book for a while, here and there, and while at first I thought how great it would be for it to be published, as soon as I started thinking that way, all the joy went out if it. It became a grind.
“How’s the book going?” people would say. And recently, when they found out I was going “back” to work, “Did Lisa finish her book?”
The answer, of course, is no. Lisa did not finish her book, and Lisa feels a bit guilty about that, because it appears that Lisa had a whole bunch of free time for almost an entire year and did not make much progress. Lisa did a whole lot of laundry and dishwashing, cooked a lot of meals, went for walks, did some yoga, blogged a bit, scored some freelance work, interviewed for various jobs, and spent a lot of time with her family.
If the book is really all that damn important, it will get written eventually. And it may even be me that writes it.
NOTE: Posted on Friday, June 9, 2006 at 1:04 PM: two days after my first attempt. Grrr.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Drive, She Said
Have I mentioned that I talked to my new boss on Friday and that she told me to take an extra week to get organized, since they waited 'til the last minute to tell me my background check went through? So I'm not starting until next week! My new boss is so cool! Seriously.
Okay, I have to stop here for a second because my neighbor and his girlfriend are having really loud sex next door. While his wife is at work. And that's just the slightest bit distracting. Okay.... and, they're done.
Hmmm, where was I?
Oh, so now that I am going to be working, there will be times when Sweet William will have to pick Viva up. This means that we need to buy a new car seat, since we only have the one. Now, since Viva is getting to the uppermost height limits for the one we already have, we are not buying the exact same one, because that would just be silly. But that also means that I had to do exhaustive (exhaustive!) research on car seats and find one that she can use until she goes to college, because I am sick of having to buy such things every couple of years. And I also visited not one but four stores to find the one I want. And while my initial impression was that we might be able to get away with spending about $100 on a car seat, naturally, this was not the case. Because I will skimp on many things, but safety is not one of them. And thus, my friends, I just plunked down $250 for the new seat, and here's the bad news: we may actually end up needing two more of these. One to replace the one in my car, and another for my father-in-law's car (he is our backup emergency Viva-picker-upper.).
So it looks like my first paycheck is already pretty much earmarked for car seats and paying off the credit card from buying work clothes. Whee!
P.S. For those who are wondering, we ended up with the Britax Regent, which Viva can use until she is up to 80 pounds (ha! like when she is 13) and up to 53" tall (like when she is 6 - d'oh!). It's swell.
Okay, I have to stop here for a second because my neighbor and his girlfriend are having really loud sex next door. While his wife is at work. And that's just the slightest bit distracting. Okay.... and, they're done.
Hmmm, where was I?
Oh, so now that I am going to be working, there will be times when Sweet William will have to pick Viva up. This means that we need to buy a new car seat, since we only have the one. Now, since Viva is getting to the uppermost height limits for the one we already have, we are not buying the exact same one, because that would just be silly. But that also means that I had to do exhaustive (exhaustive!) research on car seats and find one that she can use until she goes to college, because I am sick of having to buy such things every couple of years. And I also visited not one but four stores to find the one I want. And while my initial impression was that we might be able to get away with spending about $100 on a car seat, naturally, this was not the case. Because I will skimp on many things, but safety is not one of them. And thus, my friends, I just plunked down $250 for the new seat, and here's the bad news: we may actually end up needing two more of these. One to replace the one in my car, and another for my father-in-law's car (he is our backup emergency Viva-picker-upper.).
So it looks like my first paycheck is already pretty much earmarked for car seats and paying off the credit card from buying work clothes. Whee!
P.S. For those who are wondering, we ended up with the Britax Regent, which Viva can use until she is up to 80 pounds (ha! like when she is 13) and up to 53" tall (like when she is 6 - d'oh!). It's swell.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Life is Too Short to Wear Tight Shoes
While out with her daddy yesterday morning, Viva stepped in poo. Sweet William brought her home and put the offending shoes out on the balcony, with every intention (I am SURE) of cleaning up the shoes eventually.
Said shoes are fairly new K-Swiss knockoffs from Target, and technically, they are at least a half-size too small.* The motivation to deal with prying the dried poo off the shoes and cleaning them off is, in my case, very small. I just passed by the balcony and they're still sitting out there, shit-stained and fancy-free.
It seems clear to me that the most logical thing to do is to go buy new shoes and completely ignore the shitty shoes. They are now officially Outcast.
* Viva got her feet measured on Friday, and scored a new pair of shoes on the spot from the chi-chi kids' shoe store in Larchmont Village. She is now wearing another half-size larger. We have been meticulous about measuring her feet because every now and then we realize she has red marks on her feet because she's outgrowing her shoes. So now, it appears, we need to get her measured every 4 months or so. You know, kids are expensive. Have I mentioned this?
Said shoes are fairly new K-Swiss knockoffs from Target, and technically, they are at least a half-size too small.* The motivation to deal with prying the dried poo off the shoes and cleaning them off is, in my case, very small. I just passed by the balcony and they're still sitting out there, shit-stained and fancy-free.
It seems clear to me that the most logical thing to do is to go buy new shoes and completely ignore the shitty shoes. They are now officially Outcast.
* Viva got her feet measured on Friday, and scored a new pair of shoes on the spot from the chi-chi kids' shoe store in Larchmont Village. She is now wearing another half-size larger. We have been meticulous about measuring her feet because every now and then we realize she has red marks on her feet because she's outgrowing her shoes. So now, it appears, we need to get her measured every 4 months or so. You know, kids are expensive. Have I mentioned this?
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Vapid, adj.: Lacking liveliness, animation, or interest
Apparently, I start work on Monday. I called the HR department and the HR rep has been frantically busy so she gave me one of those, "I was just about to call you" kind of lines, and I found that irritating, because although we had tentatively said that I might start next week, nothing had been confirmed, and apparently still nobody knows what my hours will be and my new boss was working at home today and the HR rep didn't have her phone number so blah blah blah, well, just show up Monday at 9 AM and let's take it from there.
It's all very odd. I did an inventory of my clothes yesterday, and found that I am still lacking in "office-type" things to wear -- in fact, I do still need to buy shoes, definitely -- but I think I can manage for the first week or so with what I have. The issue here is that I actually weigh less now than I did before I had Viva, which was the last time I needed to wear office-type clothes. I weigh about ten pounds less than before, and thus some of my clothes are really ridiculously baggy. I was already quite petite before: I am almost but not quite five feet and one inch tall, and I am very small-boned. Until recently, I sometimes ended up buying clothes (mainly T-shirts and sweatpants/yoga pants) in the kids' section of clothing stores like Gap and Old Navy. Even so, sometimes they fit, and sometimes not. But now I have to buy grown-up clothes, and there's the rub.
I found myself recently in the petites' section of Banana Republic, trying on a suit, and the pants were too long. IN THE PETITES' SECTION. Lawd, help me, Jeebus.* I went shopping again yesterday and spent some time at Ann Taylor Loft -- I tried on about twenty pieces of clothing, and only three fit.
"Am I shrinking?" I said to Sweet William. "Because now I'm wearing the same size suit I wore when I interviewed at colleges, way back in the day."
I don't think I'm shrinking. I think the damn retailers are doing the damn vanity sizing, so people who are actually a size 12 think they wear a size 8. And the retailers do not adhere to a standardized size, so you might wear a 4 in one brand, or a 0 in another. I love clothes, but I'm beginning to hate shopping. (I can't believe I just typed that.)
I know, this has to be one of my most fluffy posts ever, but some days are like that.
Edited to add: I am not the only one having problems in this area. The Happy Feminist writes about "dressing room distress," linking to other bloggers in the process, and brings up one of my frequent complaints in regard to women's versus men's clothing: men only need to know their inseam and their waistband, and they can walk into any store, pick up a pair of jeans, pay for them, and walk out. Here is where I'd like a little gender equality. Why does buying jeans have to suck so much** for women?
* A Google search for Jeebus reveals not just the disputed origin of the word, but also an absolutely friggin' fantastic GenX congregation for "those who don't always have a clear picture of who Jesus is." HOT!
** I also tried on jeans at Banana Republic. They all looked like ass. And not in a good way.
It's all very odd. I did an inventory of my clothes yesterday, and found that I am still lacking in "office-type" things to wear -- in fact, I do still need to buy shoes, definitely -- but I think I can manage for the first week or so with what I have. The issue here is that I actually weigh less now than I did before I had Viva, which was the last time I needed to wear office-type clothes. I weigh about ten pounds less than before, and thus some of my clothes are really ridiculously baggy. I was already quite petite before: I am almost but not quite five feet and one inch tall, and I am very small-boned. Until recently, I sometimes ended up buying clothes (mainly T-shirts and sweatpants/yoga pants) in the kids' section of clothing stores like Gap and Old Navy. Even so, sometimes they fit, and sometimes not. But now I have to buy grown-up clothes, and there's the rub.
I found myself recently in the petites' section of Banana Republic, trying on a suit, and the pants were too long. IN THE PETITES' SECTION. Lawd, help me, Jeebus.* I went shopping again yesterday and spent some time at Ann Taylor Loft -- I tried on about twenty pieces of clothing, and only three fit.
"Am I shrinking?" I said to Sweet William. "Because now I'm wearing the same size suit I wore when I interviewed at colleges, way back in the day."
I don't think I'm shrinking. I think the damn retailers are doing the damn vanity sizing, so people who are actually a size 12 think they wear a size 8. And the retailers do not adhere to a standardized size, so you might wear a 4 in one brand, or a 0 in another. I love clothes, but I'm beginning to hate shopping. (I can't believe I just typed that.)
I know, this has to be one of my most fluffy posts ever, but some days are like that.
Edited to add: I am not the only one having problems in this area. The Happy Feminist writes about "dressing room distress," linking to other bloggers in the process, and brings up one of my frequent complaints in regard to women's versus men's clothing: men only need to know their inseam and their waistband, and they can walk into any store, pick up a pair of jeans, pay for them, and walk out. Here is where I'd like a little gender equality. Why does buying jeans have to suck so much** for women?
* A Google search for Jeebus reveals not just the disputed origin of the word, but also an absolutely friggin' fantastic GenX congregation for "those who don't always have a clear picture of who Jesus is." HOT!
** I also tried on jeans at Banana Republic. They all looked like ass. And not in a good way.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
For Better or For Worse: The Preschool Version
Yesterday, while we were making oatmeal chocolate chip cookies together, Viva said (apropos of absolutely nothing), "You really are a very good mommy."
And then, when I was putting her to bed last night, she asked if she could marry me when she grows up. Yup, she is delightful. She is raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. I think she is even schnitzel with noodles. I want to kiss her and snuggle her and dunk her in my coffee and eat her up.
Except:
Dearest Viva has brought home some life-force-draining-bug from preschool with her, and it has felled us all. By this I mean that despite having loads of plans for the Memorial Day weekend, at which we would celebrate birthdays and housewarmings and barbecues with a variety of delightful friends we haven't seen in ages, we spent the entire weekend in the apartment, sniffling, coughing, sometimes getting along, and sometimes making each other miserable. I kept Viva home from school today (in this! My last week of non-employment, which was to be a Me-Fest for the ages! A 4-day week of reflection, and shopping, and getting a facial!), and since she got up at 6:45 AM, by 10 AM I was hustling her out of the house. My favorite libraries open at 10 AM...on Wednesdays. Today, they open at 12:30. We actually drove to THREE LIBRARIES that were closed. At the second one, Viva burst into tears in the parking lot, but by the third, she was stoic. She just looked at me with resignation from the back seat.
"Don't worry," I said, buckling myself back in. "I know the library closest to our house [i.e., the one with the worst selection of books to choose from] is open early on Tuesdays," and it was, and even if it hadn't been, I think it might have opened as we were driving toward it, purely from the irresistible strength of my will.
We found books, old favorites and new, and we read for a little while there in the kids' room at the library, and then I suggested we go home and have lunch, and we got back to the car at 12:08 and I realized I was parked in a "NO PARKING TUESDAYS NOON TO 2 PM STREET CLEANING" zone, and yet miraculously managed to avoid getting a ticket. I have had really good parking karma lately, praise all that is holy.
So we went home and I made lunch and tried not to bother Sweet William, who was sealed in the bedroom taking a nap on his lunch hour, and Viva and I read books sitting on the floor and eating a picnic lunch of salami sandwiches and tortilla chips and blueberries and strawberries, and then I read some of her books to her a second time, and gave her a smoothie with some Children's Tylenol Cough and Cold in it, and surprise, surprise: she won't nap.
I fell asleep on her bed, waiting for her to fall asleep, and I was rudely awakened by her crawling on top of me, hitting me several times with a pillow (which I ignored), and then jamming her pointy little elbow in my ribs with all of her 29.5 pounds behind it (which I couldn't ignore, because, hello? OUCH.).
"I'm not tired!" she said. "I don't want to take a nap!"
I don't want to marry her so much today.
P.S. She has interrupted me at least 512 times in the creation of this post. No exaggeration.
P.P.S. Wanted to write part of my post today about this entry on Girl Bomb, but don't have time. "Is your work done yet?" Viva says. Must go, but here is an excerpt, because it encapsulates a lot of what has been going on in my head lately:
And then, when I was putting her to bed last night, she asked if she could marry me when she grows up. Yup, she is delightful. She is raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. I think she is even schnitzel with noodles. I want to kiss her and snuggle her and dunk her in my coffee and eat her up.
Except:
Dearest Viva has brought home some life-force-draining-bug from preschool with her, and it has felled us all. By this I mean that despite having loads of plans for the Memorial Day weekend, at which we would celebrate birthdays and housewarmings and barbecues with a variety of delightful friends we haven't seen in ages, we spent the entire weekend in the apartment, sniffling, coughing, sometimes getting along, and sometimes making each other miserable. I kept Viva home from school today (in this! My last week of non-employment, which was to be a Me-Fest for the ages! A 4-day week of reflection, and shopping, and getting a facial!), and since she got up at 6:45 AM, by 10 AM I was hustling her out of the house. My favorite libraries open at 10 AM...on Wednesdays. Today, they open at 12:30. We actually drove to THREE LIBRARIES that were closed. At the second one, Viva burst into tears in the parking lot, but by the third, she was stoic. She just looked at me with resignation from the back seat.
"Don't worry," I said, buckling myself back in. "I know the library closest to our house [i.e., the one with the worst selection of books to choose from] is open early on Tuesdays," and it was, and even if it hadn't been, I think it might have opened as we were driving toward it, purely from the irresistible strength of my will.
We found books, old favorites and new, and we read for a little while there in the kids' room at the library, and then I suggested we go home and have lunch, and we got back to the car at 12:08 and I realized I was parked in a "NO PARKING TUESDAYS NOON TO 2 PM STREET CLEANING" zone, and yet miraculously managed to avoid getting a ticket. I have had really good parking karma lately, praise all that is holy.
So we went home and I made lunch and tried not to bother Sweet William, who was sealed in the bedroom taking a nap on his lunch hour, and Viva and I read books sitting on the floor and eating a picnic lunch of salami sandwiches and tortilla chips and blueberries and strawberries, and then I read some of her books to her a second time, and gave her a smoothie with some Children's Tylenol Cough and Cold in it, and surprise, surprise: she won't nap.
I fell asleep on her bed, waiting for her to fall asleep, and I was rudely awakened by her crawling on top of me, hitting me several times with a pillow (which I ignored), and then jamming her pointy little elbow in my ribs with all of her 29.5 pounds behind it (which I couldn't ignore, because, hello? OUCH.).
"I'm not tired!" she said. "I don't want to take a nap!"
I don't want to marry her so much today.
P.S. She has interrupted me at least 512 times in the creation of this post. No exaggeration.
P.P.S. Wanted to write part of my post today about this entry on Girl Bomb, but don't have time. "Is your work done yet?" Viva says. Must go, but here is an excerpt, because it encapsulates a lot of what has been going on in my head lately:
When I was young, I wanted to write so brilliantly, so originally; I wanted to find words that had never been combined, wanted to fit them to ideas so beautiful and profound that your life would change just reading them -- the world would be illuminated from within by possibility and hope, and you would be awash in feelings of triumph and peace. I wanted to write in undiscovered colors, beyond blue and orange and pink; I wanted to create something that had never existed before, something necessary, something lacking.
Lately I've had trouble composing an email, writing a blog post, opening the pages I've been working on. None of it is good enough, it's all just noise, just me wanting to hear my own voice. Say something smart, I beg myself. Say something meaningful. Say something that will help other people live their lives, and be happy.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
I Am Not the Answer Lady!
Wow. Despite the fact that I am not yet working, I seem to have a lot going on. I spent all day Tuesday doing stuff related to my new job. Since I will be working in an agency that has direct contact with children, I had to fill out a stack of paperwork, which I then returned to the agency. They then arranged for a physical exam (to ensure I have no communicable diseases), fingerprinting (which is now done with a hi-res scanner -- no ink!), and background check (to make sure I haven't been convicted of anything nasty). I then had to return to the agency to turn in additional forms generated by said activities, and I have to go back to the hospital today to confirm the results of the tuberculosis test. Jesus!
I am glad that they are so cautious -- I guess by law, they have to be -- but I am lucky I don't have an office job where I'm trying to wrap everything up during my two weeks' notice.
IT ALWAYS COMES DOWN TO FOOD
Moving on, the other day Sweet William and I were talking again about my last post, about being poorer than my cousins and how awed I was at the stuff they had in their homes. Since Sweet William comes from a similar background, he could totally relate. He remembers being amazed when visiting his stepbrother's cousin's house and realizing, "They have three kinds of cereal!" Because at his house, there was one box and that was it. You had to finish off the first box before someone would buy a different flavor. His stepbrother's cousin would actually mix three cereals together, for example, Honeycombs, corn flakes, and oh, I don't know, Froot Loops.
Now I can put two and two together, and I can tell you that when Sweet William buys cereal, he always buys three boxes. And he always mixes them, usually adding some sliced fresh fruit, and he eats it without milk.
That got me started thinking about what I felt deprived of as a kid, and the answer is (predictably) odd. Whenever we would go to holiday dinners, I always went crazy for the olive and pickle dish. When I was a kid, I imagined that when I grew up I would buy olives whenever I felt like it. And now, I am never without a jar of Spanish olives in the fridge, and rarely without a jar of black or Kalamata olives. It's the Spanish olives that were the big deal for me, and even still, it's not like I pig out on olives every day. It's just nice to know that they're there.
The fact that I can walk into any 7-Eleven and buy a bottle of Pepsi whenever I want is a big deal to the 8-year-old who lives in the back of my brain. She does a little ecstatic dance while she waits for me to plunk down my money at the cash register. When I was a kid, I was only allowed soda on very special occasions at other people's houses, and then only half a glass -- and even then, only ginger ale. I wasn't allowed to have cola at these occasions until I was about 9 or so, and my mom strictly regulated it due to the sugar and caffeine. We never even had soda in our own refrigerator until I was a teenager -- and it was such a huge deal that it sticks in my mind. One day, I was helping my mom put the groceries away, and I opened one of the bags and found a gargantuan 2-liter bottle of Pepsi leering out at me.
"Oh my GOD!" I shrieked. I couldn't have been more shocked if my mom had taken up smoking. (And since my grandmother's sister had died recently of lung cancer, and my grandmother was subsequently trying hard to quit smoking, that is saying something, indeed.) "Why did you buy this?!"
My mom shrugged, as if all the habits of my lifetime to date were just a silly fleeting nothingness, and said, "I needed a boost."
SPEAKING OF WHICH...
My mom has been on my mind a bit these days, because Mother's Day just passed, and her birthday was yesterday, and we are estranged. I feel I am working very slowly through the five stages of grief for this relationship. And still, every time I think of her, I think, "I really miss my grandpa [her father]," who it would make more sense for me to be grieving for, although he died two years ago. It is all very complicated and tied up together.
My mom is largely responsible for instilling in me a fascination with human behavior and a love of words, music, art, and humor -- all of which are huge pieces of my life, and all of which have shaped the woman I have become. She was also and always incredibly supportive of pretty much everything I tried to do. So it is odd now not to have her in my cheering section, and for me not to be in hers.
It's a weird thing, this being a grownup. I'm still waiting to have all the answers.
---------------
The title of this post is attributable to my mom -- it's what she would say when we asked her innumerable questions she couldn't answer. Hear it in your mind's ear, said with a slight laugh, in an exasperated slight Boston accent. There you have it.
I am glad that they are so cautious -- I guess by law, they have to be -- but I am lucky I don't have an office job where I'm trying to wrap everything up during my two weeks' notice.
IT ALWAYS COMES DOWN TO FOOD
Moving on, the other day Sweet William and I were talking again about my last post, about being poorer than my cousins and how awed I was at the stuff they had in their homes. Since Sweet William comes from a similar background, he could totally relate. He remembers being amazed when visiting his stepbrother's cousin's house and realizing, "They have three kinds of cereal!" Because at his house, there was one box and that was it. You had to finish off the first box before someone would buy a different flavor. His stepbrother's cousin would actually mix three cereals together, for example, Honeycombs, corn flakes, and oh, I don't know, Froot Loops.
Now I can put two and two together, and I can tell you that when Sweet William buys cereal, he always buys three boxes. And he always mixes them, usually adding some sliced fresh fruit, and he eats it without milk.
That got me started thinking about what I felt deprived of as a kid, and the answer is (predictably) odd. Whenever we would go to holiday dinners, I always went crazy for the olive and pickle dish. When I was a kid, I imagined that when I grew up I would buy olives whenever I felt like it. And now, I am never without a jar of Spanish olives in the fridge, and rarely without a jar of black or Kalamata olives. It's the Spanish olives that were the big deal for me, and even still, it's not like I pig out on olives every day. It's just nice to know that they're there.
The fact that I can walk into any 7-Eleven and buy a bottle of Pepsi whenever I want is a big deal to the 8-year-old who lives in the back of my brain. She does a little ecstatic dance while she waits for me to plunk down my money at the cash register. When I was a kid, I was only allowed soda on very special occasions at other people's houses, and then only half a glass -- and even then, only ginger ale. I wasn't allowed to have cola at these occasions until I was about 9 or so, and my mom strictly regulated it due to the sugar and caffeine. We never even had soda in our own refrigerator until I was a teenager -- and it was such a huge deal that it sticks in my mind. One day, I was helping my mom put the groceries away, and I opened one of the bags and found a gargantuan 2-liter bottle of Pepsi leering out at me.
"Oh my GOD!" I shrieked. I couldn't have been more shocked if my mom had taken up smoking. (And since my grandmother's sister had died recently of lung cancer, and my grandmother was subsequently trying hard to quit smoking, that is saying something, indeed.) "Why did you buy this?!"
My mom shrugged, as if all the habits of my lifetime to date were just a silly fleeting nothingness, and said, "I needed a boost."
SPEAKING OF WHICH...
My mom has been on my mind a bit these days, because Mother's Day just passed, and her birthday was yesterday, and we are estranged. I feel I am working very slowly through the five stages of grief for this relationship. And still, every time I think of her, I think, "I really miss my grandpa [her father]," who it would make more sense for me to be grieving for, although he died two years ago. It is all very complicated and tied up together.
My mom is largely responsible for instilling in me a fascination with human behavior and a love of words, music, art, and humor -- all of which are huge pieces of my life, and all of which have shaped the woman I have become. She was also and always incredibly supportive of pretty much everything I tried to do. So it is odd now not to have her in my cheering section, and for me not to be in hers.
It's a weird thing, this being a grownup. I'm still waiting to have all the answers.
---------------
The title of this post is attributable to my mom -- it's what she would say when we asked her innumerable questions she couldn't answer. Hear it in your mind's ear, said with a slight laugh, in an exasperated slight Boston accent. There you have it.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Welcome to the Desert of the Real
NEW! A MEDICAL BREAKTHROUGH!
Lo, these past few days I have had a canker sore, and great and terrible has been my annoyance. I have tried a couple of home remedies -- swishing with warm salt water, putting soy sauce directly on it, and eating salty potato chips -- but the damn thing will not be cowed. Last night it was throbbing in a dastardly way as I was trying to sleep, and thus, this morning I went to Target and bought Orajel Protective Mouth Sore Discs. The package says it "relieves pain immediately on application," which it should, since the active ingredient is benzocaine. But it also says that the discs form a dissolvable oral bandage to block irritation for hours so the sore can heal. What it doesn't say is that this dissolvable bandage takes far, far too long to dissolve, so even fifteen minutes later you're left looking like you've got a lipful of snuff or something. I am so sexy right now, I know you wish you were me.
RANDOM BITS OF VIVA
"Wouldn't it be great if I had a baby and you had a baby and we could take care of them together and then our babies would have TWO MOMMIES?!"
LESS IS MORE
Two of Viva's cousins -- let's call them simply C and T* -- were here over the weekend. By this, I mean that they came to visit their grandparents, my in-laws, who live just two doors down from us in the same apartment building. You can see what comes next, can't you? Every time they visit, they make a beeline for our door to play with Viva and enjoy the Land of Enchantment that is her room.
This is fine, because they are pretty well-behaved little girls, for the most part, and if we aren't doing anything anyway, I can just sit around and read while they play. It's win-win, because Viva is In Heaven the entire time they are here. T is 6, and C is 10, and the 10-year-old bosses the younger two around and keeps them in line. But inevitably they arrive without warning, play for an hour or so, and then tell me that they're hungry. Since I have no warning, and since this generally happens on a Saturday after we have gone through all of our food for the week, I generally don't have a lot to offer. This time, we went through all the fruit I had on hand, along with all the cheese, crackers, and juice boxes, while waiting for Papa (their grandpa) to bring some pizza. Ultimately, despite pleading from both of them to sleep over (!!), they went back to their grandparents' in the evening, and then -- you guessed it -- called us at about 10 Sunday morning. I invited them back over, but this time I had ulterior motives: free babysitting while we did some spring cleaning of our balcony.
I washed the sliding glass doors, Sweet William cleaned the patio furniture and washed the floor, and I brought in all the random crap that's been sitting out there all winter and cleaned it off. While we worked: (a) eventually, C got tired of hanging with the little kids and decided to read a book on the couch, meaning that (b) Viva and cousin T were left to feed on each other's hyperactivity, leading to (c) a huge amount of shrieking laughter, playing of kazoos, tambourines and harmonicas, hitting each other with punch balls, and just general mayhem, and (d) T came across Viva's camera, picked it up and asked if she could take pictures with it. I told her there wasn't any film in it, which was a little white lie because there was still film in it but you can only take pictures with it outside because it doesn't have a flash and I didn't want to have them all stampede out onto the balcony while we were still cleaning it. And THEN! T opened up the back of the camera! Thus exposing all the film! So all the pictures I had taken (mainly of Viva and friends on the school playground) are gone forever!
Sweet William said I looked like I was ready to kill her. Don't get me wrong, I love them and all, but after two days of having them over, my patience was wearing thin. I really enjoyed C this visit, but T was working my nerves, because she is a little button-pusher. She demands a lot of attention. (This, from the mother of a three-year-old!) But Viva loves her cousins so much that she bursts into tears when they leave, screaming and crying like her heart is breaking. Then they start getting weepy, and it's all a big mess. Lawd, help me, Jesus, it is operatic in scale. Once they left, I put Viva down for a late nap, and sat luxuriating in the silence.
Their visits are almost always followed by a discussion between Sweet William and myself about how relatively well-off we are. I grew up with not a lot of money in a family in which mostly everybody was better off than we were. I remember visiting cousins and being awed by how much stuff they had, how big their rooms were, how clean their homes looked. I was at various points jealous and contemptuous of them, depending on my mood, and it wasn't until I grew older that I got more philosophical about it. Now, I understand that what your family makes (or doesn't) does not reflect on you and your worth as a human being, but back then, I remember feeling shamed and small when confronted with the sometimes huge disparities between our lives and those of our cousins.
I mention this because C and T's mom (Sweet William's stepsister) is a single mom, head of household, who doesn't work. They live in a one-bedroom apartment and neither of the girls' fathers is involved in their lives. Money is tight. Their mom can't get them everything she wants to. Things are stressful. At one point, a few years ago, C and T's mom left the girls with her aunt, ostensibly just to babysit for a few hours, and took off for a week without anyone knowing where she had gone. At that point, Sweet William's sister, Diva, and I began discussing what to do about the children. We didn't want to break them up, but Diva already has two teenaged boys, and we were living in the same apartment we do now, so we didn't think we had enough space for two kids. Sweet William and I were still newlyweds who ultimately wanted to have kids of our own. We talked about each of us taking one of the girls and raising them ourselves. Ultimately, of course, their mom came back, but I think now about how different our lives would be, all of us.
Right now, we see the girls every month or so. When they are here, they always exclaim over everything in Viva's room. They're amazed that she has her own room (their mom sleeps in their living room), not to mention her own bathroom. They pull out every toy and game she owns and play with everything. They are eager to please and very well-mannered, and every single time they come over, C asks to borrow something, sometimes indirectly, sometimes not. This time, she wanted to borrow the Winnie the Pooh books that I've had since I was about 3 or 4. They are old paperbacks that cost 95 cents each, and they are yellowed, and some of the pages are a bit raggedy. Some of my most cherished memories are of my mom reading the stories to me and my sister as we all snuggled together in a big chair after bathtime, drinking what my mom called "Winnie the Pooh" drink.** I couldn't do it. I'd saved these books for years, long after other childhood favorites got sorted through and given away.
"How come Viva has these?" C asked me. "They're chapter books, she can't read them."
"They used to be mine when I was a little girl," I said. "I've been saving them for her for a long time. You can read them if you want."
"Can I take them home with me?" C asked.
"Oh, sweetie, they're so old," I said. "They're kind of falling apart already, I don't know how well they'd do in a book bag or something. Can you just read them here when you come?"
"Okay," said C, but I know if it were me and I were 10 and my little 3-year-old cousin seemed to have everything, I'd be pissed off or at least hurt that my auntie wouldn't let me borrow something the 3-year-old can't even use.
So of course, I'm guilt-ridden and thinking about buying her copies of the books for herself, which leads me to think about other books I liked at that age, and how much she would like them, and wondering if that is enough. I am glad she likes books so much, and I'd like to encourage her, and I don't want her to feel bad when she comes over. I can see so much of myself in her these days.
THERE IS NOSPOON*** SEGUE
Hey, if you, like me, grew up listening to a lot of soul and R&B, and if you haven't discovered this site already, check out one of my latest obsessions: Soul Sides. Very cool blog wherein DJ O-Dub posts his discoveries in soul, funk, jazz, and hip-hop, sometimes posting several versions of the same song, or hipping you to old school stuff you may have missed. Also check out his blog roll -- I could spend hours there.
-----------------------------
* I tried, oh how I tried, to find pseudonyms for them that were sort of similar to their real names (because otherwise I am sure I would mix them up), but I kept coming up with names like Chinara and Tanisha -- and even in fictional Internetland, I just couldn't do that to them. And before you get all like, "What makes Viva's name any better? You all so bougie, you need to check yourself," let me just say that, in case you haven't figured it out, Viva is a pseudonym based on her own early mispronunciation of her name, so if you're judging me, you're judging me on the wrong damn name, anyway.
** Which seems to me, as much as I can approximate it in my memory, to be warm milk with honey and cinnamon in it.
*** Shout out to The Matrix!
Lo, these past few days I have had a canker sore, and great and terrible has been my annoyance. I have tried a couple of home remedies -- swishing with warm salt water, putting soy sauce directly on it, and eating salty potato chips -- but the damn thing will not be cowed. Last night it was throbbing in a dastardly way as I was trying to sleep, and thus, this morning I went to Target and bought Orajel Protective Mouth Sore Discs. The package says it "relieves pain immediately on application," which it should, since the active ingredient is benzocaine. But it also says that the discs form a dissolvable oral bandage to block irritation for hours so the sore can heal. What it doesn't say is that this dissolvable bandage takes far, far too long to dissolve, so even fifteen minutes later you're left looking like you've got a lipful of snuff or something. I am so sexy right now, I know you wish you were me.
RANDOM BITS OF VIVA
"Wouldn't it be great if I had a baby and you had a baby and we could take care of them together and then our babies would have TWO MOMMIES?!"
LESS IS MORE
Two of Viva's cousins -- let's call them simply C and T* -- were here over the weekend. By this, I mean that they came to visit their grandparents, my in-laws, who live just two doors down from us in the same apartment building. You can see what comes next, can't you? Every time they visit, they make a beeline for our door to play with Viva and enjoy the Land of Enchantment that is her room.
This is fine, because they are pretty well-behaved little girls, for the most part, and if we aren't doing anything anyway, I can just sit around and read while they play. It's win-win, because Viva is In Heaven the entire time they are here. T is 6, and C is 10, and the 10-year-old bosses the younger two around and keeps them in line. But inevitably they arrive without warning, play for an hour or so, and then tell me that they're hungry. Since I have no warning, and since this generally happens on a Saturday after we have gone through all of our food for the week, I generally don't have a lot to offer. This time, we went through all the fruit I had on hand, along with all the cheese, crackers, and juice boxes, while waiting for Papa (their grandpa) to bring some pizza. Ultimately, despite pleading from both of them to sleep over (!!), they went back to their grandparents' in the evening, and then -- you guessed it -- called us at about 10 Sunday morning. I invited them back over, but this time I had ulterior motives: free babysitting while we did some spring cleaning of our balcony.
I washed the sliding glass doors, Sweet William cleaned the patio furniture and washed the floor, and I brought in all the random crap that's been sitting out there all winter and cleaned it off. While we worked: (a) eventually, C got tired of hanging with the little kids and decided to read a book on the couch, meaning that (b) Viva and cousin T were left to feed on each other's hyperactivity, leading to (c) a huge amount of shrieking laughter, playing of kazoos, tambourines and harmonicas, hitting each other with punch balls, and just general mayhem, and (d) T came across Viva's camera, picked it up and asked if she could take pictures with it. I told her there wasn't any film in it, which was a little white lie because there was still film in it but you can only take pictures with it outside because it doesn't have a flash and I didn't want to have them all stampede out onto the balcony while we were still cleaning it. And THEN! T opened up the back of the camera! Thus exposing all the film! So all the pictures I had taken (mainly of Viva and friends on the school playground) are gone forever!
Sweet William said I looked like I was ready to kill her. Don't get me wrong, I love them and all, but after two days of having them over, my patience was wearing thin. I really enjoyed C this visit, but T was working my nerves, because she is a little button-pusher. She demands a lot of attention. (This, from the mother of a three-year-old!) But Viva loves her cousins so much that she bursts into tears when they leave, screaming and crying like her heart is breaking. Then they start getting weepy, and it's all a big mess. Lawd, help me, Jesus, it is operatic in scale. Once they left, I put Viva down for a late nap, and sat luxuriating in the silence.
Their visits are almost always followed by a discussion between Sweet William and myself about how relatively well-off we are. I grew up with not a lot of money in a family in which mostly everybody was better off than we were. I remember visiting cousins and being awed by how much stuff they had, how big their rooms were, how clean their homes looked. I was at various points jealous and contemptuous of them, depending on my mood, and it wasn't until I grew older that I got more philosophical about it. Now, I understand that what your family makes (or doesn't) does not reflect on you and your worth as a human being, but back then, I remember feeling shamed and small when confronted with the sometimes huge disparities between our lives and those of our cousins.
I mention this because C and T's mom (Sweet William's stepsister) is a single mom, head of household, who doesn't work. They live in a one-bedroom apartment and neither of the girls' fathers is involved in their lives. Money is tight. Their mom can't get them everything she wants to. Things are stressful. At one point, a few years ago, C and T's mom left the girls with her aunt, ostensibly just to babysit for a few hours, and took off for a week without anyone knowing where she had gone. At that point, Sweet William's sister, Diva, and I began discussing what to do about the children. We didn't want to break them up, but Diva already has two teenaged boys, and we were living in the same apartment we do now, so we didn't think we had enough space for two kids. Sweet William and I were still newlyweds who ultimately wanted to have kids of our own. We talked about each of us taking one of the girls and raising them ourselves. Ultimately, of course, their mom came back, but I think now about how different our lives would be, all of us.
Right now, we see the girls every month or so. When they are here, they always exclaim over everything in Viva's room. They're amazed that she has her own room (their mom sleeps in their living room), not to mention her own bathroom. They pull out every toy and game she owns and play with everything. They are eager to please and very well-mannered, and every single time they come over, C asks to borrow something, sometimes indirectly, sometimes not. This time, she wanted to borrow the Winnie the Pooh books that I've had since I was about 3 or 4. They are old paperbacks that cost 95 cents each, and they are yellowed, and some of the pages are a bit raggedy. Some of my most cherished memories are of my mom reading the stories to me and my sister as we all snuggled together in a big chair after bathtime, drinking what my mom called "Winnie the Pooh" drink.** I couldn't do it. I'd saved these books for years, long after other childhood favorites got sorted through and given away.
"How come Viva has these?" C asked me. "They're chapter books, she can't read them."
"They used to be mine when I was a little girl," I said. "I've been saving them for her for a long time. You can read them if you want."
"Can I take them home with me?" C asked.
"Oh, sweetie, they're so old," I said. "They're kind of falling apart already, I don't know how well they'd do in a book bag or something. Can you just read them here when you come?"
"Okay," said C, but I know if it were me and I were 10 and my little 3-year-old cousin seemed to have everything, I'd be pissed off or at least hurt that my auntie wouldn't let me borrow something the 3-year-old can't even use.
So of course, I'm guilt-ridden and thinking about buying her copies of the books for herself, which leads me to think about other books I liked at that age, and how much she would like them, and wondering if that is enough. I am glad she likes books so much, and I'd like to encourage her, and I don't want her to feel bad when she comes over. I can see so much of myself in her these days.
THERE IS NO
Hey, if you, like me, grew up listening to a lot of soul and R&B, and if you haven't discovered this site already, check out one of my latest obsessions: Soul Sides. Very cool blog wherein DJ O-Dub posts his discoveries in soul, funk, jazz, and hip-hop, sometimes posting several versions of the same song, or hipping you to old school stuff you may have missed. Also check out his blog roll -- I could spend hours there.
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* I tried, oh how I tried, to find pseudonyms for them that were sort of similar to their real names (because otherwise I am sure I would mix them up), but I kept coming up with names like Chinara and Tanisha -- and even in fictional Internetland, I just couldn't do that to them. And before you get all like, "What makes Viva's name any better? You all so bougie, you need to check yourself," let me just say that, in case you haven't figured it out, Viva is a pseudonym based on her own early mispronunciation of her name, so if you're judging me, you're judging me on the wrong damn name, anyway.
** Which seems to me, as much as I can approximate it in my memory, to be warm milk with honey and cinnamon in it.
*** Shout out to The Matrix!
Friday, May 19, 2006
A Little Peace...and Quiet
There is a helicopter circling overhead, flying so low that my seat, not to mention the rest of my apartment, is shuddering. Since I am going to have to leave fairly soon to go pick up Viva, I would prefer it if whatever police chase/news story is going on would oh-so-nicely move itself just a few blocks north and west. Just a wee little bit. Just a smidge. Thanks!
I haven't seen anything on this next tidbit in the mainstream news, but perhaps that's because I haven't been looking. Evidently our esteemed president has issued a proclamation declaring May 29 as "a day of prayer for permanent peace." WHAT?! Isn't this also the joker who proudly labeled himself our "War President"?? Alternet's Bob Geiger says it better than I can: Irony alert: Bush asks people to pray for peace. Favorite quote: "Isn't this just a bit like Charles Manson declaring a mental-health day?"
Permanent peace, indeed. I've got his permanent peace right here!
I haven't seen anything on this next tidbit in the mainstream news, but perhaps that's because I haven't been looking. Evidently our esteemed president has issued a proclamation declaring May 29 as "a day of prayer for permanent peace." WHAT?! Isn't this also the joker who proudly labeled himself our "War President"?? Alternet's Bob Geiger says it better than I can: Irony alert: Bush asks people to pray for peace. Favorite quote: "Isn't this just a bit like Charles Manson declaring a mental-health day?"
Permanent peace, indeed. I've got his permanent peace right here!
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Down the Drain
I just wrote a post -- pretty lengthy -- and my computer froze up. Well, no problem, I thought, I'll just close the program, relaunch the browser, go back in and recover my post with Blogger's handy (and aptly named) "Recover Post" function. Well, it didn't work -- it froze my computer up again. And now my post is gone forever.
Arses.
At any rate, take a look at this article about the Vito "Live Free or Die" Spatafore storyline on The Sopranos. The actor who plays Vito, Joe Gannascoli, has led a pretty made-for-TV life. Interesting.
I am severely sleep-deprived (Viva had innumerable bad dreams last night), and my brainwaves are not what they should be, so I'm going to end here. I promise to write something utterly scintillating tomorrow.
Arses.
At any rate, take a look at this article about the Vito "Live Free or Die" Spatafore storyline on The Sopranos. The actor who plays Vito, Joe Gannascoli, has led a pretty made-for-TV life. Interesting.
I am severely sleep-deprived (Viva had innumerable bad dreams last night), and my brainwaves are not what they should be, so I'm going to end here. I promise to write something utterly scintillating tomorrow.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Operation Get A Job 2006: Mission Accomplished
Holy fuckin crap! My prospective employer just called and offered me substantially more than I expected! I am totally floored.
I guess I really am the bomb. Respect!
I guess I really am the bomb. Respect!
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