Today is the Halloween Carnival at Viva’s school. If I have not mentioned this before: Viva came up with her own costume. She could not decide whether she should dress up as a clown or an elephant (currently her favorite animal). I off-handedly said, “Maybe you could be both,” and Viva glommed onto that idea and ran with it. I sent her off to school this morning wearing a red-and-white-polka dot clown suit with matching hat, along with a pair of blue eyeglass frames, to which are attached the elephant trunk and ears. Since Sweet William is still working on a movie that is being filmed in a different time zone, he is still on a ridiculous shift whereby he must be at work at 5 AM to screen dailies. Thus and so: he did not see Viva before he left the house this morning, since she was snugly snuggled in her bed, pre-costume.
At precisely 8:42 AM, Sweet Dub called to ask me if I had remembered to buy the “nerd cord” to attach to the back of the glasses so the whole shebang wouldn’t come off her head. I admitted I had not. He was beside himself. “What time does the carnival start? Eleven?” he said.
“The carnival starts at 11, but the costume parade is at 9:45,” I said.
“Oh my God – okay, I’m leaving right now,” he said, and hung up the phone. Less than an hour later he called back to report that he left work, found the cord, drove by Viva’s school, fixed the whole rig (the ears were already apparently getting torn), and went back to work.
I am not making this up. He is completely insane about his child, God love him.
P.S. Yes, I'll post pictures later. Sweet Dub has the camera.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Blah Blah Bitch Bitch
Don’t you hate when you finish a big project and breathe a sigh of relief and then you kind of go into clean up mode and try to figure out what you need to do next and you realize that to keep on track you need to complete five more projects by Friday?
Yeah, me too.
My “to do” list is spiraling out of control. And I can’t remember the last time I sat down to write something I wanted to write. I mean, aside from this blog. I mean, like my own personal writing that I might publish someday.
That sucks.
Yeah, me too.
My “to do” list is spiraling out of control. And I can’t remember the last time I sat down to write something I wanted to write. I mean, aside from this blog. I mean, like my own personal writing that I might publish someday.
That sucks.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Insert Witty Title Here
Late Friday afternoon, I was struggling gamely along trying to flesh out a proposal to a Board member when my phone rang. I answered in my most professional manner, which was a complete waste, because lo and behold, who was on the other end? The mighty jazzy Cee in SF! She was calling to let me know that Buddy Lewis was only 4 votes behind the first-place contender in the Wandering Golfer contest standings. We stayed on the line for an undisclosed period of time, each of us keeping a Wandering Golfer window open and occasionally hitting "refresh." We were, therefore, together in spirit and on the phone when he pulled ahead and took the lead. It was all very exciting in a late-Friday-afternoon, when-does-the-weekend-start kind of way. I am really hoping he gets the job so my dear friend Sharon can have what she sees as the best of both worlds: a check in the hand and a husband on the road. Go, Buddy, go!
He's currently ahead by 220 points. Please keep voting!
When Potty Training Goes Horribly Wrong
My parenting style is a strange blend of contemporary attachment parenting married to some of the old school home training I received from my grandparents, coupled with some of the very lax 1970s hippie approaches (or lack thereof) used by my mom. I am all for being very open with kids about bodily functions and being straight with them when they ask questions about their bodies and all that. I don't think you should teach your kid that peeing and pooping are dirty and bad. Well, except for the bit about hand-washing. You do need to teach them to wash their hands, for the love of all that is decent and hygienic. But you don't need to tell them that they are dirty or (God forbid) bad when they soil themselves. With Viva, I try to impress upon her the discomfort and inconvenience of having "an accident" (which, at 3.5, is rare except at night).
And then there are those who go a completely different route.
Meet Pee & Poo.
They are plush toys designed to accompany your child on the road to being diaper-free. I think. Their tagline, in case you can't read it, is "Escapees from the bathroom." Yes.
Um. Okay. I have to admit my first reaction was "Are you shittin' me?" because I'm all foul-mouthed and punny like that. And then I was sure it was a joke. It's not. Oh Lawd, it's not. For those of you keeping score at home, the fall of Western civilization just took another dip. Please mark your cards accordingly. With the blue ink. I said BLUE! Dang.
It's Not You, It's Me
On Saturday, two of our dear friends who live up in the Bay Area happened to be in town, so we had them over for dinner and play. They have two girls, one of whom is 3, and one of whom is 4 months old. Viva was pining for the 3-year-old all day, and once she arrived, they were inseparable, barely even stopping to eat. The rest of us all hung out together comfortably, talking and periodically making shmoopy faces at the baby. At one point, the dad passed the new baby over to me and I cuddled her for a while. I had thought that perhaps this would make my uterus twang like the strings of a lonely guitar that had not been played in a while, but surprisingly, no. It was a pleasant surprise. I am glad that in the event that we do decide to expand our family, we can stick with our current sort-of plan, which is to adopt a preschool-age (2-3 years old) child in the event that we can actually afford it at the time we want to do it. See, it's all very nebulous, and that's the way I like it.
Overheard
My Pentecostal cube-mate just yelled out: "JESUS! Is it almost Christmas again?!"
Making spirits bright, I tell you.
He's currently ahead by 220 points. Please keep voting!
When Potty Training Goes Horribly Wrong
My parenting style is a strange blend of contemporary attachment parenting married to some of the old school home training I received from my grandparents, coupled with some of the very lax 1970s hippie approaches (or lack thereof) used by my mom. I am all for being very open with kids about bodily functions and being straight with them when they ask questions about their bodies and all that. I don't think you should teach your kid that peeing and pooping are dirty and bad. Well, except for the bit about hand-washing. You do need to teach them to wash their hands, for the love of all that is decent and hygienic. But you don't need to tell them that they are dirty or (God forbid) bad when they soil themselves. With Viva, I try to impress upon her the discomfort and inconvenience of having "an accident" (which, at 3.5, is rare except at night).
And then there are those who go a completely different route.
Meet Pee & Poo.
They are plush toys designed to accompany your child on the road to being diaper-free. I think. Their tagline, in case you can't read it, is "Escapees from the bathroom." Yes.
Um. Okay. I have to admit my first reaction was "Are you shittin' me?" because I'm all foul-mouthed and punny like that. And then I was sure it was a joke. It's not. Oh Lawd, it's not. For those of you keeping score at home, the fall of Western civilization just took another dip. Please mark your cards accordingly. With the blue ink. I said BLUE! Dang.
It's Not You, It's Me
On Saturday, two of our dear friends who live up in the Bay Area happened to be in town, so we had them over for dinner and play. They have two girls, one of whom is 3, and one of whom is 4 months old. Viva was pining for the 3-year-old all day, and once she arrived, they were inseparable, barely even stopping to eat. The rest of us all hung out together comfortably, talking and periodically making shmoopy faces at the baby. At one point, the dad passed the new baby over to me and I cuddled her for a while. I had thought that perhaps this would make my uterus twang like the strings of a lonely guitar that had not been played in a while, but surprisingly, no. It was a pleasant surprise. I am glad that in the event that we do decide to expand our family, we can stick with our current sort-of plan, which is to adopt a preschool-age (2-3 years old) child in the event that we can actually afford it at the time we want to do it. See, it's all very nebulous, and that's the way I like it.
Overheard
My Pentecostal cube-mate just yelled out: "JESUS! Is it almost Christmas again?!"
Making spirits bright, I tell you.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Buggin’ Out
Yes, we truly do live in the wild now. I submit to you the following:
Exhibit A. Less than a week after we moved in, Sweet William went home on his lunch hour. On his way out to the back house, he noticed a couple of bees hovering about the koi pond. Going back into the main house, he noticed there were six bees at the pond. Curious, he looked out the kitchen window a few minutes later and saw about 15 bees buzzing about. He then determined that they were coming from our neighbor’s garage, which backs up to the side wall of our yard. Since what he was seeing basically amounted to Viva’s worst nightmare, he wasted no time finding a Bee Guy, who came out to the house pretty much immediately and for 200 bucks vanquished the hive.
Note: Sweet Dub went over to our neighbor’s house to tell her there was a hive in her garage and that she should bring her dog in before the Bee Guy agitated the bees by trying to kill them. Apparently she thinks the Bee Guy works for free, because she did not even offer to pay part of the cost. The bees were on her property, but the Blah Blahs had to pay to eliminate them. This incident will no doubt turn up again as part of a different post entitled, “People Are Triflin’.”
Exhibit B. Skunks. Running rampant at night throughout our neighborhood.
Exhibit C. I picked Viva up early from school yesterday because she was sick. While rummaging about in the kitchen making lunch, I discovered a trail of ants making its trusty way into my kitchen cabinets. Upon opening said cabinets, I was witness to a feeding frenzy of ants swarming over my honey bear. I opened the back door, picked up the honey, and flung it out into the yard. I then spent the next 30 minutes vanquishing the ants. Whee!
Exhibit D. As part of our ongoing efforts to make Viva more comfortable with bugs, I bought a copy of Charlotte’s Web (the DVD, not the book. She is, after all, only 3.). She watched the whole thing yesterday after nap, and she loved it. At the end, as the credits were rolling and we were snuggling on the couch, she shrieked and flung herself off the couch, wailing in terror. A Daddy Long Legs had wandered up onto the couch and was walking across one of our throw pillows. I grabbed the pillow, ran to the back door, and flung the Daddy Long Legs into the yard. I then spent the next few minutes outside trying to get Viva to understand that the Daddy Long Legs wouldn’t hurt her, while she just as fervently tried to get me to come in and close the door.
Ah, semi-suburban life. It is truly everything I dreamed about and more.
P.S. Buddy Lewis update: You can still vote for Buddy to become the next Wandering Golfer here. He is only 34 votes behind first place -- coming on strong! You can vote once a day, every day through November 9th. If he gets this job, it is truly the opportunity of a lifetime -- he will get to travel the world playing golf and getting paid for it. What could be wrong with that?? Please vote for him, and tip your waiter, too. Thank you and good night.
Exhibit A. Less than a week after we moved in, Sweet William went home on his lunch hour. On his way out to the back house, he noticed a couple of bees hovering about the koi pond. Going back into the main house, he noticed there were six bees at the pond. Curious, he looked out the kitchen window a few minutes later and saw about 15 bees buzzing about. He then determined that they were coming from our neighbor’s garage, which backs up to the side wall of our yard. Since what he was seeing basically amounted to Viva’s worst nightmare, he wasted no time finding a Bee Guy, who came out to the house pretty much immediately and for 200 bucks vanquished the hive.
Note: Sweet Dub went over to our neighbor’s house to tell her there was a hive in her garage and that she should bring her dog in before the Bee Guy agitated the bees by trying to kill them. Apparently she thinks the Bee Guy works for free, because she did not even offer to pay part of the cost. The bees were on her property, but the Blah Blahs had to pay to eliminate them. This incident will no doubt turn up again as part of a different post entitled, “People Are Triflin’.”
Exhibit B. Skunks. Running rampant at night throughout our neighborhood.
Exhibit C. I picked Viva up early from school yesterday because she was sick. While rummaging about in the kitchen making lunch, I discovered a trail of ants making its trusty way into my kitchen cabinets. Upon opening said cabinets, I was witness to a feeding frenzy of ants swarming over my honey bear. I opened the back door, picked up the honey, and flung it out into the yard. I then spent the next 30 minutes vanquishing the ants. Whee!
Exhibit D. As part of our ongoing efforts to make Viva more comfortable with bugs, I bought a copy of Charlotte’s Web (the DVD, not the book. She is, after all, only 3.). She watched the whole thing yesterday after nap, and she loved it. At the end, as the credits were rolling and we were snuggling on the couch, she shrieked and flung herself off the couch, wailing in terror. A Daddy Long Legs had wandered up onto the couch and was walking across one of our throw pillows. I grabbed the pillow, ran to the back door, and flung the Daddy Long Legs into the yard. I then spent the next few minutes outside trying to get Viva to understand that the Daddy Long Legs wouldn’t hurt her, while she just as fervently tried to get me to come in and close the door.
Ah, semi-suburban life. It is truly everything I dreamed about and more.
P.S. Buddy Lewis update: You can still vote for Buddy to become the next Wandering Golfer here. He is only 34 votes behind first place -- coming on strong! You can vote once a day, every day through November 9th. If he gets this job, it is truly the opportunity of a lifetime -- he will get to travel the world playing golf and getting paid for it. What could be wrong with that?? Please vote for him, and tip your waiter, too. Thank you and good night.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Sugar Honey Iced Tea Laced with Witty Repartee
Hell's bells! It's all a mishmash of randomly randomized randomness today, kids.
For those who don't know, I am a Bostonian by birth, but an Angeleno by choice. Imagine my glee when I clicked on Losanjealous this morning and saw this side-by-side comparison of my two cities. Hee hee! I particularly like this one:
Maybe you have to have lived in both places to get it. But I found it quite hilarious. Thanks, Ryan.
Pet Peeve #865
What is up with people who print their letterhead with their address like so?:
8525 Main Moron Street
Los Angeles, Ca 90000
The state designation is a postal abbreviation which is supposed to be in ALL CAPS. Don't people learn this in basic geography? I seem to remember Mrs. Macchi testing us on all the states and their abbreviations when I was in fifth grade (admittedly a long time ago, but if you had Mrs. Macchi, you wouldn't forget).
(Special note to my friend Max: I await the arrival of your "Jesus Christ, you are so anal" e-mail at any moment.)
Hair She Goes Again
(Special note to my friend Max: I await the arrival of your "That was the worst pun ever" e-mail at any moment.)
I am a huge fan of Carol's Daughter products. You can get them at selected Sephora stores -- i.e., at Sephora stores which actually have some black foot traffic. Thusly, Angelenos, you can find them at the Beverly Center and Hollywood & Highland stores, but not at the Sephora in the Glendale Galleria. Figure that out.
Anyhoo: I have been using the Hair Milk and Mimosa Hair Honey on Viva, and I have to say, her hair has taken on a silkier texture. And if my girl Mary J. uses it, you know I'm down. But really, I'm just posting this to say that this little cherub, right here?
has to be pretty much the cutest thing going. I just want to grab her and squish her and...but that would be wrong, because you see, I don't even know her. She is someone else's kid! And I already have one at home who thinks we are one person and snuggles with me whenever I want. So you see the dilemma I'm in.
That is one cute kid, is all I'm saying.
And Speaking of Which...
Related to my comment above about the Sephora stores: until about a week ago, we lived scant blocks away from the Hollywood & Highland shopping center. Yes, right in the heart of Hollywood! Now that we have moved east, the closest mall is actually the Glendale Galleria. They are a few miles apart geographically, but worlds apart demographically.
Sweet Dub and I were joking last week about someone we know who moved north of LA and who had e-mailed me to say, "I hope you enjoy Atwater Village." I said (snarkily, I admit), "Yeah, well, hope you enjoy Whiteyville," which was wrong and bad of me to say, I know. And it came back to bite me on the ass since the next day I went to our local supermarket. On my return, I said to Sweet Dub, "There is NO ethnic hair care section in this Vons. Looks like we're the ones who've moved to Whiteyville." And then we laughed at ourselves, wholeheartedly.
Aloha from Whiteyville. Ahoy!
One More Random Comment
Last week, I was walking down what could be characterized as the gritty, inner-city street where my office is. My agency has three properties on the same street, so generally at least once a day I have to walk down the street to one of the other ones to go to a meeting or drop off or pick up some damn thing or other.
As I was crossing the intersection, a tall thin brother passed me and said, "Hey, lady! You lookin' mighty jazzy! You married?"
Well, at least he asked.
For those who don't know, I am a Bostonian by birth, but an Angeleno by choice. Imagine my glee when I clicked on Losanjealous this morning and saw this side-by-side comparison of my two cities. Hee hee! I particularly like this one:
They Have...Plymouth Rock, Which Means...Pilgrims
We Have...Eagle Rock,
Which Means...Target
Maybe you have to have lived in both places to get it. But I found it quite hilarious. Thanks, Ryan.
Pet Peeve #865
What is up with people who print their letterhead with their address like so?:
8525 Main Moron Street
Los Angeles, Ca 90000
The state designation is a postal abbreviation which is supposed to be in ALL CAPS. Don't people learn this in basic geography? I seem to remember Mrs. Macchi testing us on all the states and their abbreviations when I was in fifth grade (admittedly a long time ago, but if you had Mrs. Macchi, you wouldn't forget).
(Special note to my friend Max: I await the arrival of your "Jesus Christ, you are so anal" e-mail at any moment.)
Hair She Goes Again
(Special note to my friend Max: I await the arrival of your "That was the worst pun ever" e-mail at any moment.)
I am a huge fan of Carol's Daughter products. You can get them at selected Sephora stores -- i.e., at Sephora stores which actually have some black foot traffic. Thusly, Angelenos, you can find them at the Beverly Center and Hollywood & Highland stores, but not at the Sephora in the Glendale Galleria. Figure that out.
Anyhoo: I have been using the Hair Milk and Mimosa Hair Honey on Viva, and I have to say, her hair has taken on a silkier texture. And if my girl Mary J. uses it, you know I'm down. But really, I'm just posting this to say that this little cherub, right here?
has to be pretty much the cutest thing going. I just want to grab her and squish her and...but that would be wrong, because you see, I don't even know her. She is someone else's kid! And I already have one at home who thinks we are one person and snuggles with me whenever I want. So you see the dilemma I'm in.
That is one cute kid, is all I'm saying.
And Speaking of Which...
Related to my comment above about the Sephora stores: until about a week ago, we lived scant blocks away from the Hollywood & Highland shopping center. Yes, right in the heart of Hollywood! Now that we have moved east, the closest mall is actually the Glendale Galleria. They are a few miles apart geographically, but worlds apart demographically.
Sweet Dub and I were joking last week about someone we know who moved north of LA and who had e-mailed me to say, "I hope you enjoy Atwater Village." I said (snarkily, I admit), "Yeah, well, hope you enjoy Whiteyville," which was wrong and bad of me to say, I know. And it came back to bite me on the ass since the next day I went to our local supermarket. On my return, I said to Sweet Dub, "There is NO ethnic hair care section in this Vons. Looks like we're the ones who've moved to Whiteyville." And then we laughed at ourselves, wholeheartedly.
Aloha from Whiteyville. Ahoy!
One More Random Comment
Last week, I was walking down what could be characterized as the gritty, inner-city street where my office is. My agency has three properties on the same street, so generally at least once a day I have to walk down the street to one of the other ones to go to a meeting or drop off or pick up some damn thing or other.
As I was crossing the intersection, a tall thin brother passed me and said, "Hey, lady! You lookin' mighty jazzy! You married?"
Well, at least he asked.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Check Out Our Crib!
Here's my second attempt to post pics of our new digs. Hopefully, Blogger won't do anything overwhelmingly annoying when I hit "publish post."
Here's the view of the front of the house, from the driveway (behind Sweet Dub's Jeep). Note the bougainvillea bushes in the front. And the tree! That's a baby peach tree!
Here's a picture of our kitchen with the cool-ass fully-restored Chambers stove.
This is a little patio area directly outside of Viva's room. Theoretically, she could go directly from her room out onto this little patio, but we keep it locked and jammed shut with a pole. Because, hello, this is still a major urban area.
This is Sweet Dub, doing handstands in the backyard because we actually do finally have a backyard.
We are going into Week Two of House Living and I still like it. Further bulletins as events warrant.
Here's the view of the front of the house, from the driveway (behind Sweet Dub's Jeep). Note the bougainvillea bushes in the front. And the tree! That's a baby peach tree!
Here's a picture of our kitchen with the cool-ass fully-restored Chambers stove.
This is a little patio area directly outside of Viva's room. Theoretically, she could go directly from her room out onto this little patio, but we keep it locked and jammed shut with a pole. Because, hello, this is still a major urban area.
This is Sweet Dub, doing handstands in the backyard because we actually do finally have a backyard.
We are going into Week Two of House Living and I still like it. Further bulletins as events warrant.
Help a Man Get a Job
Okay, so it's not like this is a family that is destitute, out on the streets. But, well, I know Buddy Lewis. Buddy Lewis is a friend of mine. And he is damn funny.
Buddy has a chance to be the next Wandering Golfer on the Fine Living Channel. Right now he is in second place out of four finalists. Do us all a favor and vote for him here. You can vote once a day through November 9.
Thanks! You'll be helping Buddy and you'll also be helping his beautiful wife and daughter, who are fabulous and wonderful as well.
Buddy has a chance to be the next Wandering Golfer on the Fine Living Channel. Right now he is in second place out of four finalists. Do us all a favor and vote for him here. You can vote once a day through November 9.
Thanks! You'll be helping Buddy and you'll also be helping his beautiful wife and daughter, who are fabulous and wonderful as well.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
The Payoff (Literally)
So, two-and-a-half cool things happened today at work:
1. I found out that the very first grant I worked on when I got here – as in, we met to hash it out the second day I started work – has been funded, to the tune of $75,000. SWEET! This led to my boss thanking me for my "tenacious work ethic."
2. The President & CEO found out I still don’t have an office and made the executive decision to kick out the people who have been squatting* in the office she wants me to have. I will allegedly be in my new office by the end of the month.
½. The quarterly organizational newsletter, which is one of our major publications, came out. This was cool, because I wrote two of the articles – very cool to see my words in print. But not so cool, because I didn’t even get a credit. I should have been listed as a contributing writer in the masthead section, but apparently it wasn’t updated from the last issue. Sour grapes, I know.
* Not my word, my boss’ word. Evidently the people who share the office are not supposed to be in there; one of them just decided to take it, and the other person (who is new) got put in there with her. It is all very puzzling. I am not thrilled with the idea of displacing people, but hell, if they aren’t supposed to be there in the first place, they need to get to steppin’.
1. I found out that the very first grant I worked on when I got here – as in, we met to hash it out the second day I started work – has been funded, to the tune of $75,000. SWEET! This led to my boss thanking me for my "tenacious work ethic."
2. The President & CEO found out I still don’t have an office and made the executive decision to kick out the people who have been squatting* in the office she wants me to have. I will allegedly be in my new office by the end of the month.
½. The quarterly organizational newsletter, which is one of our major publications, came out. This was cool, because I wrote two of the articles – very cool to see my words in print. But not so cool, because I didn’t even get a credit. I should have been listed as a contributing writer in the masthead section, but apparently it wasn’t updated from the last issue. Sour grapes, I know.
* Not my word, my boss’ word. Evidently the people who share the office are not supposed to be in there; one of them just decided to take it, and the other person (who is new) got put in there with her. It is all very puzzling. I am not thrilled with the idea of displacing people, but hell, if they aren’t supposed to be there in the first place, they need to get to steppin’.
Monday, October 09, 2006
We're In.
Dear Friends,
Since I haven’t moved in six years, I had forgotten how physically exhausting moving can be. In previous moves, I had pretty much been moving just myself and all my accumulated crap. This time, I was involved in moving myself, Sweet Dub, and a 3-and-a-half-year-old, and it was about 300 kajillion times more exhausting. I woke up this morning and swung my legs out of bed and every muscle in my legs hurt. My back hurts. My neck hurts. My eyes hurt.
But I shuffled geriatrically out into the kitchen to put the kettle on at my 1940s fully restored cool-ass stove, as the sun was coming up, and the mist was rising over my back yard, and the (koi-less) koi pond was burbling gently away, and I felt an enormous sense of peace and gratitude. And despite having to leave the house 15 minutes earlier than usual to get to school and work on time, I think it’s all going to be worth it.
Having said that…
We pretty much made this move for two reasons:
(1) To live someplace quieter. Throughout the weekend, Sweet Dub and Viva would periodically break into a stomping dance jam on the hardwood floors, screaming at the top of their lungs, “No more neighbors! No more neighbors!” Which isn’t completely accurate, but it was delightful to witness their glee.
(2) To have a yard. Of course, what we didn’t realize is that Viva is such a city kid that she won’t spend more than two minutes in the yard. “Too many bugs!” she shrieks, making a beeline for the back door. “I’m paying [undisclosed] bucks a month for this place, you better get used to some bugs,” Sweet Dub says. Sigh. I’m sure she’ll adjust.
Oh, and Sweet Dub twisted and rolled onto his ankle on Saturday while moving the heavy stuff. It’s all swollen and purple, and yet he continues to walk on it, because, well, he has to. There’s simply too much to do.
No phone service or DSL until at least Thursday of this week, so I’m posting from work for now. More soon.
Love & kisses,
Mama Blah Blah
Since I haven’t moved in six years, I had forgotten how physically exhausting moving can be. In previous moves, I had pretty much been moving just myself and all my accumulated crap. This time, I was involved in moving myself, Sweet Dub, and a 3-and-a-half-year-old, and it was about 300 kajillion times more exhausting. I woke up this morning and swung my legs out of bed and every muscle in my legs hurt. My back hurts. My neck hurts. My eyes hurt.
But I shuffled geriatrically out into the kitchen to put the kettle on at my 1940s fully restored cool-ass stove, as the sun was coming up, and the mist was rising over my back yard, and the (koi-less) koi pond was burbling gently away, and I felt an enormous sense of peace and gratitude. And despite having to leave the house 15 minutes earlier than usual to get to school and work on time, I think it’s all going to be worth it.
Having said that…
We pretty much made this move for two reasons:
(1) To live someplace quieter. Throughout the weekend, Sweet Dub and Viva would periodically break into a stomping dance jam on the hardwood floors, screaming at the top of their lungs, “No more neighbors! No more neighbors!” Which isn’t completely accurate, but it was delightful to witness their glee.
(2) To have a yard. Of course, what we didn’t realize is that Viva is such a city kid that she won’t spend more than two minutes in the yard. “Too many bugs!” she shrieks, making a beeline for the back door. “I’m paying [undisclosed] bucks a month for this place, you better get used to some bugs,” Sweet Dub says. Sigh. I’m sure she’ll adjust.
Oh, and Sweet Dub twisted and rolled onto his ankle on Saturday while moving the heavy stuff. It’s all swollen and purple, and yet he continues to walk on it, because, well, he has to. There’s simply too much to do.
No phone service or DSL until at least Thursday of this week, so I’m posting from work for now. More soon.
Love & kisses,
Mama Blah Blah
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Top Ten Reasons I Love My Husband
10. He makes me laugh. A lot.
9. He has a beautiful smile.
8. He is ferociously protective of his family and always puts his family first.
7. He is unfailingly loyal to his friends. As in, he’s been best friends with the same guy since 7th grade.
6. He is bootylicious.
5. He listens.
4. He is wicked smart.
3. He encourages me in every positive thing and steers me away from every negative thing.
2. He is an even better father than I expected, and I fully expected him to be great at it.
1. He has been married to me for five years today and is still my best friend, my favorite dance partner, the first person I go to with any kind of news (good or bad), the hottie I want to make mad monkey love to, and the man I want to grow old with.
Happy Anniversary, Sweet Dub! I love you, sweetie pot pie!
9. He has a beautiful smile.
8. He is ferociously protective of his family and always puts his family first.
7. He is unfailingly loyal to his friends. As in, he’s been best friends with the same guy since 7th grade.
6. He is bootylicious.
5. He listens.
4. He is wicked smart.
3. He encourages me in every positive thing and steers me away from every negative thing.
2. He is an even better father than I expected, and I fully expected him to be great at it.
1. He has been married to me for five years today and is still my best friend, my favorite dance partner, the first person I go to with any kind of news (good or bad), the hottie I want to make mad monkey love to, and the man I want to grow old with.
Happy Anniversary, Sweet Dub! I love you, sweetie pot pie!
But My Blood Type is A+!
Cee took this quiz and that compelled me to go take it. Here are my results:
You Have A Type B+ Personality
You're a pro at going with the flow. You love to kick back and take in everything life has to offer. A total joy to be around, people crave your stability.
While you're totally laid back, you can have bouts of hyperactivity. Get into a project you love, and you won't stop until it's done. You're passionate - just selective about your passions.
----------------------------------
I hate to quibble, but I don't think it's completely accurate. For one thing, I don't think I'm a total joy to be around. I mean, I have my moments just like anyone else. Maybe I'm just a partial joy to be around. It all depends. Hey, it didn't say anything about being indecisive. I think that's one of my defining traits!
You Have A Type B+ Personality
You're a pro at going with the flow. You love to kick back and take in everything life has to offer. A total joy to be around, people crave your stability.
While you're totally laid back, you can have bouts of hyperactivity. Get into a project you love, and you won't stop until it's done. You're passionate - just selective about your passions.
----------------------------------
I hate to quibble, but I don't think it's completely accurate. For one thing, I don't think I'm a total joy to be around. I mean, I have my moments just like anyone else. Maybe I'm just a partial joy to be around. It all depends. Hey, it didn't say anything about being indecisive. I think that's one of my defining traits!
Friday, September 29, 2006
Koi and Happiness
I felt so great after writing the previous, very long post – partly because it was long and I hardly get to write anything in-depth that’s not for work these days, but also because it helped me clarify some things in my admittedly muddled head.
Now it’s been days since I wrote anything, which leaves all kind of stuff churning about wanting to be expressed. But I have had no time to write, because (a) work is very busy; and (b) we’re moving!
Words can not express how thrilled I am (we are) to finally be leaving our apartment. A few weeks ago, Sweet Dub said, “This apartment is like a bad relationship. We keep giving it second chances and it keeps slapping us around and we keep coming back to it and saying, it’s not that bad even though we're walking around with a black eye. What is wrong with us?”
Well, you know, we had been looking aggressively for a while there – early in the summer – and the rental market was pretty shitty. Not as bad as the buying market, because buying a house is now evidently something you can do only if your family gives you some money or you make upwards of $400,000 per annum or you don’t have any kids. But about a month or so ago, we both got so fed up that we had stopped looking even for a rental.
Sweet Dub happened to go onto Craigslist last week when our rowdy frat boy wannabe neighbors interrupted our sleep once again. [Aside: What is it that is so appealing about regularly screaming off your balcony at 2:30 in the morning? I wish I could figure it out.] And he found the perfect little house for us, ironically less than half a mile from where my sister had been living until recently, which is neither here nor there except that she will probably soil herself when she finds out. We drove over there on Saturday and the owners fell in love with us and offered us the house for free!
Okay, so maybe not for free, but they do love us and picked us over the rest of the unwashed masses who were trying to rent the house which was clearly fated to be ours.
Our house is a cute little green two bedroom, two bath with separate office/den/what-have-you in the back yard and a driveway which accommodates four cars, and comes with all appliances including washer and dryer because until a few months ago it was an owner-occupied unit. The spacious front yard has four fruit trees (apple, peach, pear, and plum) and a porch overlooking the yard, and the back yard, which is completely enclosed, has a small koi pond and a fire pit. I know I said this already, but seriously, there are no words to describe how excited the entire Blah Blah family is about the prospect of moving. Have I mentioned we can even have a dog??
Alas, I am at work and my lunch break is drawing to a close. More next time (hopefully with pictures).
Now it’s been days since I wrote anything, which leaves all kind of stuff churning about wanting to be expressed. But I have had no time to write, because (a) work is very busy; and (b) we’re moving!
Words can not express how thrilled I am (we are) to finally be leaving our apartment. A few weeks ago, Sweet Dub said, “This apartment is like a bad relationship. We keep giving it second chances and it keeps slapping us around and we keep coming back to it and saying, it’s not that bad even though we're walking around with a black eye. What is wrong with us?”
Well, you know, we had been looking aggressively for a while there – early in the summer – and the rental market was pretty shitty. Not as bad as the buying market, because buying a house is now evidently something you can do only if your family gives you some money or you make upwards of $400,000 per annum or you don’t have any kids. But about a month or so ago, we both got so fed up that we had stopped looking even for a rental.
Sweet Dub happened to go onto Craigslist last week when our rowdy frat boy wannabe neighbors interrupted our sleep once again. [Aside: What is it that is so appealing about regularly screaming off your balcony at 2:30 in the morning? I wish I could figure it out.] And he found the perfect little house for us, ironically less than half a mile from where my sister had been living until recently, which is neither here nor there except that she will probably soil herself when she finds out. We drove over there on Saturday and the owners fell in love with us and offered us the house for free!
Okay, so maybe not for free, but they do love us and picked us over the rest of the unwashed masses who were trying to rent the house which was clearly fated to be ours.
Our house is a cute little green two bedroom, two bath with separate office/den/what-have-you in the back yard and a driveway which accommodates four cars, and comes with all appliances including washer and dryer because until a few months ago it was an owner-occupied unit. The spacious front yard has four fruit trees (apple, peach, pear, and plum) and a porch overlooking the yard, and the back yard, which is completely enclosed, has a small koi pond and a fire pit. I know I said this already, but seriously, there are no words to describe how excited the entire Blah Blah family is about the prospect of moving. Have I mentioned we can even have a dog??
Alas, I am at work and my lunch break is drawing to a close. More next time (hopefully with pictures).
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Cheaper Than Therapy
I recently updated my Bloglines feeds and realized that ever since Dawn changed up her site that I’ve been missing out on This Woman’s Work. I really enjoy Dawn’s writing; I feel she is very thoughtful in the very literal sense of the word, and it’s been interesting following her journey. So I fixed the feed and then started reading back over her last several posts. One, called “Playing Tennis,” really struck a chord with me, particularly where she writes:
At any rate, when I got to this point in her entry, I started nodding my head. I am a dead ringer for my father. It is spooky how much I have always looked like him. Since my mom took me and my sister and left my dad when I was not even a year old, and since my dad never bothered with visitation until I was a teenager, this was a sore point with me for a long time. I thought it must have bothered my mom every time she looked at me. I didn’t want to look like him. I would much rather have looked like my mom, who was the Most Beautiful Woman Ever in the Entire Known World, with really thick dark curly hair, beautiful brown eyes and tan skin. It pained me that I looked so different from her and from my sister (and I did, back then, although as adults my sister and I look so alike we’ve been asked if we were twins). My sister was (is) pale, like me, but she had dark brown hair and brown eyes. I, on the other hand, had blue-green eyes and a dirty-blonde Afro (which, as I got older, graduated to light brown).
Nonetheless, I was fascinated by my father. I was sure that if he spent any time with us, we'd all get along great, and I was just as sure that had I been a boy, perhaps he would have made more of an effort. Funny, but mostly sad, the things kids blame on themselves. When I found out that he had another family – that we had a half-sister whose mother was the woman he’d been cheating on my mother with – I was stunned. She was, I thought to myself, just another girl. And yet by the time I learned she existed, she was already 8 years old (I was 10), and he had stayed with her mother that whole time. What was so special about her? I thought. Even at that age, I was well aware of how race complicates things, so when I realized that the mother of this child was white, I was stung to the core of my little racially-mixed-up self. Was this the reason for his complete rejection of us?
As an adult, I realize things are hardly ever this – well, black and white, if you’ll pardon the expression. My father was an alcoholic, and a Vietnam veteran, and underemployed, and a black man who could pass for white. He had a lot of issues.
I met my half-sister S. when she was 8, and she had only the vaguest grasp of how we were related. I was struck by how perky and innocent she seemed. I liked her and developed a bit of an affection for her, but as we grew into adolescence and I actually began to spend time with my father (and sometimes with her, though my dad had moved on to another wife and kids by then, and S. wasn’t living with them), I realized that we moved in very different worlds. And the world she was living in was a kind of a bubble where black people did not belong. Despite moving amidst my dad’s (admittedly high-yalla) extended family for most of her life, she wasn’t comfortable around black people or black culture. And as she grew into an adult, she wasn’t comfortable around even her very light and practically white half-sisters, either.
When S. was getting ready to be married, my dad called me from Cape Cod one day and was complaining about all the money he was spending on the wedding. After several minutes, I determined that the wedding was only a few weeks away, and I realized that neither my sister Lola nor I had been invited. I was not surprised that I hadn’t been invited – by this time, I had already moved to the West Coast – but Lola lived at that time only 40 minutes away from the bride-to-be. I surmised that we had been cut out, and so we were.* Years later, when Lola and I returned together to the East Coast for our father’s funeral, S. showed us pictures of her (white) husband and three sons. We exclaimed over how cute the kids were and what a nice family she had. When I showed her a picture of Viva (then only 8 months old), she looked at it with what I can only describe as a smirk and handed it back to me without a word. At that moment, I knew I would never speak to her again. I knew I could not go on pretending. We are family in name only.
By the way, on that same visit, we were welcomed with delighted, enthusiastic and open arms by my stepfather’s family. [My stepfather, in case you don’t know, is also white, lest this story has led you to think I automatically hate all white folks. For the record, I do not.] They all rearranged their schedules to see us, offered to let us stay with them, helped us dig our rental car out of the snow. These are people – step-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – that I have known pretty much all of my conscious life, since I was four years old, and these are the people I will always consider my family. My mom and my stepfather are divorced, but I will never divorce them.
One more excerpt from Dawn’s entry:
I am still working out how I want to handle things with them. I feel I have (once again) been cut out. As you can imagine, this doesn’t sit well with me. I am angry, and sad, and sick of it all. I have prayed, and cried, and ranted about it for hours (sorry, Sweet Dub). I feel I have tried my damnedest to mend fences, and it's time somebody else made an effort.
Ah, Internet, it is late, and I’m sure you have somewhere to go. I’m sorry I rambled so long. You have been a strong shoulder to cry on. No, no, I know, really, it’s late. Go on, brush your teeth and tuck yourself in. I’ll check in with you later.
* "Cut out" in more than one way -- my dad never spent a dime on either Lola's or my wedding, not that I expected him to.
…And that reminds me of something else. My mom used to say that I looked a lot like my oldest half-sister. When I was a teen-ager this fascinated me. I thought it must mean something and I also had this fantasy about meeting her and what that would be like and how she would really like me because I looked like her. Then when I was thirteen she flew out to see us all — she must have been 20 or so? — and she didn’t like me much at all. Looking back I realize that seeing us must have been like what I have with my littlest sisters only to the nth degree, since she was harboring her own fantasies. The visit, as I remember it, was a total disappointment for everyone and I haven’t seen her since. She quit talking to my dad for about a decade after that and went through her own troubles. It was all so half-there. So not one and not the other. Everyone’s heart cracking into little pieces because what we were pretending wasn’t true.Oh my soul, how I identify with this piece. Dawn apologizes that it is disjointed, but in my experience, that is how family is. There are so many pieces to every family, and talking about one inevitably makes you veer off toward another, and they are all interconnected, so in the end there is some sense to it, even if it may not seem so on the surface.
At any rate, when I got to this point in her entry, I started nodding my head. I am a dead ringer for my father. It is spooky how much I have always looked like him. Since my mom took me and my sister and left my dad when I was not even a year old, and since my dad never bothered with visitation until I was a teenager, this was a sore point with me for a long time. I thought it must have bothered my mom every time she looked at me. I didn’t want to look like him. I would much rather have looked like my mom, who was the Most Beautiful Woman Ever in the Entire Known World, with really thick dark curly hair, beautiful brown eyes and tan skin. It pained me that I looked so different from her and from my sister (and I did, back then, although as adults my sister and I look so alike we’ve been asked if we were twins). My sister was (is) pale, like me, but she had dark brown hair and brown eyes. I, on the other hand, had blue-green eyes and a dirty-blonde Afro (which, as I got older, graduated to light brown).
Nonetheless, I was fascinated by my father. I was sure that if he spent any time with us, we'd all get along great, and I was just as sure that had I been a boy, perhaps he would have made more of an effort. Funny, but mostly sad, the things kids blame on themselves. When I found out that he had another family – that we had a half-sister whose mother was the woman he’d been cheating on my mother with – I was stunned. She was, I thought to myself, just another girl. And yet by the time I learned she existed, she was already 8 years old (I was 10), and he had stayed with her mother that whole time. What was so special about her? I thought. Even at that age, I was well aware of how race complicates things, so when I realized that the mother of this child was white, I was stung to the core of my little racially-mixed-up self. Was this the reason for his complete rejection of us?
As an adult, I realize things are hardly ever this – well, black and white, if you’ll pardon the expression. My father was an alcoholic, and a Vietnam veteran, and underemployed, and a black man who could pass for white. He had a lot of issues.
I met my half-sister S. when she was 8, and she had only the vaguest grasp of how we were related. I was struck by how perky and innocent she seemed. I liked her and developed a bit of an affection for her, but as we grew into adolescence and I actually began to spend time with my father (and sometimes with her, though my dad had moved on to another wife and kids by then, and S. wasn’t living with them), I realized that we moved in very different worlds. And the world she was living in was a kind of a bubble where black people did not belong. Despite moving amidst my dad’s (admittedly high-yalla) extended family for most of her life, she wasn’t comfortable around black people or black culture. And as she grew into an adult, she wasn’t comfortable around even her very light and practically white half-sisters, either.
When S. was getting ready to be married, my dad called me from Cape Cod one day and was complaining about all the money he was spending on the wedding. After several minutes, I determined that the wedding was only a few weeks away, and I realized that neither my sister Lola nor I had been invited. I was not surprised that I hadn’t been invited – by this time, I had already moved to the West Coast – but Lola lived at that time only 40 minutes away from the bride-to-be. I surmised that we had been cut out, and so we were.* Years later, when Lola and I returned together to the East Coast for our father’s funeral, S. showed us pictures of her (white) husband and three sons. We exclaimed over how cute the kids were and what a nice family she had. When I showed her a picture of Viva (then only 8 months old), she looked at it with what I can only describe as a smirk and handed it back to me without a word. At that moment, I knew I would never speak to her again. I knew I could not go on pretending. We are family in name only.
By the way, on that same visit, we were welcomed with delighted, enthusiastic and open arms by my stepfather’s family. [My stepfather, in case you don’t know, is also white, lest this story has led you to think I automatically hate all white folks. For the record, I do not.] They all rearranged their schedules to see us, offered to let us stay with them, helped us dig our rental car out of the snow. These are people – step-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – that I have known pretty much all of my conscious life, since I was four years old, and these are the people I will always consider my family. My mom and my stepfather are divorced, but I will never divorce them.
One more excerpt from Dawn’s entry:
My meandering, rambling point is that you can’t get away from this. You can’t just excise people from photo albums and pretend they don’t matter. You have to let your kids have that opportunity to make sense of it themselves.And here is where it gets sticky, and where I need another post because I could go on for hours: my relationship with my mom, grandmother, and Lola is very strained at the moment. Ever since Easter, I have had it with them. And yet, recently, Viva has been asking about Nana and Grandma and when we are going to see them. I feel that my job as her mother is to protect her as much as possible from things which might be hurtful to her. And yet, they are her family. At the same time, she is going to realize at some point that she is being treated differently, which will be hurtful. What Dawn says about letting your kids make sense of it themselves resonates with me, but makes me want to dig my heels in and fight like hell against it.
I am still working out how I want to handle things with them. I feel I have (once again) been cut out. As you can imagine, this doesn’t sit well with me. I am angry, and sad, and sick of it all. I have prayed, and cried, and ranted about it for hours (sorry, Sweet Dub). I feel I have tried my damnedest to mend fences, and it's time somebody else made an effort.
Ah, Internet, it is late, and I’m sure you have somewhere to go. I’m sorry I rambled so long. You have been a strong shoulder to cry on. No, no, I know, really, it’s late. Go on, brush your teeth and tuck yourself in. I’ll check in with you later.
* "Cut out" in more than one way -- my dad never spent a dime on either Lola's or my wedding, not that I expected him to.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Sick Day
Viva woke up before dawn complaining that her stomach hurt. Sweet Dub gave her some water and tried to get her to go back to bed, but no go. By 5 AM, he got me up to tell me he was going to work and would try to come back by 8 so I could go in turn. At 7:30 AM Puke-a-Palooza began, after which Viva climbed into my arms, clung to me and would not let go until Sweet Dub got back at 8:30. I went to work for an hour (during which time Viva threw up again, but since there was nothing in her stomach, it was just horrible retching), went to the market for crackers and popsicles, and came home. At 11:30, Viva threw up again. She is miserable, and a bit feverish, and I'm not feeling so great either.
I hope it's not the flu.
I hope it's not the flu.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Charity and Love
I think I've mentioned before that I have a relative who sends me all manner of forwarded e-mail -- sometimes as many as ten at a time. Quite often, she'll send me prayer circle e-mails and stuff with angels in it and homilies about how life is short and you should take time to appreciate it. Oh, and the ubiquitous "I can do nothing without Jesus, through Jesus I can do anything" messages.
Today, she sent me this:
Today, she sent me this:
How ALL business phones SHOULD be answered!
GOOD MORNING, WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Press "1" for English.
Press "2" to disconnect until you learn to speak English.
How ghastly and hateful. Somehow I don't think Jesus would approve.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Three Months: a Retrospective
Since I have officially been on the job three months as of last Tuesday, I went through new hire orientation last week. It was a three-and-a-half-hour meeting, the standout portion of which was a 30-minute long Powerpoint presentation without sound. Since we didn’t have sound (which was an integral part of the presentation), one of our fellow employees actually read each slide. It was just as excruciating as it sounds. Prior to this, we went around the room and everybody said who they were, where they came from, where they work now, blahbitty blah. When I explained that I had been a stay-at-home mom for three years and this was my first foray back into the work world, one of the HR people asked, “Which job is harder?”
She clearly doesn’t have any children. (Really, she doesn’t.) I sidestepped a bit and responded that the hardest part is really balancing the two jobs. And it is! It is a bee-yotch.
So, three months in. Thus far, I have not yet brought in any money, and I still don’t have an office. I’m wondering if there is a correlation. I suppose I could argue that if I had an office, I’d be able to get more done. It is really loud out here in CubeLand.
Three months in. I like my job. I love the organization – I think it is a standout organization that is doing some pretty great things for certain segments of the population that desperately need help. I like knowing that what I do really impacts kids and families in a positive way.
I like my coworkers. I like my boss, I like my boss’ boss, and I like the head of the organization (my boss’ boss’ boss). They are all outstandingly smart and knowledgeable women. I can learn from them, and I am. I am doing pretty varied work, which keeps things interesting. Everybody here pretty much works their asses off, but they keep a good sense of humor. The organization’s philosophy is to have fun while you work, be positive, be present. I like that.
Having said all this, if I won the lottery tomorrow, would I quit my job?
In a hot minute, sister. I miss having a weekend. When I was freelancing from home, I could throw in laundry, tidy up the kitchen, drop by Target on my way back from dropping off Viva, or do the grocery shopping during the week. Now, my weekends are spent cramming in all that shit, along with trying to keep in touch with friends and family, and there is always something else I need to do but can’t get to. Sweet Dub is already worn out from working the 5 AM to 2:30 PM shift, but since I am back at an office job, he tries to pick up the slack – vacuuming on his lunch hour, cooking a couple of times a week, doing laundry when he gets home from work. But we are both worn out right now, and we miss each other. Neither one of us is exercising regularly, our sleep schedules are all funked up, and I’ve found myself snapping at him recently – which I have never done. I apologized for that yesterday. He didn’t cut me any slack. “Are you gonna hug me now, or what?” he said, grabbing me.
Despite all this, in talking about this transition recently, he said this: “You seem more tired, but happier. You needed this.”
It’s all a swirling vortex of emotion and confusion. And on top of it all, the fish died. That’s a whole ‘nother, well, kettle of fish. More on that next time.
She clearly doesn’t have any children. (Really, she doesn’t.) I sidestepped a bit and responded that the hardest part is really balancing the two jobs. And it is! It is a bee-yotch.
So, three months in. Thus far, I have not yet brought in any money, and I still don’t have an office. I’m wondering if there is a correlation. I suppose I could argue that if I had an office, I’d be able to get more done. It is really loud out here in CubeLand.
Three months in. I like my job. I love the organization – I think it is a standout organization that is doing some pretty great things for certain segments of the population that desperately need help. I like knowing that what I do really impacts kids and families in a positive way.
I like my coworkers. I like my boss, I like my boss’ boss, and I like the head of the organization (my boss’ boss’ boss). They are all outstandingly smart and knowledgeable women. I can learn from them, and I am. I am doing pretty varied work, which keeps things interesting. Everybody here pretty much works their asses off, but they keep a good sense of humor. The organization’s philosophy is to have fun while you work, be positive, be present. I like that.
Having said all this, if I won the lottery tomorrow, would I quit my job?
In a hot minute, sister. I miss having a weekend. When I was freelancing from home, I could throw in laundry, tidy up the kitchen, drop by Target on my way back from dropping off Viva, or do the grocery shopping during the week. Now, my weekends are spent cramming in all that shit, along with trying to keep in touch with friends and family, and there is always something else I need to do but can’t get to. Sweet Dub is already worn out from working the 5 AM to 2:30 PM shift, but since I am back at an office job, he tries to pick up the slack – vacuuming on his lunch hour, cooking a couple of times a week, doing laundry when he gets home from work. But we are both worn out right now, and we miss each other. Neither one of us is exercising regularly, our sleep schedules are all funked up, and I’ve found myself snapping at him recently – which I have never done. I apologized for that yesterday. He didn’t cut me any slack. “Are you gonna hug me now, or what?” he said, grabbing me.
Despite all this, in talking about this transition recently, he said this: “You seem more tired, but happier. You needed this.”
It’s all a swirling vortex of emotion and confusion. And on top of it all, the fish died. That’s a whole ‘nother, well, kettle of fish. More on that next time.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Rest in Pesce
It is with sincere regret that I must inform you that Marlin, the surviving Betta living in our bathroom, has succumbed to some pretty nasty fin rot and was flushed away to the Great Beyond.
When informed of the demise of her beloved pet, Viva turned her mouth down at the corners, blinked a couple of times and said, “I want a different pet. I want a cat.”
Shit.
When informed of the demise of her beloved pet, Viva turned her mouth down at the corners, blinked a couple of times and said, “I want a different pet. I want a cat.”
Shit.
Three Going on Thirteen
As we are driving to school this morning, I comment on the cloudy skies, and further:
Mama: Do you think it’s going to rain today?
Viva: The sun is out. Don’t mention it.
Mama: Don’t mention it?
Viva: You can see the sun, so don’t even mention it.
We stop at a traffic light. I grab a Washington Mutual deposit envelope and start scribbling down our conversation.
Viva: What are you writing?
Mama: I’m writing down “don’t mention it.”
Viva: Why are you writing down “don’t mention it”?
Mama: I thought it was a funny thing to say.
Viva [in a tone that implies this is blatantly obvious]: Well, it is a funny thing to say.
Mama: Do you think it’s going to rain today?
Viva: The sun is out. Don’t mention it.
Mama: Don’t mention it?
Viva: You can see the sun, so don’t even mention it.
We stop at a traffic light. I grab a Washington Mutual deposit envelope and start scribbling down our conversation.
Viva: What are you writing?
Mama: I’m writing down “don’t mention it.”
Viva: Why are you writing down “don’t mention it”?
Mama: I thought it was a funny thing to say.
Viva [in a tone that implies this is blatantly obvious]: Well, it is a funny thing to say.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Up on My High Horse, Foaming at the Mouth
I am going to veer off in two directions on this post, so try and bear with me.
I Hate Disney, Part One
I think I have already detailed my hatred of the princess phenomenon on this blog on more than one occasion. I am, in general, quite cheesed off at Disney for their fucked-up Disney Princess marketing, mainly because I consider it both racist and sexist, and I don't know why, but for some reason I'm just not down with that bullshit. Call me crazy. I don’t understand why people insist on giving Viva Disney Princess crap, but I don’t make a big deal about it because what other people choose to do with their money is their business. I politely say thank you and later dispose of it.
However: one of Sweet Dub’s friends from law school has a little girl who is just a few months younger than Viva, and she recently turned 3. And her parents recently threw her a princess party, at which all the little girls (no boys invited) were to be dressed up as princesses, get their nails done, faces painted, and pick out jewelry to wear.
“Okay,” I told myself. “There is nothing wrong with wanting to play dress-up. Viva can wear a generic princess costume if she wants to. No problem.”
I bought her a princess dress at a costume shop. We went to the party. She had a great time playing with J's toys, watching a puppet show, and participating in a ballet class led by a fairy princess. She refused to get her nails done.
So! Not so bad, right? Well, now Viva has begun planning her birthday party for next year. She insists it is going to be a princess party. With no boys. Oh my God, I hate Disney with a hateful hatingness that knows no bounds. Where do I start?
Well, first: I do not want Viva to discriminate against anyone. I don’t think it’s okay to exclude other kids from a party simply based on gender. I want her to have friends who are boys. I like boys. I don’t buy into this whole gender separation deal at all; it makes me distinctly uncomfortable. As a corollary to that, I don’t want the boys of Viva’s generation to view girls as anything less than people. I find it incredible that in 2006, we are faced with a different form of sexist bullshit. (Yes, call me naïve.) If I were a little boy and swallowed this princess mindset, I would conclude that girls are pretty lame, focused mainly on looks and acquiring stuff, and easily distracted by shiny sparkly things.
I also don’t want Viva to think her sole value comes from being pretty. Well, let’s face it, she is gorgeous. But she is also smart, and funny, and kind. And I don’t want her to equate having nice clothes and nice things as the be-all and end-all of everything.
Perhaps you think I’m overreacting. What? Are you new?
By the way: Mommy Track’d has come up with an anti-princess reading list. Beautiful! Where’s my debit card?
I Hate Disney, Part Two
About the only show I like on the Disney Channel (i.e. that I will allow Viva to watch) is Charlie and Lola, because it is clever and endearing and shows such a lovely sibling relationship. It has become one of the shows we tape regularly on our fake TiVo. Occasionally, we’ll see ads for other Disney shows, to wit: Handy Manny, premiering this weekend.
Handy. Fucking. Manny!
Can you fucking believe it? I truly think it is impossible for Disney to greenlight anything that isn’t offensive in some way. This is a show aimed squarely at the Latino market, clearly trying to grab some of the Dora market share. The main character is Manny Garcia, a fix-it guy who can fix anything around town with his team of talking tools. Okay, so we all know a lot of little kids are fascinated by tools and fixing things (Bob the Builder, anyone?), but did they have to make the one male Latino character who has his own show a handyman? At least they don’t have him hanging around the Home Depot looking for work, but still…
Oh, so much more to say. Oh, so much work to do. You see the dilemma I’m in?
I Hate Disney, Part One
I think I have already detailed my hatred of the princess phenomenon on this blog on more than one occasion. I am, in general, quite cheesed off at Disney for their fucked-up Disney Princess marketing, mainly because I consider it both racist and sexist, and I don't know why, but for some reason I'm just not down with that bullshit. Call me crazy. I don’t understand why people insist on giving Viva Disney Princess crap, but I don’t make a big deal about it because what other people choose to do with their money is their business. I politely say thank you and later dispose of it.
However: one of Sweet Dub’s friends from law school has a little girl who is just a few months younger than Viva, and she recently turned 3. And her parents recently threw her a princess party, at which all the little girls (no boys invited) were to be dressed up as princesses, get their nails done, faces painted, and pick out jewelry to wear.
“Okay,” I told myself. “There is nothing wrong with wanting to play dress-up. Viva can wear a generic princess costume if she wants to. No problem.”
I bought her a princess dress at a costume shop. We went to the party. She had a great time playing with J's toys, watching a puppet show, and participating in a ballet class led by a fairy princess. She refused to get her nails done.
So! Not so bad, right? Well, now Viva has begun planning her birthday party for next year. She insists it is going to be a princess party. With no boys. Oh my God, I hate Disney with a hateful hatingness that knows no bounds. Where do I start?
Well, first: I do not want Viva to discriminate against anyone. I don’t think it’s okay to exclude other kids from a party simply based on gender. I want her to have friends who are boys. I like boys. I don’t buy into this whole gender separation deal at all; it makes me distinctly uncomfortable. As a corollary to that, I don’t want the boys of Viva’s generation to view girls as anything less than people. I find it incredible that in 2006, we are faced with a different form of sexist bullshit. (Yes, call me naïve.) If I were a little boy and swallowed this princess mindset, I would conclude that girls are pretty lame, focused mainly on looks and acquiring stuff, and easily distracted by shiny sparkly things.
I also don’t want Viva to think her sole value comes from being pretty. Well, let’s face it, she is gorgeous. But she is also smart, and funny, and kind. And I don’t want her to equate having nice clothes and nice things as the be-all and end-all of everything.
Perhaps you think I’m overreacting. What? Are you new?
By the way: Mommy Track’d has come up with an anti-princess reading list. Beautiful! Where’s my debit card?
I Hate Disney, Part Two
About the only show I like on the Disney Channel (i.e. that I will allow Viva to watch) is Charlie and Lola, because it is clever and endearing and shows such a lovely sibling relationship. It has become one of the shows we tape regularly on our fake TiVo. Occasionally, we’ll see ads for other Disney shows, to wit: Handy Manny, premiering this weekend.
Handy. Fucking. Manny!
Can you fucking believe it? I truly think it is impossible for Disney to greenlight anything that isn’t offensive in some way. This is a show aimed squarely at the Latino market, clearly trying to grab some of the Dora market share. The main character is Manny Garcia, a fix-it guy who can fix anything around town with his team of talking tools. Okay, so we all know a lot of little kids are fascinated by tools and fixing things (Bob the Builder, anyone?), but did they have to make the one male Latino character who has his own show a handyman? At least they don’t have him hanging around the Home Depot looking for work, but still…
Oh, so much more to say. Oh, so much work to do. You see the dilemma I’m in?
Monday, September 11, 2006
September 11, 2001
I was at home, having just gotten out of the shower and begun preparing for my day. The phone rang. It was Sweet W, who was working the 6 AM to 2:30 shift at that time and thus already at work. “Turn on the TV!” he said. “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center in New York.”
So I was watching the TV when the second plane crashed, and I could not do anything else all day. I tried to work – I was freelancing from home then – but I could not look away from the TV. It was so unspeakably horrifying. I felt sick, and weepy, and furious, and sad. And I remember: we did not know what else was coming. These were simultaneous attacks. So mixed in with the sorrow and anger for the victims in New York, DC, and Pennsylvania were fear and dread of which U.S. city would be attacked next. The world, as I knew it, was irrevocably changed.
At that point, Sweet W and I were only a few weeks away from our wedding. We had friends who had just gotten married on September 8 in the Midwest, and their honeymoon flight was supposed to take off on the 11th. Since all flights were grounded, they spent their honeymoon trying to get a rental car to drive back home to the Bay Area. We talked briefly about postponing our wedding, but then decided that whatever the hell happened, we wanted to be married. We did end up putting off our honeymoon to Hawaii, and we still haven’t gotten there. But that is neither here nor there.
What a day. I am still so sad.
So I was watching the TV when the second plane crashed, and I could not do anything else all day. I tried to work – I was freelancing from home then – but I could not look away from the TV. It was so unspeakably horrifying. I felt sick, and weepy, and furious, and sad. And I remember: we did not know what else was coming. These were simultaneous attacks. So mixed in with the sorrow and anger for the victims in New York, DC, and Pennsylvania were fear and dread of which U.S. city would be attacked next. The world, as I knew it, was irrevocably changed.
At that point, Sweet W and I were only a few weeks away from our wedding. We had friends who had just gotten married on September 8 in the Midwest, and their honeymoon flight was supposed to take off on the 11th. Since all flights were grounded, they spent their honeymoon trying to get a rental car to drive back home to the Bay Area. We talked briefly about postponing our wedding, but then decided that whatever the hell happened, we wanted to be married. We did end up putting off our honeymoon to Hawaii, and we still haven’t gotten there. But that is neither here nor there.
What a day. I am still so sad.
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