If Work was Fun, They’d Call it “Play”

I have been doing a lot of thinking about work lately. I’ve been thinking about what kind of work I can do, what kind of work I want to do, how to find a part-time job that utilizes my skills and pays enough to make it worth it, whether I should take a full-time job despite my desire not to have my daughter in preschool for 9 hours a day, how do other women manage the work-life balance, why haven’t I been hired yet, why is the sky blue, do these jeans make my butt look big, and, most importantly, should I cut my hair or grow it out?

This is what occupies a lot of my waking time when I’m not at the post office, the gas station, or the grocery store. I confess I do think about it sometimes when I’m doing laundry or doing yoga.

I will admit right here and now, right up front, that while I thought I’d be raring to get back to work after Viva got settled in school, the reality is, um, not so much.

I was talking with my friend CC this weekend about it while our 2-year-olds were chasing each other around the playground. We are both in our mid-30s, and in our youths, both thought that by this point in our lives, we’d have major big jobs – serious careers – lovely husbands, and a couple of kids a piece, in daycare from the age of 2 months on*.

“I thought I’d be, I don’t know, Secretary of State or something,” CC said. We laughed.

“And I thought, ‘Hey, it’s no big deal to put your kid in daycare,’” I said. “Easy to say when you’re childless and in your early 20s.”

“I know,” CC said. “Once you have a kid, it’s like, ‘Oh, no way am I putting her in daycare.”

We have both made financial sacrifices to be able to care for our kids ourselves. CC, for example, took a job teaching adult ed part-time, so she and her writer husband could split childcare. This is despite her training and work experience as an attorney – clearly a more financially rewarding alternative.

* At least we got the lovely husbands, and one kid each.

Sweet William and I decided five years ago, before we were even married, that I should quit my full-time job and try to make a go of consulting, so I’d be able to work part-time from home once we started our family. This worked for a couple of years, until I was pregnant, in my second trimester, and my fibroids started degenerating to such a painful degree that I couldn’t get out of the house to see clients. I stopped working.

When Viva was six months old, I went through the motions of getting back into the groove, but it was difficult to schedule things around naps and babysitters and the like. Inevitably, someone would call just after she’d woken up, and I wasn’t feeling terribly professional about having to say, "I’ll have to call you back, my baby just woke up.”

At any rate, when Viva was eight months old, Sweet William got recruited away from his job to a bigger, better job that paid substantially more. Substantially, as in we jumped up and down when they messengered the job offer letter to our apartment and we saw the compensation package. We then talked it over and agreed I wouldn’t worry about working until Viva started preschool at age 2, at which point I would have to work to pay for her to go to school. (I know, the logic of this sounds bizarre, but at 2, she was really ready to go to school – she loved being around other kids, and she loved all the different activities scheduled there. I admit to being at the end of my rope in terms of trying to come up with a variety of things to do every day when it was just the two of us at home, and I was thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to be around grownups myself.)

Blah blah blah, so here we are. Viva started preschool full-time in August, and I started looking for a job, without much clear direction of what I was looking for. This has caused some delays in the process. And I was sick for much of the fall and early winter, leading me to abandon my job search in December until after the holidays.

Now I am back in the special purgatory reserved for the professional job seeker, and it is only made worse by my reading books like Bait and Switch and articles like “Everybody Hates Linda.” In Bait and Switch, Barbara Ehrenreich goes undercover in the world of the white-collar unemployed. She does everything possible to get a job – she consults career coaches, takes personality tests, networks, networks, networks, gets an image makeover – and at the end of seven months, she is still unemployed.

I’ll wait while that sinks in. Now, let me share some quotes from the book with you:

“…the cost of health insurance has become a major disincentive to job creation; companies would rather outsource or hire benefit-less “contract workers” than take on the burden of providing insurance for new hires.” (Bait and Switch, page 236)

“On many fronts, the American middle class is under attack as never before. …the 2005 federal bankruptcy bill, which eliminates the possibility of a fresh start for debt-ridden individuals, will condemn more of the unemployed and underemployed to a life of debt peonage. Meanwhile, escalating college costs threaten to bar their own children from white-collar careers. And as company pensions disappear, the president is campaigning vigorously to eviscerate Social Security.” (ibid, same page)

If that doesn’t depress you, how about this: of eleven fellow white-collar job seekers she met along the way, by the end of her experiment, none had yet found a “real” job. Some had taken on survival jobs (waiting tables, moving furniture, cleaning toilets), and some had moved in with family members to get by.

I am certainly not saying that things are that bad for me. But it does give me pause.

Sweet William recently had lunch with a friend of his from law school. His friend spends 6 days a week at work and sees his daughter for only about 25 minutes in the evenings after he gets home from work and before she goes to bed. I guess there’s always Sundays. In the meantime, his wife, who is a writer for a sitcom, has been offered to opportunity to script a pilot for an influential producer. It is a HUGE break, but comes just at the time when they are discussing whether or not to have a second child (their daughter is also 2, just a few months younger than Viva).

His wife is torn. She barely sees the baby she has, and getting a pilot off the ground while keeping her existing job is going to take all her time. Her husband’s response: “Well at least you’d be giving her someone to play with.”

“You’re kind of at opposite ends of the spectrum,” Sweet William said. “She wants more time to stay home, and you want more time out of the house, to go back to work.”

We’re not so different, though. We are both trying to find that perfect work-life balance. The question for both of us is how to work and yet have enough time for our families. I am still working this out. (Clearly!)

Detractors of "workplace feminism" say it failed to factor in the realities of caregiving, but its fatal weakness was optimism. It's actually a little embarrassing to think how easily we were persuaded that once qualified women had a chance to prove their mettle in the professional and skilled labor force, the bastions of male privilege would come tumbling down. (“Everybody Hates Linda,” Judith Stadtman Tucker.)

Okay, so workplace feminism somehow forgot about the kids. And now I have to deal with The Gap.

No, I’m not breaking down and deciding to get a retail job (yet). Barbara Ehrenreich found that a Gap in your resume (and yes, she capitalized it, because her career consultants made such a big deal over it) pretty much shuts you out of consideration for a job. This is true even when The Gap is covered by a period of time you did consulting work. Yes, like me. And explaining that The Gap is the result of staying home to raise your kid? Oh, it's just not done.

So, I’m not exactly having a pity party over here, but I’m not all that gung-ho about the job search thing, either. Maybe I need a dose of Tony Robbins. Hey, it worked for Jack Black!

Let the Music Play

Aron’s Records has been a Hollywood institution for many years. I’ve spent many a pleasant moment (mostly pre-Viva) wandering the aisles, discovering new music at Aron’s and at other independent music stores like Rockaway Records and Hear Music (which, strangely, appears to have sold out to Starbucks, which is a damn shame).

Aron’s is now closing after 40 years. If you look at their Website, they don’t give a reason why, but it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine they’ve been squeezed out by Amoeba Records, which opened on Sunset Blvd., a hop skip and a jump away, a couple of years ago.

The other day, I was driving past Hollywood and Highland, the huge mall complex which has made my corner of Hollywood even more traffic-congested, and I saw a sign for Virgin Megastore.

Virgin Megastore, brainchild of such a freakin’ corporate giant that it has partnered with Amazon.com, so if you click on any Virgin advertising online, it actually takes you to an Amazon site. Yecch, it makes my skin crawl.

It kind of feels like Wal-Mart just moved in. Aron’s, which is within walking distance of my apartment, is the kind of cramped, low-budget, wonderfully unique hangout of musicians (real and wannabes) and music lovers of all stripes that I love. It has a kind of home-grown, get your hands dirty kind of appeal. Amoeba Records duplicates that feel, kind of, on a larger scale. Perhaps because Amoeba only has three locations anywhere (Berkeley, San Francisco, Hollywood), so it’s still kind of funky and real. Virgin Megastore, on the other hand? Please.

So Virgin Megastore is opening just blocks up the street from Aron’s. Perhaps the coming of Virgin is what sounded the final death knell. I don’t know. I’m just kind of bummed out when I see a local business close its doors.

Less than a year ago, one of our local indie papers, LA Citybeat, had this to say about Aron’s:

Even in the era of Amoeba, it remains popular with DJs because, unlike Amoeba, it has listening stations. With its consistently well-stocked shelves, Arons in many ways sets the prototype of a successful indie record store. “We’re still alive and kicking,” says longtime employee DJ Sacred.

For those about to rock, we salute you. Hugs and kisses, Aron’s.

Beastly

On Sunday, the Blah Blah family bundled up and went to the L.A. Zoo. We decided to become members, since (a) we live about 15 minutes away from the zoo and (b) Viva enjoys it. Now, quite some time ago, I remember hearing something about problems with the Zoo, particularly with its elephant exhibit, but since the Zoo has been undergoing extensive renovations for a while, I thought these were all resolved.

Are you already feeling the ka-thwonk! of foreshadowing as it settles upon your shoulders?

Viva's favorite animal at the Zoo is, of course, the elephant. Our goal was to visit the Zoo and see lots of animals along the way, but the zenith of our expedition was to be the elephant exhibit so Viva could get her fix.

Please note that I haven't been to the Zoo since Viva was young enough to deign to be carried in a baby backpack. She and Sweet William went to the Zoo together in December, while I was at home hacking up all manner of disgusting fluids, which is why we know that she is crazy for the elephant.

Once we got our temporary membership cards and sailed through the special membership entrance*, I said, "Okay, cool, let's go see some elephants!"

Sweet William said, "Well, there's really only one elephant. And he's in this really small enclosure, probably because everything is under construction."

Naively, I chirped, "Oh, I'm sure they've fixed that by now. Ooh, look, sea lions!"

So in our roundabout way (or really, the roundabout way of the Zoo, because nothing there is linear), we ambled through the Zoo, looking at flamingos and lions and zebras, and finally, we got to the elephant enclosure.

There was one elephant there, standing in one place, facing away from the crowd, and swinging his head repeatedly up and down (which we later learned is a neurotic behavior caused by being in too small a space). His enclosure looked hardly bigger than my living room. I felt kind of sick.

"This is not good," Will said.

"Yeah, he looks kind of depressed, yet agitated," I said.

As this was supposed to be the zenith of our trip, but in fact turned out to be the nadir instead, it cast a pallor over it all. However, Viva was already tired and we had already determined that once we saw the elephant, we would head back out. This we did, and ran into a pamphleteer outside the Zoo exit who urged us to sign a petition to help the elephants. I stopped and signed the petition and then wrote a postcard to my City Council Member.

I'm feeling all kinds of weird about it. We're now Zoo members, but we've discovered that the Zoo is mistreating some of the animals, so now I'm in the awkward position of both supporting and not supporting the Zoo.

Here's a link to Last Chance for the Animals, which explains why we should be pissed off about these poor elephants. If you live in the area and give a damn about it, click on the link and it will direct you to an online petition as well.

Shit. I have always been an animal lover (not in the bestial sense, thank you). This creeps me out.


* I made this up, and I can't help thinking of "The Special People's Club" in Welcome to the Dollhouse. WHAT??? You haven't seen Welcome to the Dollhouse? Okay, I'm going to sit right here while you go out and rent it. Make yourself some popcorn, settle in with a drink, and hit "play." After you finish watching it and have your bathroom break -- Hey! Wash your hands! -- come on back and let's talk. Did you not love that movie? Do you see what I'm saying about the Special People's Club?

Dawn: ...do you want to join my "Special People's Club?"
Steve: Special people?
Dawn: Yeah.
Steve: Do you know what "special people" means?
Dawn: What?
Steve: Special people equals retarded. Your club is for retards.

All the more fitting, given what we learned after we joined the damn Zoo. I admit to feeling a bit retarded.

I Have A Dream

And that dream is to write something pertinent and maybe poignant about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., being that today is a holiday celebrating his legacy. Something that would relate his achievements to where we as a nation are today, or something like that.

Unfortunately, Viva is home for the holiday, and quite emphatically not taking a nap.

My pithiness must wait for another day. At which point it will no longer be relevant, since the holiday will be over, right?

Edited to add:

Late breaking news from Yahoo!

AP Poll: Blacks Likelier to Celebrate MLK
WASHINGTON - Blacks are more likely than whites to commemorate Martin Luther King's birthday, an AP-Ipsos poll found. They're also more inclined to harbor doubts about progress toward his dream of racial equality.

Well, duh. Read more of this earth-shattering story here, if you feel so inclined.

A Wily Thriller-Fantasy

Okay, I am so lame that I did not figure out that it was National De-Lurking Week until yesterday (Thursday) afternoon. I am so lame that I haven't de-lurked on anyone else's blogs during De-Lurking Week. Oh, wait, I did, earlier this week, but that was before I knew it was De-Lurking Week, so that doesn't really count (see previous remark on lameness).

For those that don't know what the hell I'm talking about (what else is new?): to delurk is to post a message to a newsgroup or Weblog where you've been lurking (reading messages without posting). Come on in, the water's fine!

If you decide to de-lurk, please let me know how you found this blog, roughly how long you've been reading it, and what brings you back. Or not.

In other exciting news, I've just posted a Web counter and can finally track site statistics. This "baby steps" approach toward figuring out all the useful things I want from my blog is actually working. Shocking in its simplicity.

Well, darlings, I must away. Please leave a comment if the mood strikes, and for those who have already done so earlier this week: welcome! I think I love you.

Have a fabboo weekend...

A Compelling Story, Beautifully Told

Regular readers of this blog are aware that I spent the last third of 2005 sick, off and on.

Yesterday, I developed a sore throat.

Is this some sort of sick joke?*

* Totally unintentional pun! I just caught it when I was proofreading this before hitting the "publish" key. I'm funny even when I don't mean to be, or perhaps because I don't mean to be. Or perhaps I'm just not funny. Oh, whatever.

Following up on the Disney Princess rant: I have gone to Toys'R'Us, Target, the Disney Store, and K-Mart to see if I can get store credit for the Disney crap foisted upon us. Out of all of these stores, only one found one item in their system, with the result that I now have $10.81 in store credit at Toys'R'Us, and I ended up dropping the rest of the stuff off at Goodwill.

Heavy sigh.

Am feeling generally exhausted/rundown/out of sorts today.

Oh, but looka here -- here is what my mom would risk if she were able to allow her packrat mania to run unchecked:

Wash. Woman Suffocates Under House Clutter

I can't make this stuff up. It reads like a story out of The Onion, but it's true.

And now we come to the literary criticism portion of the Blah Blah blog. I don't have any serious literary pretensions or aspirations, being that I majored in...cultural. anthropology. which. is. so. lucrative. and. marketable. But I can say that my verbal SAT scores were very high, lo those many years ago, and my AP and ACT English scores were so spectacular that I placed out of Freshman English. Which makes absolutely no difference to my life right now, but I'm just saying. I seem to have some aptitude for this language, um, thing.

And I usually devour books quite quickly. I just finished Ahab's Wife, which was 666 pages, and took me nearly a week to read, and I have to say, I suspected the ending from the beginning, and was pissed as I saw it coming and yet still had to read the whole book to figure out how we were going to get there. This is not to say that I did not enjoy the book -- I did. I think it was very well-written, but I felt kind of cheated by the author. Nonetheless, read it if you dare -- it's an interesting look at women and gender roles in the 19th century, as well as a journey of self-discovery. (Ecch, did I just write that?)

And you will notice that, as often happens when I can't think of a title for my post, I've stolen a bookjacket blurb. It's kind of becoming my shtick.

And you? What are you reading these days? Do tell*, I must know.

* For the benefit of my friend, Mr. X, I must tell you the following story:

On one side of my family, I am descended from dirt-poor "mulattos" (as they were called then) who eked out their existence on the farms of easterm shore Virginia. One of my grandma's cousins was named Dutell, allegedly because when he was born, the midwife told his father, "It's a boy!" His response was, "Do tell!"

I have met Dutell, but I was a teenager then and very self-conscious and shy, and he was what seemed to me an older gentleman, deserving of some respect, so I never did ask him if this was true. Nonetheless, it is part of family lore and thus I pass it on to you.

And now, adieu. Off to pick up my little puka shell.

Free to Be You and Me?

I am a child of the '70s. It was a time of questioning, when people were saying, "Hey, wait a minute -- maybe it's not cool to oppress minorities and women and gay people. Maybe we need to step back a minute and think about our preconceived notions about what people's proscribed roles in society are. Maybe it's not cool to call people "crippled" or "retarded,"either. Wow, maybe we need to make a change."

I grew up with parents (mom and stepfather) who had stopped to think about it, and who decided they weren't going to go along with the status quo in terms of gender roles for their kids. I grew up hating pink, hating dresses and skirts, and wearing my hair cut short, "like a boy."* I grew up listening to the "Free to Be Me" album and thinking girls could fix cars and play baseball if they wanted to. I grew up receiving race car tracks and the Bionic Man doll on Christmas morning.

* In all honesty, this was partly because my mom couldn't deal with doing my hair, and partly because I couldn't deal with having it done. Perhaps I was tender-headed. I don't remember, but I had a little blonde Afro back then. I'll try and post pics if I have time.

As a result of this upbringing, I was all about feminism and gender and racial equality and not treating people differently based on what they looked like or what their sexual orientation was or whatever. I proudly enrolled in a women's college when the time came, and felt proud to be in a community of diverse, strong, ornery women. I've been involved with women's organizations on a variety of levels; I've volunteered my time, I've donated money, I've subscribed to magazines and written grants for women's programs. I've done the same with a variety of race-based organizations.

I was also raised to try and be of service in some way. My mom trained as a teacher, my stepfather as a paramedic. They both majored in sociology. We were poor as hell, but nonetheless, the pursuit of money as an end in itself was conveyed to me as vulgar and not something that was valued in my family. This was counterbalanced by my grandparents' emphasis on education as a means to self-sufficiency.

So this is how they raised me up. Fast forward to 2006:

This past weekend, we met up with my mom, grandma, sister and nephews to have lunch and exchange Christmas gifts. My grandma was in the hospital over Christmas, so we did not do the whole Christmas thing at the appropriate time. For a variety of reasons, this Saturday we ended up eating lunch and running out of time for opening gifts, due to the kids' nap schedules.

We loaded all the gifts into one another's cars, said our goodbyes, drove off on our separate ways. And when we got home, after Viva woke up, she opened a huge plethora of gifts -- among them, these:



Just in case you can't tell, they are, from left to right:

Disney Princess hopscotch, Disney Princess Cinderella Deluxe Dress-Up Set, and Disney Princess Deluxe Shoe Boutique.

Does anyone else perceive a bit of a disconnect? Given that I have just summarized my bringing-up for you, it should come as no surprise that I loathe the whole Disney princess propaganda machine with every fiber of my being. But aside from the sick message I believe it sends -- which is as anti-grrl-power as you can get, in my opinion -- my main issue is the fact that pretty much every ethnic group in the world is represented among the Disney princesses, except black and Hispanic. If you look at the hopscotch set, for example, you have a range of Caucasian/Anglo representation (Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Belle), you have Middle Eastern (Jasmine), you have Asian (Mulan, who wasn't a princess), and you even have Native American (Pocahontas). For Christ's sake, you even have a mutant half-human, half-fish (Ariel)!

Why would you give this to a little black girl? It just makes me nuts. I will tell you honestly that Viva scored a whole lot of other stuff during this gift-opening extravaganza. Sweet William and I quietly removed the offending items one at a time while she was playing with other stuff, and I will be taking my ass to Toys'R'Us later this week to see if we can get store credit from this shit. I think my mom has lost her mind.

In happier news, Viva has a new little sister:




My grandma got this for her for Christmas. Viva has named her Kimbe (pronounced KIM-bee), which Sweet Wills and I have adopted with gusto. We like it because it sounds like Dikembe Mutombo, who we have always loved to imitate saying "I'm DOM-inating!" because he likes to say that he is a DOMinant player in the NBA. So we like to hold up the baby doll and pretend she is saying she is DOMinating. ...Um, I think this is one of those situations where if you have to explain it, it loses its funniness.

I need to add links for y'all, but I've run out of time -- must go get Viva. Perhaps I'll edit later. I'm out.

A Smattering

I know, I shouldn't complain, but I went out this morning in jeans, boots, a tanktop and a sweater over it, with a blazer thrown over that, and now, it is:

SUNNY
85°F
Feels Like 82°F*

What the hell! A few days ago it was freezing and wet, and now this. Blame it on the ozone layer, which is to say, blame it on pollution by us thoughtless little Earthlings, which is to say, blame it on yourself. Isn't it great that it always comes back to that?

*Many thanks to the Weather Channel for confirming what I already suspected: it's frickin' hot.

Why I Need a Camera Phone, Moment #534

Today, I had lunch with one of my closest and dearest friends, Coolia. We spoke and laughed about many things, pretty much all of which are unpublishable. After lunch, I offered her a ride home, even though her place is within walking distance of the restaurant, mainly because I just adore her and couldn't stand to be without her. At any rate, as we were waiting to pull out onto the street from the restaurant driveway, a ruddy, white-bearded gentleman in a blue sedan motioned for us to pull ahead of him.

Mama Blah [waves and smiles]: Wow! How nice! Thanks, Mr. Claus!

Coolia: Oh my gosh, he does look like Santa Claus!

Mama Blah: Sweetie, his license plate says "Mr [sic] Claus."

Coolia: Oh my GAH! IT DOES!

So you might have thought the Christmas comments were over. You were obviously wrong. I still don't understand why he drives a blue car, though.

Just Because I Can

Viva's grandfather (Wash) gave her this dog many, many moons ago:


Out of all her toys and stuffed animals, this one keeps a certain niche in Viva's heart. He is not her favorite, but he is a steady companion. She changes the doll/toy she sleeps with every night, but he always stays on the bed. For her favorite toys, Viva generally assigns each a name and sticks with it. Not so, this dog. He never has the same name twice. For the past couple of weeks, when I remember to ask her, I've been writing down the Name of the Day. Here is a small sample:

Bucko
Steenie
Sahdi
Slummy Eye (my all-time favorite)
Crummy-Ah
Rembi

The names don't seem to follow any particular pattern. I kind of dig that.

And, finally...

Here's a church I might actually consider going to. At least they have a sense of humor.


Thank you, and good night.

Just a Suggestion or Two

I think the new year is a good time to change all your passwords on everything, just for security's sake. Make sure you write them down in a safe place. Don't tattoo them on your ass -- first, because you'd have to pull your pants down at inconvenient times, and second, because it's hard to twist around and see them when you need them and then there you are at the ATM with your pants yanked down, squinting because you forgot your glasses, hoping you don't get arrested and wishing to God you'd picked something simpler when choosing your new PIN for your debit card.

That's all I'm saying.

Also, you may want to switch browsers. If you've been using Internet Explorer all this time, this might be a scary step for you. But I have just switched to Firefox (which, in my total non-technogeek manner, I just typed as Foxfire - GAWD!), and my friends, I am all atwitter. It's so fast! And it imported all my bookmarks from IE for me. You can read a very convincing argument to switch via this old Washington Post article. I'm even going to add a Firefox button on my blog somewhere. See if you can find it!

Whew, madness and hijinks! I need to sit down.

But before I do: if you are starting any sort of exercise program as part of your new lease on life for the new year? Start slow, my friends. I'm popping Advil today due to post-workout slivers of fiberglass jabbing into my lower back.* They say exercise is good for you, but you can't prove it by me.

* This is figurative. And slightly exaggerated. Per usual.

Gettin' Techie on Yer Ass

After a full year* on Blogger, I actually added a blogroll to my sidebar.

I'll wait a minute for you to digest the full import of this news.

It's incomplete, but long overdue, by God!

I have Decided (not Resolved, as in a New Year's Resolution, because, come on, let's be serious) that, rather than flagellating myself over not having learned Web design last year, I am going to do my best to pick one thing at a time that I would like to learn to improve my site and I'm going to figure out how to do it. Baby steps, people.

Enjoy the Roll.

* Yes, I know if you look on the archives it appears that I have been posting on here since July 2004, but that's just because I went back and transferred old posts from my old site. It's actually only been about a year that I've been seriously blogging. And some would question whether "seriously" is accurate. Well, whatever, them!

Get Lost, 2005!

Hello, and Happy (Belated) New Year! Wow, it's January 3rd already -- this year is just flying by, i'nt it?

I hate to dwell on the negative, but -- oh, who are we kidding, we all know I live to dwell on the negative, right? Let me just say that 2005 kind of sucked for me personally, and I'm not sad to see it go. So, 2005 -- don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you. Be gone, and with the quickness!

I for one welcome the beauty and promise of 2006, and pledge faithfully to exercise all the offices and duties therefrom. Or thereof. Oh, whatever.

Recent Viva-isms

"I like my toast dry."
When asked if she would like butter or jam on her toast. Just struck me as not something a 2-year-old would generally have an opinion about.

"We are not two persons. I am a person, but he is not a person."
At bedtime, in reference to her Little Bill* doll. This was her rejection of my explanation that she would not be sleeping alone.

"Jaden said, you are not growing. But I still eat my cheese."
This came completely out of nowhere when we were riding in the car recently. Jaden is one of her schoolmates.

"You have to fuck!"
Um, what she was actually saying was, "You have the fork." But because she had food in her mouth at the time, it came out sounding like that, which, because of how hopelessly immature I am, was funny to me.

More later, I'm off to the post office to buy some .02 stamps. Frickin' postal rate increase. Mad love!

* Later edited to add: I came back to add the link to the Little Bill doll, which is now impossible, because he is out of stock at the Nickelodeon store. He was hard to find and now I can't even get a picture of him up here. Cheezus!

Holiday Shuffle

I knew with the proliferation of holidays this month that I would miss something or somebody. So to all my homies out there: Happy Festivus! The worst part of forgetting this holiday is that it falls on Sweet William's birthday, December 23rd. So sorry!

Oh, and I did mean to post on the Kwanzaa controversy, but as you may recall, I had lost the links. Here's one take on it, which points to founder Maulana Ron Karenga's violent past. And another, which takes issue with Kwanzaa's proximity to Christmas.

Full disclosure: we don't celebrate Kwanzaa here in the Blah Blah household. Viva does own My First Kwanzaa, so she knows what it's about, and as I have said, her teacher talked with the class about all the holidays at this time of year. I feel the need to explain why we don't celebrate Kwanzaa, but you know what? That's completely ridiculous.

Some Assembly Required!

Viva got this for Christmas:


I put it together backwards (with the door on the wrong side) and had it 89% assembled before I realized I had to take it apart and start over. Frickin' frickety frack!

Viva also got this lovely train set,


necessitating a last-minute Christmas Eve run to the supermarket for batteries. Sad to say, the train died the day after Christmas after it apparently fell off the track, got carpet wound around its innards, and began emitting smoke, which was not one of its stated features. Sweet Wills had to go out and purchase a replacement (of the train only, not the entire track)the next day -- also known as Boxing Day, Chanukah, the first day of Kwanzaa (Umoja), and the day I left my husband and child and drove 95 miles to get my grandmother out of the hospital and help her and my mom pack up the house they are moving out of in two days.

All I can say about my trip to my mom and grandma's house is this: after finishing packing up my grandma's room and then starting on my mom's, I was quite exhausted. Imagine my shock and awe when I found, among the detritus in my mom's room, a Ladies' Home Journal from January 1992.

Do you see what I was up against?

Do you have a junk drawer in your home? The one where, when you open it up, you say, "Oh, Jesus, I don't know what to do with this stuff," so you close it and walk away? It probably contains stuff like random paper clips, rubber bands, a few coins, a couple stray keys, maybe some takeout menus, wrinkled bits of paper with cryptic notes on them, books of matches, pens that don't write, screws and brackets and crap like that, right? My mom's entire bedroom is like that. It's kind of terrifying.

The really scary part is that when I found the Ladies' Home Journal* from 1992, I just kind of chuckled in weary amazement and then moved on to put all 917 of my mom's decorative pillows into one box.

* Originator of "Can This Marriage Be Saved?" Whew, yeah.

This, That, and the Other

First and foremost: hey, Chanukah starts the day after Christmas (thanks, Splooey). So I haven't actually missed out on wishing any of my Jewish friends and/or readers a happy holiday. For some reason, my brain had fixated on Dec. 6 as the start of Chanukah this year. There is clearly something wrong with me.
Happy Chanukah!

Random Fits

Bumper sticker seen 12/17/05:

I'm not passing judgment.
I just think you're stupid.

More of Christmas. More, more!

Letter to Santa, dictated by Viva:

Dear Santa,

Please:

Bring a ladder and a pink pole for the lights.

Bring ornaments so we can put them on the tree.

Bring the mail into our house, because we like Christmas cards.

Be up.

Bring pictures of Mickey Mouse.

Merry Christmas!

Love, Viva

And last but not least, I need to share with you this photo from Losanjealous, which pretty much speaks for itself:

The Grove* Parking Structure, 12/20/05



Note that I was at the Grove this morning at about 9:30; L2 and L3 were already full, as was L7, allegedly. I am skeptical as to the fullness of L7 due to the non-hi-techness of the display mechanism peculiar only to that parking level -- i.e., a piece of paper and some tape. But maybe I'm just being a bitch. At any rate, thanks, Victor at Losanjealous, ya made me laugh.

*The Grove is a mall here in L.A. -- but not just any mall. It's a mall whose tagline is, "Unique. Like you." No, seriously.

The Glow Will Last the Whole Way Home

It’s a dark, dark day in Boston. Beloved Red Sox center fielder Johnny Damon has signed a deal with, of all possible teams, the New York Yankees. What a slap in the face. As a native of Boston who no longer follows baseball here in Los Angeles (nothing personal, Dodgers), my sympathies are with my hometown. I feel your pain, Boston. Have a Sammy, on me.

Now, while I am still loyal to the Red Sox (although I don’t follow them religiously), I did convert to Laker fandom after my move here. To top it off, I married into a Laker family – not in the sense that anyone in the family either plays or works for the Lakers in even the remotest capacity, but in the sense that they are fans in the true sense of the word; that is to say, almost fanatical in their devotion. While I still harbor some fondness for Shaq despite his move to Miami -- and for Robert Horry, the best clutch player in the league, despite his move to San Antonio -- my mother-in-law (formerly a huge fan) loves to hate him. And she will argue with me about why I should hate him. But let’s not get into that.

My point, and I do have one, is: hey, Kobe! Career-high 62 points last night! You are the bizzomb!

Jesus!

Here’s a twist on the War on Christmas: some Christian churches refuse to observe it. Suddenly, I feel all paganly and shit.

Peace out.

Bubble Gum Car

Warning: this post is all about Viva and Christmas. And Kwanzaa. If you wanted incisive political commentary or something -- what? You need to check yourself! Have you never been here before?

Onward:

Viva has watched A Charlie Brown Christmas approximately 29 times so far this holiday season. This morning, on the way to school, she said to me, "Did you ever see a bubble gum car?"

"A bubble gum CAR?" I said. "No, baby, I think you mean a bubble gum CARD."

"No, I mean a bubble gum car. Like Lucy."

"Yeah, I know what you're talking about, but in A Charlie Brown Christmas, she's saying bubble gum card. Because back when that show was made, when you would buy bubble gum, sometimes you would get a card enclosed with the bubble gum, and it would have a famous person on it, or sometimes a cartoon that said something funny. So when Lucy says Beethoven wasn't so great because he never had his picture on a bubble gum card, that's what she's saying. Do you get what I mean?"

"I like a bubble gum CAR."

"Yeah, I know. That is much cooler."

Swimming in December

Early this morning, when it was still dark outside, I heard Viva cry out on the baby monitor. I rolled over and realized Sweet William was not in the bed with me. A few seconds later, I heard him over the monitor, talking to her, and I heard the distinctive rip of the diaper coming off. He was talking to her soothingly, “Just let me get this dry diapey on and you can go right back to sleep.” I myself was soothed, and I rolled over and went back to sleep.

A few hours later, when I went in to Viva’s room to say good morning, I pulled back the covers to zrrbtt! her on her stomach (also known as “giving a raspberry”), and something looked odd. I pulled back the covers further to discover that my baby was wearing a Finding Nemo swim diaper.

This is what happens when you fumble in the closet in the dark.

I Want, I Need, Gimme Gimme Gimme

The Christmas spirit has taken over my little elf. Sort of.

Viva: You have boots. I need boots. You gonna get me some boots?

Mama B: Maybe. What color do you want?

Viva: Green and yellow.

But she’s also enjoying the other holidays, to wit:

Viva [surveying her books before bedtime]: I don’t want any of these.

Mama B: How about one of your Christmas books? Or what about the dinosaur books I got out of the library?

Viva: I need a Kwanzaa* book. How come we don’t have a Kwanzaa book?

Damn multicultural, ethnically sensitive preschool. Now that’s one more damn thing I have to worry about.

*Oh, remember I promised to let you in on the Kwanzaa controversy? Well, here ya go I can’t seem to find the damn link. Damn me! Maybe sometime I’ll expound here on my own Kwanzaa feelings, but not today.

The Hokey Pokey: Is that what it’s all about?

Recap of last week’s holiday show at Viva’s school: I ran around like a crazy person to find all the pieces of her outfit (which I found, variously, at Mervyn’s, Old Navy, and Pumpkin Patch*), did her hair in a most adorable style (forgetting that she would be wearing a Santa hat), and bought tickets for us and the grandparents. Viva was on stage for all of five minutes, and for the first half of that period, she only remembered the part about “you turn yourself around.” She kicked it up a notch after a while, swinging her hips when she wasn’t supposed to, holding her hands to her head and then windmilling her arms about. According to her teacher, Viva performed perfectly during rehearsal, so I think she was just overwhelmed by (a) the lights, and (b) so many people watching her in a theatre that has the capacity to seat 1,270 people. So much for her father’s concerns that she is such a little ham that this experience would switch the light on in her head, causing her to gasp rapturously and exclaim, “I want to be a star!”

* My new favorite store for Viva clothes. They fit for height and then they have these ingenious adjustable waists on everything. Since Viva is tall for her age, but very small-boned, I always have to buy for her height and then take the waists in. Since I suck as a seamstress, this is most annoying. The downside to Pumpkin Patch is, of course, the pricing. Comparable to Gymboree, so you have to catch things on sale.

If I don't post again for a while because I am caught up in the rapture of the holdays: Have a rockin' Christmas, kick-ass Kwanzaa, and a hellerific New Year! And a Belated Happy Hanukkah for those I missed a couple of weeks ago due to my sickness.

Peace and love, people. Peace and love.

The Reason for the Season

I swear I don't go looking for this stuff. But it's interesting that after I posted about Christmas yesterday, I stumbled across this guy, who calls himself Blackface Jesus:


Oh. No. No, he di'int.

Now, the man claims he is trying to spread the love of Jesus, and that he is "representing" Jesus, who was a black man. But he gets dressed up like this to go clubbin'...I guess the connection between Jesus, the American flag and the need to shake one's booty to pulsing electronica is a little clearer to him than it is to me, because that seems like quite a stretch from where I'm sittin'.

?????????????????????

Man, there are a lot of jackasses in the world. Mixed Media Watch has coverage of the controversy.

What Would Jesus Do?

Continuing our coverage of Christmas, let's stop for a minute to contemplate the alleged "War on Christmas" movement. Bill O'Reilly, who must get his info through the fillings in his teeth, is insistent that there is a secular movement to get Christ out of Christmas, and he is urging people to boycott stores that use "Happy Holidays" in their marketing instead of "Merry Christmas." He includes The Daily Show, which pretty much makes fun of everything and everyone, as an example of this movement. Oooh, golly. Well, here's Jon Stewart's response.

Whew. Having spent a good part of the day at Toys'R'Us (the grammatical issues inherent there make me cringe as I type it, but it's trademarked) and at the mall, I am drained. Seems like Christmas is alive and well to me.

Tune in next time, when we examine the controversy about Kwanzaa. (No, really. There's a controversy about that, too.) Peace and love, people...

Edited to fix typos. Whatever!

Jingle jingle!

Viva is back to school and things are getting somewhat back to normal around here. Oh, except, by the way, it's the crazy Christmas season, in case you have been living under a rock. I tried to do what I could while imprisoned, er, I mean, cooped up with my two-year-old for a week. I shopped online, but balked at paying $30 in tax and shipping to Toys'R'Us, so have to make the brave trip out there sometime this week. I drew up my Christmas card list, deleted a few, added a few. Made notes on people who have moved and not given me their addresses. I am sure this is just an oversight. It doesn't have any deeper meaning, like they no longer want to have anything to do with me. Right? Right?

Anyhoo, this weekend, the Blah Blahs took our family holiday photos, put up our lights, decorated our front door, and ventured out to get our Christmas tree. All this, despite the lingering sickness. We are the bomb!

Random Bits of Viva

"You're a monkey. Kiss me, monkey!"

Bah, Humbug

You know, I do love Christmas sometimes. I just wish it didn't blow so out of control so easily.

I love the spirit of Christmas. I have been trying to explain to Viva that Christmas is a big old party for Jesus*, and why we celebrate Him, and all that. Well, as much as I, not a heavily religious person, can explain such a thing to a two-year-old. What I find interesting about Christmas is the huge emphasis on Santa. I am not big into Santa -- we don't push Santa at all -- and this is the first year that Viva is old enough to absorb all the Santa marketing. This weekend, she actually asked me if Santa was going to bring her presents.

Sweet Wills and I hadn't talked this out ahead of time.

"You think Santa brings you presents?" I said.

"Maybe he will, in your stocking," Will said at the same time.

We exchanged looks, Viva started jumping around the room singing "Jingle Bells," and that was the end of that.

* I am not a Jesus freak. I am not a big believer in organized religion. I do, however, celebrate Christmas because I think Jesus preached common sense. Treat people the way you'd want to be treated. Love each other. Be compassionate and understanding. Not a bad thing to celebrate.

Christmas can be a fun time of year. It's just that when we get caught up in the craziness of the holiday season, it can make me go a little bananas.

This morning, when I dropped Viva off at school, she had been out sick for a week, and her teacher, Miss Svetlana, had been out of the country for the two weeks prior to that. Communications about crucial bits of information had broken down (although I hasten to add that Miss Svetlana called us at home on Thursday to check up on us, which I must say was so sweet and thoughtful). To wit: the school holiday show, to which we must purchase tickets (at 13 bucks a pop!) if we want to see our kid sing "The Hokey Pokey" for five minutes, is this coming Thursday. Miss Svetlana would like the girls to wear white turtlenecks, red skirts, white tights and white shoes (white?!). Viva lacks three out of four of said items. Crap.

Also: the holiday potluck is the next day, this coming Friday. I need to bring yet another food item for that (dessert this time). And finally, at the potluck, the kids will have a gift exchange. Evidently, I need to bring a small gift for each of the ten kids who will be there, preferably the same gift for each kid, so nobody complains about so-and-so getting a better gift and all the kids end up with the same thing. Holy Kris Kringle! I'm a little cheesed off, since I am already behind on a lot of Christmas stuff as it is. And since Sweet Wills was thoughtless enough to have been born on December 23rd, I am also behind the gun on his birthday planning as well.

I also need to get teacher gifts this week (one for her regular teacher and one for her ballet teacher). Damn, having a kid is expensive.

Here is what I must do: breathe deeply, eat a gingerbread man, and adjust. I got all this shit under control. Right? Right?

Random Bits of Viva, Encore

Viva: Can you answer for me the balloon question? In a song?

Mama Blah: What, baby? The BALLOON question? I don't know any songs about balloons. Can you sing it for me?

Viva: I don't know that song. You need to sing about the balloon question.

Mama Blah [realizing what Dean Martin is crooning in the background]: Do you mean "Blue Christmas"? The song that's on right now?

Viva: Yes. Balloon Christmas?

Ah, yes. For those who don't know the words:

I’ll have a balloon Christmas without you
I’ll be so balloon just thinking about you
Decorations of red on a green christmas tree
Won’t be the same dear, if you’re not here with me

And when those balloon snowflakes start falling
That’s when those balloon memories start calling
You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white
But I’ll have a balloon, balloon christmas

I love the holidays.

Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

Apologies for the Lionel Ritchie reference...

Okay, so we are on Day Five of no school for Viva (Day Seven if you count last weekend), and she is really out of control. I brought her socks and shoes and jacket out so we could run to the bank and the store and she threw a fit. "I don't want to leave the house!" she screamed.

Oh. But if we don't leave the house, I am going to have to kill you, so which will it be?

Honestly, she has gotten to the point that she was having a tantrum every twenty minutes if she wasn't either (a) watching TV, (b) playing computer games on pbskids.org, or (c) drawing with her brand-new Crayola Twistables (which, I am sad to report, do not appear to be fully washable when someone accidentally colors out of the lines and on to the carpet. A pox on Crayola, I say!)

We are clearly on each other's last damn nerve. About 45 minutes ago, I took her to her room, sat her down with a sippy cup dosed with Children's Tylenol Cold & Flu, and told her if she wasn't going to take a nap, she'd have to at least conform to Blah Blah house rules and stay in her room for an hour or so of quiet time. She beamed. I'm serious.

She must have been thrilled to get away from me. What can I say?

And now I am watching a spider way way up at the crease of the seam where the wall and ceiling join, and it has been running in my direction for a few minutes now, and it got directly above me and apparently saw me looking at it, and it stopped.

All you Charlotte's Web fans out there can stop reading now.

I am sitting here with a Time magazine with Dr. Andrew Weil on the cover, rolled and ready for action. I think you know what I'm saying.

And as we draw close to the one-hour mark, Viva has started wailing from her room like she has just witnessed all her Teletubbies meeting with a very grim end. Just to be clear, she does have all four talking Teletubby dolls -- a gift from her grandmother. During this week of enforced captivity, I have given all four of them makeovers with those sticky foam cutouts you get at craft stores. Tinky-Winky and Dipsy look scary bad-ass with their new crazy foam eyebrows, is all.

I used to be (or so they say) an interesting person, capable of holding up my end of an intelligent conversation. Now I am sticking colored pieces of foam onto my kid's dolls and watching a spider make a circuit of my bedroom (it is now directly behind me, still up near the ceiling) to entertain myself.

So sad. But you know, since I am on antibiotics, I can't drink liquor.* So I gotta take my kicks where I can find them.

* For those who don't know me very well: I am not a serious drinker. Family history of alcoholism scared me away from that. But what I would not give for a nice cold Modelo right now. Oh, yes.

Kickin' Ass and Takin' Names

Greetings, chitlins.

Update on sick bay: Viva has compounded my agony by becoming sick herself. We battled her fever for two days. I think we are on the other side of it.

In the meantime, I conscientiously searched online through my insurance company for an ear/nose/throat doctor (tip for those who might need to do same: look under "otolaryngology"), called the doctor's office, convinced them to see me during lunch hour yesterday because I was so miserably sick, went to the office, and, after the receptionist called my insurance company to confirm my eligibility and spent 20 minutes on the phone with them, was told that I would have to pay out of pocket for something I had spent 30 minutes online to ensure was in-network. WHAT THE FUCK?

"How much will that be?" I said to the receptionist.

"Well, the office visit will be one hundred and twenty dollars, and then depending on what he has to do to determine what's wrong, well, that would be more than that."

"This is nuts," I said. "I have already been to one doctor twice for this and paid three hundred dollars already and I am still not well, rant rant rant yah yah yah I have had enough of all of you people and the health care system in this country sucks, rant rant what is the point of having insurance when I have to pay out all the time rave babble foam at the mouth --"

At which point the receptionist began trying to explain something about how I had already met my in-network deductible but not my out-of-network deductible and I think she threw in something in there about the theory of relativity and some obscure point of law regarding torts and trespass to chattels. I have no fucking idea, because the point was, I did everything I was supposed to do to make sure I was going to someone in the damn network and they are still trying to collect some cheese from my broke (and sick) ass.

I was so incensed and frustrated that I actually left the office without seeing the doctor, got back in my car and went home, sobbing the whole way. I pulled it together right before I walked in the door, and Sweet William, who sweetly took the day off so he could take care of "his girls," sweetly asked me, "So how did it go? Did you get some medicine?"

And right there I lost my shit all over again. "I didn't even get to see the doctor," I bawled, and ran into the bedroom for a tissue.

"What happened? Did you crash the car?" Sweet Wills asked, completely bewildered.

"NO, I did NOT CRASH THE CAR," I said nastily, snot flying madly about. "I was there for forty minutes and they said I would have to pay a hundred and twenty dollars just to see the doctor, because they claim he is OUT OF NETWORK, and it was just so ridiculous, I'm not paying for that, what the hell do we pay insurance for, and then I had to pay for parking on top of it, and I am so sick and I am so tired and I am so mad at the stupid insurance company--"

"It's okay, Mom," Viva said, eyes wide and hair sticking straight up on top of her head like the Heat Meiser. "It's okay."

"Jesus, honey, why didn't you just pay the money? I mean, you're sick, you need medicine."

Repeat after me: it was the principle of the thing.

After I got calmed down and helped Viva get down for her nap, I called the insurance company, who had no excuse for wasting my time and guided me through their online "doctor find" system in exactly the same way I had already done. I located another ENT at Cedars-Sinai, which is where I prefer to do my medical care, called, and was told to come in immediately.

I paid a $25 co-pay. The doctor asked me all kinds of questions, examined the disgusting phlegm coming out of my previously fairly reliable body, exclaimed over what bad shape I was in, and informed me that I have not just bronchitis, not just a sinus infection, but both. Because apparently I am not half-assed when it comes to illness. In this, I have to over-achieve.

So he gave me a shot to reduce my mucous membrane swelling, wrote me prescriptions for antibiotics and Zyrtec, and told me to drink plenty of Gatorade and irrigate my nose twice per day. Netipot, here I come!

I still feel like shit, but I'm optimistic.

This morning, Sweet Wills has gone back to the widget factory, and Viva and I have been home alone. Since she watched an ungodly amount of TV yesterday -- mainly because Will was trying to keep her still to keep her fever from spiking -- today I decided we would try to do without. And so far, for the most part, it has worked, although she specifically requested A Charlie Brown Christmas and Harold and the Purple Crayon and I was loath to say no, so I gave in. We watched Charlie Brown with breakfast and Harold while I did her hair. And we washed dishes together and made the beds, and then we went to Target quickly to get construction paper and Pull-Ups, and then we came back and put on Christmas music and made Christmas cookies (Okay, we cheated. Hey, I'm still sick, what do you want from me?)and then we began making a Christmas paper chain to decorate our door with, and then she lost interest and wanted to play on the computer, and then Sweet Wills came home on his lunch hour to check on us and we all had lunch together, and now it's nap time and I'm suddenly crushingly tired.

[Flailing around wildly for a way to draw this post neatly to a close.] Ah, screw it. I'm out.

May Cause Drowsiness

I am SICK. Can you stand it?? I have been sick, off and on, since at least early September. I know this because my insurance company is insisting I went out-of-network for two separate office visits (one in Sept, one in Oct) for this same illness to my previous doctor, and thus is applying those visits to my annual deductible, which means the Blah Blahs are being billed $300 for two ten-minute visits, one of which did not even result in antibiotics.

So I am once again sick, after a week or so of "Oh, my post-nasal drip has slowed to a trickle," and it is pretty bad. My throat is on fire, the post-nasal drip is like glue, my sinuses are congested, and the doctors I have called who are "in-network" are booked solid and can't see me for three weeks. What the frick is that? This is why I went to see my old doctor last time, because she works at a health center where they schedule in blocks of time for urgent care. What am I supposed to do, go to the ER for this? It's beyond ridic.

FYI, we have a PPO, which I thought was supposed to be less hassle than an HMO. I hate health insurance and I loathe the health care system in this country.

In other world matters, Viva's teacher, Miss Svetlana, had to return to Russia because her mother passed away. She has been gone almost two weeks. In the meantime, her classroom is being overseen by teacher's aides, who are very sweet but apparently lack Miss Svetlana's authoritas, because it is total chaos. Viva now clings to me every morning when I drop her off and doesn't want me to leave. On Monday and Tuesday she did not nap at school, so I made the executive decision to go pick her up after lunch every day until Miss Svetlana is back, since I know she will nap at home --in theory. Yesterday afternoon, I actually had to do a drive-around, i.e., pack Viva into the car with a sippy cup of milk and drive around with classical music playing for ten minutes to lull her to sleep.

This has cut into both my blogging time and my energy. Have I mentioned that I'm sick?

So you may not hear more from me until next week. Big bad apologies! Leave me a comment and let me know what you're up to. Smoochos!