Blazin'

Greetings from Los Angeles, where fire season is officially underway. It's about 80 degrees here today, unless you happen to live within the vicinity of Griffith Park, which is ON FIRE. The fire, which started yesterday at around 1:30 in the afternoon, has snarled traffic in the area and deposited great quantities of ash in my backyard and all over my car. Yesterday evening, as Viva and I were returning home (a 5 mile trip that took 45 minutes), you could see a gigantic dark plume of smoke churning just behind the Griffith Park Observatory. Have I mentioned that I live a mere stone's throw from the park? Whee, good times.

Fortunately, no lives have been lost, although one man was reportedly badly burned in the blaze. My grandmother, who lives 45 miles north of me, called me at work today to tell me in her inimitable way that she had been "follerin' the fire" on TV and that they were evacuating my neighborhood. This was news to me, and to my elderly next-door neighbor, who I called immediately. "But the sky is blue!" she protested, popping outside to look. "There's no smoke!" The evacuations actually happened last night, and at last report, people were being allowed to return to their homes today. I guess Grandma was a little late to the party.

Viva was intrigued by the fire, if a little disturbed that our favorite hiking area was being burned to a crisp (and by inference, all the animals that reside therein - On a related note, the L.A. Zoo miraculously escaped unscathed). When she got up this morning, she said, "Is the fire out?" When I told her that it wasn't, she insisted she must watch the news. Then she muttered something about the stock market, but I didn't quite catch it.

We did have a wonderful teaching moment while in the car on the interminable ride to school (again, 45 minutes to go 5 miles, thanks to the freeway and street closures): Viva asked what had started the fire. "They say it was a cigarette," I said.

"A what?" Viva said.

"Cig – a – rette," I said. "He was smoking. This is another reason why you should never take up smoking."

"Nobody should ever have a shug-a-rette," Viva said stoutly.

Words to live by, my friends.

Land of Opportunity and Traffic

The people have spoken. At any rate, Cee in SF has spoken, calling me out on my slackerness: "New post! New post!! We want a new post!" her comment shrieks. I wish I could tell you I've been doing something exciting, but in fact, I've been working a lot (yes, even weekends). Ugh, no good.

Happy May Day, my peeps. If you are here in Los Angeles, you know that we are in the midst of immigration rallies which are expected to immobilize downtown and Koreatown, although turnout is anticipated to be much lower than last year. Anecdotally, I know that some folks who marched last year are discouraged that the march didn't seem to have much of an impact – i.e., that immigration reform hasn't made much progress in the legislature.

I realize that immigration is a hot-button word these days. The message boards on all the immigration stories are particularly nasty. My opinion on undocumented immigrants and all the issues surrounding them is not fixed in stone, and the more I learn about it, the less I think that there's an easy fix. The U.S. has not secured its borders, provides free emergency healthcare and public education, and let's face it, supports a capitalist system that makes a bigger profit when it uses low-wage workers. It seems pretty clear what the draw is, so now what?

But, I digress and I only have a second to write this*. Since I work in Koreatown, the site of the second demonstration of the day – one which will start mere blocks from my office building at 2 pm and then travel south and east to reconvene for a 5:30 pm rally – is of concern to me, primarily because I have to drive straight through that area during my evening commute. I have a 3:30 meeting and I really want to bail. I wish I had been able to work from home today. Yes, it's all about me. Viva la self-absorption!

* I've already been interrupted twice. You see how it is.

So Much to Say

Apologies to everyone out there in BlogLand. I have been experiencing an unusually heavy workload of late, and I don't anticipate it lightening until at least June. I am working from home today so I can get in uninterrupted time on a $900,000 project that is due Monday. And yet, after I dropped Viva off at school, I ran by the supermarket to get a few things. It's a beautiful day today here in Los Angeles, clear and sunny. The sky is blue, it's breezy -- in short, it's a day when it's hard to be in a bad mood. As I got out of my car in front of the market, I took a deep breath of spring air and felt a bit wistful for the days when Viva was a wee tot, when my most pressing decision was whether to go to the park, the library, or maybe venture out to the children's museum.

Don't get me wrong -- I love the people I work with, I love the organization I work for, and I think what I do for a living actually does make a difference. But I miss the unstructured free time. What a luxury! I was so blessed to be able to stay home with Viva for the first 2.5 years of her life, and I know that.

I just know that our lives ran more smoothly when I was home. When Viva was first in preschool (a few hours a day, three days a week), I began freelancing again and that was great, too. I was making a little money and utilizing my brain cells and during the week I was able to do all the things that made our lives easier -- grocery shopping, cleaning, scheduling doctor's appointments and haircuts, getting the car serviced, whatever. Now all that minutiae is crammed into my weekends, when all I really want to do is relax and spend time with my family. I'm not exercising, and I'm not doing any creative writing. It kind of sucks.

I relayed all this to Sweet Dub recently, and he groaned. "Now you want to quit your job?" he said, and then screamed theatrically, "Why can't I ever make you happy?"

I'm not quitting my job. That would be silly, and it would really squeeze us financially. I'm just, like every other working mother out there, trying to figure out how I can make things work better. I think they call it balance.

Perhaps more coffee is the answer.

In other world news: Viva turned 4 on April 1st. This was a happy occasion and I will remember it with great fondness, always, especially because almost immediately afterward she morphed into this great whining, screaming, constantly pissed-off creature. Every now and then, on the weekends mostly, her old, sweeter side will show itself. I cherish those moments. I am really disliking the age of Four. It has failed all my expectations of it.

On vacation: we are traveling to Maui in June*. Can I get a "fuck, yeah!" We haven't had a real vacation since, well, forever. We went to Legoland last April for Viva's birthday, but I really don't think that counts. Sweet Dub and I have been trying to get to Hawaii since 2001. We were supposed to go for our honeymoon, but you know, we got married three weeks after 9/11 and travel was a very scary proposition at that time. So here we are, five-and-a-half years later. I'd say we earn points for patience.

And finally, last but certainly not least: a HUGE and hearty and very affectionate congratulations to the entire Oral Hygiene Royal Family. (I have been meaning to congratulate you for, I don't know, weeks? And I can't ever get near my blog or any blogs to comment? Frickin' firewall.) I wish you all the very best on the new addition! Sneaky, sneaky!


* We will be traveling sans grandma. She has serious sinus issues causing her sinus passages to fill up with fluid if a flower even looks at her the wrong way. Since Hawaii is pretty much abloom with tropical floral goodness round-the-clock, it seems pretty likely Mama Jay would be incapacitated as soon as the plane landed. Oh well -- so much for her free vacation. Sweet Dub's best friend, who has a 5-year-old daughter, is trying to schedule a few days in Maui when we are there, so maybe this will all work out just fine. I am a little bummed, because unlike most folks, I adore my crazy mother-in-law, but I guess it's not in the cards.

Comments and Commentary

Commenters: If any of you are still reading, know that I can receive your comments, but due to the funky firewall at work, I can't respond. Since I hardly ever log on while at home (due to the eyestrain of sitting in front of a computer for 8 hours a day at work), this is problematic. I swear to you that I will answer comments tomorrow, when I will work from home.

Moving on:

It is Monday evening. Sweet Dub and I watch the first few scenes of The Tudors. Henry VIII seems horrifically unhappy, although he pretty much does whatever he wants. When we get to the second sex scene in ten minutes of viewing, Henry is about to bed his handmaiden (or some other serving wench, I don't know her exact title). He says, "Do you consent?" and she says breathlessly, "I do, Your Majesty," falling into his arms in a near-swoon, with her clothes tumbling off.

"WHAT?!" Sweet Dub exclaims, rewinding it through the power of TiVo. " 'Do you consent?' What kind of PC bullshit is that?! That's it for me," he says, firmly handing me the remote and stomping from the room.

So much for that series. It pretty much lost all credibility right there.

Aloha

Anyone out there been to Hawaii with a preschooler? We are trying to plan a vacation in May (ha!) and while we had originally planned on Kauai, we got sidetracked to Maui and now have recommendations to go to Honolulu. I don't want to go somewhere too touristy*, but I want to make sure we have amenities. I don't want to spend my vacation in a Motel 6. I'm torn between staying at a resort so we'd have the option of the pool, room service when we want it, etc., and renting a condo or bungalow or something. My mother-in-law will be coming with us so she can get away from it all and also provide some babysitting if we want to go out at night.

Any thoughts? I know it's not the most earth-shattering decision I'll ever make, but I am truly without a clue. I've never been to Hawaii. Anyone?

*As Sweet Dub says, "It's all going to be touristy to some extent."

Low-Rent and High (In Three Parts)

Part the First

Seen today in the building where I work:

Please respect the building tenants and do not urinate in the stairwells.

(And yes, there has evidently been a veritable epidemic of stairwell peeing in my office building. Nice.)

Part the Second

Sweet Dub gave me a picture of himself posing with the director of the movie he's been working on. I took it to work with me because I thought it was hilarious. First of all, Sweet Dub does not have a small head (no, that's not a euphemism, you dirty, dirty, naughty thing), but the director? His head looks about the size of a battleship in this picture, dwarfing my husband's head to the size of a coconut. Some might say this is symbolic of how he thinks of himself, but certainly I would never take it there. No, indeedy. I know which side my bread is buttered on. But the director is also sneering mockingly at the camera, clearly cheesing it up a bit. It makes me laugh just to look at it. So when Sweet Dub called a few minutes ago, I mentioned that I was looking at the picture.

"You hung it up at work?" he said.

"Yeah, it's up on my bulletin board," I said.

"That's kind of goofy," he said.

Hello? Have you just met me? Goofy is my middle name.

Part the Third

Speaking of brushes with celebrity, on Monday afternoon, I worked half a day in the office and half a day at home after lunching with the lovely Cee, her sister, and an anonymous friend who shall remain nameless in the interest of anonymity. At about 4:30, I realized Sweet Dub and Viva would be home soon, and there was nothing to eat for dinner. I hopped into my BlahBlahMobile and motored on over to the local Gelson's on the Los Feliz/Silverlake border. You know the one, across the street from Trader Joe's? I grabbed a cart and swung over toward the meat product section, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a smartly-yet-funkily-dressed fellow with locs, pushing a cart. I am usually not one to celeb-gawk, but I did a double take, because for a split second I thought it was Wyclef Jean, but then I realized it was will.i.am. At the same time, he realized he had been recognized, and broke out in a big smile, and said hello. I am quite sure he was admiring my snazzy red boots. I said hello, and then, feeling all "first day of high school" geeky, I ducked my head and ran off to get some boneless skinless chicken. Because that's how I roll, baby.

Yo ho ho and a bottle of Tums.

Glitz, Glamour, Gaaaaah

Sweet Dub has been working madly on a movie since - oh, August, I think. It is almost done. Release date imminent.

He mentioned to me yesterday, in tones usually used by one who is broaching the subject of "say, maybe we should think about putting Grandma in a home," that we would be expected to attend the L.A. premiere. Which is in a matter of days. Not weeks. DAYS.

I know, I know, how exciting, how great, blah blah blah. Where the hell am I supposed to find a dress, shoes, appropriate jewels, etc. in a matter of days? Have I mentioned that I'm also planning our child's birthday party (now two weeks away)?

An added treat: he and everyone involved with the movie will be working on it non-stop, 17 hours a day, for the next week or so. Including the weekends. So if you thought I could maybe go frock-shopping sans the child, you thought wrong. Since I can't even take her shopping for her own shoes without her telling me how bored she is, you can only imagine how extremely ever not fun this is going to be.

The good news is that Sweet Dub will be getting a screen credit. And the director is letting him approve everything up until the final cut. (At least I think that's what he said.) It is exciting, and he is excited, and I am excited for him.

I'm just freaked about having to look my cutest, most sophisticated-yet-funky self without proper notice. You know.

The Power of Positive Thinking

My company leases office space in a fairly large office building. I had a reserved parking spot for one month, and let me tell you, that was heavenly. However, I only had it thanks to some technical snafu. Henceforth, I have had to look for a space just like everybody else. This is usually okay, unless I need to drive somewhere at lunchtime, and quite often when I return, I end up having to leave my keys with an attendant and let him stack my car. This, too, is okay, unless at the end of the day I am running late and need to go get Viva, at which point I need my car ten minutes ago and don't want to deal with all the shuffling cars around to get mine out.

My sister-in-law, the Diva, mentioned that she just "calls on the parking angels" when she is trying to find a spot, and it always works. This sounds a bit ridiculous, I know, but one day as I was driving back into the parking garage during a particularly busy time of day, I remembered the parking angels and decided to visualize a space as I was driving in.

It works. Every single time. For weeks, I have not needed to leave my keys with anybody. I relayed this to Sweet Dub last night as we were going to bed.

"Why don't you visualize a big bag of money in that space?" he said, turning his back on me and flumping into his pillow. "Sheeit."

I may just try that. I'll let you know how it goes.

Happy Monday

So for the past several weeks I haven't been able to find the charger for my cell phone. In puzzlement, I've gone through all the places it could possibly be. I've rummaged through drawers. I've checked places it would have absolutely no business being. My phone is now constantly beeping at me that the battery is low. This is because, on a 35- to 40-minute commute to drive over to Viva's school, drop her off, get back in my car and drive to work, I generally only think to use the car charger when I'm say, about a mile from work. I'm reluctant to go buy a replacement because I know as soon as I do, I will find it.

It has been a bit vexing.

This morning, after being at work about half an hour, I was pulling a file out of a drawer that I don't use that much, and that's when I saw it. Plugged into the wall, about a foot-and-a-half from where I spend much of my working day. In full view.

My powers of observation, they are strong. Not fully utilized, it seems, but strong.

Addendum - Media Links

Hey, so I forgot to add, if you are interested in this sort of thing (I know I am completely fascinated by it): check out the website for the national Conference for Media Reform. Great transcripts, and great video. I particularly like Geena Davis' address, which I heard replayed on KPCC-FM during their pledge drive. You should visit her non-profit's site, See Jane, if you want more info on the lack of representation of women and girls in the media. One example of the gender disparity their research uncovered: overall, three out of four characters in the 101 top-grossing G-rated movies (1990-2004) are male, and during that time period, there was no change in that percentage -- i.e., you can't see any improvement. We still got a long way to go, baby. Also take a look at Media Matters. They pretty much obsessively monitor the media for misinformation and unhealthy trends.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

Disney: Too Little, Too Late?

Regular readers of this blog (hello!) know of my aversion to the whole Disney princess marketing machine. I oppose it on many many grounds. You can imagine that I was completely floored yesterday when my sweet husband dropped this bombshell on me:

Sweet Dub: Hey! You'renevergonnabelieveit: Disney is finally coming out with a black princess!

Mama Blah: Oh my GOD [metaphorically dropping a huge bag of groceries, including several dozen eggs on the floor in my shock]! What? When?

Sweet Dub: Yeah, apparently it's in development and it should be out sometime in 2008.

Mama Blah: Wow. [hoping against hope: please let it not be bad, please let it not be bad] So what's the storyline? What's the setting?

Sweet Dub: It's called the Frog Princess, and it's set in New Orleans. And the princess is black black -- not a light-skinned girl.*

I haven't been able to find any images online**, so I can't comment on that. But here's the official release and another release, same day, talking about Disney's support for New Orleans and the Gulf region. Disney loves black people! How could I have been so wrong all these years?

Until this morning, I had no idea that there was a petition going around about Disney's lack of a black princess. I admit that I have mixed feelings about the whole princess thing - I think it's fun for little kids to play dress-up and all that, but I hesitate to endorse the message that life is all about sparkly things and pretty dresses. At the same time, some little girls just really love that shit, and if they do, at least they should have some damn representation. Now, Disney has yet to come up with a Latina princess, which I think is also a huge mistake from an economic standpoint if nothing else. But there at least there is a Dora princess story and accompanying doll.

And for those who wonder, "Why does everything have to be so politically correct? They're just kids!": Please. Don't play that. With the huge part media plays in how we see ourselves - when you have statistics that show that one-third of girls in third grade have been on a diet - don't try and tell me that this is just one more thing for us to be hypersensitive about. There's a reason we're hypersensitive. And there's no reason we should just lie down and be passive consumers.

I'll leave you with this plot summary from UltimateDisney.com, which suggests that it's probably not going to hit theaters for a few years anyway:

"The Frog Princess - This currently in development fairy tale is being closely watched for it is said to represent Disney's first 2D-animated feature since 2004's Home on the Range. Ron Clements and John Musker (The Little Mermaid, Aladdin) are writing and directing what is said to be a musical set in 1920s New Orleans. A casting call has revealed the lead characters to be Maddy, a 19-year-old chambermaid; Charlotte La Bouff, a spoiled 18-year-old southern debutante; villain Dr. Duvalier, a voodoo magician; and Mama Odie, a 200-year-old voodoo priest. In a departure from the norm, three of the four (not Charlotte) are African American. Though Alan Menken was originally pegged to handle the film's music, Pixar veteran Randy Newman is now said to hold this command. No release date has been set, but traditionally animated films have traditionally taken about four years from first news to reaching the big screen, making this unlikely to show up until 2010."

* Not that there's anything wrong with being light-skinned. Hoo, let's not even go there.

** Updated to add: here's an image, courtesy of blog reader Emma (hi, Emma!). I'm a little taken aback by the headdress thing, but I'll reserve judgment until I see it in context.

Note to My Future Self (First in an Occasional Series)

Dear Self,

We (You of the Future*, and I of the Now) have this problem. Rarely do we use our printer to print anything other than an 8.5 by 11 standard letter-sized document. About once or twice a year, usually at Viva's birthday and Christmas, we try to feed odd-sized paper into the machine to print out invitations or Christmas cards. Inevitably, the format is all screwy. Inevitably, we have forgotten since last time how we got the damn thing to work. It's a silly thing, but it's annoying.

The problem is that the paper is non-standard size, and the computer for whatever reason is not communicating to the printer that are feeding it non-standard paper, even though we have typed in the measurements in page setup. So it goes through as if it is printing on letter-size paper. Which is to say, it will print halfway across the (test**) page and lose half of the intended message. Why is it that this sort of thing never works to my advantage? Like, doesn't it seem to you that if I have to experience some sort of technical snafu, couldn't it be of the electronic banking variety, in my (our) favor? I'm just saying.

Here is what I have discovered, Future Self: you have to trick the computer. Ooh, tricksy. Tell it that you are printing on paper that is 8.5 inches wide. Measure the difference between 8.5 and the actual paper width. Add the difference to the margin in page setup. Try it, try it, you will see. Future Self, it will work. And there will be much rejoicing across the land.

Of course, it is after midnight and although I've figured this out, I haven't tried it yet because our husband is sleeping scant yards away and he will undoubtedly wake up if I make even the slightest sound, aside from tapping on the keyboard. Have you noticed he's a really light sleeper? Have you trained him to sleep more than 5 hours at a stretch, Future Self? Does he still say things like "I'm going to tattoo a blog across my body so maybe you'll pay attention to me"? Oh, you forgot about that?

Good luck, Future Self. Especially with the ozone and all that.

Muchos smoochos,
Me of the Now

* Hey, by the way, Future Self, what is it like there? Can cars fly? Can pigs fly? Has an asteroid hit the earth? Hello? Are you there?

** I never never use the actual "snazzily pre-printed, limited number of pieces" paper on the first go. I always start with a sample on the basic Office Depot multipurpose paper. Learn from my mistakes, Future Self (and any other poor souls out there).

Where Do I Start?

I have a moment to blog, and I barely know what to do. Rather than going over all my health issues (I promised last time I wouldn't, remember, and I'm keeping my promise), I'm just going to jump all over the place with random bits.

Viva
Turning 4 in less than a month. She has talked at me about her party pretty much daily for the last six months, without even a break for Christmas. Do you understand what I'm saying? The child would not even let Christmas distract her. Needless to say, the party planning is in full swing.

Sweet Dub
Working 11-hour days these days. Exhausted. Said to me at 6:30 this morning: "Sometimes at work I answer the phone, 'Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.*' Is that weird?"

Jean-Jean
Seems to have a girlfriend. Little calico number. Seems to like Sweet Dub better than he likes me, which is patently unfair, considering Sweet Dub doesn't even like cats.

World Peace
Still elusive as ever.

* Warning: before you click on this link, turn down the volume on your computer. The music is pretty loud --but maybe that's because I'm online during that funky woozy time when my child is kind of drifting off but at the point where pretty much anything is an excuse for getting up.

E-mail blogging

Testing, testing, one two three...

Oh my God, can it be true? I can't post anything on my blog from work, and I have been having trouble with my wireless at home. However, theoretically, I can post via e-mail, which I could theoretically do from work as a break between projects and meetings and the like.

This is my first attempt. Fingers crossed...

Laffy Taffy

I forgot to mention my new imaginary boyfriend, Stephen Chow.

If you've seen Kung Fu Hustle, you have seen him. If you haven't, run out right now and get it -- whether through Netflix or Blockbuster or satellite whoseewhatsis. And while you're at it, please also get my new favorite movie, Shaolin Soccer, which cemented my love for him. There are several scenes in this movie which only get funnier on repeated viewings.

Warning: these are not epic movies with grand themes exploring deep social issues. They're just fun, and they'll make you laugh.

365*

Hi, oh hi! How are you out there?

I am not quite so very great today. Today is one of the days when I wish that my new doctor, who is not in a rush to cut me open, was in a bit more of a rush to cut me open. Here is the news from Fibroidland: I have five fibroids. The largest one is the size of a tangerine** and it's located posteriorally (I swear that's what she said), pressing on my back and rectum. Yes, I just took it there. Sorry. But what's the Internet for if not to lay bare all the most embarrassing details of my life? You're still reading, aren't you? I thought so.

But that explains why I'm so frigging uncomfortable. Now here's the funny part, and I mean funny if you have a sick sense of humor, not funny if you like silly sophomoric Van Wilder-type humor. She wants to treat it medically, with a low-estrogen birth control pill, rather than surgically. She's hoping that the Pill will, by putting lower doses of estrogen into my body than I produce naturally, shrink the fibroids and alleviate my discomfort. Now, I can't start taking the Pill until I start my next cycle (another two weeks), and I have to take the Pill for two to three months before getting checked again to see if it's working. Are you following this?

I went to her because I was so miserable that I couldn't go on this way. And it appears that this may go on for another three months. You see what I mean about the not-so-funny part?

Now, since my symptoms come and go, at the time she told me this, I thought, Well, I like that she's being cautious and not so scalpel-happy. She's right, we shouldn't do anything rash. But since today is a bad pain day, I'm thinking, Hell, nah, this fucking sucks. Cut me open and be done with it before I do it myself!

(I know. I am not much with the threats. Even imaginary ones.)

So my friend Cee suggested this herbal remedy for the cramping. I have gone to four stores in search of it and somehow in the process managed to get an appointment for acupuncture tomorrow from a Chinese herbalist in Koreatown. The acupuncture may help. I'm desperate for anything that will work. Ironically, since my research into Chinese medicine indicates that they believe most illness of this sort can be traced to an underfunctioning liver and/or kidneys, I am loath to take over-the-counter pain medications because they can further stress the liver.

And my blogging blackout continues. I'll try to post in the evenings from home, and I promise next time to post about something other than this unrelenting ailment. Peace out.

* I noticed just before I started typing this that it's my 365th post. That is impressive perhaps only to me.

** I like tangerines. Nothing against tangerines. Tangerines! I could eat 'em like candy!

Quickie

The IT department where I work has reconfigured our firewalls or fortified them or some such gobbledygook. What this means for you is that I can apparently no longer post anything on Blogger from work (this includes comments on my own and other people's blogs). Thus, unless I am either working from home - which I do only once a week - or get up earlier or stay up and try to put two sentences together after Viva goes to bed, I will most likely be blogging even less than I currently do. I'm not sure how that's possible.

I like to blog as a quick break from work. I feel like it lets me release other stuff that's been on my mind and that helps me refocus on work. You may call that a juicy rationalization. All I know is it's 6:13 AM and I have to go begin my day. Rushing to blog is kind of sucky.

P.S. Our plasma screen TV, which we have had for less than 6 months, suddenly decided it's done with pictures this morning. We can only get sound. Sweet Dub had to leave the house to give vent to his rage. The TV was very expensive.

A quick Google search indicates that on LG plasma TVs, there is a known problem whereby the boards inside the TV blow pretty much right after the warranty expires (around 18 months). Ours is a Sanyo. Can't seem to find much about it yet. Have to go, now, or I'll be late for work. See you on the weekend, maybe.

A Fib is a Lie that Has Not Cut Its Teeth

Through a bizarre confluence of happenstance, Viva spent the past two weekends with her aunties. Two weekends ago, she spent the night with my sister Lola, and then last weekend she flew off to Vegas with my sister-in-law Diva to watch her cousin in a cheerleading competition. Being away from her parents and her everyday life has been a bit of a challenge, and thus this weekend we have been dealing with some Acting Out.

It is a toss-up whether at any minute Viva will be clinging to my leg and whining, running around the house shrieking like a banshee, or simply playing nicely, either by herself or with Sweet Dub and/or me. It is rather exhausting, although we are trying to be understanding.

The one thing that is really killing me is the weird, alternate-reality fibbing to get out of doing things she doesn’t want to do. Witness:

The scene: Viva’s room, Sunday afternoon. I am trying to get her to nap, or at the very least have 45 minutes of Quiet Time with the door closed.

Mama Blah [easing toward the door]: So just relax, and close your eyes, and –

Viva: I’m not good at closing my eyes! They keep opening by themselves!

Mama Blah: What?!

Viva: I’m not a good eye closer.

Mama Blah [suppressing a sigh]: Well, maybe you need to practice. Try this: close your eyes and count to five.

Viva scrunches her eyes shut, grinning, counts to five, and bing! Her eyes pop open.

Mama Blah: Okay, now close your eyes again – not scrunching them tight like that, just nice and easy, like this, be natural, and see: One, two, three, four, five, nice and slow, and your head will hit the pillow… Try it again, but this time, count to ten.

Viva [convinced by now I am completely insane, but willing to give it a shot]: Okay. One, two, three, four…

A few minutes later I pass by her room and I hear her counting: Twenty-eight, twenty-nine…

(Five minutes later, she has corralled her daddy into sitting with her for the rest of Quiet Time. I can hear them in there, chatting and laughing together.)

Later in the evening, she has a complete breakdown, directly attributable to being overtired. In the morning, she gets up grumpy, uses the toilet, and then refuses to wash her hands, brush her teeth, or wash her face. We actually time her, unintentionally, by pausing the TV and telling her she can’t watch TV unless she takes care of her hygiene. From the moment we pause to her actually going back to the bathroom and performing this two minutes of self-care, sixteen and a half minutes elapse. After she emerges from the bathroom, she refuses to put on pants, even though it is chilly enough that the heat has come on. Sweet Dub is completely exasperated by this point.

Sweet Dub: You are like cold molasses today. What is going on with you? Why can’t you just put your pants on?

Viva: It’s not my fault, it’s because I’m a girl.

Sweet Dub & Mama Blah simultaneously: What?!

Viva: If I was a boy, I’d be faster.

Mama Blah: Being fast has nothing to do with you being a boy or a girl, Viva, and you know that.

Viva: I just can’t put my pants on.

Sweet Dub: It’s 8:15, and I’m already exhausted.

And so the day goes. Viva celebrated the birth of Presidents Washington and Lincoln thusly, fourscore and seven minutes at a time.

Rocky Road. Not the Ice Cream.

So here it is.

I have fibroids. I’ve known this for years – in fact, they complicated my pregnancy quite a bit – but my ob-gyn was always of the “watchful waiting” school. (This is a sister school to the “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it” school, for those who are keeping score at home.) My ob-gyn said that although the fibroids grew and degenerated most painfully during my pregnancy due to the extra estrogen in my system, they would most likely shrink after pregnancy and not cause me problems. She did hasten to add that should I choose to have another baby, I should pretty much try to get pregnant when Viva was about a year old, if not before. The inference was that in order to avoid any complications – i.e., the fibroids mushrooming into bowling ball size and interfering with a subsequent pregnancy – I should have my kids very close together.

Well, since Viva is almost four, you can see how much to heart I took that advice. And at any rate, as time has passed, the fibroids have gone from being occasionally uncomfortable and annoying to an unrelenting pain in the pelvis. And back. Oy, my lower back – and sometimes the pain radiates down my right thigh. I pretty much feel like I have dull menstrual cramps every day. They also interfere with – how shall I put this delicately – elimination. In sum, they really suck.

I have been to three doctors* since the new year began. The first made me wait three weeks for an appointment and then, after a 45 minute sojourn in the waiting room, had a nurse tell me the doctor would be another 20-30 minutes and there were four people ahead of me, did I want to wait? I think you know what I told her. The second** asked me a couple of questions about my symptoms and immediately anointed me a perfect candidate for an outpatient procedure he pioneered. By the way, he doesn’t take my insurance and can’t seem to find anyone “in network” to give me a pelvic MRI. The third spent 20 minutes with me in her office, taking a thorough history of the fibroids and my symptoms and asking intelligent follow-up questions. She then had me go into an exam room, where she performed an exam, and after that, asked me to join her back in her office, where she explained what the medical options are (um, there are two, and each is only temporary) and what the surgical options are (there are basically three, although one of them – myomectomy – can be performed in varying degrees of invasiveness).

“Before I can make any recommendation, I need to see what’s in there, so I want you to get a pelvic ultrasound,” she said.

Note that she did not try to get me to have an MRI. I asked her about it and she said that it’s unnecessary in this case – basically overkill unless she suspected something else was really wrong with me. This only confirmed my suspicion about Dr. No. 2, which is that he was trying to charge me for as much shit as possible.

So I had the pelvic ultrasound on Friday – the day after I saw Dr. No. 3, at a facility she recommended, through which I was covered by my insurance. Which by the way, is a major national health insurance company, not some rinky-dink outfit run out of a trailer with a push-button phone and a ditto machine in the back.

It seems likely that I will have to have surgery. At this point, I welcome it. Yes, I am that unhappy. More on this as events develop.

In the meantime, work is psychotically crazy. Our non-profit has plunged headfirst into the icy cold waters of a capital campaign, and I am right in the heart of it, dog-paddling like mad and gasping for breath while dodging tree branches and other bits of jetsam that happen by. No worry, it will all be fine. But I clearly won’t have much time to brag about my exploits – er, I mean, blog. Unless I have surgery and am confined to bed while I recuperate. Except I guess if I can blog, I can work. Dang.

* Not one of these is the ob-gyn who delivered Viva. She is inexplicably on a leave of absence, and I miss her wise counsel. I have no idea when she will be back from leave, nor what she is on leave for. I fervently hope it is nothing bad, although in my experience, that is usually when people take leave.

** He, incidentally, is to blame for the title of this post. That is how he referred to the fibroids on my uterine wall. Yes. Classy, I know.

What You Make of It

Do you ever have that feeling, having finished a really satisfying book, that you are a bit adrift? I recently read Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert, and I liked the book so much I wanted to dive right into another book and be as fully immersed. Eat, Pray, Love is an account of the year Liz Gilbert spent traveling through Italy, India, and Indonesia after her marriage ended. It’s full of funny, and sad, and thought-provoking moments.

I thought, when I turned 30 and had no serious man in my life, that I would be perfectly happy working on my career, traveling wherever I wanted, and spoiling my nephew rotten for the rest of my life. I accepted this future quite happily, and when I read Eat, Pray, Love, it sounded like a shortened version of what I had thought my life would be. Shortened, because I could never see any possible way that I could just take off and travel for a year, but it was my vision that I would be the adventurous, eccentric aunt who was always taking off somewhere and coming back with all sorts of interesting stories and unique trinkets.

Life is funny. Two years after I turned 30, I got set up on a Sunday morning coffee date by a woman I worked with. She was hilarious and fun, and she had a son about my age, and she thought we would really get along. Despite some trepidation, I allowed this crazy woman to arrange the Sunday morning date. This crazy woman would later become my mother-in-law, as the “let’s meet for coffee” turned into a full breakfast and gabfest. Yes, her son and I really got along. Six months later, I moved in with him, and six months after that, we were married. Viva came along 18 months later.

So here I am, married, with a kid, on a different kind of adventure. It’s full of funny, and sad, and thought-provoking moments. It’s mine, and I love it.

Although sometimes I wish I had more time to read.

Turn Energy Drainers into Energy Gainers!

Sorry for the self-help title. It just made me laugh.

Okay, so I haven’t been blogging (or responding to comments - so sorry!) so much because (a) work is crazy and (2) I’m having health issues which are draining my energy. (Doctor’s appointment* this Thursday, don’t worry.)

So, the work thing. I just wrote a really long explanation of what’s been happening here, but after re-reading it, decided to delete it. The summary is that I’ve been working on a project which culminated in a meeting with a donor Friday, which went really well. Someone else in my department (who out-ranks me, but who is not my supervisor) summarized the meeting points in a group e-mail, and in essence, made it appear that s/he had arranged the whole thing. My boss was livid. But as I pointed out to her, everyone on the distribution list knows this was my project and that this other person is trying to take credit. It’s almost laughable. I’m going to respond graciously by thanking this person for summarizing the meeting in my absence (I was out sick yesterday due to issues mentioned above) and adding some details that were left out.

Damn, I just want to do my job. Why are people so messed up?

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* Did I tell you about my last appointment? After waiting three weeks for an appointment, I left work, drove across town to see another doctor in my favorite ob-gyn’s practice, waited for 45 minutes and then was told she’d been called away on an emergency C-section and they’d have to bump me to the next day!? And did I tell you that another woman in the waiting room told me this was the third time she’d been bumped? I think my head exploded that day, so maybe I didn’t write about it. It goes without saying that I'm seeing a new doctor this week.

Shameless Mommy Blogging

I am once again buying a car seat, because Viva has grown out of the one we use in Sweet Dub’s car. I have been very happy with our Britax Regent (the one in my car), but my God, apparently so is everyone else in the universe. Finding one is like trying to score some high-grade drug [insert your drug of choice here]. This morning, I found myself calling a store in Florida to ensure that they have the Regent in stock. The store representative asked if I had a fax number. He is going to fax me an order form; I then have to fax my order back to him and then call the store back. The store has a Website, but because Regents are in such high demand, they only have one color online. I had learned through an anonymous source that if you call the store, they will check current inventory and pull one in a different color if they have it. Cheesus!

On top of that, I have to buy an additional car seat that is lighter and FAA-approved because Viva is going on a trip with her Auntie Diva in a few weeks. Altogether, this car seat dealio is costing us about 500 clams.

And they wonder why parents these days are so neurotic.

Keepin' It Real

I don’t think I mentioned here that Sweet Dub recently went to a certain film festival in a certain snowy place. So I know I did not mention that he was interviewed by what he thought was a local TV station when he came out of the first screening of a very controversial film. Whoever interviewed him sold the tape to Fox, so last week his clip ended up on a variety of Fox News Network shows. We are not generally huge fans of Fox, so we don’t generally watch shows like the O’Really Factor and Hannity & That Other Guy, but people started calling and saying they’d seen him on national TV. We searched for it on TiVo, recorded it, and have played it back over and over with greater hilarity at each viewing.

One of the things Sweet Dub says during his brief interview is that the film is disturbing and it’s hard to talk about.

Stay with me here.

This morning, when I asked Viva which of her naptime stuffed animals would be going with her to school today, and she was having a hard time deciding, she finally said: “Um, I – you know, it’s just that – well, it’s hard to talk about.”

What a clown. I almost peed my pants!

She Lives!

Man, work is so crazy I may well never blog again.

Speaking of work, someone brought in a waffle-maker today and made waffles in the break room. No, seriously.

I love you all and I hope I can blog again in a couple of days. Adieu!

Be the Change You Want to See in the World

Last night, when I was driving home listening to one of our local public radio stations (KPCC-FM/89.3), I heard a story about Cheryl Green. Cheryl Green was a 14-year-old black girl who was shot and killed last month by members of a Latino gang while she was hanging out a block from home in the Harbor Gateway neighborhood. She had no gang affiliation and no beef with the gang members. They shot her simply because she was black:

Flight from gang violence proved to be futile
Residents of a mostly black Harbor Gateway area say they live in fear of a Latino gang. A girl was slain Dec. 15 in an apparent hate crime.

As I listened to her mother speak, I just wanted to scream. Her mom moved the family to Harbor Gateway a few years ago to escape gang violence in West L.A.

One of the reasons I moved to Los Angeles was because of its mix of people. It’s one of the reasons I like it here. I like it that I am not swimming in a sea of sameness as I go about my daily life. Since I grew up with a mix of people both in my family and in my community, I feel more comfortable with a blend.

In recent years, however, I’ve noticed some disturbing trends. You may have heard of the tensions between black and Latino students in the public high schools in L.A. There have been racially motivated brawls in some local schools; police have had to come out to quell the violence and schools have even been placed on temporary lockdown to restore order. Sweet Dub and I have talked about it at length, and as a graduate of a Los Angeles public high school, he’s mystified by it: “We never had trouble like that,” he says. “We all hung out, blacks, Mexicans, whatever.”

I also know that there is a perception among some black folks that undocumented Latino immigrants “steal” jobs from the black working class because they’ll work for less money. And I had heard on the news that a Latino gang in northeast L.A. – in the Glassell Park and Highland Park areas -- was also targeting black people (“They Wanted All Blacks Out,” L.A. Weekly, July 26, 2006). And now they’re killing black children.

Well, shit. I’m not ashamed to say I cried a little on the way home. In Harbor Gateway, they’re applying for a gang injunction, and evidently they’ve also reached a gang cease-fire agreement. For the moment. Officials are working on “making improvements to the neighborhood,” whatever that means.

What does it mean for my city? What does it mean for my family? I’m disheartened and scared by it. What can I do in my small way, in my small corner of Los Angeles, about something so big?

As I was just typing that, and feeling heavy-hearted, one of my co-worker friends just danced goofily by my office doorway. I burst out laughing. Laughter helps.

More later, when I figure out how to solve this complex problem in my spare moments between writing marketing materials here. It'll take me a minute.

Accelerated, Expedited, Speedy or Swift

Earlier this week, I ordered a living room rug through Overstock.com. The order is complete, and although I didn’t ask for express shipping, they shipped it by Fed Ex. What I find odd is that my delivery date is estimated to be next Tuesday. If it takes a week to get to me, that’s not very, well, express, is it? I don’t get it. Maybe it’s just me.

Unpalatable, With a Side of Fractious

Something happened last night which, in the six years I have known my husband, has only happened once before.

I prepared a meal that was inedible.

I made orange beef with broccoli over steamed rice. How, you are thinking, could that be bad? While I am buoyed by your confidence in my abilities, I must tell you that it was one of those times when Viva insisted on being in the kitchen with me. There is nothing cuter than an eager little munchkin who is bound and determined to help out. She helped make the rice – i.e. measured dry rice and water and poured them into the pot – and then helped mix the orange juice and soy sauce with ginger and garlic. When the meat and veggies went into the pan and there was nothing else she could do, she insisted on washing dishes, and this is where I think it all went wrong. I was simultaneously trying to make sure she didn’t burn herself with hot water or drop glasses/dishes and trying to keep an eye on the stir-fry. I also made the mistake of using a different recipe, which I promptly threw into the trash after dinner. Yes, that is how pissed off I was – I didn’t even try to recycle the piece of paper it was written on. I threw it away.

At any rate, the broccoli turned all mushy, and the sauce was gelatinous and way too orangey-tasting. The rice was good. We all had rice, picked the pieces of overly-orangey beef out of the mushy broccoli and then gave up and ate cereal.

Tonight I will be attempting to make turkey fajitas. Despite the fiasco of last night, I am confident that my track record (two losses! In six years!) will win out.

The More You Explain It, The More I Don't Understand It

Over the holidays, my Best Friend Forever, who I have known since we were 12, sent me a card. I know this because I came out of the shower and found Viva holding a photo of two grinning boys. “Oh,” I squealed, “Is that from Best Friend Forever?”

“Who?” said Sweet Dub. “I don’t know who it’s from.”

“It’s Best Friend Forever!” I said, crossly. “Ooh, it has a Post-It on it: Now that we are closer to you, call me and let’s get together: [telephone number redacted, but not really]! Oh my God, did she move? Where’s the envelope?”

“Um, I don’t know,” said Sweet Dub.

“You LOST IT?!” I shrieked.

“I didn’t lose it, I just don’t know what I did with it,” he said.

He lost it. But he told me the envelope had a return address in Santa Barbara. This was pretty incredible to me, since we are both from Boston and she has remained there while I have been here for lo, what is it, 12 years? We do not speak to each other or even e-mail each other very often, because we are both caught up in our lives and all that. But we are still Best Friends. I was maid of honor at her wedding, for God’s sake. I wanted to call her, but I wanted to make sure I’d have time to talk. (Yeah, right. When do I ever?)

What with one thing and another, I didn’t get around to calling her right away. It was the holidays, and then we were sick, blah blah blah bling bling blah. So the other day, I went looking for her number. The photo was there, but the Post-It was gone.

Are you kidding me?

I e-mailed her at the last known e-mail address I had. No response. So yesterday, I went with the tried and true: I called on the Internet Faeries. Not only did I find her, I found her old address, new address, and how much she and her husband got for their house when they sold it in July.

Those Internet Faeries are a little creepy.

Stay tuned for the next chapter, when I actually write to her and maybe get her to call me if she isn’t completely disgusted by how easily my husband and I lose things! I know! It’s a gripping, emotionally overwrought saga for the ages!

What We’ve Always Suspected

Monday, January 15, 2007
Washington Post: “Children, Parents Drive Each Other to Early Graves”

As usual, I’m late to the party, but I found this news item interesting. A study published last month in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences found that parents pay a price for having children. No, wait, it’s not what you think. We all know that children are expensive – you have to house, feed and clothe them for at least 18 years, and that’s not chump change – but what I’m talking about is the ultimate price. Parenting evidently takes years off your life.

Or so the headline would have us believe. If you continue reading the article, you’ll find that the researchers examined the reproductive history and survival rate of 21,684 couples married between 1860 and 1895.

When Penn and Smith examined their data, a clear and unmistakable trend stood out. The bigger the family, the smaller the chance that the parents would live into old age. Both mothers and fathers paid a price for having lots of children,with mothers always paying more, regardless of family size.

I think it goes without saying that mortality rates have declined since the 19th century. It seems foolhardy to extrapolate this data to the 21st century. However, it makes sense to me that the physical stress of having a child, along with the psychological stress of raising said child to adulthood*, would cause one to age more quickly – and thus die at an earlier age.

Remember this when your kid draws on the wall in permanent marker, or crashes the car into a lightpost. They are a joy, but they’re taking years off your life. My obstetrician conveniently forgot to mention that delightful little nugget when talking about the risks of childbirth.

Perhaps Viva will remain an only child after all. Her imaginary little brother is not stressing me out in the least.

* And even in a best case scenario – a healthy child being raised with familial and financial stability – there will still be stress. You still have to figure out how you are going to raise that child – what to feed him, where she should go to school, what to say when he comes home with a tongue piercing. It’s stressful being responsible for another person. Hoo boy, let me tell you. Do you have a second? Hey, wait, wait -- where ya going?

Bits and Pieces

I just read my e-mail and came across this, courtesy of Cool Mom Picks. (Sorry, I don't seem to be able to upload the photo.)

How much does my babychile need this? She was conceived to Led Zeppelin in hilarious fashion which I will not recount here. Does wanting this make me wrong? Because if so, I’m not sure I want to be right.

Waiting

I left a message with my doctor this morning, detailing my pain and discomfort and asking if she’s had any cancellations. Nobody has called me back. I love my doctor with an overflowing loving spoonful of love, but I am mystified as to why she did not go straight to the bat phone and call me right away. I don’t feel good.

Cruising the Internet

Viva had a playdate with three friends on Saturday. One of the moms asked if we want to have another child. (Why do people always ask this? No matter how you answer, then you have to justify your answer. It’s not an easy question.) I was tempted to crack wise and ask, “Why? Are you giving yours away?” but I didn’t, mainly because I think she could take me and I didn’t want the kids to see us rolling on the floor and pulling hair.

But you know, what with Viva creating her imaginary younger brother, and what with me feeling that anyway, she should have a sibling, and that I would love to have another kid if we could afford it (which we can’t), I have held in the back of my head the precious idea of adopting a child. Not a baby, but a child a couple of years younger than Viva. She is almost 4, and her imaginary brother is 2. I think that would be perfect. In the fantasy world in which I live, this wouldn’t happen until she is 5 or so.

The other day, I realized with a start that what this means is that this little person is already out there somewhere, living with somebody, maybe in a good situation or maybe not. I started to get upset about that little person, because I realized that in order for that little person to be available for adoption, some bad shit would have to happen in his family of origin. And what that means on some level is that I’m hoping for some bad shit to happen to somebody so I can have the privilege of raising their kid.

Today, I was reading some of the recent posts on A Birth Project, a blog which I’d come across some time ago through Dawn. I’d bookmarked the site but hadn’t blogrolled it, which is ridiculous because it is really thought-provoking and you know I’m all down with having my thoughts provoked. The author of the site, Lisa Marie, is an adult transcracial adoptee, and she was writing about the book launch for Outsiders Within, an anthology by a slew of transracially adopted writers. If you have interest in that sort of thing, by all means, go read the whole post. She quotes some of the readings in her post, and there were two items that really stood out for me.

First, she quoted Jane Jeong Trenka, who in talking about the transracial adoption of Korean and Chinese children emphasized the importance of finding ways to “understand that empowering a mother/birth family to find ways to raise their own children is one place to look to think about this diaspora that is marked by the very real fact that it is entirely a migration of children.”

Then she cited Julia Chinyere Oparah as asking why there are so many children for adoption to begin with.

What are the circumstances that create thousands of Black children in the U.S.
to be “without families”?

While I doubt that we would transracially adopt if we ever went the adoption route (because most likely we would have a black child placed with us because hello, we're black), I think the questions are valid whether one is pursuing even a same-race adoption. The problems are systemic ones – why are parents “unable” to raise their own children? Who makes that call? I think if I adopted a child, I would be concerned about the birth parents. At some point it begins to feel that building a family through adoption is benefiting from someone else’s misfortune. How do you explain that to the child? How do you help a kid understand the jacked-up mess that is the U.S. child welfare system if you adopt domestically*, and why he ended up with you?

One day at the playground, I started talking to a mom with two kids who were very close in age. They both appeared to be biracial, as did the mom, but they didn’t look anything alike. I asked her what the age difference was.

Other Mom: Five months.
Mama Blah: How’d you manage that? [Duh.]
Other Mom: They’re adopted.
Mama Blah: Oh, wow. [I had figured maybe one was adopted and one was not.] Do you mind if I ask you a little bit about the process?...

So we started talking, and she was very friendly and open, and I was clearly hanging on her every word. The one thing I found both disturbing and yet somewhat understandable was that she said she absolutely wanted an infant because that way it gave her more control over their ultimate development. “Everything you read talks about brain development in the first years of life, and how crucially important this time is. I wanted to be able to control what they eat, whether they’re being read to every day, all that stuff.” I get it, but then I’m thinking, “What about those kids who don’t have a family, and don’t have someone doing that for them? Do we just write them off?”

Well, yes, it seems so. It’s heartbreaking to me. Doesn’t every kid deserve that?

* Which is what I’m assuming we’d be dealing with, since we would not be adopting an infant. Is there such a thing as a private adoption with older children? I am just getting my feet wet with all this and have no fricking clue. At any rate, I want to read the book, just because I am fascinated by racial dynamics.

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Update: My doctor’s office called. She is on a leave of absence. Auugh. The earliest they can get me in to see someone else in her practice is January 24th – yes, that’s right, more than two weeks from now. “Is it mainly just discomfort? Or pain? Call back if the pain gets worse and we’ll see what we can do.” What?!?

Down the Rabbit Hole

I’m up and I’m thinking and I’m thinking and I’m up.

I am having some health problems these days. It appears I must find an internist and see to these problems fairly soon, as they are now consistently bothering me on a daily basis. This is pesky and unwelcome. I am of course worried about what might be wrong; I am inclined to think it is one fairly benign problem that will probably necessitate surgery, and then it will be over and life will go on, tra la la, as it did with my last surgery.

But this is a different problem, and would involve a different surgery, and naturally, my thoughts inevitably go to worst case scenario. And thus, here I am, typing away on my laptop while Sweet Dub slumbers in the next room. At least I think he’s slumbering. He may be awake and worried too. But the worst thing would be for us to be lying in bed feeding on each other’s anxiety and not getting any sleep.

So here I am, typing away and wondering if I can pilfer some wireless so I can post this. Our wireless connection is in our bedroom and it’s off, so it’s entirely possible that I can’t even post my anxieties to my blog, but the one foolproof way for me to deal with my anxieties is to write about them, so here we be.

What do you dream about? Do you remember your dreams? Sweet Dub is so resolutely a Capricorn that in his dreams, he’ll tell himself, “Oh, this is a dream,” so his dreams are fairly mainstream. My dreams are very trippy and bizarre, and they go on forever. Being in one of my dreams is like being inside a kaleidoscope. I’ll be in one location/scenario and all of a sudden, blip, I’m somewhere else with some of the same elements from the first part, or not, and watching a concert in a park with rows of live turkeys as big as elephants, and then I’ll be in an open boat navigating through canals to get somewhere with a spoon and a vat of gravy, and then I’ll be given a baby pig to take care of. Last night I had a dream that Sweet Dub and my sister Lola and I were shopping in a gigantic upscale mall. The mall was so ginormous that we had secured a hotel room within the mall to rest during our shopping spree. At some point, my sister Lola morphed into Sweet Dub’s sister Diva, who was calling me on the cell phone to tell me that the X&T store was having a sale on something, 2 for $70. I was resting in the very swanky hotel room amidst piles of bags and I remember thinking, “Do I really want to go back out to the mall for that?” and I must have decided not, because the dream ended there. This is very odd, because the older I get, the less and less I like shopping, so this is not something I would actually want to do. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a nightmare, but you know, it wasn’t good.

Curious to know what my dreams will bring tonight. Sweet dreams, my cherubs.

First Documentation of Jean-Jean

This photo is a bit hazy, because I took it through our front window. Nonetheless, you can sort of make out the charm and beauty that is the Mysterious and Mesmerizing Rat Killer Jean-Jean:





Stay tuned for further news of his death-defying exploits. (I'm fairly certain he's male now, as it appears he has been spraying to mark his territory. Gee whiz, cats are fun.)

Merry and Bright, Abridged

After not writing for several days now, I just tuned in and wrote a few paragraphs that were not worthy of you. When one hasn't written in a while, one begins to fret about where one should begin, and then one starts typing about oneself as in the third person, and thus begins a downward spiral which must end, oh, I'd say now.

Because I have so much to share with you and yet I am stealing time during Viva's nap, I must abbreviate this post.

Top Three Wonderfullest things about this holiday season:

1. My sister-in-law, Diva, offered to take Viva on Friday night Dec. 22 and return her to us on Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, so we could enjoy Sweet Dub's birthday on Dec. 23rd kid-less. It should be obvious to all that we adore our child. But having a break from her for two nights was as good as having a three-week family vacation. We were recharged and ready to rumble.

2. On Sweet Dub's birthday, I had planned to surprise him with a massage at a local spa. When he found out that I had scheduled a massage only for him, but not for myself, he insisted that I take the appointment instead because I'd had a rough week at work. On this he would not be budged. "It's my birthday, you have to do what I want, and this is what I want," he said. The massage was heavenly, the staff was friendly and helpful, and I got to walk home from the spa through my neighborhood on a beautiful crisp clear day, leaves crunching underfoot, free of care and tension. Sweet!

3. I know, Christmas is not only about the presents (contrary to what Viva might have us believe). But Sweet Dub gave me the coolest little digital camera. I think it just might change my life. Now I can show you stuff like:

Viva playing with some of the 5,000 containers of Play-Doh she received this Christmas; or














Viva checking out her new basketball hoop

without having to say, "Hey, honey, can you upload the still pictures off your videocamera and e-mail them to me when you get to work?"

In fact, I could even upload the photos I took from this morning's hike in Bronson Canyon...if only Sweet Dub hadn't taken off with it (and my cell phone!) to deliver a TV to his cousin out by the airport. I may even take pictures of our cat.

Oh, right. Have I mentioned that the cat who left the rat head on our welcome mat has adopted us? He or she (I can't get close enough to it to identify which it is, not that it matters) began crying outside over the past few days. Having shared my home with cats from the age of 7 until 30-ish, I surmised that he or she was hungry. I pretty much caved quickly after that, bought some organic cat food at Trader Joe's, and began referring to the cat as Jean-Jean. Jean-Jean eats like there are mad Viking ocelots chasing him/her. S/he doesn't leave a morsel in the bowl, and as soon as s/he licks it clean, s/he vanishes. I don't mean you actually see the cat run away. No, I mean the cat literally evaporates, propelling itself to another dimension.

Every bit of this is true.

Hello, I Must be Going

Why, hello! How is your day going?

My day did not start out well. I am in some kind of a rut these days. L.A. is going through a cold snap (I know, cry me a river) and the temperatures plummet overnight. It has been in the 30s here and that is very unusual. All this to say, it’s pretty damn cold in the morning, and as a result I have been having trouble getting out of bed. So has Viva. Hence and therefore, mornings have become even more of a whirlwind, and thank God many people have taken this week off, because the traffic at least has been lighter. Which doesn't explain why I had to blow my horn at a stick-figure rolling through a stop sign in her silver Range Rover this morning when I was already in the intersection, and could see her charging right for my front fender. Perhaps she missed the memo about how she should stay off the road when I am trying to get my child to school (only Monday through Friday, between 7:45 and 8:30 AM).

Well and so, I am scrambling to finish two major projects before my last day of work for the year, which is this coming Friday. One of them is due December 31st and the other is due January 1st. Six of one, half dozen of the other, I can hear you saying. So true, so true. It is amazing how we so often think the same way, or at least I think we do.

At any rate, this morning I realized that I have just been figuratively holding on until Friday, and I also realized that this means that I have in some way been wishing a part of my life away.

Well, who does that? Be in the moment and all that. Life goes by quickly enough as it is.

I have been freaking out about everything that has not gotten done. I haven’t finished Christmas shopping, for one thing, and Sweet Dub’s birthday is coming up on Saturday and I’m trying to make plans for that. I have friends I’m supposed to see (hello, friends!) and oh, there’s no food in the house, and at least three other birthdays to buy presents for and Viva’s holiday show is tonight and then she only has a half-day of school Friday and it looks like I will be at work all damn day tomorrow because everyone is in vacation mode already and I’m not getting the four pieces of data I need for one project that I’m working on – data that I requested over a week ago and which I have repeatedly requested over the subsequent days, data I said I needed at the very latest YESTERDAY MORNING and you see how that would just make you want to smack somebody.

But you can’t, you see. Because that would be wrong. And not very Christ-like. And it’s the holidays, the holy days, when we are supposed to be all Christian charity-like and thing.

Find a happy place. You know what makes me smile? Viva’s imaginary friend Soren Lorenson has somehow morphed into an imaginary little brother. She is very concerned for him and makes sure I pick him up and put him in the bath with her and tuck him in with her at night and give him a kiss and take his blood pressure and temperature when we are playing doctor. It is very sweet and gives one the warm fuzzies. I am quite certain that if Viva had a real little brother, it would be just like that all the time. They wouldn’t fight and there would be none of that “He started it!” and they wouldn’t both be trying to get my attention while I was simultaneously driving the car and filleting a fish. It gives me hope.

Happy holidays.

Deep Breath and Count to Ten

Unexpected blog break – work is too crazy and non-work is even crazier. I just stopped posting for a while there and I can’t promise I’ll be posting more this week.

Right now I am having difficulty concentrating because my next-door Pentecostal cube-mate is loudly discussing yesterday’s service with a co-worker. This discussion involves actual singing, a replay of key points in the sermon and even, yes, a brief spate of praise dancing in the cubicle. Jesus H. Christ. And I mean that.

Speaking of which, last night, I was lying in bed with Viva, reading her stories. We were all cozy snuggly under the covers with our heads noodged together. We had just finished Blueberries for Sal and she asked me to re-read Merry Christmas, Maisy. Since it was already an hour after her bedtime, I said no. She then said she wanted to read it to me. I again said no, that it was late and she needed to go to sleep because she had school tomorrow. She balled up her little fist, hauled off and punched me.

And that was when all the air got sucked out of the room and it grew deadly quiet. Viva squirmed over on her side and stared up at me with big unblinking kitty cat eyes.

“I am very disappointed in you,” I said, climbing down out of the bed. (She sleeps in a loft bed.) “Hitting me? Especially so close to Christmas? That is not nice. It is very, very naughty. I don’t know if you should get any presents after that.”

Viva dissolved into a puddle of tears, hanging one arm out of the bed. “I looooooooove you,” she sobbed, reaching out pleadingly.

I hugged her to me. “I love you too,” I said. “But we don’t hit each other, right?”

“Yuh,” she said, sniffling and wrapping herself around me. “Will I still get toys [for Christmas]?”

“Yes, baby, you’ll still get toys.”

She sat up and pulled out of the hug slightly. Face still streaked with tears, looking up into my eyes, she said, “Even a Doodlebear?”

It is amazing to me that if Sweet Dub is stern with her, Viva can keep it together. She may get a little upset, but she won’t break down. If I am angry with her, forget it. She falls to pieces, and the worse thing I can do is walk away from her. She can’t stand it if she thinks I am mad.

It is also amazing to me how patient I can be with her. I am generally low on patience. I know this. I am prone to anxiety and irritability. I know this, too. And knowing this, I try extra hard with her. She is so small still.

Have you ever heard that old fisherman’s prayer, “Dear Lord, be good to me/the sea is so wide/and my boat is so small”? I really get that. I try to remember that when I have moments that try my patience. It is such a big world, and there is so much for Viva yet to learn.

And now, I must get back to my fishing. The seas are choppy, today, my friends.

Life in the Wild - Part 2 in a Series

This morning, I was deep in my slumber, but sort of coming back up to the surface and not quite waking up -- does this ever happen to you? You don't realize until you wake up that you were kind of bobbing up and down on the surface of wakefulness? -- and then Sweet Dub definitively broke my slumber by yanking open a dresser drawer and rummaging through it. I stretched and rolled over, which Sweet Dub took as the perfect opportunity to start yakking my head off. As it turns out, he was trying to wake me up. It was all part of his evil plan.

"Honey!" he said. "You're up. Oh my God."

"Hi," I said, or something like that.

"I got up this morning and I went out onto the front porch to get some wood to build a fire and I wasn't wearing any shoes and I stepped on a RAT HEAD. On our welcome mat! Oh my God!"

"Oh my God," I said, or something like that.

"I've been in the living room freaking out about it for twenty minutes and I can no longer be alone," he said.

I got up, put on my glasses, and realized it was 4:31 AM. On a Sunday.

We have this cat, you see. It doesn't belong to us, but our yard is definitely part of its turf. The cat is evil, in the way of Jean Jean and his evil cat. The cat has fought off another cat in our driveway at 3 AM, drinks out of our koi pond, sleeps in our backyard -- oh, and when I came by the house after we had gotten the keys but before we moved in? I found a half-eaten mouse on a bench in the backyard. Courtesy of the evil cat. The evil cat is deceptively beautiful. It is black, with a long full coat, a glorious fluffy tail and green eyes. It is not tame and does not want to be bothered with you. It just wants to hunt in our yard.

As it turns out, our property is the promised land for this cat. Because we live where? All together now: In The Wild.

I submit to you the following.

A few weeks after moving in, we began to hear disturbing scratching and scrabbling sounds above our heads at night. The sounds would wake us up. More than once I'd grab a broom and start pounding on the ceiling. But wait -- we no longer live in an apartment in the heart of the urban jungle. The sounds were not, as in our old place, tweaked-out meth addicts on the roof. This appeared to be some sort of animal.

We have yet to figure out what the animal is, but Sweet William went out and spent a fortune on sonic blasters, which he plugged in around the house and even up in the crawl space (I have no idea how he managed that). Guess what? No more noise.

A couple of weeks ago, I opened the back door to go throw out the recyclables. I stepped two feet out the door and heard the most bizarre noise imaginable. It was like a combination of squeaking and hooting coming from a bush a few yards away. I stopped and looked. The bush moved, but nothing came out. I stepped back inside.

"There's something out there," I said to Sweet Dub.

"Of course there's something out there," he said. "It's probably a squirrel."

I opened the door again. Another squeaking hooting warning call. I closed the door.

"No, it's a sound I've never heard before," I said.

After more discussion, Sweet Dub admitted that he had heard the sound recently as well, but didn't want to tell me for fear of freaking me out. "It doesn't sound like any animal I've ever heard," he said. "It sounds kind of like a primate. It's definitely a warning or alarm call."

"That is just our luck," I said. "Something has escaped from the zoo and it's in our yard."

Have I mentioned that we live a stone's throw away from Griffith Park, the one of largest urban parks in the U.S.*, and that it houses, among other things, the L.A. Zoo?

Have I mentioned that while hiking one day in Griffith Park a few years ago, we ran across what at first seemed to be a large squirrel, which we then realized was some sort of exotic animal? On the spot, I dubbed it a bandicoot, just because, well, who doesn't like the sound of that? I have since revised my opinion and now believe it was some sort of lemur.** It had a stripey tail, kind of like this. Even so, we still refer to it as the bandicoot, and when a mystery animal took up residence in our backyard and began squeak-hooting at us, that automatically became its nom de rigeur.

This morning, after peeking out the door at the rodent head on the mat, I sat back down on the couch in front of the fire. "I bet that cat ate the bandicoot," I said.

Here is where it gets fun for my readers. You - yes, you! - can help to settle a debate. I am going to share with you now a photo of the head the cat left on our doorstep (along with some innards). If you are squeamish, stop now and click away if you don't want to see it. Click onto something fun -- go buy some bodywash online or something.

Okay, for the rest of you: do you think this is a mouse or a rat? The head is approximately 2 inches long.


The other item in the lower part of the picture is one of its organs. I know, nice.
Okay, so mouse or rat? What do you think?

* According to the Griffith Park website, "With over 4,210 acres of both natural chapparal-covered terrain and landscaped parkland and picnic areas, Griffith Park is the largest municipal park with urban wilderness area in the United States." It's pretty fricking big, is all.

** Sweet Dub strongly disagrees.