Off the Deep End

I am having trouble accessing Blogger today (including comments), so I am moblogging.  Also, my apologies to Liz over at Los Angelista -- I have tried responding to your comment a couple of times, but no go! I'll try again tomorrow...

Nearly 60 percent of black children can't swim

New study underlies efforts to prevent drowning, boost sports participation

 

A recent survey by USA Swimming found that 58% of African-American children can't swim, and that Black children drown at a rate almost three times the overall rate.

 

Now, I can swim, but I don't like to. I almost drowned in a YMCA swimming pool when I was four during "free swim" time at summer camp, and ever since then, I hate being in water over my head. Sweet Dub swims like he was born to it, and knowing of my fear of the water, he was determined to teach Viva how to swim (and how to LOVE to swim) from a very young age. 

 

At the outset, Viva was fearless. She would launch off the side of the pool and plunge right in, paddling around even when her teeth were chattering. She just didn't want to get out. And then, a couple of years ago, she started "learning" how to swim at day camp. And all of a sudden, she was not so fearless. Sweet Dub was furious. We don't know what exactly happened, but suddenly she did seem to be a bit dubious about the water. "They put the FEAR in her!" he howled angrily.

 

Not long after that, we moved from the apartment building where we had a pool at our disposal whenever we wanted it, and to a house where there is a yard, but no pool aside from the kiddie pool we throw out there and fill with the hose.

 

I recently took Viva over to a friend's for a playdate. They live in a luxury apartment building, and they have a pool. I watched Viva and her friend swimming around, and I realized her friend is hugely confident in the water – she is not quite five, yet swims quite ably from the shallow to the deep end and back. Viva, on the other hand, is constantly getting water up her nose, swallowing water, and refusing to get her face wet.

 

Now: last year, when we went to Hawaii, we bought Viva a lifejacket. This is because we knew we would be swimming in the open ocean, with a strong undertow. Viva now insists on wearing this lifejacket every time she swims, whether in a pool or the open water. It is a security blanket. I hate it, although I haven't commented on it much beyond, "Are you sure you want to take it? You're such a good swimmer I don't think you need it." Viva always assures me that she does in fact need it.

 

An added wrinkle: the African-American hair. Viva has lots and lots of hair. It is naturally kinky and naturally very dry. The chlorine really does a job on her hair and makes it even more fragile. It makes it harder to comb through and more subject to breakage. I do not need an extra struggle over her hair (yet another reason for her to hate swimming). This year, I would love to get her into a good swimming program, but I'm considering getting her hair braided to protect it. 

 

Sweet Dub looks concerned. "Are you sure you really want to do that?" he says. "They just braid their hair so tight. I know I've seen little girls come back from having their hair done and their face looks like this–" and he stretches his face back with his hands in that universal symbol for "bad facelift."  "And then we'll have to listen to her whining about how her head hurts."

 

Oh my God. Do you see?

 

I am trying to make sure my child will not drown, and if getting her hair braided tight* is the price we must pay, then so be it.

 

* Although I am not down with the dreaded traction alopecia.  I don't want my baby to end up bald.

 

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Her Little World

This morning, in the car.

Mama Blah [catching sight of the gas station marquee on the way past]: $3.95 for gas! Whoo!

Viva: Mom, I think you'd like to live in my world.

MB: Baby, I already do live in your world.

V [exasperated]: No, in my little world.

MB [catching on]: Why do you think I would like to live in your little world, sweetie?

V: Because in my little world, gas costs only a penny!

MB: WOW! I love your little world!

V: I know! And everything else is free!

MB: Your little world rocks!

V [giggling in the cutest little girl way]: I know!

MB: What else goes on in your little world?

V: Nobody has to go to work or go to school and you can just go the beach all day like in HaWAH-yee!

MB: Book me a ticket, baby. I am so there.


P.S. New posts up at Belly Overwhelmed. Yeah, cross-posting there. Don't know why I'm so scattered these days. Just go with it.

The Low Road

Something happened recently that made me very uncomfortable. Not only am I uncomfortable with what happened, but I am unhappy with my reaction to it. What do you do when you are directly confronted by racism? Do you react differently when it is not directed at you?

Let me lay it out for you. The company I work for recently held an all-day, all-staff workshop. These days we talk a lot about cultural competency, and one of the themes of the day was cultural community – which communities do you belong to, which labels do you give yourself, what assumptions do you make about other folks based on what they look like? The company I work for seems to attract a very diverse group, and we work all over the city at different sites. For the latter reason, it is very easy to be seated at one of these workshops with someone you have never seen before.

It was an interesting day, with some unexpected twists. And I’m glad that the “powers that be” didn’t shy away from having us talk about this stuff. Is it such a bad thing to have a conversation about race (as Barack Obama encourages us to do)?

During the day, we had the chance to break out briefly into one-on-one duos, wherein each participant had to answer a race/culture-related question. During one of these time-limited exchanges, I was seated with an African-American woman. The issue we were told to pose to each other was, “Describe a situation in which you have made an assumption about someone based on the community they come from.” This woman was pretty rigid in her body language and did not turn toward me when I sat down. Who knows what was going on with her, but my first impression was that she was not open to this whole concept.

When I posed the question to her, she told me a story about how she was crossing the street, in the crosswalk near work, and she had the right of way. A car turned right into the crosswalk and barely avoided hitting her. The driver, an Asian man, then threw his hands up in the air at her, in the universal signal for “what the hell are you doing?,” which is rather bizarre considering she was in the right, but certainly I’ve seen people do similar, non-sense-making, rude things while driving. She then responded with a very racist remark which I will not repeat here but which had to do with his eyes.

I couldn’t believe it. “Wh-well, wha—what did he SAY?” I stammered, completely aghast, and at the same time, completely and absolutely positive that I couldn’t call her on it.

“He didn’t say anything. What could he say? He almost hit me!” she said, and then, “He probably didn’t understand what I said anyway. He probably didn’t speak English.”

So there we were, at a table of 12 people, in a room full of 300-some people, each doing their own thing, sharing their own experiences, and I realized that (a) she was certainly not going to accept any criticism from me, since I appear white, (b) she may not even classify what she said as racist, and (c) that no one else had heard what she said.

“And how do you feel about how you handled it?” I said, since I couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “Wow, that was really incredibly racist!” and I knew that wouldn’t fly.

Ladies and Gentlemen: she shrugged. And then the moderator had us all get up and move to the next person, and the next question, and the overall feeling of “Kumbaya” in the room kept going, even if soured for me.

I’m wondering if anyone else in the room experienced this.

And I’m wondering what else I could have said, in retrospect, aside from “My best friend is Asian and my brother-in-law is Asian and my nephews are half-Asian, you racist ass!”

How do you respond to comments like this, particularly in the work environment when you’re trying to maintain professionalism?

Make a Statement

Today is Denim Day. You may be already wearing jeans today without realizing that you are making a statement about the myths surrounding sexual assault. Denim Day was launched in response to a 1998 Italian Supreme Court decision in which a rape conviction was overturned because the victim was wearing tight jeans. The “reasoning” behind the decision was that there was no way the perpetrator could have gotten the victim’s jeans off without assistance from her, and that this was thus a consensual act. Oh, of course! Now I get it.

In response, female members of the Italian Parliament protested by wearing jeans on the steps of the Italian Supreme Court. Thus was Denim Day born.

Since our office is not casual except on Fridays, wearing jeans would generally be frowned upon on a Wednesday. But today, thank God it’s not, because I seriously have very few clothes that fit due to my expanding waistline. I have three pairs of maternity pants that need to be returned to various places because they are too big. “But won’t you grow into them?” you say. No, my friends, I won’t. I am really disturbed by the fact that vanity sizing even extends to maternity wear.

Today, I am wearing a pair of cropped, slightly big on me maternity jeans with a coral top, seersucker jacket, and sandals. When I left the house this morning, I was feeling pretty put together. I was pleased to realize I could get through another week looking halfway decent with the clothes I have on hand. And then, when I got to work, I dropped something under my desk, and squooshing over to get it, I saw I still have a Little Mermaid* (temporary) tattoo on my ankle. It’s bright red.

Oops. I have a meeting with our President and CEO today. Hopefully she won’t be checking out my legs.

* By the by, a new Little Mermaid movie, The Little Mermaid: Ariel’s Beginning, is coming out on DVD in August. If you’re into that kind of thing.

THE + IRS = THEIRS

I'm thinking I might just label all posts from my formerly super secret pregnancy blog as "Belly Overwhelmed" and transfer them here. Because I don't have anything to do except obsess over crap like this.

It keeps my mind off of the terrible tragic consequences of Tax Day yesterday. Our accountant left us hanging until the last minute and then told us we owed money. Not a small amount. A major, "could be a down payment on two new cars" amount. Rat bastard! Have I mentioned that we're having a baby and would like to buy a house?

I'm proud to pay taxes in the United States; the only thing is, I could be just as proud for half the money. ~Arthur Godfrey

At least we had the money*, although I would have preferred to spend it on something else.

* We are generally pretty good savers. This is made easier by the fact that Sweet Dub makes considerably more money than I do, what with him being in the Entertainment Business and me being all about the Non-Profit Arena.

Food, Glorious Food

Lately I've been bringing yogurt to work with me in the morning. I sprinkle some granola over it and it is quite delicious. Today, when I tasted my yogurt, it tasted a bit too tangy. I believe it has gone bad. This pisses me off to an irrational degree. I have eaten two granola bars and I am still hungry. It is not even 11:00 AM.

In more happy news, over the weekend when I bought beer at the supermarket, the cashier carded me. She took a long look at my license. "Is that -- '68?" she said. "Wow, well you don't look your age at all." I guess I am remarkably well-preserved. If I could have tipped her, I would.

P.S. The beer was not for me. Although I do sometimes use it in cooking.

P.P.S. I just got an email notice inviting me to join co-workers for cake for someone's birthday at 11:30! I am pretty sure Fetal Blah likes cake. Sweet!

True Story

I have been given the thankless task of compiling a report on an outside program model which my organization is supposed to be implementing. No one can seem to tell me exactly how many departments in the organization are using said model, how long they’ve been using it, or how many clients have been served therefrom.* In exasperation, I contact one of our finance people, A., to find out which departments have been billing against it. And here we go.

Email from A: “It seems to me you should contact accounts payable person, B. If you don’t get the answers you need, come back to me.”

I dutifully email B. I then am cc’d on an email from B. to Finance Person C., the sum total of which is a forward of my email with the addendum: “please advise.”

I then receive an email from C., which says, “A. should be able to help you with this.”

I email back, “A. is the one who told me to contact B,” cc’ing all three.

I then receive an email from A. saying, “I’ll look into it.”

Holy mother of God. This exchange took half a day. It is like I have been sucked into some bizarre circle of hell from which I shall never be free.

Quite honestly, I really think there is nothing for it right now but to eat some ice cream to calm my ravaged nerves.

* Made it up. Seems to me that if you can say, “herewith,” you should also be able to say, “therefrom.”

I Hope You’re Sitting Down

Today I am exactly four months away from my 40th birthday.

Forty years old, Jesus. Some people I know have thrown big parties when they have a milestone birthday. Other people do things like train for a marathon or plan the trip of a lifetime to celebrate. As for me, I wasn’t planning much of anything. I thought we might throw a party, preferably at our new house if we had moved by then. I’d probably drink champagne and enjoy some tasty little nibbles, surrounded by loved ones.

That may still happen. But it appears that I will also be doing something completely unexpected at my 40th birthday: waddling around and watching my feet swell up.

Bloggy Friends: I am pregnant. By my birthday, mid-summer, I expect to be quite large – I will be around 7 months pregnant then if all goes well, knock wood, God willing, etc.

I know, I know – take a moment, take a deep breath. It was a bit of a shock to us too, Sweet Dub in particular.

If you’re interested, I have been blogging about it on my super secret pregnancy blog, which I will make public for you now. Read on if you have a moment. If you don’t, at least just read this one post about Viva’s reaction. It was quite heartwarming and hilarious.

As for me, even though I’ve known about it for 5 weeks now, I’m still trying to work it all out. Don’t get me wrong – I am happy and curious about this new little person, but a bit freaked out about how we will fit another child into the Blah Blah lifestyle. More specifically, into the Blah Blah home, which you should note is only 864 sq. ft. Our bedroom quite literally has no space for a bassinet, never mind a changing table or dresser, and we have two closets in our entire house.
It will all work out, because we will figure it out. I’m just concerned (as I must be) with logistics. Happy Friday! More to come…

Disneyland, Belatedly

Ah, yes, Disneyland. I realize I have not yet recapped it for you.

When we last left the Blah Blahs, Viva's Best Friend's mom had not yet responded about Disneyland, despite the fact that this would be a completely free trip for her and one adult guest (except for gas). Well, my friends, Best Friend's mom never ever returned Mama Blah Blah's calls. Last time the Blah Blahs and Best Friends got together, they spent four hours on a playdate at the Blah Blah homestead. Were the snacks insufficient? Were the baseboards not clean? Was it something I said? Who knows?

Moving on: Auntie Lola and her offspring were more than happy to come along. We were more than happy to treat them, and Viva was more than happy to have her cousins along. You might think that the three kids of different genders/ages would be an awkward mix. But you would be wrong. Viva and M, the 9-year-old, have very similar personalities and really enjoy each other. Viva and T, the 5-year-old, are different temperamentally but close enough in age that they have common interests. Thus: win-win.

Lola and fam rolled up to our house at 8:25 in the morning on Saturday. They actually arrived early, which was shocking. We weren't ready, which is even more unusual. We hit the road at about 8:50, arrived at Disneyland at 9:30, and what with the tram and stroller rental (for all our stuff, not for the kids) hit the park officially at about 10:00 AM.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur. Let me share some of it with you in pictures:



Viva with "Jack Sparrow," who could not keep his hands off her hair. (Jealous!) This was on Tom Sawyer Island, the only calm spot in the entire park. You get there by raft, and there are no rides on the island. I could have stayed there for hours.




The teacups. This was pretty much the favorite ride for all three kids. T hated every other ride (you see Lola is having to gingerly place him in his seat. He has an innate distrust of all rides.). M and Viva both enjoyed the roller coaster (T would not ride) and the Buzz Lightyear ride (T was only interested in getting a souvenir - poor little guy. "He has trouble with new situations," Lola said).



The seething tide of humanity at the Disneyland parade. It is impossible to convey to you how many friggin' people clog the park on a Saturday at Disneyland. I think they let in approximately 9 trillion people per hour.



End of the day. From left: Viva, M, and T. The kids are completely high on cotton candy and who-knows-what. At this point, M has already begun begging for Viva to sleep over that night, the other two have joined in haranguing my sister, and Lola has caved despite my protestations that we can plan it some other time. So we shlep back through the park, onto the tram, tramp through the parking lot, remove the car seat from our car, install it in Lola's car, and wave goodbye.

I think I fell asleep at about 8:30. Lola reports that (a) none of the kids slept in the car on the way home and (b)Viva did not fall asleep until close to midnight. That Lola, she is a trooper, all right.

Happy Birthday, Viva My Love

Dear Viva,

You turned 5 today. How is it possible? Daddy and I look at this gorgeous, long-legged, smart and silly girl, and you take our breath away. You are so much more amazing than I could ever have imagined. I love it that you are both sensible and fanciful. I love it that you want to be a superhero, an astronaut, a cowgirl, a zoologist, a mom. I love your little turns of phrase and the way you frown when I laugh at some of the things you say, and the way you immediately stop frowning when I say I’m not laughing at you, I’m just laughing because the way you talk makes me happy. Even when I am exhausted and not even wanting to deal with anything, I do marvel at your exuberance.

What a journey it has been with you. You have evolved from a never-want-to-leave-mama’s-side baby to a somewhat timid toddler to an absolutely fearless Five. Your parents both love to talk, and so do you. For years now, people have been telling me how advanced you are for your age, how verbal you are, how easy it is to understand you. We lie on your bed and you read to me, sounding out some of the words slowly. It is heaven for me, a hardcore reader and lover of words, to be by your side as you learn to enjoy poetry and song lyrics. Now you are learning jokes!

I so look forward to growing up with you and I know you will teach me as much as I teach you. I love you so, so much, my little puka shell. Here’s to many more birthdays together.

Love,
Mama

Viva, June 2003, with her Daddy

April 1, 2004. Daddy & Viva in Santa Barbara, CA. Age 1.

April 1, 2005. Viva doing her birthday dance in her room before her party. Age 2.

April 1, 2006. With her face painted, at a party with her cousins. Age 3.

April 1, 2007. Viva on the phone with her grandpa (too sick to come to the party). Age 4.

More to come of Viva in all her Fabulous Fiveness!

More Powerful Than a Locomotive!

Today is Tuesday, and we are exactly a week away from Viva’s 5th birthday. We are not doing a HUGE party this year, but we are doing a small party at school (cupcakes, goody bags) and we are supposed to be taking her and her best friend C. to Disneyland* the weekend before the birthday – i.e. this coming Saturday. Now, I have called C’s mother twice in the past week and a half and left messages on both her home and cell phones. I offered to just take C. with us, or, if her mom was not comfortable with that, we would of course pay for her as well. NO RESPONSE. This is after I already ran it by her a month or so ago and she agreed to come. So now I am scrambling a bit and will probably see if one or both of my nephews can come instead. I know Viva is going to be really disappointed if C. can’t come – I fully expect big, drippy tears, veins standing out from neck, etc. – so I am pretty ticked off on her behalf.

At any rate, Viva decided that for school, she wants a Bat Cat party. Bat Cat is a fairly minor character in the Charlie and Lola series, so there is no such thing as commercially-licensed Bat Cat paraphernalia. I don’t have as much time on my hands these days as I did when I was home on medical leave and made the Bat Cat Halloween costume, so I asked her to compromise a bit and do a general superhero party. She was down with that, because lately she is crazy for The Incredibles and wants to be Dash (“He can RUN! ON! WATER!”)

and she knows the boys in the class (who outnumber the girls 2 to 1) would be cool with Spiderman and Batman masks and all. But as I am looking for goody bag stuff, etc., I’ve been smacked in the face again with how unbalanced all marketing crap is.

The only female prepubescent superhero that I’m aware of is “Word Girl” who appears on PBS:

She’s great and all, but she has a limited audience. There is no big-name girl superhero.**

This bums me out. Clearly, I am going to have to create one in my spare time.

Speaking of non-commercial superhero stuff for your kid (and we were, weren’t we?), check out Little Capers. Now I’m stomping off to finish a program budget, in a single bound.


*I know, this seems to completely contradict my hatred of all things Disney. But we live less than an hour away from D-Land and Viva has never been and wants to go. Sometimes for your kids you have to suck it up.

** Yes, I know Dash’s sister is a superhero, but she’s in junior high. She can turn invisible and create force fields, which is pretty handy, but she doesn’t have the punchy personality of Dash, so I can see why Viva is not so taken with her.

Kick Me While I'm Down!

I just received this in my email inbox:

Dear Family,

Thank you for your interest in [Very Nice] Charter School.

Unfortunately, due to overwhelming response to this year's lottery, we are unable to offer your child a space in the 2008/2009 Kindergarten class at this time.

Your child will remain on the waiting list, and should a space become available, you will be contacted based on the order of the waiting list.

We thank you for your interest in our school and wish you all the best.

Regards,
[Very Nice Principal]

---------------

That was my public school backup plan. I am breathing deeply and thinking that this is all happening for a reason. Something good will come of all this. You know what they say, "You can plan a pretty picnic, but you can't predict the weather."* Words of wisdom, my friends.

I need a day off.

* Outkast, "Ms. Jackson"

Living in a Shotgun Shack

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?
Talking Heads
“Once in a Lifetime”

So. We are not moving. We could not make the house work for us for a variety of reasons. I am really bummed and I can’t talk about it.

The breakroom where I work is stocked with a variety of teas, coffee, and hot chocolate packets. I am finding little consolation in the idea I can drink hot chocolate, “now with antioxidants!” How can hot chocolate have antioxidants in it? What kind of world are we living in?

Back to house news, because I can’t stop thinking about it. Sweet Dub and I have been watching the real estate market tank, and following forecasts which indicate the L.A. housing market won’t fully correct itself until possibly 2010. This is frustrating, because we are on the cusp of being able to buy, and yet anything we buy now would probably depreciate as soon as we bought it. It’s like buying a car!

At any rate, because I am all about the Internets, I have found a couple of LA-area blogs I like, one of which is pretty well known, and the other perhaps not so much. Check them out, if you feel like it. Now, with antioxidants!

Honey, I'm Home

I know I am a blog slacker, and I don’t write enough. This time I haven’t been writing because I didn’t want to jinx my Really Big News.

No, I’m not pregnant. At least, I don’t think so. Hmmm…(counting back through the calendar…)

Well, anyway, the Really Big News is that the Blah Blah Family is moving! We are doubling our space and moving into a new house less than a mile from our current house. It is still a rental, because we have not yet saved the big bucket of cash we would need to put down as a down payment on a house in a decent area (median home price in Los Angeles is somewhere around $500,000*, but the average home price in our ZIP code is $850,383. Yeah, you read that right.). We’re getting there, but not quite yet. However, while this house will cost us more in rent, it will actually save us money in the fall because VIVA CAN GO TO THE LOCAL PUBLIC KINDERGARTEN FOR FREE!

Yes, there was much screaming and dancing for joy on that one. We’re sending her to one of the top ten public elementary schools in Los Angeles and putting most of what we spend on preschool each month in the bank. I can not even tell you how relieved I am. Here are some lovely photos:

The view of the house from the terraced back yard!

The capacious living room!

Our squeaky clean kitchen!

By the way, we move in less than two weeks. I see a garage sale in my future.

* I am pretty sure that buys you a chicken coop. The 834-square-foot house in which we currently live is valued at $603,500 on Zillow.com. That’s actually less than when we moved in. Hey, maybe we brought down the property values!

Dear Prudence,

The way that my office is set up and my desk is configured, anyone can see my monitor when they walk into my office – that is, if they really want to. A person that I work with has the habit of walking in and as he/she is talking, situates self so their body is where they can see the computer, and eyes keep going back to whatever is on my computer screen. I realize that this is a very human trait, people are naturally curious, etc. but I find it really rude. Most of the time I am doing work stuff, but sometimes I am eating lunch at my desk – which should be pretty obvious, as there is food on a plate in front of me. Despite the fact that I am at my desk, sometimes there’s personal stuff I want to do, like look at my bank balance, pay bills, etc. Sometimes I want to write an e-mail to a friend. Sometimes I want to comparison shop online when I am contemplating a big purchase. Sometimes I like to check other people’s blogs!

Just so you know I am not a complete idiot, I realize the solution is that I should just reconfigure my office. However, I have a heavy, L-shaped desk with the keyboard drawer attached in this configuration. I have tried moving the monitor before but the cord doesn’t stretch far enough.

So perhaps I just need to be rude, although I don’t want to damage my work relationship with this person, and I like him/her overall. Any ideas?

Wimpily yours,
Mama Blah

Good MORNING!

The scene: Blah Blah bathroom, 7:15 AM. I have just emerged from the shower and I’m drying off. I become aware of a little voice speaking softly and coming closer. The bathroom door is flung open, whacking me in the ass. Viva announces dramatically: “I feel poopish!”

“Okay, then,” I say, quickly applying deodorant as my offspring drops her drawers.

“Clear the room! She’s gonna blow!” Viva says cheerfully, settling onto the toilet.

Man, I beat it the hell out of there, hair dripping and all. You don’t need to tell me twice.

Hooray for Love!

It's the wonder of the world,
It's a rocket to the moon
It gets you high, it gets you low,
But once you get that glow...

Here's to my best romance,
Here's to my worst romance
Here's to my first romance - ages ago
Here's to the boys I've kissed, and to complete the list
Here's to the boys who said "No!"

Love, love, hooray for love
Who was ever too blase for love
Make this the night for love
If we have to fight, let's fight for love

Some sigh and cry for love
Ah, but in Pa-ree they die for love
Some waste away for love
Just the same - hooray for love!

It's the rocket to the moon,
With a touch of "Clare de Lune"
It gets you high, it gets you low,
But once you get that glow...

Some trust to fate for love,
Others have to take off weight for love
Some go berzerk for love
Loafers even go to work for love

Sad songs are sobbed for love
People have their noses bobbed for love
Some say we pay for love
Just the same - hooray for love!

One of my favorite love songs is "Hooray for Love" as sung by the legendary Ella Fitzgerald. It's just so exuberant and happy and fun. Love to you and yours and Happy Valentine's Day!

O frabjous day!

My daughter is nearly five years old, born and raised in Southern California, and, until this weekend, had never seen snow. We have been promising to take her to The Snow all winter, but there were holiday events to be gotten through, and then The Rains, which would have meant we needed chains on our tires to drive through The Snow, and then we got The Bronchitis.

Sunday morning, when the forecast was for highs in the 70s, the Blah Blahs ventured forth and drove to Claremont, had breakfast at Walter’s, and then drove up Mt. Baldy. Viva was pretty much beside herself from the word jump. When we began driving up the mountain, it was about 74 degrees. Sweet Dub became nervous that The Snow might be inaccessible, perhaps having melted away at the altitude we could get to, and began dropping disclaimers hither and yon. I smiled sweetly at him, as I always do, and said, “Let’s just see what we can see.”

We drove up above the snowline, well past Mt. Baldy Lodge – somewhere above 4,000 feet – and found a place to park by the side of the road amidst a bunch of other snowtime revelers. It was sunny, but there was still quite a bit of snow on the ground; not fluffy, powdery snow, because it had melted and then refrozen, but we were able to pack snowballs and fling them at each other. We also managed to put together a couple of small snowpersons. And, best of all, we made friends with a man and his maybe-9?-year-old daughter Annabelle, who offered the use of her sled in such a sweet little way that I just wanted to kiss her. One does not kiss children who one has just met, so instead I thanked her profusely and beamed warm sunshiny vibes her way, and Viva went sliding down a small slope over and over, chortling in such a ridiculously cute manner that it would just split your heart into pieces.* We later moved on to a much steeper slope, and Viva discovered to her great delight that it is possibly even more fun to slide down snow without a sled. She got completely soaked through, but honestly, the look of abandoned glee on her face let the world know it was well worth it. Aside from which, once home, she went to bed early with no protest at all and slept like a rock.

We took video. I’ll see if I can upload.

* I used this exact phrase to one of my co-workers today, and she said, “Chortled? Leave it to a writer to come up with that word to describe their weekend – who says that?” Later in the day, I was looking up Jabberwocky, which has been floating through my mind all weekend, and I discovered that Lewis Carroll evidently invented that word. Weird synchronicity.

Drug-Addled Gasbag

Sick for nearly two weeks. Finally broke down and called the doctor. Diagnosis: I have bronchitis and what may be the early stages of strep throat. My doctor has prescribed some antibiotics and cough syrup with Codeine. I am sleepy as all get-out and a little nauseated. And yet, I haven't been able to sleep while at home this afternoon because first came the lawn care guys and quick on their heels, some people from the phone company who need to access a telephone pole via my back yard. Something about my neighbors' phone service, I don't even know.

Lawd, give me strength. Or as my mother-in-law is fond of saying, "Lawd, help me JEE-zus."

This may be the most pointless post ever -- in fact, I nearly went back and deleted it -- but I wanted to post what's been going on/where in blazes I've been.

I'm afraid to write more because inevitably in my foggy state, I would reveal something I'm not supposed to, like Viva's real name or the secret formula for Coke Zero.

I hope all is well with all of you, O Internets. Drop me a line sometime or have your people call my people or something.

In a Nutshell

If ever there was a good analogy for my day, it would be this scene from Seinfeld:

Cut back to Elaine at Mr. Pitt's. There are pairs of socks everywhere. Pitt has on the latest pair.
PITT: It's good, but...
ELAINE: But what??
PITT: Ultimately I don't think they'll stay up.
ELAINE (pulling up Pitt's socks): No, no! They'll stay up!
PITT: For a while, yes, but not in the long run.
ELAINE: But that's why I got you the tighter ones! (Holds them up.)
PITT: Oh, forget about those! (Takes the socks from Elaine and throws them on the floor.) Why do you keep mentioning those?
ELAINE: What do you want!?
PITT: I want a decent sock that's comfortable, that will stay on my foot!!
(Elaine curls up into a fetal position.)

Today, Mr. Pitt has been asking me to get socks from all corners of the globe, and they are all the wrong size.

I hate days like this.

The Queen of Everything

This weekend, Sweet Dub was out of town on business. Viva and I had a pretty mellow Saturday; we did the grocery shopping, tie-dyed a T-shirt and did some yard work. Then I got all dolled up, dropped her off at my in-laws’, and went to a work party. (And I did have to work for part of it, mainly with set-up.) Then I had to stay late to help clean up and figure out how to get drunk people home. I didn’t get home until 1:30 AM, then rolled out of bed at 8:30 AM, slightly hung-over, showered, dressed, and went to pick up my baby from her granny’s. I had nothing planned for Viva and I to do, and the house was a wreck – so I sucked it up, made a huge pot of cinnamon hazelnut coffee, and went for it. I think I did about 5 loads of laundry. I cleaned the bathroom. I washed windows. I set a playdate for the following day into motion. And all the while I kept my kid entertained. At one point, while I was washing dishes for the fourth time that day, Viva went into her room for a few minutes, and came back with a small circlet with points at the top, made out of orange construction paper.

Viva: It’s for you.
Mama B: Oh, that’s sweet. What is it?
Viva: It’s a CROWN. Because you are the Queen. The Queen of Everything!

Ain’t that the truth.

I think it goes without saying that I will be very glad when the King of Everything gets home today. I have missed him so much that when he called this morning I hugged the phone for about 5 minutes after we hung up. And I am not embarrassed to say so!

Do the Right Thing

That old law about 'an eye for an eye' leaves everybody blind. The time is always right to do the right thing.
-Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Mama B: So do you know why today is a holiday?
Viva: Mmmm…no.
Mama B: We’re celebrating Martin Luther King’s birthday.
Viva: Oh, yeah. They’re having a parade.
Mama B: Yes, there’ll be a couple of parades today –
Viva: They’re having one at my school.
Mama B: Really? Where? Inside the school, on the yard?
Viva: Yeah. And, what’s his name again?
Mama B: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. [realizing it’s a bit of a mouthful] Dr. King.
Viva: Yeah, he’s gonna be there. He’s gonna lead the parade.
Mama B: What? But he’s dead, baby.
Viva: WHAT?
Mama B: [glossing over the assassination] Um, yeah, he died, honey. A long time ago.
Viva: Oh.
Mama B: Would you like to see a parade today?
Viva: [shrugs]

Fifteen minutes later, on the phone with the African-American Museum – assuming they’ll just have a recording explaining what’s happening today. But no, an actual person answers.

Mama B: Oh, um, yes, I was just wondering what the museum has planned for Dr. King’s birthday today.
Museum person: [pause] Well, I think we’re having cake at 1 o’clock.
Mama B: Ooohkay. Well, okay, thanks.

Fifteen minutes later, saved by the bell, or rather, the cell phone. Viva’s best friend’s mom calls and says they can come over for a play date. Phew.

And further discussion of Dr. King is tabled for the moment. Trying to explain the civil rights movement to a 4-year-old, without freaking her out or hurting her feelings, makes my brain hurt. I feel like I end up saying a whole lot of nothing.

My friend S. once had a talk with her daughter’s teacher wherein the (not African-American) teacher expressed concern about how “sensitive” her daughter was. Apparently the teacher was discussing African-American history and noted that “A. gets very upset when we talk about slavery.”

S responded, “Well, maybe that’s because it’s upsetting!”

Viva, like many kids her age, gets pretty pissed off when she is not treated the same. The way I tried to explain who Dr. King was, was to say that he worked very hard to make sure everybody got treated fairly. Her little brow furrowed, and she said, “Well if people weren’t being fair, he should have called the police.” I thought for a quick second and then said, “But the police weren’t being fair, either. That was part of the problem.”

My main problem is that I am a wimp. I don’t want to introduce the idea to her that people who look like her were (and hello, are) treated unfairly, simply because they were/are brown. I just don’t want to be the one to break her heart like that. I know, I know, she will find out eventually. This is one of those hard life lessons. Any tips from those of you who have been there?

Updated to add: I found a link for a kindergarten lesson plan to teach kids about Dr. King. I think the books listed, along with the activities, will help going forward.

And Now, the Man on the Street

I was listening to Morning Edition this morning on KPCC, one of our local public radio stations, and naturally they were interviewing people about the primaries. One gentleman the reporter spoke with said he was voting for John Edwards because he believes he’s electable. He went on to say (and I’m paraphrasing here) that he doesn’t think Hillary and Barack have a chance, and that although he admires Barack Obama and thinks he is capable, “America’s not ready for an African-American president.”

I don’t understand this argument. It’s the primaries. You should vote for who you think is really best for the job – who can do the most for the country – not for who you think can ultimately win the nomination. How else can your voice be heard? I glared at the radio for a second and said out loud, “Fool, then you are just playing their game – or they’re playing you, more like it.”

This man went on to say that America is too racist and sexist, and that maybe if it was 2050, Barack would have a chance. He then brought up immigration, making it clear that he was Latino, and saying that Americans want to send back even people who’ve been born here, who are second or third generation, in fact, who were here “before any of them, I mean, when they came over on the Mayflower, we didn’t ask for their green cards.” This is where he completely lost me, and I turned the station. But I can’t let it go.

When people say, “America’s not ready for an African-American president,” or “America’s not ready for a woman president,” all I hear is that they’ve given up on any semblance of equal representation. These are bogus statements. If you can vote, you are America. Don’t act like America is something separate from yourself. Be honest and say, I am not ready for this particular African-American as president, because you don’t agree with how he claims he’s going to lead the country. Not because he’s African-American. That means that on some level you agree. That means on some level, you’re letting our negative racial history live on and worse, to continue.

If you want to vote for John Edwards because you think he is the best person for the job, because you agree with his policies and think he would move this country in a positive direction, great. If you are voting for John Edwards because even though you like Hillary or Barack’s stance better, you think neither of them will win, then you are part of the problem. Don’t fool yourself. And don’t blame the entire country for your own racist malarkey.

Off my soapbox. I think I stubbed my toe.

Hey, Jack Kerouac

Oh, yeah - one of those blog posts? Which I was going to write about? Yeah, I just remembered, and all this went down right around the holidays, so in the madness, I never got around to writing about it.

Sometime in December, Sweet Dub called me up at work and totally out of the blue, said, "So, how do you feel about Vancouver?"

"It's supposed to be beautiful," I said. "I've been wanting to visit. So what, to live there?"

"Yeah, it looks like I might get a job offer," he said. "But I told them I'd have to talk to you first."

"Yeah," I said. "Okay, why not. Vancouver."

"Are you serious?" he said. "You would actually just pick up and move?"

"Why not?" I said.

"Wow," he said. "Okay, I'll talk to you later."

As it turns out, we are not moving to Vancouver, because for one thing, as his trusted boss says, "Nobody moves from Hollywood to Vancouver." Sweet Dub is in the movie bidness, and while Vancouver has been nicknamed Hollywood North* due to all the production and post-production there, it is still not as happening as Hollywood itself. It seems he would be less busy than he is here and probably not the best move. Also, since who knows if I would be able to work there, they'd have to offer him quite a stack of cheese in order to make it viable for us. And furthermore, after researching Vancouver in an admittedly cursory way, it appears that there are maybe two black people in the entire city. Perhaps that is a lowball estimate, but even given that Canada does not have the same complicated history with black people that the U.S. does, I don't know that I'd feel comfortable there. And if Viva and Sweet Dub and I get stares and invasive questions in greater Los Angeles, I can only imagine what it would be like there. This is not to say that Vancouver is not diverse; it has a sizeable Chinese population (29%), with some South Asians and Filipinos thrown in there for good measure. Its black population is 0.9%. Yeah, you read that right.

I'd still like to visit, but for now, I guess we're staying put. I was kind of excited to have an adventure -- whee, new things, new places, new people, free health insurance! -- but maybe something else will turn up. If nothing else, this lets us know that options are out there and that Sweet Dub is a valuable commodity** -- this was not an opportunity he sought out, they came to him. Yeah, that's right. Sweet Dub is the shizzle!

* Not North Hollywood. Completely different.

** I mean, we knew that already, but I think this whole escapade at least reinforced that with the upper management of his company. Maybe they will find or create another internal opportunity for him.

Monkey Mind

Here is what happens lately when I think about blogging. I think, "What should I write about?" I think, "I had a really good idea yesterday for a post, what was that, about the thing, and the person...?" Then I think, "I should write about Barack and Hillary - what was it that so-and-so said on such-and-such blog, that was really insightful, I should link to it..." Ten minutes later after reading more about it I think, "Well, I can't say it better than that, he/she hit the nail on the head. Why am I so uninteresting?" Then I think, "Shit, I'd better call so-and-so about this one detail on the proposal I'm writing. I wonder if she has a good case study I could use?" A little later on, I think, "Jesus! The day is half over and I still have so much to do. I haven't even eaten lunch yet. Where did I put that piece of paper with the budget information on it? I really have to pee. Wasn't I going to blog today? I should blog today. It's been awhile. What should I say? Is today Viva's art class? Am I supposed to pick her up today? The estimated client numbers I pulled out of the ether for this proposal are completely inflated. Who knew that this type of therapy was so time-intensive? I said 200 families served annually and it's probably less than half that. How can I spin this to our advantage? What are we supposed to have for dinner? Did I pay my cell phone bill? I better check that. What time is it? Jeez, I should have left 15 minutes ago. Where did I park?"

Sorry, folks. I'll try to do better. But you see my brain, she is all over the place like a dog-sled team composed of cats hepped up on speed. It is somewhat exhausting.

Big Brains

Since we don't have anything else to do, we have decided to make ourselves crazy trying to figure out what to do about school for Viva. I think I've mentioned this before, and no doubt I will mention it again.

 

The preschool years represent a critical window of opportunity that we can't afford to waste."
--Maryann O'Sullivan, Founder and Former CEO of Preschool California

 

Viva enjoys school.  She is reading at a very basic level. She can add and subtract.  She is learning how to tell time and count money.  She is, just as importantly, very social and gets along well with her peers.  That said, she is only 4 years old. Because we have swallowed the whole "first five" shpiel hook, line, and sinker, we are spending an obscene amount of money on preschool.  It would be nice to catch a break and get her into a good public kindergarten. I am putting in an application for her for Fall 2008 for a progressive, constructivist charter school and hoping like hell she gets in.

 

Sweet Dub's best friend has a daughter that is one year older than Viva. His daughter is also very bright, and she went to a very good preschool up until this fall, when she started public kindergarten. 

 

"She's bored," Sweet Dub's friend said. "They have kids in her class who don't even know their colors."  He also said that the teacher doesn't have time to teach to these varying levels, so she teaches at pretty much the lowest common denominator.  This is exactly what I was worried about. 

 

On the other hand, there is one part of my brain that says, "It's just kindergarten. Chill out and supplement school with what you do at home."  What do you think?

 

P.S. Still no Internet access at home.  Completely unacceptable.

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12 30 07 Blog Blackout

Hello, and welcome to our program.

 

Since returning to work from medical leave, I have been far too busy to blog at work.  And since my Internet capacity at home lately seems to be quite hit and miss, I'm not posting from home either.  Right now, I am typing this at home on Sunday in Word and hoping to be able to post it later – perhaps Wednesday when I am back at work, when it will be three days old and late late late.  I can't even email this to myself or to the blog because of my irritating Internet access (read, lack thereof).  I am not sure whether my old modem is just not communicating with my wireless modem or what on God's green earth exactly is happening, but it is irritating that when one finally gets oneself together to post something, one can't because one's high-tech gadgets have decided to get all temperamental on one's ass.  Why, for example, can one be searching on Google one minute and the next get an error message saying one is not connected to the Internet?  This is the type of thing that might make a person with anger management issues rip the modem out of the wall and toss it into the fireplace.

 

Fortunately, I have been reading a lot of Zen work lately, so I choose to view this as the best possible thing that could happen.  Perhaps there is a good reason I haven't been able to blog.  It will all reveal itself to me, and I will in turn reveal it to you, and then we will all have a good jolly laugh and eat piles of frosted donuts.

 

I hope you weren't worried during this long blog silence.  Fear not, the Blah Blah family members all are fairly well, excepting our runny noses.  Our Christmas season was not without its drama, but we enjoyed it nonetheless.

 

All the best to you and yours.

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Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

Happy Holidays! Have Some Spam

This morning, I have received 21 spam e-mails on my work computer. I wish there was some way to let it be known that I am not male and do not need Viagra or other, er, enhancement. And as far as I know, my husband and I are both quite happy with his existing equipment.

That’s all. There, I said it.

Obligatory Cute Christmas Story

Viva: Let me sing you a song.

Mama B: That would be fabulous, baby, go ahead.

Viva: [singing heartily] Feliz NabiDAH! Feliz NabiDAH! I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas at the bottom of my HEARRRRTT! [repeats ten times, dancing and swinging arms in graceful arcs]

Mama B: That was beautiful. I bet it is really beautiful at the bottom of your heart.

Viva: [scowls] No, Mama, that’s just part of the song.

Mama B: [because the Cuteness! Is! Too! Much!] I love you so.

Viva: [meltingly] Oh, I love you too.

Not So Cute

Last night, Sweet Dub and I were talking about what to do about Viva’s future education. Should we send her to the public school down the street next year, as she will be old enough to go to kindergarten and we will no longer have to pay for school? How bad is the local public school anyway? Well, I went online for a refresher on what the school’s demographics are, what its test scores look like, etc., courtesy of the LAUSD website. They’re actually pretty decent when all is said and done. But then I Googled the school to see if I could get any “nonpartisan” feedback about it and I discovered that some very involved parents at the school have created a Website. “Hey, this might not be bad,” I said to Sweet Dub. The parents noted that the school’s performance as tracked by test scores has consistently improved over the past five years and that they had been able to secure some private grants to make improvements to the school. All well and good. Then I read a post that there is evidently a registered pedophile living across the street from the school.

Yes, you read that right. This person served time for lewd and lascivious acts with a person under the age of 14, and then moved in close proximity to an elementary school. According to the parents, school staff is aware he is there and they all know what he looks like. And according to the LAPD, he isn’t doing anything illegal just by living there, because he served his time, he is through his parole, and he hasn’t been accused of further criminal activity. But just because it’s legal, doesn’t make it right. It’s like a recovering alcoholic moving across the street from a bar.

This means he lives just a few blocks from us. You can say all you want that they’re everywhere. If you look on your state’s sex offender registration database, it will make you crazy. There are 20 in my ZIP code alone, and many (including the guy down the street) are in violation, which means they haven’t checked in with the state when they were supposed to. You can go here if you live in California – or Google Megan’s Law to search in a different state.

I am at work right now, and I just glanced at a photo of Viva beaming at me from her homemade Mother’s Day card and I felt simultaneously the urge to cry and throw up at the idea that someone just might not be able to help himself from hurting her. Needless to say, we’re still working out our kindergarten plans.

On A Lighter Note

Because I just can’t leave you like that (and I certainly didn’t start this post intending to take you on a journey down the Road of Creepiness), I bring you this:

Report: Nation’s Wealthy Cruelly Deprived Of True Meaning Of Christmas
The nation’s poor get to experience true Christmas spirit, while the wealthy, burdened by shopping and party obligations, are left out in the cold.


Report: Nation's Wealthy Cruelly Deprived Of True Meaning Of Christmas.

In the absence of The Daily Show (when O when will the writer’s strike end??), this is not a bad substitute for the type of features I would expect to see at this time of year. Enjoy, and keep away from the fruitcake.*

* I don't mean myself.

Where is Christ in Christmas?

"Santa died for our gifts and rose from the dead and moved to the North Pole and because of that, every year Santa comes down to forgive us our sins and give us eternal presents."

- Jazmine, explaining "the true meaning of Christmas" to Riley in "A Huey Freeman Christmas," a.k.a. The Boondocks Christmas Special.

That show is frickin' hilarious.

New Feature!

So I returned to work last week and have not had even a second to pick my nose*, never mind write a coherent blog post. Since this seems to be an overarching theme which runs throughout 9 out of 10 of my blog posts, and over which I have a disproportional amount of guilt, I am going to start a new feature at Mama Blah Blah.

Are you ready?

Are you sure?

Here it is. Because I have limited time, I'm going to post one-liners. These may be things I have said or overheard or that other people have said to me or that I pick up off the bathroom wall. I will try to post them in context, which will involve more than one line, but they will be for the most part very brief posts.

Today's one-liner, which was actually said yesterday, is:

"Once again, not having won the lottery, the [Blah Blahs] head off to work."

Said by Sweet Dub, approx. 6:30 am, as we looked at each other mournfully, me in my bathrobe, he fully dressed and about to walk out the door. I hate Mondays.

* Not that I would ever do that. Isn't that what coat sleeves are for?

Buh-bye, Sweatpants!

The other day, Sweet Dub looked at me critically and with some mild concern and said:

"Those pants make your ass look flat. [pause] I didn't think that was even possible."

His comments were directed at the evil sweatpants. I'm back in regular clothes. My ass is now swathed in denim and looking pretty good (read: not flat), if I do say so myself. I think we should burn the sweatpants in our backyard.

Except we have once again been issued a high-wind advisory. I'd hate to contribute to the wildfire epidemic.

Damn Santa Anas.

Weird And/Or Random

Okay, Janie tagged me and I'm meme-ing, if somewhat belatedly. My mission is to reveal 7 weird/random things about myself and tag 7 other bloggers.

(1) In high school, I was in an advanced art class through which I was selected to help create a float for a Disney-themed parade (why on earth?!?) through downtown Boston. My team was chosen to design the Fantasia float. I spent a ridiculous amount of time helping recreate the Dance of the Hours sequence with an oversized dancing hippo in a tutu and an alligator in a cape. Chicken wire, papier mache, tissue paper, and paint, for weeks after school, with all the usual high school bitchery. When we finally got to ride on the float, waving at the crowds, I laughed hysterically through the whole thing. The absurdity of it was just overwhelming.

(2) I have seven moles on my body (three on my neck alone). When Viva was younger, she thought they were extra nipples. This was, thankfully, once she was past the age of breastfeeding.

(3) If I could eat ice cream every day, I would.

(4) When I was in elementary school in Boston back in the day (1970s!), one year near the end of the year they had each kid self-identify racially on one of the standardized forms we were filling out. This was back in the day when you could only check one box. I think there were maybe four options, which even at the time was baffling. Because we are "mixed," I checked black, and my sister checked white. The next year, my sister was assigned to 6th grade at a middle school a mile or so from our predominantly white working-class neighborhood. I was bussed (!!) to 5th grade in a more diverse school (great mix of black, white, Asian and Hispanic, to my great relief), about 5 miles away. So few of us came from that neighborhood that we were bussed in on the short bus! To this day, with all the fuss over bussing in Boston, I do not understand why, as the "black" kid, I was bussed OUT of my white neighborhood. Wasn't the idea that the schools were suppoed to be more integrated?

(5) The following year, I was bussed even further away, to a predominantly black middle school. I got in more fights that year than I can count - none provoked by me, and all involving a group of mean girls, in my grade but not in my class, who insisted that I "thought I was cute." Since at 11 I was already wearing glasses and never knew what to do with the unruly mass of frizz on my head, nothing could have been further from the truth. It was completely bewildering.

(6) The first movie I ever saw was Benji, when I was 6. I was a complete freak about dogs and yet to this day, except for a two-week stint with a puppy that my parents later gave away (!! child abuse!!), I have never owned one.

(7) Speaking of dogs, when I was 25, I was mauled by my dad's Akita. Today, if I shaved my head, you would see the scars from four bite marks on my skull. I did not have a great relationship with my dad before this happened, and strangely, this did not improve things. Perhaps this is because he kept the dog despite its penchant for biting people smaller than it (the dog outweighed me by at least 20 pounds). Whenever I would call him, even years later, I would ask, "Is your dog dead yet?"

I think he resented that.

So those are my seven things. I rarely comment on other people's blogs - I know, this is really bad blog etiquette. So I feel a bit awkward and shy about tagging anyone to do this meme! Instead, if you would like to post seven random/weird things either here, in the comments, or on your own blog, please do. No, really, please, because I do find you fascinating. I have really enjoyed other people's lists. These are the things that make you, you.

Won't you share?

Distracted!

I have been online for much of today and have not bought one damn thing. So much for Cyber Monday or whatever they're calling it.

A week from today I will be back at work. Gah.

Janie tagged me for a meme (Hi Janie! I'm not being anti-social, really), and I don't think I'll get to it until tomorrow because I have errands to run before picking up Viva from school and there are still dirty dishes in the sink from this morning.

In an ideal world, the idea that I only have one "free" week left would make me focus, but evidently it's having the opposite effect. Bear with me.

Her Skin is Not the Same

Yesterday, Viva and I were out and about. She was in a great mood because we had spent pretty much the entire weekend together and I am about 85% back to normal health. This means I’m not running around in the backyard playing tag with her, but I am able to spend several hours at a time with her before needing a break. We have been cooking together, drawing together, reading, playing games, doing puzzles, and the like. Despite her being in a very contrary phase wherein if you say one thing, she will say the exact opposite for no apparent reason, I have really been enjoying our time together.

So we were in the Cost Plus World Market, chumming around together, picking out a few Christmas ornaments (which, really, is ridiculous since it’s mid-November, but don’t even let me commence) and getting some curtains, and then we went to pay for our purchases. As we were being rung up, the cashier looked at Viva and back at me and said, “She is your daughter?”

“Yeah, yeah she is,” I said, picking up one of the bags and putting it in the cart.

“She looks so different from you,” she said.

“Do you think so?” I said. “I think she looks a lot like me.”

“My daughter is sort of like that,” she said, staring at Viva. Viva started to wrap her arms around my leg and hide her face. “Her skin is not the same.”

“Hmm,” I said, because at that point I just wanted to get out of the store. I don’t think this woman (who had white skin and spoke with an unidentified accent) was trying to be rude, but if in fact she did have a child who looks different from her, she might be expected to understand that it’s not polite to point that out. I had no desire to bond with her over whatever she felt we had in common, it was clearly making Viva uncomfortable, and added to that, there was a line of people behind us – none of whom was (visibly, at least) a person of color. I realize to most people we look different because they are not looking closely. I look white, and Viva looks black. The fact that we are both a mixture of both is not readily apparent. It is not easy. It is not comfortable. It’s also not anybody’s business but ours.

Anyway, we paid for our things and we left the store, and we ate ginger cookies in the car on the way home, me and my little daughter whose skin is not the same. And by God, we were happy to be together.

All the same, it’s been nibbling away at the back of my brain. I’m irritated. And Viva, home today with a nasty cough, is evidently not napping, so this post ends here.

Oh, no she di'n't!

Yesterday, during the minor miracle that was Viva's nap*, I sat down in my reading chair and rather than power up the laptop, I read a book. More specifically, I read this book, which is easily one of the top ten books I read this year. In fact, I would rank it among my top two for the year. Now, your tastes and mine may differ, but I really enjoyed this book. So much so that I finished it and realized I had let Viva oversleep, so I lurched out of the chair without a second thouhgt. And I didn't realize until this morning as I was waking up that I forgot to blog yesterday, so I am once again not fulfilling the pledge of NaBloPoMo. Oops.

Well, it's a damn good book, is all.

*Yes! She has begun taking naps again on the weekend! And there was much rejoicing!

Public Service Announcement

Have you, like me, ever come across a laundry care label with only symbols and you have no clue how you are supposed to interpret them? How, for example, did a triangle become the symbol for bleach??

You know me, I live to serve. Find your cheat sheet here. Back to your regularly scheduled programming...

Now and Then

It is Saturday morning. Sweet Dub has taken Viva out to breakfast and then they are going to see Bee Movie.* They left after repeated, stern instructions from him for me not to overdo it while they were gone.

There are so many things I want to do right now and I can't:

(1) Exercise.
(2) Clean the house.
(3) Take my car to the gas station, get gas and put air in the tires. (I can drive with a towel over my abdomen between me and the seatbelt, but the squatting to inflate the tires would still hurt and I might strain something.)
(4) Gardening/working in the yard.
(5) Pretty much anything active.

The good news is that my abdomen has shrunk enough that I can fit into my comfy jeans, so there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I am heading back to the world of normal clothes! Oh, how I've missed you!

The weather today is perfect for a nice fall hike in Griffith Park. On one of my first real dates with Sweet Dub, he took me for a hike in Griffith Park. I didn't realize it was a test! (Ooh, sneaky Dub.) We drove up and parked across from the Greek Theatre and headed up a steep trail. It was all uphill for a good 5 minutes, then leveled out, then uphill again, etc. We walked and talked for a good hour or so, and I didn't poop out. I guess he was trying to see if I was actually in shape or whether I was thin because I didn't eat much.** Because he is a very active person, this was an important compatibility issue for him.

I am not as active as he is, but I do miss yoga and hiking and dancing. Those are my three favorite "active" activities. (Well, the three that I can tell you about. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.)

I am now going to fling open the windows and let the crisp air into the house and maybe "couch dance"*** to my (and Viva's) new favorite song by Flight of the Conchords. You know I like funny. I am slightly ever so in love with them:



"You like boom, I like boom, enough small boom, let's boom de boom!" Viva likes to dance to the abbreviated version we show her via TiVo (so she doesn't actually hear the f-word or the b-word. Give us at least a little credit.). Enjoy!

* Please note that if you click on the link for Bee Movie, you will be taken to a review by Common Sense Media. My adding this link should not be interpreted as my having read the review before sending my kid to the movie. Because I didn't. Because I am just that lazy. Thank you and good night.

** Which, in itself, is kind of ridiculous, since during the blind date at which we met, I ordered French toast, swimming in butter and syrup, and bacon. What can I say - it didn't occur to me to order an egg-white omelet. That is just not how I roll.

*** By which I mean sit on the couch and dance only with my shoulders and arms. Gently.

Let It Go

Eeps! Despite having forgotten about NaBloPoMo until a few days after it started, I am trying to participate in my own charmingly forgetful, ass-backwards way. I've been posting every day since I realized that was what we were supposed to be doing. Yeah, whatever.

At any rate, I just started reading the blog Flawed But Authentic, and one of the recent posts by Jessica was about forgiveness (sorry but I can't figure out where the permalink is, or I'd link to it...it's the Nov. 7th, 2007 post). When I was lunching with my dear friend MG yesterday, she mentioned that an old mutual friend had called her several years ago to announce that when they were roommates, she was struggling with bulimia and anorexia and that part of her program was to contact people she had wronged somehow with behavior related to that. So she rattled off a list of ten things she wanted to apologize for. Evidently MG was quite gracious and empathetic, but, as she confided to me, "I honestly didn't remember most of the things she was apologizing for! But then I didn't want to say that, because she has clearly been carrying around all this guilt about it, which I felt guilty for, and then I thought she might feel worse if she realized she'd been so worried about it -- I mean, she must have really had to buck herself up to call me in the first place if she felt this bad about it. And really? I probably was drunk for most of these incidents anyway!"

So I guess our old friend was asking for forgiveness for these actions which she perceived as wrong. And yet, MG certainly was harboring no ill will toward her at all. It made me ponder about how many things we all internalize and carry grudges and worries over -- things which may not really be all that important in the grand scheme of things.

In my own family, recently, more drama has arisen over things that took place in the past. My sister Lola and I had a conversation this week in which she referenced the way I had behaved in the past toward my mother, which is evidently impacting my relationship with her now. Since my mother never ever directly explains what is bothering her to the person she has a problem with, I have never fully understood what I have done. However, my mother has given Lola an earful. My sister won't share with me what my mother has said because she thinks it is between my mom and me.

Pause.

Yes, how I am not completely mental from these passive-aggressive twists and turns is truly beyond me. I feel we are at an impasse. It always seems to me, when dealing with my mom, that there has to be a better way, yet no matter how I try, it always devolves into something completely unproductive.

I know I can only do what I can do. I accept that I am a flawed but well-meaning human being. So for the moment, I am concentrating on being good to myself, protecting myself from the bad vibes, and hoping that understanding may ultimately flow from that. And trying not to wonder what I did that I have clearly glossed over (evidently, it is not just one thing) and fervently swearing not to continue this same pattern with my own lovely and amazing child.

Happy Friday, and if you can't make amends, make brownies or something.

You Look FABulous!

Today was "get pretty" day for no other reason than that I had a hair appointment already scheduled. I gave myself a facial and a partial manicure (didn't have time for polish) and then tootled over to the salon. They spent two hours coloring my hair, first with the base color, then the highlights. I went directly from there to a nearly three-hour lunch with an old college friend -- we had a great time getting caught up and talking about how much beer and vodka we drank and how little sleep we survived on back then. Then we laughed about our shitty GPAs. Ah, college.

It was a wonderful, very self-indulgent day. I highly recommend!

My Only Consolation

Oh my GAH.

Recently, I received a bill for $420 from a doctor I saw back in February for a consultation on my fibroid issues. The doctor did not have a very good bedside manner and he did a really hard sell on a procedure which is still fairly new, for which not a lot of data on effectiveness is available. At the time that I made the appointment, the scheduler told me, "Yes, we accept Blue Shield [my insurance company at the time]."

Now, some ten months and change later, I get a bill from them. Apparently, they've been billing Blue Shield and Blue Shield will not pay them because they are "not a participating provider." When I spoke to a Blue Shield representative this morning, she explained to me that even though the doctor's office told me that they accept Blue Shield, all that really means is that they will try and bill Blue Shield for the office visit. Here is a transcript of our conversation:

Blue Shield Rep: They are not contracted with us. So in the future, what you need to do when contacting a doctor is find out not just if they accept Blue Shield, but if they contract with Blue Shield.

Mama Blah Blah: Wow. Okay, so but you can see why I feel a little bit like I've been scammed? I mean, they acted like all would be well and my insurance would cover it. I'm not saying that's your fault, I'm just saying --

BSR: [Nervous yet empathetic laughter] Yeah, it seems --

MBB: I mean, what recourse do I have now?

BSR: Well, you need to speak with the doctor's office and explain the situation.

MBB: I have a feeling that's going to go over well.

BSR: [Again with the laughter]

MBB: Well, this is a very expensive lesson.

BSR: I'm so sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?

MBB: [To self: Yes, you can help me find my can opener because I am about to open up a 64-ounce can of Whup Ass on the doctor's office. To her:] Um, no thanks. Thank you for your help and have a great day.

And three phone calls later, with still no resolution of the matter, I find myself leaving a message with one of the medical billing specialists. Frustrated, I hightail it to the Internette, where I drown my sorrows by reading one of my new faves; I speak, dear friends, of Shoe Blog.

I am a big fan of shoes, in theory. I love, love, love them. In practice, my feet are extremely difficult. A shoe which looks great and fits well in the store quite often tortures my feet when truly put to the test of a full 8 to 9 hour day. This means that I tend to have to buy rather expensive (to me) shoes so I won't further ruin my feet. This also means that I don't buy a lot of shoes, much though I love them. I'm thinking however, that I may not be able to resist these:

I mean, come on. Throw these on with jeans and a bright top with a cool jacket and that is pretty dang cute. They also come in orange!

And for those days when you want a bit more sophistication:

Henceforth I think I will adopt this as my motto: New shoes beat the blues! I'm also enjoying NaBloShoeMo tremendously. It's making my heart go thumpa-thump.

Oh, shoes. I do love you so.

Six Days Late, 'Cuz That's How I Roll

Oh, right, Halloween! Didn't I threaten promise you, my faithful readership, that I would post pictures of Viva's modified costume? I know you are past all point of caring, but since it is almost but not quite a week since Halloween, I feel it is still worth a shot.

Here is an action shot:


Bat Cat takes off to save the city!

And here is a head-to-toe, so you can get the full effect:



The problem with the head-to-toe shot is that you can't really see the bad-ass hand-sewn and hand-drawn logos I came up with, across the chest and on the utility belt. From far away, she still looks like Bat Man.

Damn it. I'm going back to bed.


Edited to add: Oh, it appears that if you double-click on the pictures, a new window will open and you can see a larger version (and can thus see the logos). Ah, the wonders of technology.

Tangents

I fully and finally admit to having succumbed to a bit of a funk over the past week or so. Tired of not being able to do much of anything, blah blah blah, so full of malaise that I couldn’t bring myself to write about it. It makes me tired even to type that, so moving on…

I just got caught up on my blog reading, and hey! Have you noticed that people out there are participating in NaBloPoMo? They’re blogging every day for the month of November! Hey, maybe I could do that! …Oops.

Anyway, after getting caught up on my reading and other things, I picked up the remote to watch a little TV during lunch. The remote wouldn’t work. I contemplated calling Sweet Dub at work and shrieking, “The TV’s broken!” because you know what, I don’t think he has enough to worry about. But the very idea of calling him and screaming that led me into a reverie…

When I was 6 years old and my mother was newly remarried, we moved from our low-income housing project to the home of S and R, two of my mom’s childhood friends. In hindsight, I think this was probably because once my mom and stepdad made it legal, we no longer qualified as low-income-enough to remain in the projects, although we were still pretty broke. At any rate, we moved into their large old house in the neighborhood where my mom had grown up. S and R had two little boys who were younger than my sister and I – the older one was maybe 3 or 4 and the younger one was a toddler, still in a crib. Early one Saturday morning, we were all awakened by the sound of the 4-year-old screaming, “Daddy! The TV’s broken!”

As I said, it was early. It was so early, in fact, that there was no TV on. The television was showing what we called, back in the day, “snow.” Yes, youngsters, in olden times, if you turned on the TV at, say, 4:30 AM, NOTHING WOULD BE ON. The airwaves were actually silent. And, as yet, there were no VCRs. There were no DVD players. There was no TiVo. Your TV was basically useless for a couple hours each day.

I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, “That sounds like hell on earth!”

Having been pretty much housebound now for nearly four weeks, I can tell you this: at some point, you do get fairly sick of television. Every person has a different tipping point. Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time on the phone talking to actual human beings rather than staring at the screen. Today, I got caught up with a very dear friend who I’ve known since we were 12. I spent a lot of time during my most awkward years hanging out amidst her very loud, very large, very loving extended family. There have been times when years have gone by and we haven’t talked person-to-person, but when we do, there is no weird small talk, no bullshit. We dive right into whatever is going on with each of us.

Too often, we make excuses for not having enough time to keep in touch with all the people who are important to us. I am grateful to have this recuperation time to reconnect with people. I want to make sure that I continue to do so after I get back on the hamster wheel of work-family balance post-recuperation. More to come…

Shortest Post Ever

It's been almost 4 weeks since my surgery, and I am thoroughly thick of sweatpants/yoga pants.

That is all.