I am once again buying a car seat, because Viva has grown out of the one we use in Sweet Dub’s car. I have been very happy with our Britax Regent (the one in my car), but my God, apparently so is everyone else in the universe. Finding one is like trying to score some high-grade drug [insert your drug of choice here]. This morning, I found myself calling a store in Florida to ensure that they have the Regent in stock. The store representative asked if I had a fax number. He is going to fax me an order form; I then have to fax my order back to him and then call the store back. The store has a Website, but because Regents are in such high demand, they only have one color online. I had learned through an anonymous source that if you call the store, they will check current inventory and pull one in a different color if they have it. Cheesus!
On top of that, I have to buy an additional car seat that is lighter and FAA-approved because Viva is going on a trip with her Auntie Diva in a few weeks. Altogether, this car seat dealio is costing us about 500 clams.
And they wonder why parents these days are so neurotic.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Keepin' It Real
I don’t think I mentioned here that Sweet Dub recently went to a certain film festival in a certain snowy place. So I know I did not mention that he was interviewed by what he thought was a local TV station when he came out of the first screening of a very controversial film. Whoever interviewed him sold the tape to Fox, so last week his clip ended up on a variety of Fox News Network shows. We are not generally huge fans of Fox, so we don’t generally watch shows like the O’Really Factor and Hannity & That Other Guy, but people started calling and saying they’d seen him on national TV. We searched for it on TiVo, recorded it, and have played it back over and over with greater hilarity at each viewing.
One of the things Sweet Dub says during his brief interview is that the film is disturbing and it’s hard to talk about.
Stay with me here.
This morning, when I asked Viva which of her naptime stuffed animals would be going with her to school today, and she was having a hard time deciding, she finally said: “Um, I – you know, it’s just that – well, it’s hard to talk about.”
What a clown. I almost peed my pants!
One of the things Sweet Dub says during his brief interview is that the film is disturbing and it’s hard to talk about.
Stay with me here.
This morning, when I asked Viva which of her naptime stuffed animals would be going with her to school today, and she was having a hard time deciding, she finally said: “Um, I – you know, it’s just that – well, it’s hard to talk about.”
What a clown. I almost peed my pants!
Monday, January 29, 2007
She Lives!
Man, work is so crazy I may well never blog again.
Speaking of work, someone brought in a waffle-maker today and made waffles in the break room. No, seriously.
I love you all and I hope I can blog again in a couple of days. Adieu!
Speaking of work, someone brought in a waffle-maker today and made waffles in the break room. No, seriously.
I love you all and I hope I can blog again in a couple of days. Adieu!
Friday, January 19, 2007
Be the Change You Want to See in the World
Last night, when I was driving home listening to one of our local public radio stations (KPCC-FM/89.3), I heard a story about Cheryl Green. Cheryl Green was a 14-year-old black girl who was shot and killed last month by members of a Latino gang while she was hanging out a block from home in the Harbor Gateway neighborhood. She had no gang affiliation and no beef with the gang members. They shot her simply because she was black:
One of the reasons I moved to Los Angeles was because of its mix of people. It’s one of the reasons I like it here. I like it that I am not swimming in a sea of sameness as I go about my daily life. Since I grew up with a mix of people both in my family and in my community, I feel more comfortable with a blend.
In recent years, however, I’ve noticed some disturbing trends. You may have heard of the tensions between black and Latino students in the public high schools in L.A. There have been racially motivated brawls in some local schools; police have had to come out to quell the violence and schools have even been placed on temporary lockdown to restore order. Sweet Dub and I have talked about it at length, and as a graduate of a Los Angeles public high school, he’s mystified by it: “We never had trouble like that,” he says. “We all hung out, blacks, Mexicans, whatever.”
I also know that there is a perception among some black folks that undocumented Latino immigrants “steal” jobs from the black working class because they’ll work for less money. And I had heard on the news that a Latino gang in northeast L.A. – in the Glassell Park and Highland Park areas -- was also targeting black people (“They Wanted All Blacks Out,” L.A. Weekly, July 26, 2006). And now they’re killing black children.
Well, shit. I’m not ashamed to say I cried a little on the way home. In Harbor Gateway, they’re applying for a gang injunction, and evidently they’ve also reached a gang cease-fire agreement. For the moment. Officials are working on “making improvements to the neighborhood,” whatever that means.
What does it mean for my city? What does it mean for my family? I’m disheartened and scared by it. What can I do in my small way, in my small corner of Los Angeles, about something so big?
As I was just typing that, and feeling heavy-hearted, one of my co-worker friends just danced goofily by my office doorway. I burst out laughing. Laughter helps.
More later, when I figure out how to solve this complex problem in my spare moments between writing marketing materials here. It'll take me a minute.
Flight from gang violence proved to be futileAs I listened to her mother speak, I just wanted to scream. Her mom moved the family to Harbor Gateway a few years ago to escape gang violence in West L.A.
Residents of a mostly black Harbor Gateway area say they live in fear of a Latino gang. A girl was slain Dec. 15 in an apparent hate crime.
One of the reasons I moved to Los Angeles was because of its mix of people. It’s one of the reasons I like it here. I like it that I am not swimming in a sea of sameness as I go about my daily life. Since I grew up with a mix of people both in my family and in my community, I feel more comfortable with a blend.
In recent years, however, I’ve noticed some disturbing trends. You may have heard of the tensions between black and Latino students in the public high schools in L.A. There have been racially motivated brawls in some local schools; police have had to come out to quell the violence and schools have even been placed on temporary lockdown to restore order. Sweet Dub and I have talked about it at length, and as a graduate of a Los Angeles public high school, he’s mystified by it: “We never had trouble like that,” he says. “We all hung out, blacks, Mexicans, whatever.”
I also know that there is a perception among some black folks that undocumented Latino immigrants “steal” jobs from the black working class because they’ll work for less money. And I had heard on the news that a Latino gang in northeast L.A. – in the Glassell Park and Highland Park areas -- was also targeting black people (“They Wanted All Blacks Out,” L.A. Weekly, July 26, 2006). And now they’re killing black children.
Well, shit. I’m not ashamed to say I cried a little on the way home. In Harbor Gateway, they’re applying for a gang injunction, and evidently they’ve also reached a gang cease-fire agreement. For the moment. Officials are working on “making improvements to the neighborhood,” whatever that means.
What does it mean for my city? What does it mean for my family? I’m disheartened and scared by it. What can I do in my small way, in my small corner of Los Angeles, about something so big?
As I was just typing that, and feeling heavy-hearted, one of my co-worker friends just danced goofily by my office doorway. I burst out laughing. Laughter helps.
More later, when I figure out how to solve this complex problem in my spare moments between writing marketing materials here. It'll take me a minute.
Accelerated, Expedited, Speedy or Swift
Earlier this week, I ordered a living room rug through Overstock.com. The order is complete, and although I didn’t ask for express shipping, they shipped it by Fed Ex. What I find odd is that my delivery date is estimated to be next Tuesday. If it takes a week to get to me, that’s not very, well, express, is it? I don’t get it. Maybe it’s just me.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Unpalatable, With a Side of Fractious
Something happened last night which, in the six years I have known my husband, has only happened once before.
I prepared a meal that was inedible.
I made orange beef with broccoli over steamed rice. How, you are thinking, could that be bad? While I am buoyed by your confidence in my abilities, I must tell you that it was one of those times when Viva insisted on being in the kitchen with me. There is nothing cuter than an eager little munchkin who is bound and determined to help out. She helped make the rice – i.e. measured dry rice and water and poured them into the pot – and then helped mix the orange juice and soy sauce with ginger and garlic. When the meat and veggies went into the pan and there was nothing else she could do, she insisted on washing dishes, and this is where I think it all went wrong. I was simultaneously trying to make sure she didn’t burn herself with hot water or drop glasses/dishes and trying to keep an eye on the stir-fry. I also made the mistake of using a different recipe, which I promptly threw into the trash after dinner. Yes, that is how pissed off I was – I didn’t even try to recycle the piece of paper it was written on. I threw it away.
At any rate, the broccoli turned all mushy, and the sauce was gelatinous and way too orangey-tasting. The rice was good. We all had rice, picked the pieces of overly-orangey beef out of the mushy broccoli and then gave up and ate cereal.
Tonight I will be attempting to make turkey fajitas. Despite the fiasco of last night, I am confident that my track record (two losses! In six years!) will win out.
The More You Explain It, The More I Don't Understand It
Over the holidays, my Best Friend Forever, who I have known since we were 12, sent me a card. I know this because I came out of the shower and found Viva holding a photo of two grinning boys. “Oh,” I squealed, “Is that from Best Friend Forever?”
“Who?” said Sweet Dub. “I don’t know who it’s from.”
“It’s Best Friend Forever!” I said, crossly. “Ooh, it has a Post-It on it: Now that we are closer to you, call me and let’s get together: [telephone number redacted, but not really]! Oh my God, did she move? Where’s the envelope?”
“Um, I don’t know,” said Sweet Dub.
“You LOST IT?!” I shrieked.
“I didn’t lose it, I just don’t know what I did with it,” he said.
He lost it. But he told me the envelope had a return address in Santa Barbara. This was pretty incredible to me, since we are both from Boston and she has remained there while I have been here for lo, what is it, 12 years? We do not speak to each other or even e-mail each other very often, because we are both caught up in our lives and all that. But we are still Best Friends. I was maid of honor at her wedding, for God’s sake. I wanted to call her, but I wanted to make sure I’d have time to talk. (Yeah, right. When do I ever?)
What with one thing and another, I didn’t get around to calling her right away. It was the holidays, and then we were sick, blah blah blah bling bling blah. So the other day, I went looking for her number. The photo was there, but the Post-It was gone.
Are you kidding me?
I e-mailed her at the last known e-mail address I had. No response. So yesterday, I went with the tried and true: I called on the Internet Faeries. Not only did I find her, I found her old address, new address, and how much she and her husband got for their house when they sold it in July.
Those Internet Faeries are a little creepy.
Stay tuned for the next chapter, when I actually write to her and maybe get her to call me if she isn’t completely disgusted by how easily my husband and I lose things! I know! It’s a gripping, emotionally overwrought saga for the ages!
I prepared a meal that was inedible.
I made orange beef with broccoli over steamed rice. How, you are thinking, could that be bad? While I am buoyed by your confidence in my abilities, I must tell you that it was one of those times when Viva insisted on being in the kitchen with me. There is nothing cuter than an eager little munchkin who is bound and determined to help out. She helped make the rice – i.e. measured dry rice and water and poured them into the pot – and then helped mix the orange juice and soy sauce with ginger and garlic. When the meat and veggies went into the pan and there was nothing else she could do, she insisted on washing dishes, and this is where I think it all went wrong. I was simultaneously trying to make sure she didn’t burn herself with hot water or drop glasses/dishes and trying to keep an eye on the stir-fry. I also made the mistake of using a different recipe, which I promptly threw into the trash after dinner. Yes, that is how pissed off I was – I didn’t even try to recycle the piece of paper it was written on. I threw it away.
At any rate, the broccoli turned all mushy, and the sauce was gelatinous and way too orangey-tasting. The rice was good. We all had rice, picked the pieces of overly-orangey beef out of the mushy broccoli and then gave up and ate cereal.
Tonight I will be attempting to make turkey fajitas. Despite the fiasco of last night, I am confident that my track record (two losses! In six years!) will win out.
The More You Explain It, The More I Don't Understand It
Over the holidays, my Best Friend Forever, who I have known since we were 12, sent me a card. I know this because I came out of the shower and found Viva holding a photo of two grinning boys. “Oh,” I squealed, “Is that from Best Friend Forever?”
“Who?” said Sweet Dub. “I don’t know who it’s from.”
“It’s Best Friend Forever!” I said, crossly. “Ooh, it has a Post-It on it: Now that we are closer to you, call me and let’s get together: [telephone number redacted, but not really]! Oh my God, did she move? Where’s the envelope?”
“Um, I don’t know,” said Sweet Dub.
“You LOST IT?!” I shrieked.
“I didn’t lose it, I just don’t know what I did with it,” he said.
He lost it. But he told me the envelope had a return address in Santa Barbara. This was pretty incredible to me, since we are both from Boston and she has remained there while I have been here for lo, what is it, 12 years? We do not speak to each other or even e-mail each other very often, because we are both caught up in our lives and all that. But we are still Best Friends. I was maid of honor at her wedding, for God’s sake. I wanted to call her, but I wanted to make sure I’d have time to talk. (Yeah, right. When do I ever?)
What with one thing and another, I didn’t get around to calling her right away. It was the holidays, and then we were sick, blah blah blah bling bling blah. So the other day, I went looking for her number. The photo was there, but the Post-It was gone.
Are you kidding me?
I e-mailed her at the last known e-mail address I had. No response. So yesterday, I went with the tried and true: I called on the Internet Faeries. Not only did I find her, I found her old address, new address, and how much she and her husband got for their house when they sold it in July.
Those Internet Faeries are a little creepy.
Stay tuned for the next chapter, when I actually write to her and maybe get her to call me if she isn’t completely disgusted by how easily my husband and I lose things! I know! It’s a gripping, emotionally overwrought saga for the ages!
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
What We’ve Always Suspected
Monday, January 15, 2007
Washington Post: “Children, Parents Drive Each Other to Early Graves”
As usual, I’m late to the party, but I found this news item interesting. A study published last month in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences found that parents pay a price for having children. No, wait, it’s not what you think. We all know that children are expensive – you have to house, feed and clothe them for at least 18 years, and that’s not chump change – but what I’m talking about is the ultimate price. Parenting evidently takes years off your life.
Or so the headline would have us believe. If you continue reading the article, you’ll find that the researchers examined the reproductive history and survival rate of 21,684 couples married between 1860 and 1895.
Washington Post: “Children, Parents Drive Each Other to Early Graves”
As usual, I’m late to the party, but I found this news item interesting. A study published last month in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences found that parents pay a price for having children. No, wait, it’s not what you think. We all know that children are expensive – you have to house, feed and clothe them for at least 18 years, and that’s not chump change – but what I’m talking about is the ultimate price. Parenting evidently takes years off your life.
Or so the headline would have us believe. If you continue reading the article, you’ll find that the researchers examined the reproductive history and survival rate of 21,684 couples married between 1860 and 1895.
When Penn and Smith examined their data, a clear and unmistakable trend stood out. The bigger the family, the smaller the chance that the parents would live into old age. Both mothers and fathers paid a price for having lots of children,with mothers always paying more, regardless of family size.
I think it goes without saying that mortality rates have declined since the 19th century. It seems foolhardy to extrapolate this data to the 21st century. However, it makes sense to me that the physical stress of having a child, along with the psychological stress of raising said child to adulthood*, would cause one to age more quickly – and thus die at an earlier age.
Remember this when your kid draws on the wall in permanent marker, or crashes the car into a lightpost. They are a joy, but they’re taking years off your life. My obstetrician conveniently forgot to mention that delightful little nugget when talking about the risks of childbirth.
Perhaps Viva will remain an only child after all. Her imaginary little brother is not stressing me out in the least.
* And even in a best case scenario – a healthy child being raised with familial and financial stability – there will still be stress. You still have to figure out how you are going to raise that child – what to feed him, where she should go to school, what to say when he comes home with a tongue piercing. It’s stressful being responsible for another person. Hoo boy, let me tell you. Do you have a second? Hey, wait, wait -- where ya going?
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Bits and Pieces
I just read my e-mail and came across this, courtesy of Cool Mom Picks. (Sorry, I don't seem to be able to upload the photo.)
How much does my babychile need this? She was conceived to Led Zeppelin in hilarious fashion which I will not recount here. Does wanting this make me wrong? Because if so, I’m not sure I want to be right.
Waiting
I left a message with my doctor this morning, detailing my pain and discomfort and asking if she’s had any cancellations. Nobody has called me back. I love my doctor with an overflowing loving spoonful of love, but I am mystified as to why she did not go straight to the bat phone and call me right away. I don’t feel good.
Cruising the Internet
Viva had a playdate with three friends on Saturday. One of the moms asked if we want to have another child. (Why do people always ask this? No matter how you answer, then you have to justify your answer. It’s not an easy question.) I was tempted to crack wise and ask, “Why? Are you giving yours away?” but I didn’t, mainly because I think she could take me and I didn’t want the kids to see us rolling on the floor and pulling hair.
But you know, what with Viva creating her imaginary younger brother, and what with me feeling that anyway, she should have a sibling, and that I would love to have another kid if we could afford it (which we can’t), I have held in the back of my head the precious idea of adopting a child. Not a baby, but a child a couple of years younger than Viva. She is almost 4, and her imaginary brother is 2. I think that would be perfect. In the fantasy world in which I live, this wouldn’t happen until she is 5 or so.
The other day, I realized with a start that what this means is that this little person is already out there somewhere, living with somebody, maybe in a good situation or maybe not. I started to get upset about that little person, because I realized that in order for that little person to be available for adoption, some bad shit would have to happen in his family of origin. And what that means on some level is that I’m hoping for some bad shit to happen to somebody so I can have the privilege of raising their kid.
Today, I was reading some of the recent posts on A Birth Project, a blog which I’d come across some time ago through Dawn. I’d bookmarked the site but hadn’t blogrolled it, which is ridiculous because it is really thought-provoking and you know I’m all down with having my thoughts provoked. The author of the site, Lisa Marie, is an adult transcracial adoptee, and she was writing about the book launch for Outsiders Within, an anthology by a slew of transracially adopted writers. If you have interest in that sort of thing, by all means, go read the whole post. She quotes some of the readings in her post, and there were two items that really stood out for me.
First, she quoted Jane Jeong Trenka, who in talking about the transracial adoption of Korean and Chinese children emphasized the importance of finding ways to “understand that empowering a mother/birth family to find ways to raise their own children is one place to look to think about this diaspora that is marked by the very real fact that it is entirely a migration of children.”
Then she cited Julia Chinyere Oparah as asking why there are so many children for adoption to begin with.
How much does my babychile need this? She was conceived to Led Zeppelin in hilarious fashion which I will not recount here. Does wanting this make me wrong? Because if so, I’m not sure I want to be right.
Waiting
I left a message with my doctor this morning, detailing my pain and discomfort and asking if she’s had any cancellations. Nobody has called me back. I love my doctor with an overflowing loving spoonful of love, but I am mystified as to why she did not go straight to the bat phone and call me right away. I don’t feel good.
Cruising the Internet
Viva had a playdate with three friends on Saturday. One of the moms asked if we want to have another child. (Why do people always ask this? No matter how you answer, then you have to justify your answer. It’s not an easy question.) I was tempted to crack wise and ask, “Why? Are you giving yours away?” but I didn’t, mainly because I think she could take me and I didn’t want the kids to see us rolling on the floor and pulling hair.
But you know, what with Viva creating her imaginary younger brother, and what with me feeling that anyway, she should have a sibling, and that I would love to have another kid if we could afford it (which we can’t), I have held in the back of my head the precious idea of adopting a child. Not a baby, but a child a couple of years younger than Viva. She is almost 4, and her imaginary brother is 2. I think that would be perfect. In the fantasy world in which I live, this wouldn’t happen until she is 5 or so.
The other day, I realized with a start that what this means is that this little person is already out there somewhere, living with somebody, maybe in a good situation or maybe not. I started to get upset about that little person, because I realized that in order for that little person to be available for adoption, some bad shit would have to happen in his family of origin. And what that means on some level is that I’m hoping for some bad shit to happen to somebody so I can have the privilege of raising their kid.
Today, I was reading some of the recent posts on A Birth Project, a blog which I’d come across some time ago through Dawn. I’d bookmarked the site but hadn’t blogrolled it, which is ridiculous because it is really thought-provoking and you know I’m all down with having my thoughts provoked. The author of the site, Lisa Marie, is an adult transcracial adoptee, and she was writing about the book launch for Outsiders Within, an anthology by a slew of transracially adopted writers. If you have interest in that sort of thing, by all means, go read the whole post. She quotes some of the readings in her post, and there were two items that really stood out for me.
First, she quoted Jane Jeong Trenka, who in talking about the transracial adoption of Korean and Chinese children emphasized the importance of finding ways to “understand that empowering a mother/birth family to find ways to raise their own children is one place to look to think about this diaspora that is marked by the very real fact that it is entirely a migration of children.”
Then she cited Julia Chinyere Oparah as asking why there are so many children for adoption to begin with.
What are the circumstances that create thousands of Black children in the U.S.
to be “without families”?
While I doubt that we would transracially adopt if we ever went the adoption route (because most likely we would have a black child placed with us because hello, we're black), I think the questions are valid whether one is pursuing even a same-race adoption. The problems are systemic ones – why are parents “unable” to raise their own children? Who makes that call? I think if I adopted a child, I would be concerned about the birth parents. At some point it begins to feel that building a family through adoption is benefiting from someone else’s misfortune. How do you explain that to the child? How do you help a kid understand the jacked-up mess that is the U.S. child welfare system if you adopt domestically*, and why he ended up with you?
One day at the playground, I started talking to a mom with two kids who were very close in age. They both appeared to be biracial, as did the mom, but they didn’t look anything alike. I asked her what the age difference was.
Other Mom: Five months.
Mama Blah: How’d you manage that? [Duh.]
Other Mom: They’re adopted.
Mama Blah: Oh, wow. [I had figured maybe one was adopted and one was not.] Do you mind if I ask you a little bit about the process?...
So we started talking, and she was very friendly and open, and I was clearly hanging on her every word. The one thing I found both disturbing and yet somewhat understandable was that she said she absolutely wanted an infant because that way it gave her more control over their ultimate development. “Everything you read talks about brain development in the first years of life, and how crucially important this time is. I wanted to be able to control what they eat, whether they’re being read to every day, all that stuff.” I get it, but then I’m thinking, “What about those kids who don’t have a family, and don’t have someone doing that for them? Do we just write them off?”
Well, yes, it seems so. It’s heartbreaking to me. Doesn’t every kid deserve that?
* Which is what I’m assuming we’d be dealing with, since we would not be adopting an infant. Is there such a thing as a private adoption with older children? I am just getting my feet wet with all this and have no fricking clue. At any rate, I want to read the book, just because I am fascinated by racial dynamics.
--------------------
Update: My doctor’s office called. She is on a leave of absence. Auugh. The earliest they can get me in to see someone else in her practice is January 24th – yes, that’s right, more than two weeks from now. “Is it mainly just discomfort? Or pain? Call back if the pain gets worse and we’ll see what we can do.” What?!?
Down the Rabbit Hole
So here I am, typing away and wondering if I can pilfer some wireless so I can post this. Our wireless connection is in our bedroom and it’s off, so it’s entirely possible that I can’t even post my anxieties to my blog, but the one foolproof way for me to deal with my anxieties is to write about them, so here we be.
What do you dream about? Do you remember your dreams? Sweet Dub is so resolutely a Capricorn that in his dreams, he’ll tell himself, “Oh, this is a dream,” so his dreams are fairly mainstream. My dreams are very trippy and bizarre, and they go on forever. Being in one of my dreams is like being inside a kaleidoscope. I’ll be in one location/scenario and all of a sudden, blip, I’m somewhere else with some of the same elements from the first part, or not, and watching a concert in a park with rows of live turkeys as big as elephants, and then I’ll be in an open boat navigating through canals to get somewhere with a spoon and a vat of gravy, and then I’ll be given a baby pig to take care of. Last night I had a dream that Sweet Dub and my sister Lola and I were shopping in a gigantic upscale mall. The mall was so ginormous that we had secured a hotel room within the mall to rest during our shopping spree. At some point, my sister Lola morphed into Sweet Dub’s sister Diva, who was calling me on the cell phone to tell me that the X&T store was having a sale on something, 2 for $70. I was resting in the very swanky hotel room amidst piles of bags and I remember thinking, “Do I really want to go back out to the mall for that?” and I must have decided not, because the dream ended there. This is very odd, because the older I get, the less and less I like shopping, so this is not something I would actually want to do. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a nightmare, but you know, it wasn’t good.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
First Documentation of Jean-Jean
This photo is a bit hazy, because I took it through our front window. Nonetheless, you can sort of make out the charm and beauty that is the Mysterious and Mesmerizing Rat Killer Jean-Jean:
Stay tuned for further news of his death-defying exploits. (I'm fairly certain he's male now, as it appears he has been spraying to mark his territory. Gee whiz, cats are fun.)
Stay tuned for further news of his death-defying exploits. (I'm fairly certain he's male now, as it appears he has been spraying to mark his territory. Gee whiz, cats are fun.)
Friday, December 29, 2006
Merry and Bright, Abridged
After not writing for several days now, I just tuned in and wrote a few paragraphs that were not worthy of you. When one hasn't written in a while, one begins to fret about where one should begin, and then one starts typing about oneself as in the third person, and thus begins a downward spiral which must end, oh, I'd say now.
Because I have so much to share with you and yet I am stealing time during Viva's nap, I must abbreviate this post.
Top Three Wonderfullest things about this holiday season:
1. My sister-in-law, Diva, offered to take Viva on Friday night Dec. 22 and return her to us on Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, so we could enjoy Sweet Dub's birthday on Dec. 23rd kid-less. It should be obvious to all that we adore our child. But having a break from her for two nights was as good as having a three-week family vacation. We were recharged and ready to rumble.
2. On Sweet Dub's birthday, I had planned to surprise him with a massage at a local spa. When he found out that I had scheduled a massage only for him, but not for myself, he insisted that I take the appointment instead because I'd had a rough week at work. On this he would not be budged. "It's my birthday, you have to do what I want, and this is what I want," he said. The massage was heavenly, the staff was friendly and helpful, and I got to walk home from the spa through my neighborhood on a beautiful crisp clear day, leaves crunching underfoot, free of care and tension. Sweet!
3. I know, Christmas is not only about the presents (contrary to what Viva might have us believe). But Sweet Dub gave me the coolest little digital camera. I think it just might change my life. Now I can show you stuff like:
Viva playing with some of the 5,000 containers of Play-Doh she received this Christmas; or
Viva checking out her new basketball hoop
without having to say, "Hey, honey, can you upload the still pictures off your videocamera and e-mail them to me when you get to work?"
In fact, I could even upload the photos I took from this morning's hike in Bronson Canyon...if only Sweet Dub hadn't taken off with it (and my cell phone!) to deliver a TV to his cousin out by the airport. I may even take pictures of our cat.
Oh, right. Have I mentioned that the cat who left the rat head on our welcome mat has adopted us? He or she (I can't get close enough to it to identify which it is, not that it matters) began crying outside over the past few days. Having shared my home with cats from the age of 7 until 30-ish, I surmised that he or she was hungry. I pretty much caved quickly after that, bought some organic cat food at Trader Joe's, and began referring to the cat as Jean-Jean. Jean-Jean eats like there are mad Viking ocelots chasing him/her. S/he doesn't leave a morsel in the bowl, and as soon as s/he licks it clean, s/he vanishes. I don't mean you actually see the cat run away. No, I mean the cat literally evaporates, propelling itself to another dimension.
Every bit of this is true.
Because I have so much to share with you and yet I am stealing time during Viva's nap, I must abbreviate this post.
Top Three Wonderfullest things about this holiday season:
1. My sister-in-law, Diva, offered to take Viva on Friday night Dec. 22 and return her to us on Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, so we could enjoy Sweet Dub's birthday on Dec. 23rd kid-less. It should be obvious to all that we adore our child. But having a break from her for two nights was as good as having a three-week family vacation. We were recharged and ready to rumble.
2. On Sweet Dub's birthday, I had planned to surprise him with a massage at a local spa. When he found out that I had scheduled a massage only for him, but not for myself, he insisted that I take the appointment instead because I'd had a rough week at work. On this he would not be budged. "It's my birthday, you have to do what I want, and this is what I want," he said. The massage was heavenly, the staff was friendly and helpful, and I got to walk home from the spa through my neighborhood on a beautiful crisp clear day, leaves crunching underfoot, free of care and tension. Sweet!
3. I know, Christmas is not only about the presents (contrary to what Viva might have us believe). But Sweet Dub gave me the coolest little digital camera. I think it just might change my life. Now I can show you stuff like:
Viva playing with some of the 5,000 containers of Play-Doh she received this Christmas; or
Viva checking out her new basketball hoop
without having to say, "Hey, honey, can you upload the still pictures off your videocamera and e-mail them to me when you get to work?"
In fact, I could even upload the photos I took from this morning's hike in Bronson Canyon...if only Sweet Dub hadn't taken off with it (and my cell phone!) to deliver a TV to his cousin out by the airport. I may even take pictures of our cat.
Oh, right. Have I mentioned that the cat who left the rat head on our welcome mat has adopted us? He or she (I can't get close enough to it to identify which it is, not that it matters) began crying outside over the past few days. Having shared my home with cats from the age of 7 until 30-ish, I surmised that he or she was hungry. I pretty much caved quickly after that, bought some organic cat food at Trader Joe's, and began referring to the cat as Jean-Jean. Jean-Jean eats like there are mad Viking ocelots chasing him/her. S/he doesn't leave a morsel in the bowl, and as soon as s/he licks it clean, s/he vanishes. I don't mean you actually see the cat run away. No, I mean the cat literally evaporates, propelling itself to another dimension.
Every bit of this is true.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Hello, I Must be Going
Why, hello! How is your day going?
My day did not start out well. I am in some kind of a rut these days. L.A. is going through a cold snap (I know, cry me a river) and the temperatures plummet overnight. It has been in the 30s here and that is very unusual. All this to say, it’s pretty damn cold in the morning, and as a result I have been having trouble getting out of bed. So has Viva. Hence and therefore, mornings have become even more of a whirlwind, and thank God many people have taken this week off, because the traffic at least has been lighter. Which doesn't explain why I had to blow my horn at a stick-figure rolling through a stop sign in her silver Range Rover this morning when I was already in the intersection, and could see her charging right for my front fender. Perhaps she missed the memo about how she should stay off the road when I am trying to get my child to school (only Monday through Friday, between 7:45 and 8:30 AM).
Well and so, I am scrambling to finish two major projects before my last day of work for the year, which is this coming Friday. One of them is due December 31st and the other is due January 1st. Six of one, half dozen of the other, I can hear you saying. So true, so true. It is amazing how we so often think the same way, or at least I think we do.
At any rate, this morning I realized that I have just been figuratively holding on until Friday, and I also realized that this means that I have in some way been wishing a part of my life away.
Well, who does that? Be in the moment and all that. Life goes by quickly enough as it is.
I have been freaking out about everything that has not gotten done. I haven’t finished Christmas shopping, for one thing, and Sweet Dub’s birthday is coming up on Saturday and I’m trying to make plans for that. I have friends I’m supposed to see (hello, friends!) and oh, there’s no food in the house, and at least three other birthdays to buy presents for and Viva’s holiday show is tonight and then she only has a half-day of school Friday and it looks like I will be at work all damn day tomorrow because everyone is in vacation mode already and I’m not getting the four pieces of data I need for one project that I’m working on – data that I requested over a week ago and which I have repeatedly requested over the subsequent days, data I said I needed at the very latest YESTERDAY MORNING and you see how that would just make you want to smack somebody.
But you can’t, you see. Because that would be wrong. And not very Christ-like. And it’s the holidays, the holy days, when we are supposed to be all Christian charity-like and thing.
Find a happy place. You know what makes me smile? Viva’s imaginary friend Soren Lorenson has somehow morphed into an imaginary little brother. She is very concerned for him and makes sure I pick him up and put him in the bath with her and tuck him in with her at night and give him a kiss and take his blood pressure and temperature when we are playing doctor. It is very sweet and gives one the warm fuzzies. I am quite certain that if Viva had a real little brother, it would be just like that all the time. They wouldn’t fight and there would be none of that “He started it!” and they wouldn’t both be trying to get my attention while I was simultaneously driving the car and filleting a fish. It gives me hope.
Happy holidays.
My day did not start out well. I am in some kind of a rut these days. L.A. is going through a cold snap (I know, cry me a river) and the temperatures plummet overnight. It has been in the 30s here and that is very unusual. All this to say, it’s pretty damn cold in the morning, and as a result I have been having trouble getting out of bed. So has Viva. Hence and therefore, mornings have become even more of a whirlwind, and thank God many people have taken this week off, because the traffic at least has been lighter. Which doesn't explain why I had to blow my horn at a stick-figure rolling through a stop sign in her silver Range Rover this morning when I was already in the intersection, and could see her charging right for my front fender. Perhaps she missed the memo about how she should stay off the road when I am trying to get my child to school (only Monday through Friday, between 7:45 and 8:30 AM).
Well and so, I am scrambling to finish two major projects before my last day of work for the year, which is this coming Friday. One of them is due December 31st and the other is due January 1st. Six of one, half dozen of the other, I can hear you saying. So true, so true. It is amazing how we so often think the same way, or at least I think we do.
At any rate, this morning I realized that I have just been figuratively holding on until Friday, and I also realized that this means that I have in some way been wishing a part of my life away.
Well, who does that? Be in the moment and all that. Life goes by quickly enough as it is.
I have been freaking out about everything that has not gotten done. I haven’t finished Christmas shopping, for one thing, and Sweet Dub’s birthday is coming up on Saturday and I’m trying to make plans for that. I have friends I’m supposed to see (hello, friends!) and oh, there’s no food in the house, and at least three other birthdays to buy presents for and Viva’s holiday show is tonight and then she only has a half-day of school Friday and it looks like I will be at work all damn day tomorrow because everyone is in vacation mode already and I’m not getting the four pieces of data I need for one project that I’m working on – data that I requested over a week ago and which I have repeatedly requested over the subsequent days, data I said I needed at the very latest YESTERDAY MORNING and you see how that would just make you want to smack somebody.
But you can’t, you see. Because that would be wrong. And not very Christ-like. And it’s the holidays, the holy days, when we are supposed to be all Christian charity-like and thing.
Find a happy place. You know what makes me smile? Viva’s imaginary friend Soren Lorenson has somehow morphed into an imaginary little brother. She is very concerned for him and makes sure I pick him up and put him in the bath with her and tuck him in with her at night and give him a kiss and take his blood pressure and temperature when we are playing doctor. It is very sweet and gives one the warm fuzzies. I am quite certain that if Viva had a real little brother, it would be just like that all the time. They wouldn’t fight and there would be none of that “He started it!” and they wouldn’t both be trying to get my attention while I was simultaneously driving the car and filleting a fish. It gives me hope.
Happy holidays.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Deep Breath and Count to Ten
Unexpected blog break – work is too crazy and non-work is even crazier. I just stopped posting for a while there and I can’t promise I’ll be posting more this week.
Right now I am having difficulty concentrating because my next-door Pentecostal cube-mate is loudly discussing yesterday’s service with a co-worker. This discussion involves actual singing, a replay of key points in the sermon and even, yes, a brief spate of praise dancing in the cubicle. Jesus H. Christ. And I mean that.
Speaking of which, last night, I was lying in bed with Viva, reading her stories. We were all cozy snuggly under the covers with our heads noodged together. We had just finished Blueberries for Sal and she asked me to re-read Merry Christmas, Maisy. Since it was already an hour after her bedtime, I said no. She then said she wanted to read it to me. I again said no, that it was late and she needed to go to sleep because she had school tomorrow. She balled up her little fist, hauled off and punched me.
And that was when all the air got sucked out of the room and it grew deadly quiet. Viva squirmed over on her side and stared up at me with big unblinking kitty cat eyes.
“I am very disappointed in you,” I said, climbing down out of the bed. (She sleeps in a loft bed.) “Hitting me? Especially so close to Christmas? That is not nice. It is very, very naughty. I don’t know if you should get any presents after that.”
Viva dissolved into a puddle of tears, hanging one arm out of the bed. “I looooooooove you,” she sobbed, reaching out pleadingly.
I hugged her to me. “I love you too,” I said. “But we don’t hit each other, right?”
“Yuh,” she said, sniffling and wrapping herself around me. “Will I still get toys [for Christmas]?”
“Yes, baby, you’ll still get toys.”
She sat up and pulled out of the hug slightly. Face still streaked with tears, looking up into my eyes, she said, “Even a Doodlebear?”
It is amazing to me that if Sweet Dub is stern with her, Viva can keep it together. She may get a little upset, but she won’t break down. If I am angry with her, forget it. She falls to pieces, and the worse thing I can do is walk away from her. She can’t stand it if she thinks I am mad.
It is also amazing to me how patient I can be with her. I am generally low on patience. I know this. I am prone to anxiety and irritability. I know this, too. And knowing this, I try extra hard with her. She is so small still.
Have you ever heard that old fisherman’s prayer, “Dear Lord, be good to me/the sea is so wide/and my boat is so small”? I really get that. I try to remember that when I have moments that try my patience. It is such a big world, and there is so much for Viva yet to learn.
And now, I must get back to my fishing. The seas are choppy, today, my friends.
Right now I am having difficulty concentrating because my next-door Pentecostal cube-mate is loudly discussing yesterday’s service with a co-worker. This discussion involves actual singing, a replay of key points in the sermon and even, yes, a brief spate of praise dancing in the cubicle. Jesus H. Christ. And I mean that.
Speaking of which, last night, I was lying in bed with Viva, reading her stories. We were all cozy snuggly under the covers with our heads noodged together. We had just finished Blueberries for Sal and she asked me to re-read Merry Christmas, Maisy. Since it was already an hour after her bedtime, I said no. She then said she wanted to read it to me. I again said no, that it was late and she needed to go to sleep because she had school tomorrow. She balled up her little fist, hauled off and punched me.
And that was when all the air got sucked out of the room and it grew deadly quiet. Viva squirmed over on her side and stared up at me with big unblinking kitty cat eyes.
“I am very disappointed in you,” I said, climbing down out of the bed. (She sleeps in a loft bed.) “Hitting me? Especially so close to Christmas? That is not nice. It is very, very naughty. I don’t know if you should get any presents after that.”
Viva dissolved into a puddle of tears, hanging one arm out of the bed. “I looooooooove you,” she sobbed, reaching out pleadingly.
I hugged her to me. “I love you too,” I said. “But we don’t hit each other, right?”
“Yuh,” she said, sniffling and wrapping herself around me. “Will I still get toys [for Christmas]?”
“Yes, baby, you’ll still get toys.”
She sat up and pulled out of the hug slightly. Face still streaked with tears, looking up into my eyes, she said, “Even a Doodlebear?”
It is amazing to me that if Sweet Dub is stern with her, Viva can keep it together. She may get a little upset, but she won’t break down. If I am angry with her, forget it. She falls to pieces, and the worse thing I can do is walk away from her. She can’t stand it if she thinks I am mad.
It is also amazing to me how patient I can be with her. I am generally low on patience. I know this. I am prone to anxiety and irritability. I know this, too. And knowing this, I try extra hard with her. She is so small still.
Have you ever heard that old fisherman’s prayer, “Dear Lord, be good to me/the sea is so wide/and my boat is so small”? I really get that. I try to remember that when I have moments that try my patience. It is such a big world, and there is so much for Viva yet to learn.
And now, I must get back to my fishing. The seas are choppy, today, my friends.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Life in the Wild - Part 2 in a Series
This morning, I was deep in my slumber, but sort of coming back up to the surface and not quite waking up -- does this ever happen to you? You don't realize until you wake up that you were kind of bobbing up and down on the surface of wakefulness? -- and then Sweet Dub definitively broke my slumber by yanking open a dresser drawer and rummaging through it. I stretched and rolled over, which Sweet Dub took as the perfect opportunity to start yakking my head off. As it turns out, he was trying to wake me up. It was all part of his evil plan.
"Honey!" he said. "You're up. Oh my God."
"Hi," I said, or something like that.
"I got up this morning and I went out onto the front porch to get some wood to build a fire and I wasn't wearing any shoes and I stepped on a RAT HEAD. On our welcome mat! Oh my God!"
"Oh my God," I said, or something like that.
"I've been in the living room freaking out about it for twenty minutes and I can no longer be alone," he said.
I got up, put on my glasses, and realized it was 4:31 AM. On a Sunday.
We have this cat, you see. It doesn't belong to us, but our yard is definitely part of its turf. The cat is evil, in the way of Jean Jean and his evil cat. The cat has fought off another cat in our driveway at 3 AM, drinks out of our koi pond, sleeps in our backyard -- oh, and when I came by the house after we had gotten the keys but before we moved in? I found a half-eaten mouse on a bench in the backyard. Courtesy of the evil cat. The evil cat is deceptively beautiful. It is black, with a long full coat, a glorious fluffy tail and green eyes. It is not tame and does not want to be bothered with you. It just wants to hunt in our yard.
As it turns out, our property is the promised land for this cat. Because we live where? All together now: In The Wild.
I submit to you the following.
A few weeks after moving in, we began to hear disturbing scratching and scrabbling sounds above our heads at night. The sounds would wake us up. More than once I'd grab a broom and start pounding on the ceiling. But wait -- we no longer live in an apartment in the heart of the urban jungle. The sounds were not, as in our old place, tweaked-out meth addicts on the roof. This appeared to be some sort of animal.
We have yet to figure out what the animal is, but Sweet William went out and spent a fortune on sonic blasters, which he plugged in around the house and even up in the crawl space (I have no idea how he managed that). Guess what? No more noise.
A couple of weeks ago, I opened the back door to go throw out the recyclables. I stepped two feet out the door and heard the most bizarre noise imaginable. It was like a combination of squeaking and hooting coming from a bush a few yards away. I stopped and looked. The bush moved, but nothing came out. I stepped back inside.
"There's something out there," I said to Sweet Dub.
"Of course there's something out there," he said. "It's probably a squirrel."
I opened the door again. Another squeaking hooting warning call. I closed the door.
"No, it's a sound I've never heard before," I said.
After more discussion, Sweet Dub admitted that he had heard the sound recently as well, but didn't want to tell me for fear of freaking me out. "It doesn't sound like any animal I've ever heard," he said. "It sounds kind of like a primate. It's definitely a warning or alarm call."
"That is just our luck," I said. "Something has escaped from the zoo and it's in our yard."
Have I mentioned that we live a stone's throw away from Griffith Park, the one of largest urban parks in the U.S.*, and that it houses, among other things, the L.A. Zoo?
Have I mentioned that while hiking one day in Griffith Park a few years ago, we ran across what at first seemed to be a large squirrel, which we then realized was some sort of exotic animal? On the spot, I dubbed it a bandicoot, just because, well, who doesn't like the sound of that? I have since revised my opinion and now believe it was some sort of lemur.** It had a stripey tail, kind of like this. Even so, we still refer to it as the bandicoot, and when a mystery animal took up residence in our backyard and began squeak-hooting at us, that automatically became its nom de rigeur.
This morning, after peeking out the door at the rodent head on the mat, I sat back down on the couch in front of the fire. "I bet that cat ate the bandicoot," I said.
Here is where it gets fun for my readers. You - yes, you! - can help to settle a debate. I am going to share with you now a photo of the head the cat left on our doorstep (along with some innards). If you are squeamish, stop now and click away if you don't want to see it. Click onto something fun -- go buy some bodywash online or something.
Okay, for the rest of you: do you think this is a mouse or a rat? The head is approximately 2 inches long.
The other item in the lower part of the picture is one of its organs. I know, nice.
Okay, so mouse or rat? What do you think?
* According to the Griffith Park website, "With over 4,210 acres of both natural chapparal-covered terrain and landscaped parkland and picnic areas, Griffith Park is the largest municipal park with urban wilderness area in the United States." It's pretty fricking big, is all.
** Sweet Dub strongly disagrees.
"Honey!" he said. "You're up. Oh my God."
"Hi," I said, or something like that.
"I got up this morning and I went out onto the front porch to get some wood to build a fire and I wasn't wearing any shoes and I stepped on a RAT HEAD. On our welcome mat! Oh my God!"
"Oh my God," I said, or something like that.
"I've been in the living room freaking out about it for twenty minutes and I can no longer be alone," he said.
I got up, put on my glasses, and realized it was 4:31 AM. On a Sunday.
We have this cat, you see. It doesn't belong to us, but our yard is definitely part of its turf. The cat is evil, in the way of Jean Jean and his evil cat. The cat has fought off another cat in our driveway at 3 AM, drinks out of our koi pond, sleeps in our backyard -- oh, and when I came by the house after we had gotten the keys but before we moved in? I found a half-eaten mouse on a bench in the backyard. Courtesy of the evil cat. The evil cat is deceptively beautiful. It is black, with a long full coat, a glorious fluffy tail and green eyes. It is not tame and does not want to be bothered with you. It just wants to hunt in our yard.
As it turns out, our property is the promised land for this cat. Because we live where? All together now: In The Wild.
I submit to you the following.
A few weeks after moving in, we began to hear disturbing scratching and scrabbling sounds above our heads at night. The sounds would wake us up. More than once I'd grab a broom and start pounding on the ceiling. But wait -- we no longer live in an apartment in the heart of the urban jungle. The sounds were not, as in our old place, tweaked-out meth addicts on the roof. This appeared to be some sort of animal.
We have yet to figure out what the animal is, but Sweet William went out and spent a fortune on sonic blasters, which he plugged in around the house and even up in the crawl space (I have no idea how he managed that). Guess what? No more noise.
A couple of weeks ago, I opened the back door to go throw out the recyclables. I stepped two feet out the door and heard the most bizarre noise imaginable. It was like a combination of squeaking and hooting coming from a bush a few yards away. I stopped and looked. The bush moved, but nothing came out. I stepped back inside.
"There's something out there," I said to Sweet Dub.
"Of course there's something out there," he said. "It's probably a squirrel."
I opened the door again. Another squeaking hooting warning call. I closed the door.
"No, it's a sound I've never heard before," I said.
After more discussion, Sweet Dub admitted that he had heard the sound recently as well, but didn't want to tell me for fear of freaking me out. "It doesn't sound like any animal I've ever heard," he said. "It sounds kind of like a primate. It's definitely a warning or alarm call."
"That is just our luck," I said. "Something has escaped from the zoo and it's in our yard."
Have I mentioned that we live a stone's throw away from Griffith Park, the one of largest urban parks in the U.S.*, and that it houses, among other things, the L.A. Zoo?
Have I mentioned that while hiking one day in Griffith Park a few years ago, we ran across what at first seemed to be a large squirrel, which we then realized was some sort of exotic animal? On the spot, I dubbed it a bandicoot, just because, well, who doesn't like the sound of that? I have since revised my opinion and now believe it was some sort of lemur.** It had a stripey tail, kind of like this. Even so, we still refer to it as the bandicoot, and when a mystery animal took up residence in our backyard and began squeak-hooting at us, that automatically became its nom de rigeur.
This morning, after peeking out the door at the rodent head on the mat, I sat back down on the couch in front of the fire. "I bet that cat ate the bandicoot," I said.
Here is where it gets fun for my readers. You - yes, you! - can help to settle a debate. I am going to share with you now a photo of the head the cat left on our doorstep (along with some innards). If you are squeamish, stop now and click away if you don't want to see it. Click onto something fun -- go buy some bodywash online or something.
Okay, for the rest of you: do you think this is a mouse or a rat? The head is approximately 2 inches long.
The other item in the lower part of the picture is one of its organs. I know, nice.
Okay, so mouse or rat? What do you think?
* According to the Griffith Park website, "With over 4,210 acres of both natural chapparal-covered terrain and landscaped parkland and picnic areas, Griffith Park is the largest municipal park with urban wilderness area in the United States." It's pretty fricking big, is all.
** Sweet Dub strongly disagrees.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Great Mental Anguish. Well, Not So Great.
I have been swamped with work as we get close to the end of the year. Everyone, it seems, has realized that it’s December and that they’d better unload their charitable contributions by the 31st in order to get the tax break. So I’m getting a lot of “Can you write up a two-to-three pager for the Findiculous Fantabulous Foundation? Their Board meets December 15th, and they need to give away ten hundred kajillion dollars,” and the like – and let’s just say it: that’s my job. But I already had a spiraling-out-of-control “to do” list, and I’d arranged to jury-rig together a smorgasbord of personal days, half-holidays, and vacation time in order to get December 22 through January 2nd off. So I am a bit concerned about how it all will get done, and since I am from New England, I have that pesky Puritan work ethic thing that magnifies my everyday craziness.
Hence, this conversation:
Mama Blah: …and then I got an e-mail from [name redacted], who talked to this guy at the Boop-Boop-She-Doop Foundation, and he says they’d welcome an application from us, so I e-mailed back and said did you get the impression that this could wait until January or is it something we need to do now, and [boss of us all] e-mailed me and said we should strike while the iron is hot, so now I have to do that too, and I already had Project X, Project Y and Project Z to work on, so I’m a little kind of like, just kill me now.
Sweet Dub [outraged on my behalf and simultaneously sick of listening to me high-speed whine]: Well, that’s ridiculous. Why are you doing Project Y? It seems like someone else could do Project Y.
Mama Blah: Yeah, but I want to do Project Y.
Sweet Dub: [stabs self with safety scissors so he doesn’t have to listen to me anymore]
Hence, this conversation:
Mama Blah: …and then I got an e-mail from [name redacted], who talked to this guy at the Boop-Boop-She-Doop Foundation, and he says they’d welcome an application from us, so I e-mailed back and said did you get the impression that this could wait until January or is it something we need to do now, and [boss of us all] e-mailed me and said we should strike while the iron is hot, so now I have to do that too, and I already had Project X, Project Y and Project Z to work on, so I’m a little kind of like, just kill me now.
Sweet Dub [outraged on my behalf and simultaneously sick of listening to me high-speed whine]: Well, that’s ridiculous. Why are you doing Project Y? It seems like someone else could do Project Y.
Mama Blah: Yeah, but I want to do Project Y.
Sweet Dub: [stabs self with safety scissors so he doesn’t have to listen to me anymore]
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Birdbrain
The scene: I'm working at home at my dining room table. I have files spread out all over the place, my laptop is humming away, and I have the back door open to let the fresh air and sun in. Suddenly I am distracted by a noise from the kitchen. I walk into the kitchen just in time to see a bird flit from the top of our mint-green refrigerator and fly like hell back out the back door.
Current status: door closed.
Current status: door closed.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Punctuality is the Thief of Time
Let me just say that I am usually at work on time in the mornings. I may be a couple of minutes late here or there, but I’m usually here when I’m supposed to be. My boss lives about 45 miles east of L.A. and it takes her For.Ev.Er to get here each morning – sometimes as many as two hours.
This morning, Viva and I were delayed for a variety of reasons getting out the door, and then we hit really bad traffic. Cars were crawling on Melrose Avenue at a pace reserved for, say, your garden-variety Helix Aspersa. We arrived at Viva’s school at 8:30 – which is when I am usually arriving at work.
O woe! I unloaded all her stuff and spoke with her teacher briefly, then delivered her unto the playground and ran back to my car. Traffic was just as bad getting to work. I sheepishly slimed in at about 8:55.
Two seconds later my boss popped up at my desk, all bubbly and full of energy. She has a meeting this morning, so she made an effort to leave extra early to make sure she had time to prepare. She usually doesn’t get here until close to 10 every morning, and I am pretty much on the honor system to be here on time. I felt like a gigantic ass.
Happy Monday.
This morning, Viva and I were delayed for a variety of reasons getting out the door, and then we hit really bad traffic. Cars were crawling on Melrose Avenue at a pace reserved for, say, your garden-variety Helix Aspersa. We arrived at Viva’s school at 8:30 – which is when I am usually arriving at work.
O woe! I unloaded all her stuff and spoke with her teacher briefly, then delivered her unto the playground and ran back to my car. Traffic was just as bad getting to work. I sheepishly slimed in at about 8:55.
Two seconds later my boss popped up at my desk, all bubbly and full of energy. She has a meeting this morning, so she made an effort to leave extra early to make sure she had time to prepare. She usually doesn’t get here until close to 10 every morning, and I am pretty much on the honor system to be here on time. I felt like a gigantic ass.
Happy Monday.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Sweet November
I was about to start bitching about how I've apparently been designated to host Christmas at my house since Thanksgiving went off without a hitch, but no. No, my friends. For today is Love Thursday.*
Three things that made me love today:
1. After leaving for work at 5 AM, Sweet Dub called this morning at 7 AM to make sure I didn't oversleep. Sweet.
2. When I called in my order for Thai food at lunch, the server recognized my voice and we chatted for a bit before hanging up the phone. She reminds me a little bit of my best friend from junior high -- she has the same high, very girly voice and I find it really endearing. After I picked up my food, I reminisced a bit on the way back to work about my best friend and all the fun times we had together. I realized I could call her today and it would be like I had just talked to her yesterday, even though I haven't talked to her for God knows how long. It's nice to know there's someone out there in the world like that.
3. While discussing work stuff with my boss, I realized I am well past my probationary period and haven't had my performance review. I asked her if/when we would do one. She replied that we should have done one in September, but we'll do a 6-month review in December. Then she leaned forward conspiratorially and said, "I've already talked about it with [Big Boss]. You're getting a raise." Nice!
* Love Thursday was started by Karen Walrond, who blogs over at Chookooloonks. Here's what you do: upload a picture, image or story representing love -- any kind of love -- on your site, then leave a link in her comments section letting her know you've participated. As you know, I am squeamish about posting pics of myself, but here's an old one I love of the three of us:
Three things that made me love today:
1. After leaving for work at 5 AM, Sweet Dub called this morning at 7 AM to make sure I didn't oversleep. Sweet.
2. When I called in my order for Thai food at lunch, the server recognized my voice and we chatted for a bit before hanging up the phone. She reminds me a little bit of my best friend from junior high -- she has the same high, very girly voice and I find it really endearing. After I picked up my food, I reminisced a bit on the way back to work about my best friend and all the fun times we had together. I realized I could call her today and it would be like I had just talked to her yesterday, even though I haven't talked to her for God knows how long. It's nice to know there's someone out there in the world like that.
3. While discussing work stuff with my boss, I realized I am well past my probationary period and haven't had my performance review. I asked her if/when we would do one. She replied that we should have done one in September, but we'll do a 6-month review in December. Then she leaned forward conspiratorially and said, "I've already talked about it with [Big Boss]. You're getting a raise." Nice!
* Love Thursday was started by Karen Walrond, who blogs over at Chookooloonks. Here's what you do: upload a picture, image or story representing love -- any kind of love -- on your site, then leave a link in her comments section letting her know you've participated. As you know, I am squeamish about posting pics of myself, but here's an old one I love of the three of us:
Happy Love Thursday!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Deepness
It generally takes between 15 and 20 minutes to get from home to Viva’s preschool. This morning, it was a very long 20 minutes, starting at the second stop light.
Viva: Mommy, why are you not brown?
Mama Blah [totally blindsided]: Whuh? Why am I not – brown?
Viva: Yeah. Why are you not brown?
Mama Blah: Um, hm. Well, I’m not brown because I came out kind of pink.
Viva: Why? I want you to be brown. Me and Daddy are brown.
Mama Blah: Um, hm. Well, honey, you can't change your skin color. [Apologies to Michael Jackson. Sorry, Jacko.]
Viva: Why?
Mama Blah: It just doesn't work that way. Some people are brown, some people are tan, some people are pink. You just are the color you are.
Viva: But I wish you were brown. Our family is brown. How come, why are, how come you can't be brown?
Mama Blah: Well, it all dates back to slavery and the one-drop rule.
Viva: The one-drop rule? Wasn’t that hogwash debunked years ago?
Mama Blah: Well, I think all reasonable people agree that the one-drop rule, aside from being specious, is an evil tool devised by The Man to keep us down. However, due to the historical societal acceptance of the rule, the family I come from is classified as black, and hence, I was raised to identify as a black person, despite being, well, pink.
Viva: You know, it occurs to me that this country is all kinds of messed up when it comes to racial issues.
Mama Blah: Oh, honey, don't even let me commence.
That was just for starters. Later in the conversation, we discussed God, saying grace, Christmas, Jesus, and Santa Claus. All before 8:30 in the morning.
Damn, this has been a long day.
Viva: Mommy, why are you not brown?
Mama Blah [totally blindsided]: Whuh? Why am I not – brown?
Viva: Yeah. Why are you not brown?
Mama Blah: Um, hm. Well, I’m not brown because I came out kind of pink.
Viva: Why? I want you to be brown. Me and Daddy are brown.
Mama Blah: Um, hm. Well, honey, you can't change your skin color. [Apologies to Michael Jackson. Sorry, Jacko.]
Viva: Why?
Mama Blah: It just doesn't work that way. Some people are brown, some people are tan, some people are pink. You just are the color you are.
Viva: But I wish you were brown. Our family is brown. How come, why are, how come you can't be brown?
Mama Blah: Well, it all dates back to slavery and the one-drop rule.
Viva: The one-drop rule? Wasn’t that hogwash debunked years ago?
Mama Blah: Well, I think all reasonable people agree that the one-drop rule, aside from being specious, is an evil tool devised by The Man to keep us down. However, due to the historical societal acceptance of the rule, the family I come from is classified as black, and hence, I was raised to identify as a black person, despite being, well, pink.
Viva: You know, it occurs to me that this country is all kinds of messed up when it comes to racial issues.
Mama Blah: Oh, honey, don't even let me commence.
That was just for starters. Later in the conversation, we discussed God, saying grace, Christmas, Jesus, and Santa Claus. All before 8:30 in the morning.
Damn, this has been a long day.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I’m Only Happy When It Rains
Hello? Is it still a holiday? Did no one tell me? I arrived at work at 8:30 this morning to find the front door still alarmed, which was alarming, although I can bypass the alarm by simply scanning my ID card. But I have no idea how to turn off the alarm. And I was, it appeared, the only person here in a suite which holds close to 100 people. It was all very quiet and eerie until our mob of interns appeared at 9:00 AM, full of vim and vigor and loud pronouncements such as, “And I totally meant it like it sounded, you know what I mean?” It’s an odd sort of Valley-speak for college kids who evidently are planning to be social workers or something that requires them to be somewhat articulate. I have to say, since I started working here, I’ve often wondered if social workers take a special class in communication because even the very young ones speak so well (so unlike myself). This is why when I hear that specific brand of Valspeak, I’m taken aback. It’s hard to tune out, which is why I’ve stopped working for a moment and turned to my blog.
I know. Lucky, lucky you!
It’s raining here in Southern California. It is, after all, winter now, but when it rains, I feel a sense of betrayal. Thanks, Albert Hammond.
I think the rain is why everyone’s coming in late. It’s a convenient excuse, at any rate.
Thanksgiving, How I Love Thee
I don’t know if I mentioned that I was in charge of Thanksgiving (well, in my family, anyway – not In Charge of Thanksgiving Across the U.S., because I am just not that organized) this year. I don’t know if this has come across in this blog, but both Sweet Dub and I are rather highly strung at times. What this translates into is two days of us losing our minds cleaning and shopping and cooking, and then collapsing on Friday into little unmotivated puddles of goo, which our child poked at with a stick, moaning plaintively, “I want someone to play with me!”
Nonetheless, my turkey-cooking virginity has been rather painlessly taken from me. The turkey turned out beautifully, the gravy and stuffing in particular were superb, and my God, after catching that minx Rachael Ray on TV a few days earlier, I went ahead with her suggestion for cheesy mashed potatoes. I spent the next few days spouting, “MANCHEGO CHEESE, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?” randomly about the house. The day itself was really mellow – my in-laws came, we ate, we drank, we lit the outdoor fireplace in our backyard and sprawled around and generally just enjoyed ourselves.
Thanksgiving went so well, in fact, that my mother-in-law called the next day to thank us for hosting, tell us what a wonderful time she had, and praise my cooking to the highest. So, yeah, good Turkey Day.
Onward to Festivus and Christmas. Oh Lord, so very tired.
P.S. Special to an unnamed military base in Texas: Thanks for refusing my Fed Ex package of homemade cookies and candy on my 18-year-old nephew’s first Thanksgiving away from home while he is in training to defend this wacked-out country of ours. Let me turn you on to something: they have scanners now? Where you can see what’s inside a package? You might want to look into it. That’s all I’m saying. My oatmeal-walnut-chocolate chip cookies are not a terrorist threat.
I know. Lucky, lucky you!
It’s raining here in Southern California. It is, after all, winter now, but when it rains, I feel a sense of betrayal. Thanks, Albert Hammond.
I think the rain is why everyone’s coming in late. It’s a convenient excuse, at any rate.
Thanksgiving, How I Love Thee
I don’t know if I mentioned that I was in charge of Thanksgiving (well, in my family, anyway – not In Charge of Thanksgiving Across the U.S., because I am just not that organized) this year. I don’t know if this has come across in this blog, but both Sweet Dub and I are rather highly strung at times. What this translates into is two days of us losing our minds cleaning and shopping and cooking, and then collapsing on Friday into little unmotivated puddles of goo, which our child poked at with a stick, moaning plaintively, “I want someone to play with me!”
Nonetheless, my turkey-cooking virginity has been rather painlessly taken from me. The turkey turned out beautifully, the gravy and stuffing in particular were superb, and my God, after catching that minx Rachael Ray on TV a few days earlier, I went ahead with her suggestion for cheesy mashed potatoes. I spent the next few days spouting, “MANCHEGO CHEESE, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?” randomly about the house. The day itself was really mellow – my in-laws came, we ate, we drank, we lit the outdoor fireplace in our backyard and sprawled around and generally just enjoyed ourselves.
Thanksgiving went so well, in fact, that my mother-in-law called the next day to thank us for hosting, tell us what a wonderful time she had, and praise my cooking to the highest. So, yeah, good Turkey Day.
Onward to Festivus and Christmas. Oh Lord, so very tired.
P.S. Special to an unnamed military base in Texas: Thanks for refusing my Fed Ex package of homemade cookies and candy on my 18-year-old nephew’s first Thanksgiving away from home while he is in training to defend this wacked-out country of ours. Let me turn you on to something: they have scanners now? Where you can see what’s inside a package? You might want to look into it. That’s all I’m saying. My oatmeal-walnut-chocolate chip cookies are not a terrorist threat.
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