Not that one. This one.
Nick Cave Soundsuits Collaboration
YBCA Galleries
May 28 - 31
Monday, May 04, 2009
Amy Krouse Rosenthal
Planning on taking the kids down to Hicklebee's in San Jose to see Amy Krouse Rosenthal this afternoon as she continues her Spring Tour. I read Encyclopedia of An Ordinary Life 4 years ago (that long ago!) and loved it's off-the-wall humor and observations. Cookies: Bite-Sized Life Lessons is also a family favorite. Check out 17 Things I Made, The Beckoning of Lovely, and The Story So Far. I'm very inspired by this work right now as I think about the kind of art I want to make and how I want to engage with my community.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Two Weeks In
It's getting lighter earlier these days. Every morning the day breaks just a little bit sooner. I know this because every weekday morning for the past two weeks, I've been purposely (as in on purpose) getting up at 5:30am and going to...Pilates Cardio Camp.
Can I tell you about the boot camp?
Did I mention that the boot camp means getting up at 5:30 am five days a week. 5:30 am. 5 days a week. Some of you may be wondering what all the fuss is about. Well let me tell you. Getting up at 5:30am means going to bed by 10:30 pm. 10:30 pm. 5 days a week. This is difficult because, for me, getting to bed by midnight is turning in early. But I have done it. Most nights. And when I haven't boy have I paid the price. Like practically falling asleep by noon.
Yesterday was one of the worst days. Tired. Very tired. I drove down to the San Jose library with both kids, parked the car, got out the stroller, almost put Marshall in, but then I thought to look for the books I was returning. Not. There. Left them. At home on the counter. Lost my glasses for 20 minutes this morning. It's not right. People tell me this effect will pass. I'm not so sure.
I planned to take pictures of my 5:30 am face. But I forgot. See at 5:30 am I can barely remember to dress myself. Let alone bring essentials like my wallet with my license just in case I get a good morning pull-over by the cop who is permanently camped at the freeway exit going into town. Anyway, you probably don't want to see my 5:30 am face. But I'm kind of curious about it. Like does it have a vaguely shocked, discombobulated expression? Or is it simply too early to register much of anything beyond the physical effects of sleeping in the bed? Like the slightly smooshed cheek from the pillow? Hair flattened and twisted? Eyes with a trace of crust? All of the above and then some? We may never know.
The camp is held 10 minutes away from my house. Which is a good thing. I can't get up too much speed and I can eek out a few more zzzz's before rolling out of bed into the shock of the morning.
The camp is led by a perky little trainer who reminds me a lot of Cheri Oteri. Cheri Oteri when she played that cheerleader along with Will Ferrell. Remember those skits?
Well. She's not exactly like Cheri Oteri. She's more like Cheri Oteri dialed down to three. Which is just exactly what you want at 6am. Elizabeth! Right on.
Can I tell you about the boot camp?
Did I mention that the boot camp means getting up at 5:30 am five days a week. 5:30 am. 5 days a week. Some of you may be wondering what all the fuss is about. Well let me tell you. Getting up at 5:30am means going to bed by 10:30 pm. 10:30 pm. 5 days a week. This is difficult because, for me, getting to bed by midnight is turning in early. But I have done it. Most nights. And when I haven't boy have I paid the price. Like practically falling asleep by noon.
Yesterday was one of the worst days. Tired. Very tired. I drove down to the San Jose library with both kids, parked the car, got out the stroller, almost put Marshall in, but then I thought to look for the books I was returning. Not. There. Left them. At home on the counter. Lost my glasses for 20 minutes this morning. It's not right. People tell me this effect will pass. I'm not so sure.
I planned to take pictures of my 5:30 am face. But I forgot. See at 5:30 am I can barely remember to dress myself. Let alone bring essentials like my wallet with my license just in case I get a good morning pull-over by the cop who is permanently camped at the freeway exit going into town. Anyway, you probably don't want to see my 5:30 am face. But I'm kind of curious about it. Like does it have a vaguely shocked, discombobulated expression? Or is it simply too early to register much of anything beyond the physical effects of sleeping in the bed? Like the slightly smooshed cheek from the pillow? Hair flattened and twisted? Eyes with a trace of crust? All of the above and then some? We may never know.
The camp is held 10 minutes away from my house. Which is a good thing. I can't get up too much speed and I can eek out a few more zzzz's before rolling out of bed into the shock of the morning.
The camp is led by a perky little trainer who reminds me a lot of Cheri Oteri. Cheri Oteri when she played that cheerleader along with Will Ferrell. Remember those skits?
Well. She's not exactly like Cheri Oteri. She's more like Cheri Oteri dialed down to three. Which is just exactly what you want at 6am. Elizabeth! Right on.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
3 Days 22 Hours 23 Minutes Until Derby Day
Monday, April 27, 2009
Written on the Body
A body becomes an index of passing time. Skin reveals how bones shift, muscles loosen, freckles and wrinkles form, and bruises appear. I am interested in this as a fashion of skin, including the way a blush decorates one’s cheek, freckles form constellations on an arm, or hair creates sheen on skin’s matte surface. Skin also protects us while revealing internal emotions, offering a translucent space for adornment.Dressing
My skin is very sensitive and I blush easily. I have dermatographia, a condition in which one’s immune system exhibits hypersensitivity, via skin, that releases excessive amounts of histamine, causing capillaries to dilate and welts to appear (lasting about thirty minutes) when the skin’s surface is lightly scratched. This allows me to painlessly draw patterns and words on my skin, which I then photograph. Even though I can direct this ephemeral response by drawing on it, the reaction is involuntary, much like the uncontrollable nature of a blush. - Arianna Page Russell
Magnan Projects
317 10th Avenue in Manhattan
Through May 16th
(via Mighty Girl)
Monday, April 20, 2009
Possible Inspiration for Picasso's Guernica
Several experts from the world of art have stated that there is an extraordinary likeness between the figures that appear in the Guernica painted by the artist and those in a Mozarabic Bible from the 10th Century, which is housed in the Cathedral in Leon, to the point where it has been discarded that it was fruit of a coincidence.
This Bible was exhibited in Barcelona in 1929 and in Paris in 1937, a time when the Cubist genius could have discovered the expressionist drawings that appear in the medieval text, according to the head of the Cathedral of Leon Museum, Máximo Gómez Rascón.
Several experts consulted by news agency EFE arrived at the same conclusion and base it on the relative aspects of the double view, in front and to the side, of the figures in the painting, as well as in the horse and the bull.
In this way, the director of the museum, has explained that the similarities are seen especially in the bull, which in the Bible symbolizes Saint Luke and which is “almost exactly” as the one that Picasso painted on Guernica.
(h/t hyde or die)
Another Brief Lesson in Marriage
On the train ride up to Burlingame Friday, the following conversation took place:
O: Mom? Will they arrest you if you marry someone from your family?
E: No. They won't arrest you, but it's against the law.
O: If it's against the law, why won't they arrest me?
E: Because some things are against the law, but the police don't get involved.
O: They won't arrest me?
E: Why? Is there somebody in the family you want to marry?
O: Yes. Marshall.
E: You can't marry Marshall.
O: When he grows up?
E: No. Not when he grows up.
O: But why can't I marry Marshall?
C: I want to move to another country so I can marry Owen.
E: Why do you have to move to another country?
C: Because they won't let you marry boys in this country.
O: I want to marry Elise!
O: Mom? Will they arrest you if you marry someone from your family?
E: No. They won't arrest you, but it's against the law.
O: If it's against the law, why won't they arrest me?
E: Because some things are against the law, but the police don't get involved.
O: They won't arrest me?
E: Why? Is there somebody in the family you want to marry?
O: Yes. Marshall.
E: You can't marry Marshall.
O: When he grows up?
E: No. Not when he grows up.
O: But why can't I marry Marshall?
C: I want to move to another country so I can marry Owen.
E: Why do you have to move to another country?
C: Because they won't let you marry boys in this country.
O: I want to marry Elise!
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Out of Nowhere
C: Mom? I don't want to move to Australia.
E: Why not?
C: They have man-eating, salt-water crocodiles.
E: That's a problem for you?
C: It sure is.
E: Why not?
C: They have man-eating, salt-water crocodiles.
E: That's a problem for you?
C: It sure is.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
This Gizmo is On Its Way to Our House
You're going to want to come over.
I guess this toy was popular a couple of years ago. But my son has only just found out about it (well, he met up with one at friend's house at Christmas time and has been talking about it ever since). So we've been watching for it on ebay and last night we managed to procure one. There's a lot I could say about this toy, but I'll let it speak for itself.
What's better than one? Two! They're so quick to make friends, highly social. Watch this lovely pas de deux.
I guess this toy was popular a couple of years ago. But my son has only just found out about it (well, he met up with one at friend's house at Christmas time and has been talking about it ever since). So we've been watching for it on ebay and last night we managed to procure one. There's a lot I could say about this toy, but I'll let it speak for itself.
What's better than one? Two! They're so quick to make friends, highly social. Watch this lovely pas de deux.
Monday, March 02, 2009
So How Did You Do?
Okay so it's about that time again. I thought it would be fun to check in and see how many of the items on my 40-some list I actually did.
- Finish my thesis. - uh, no. Have made huge progress though.
- Breathe. - still working on it.
- Learn to meditate. - Went on a mediation retreat last month.
- Take a Qi Gong class. - That's a no.
- Teach the kids to lie around the house. - Still working on it.
- Teach the kids some Yoga. - No.
- Make a new friend. - Hmm. I'll say yes.
- Reconnect with an old friend. - Yes. Several. This is one of the things I've done that I'm most gratified by and excited about.
- Read out loud. - To myself and to my kids. Yes.
- Read two Shakespeare plays I haven't read. - Maybe one by Friday.
- Read two Chekov plays I haven't read. Not going to happen.
- Read a new play every month. - Surprisingly, I read fewer plays this year than last.
- Read two of the books on David Sedaris' Recommended Reading List. - No. But I did read many books - among them: Elizabeth Costello (2x) and Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee, Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, The Nightingales of Troy by Alice Fulton, and Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner.
- Resume free-writing exercises. - Still working on it.
- Start a rewrite of one of my old plays. - Yes.
- Start my new screenplay. - No.
- Organize all my source material for playwrighting projects. - Still working on it. See #38.
- Write down the master plan for my theater center. - Still working on it.
- Take a food writing class at Stanford. - No.
- Start learning a new language (I'm thinking Italian). - Attempts have been made. Inertia is being overcome.
- Take a contact improv class. - No.
- Sew some stuff for my kids. - No.
- Sew some stuff to sell on Etsy. - Making progress.
- Get my bike tuned up and ready to ride. - Yes.
- Get a grill. - No.
- Invite the neighbors over. - Didn't happen.
- Experiment with making whole-wheat and/or gluten-free pie crusts. - No.
- Make a fresh peach pie this summer. - No! I can't believe it.
- Take the kids berry-picking. - No.
- Go to the farmer's market most Saturdays or Sundays. - No. But signed up for CSA food share here (summer/fall) and here (winter/early spring).
- Eat more vegetables. - Yes. Because of #30. Tyranny of the box. Yes.
- Drink more water. - This is still a struggle for me. I don't know why. Water's mostly what I drink.
- Get a massage or two or four or more. Yes! Yes! Yes!
- Eat a meal at Zuni. - Sadly, no.
- Plant pumpkins and sunflowers with my kids. - No.
- Plant bulbs in front of my kitchen window. - Yes.
- Buy a birthday cake for absolutely no reason. Anyone who wants can make a wish on it. - No again. But I am still very much intrigued by this idea. It's inspiring ideas connected to #40.
- Continue with the clutter-taming. - Yes. I would say progress has been made. I've also reached a point where I'm just so tired of the clutter that I'm more wiling and likely to throw things away than I was last year. Also: we're going to get a scanner which will be a tremendous help with all my playwrighting source material. Have also discovered a unique way of displaying this material (scroll down to the 3rd and 4th pictures in the post).
- Start a play reading salon. - No.
- Involve the kids in a guerrilla art project. - No. But have an idea for one.
- Do some of the Learning to Love You More assignments. - No.
- Go on a geocaching excursion in our area. - Yes. We've been four times. Successful once.
- Take my kids to SFMOMA. - Yes.
- Take the kids to Big Sur and rent a cabin for a weekend. - No.
- Travel some place we've never been. - No. What am I thinking? We went to Lego Land. I'd never been to San Diego before.
- Attend the PICA TBA Festival. - Yes. So glad I did.
- Celebrate Winter Solstice by having some folks over for dinner. - No. Scheduling issue. We were in Phoenix at Solstice. But did have friends over for soup and mustache-wearing extravaganza.
Monday, February 23, 2009
My scar
1. Knee surgery.
2. The pocket knife slipped.
3. Surgery to remove ruptured cyst.
4. A steel cable.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Overheard in the Cafe
I used to friend everybody (on Facebook) and then I found out I was friends with terrorists.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Small Craft Failure
Yesterday, we tried to do this craft. It sounded so simple and like such a good use of all those many crayons we've been accumulating. But. I think I left the crayons in too long. I let the wax bubble. All the crayons blended into this shit-brown color. The wax ran over the parchment paper and melded to the bottom of the pan. Peeling paper off of crayons is not as easy as they make out to be. I don't know, like some were maybe laminated on or something. It took longer than 14 minutes I assure you and that's making allowances for the toddler underfoot wanting to to play puppets with the oven mitts.
On top of that my eye is almost swollen shut. Some sort of infection stemming from this growth on the side of my nose that hasn't responded to the high-powered antibiotics that I'm taking. When I go out people stare at me or else pretend they don't see me. Concerning the growth: I think it's Voldemort.
Happy Valentine's Day.
On top of that my eye is almost swollen shut. Some sort of infection stemming from this growth on the side of my nose that hasn't responded to the high-powered antibiotics that I'm taking. When I go out people stare at me or else pretend they don't see me. Concerning the growth: I think it's Voldemort.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
All Hail the Tyranny of the Box
Can I tell you about the soup I made last night? It was the most awesome soup ever. I thought I'd made some pretty good soups in the past, but this one has raised the bar. It is the soup of all soups.
To be honest I had my doubts when I first set out to make it. Namely because of the main ingredient: Celery root. I subscribe to a local CSA and two of these honkin' big tubers came in my share this week. I've committed myself to the tyranny of the box - ie. you get what you get and you don't get upset. If life hands you celery root, you make celery root bisque or whatever. When we get our shares each week we also get a newsletter that includes recipes to kind of give us an idea of what to do with some of the vegies. I used that recipe as a foundation and then freely adapted it to make use of other vegies that came with the box.
And it is amazing. So flavorful and creamy. Best soup ever. Believe me. I ate two bowls of it. I couldn't stop!
Mostly Celery Root Bisque
1/2 stick of butter (you could use olive oil too)
1 1/2 pounds of celery root peeled and cut into 1/2 inch cubes (4 cups)
6 stalks of celery chopped into 1/2 inch - 1/4 inch slices (optional)
1 turnip chopped into 1/2 inch cubes (optional)
2 cups of leftover cauliflower (optional)
1/2 lb of shallots, thinly sliced
1 1/2 teaspoons of salt
Freshly ground black pepper
4 cups of chicken or vegetable stock
Melt the butter in a heavy soup pot over medium to medium high heat. Add shallots and a bit of salt to start them sweating and cook, stirring occasionally until they are soft. I didn't allow them to caramelize too much, but it's your call how brown you want to let them get (12 minutes). I also chopped up about six stalks of celery and let the flavor mingle with the shallots until the celery was soft. I put the cover on the pot and let the vegetables kind of steam in there for about ten minutes or so. Next, add the celery root and turnip, a bit more salt to keep the vegies sweating, put the lid back on and let it steam, stirring occasionally for about 15 - 20 minutes. You kind of have to use your judgment on how long you think it needs to go. Add 4 cups of stock, cover pot and bring it to a simmer, this is when I added the leftover cauliflower. Simmer for 15-20 minutes more, again it's your call how long you want to let it go. Turn off the burner and let it cool.
Puree in batches in a blender, food processor, or use an immersion blender until creamy smooth and then return back to the pot. Season with salt if needed and add pepper. You can also whisk in a little cream or yogurt if you like, but I found it didn't really need it (I guess technically it's not a bisque without the milk, but it already tasted like it had cream in it).
If you try it, let me know how it turns out.
To be honest I had my doubts when I first set out to make it. Namely because of the main ingredient: Celery root. I subscribe to a local CSA and two of these honkin' big tubers came in my share this week. I've committed myself to the tyranny of the box - ie. you get what you get and you don't get upset. If life hands you celery root, you make celery root bisque or whatever. When we get our shares each week we also get a newsletter that includes recipes to kind of give us an idea of what to do with some of the vegies. I used that recipe as a foundation and then freely adapted it to make use of other vegies that came with the box.
And it is amazing. So flavorful and creamy. Best soup ever. Believe me. I ate two bowls of it. I couldn't stop!
Mostly Celery Root Bisque
1/2 stick of butter (you could use olive oil too)
1 1/2 pounds of celery root peeled and cut into 1/2 inch cubes (4 cups)
6 stalks of celery chopped into 1/2 inch - 1/4 inch slices (optional)
1 turnip chopped into 1/2 inch cubes (optional)
2 cups of leftover cauliflower (optional)
1/2 lb of shallots, thinly sliced
1 1/2 teaspoons of salt
Freshly ground black pepper
4 cups of chicken or vegetable stock
Melt the butter in a heavy soup pot over medium to medium high heat. Add shallots and a bit of salt to start them sweating and cook, stirring occasionally until they are soft. I didn't allow them to caramelize too much, but it's your call how brown you want to let them get (12 minutes). I also chopped up about six stalks of celery and let the flavor mingle with the shallots until the celery was soft. I put the cover on the pot and let the vegetables kind of steam in there for about ten minutes or so. Next, add the celery root and turnip, a bit more salt to keep the vegies sweating, put the lid back on and let it steam, stirring occasionally for about 15 - 20 minutes. You kind of have to use your judgment on how long you think it needs to go. Add 4 cups of stock, cover pot and bring it to a simmer, this is when I added the leftover cauliflower. Simmer for 15-20 minutes more, again it's your call how long you want to let it go. Turn off the burner and let it cool.
Puree in batches in a blender, food processor, or use an immersion blender until creamy smooth and then return back to the pot. Season with salt if needed and add pepper. You can also whisk in a little cream or yogurt if you like, but I found it didn't really need it (I guess technically it's not a bisque without the milk, but it already tasted like it had cream in it).
If you try it, let me know how it turns out.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
A Brief Lesson In Girls Marrying Girls
I had the following conversation with Olivia this morning. She'll be five next month so I can't get too detailed in answers about how reality works.
O: Do you know where I want to live when I grow up?
E: No where?
O: China. And I'm going to marry Nhya. Can girls marry girls?
E: Yes.
O: And boys?
E: If they want.
O: You don't go to jail for marrying a girl?
E: No. At least they don't do that.
O: If I went to jail for marrying a girl what would you do?
E: I'd be very angry and I would work to get you out of jail. And let everyone know how wrong it was that you were in jail for marrying a girl.
O: Do they throw kids in jail?
E: It all depends on what they do.
O: If I went to jail what would you do?
E: I'd hope you were visiting someone else.
O: Do you know where I want to live when I grow up?
E: No where?
O: China. And I'm going to marry Nhya. Can girls marry girls?
E: Yes.
O: And boys?
E: If they want.
O: You don't go to jail for marrying a girl?
E: No. At least they don't do that.
O: If I went to jail for marrying a girl what would you do?
E: I'd be very angry and I would work to get you out of jail. And let everyone know how wrong it was that you were in jail for marrying a girl.
O: Do they throw kids in jail?
E: It all depends on what they do.
O: If I went to jail what would you do?
E: I'd hope you were visiting someone else.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Birthday Party for A Princess
We're at the Defcon 2 level of birthday party planning. Short of sending out invitations, we're deciding theme and decorations and debating whether it's going to be cupcakes or cake and then of course, what flavor - chocolate with chocolate icing and dried blueberries? Strawberry? I definitely want to make these and perhaps this.The guest list is being negotiated. The rule at our house is one kid guest per birthday year of the child which I'm sure we'll want to amend somewhere in the teens. We've also completely eliminated parties for the smalls (ie. babies, toddlers, etc). This works well.
Last year we celebrated Olivia's birthday by going out for dinner on what turned out to be Mardi Gras. We went to Chenery Park, one of our favorite restaurants in San Francisco. Favorite because of its Tuesday Kids nights and the way they have with mac-n-cheese. Olivia ended up gracing the cover of the Chronicle Food Section and as even her friend Jake, knows, she's dressed as Tinkerbell.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sparkler Breast
You know how it is when you're driving in your car and your breast starts feeling like a sparkler is going off inside it? It's not as romantic a feeling as you might imagine. In fact, the pain is so exquisite that you wish you could stop and bang your head against the road just to take your mind off things a bit. Or maybe while you're down there someone will run you over and make things more interesting. Character building. Hellatastic.Sparkler Breast (aka plugged milk duct) is almost as fun as sleeping in two hour cycles for over a year or a week of excruciating headaches. I didn't experience this with the first two kids, but with little Marshall it is a regular occurrence.
It is also true that Sparkler Breast will ignite when you're trying to get your kids to pick out a birthday gift for their buddy. Or when you don't drink enough water or when it damn well feels like it for no apparent reason at all. But especially in public because when Sparkler Breast strikes your first reaction will be to grab your breast and twist and turn and try to expel the dreaded fire. Kind of like Aunt Ada when she's speaking in tongues. And surely not the best choice in the children's toy section.
Sparkler Breast? Oh Sparkler Breast. The only way out is through.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas
Because it's like a week away people. And it's cold. And there is snow about 500 feet above my house. No lie. I saw it driving home this afternoon.
And because today was the annual Christmas Party at my husband's office. The hit toy of the evening was this wind-up Penguin that shoots candy out of its ass.
But for me, it just isn't Christmas without the Aluminum Tree. For the first four years of my life, that's the kind of tree we had and frankly, I loved it. The color wheel is why and because Aluminum is the substance most suited to conveying the magic of Christmas. I say that with complete sincerity.
And because today was the annual Christmas Party at my husband's office. The hit toy of the evening was this wind-up Penguin that shoots candy out of its ass.
But for me, it just isn't Christmas without the Aluminum Tree. For the first four years of my life, that's the kind of tree we had and frankly, I loved it. The color wheel is why and because Aluminum is the substance most suited to conveying the magic of Christmas. I say that with complete sincerity.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Burning Bridges
I've burned many a bridge in my brief but exciting life, but never did I expect that one day I would blow it all at our local grocery store. We just needed to pick up a couple of things - yogurt tubes, bread, and eggs. A quick in and out even with three kids in tow, right? My god, we were there for about an hour and everyone in the store came to know us by the loud, piercing screams that emanated from the dairy section where we were lodged in a death dance while Olivia tried to decide whether she wanted blueberry or orange cream yogurt. "There's too many choices!" she screamed.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Since When Do You Have to Make An Appointment with the Balloon Person At Chevy's?
That's the burning question of the day. 'Cuz after waiting for 40 minutes for the balloon lady to make her way over to our side of the restaurant, she is finally within range. And Olivia is standing at the end of our table watching her make a kitty cat, a turkey, and a butterfly balloon animal for the kids only a table away from ours. She has been so patient. When we came back from the restroom, she wanted to go over to the balloon lady right then, but I said, no - she'll be over. Roger and I ate our overcooked sampler platter and drank our pre-made mix margaritas and Carter and Olivia accepted Chevy's burnt chicken nugget offering because we came there to ride the entire ride. And that includes watching them make the tortillas and getting a balloon from the balloon man - it's usually a man.
Tonight is different. Tonight there is a balloon lady and she makes the best balloons. And there she is, she's right there right next to us and Olivia is dancing and shuddering and her face is red and the balloon lady is so much better than the balloon man, so much more precise and careful and there - she's giving a last little twist to the butterfly's antennae and pulling out her Sharpie to give it a face and handing it to the little girl and then there are the hugs and the oh, that's what I live fors and the release and the look at Olivia standing, waiting and knowing with absolute certainty that It Is Now Her Turn and what? What?
There is the scream and the devastation as the balloon lady turns and walks away from us. And all the waiting and the patience and the hoping and the almost having and it being right there her turn is crashing into her and she falls into my arms sobbing and the balloon lady looks back and sees this and still - still - she walks away.
Fucking balloon lady.
I wish I had gone with my gut and followed her. Gone right over to the other side of the room with my unraveling daughter and cornered the balloon lady and made her make my girl a turkey. But it seemed slightly irrational at the time, no matter how justified. I wish I had. Because then there wouldn't have been the ride home in the van in the dark and the sobbing and the trying to come to terms with being ditched by the balloon lady.
O: Why, Mommie, why? Why did the balloon lady not come to our table?
E: I don't know Olivia. I'm so sorry.
O: The balloon man never leaves.
E: The balloon lady was very mean.
O: Maybe she doesn't come over when little kids are crying.
E: But you weren't crying Olivia. You were waiting. You were so patient.
O: Why did she do that Mommie?
E: I don't know, honey. I'm really sorry she did that to you. That wasn't right.
And when I see the balloon lady again, and I'm going to make a point to see the balloon lady again, even if it means choking down another bad meal and possibly waiting in an incredibly long line, because she owes my girl a balloon animal and an apology. Nothing less will do. There must be a rule? A clown school rule? Oh sure. I know there is disappointment and Olivia's better off getting used to that, huh? But there's another valuable lessen here and the balloon lady needs to learn it - I will teach her - she will learn: no one has to take shit from clowns.
Tonight is different. Tonight there is a balloon lady and she makes the best balloons. And there she is, she's right there right next to us and Olivia is dancing and shuddering and her face is red and the balloon lady is so much better than the balloon man, so much more precise and careful and there - she's giving a last little twist to the butterfly's antennae and pulling out her Sharpie to give it a face and handing it to the little girl and then there are the hugs and the oh, that's what I live fors and the release and the look at Olivia standing, waiting and knowing with absolute certainty that It Is Now Her Turn and what? What?
There is the scream and the devastation as the balloon lady turns and walks away from us. And all the waiting and the patience and the hoping and the almost having and it being right there her turn is crashing into her and she falls into my arms sobbing and the balloon lady looks back and sees this and still - still - she walks away.
Fucking balloon lady.
I wish I had gone with my gut and followed her. Gone right over to the other side of the room with my unraveling daughter and cornered the balloon lady and made her make my girl a turkey. But it seemed slightly irrational at the time, no matter how justified. I wish I had. Because then there wouldn't have been the ride home in the van in the dark and the sobbing and the trying to come to terms with being ditched by the balloon lady.
O: Why, Mommie, why? Why did the balloon lady not come to our table?
E: I don't know Olivia. I'm so sorry.
O: The balloon man never leaves.
E: The balloon lady was very mean.
O: Maybe she doesn't come over when little kids are crying.
E: But you weren't crying Olivia. You were waiting. You were so patient.
O: Why did she do that Mommie?
E: I don't know, honey. I'm really sorry she did that to you. That wasn't right.
And when I see the balloon lady again, and I'm going to make a point to see the balloon lady again, even if it means choking down another bad meal and possibly waiting in an incredibly long line, because she owes my girl a balloon animal and an apology. Nothing less will do. There must be a rule? A clown school rule? Oh sure. I know there is disappointment and Olivia's better off getting used to that, huh? But there's another valuable lessen here and the balloon lady needs to learn it - I will teach her - she will learn: no one has to take shit from clowns.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Cuppa cuppa hot hot hot
While I was spooning out cough medicine (homeopathic) for Olivia this morning we had the following exchange:
O: What if they had a medicine to take for work?
E: They do. It's called coffee.
O: What if they had a medicine to take for work?
E: They do. It's called coffee.
Friday, October 31, 2008
NAPLWRIMO: 30 Days to a New Play
By Thanksgiving you'll have most of it done and think how much juicer turkey will taste, how much more pumpy umpy umpy pumpkin pie will taste, how much stuffier wuffy wuffy stuffing will taste, how much cranberry airy airier cranberries will taste, and so on.
Sign up here.
It won't take seventeen years. I promise.
There will be some days when it feels like it's taking seventeen years. But it's only 30 days I promise and you can write a play in 30 days, you can.
Sign up here.
It won't take seventeen years. I promise.
There will be some days when it feels like it's taking seventeen years. But it's only 30 days I promise and you can write a play in 30 days, you can.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Oozy and Crunchy Eyeballs
I will be making these for my son's 3rd grade Halloween Party on Friday. Will he eat any of them? No. He will not.
Ground Control
Do you sometimes forget that you are living on a planet? That, you know, a big, spherical object with you on it is hurtling through space?
I do.
Some days it might just as well be flat.
But then there are days like today when I'm driving along 280 and can see the clouds spiral and stretch across the sky like long whispy strands of cotton candy that I'm reminded that ah, yes, we are moving.
If you need some perspective you can check out these photos. (h/t our may in berlin)
I do.
Some days it might just as well be flat.
But then there are days like today when I'm driving along 280 and can see the clouds spiral and stretch across the sky like long whispy strands of cotton candy that I'm reminded that ah, yes, we are moving.
If you need some perspective you can check out these photos. (h/t our may in berlin)
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Fried Chicken
I love roasted chicken. My husband is not so fond of it. Last night when he asked what was for dinner and I said chicken, he looked kind of beaten down when he asked "roasted chicken?" "Well. I have to cook the chicken," was all I could think to say because I have been awakened by little Marshall every hour on the hour past midnight for the past two weeks and my snappy comebacks are more snappy that comeback-y I guess you could say.
But I thought about it. I flipped through my big notebook of recipes. When it fell open to the page with the fried chicken recipe I thought to myself I just can't go there. I can't go to the dark side. You know the greasy, fat-fried dark side. The reason being that I love fried chicken and I will not stop eating it once I start. This could go wrong in any number of ways that mostly will affect my health, but anyway. I grew up eating fried chicken every Sunday with mashed potatoes and gravy and salty over-cooked green beans or salty-overcooked southern greens or salty over-cooked canned corn or salty-over cooked slightly peppered canned peas (except in summer when food was fresh from the garden), and combination salad. Combination salad deserves its own post, but for those of you who aren't familiar with it - combination salad is chopped up iceberg lettuce, shredded carrots, cucumber or a few tomatoes maybe but not always, sluiced in salad dressing made from two primary ingredients - Kraft salad dressing (not mayonnaise, rather a mayonnaise-like substance) and sugar. Sugar. Oh, and iced tea - Nestea and lemon and Sugar. Sugar. God I miss my grandmother's iced tea.
So I made the fried chicken using this recipe. It was the first time the kids ever had southern fried chicken and they were skeptical. I told them: "It's like katsu chicken. Really. Sort of. Except for the bones and the lack of flatness and the light panko breading." Olivia picked the breading off. Carter ate a little of both. Then they both devoured an entire breast. Because the secret is that the inside is oh so moist and tender from all that flash fat frying, eh? And not so greasy.
Note: I did not season the flour with paprika or thyme or dried mustard like the recipe called for. I did, however, use the full 1 tablespoon of salt and pepper and a sprinkling of cayenne (the kids don't do spicy so well). It was flavorful, but a little too hard-shell. I prefer the coating to be delicately crispy and light which may be as much about my technique as about the recipe itself . The thing I like about it is that you finish it in the oven, which also helps keep it tender and moist. I also liked frying it in my big iron skillet just like grandma used to.
Now I've crossed the threshold. Fried chicken is back on the menu chez nous. I'll be experimenting with various techniques and ingredients - namely butter milk marinades and such. It's all in the name of expanding the kids' food horizons. Sure.
But I thought about it. I flipped through my big notebook of recipes. When it fell open to the page with the fried chicken recipe I thought to myself I just can't go there. I can't go to the dark side. You know the greasy, fat-fried dark side. The reason being that I love fried chicken and I will not stop eating it once I start. This could go wrong in any number of ways that mostly will affect my health, but anyway. I grew up eating fried chicken every Sunday with mashed potatoes and gravy and salty over-cooked green beans or salty-overcooked southern greens or salty over-cooked canned corn or salty-over cooked slightly peppered canned peas (except in summer when food was fresh from the garden), and combination salad. Combination salad deserves its own post, but for those of you who aren't familiar with it - combination salad is chopped up iceberg lettuce, shredded carrots, cucumber or a few tomatoes maybe but not always, sluiced in salad dressing made from two primary ingredients - Kraft salad dressing (not mayonnaise, rather a mayonnaise-like substance) and sugar. Sugar. Oh, and iced tea - Nestea and lemon and Sugar. Sugar. God I miss my grandmother's iced tea.
So I made the fried chicken using this recipe. It was the first time the kids ever had southern fried chicken and they were skeptical. I told them: "It's like katsu chicken. Really. Sort of. Except for the bones and the lack of flatness and the light panko breading." Olivia picked the breading off. Carter ate a little of both. Then they both devoured an entire breast. Because the secret is that the inside is oh so moist and tender from all that flash fat frying, eh? And not so greasy.
Note: I did not season the flour with paprika or thyme or dried mustard like the recipe called for. I did, however, use the full 1 tablespoon of salt and pepper and a sprinkling of cayenne (the kids don't do spicy so well). It was flavorful, but a little too hard-shell. I prefer the coating to be delicately crispy and light which may be as much about my technique as about the recipe itself . The thing I like about it is that you finish it in the oven, which also helps keep it tender and moist. I also liked frying it in my big iron skillet just like grandma used to.
Now I've crossed the threshold. Fried chicken is back on the menu chez nous. I'll be experimenting with various techniques and ingredients - namely butter milk marinades and such. It's all in the name of expanding the kids' food horizons. Sure.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Apparently It's Not Terrorism If You Agree with Their Agenda
There's no question that Bill Ayers by his own admittance was one who sought to destroy our US Capitol and our Pentagon. That is a domestic terrorist," Palin said, referring to a 1960s leftist who founded a radical violent gang dubbed the "Weathermen" -- and who years later supported Obama's first run for public office in the state of Illinois.No. Wait. You've got to hear her say it.
Check out the Huffpost.
The Words German Engineering and Babies Should Not Appear Anywhere in the Same Sentence.
Not even in reference to Routan babies.
Have you seen that freaky ad with Brooke Shields and the babies and the VW van? I get that it's supposed to be "hilarious," that it's a mockumentary. But I don't know, it's a little - oh - tasteless.
I see the print ads in Parent and Cookie Magazines and I ask myself:
Why is it that such a carefully assembled multicultural mix of babies is not smiling? Hmm?
Don't they appreciate German Engineering?
Or it is because they just instinctively know that the words German engineering should not appear in a sentence with any word that is remotely human-related. 'Cuz remember the time when the German engineering thing got out of hand? With the people and the ovens? And the death camps? Hmm? Did the ad firm you hired collectively fail world history or is VW (Excuse me, Das Auto?) all about embracing its roots these days? Hmm?
Nice car
Ah, I love those Bavarians
so meticulous - Don Henley, The Garden of Allah
Have you seen that freaky ad with Brooke Shields and the babies and the VW van? I get that it's supposed to be "hilarious," that it's a mockumentary. But I don't know, it's a little - oh - tasteless.
I see the print ads in Parent and Cookie Magazines and I ask myself:
Why is it that such a carefully assembled multicultural mix of babies is not smiling? Hmm?
Don't they appreciate German Engineering?
Or it is because they just instinctively know that the words German engineering should not appear in a sentence with any word that is remotely human-related. 'Cuz remember the time when the German engineering thing got out of hand? With the people and the ovens? And the death camps? Hmm? Did the ad firm you hired collectively fail world history or is VW (Excuse me, Das Auto?) all about embracing its roots these days? Hmm?
Nice car
Ah, I love those Bavarians
so meticulous - Don Henley, The Garden of Allah
Monday, October 20, 2008
Unrelenting Optimism
On the ride back from getting take-out tonight Olivia was showing me pages from her Bb book that she made in preschool today.
O: Look Mom! What's this?
E: I can't tell you. I'm driving.
O: Look in the mirror! See!
E: Olivia, it's not safe to distract the driver.
O: What?
E: It's not safe to ask Mommy to look at pictures while she's driving.
O: Oh.
Then Carter chimes in:
C: Right, Olivia. Because Mom could crash the car into something, it could explode and catch on fire.
O: And then we'd have to walk home?
O: Look Mom! What's this?
E: I can't tell you. I'm driving.
O: Look in the mirror! See!
E: Olivia, it's not safe to distract the driver.
O: What?
E: It's not safe to ask Mommy to look at pictures while she's driving.
O: Oh.
Then Carter chimes in:
C: Right, Olivia. Because Mom could crash the car into something, it could explode and catch on fire.
O: And then we'd have to walk home?
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Denial Is A Sign of A Deep-Seated Issue
We are working strange, wiggy magic around here. Yep. We're cleaning house. Left to our own devices we'd bury ourselves in old magazines, broken toys, and cereal boxes. But everyone has their limit and I've reached mine - I tried to put down a glass of water on my desk yesterday and there was absolutely no space for it.
We went walking (although the kids felt it was a forced march) with a friend recently. As we were walking by a particularly cluttered looking yard. "You should have seen it last week. You couldn't see the yard," my friend pointed out, wondering if maybe the elderly woman who lived there had compulsive hoarding disease.
Then I watched this documentary:
POSSESSED from Martin Hampton on Vimeo.
Read more about his film project here.
Okay. We're not into that territory - yet. But I do kind of fall into the book hoarding category - I even have piles of library books. Of course, some are for my thesis, but others are not. The key phrase here is that hoarding interrupts social interaction and affects health. I mean my kids already do that.
We went walking (although the kids felt it was a forced march) with a friend recently. As we were walking by a particularly cluttered looking yard. "You should have seen it last week. You couldn't see the yard," my friend pointed out, wondering if maybe the elderly woman who lived there had compulsive hoarding disease.
Then I watched this documentary:
POSSESSED from Martin Hampton on Vimeo.
Read more about his film project here.
Okay. We're not into that territory - yet. But I do kind of fall into the book hoarding category - I even have piles of library books. Of course, some are for my thesis, but others are not. The key phrase here is that hoarding interrupts social interaction and affects health. I mean my kids already do that.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Can Someone Maybe Appropriate A Dartboard?
An intern at my husband's office has been telling us about her boyfriend who works at the Fed. Apparently when the crisis hit a few weeks ago he was in the bathroom when men started running in and vomiting in the stalls. Stress much? Now with the bailout plan in place and all, the general opinion is that they still have no idea what to do. Thank you government intervention.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
That's Ma Fox. He's Ma Friend.
I know it's wrong. I recognize the flawed logic (if it can even be called that) of befriending a wild animal.But I can't get enough of the Timmy the Fox episodes from Timothy Treadwell's The Grizzly Man Diaries on Animal Planet.
Clicky clicky here for your descent on the slippery slope of environmentalism.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Olivia's Corn Monologue & Song
Your mom likes corn.
Your dad likes corn.
You baby brother likes corn.
You don't like corn.
Your big brother doesn't like corn.
Your mom likes corn.
Your dad likes corn.
Your baby brother likes corn.
You don't
You don't
Like! Corn!
Your mom likes corn.
Your dad likes it
Your baby brother likes it
You Don't Like It!
Corn.
Mom likes corn
Dad likes corn
Your baby brother likes corn
Mom likes corn
Dad likes corn
Your baby brother likes corn
You don't
But your not scared of it.
Singing now:
Your little baby
brother
likes corn
But you say I don't like corn!
My mom
My dad
No one likes to worry
They like
They like corn.
Now singing to the tune of So Long Farewell from The Sound of Music:
They sing
They walk
They only get the plant
They walk and sing
Then they have the corn.
They dance
They eat
They really like corn
They don't know when they
find the corn
They sing and dance
Then they go to bed
They're tired
They're exhaust
Their bed
They really need it now.
I don't
I don't
I don't like corn
But I'm not afraid of it.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Have You Done It?
Check your deadlines here.
You can do it here, here, or here - https://secure5.ctsg.com/rtv/ovr/index.asp?pid=99.
I'll bake you a pie (you must send me proof of registration).
(h/t - Lessig Blog.)
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Okay. I Couldn't Resist.
Jon over at Yowsa got fed up with all the spam mail he receives and decided to strike back. After getting the following email over and over today, I was inspired to do the same. Here's the letter I received. It's pretty much the standard.
Good day!!!Here's my reply:
I have been waiting for you since to contact me for your Confirmable BankDraft of $500,000 United States Dollars, but I did not hear from you since for a couple of weeks now. Then I went to the bank to confirm if the draft has expired or getting near to expire and Dr.Wilson the Director United Bank for Africa told me that before the draft will get to your hand that it will expire.
So I told him to cash the $500,000 USD UNITED STATES DOLLARS to cash payment to avoid losing this fund under expiration as I will be out of the country for a 6 Months Course.
What you have to do now is to contact FEDEX COURIER SERVICES as soon as possible to know when they will deliver your Consignment to you because of the expiring date.
For your information, I have paid for the delivering Charge, Insurance premium. The only money you will send to the FEDEX COURIER SERVICES to deliver your Consignment direct to your postal Address in your country is ($150USD) One Hundred and fifty United States Dollars only being Security Keeping Fee of the Courier Company so far. Again, don't be deceived by anybody to pay any other money except ($150USD) Dollars for the Security Keeping Fee. I would have paid that but they said no because they don't know јhen you will contact them and in case of demurrage.
You have to contact FEDEX COURIER SERVICES now for the delivery of your BOX with this information bellow;
CONTROLLER: MR.JOHN KIRK COMPANY'S
NAME: FEDEX COURIER SERVICES EMAIL ADRESS:
(info_fedex11@yahoo.dk)
МHONE NUMBER: +234-708-489-3187
Finally, make sure that you reconfirm your Postal address and Direct telephone number to them again to avoid any mistake on the Delivery and ask them to give you the tracking number to enable you track your package over there and know when it will get to your address. Let me repeat again, try to contact them as soon as you receive this mail to avoid any further delay and remember to pay them thЏir Security Keeping fee of ($150USD)Dollars for their immediate action. Note this. The FEDEX COURIER SERVICES don't know the contents of the Box.
I registered it as a BOX of Africa cloths. They did not know the content was money. This is to avoid them delaying with the BOX. Do not let them know that box contents money ok.
I am waiting for your urgent response. Yours Faithfully,
Mr. Shawn Mark.
Dear Mr. Mark:
Such prodigious news! You may be aware of the critical financial situation we Americans are finding ourselves in. In fact, my bank was seized by the federal government only this Thursday last. People were lined up outside the bank for fear that they would not get their money back. I trembled at the thought of losing what is, for me, hard earned money.
I am indeed sorry I missed your previous message. My husband is a very jealous man and has been intercepting my email. I am afraid maybe that is what became of your last effort at contact. If you should get a call or an email from Mr. Steve Douglas, please make every effort to avoid speaking directly to him. If you must enter into conversation with him, please do not, I am begging you Mr. Mark, please do not breathe a word of our relationship. He would not believe it if you told him it was strictly financial. He would say ugly things about my virtue and insinuate that more than money was changing hands. You must understand, he has not been himself for several dismal years and every day his bitterness and mistrust grows like some foul weed choking off all our love and fond esteem. You must believe me, Mr. Mark, I have tried to be a good wife, but I am near my breaking point. With the financial markets in such collapse and my trust fund threatened, as well as the likelihood of foreclosure on our house, I have begun to wonder if maybe I have been wrong about putting all my eggs in one basket, for robbing Peter to pay Paul as it were. Let me be honest, my marriage is a sham, the love we had has wasted away like a corpse in July. No one knows this, not even Corrine, my best friend. We lunch every Tuesday noon and serve on numerous community fundraising concerns, but I have not been able to bare my soul to her. The weight of the silence that has built up around my husband and I has become untenable. I may be of a mature age, Mr. Mark, but I have needs. And they are not being met. In fact, Steve and I have not had sexual congress in many years because of an unfortunate hunting accident that left my dear husband's manly member somewhat misshapen and dysfunctional. Up until that time, Steve, was my husband in every way. In fact, I was quite unschooled when we first wed, but will be forever grateful for the world of wonder he introduced me to and to this day I regret that I ignored my father's admonitions to always, always, always, maintain the target within my site whilst pointing any high-powered weapon. Now Steve and I both bear the brunt of my impetuous and foolhardy practices. Indeed, it is out of guilt that I have maintained my quiet and resolute celibacy even though I am ashamed and devastated when I think of the years that I've wasted and the chances I've had to turn other men's eyes. I am not unattractive, Mr. Mark, and could have my choice of any number of eligible, mature men who not only know their way around the garden, as the saying goes, but are very careful where they plant the irrigation hose.
But to the matter at hand. Pardon my unseemly rush at disclosure, but I find myself opening up to you and I think it is because of the kindness you've extended me in looking out for my interests in this very delicate financial matter. There is so much cynicism in the world today, so much ugliness and mistrust. I am sensitive to these sorts of universal vibrations. My stern father taught me to believe in the Golden Rule and to suffer no fool kindly which, now that I think on it, seem to contradict each other. Perhaps the tension between these thorny truths has contributed to my waywardness and fed my restless nature in ways that I am only now becoming aware of. At any rate, you will find me ready to rhumba, as the saying goes and I will never forget the kindness you have extended to me.
But, Mr. Mark, I must confess, I do not know what Fedex Courier Service is. I have never had dealings with any such company. I asked Roy, my butler, and he seemed as perplexed by the phrase as I. It is no secret that Steve handles most of our business dealings with the exception of my trust fund - it's become a point of pride with him, the dear is compelled to exercise his manliness in every little way he can and I try to be supportive, but the cost is my own ignorance of such affairs! So if you could be so kind as to tell me how I would go about contacting the Fedex Courier Service I would be most grateful for your patience and sanguine nature. Are you sure Fedex Courier Service can be trusted or can you recommend another service. It occurs to me that if they would try to deceive me into revealing the contents of my box, it might be prudent to seek a more reputable company with which to conduct business.
I await your patient counsel.
Sincerely,
Elsbeth H.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Hey Mama What's Rockin'?
After 12 straight hours alone with the kids, there are days when I find myself babbling. I start to say something to one of the kids like you know maybe you should stop screaming and you - you - you stop holding your sister by the ankles and making her scream I don't care if she asked you to do it that screaming is stripping my last nerve. Except it doesn't come out like that: it comes out like you you oughta not to do that cause you shouldn't oughta do that cause cause cause hey look at that wall. Bang bang bang. My head hurts. Ow.
It's like an out of body experience. I hear the words. I know I'm speaking but I can no longer make meaning or form coherent thoughts. This is one of those moments when you sound ridiculous and the kids know it and you know you've heard this kind of talk before - yeah, your parents used to talk like that. Their mouths would open and words would come out but they made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Those parents: ideally, they'd be around now and in your house (most likely laughing at you), but finally serving some sort of utilitarian function - like helping out with the kids. Like taking them out for ice cream or teaching them to throw lawn darts. Circumstances being what they are (parent's not dead but crazy- remember I said ideally) that is not an option for me.
So I'm learning to navigate this moment by taking a mommy time out. Oh sometimes a cocktail sure would be nice - and I've been known to load the kids in the car and drive to some kid- friendly place like Chevy's so they can have balloons and ice cream and some form of cheese or chicken and I can have a margarita with dinner. And after a reasonable time and a pitcher of water I take them home. I've been known to do that - though not too often because now that would be a problem wouldn't it? Or else I whip out the chocolate, sugar, eggs, flour, butter and vanilla and mix up a batch of brownies. Afterwards I hold the chocolate-covered spoon in my mouth like the serotonin just can't get to my brain fast enough which is absolutely true. Other times it's best to get the kiddies in the tub and playing so I can sit on the floor and regain my composure or at least my ability to turn thoughts into speech. There's also the trick of urging them into their pajamas with the promise of "hey you'll have lot's of time to read to yourselves in bed!" This never works never ever but I still throw it out there 'coz I've heard that if you repeat something long enough the information eventually takes hold. Like you have to repeat it a lot. Like zillions - no bazillions of times. Like you have to say it until the words lose all meaning and even the syllables - what are those? right? - even the syllables and speech itself, speech itself seems like about as useful as having a tail or an extra toe, and then maybe, maybe someday soon like after all those bazillion times, the kids will suddenly, inexplicably find themselves wanting to put on their jammies and get in bed with a really really good book without even pausing to demand cookies and milk. I wish they were like the dog.
You toss the ball throw the frisbee shine the flashlight and you and he can be amused for hours and he may even not eat a diaper or scarf your dinner when you aren't looking or puke on your shoes. The kids are not like the dog. But then again, they don't eat diapers - score! Here we are at the end of the day and they aren't tired oh no they maybe running on fumes but it only energizes them. It only adds to their determination to eek out the juice from this day. Sometimes all I can do is shut up and let them run it out. And this is fun, as long as no one is being bodily harmed, the house isn't being set on fire, and if - A Big If - I can take a step back and just enjoy them without being conscious of how freaking overwhelmed I feel. No lie. It's hard to manage this. But I've been working on it with varying degrees of success. Maybe it's about finding the strength or maybe it's the giving up of getting your way or just being so freaking tired that your head feels numb and you can't fight back anymore. But you take a step back and you see how alive they are and how this moment when the sun is just so and Marshall is sitting in the pasta pot and hugging Carter and Olivia is flitting across the room like a flower fairy is so very fleeting and what a gift it is, and there is a trail of toys and clothes and shoes and paper clips and books and tissue that leads from one end of the house to the other and spaghetti sauce is smeared on the table, this one moment is singular and will never, no not ever, not even in a bazillion years, this moment will not come round again.
It's like an out of body experience. I hear the words. I know I'm speaking but I can no longer make meaning or form coherent thoughts. This is one of those moments when you sound ridiculous and the kids know it and you know you've heard this kind of talk before - yeah, your parents used to talk like that. Their mouths would open and words would come out but they made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Those parents: ideally, they'd be around now and in your house (most likely laughing at you), but finally serving some sort of utilitarian function - like helping out with the kids. Like taking them out for ice cream or teaching them to throw lawn darts. Circumstances being what they are (parent's not dead but crazy- remember I said ideally) that is not an option for me.
So I'm learning to navigate this moment by taking a mommy time out. Oh sometimes a cocktail sure would be nice - and I've been known to load the kids in the car and drive to some kid- friendly place like Chevy's so they can have balloons and ice cream and some form of cheese or chicken and I can have a margarita with dinner. And after a reasonable time and a pitcher of water I take them home. I've been known to do that - though not too often because now that would be a problem wouldn't it? Or else I whip out the chocolate, sugar, eggs, flour, butter and vanilla and mix up a batch of brownies. Afterwards I hold the chocolate-covered spoon in my mouth like the serotonin just can't get to my brain fast enough which is absolutely true. Other times it's best to get the kiddies in the tub and playing so I can sit on the floor and regain my composure or at least my ability to turn thoughts into speech. There's also the trick of urging them into their pajamas with the promise of "hey you'll have lot's of time to read to yourselves in bed!" This never works never ever but I still throw it out there 'coz I've heard that if you repeat something long enough the information eventually takes hold. Like you have to repeat it a lot. Like zillions - no bazillions of times. Like you have to say it until the words lose all meaning and even the syllables - what are those? right? - even the syllables and speech itself, speech itself seems like about as useful as having a tail or an extra toe, and then maybe, maybe someday soon like after all those bazillion times, the kids will suddenly, inexplicably find themselves wanting to put on their jammies and get in bed with a really really good book without even pausing to demand cookies and milk. I wish they were like the dog.
You toss the ball throw the frisbee shine the flashlight and you and he can be amused for hours and he may even not eat a diaper or scarf your dinner when you aren't looking or puke on your shoes. The kids are not like the dog. But then again, they don't eat diapers - score! Here we are at the end of the day and they aren't tired oh no they maybe running on fumes but it only energizes them. It only adds to their determination to eek out the juice from this day. Sometimes all I can do is shut up and let them run it out. And this is fun, as long as no one is being bodily harmed, the house isn't being set on fire, and if - A Big If - I can take a step back and just enjoy them without being conscious of how freaking overwhelmed I feel. No lie. It's hard to manage this. But I've been working on it with varying degrees of success. Maybe it's about finding the strength or maybe it's the giving up of getting your way or just being so freaking tired that your head feels numb and you can't fight back anymore. But you take a step back and you see how alive they are and how this moment when the sun is just so and Marshall is sitting in the pasta pot and hugging Carter and Olivia is flitting across the room like a flower fairy is so very fleeting and what a gift it is, and there is a trail of toys and clothes and shoes and paper clips and books and tissue that leads from one end of the house to the other and spaghetti sauce is smeared on the table, this one moment is singular and will never, no not ever, not even in a bazillion years, this moment will not come round again.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Confirm Your Unsubscription
That's the message I received when I tried to unsubscribe from The Democratic Party email list. Get this: you have to wait to get a security code to unsubscribe (that's where the confirm your unsubscription message occurs). So let me get this straight, no paper trails for electronic voting machines, but security codes to unsubscribe from a party mailing list. 'Coz there's some vast right wing conspiracy of hackers who make it their mission to unsubscribe the devoted so they can't get their Biden/Obama magnets?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Why Do the Democrats Make It So Hard to Vote For Them?: Joe Biden Edition
So this is what the politics of change look like?
Money quote:
A senior Obama adviser, speaking on condition of anonymity, said his boss has expressed impatience with what he calls a "reverence" inside his campaign for his message of change and new politics. In other words, Obama is willing — even eager — to risk what got him this far if it gets him to the White House.
Wow. The kids'll come out in droves to vote now.
Right.
I won't vote for Biden. No way. It's almost as unsavory as voting for McCain.
Joe Biden
The only guy on the other side who's qualified is John McCain. MSNBC, October 30, 2007
John McCain is a personal friend, a great friend, and I would be honored to run with or against John McCain, because I think the country would be better off, be well off no matter who [won] - The Daily Show, August 2, 2005
Well, the point is, it turned out they didn't, but everyone in the world thought he had them. The weapons inspectors said he had them. They catalogued them. This was not some, some Cheney, you know, pipe dream. This was, in fact, catalogued.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: 1968 really screwed up this country.
Money quote:
A senior Obama adviser, speaking on condition of anonymity, said his boss has expressed impatience with what he calls a "reverence" inside his campaign for his message of change and new politics. In other words, Obama is willing — even eager — to risk what got him this far if it gets him to the White House.
Wow. The kids'll come out in droves to vote now.
Right.
I won't vote for Biden. No way. It's almost as unsavory as voting for McCain.
Joe Biden
- Voted for the War in Iraq
- Only Democratic candidate to vote for the 2007 Iraq war supplemental funding bill that did not contain a withdrawal timeline.
- Said it would be unconstitutional for Congress to cut off funding for an escalation of the war in Iraq, as opposed to a full-scale denial of war funding.
The only guy on the other side who's qualified is John McCain. MSNBC, October 30, 2007
John McCain is a personal friend, a great friend, and I would be honored to run with or against John McCain, because I think the country would be better off, be well off no matter who [won] - The Daily Show, August 2, 2005
Well, the point is, it turned out they didn't, but everyone in the world thought he had them. The weapons inspectors said he had them. They catalogued them. This was not some, some Cheney, you know, pipe dream. This was, in fact, catalogued.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: 1968 really screwed up this country.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Bookworm, grind, egghead, highbrow, intellectual, brain, genius, scholar, slacker
I wish this book had been around when I was in high school. I realize looking back that I shied away from fully embracing my nerdiness, the way most of my friends did, either because there was no other choice or it never even occurred to them to be otherwise. Sure I flaunted my individualism by quoting the likes of Emerson - "whoso would be a man (or woman in my case) must be a non-conformist" or "a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds." I confess: I was a dilettante or is that nerdilettante? (Right there proof of my nerdiness.) Apparently I wasn't alone in my unwillingness or inability to identify with the group. Benjamin Nugent recounts his own experiences denying his best friend and disengaging himself from the nerd pack in American Nerd: The Story of My People.The first part of the book traces the origin of the word nerd and its evolution. It was a bit slow going for me even though I loved reading about how Anne Beatts and Rosie Shuster developed Lisa Loopner and Todd DiLaMuca* as well as the creation of that great late '90's show, Freaks and Geeks. Part 2 provides examples of the many ways the concept of nerd finds expression in our culture starting with two guys who are debate partners (yeah, I was a debater too). In my favorite chapter Nugent deconstructs nerd chic and explains some of the advantages to pretending to be a nerd - primarily as a way of downplaying class and gender differences. He also discusses the advantages of being a nerd in the workplace - a tangent I found particularly illuminating considering I live and work in the San Francisco Bay Area and identify with the frustrations of hanging out with creative types either of the engineer or artistic persuasion (hey, I'm an artist myself). This is the killer quote:
The fake nerd...is a way of dealing with constant threat. The threat, in this case, is a lot milder than that of nuclear war, but it's the single largest threat that hangs over the lives of creative professionals in major cities: losing momentum in your career, losing the aura of an up-and-comer, acquiring the odor of failure. The nature of work in the media, broadly defined, is that it's insecure and transient. Survival depends on maintaining a register of acquaintances who think you're good at what you do, think you're cool, want to hire you, have the power to do so, and haven't been rejected by you sexually. There's often a careerist hustle in the depths of friendships, even when the surface is calm...there is a new version of Richard Yate's immortal couple in Revolutionary Road, the Wheelers. They live in Park Slope, or Silver Lake, or Wicker Park. "God," they sometimes think, "in a way, wouldn't it be kind of nice to be an engineer in the fifties? Not really with all that sexism and conformity and general attitude of fascism, you know? And the discomfort about sexuality? But just not trying to be someone you're not?"*Originally Todd DiLabounta until the real DiLabounta threatened a lawsuit.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Mmmmm. Pecan Pie Bars.
Can I tell you how good these are? Silky, chocolatey, sweet bourbon jesus good.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
A Writer Stretches His Imagination 'til It Snaps
L. Ron explains Xemu in 8 minutes. 8 very long incoherent minutes. Or maybe my negativity is just a manifestation of my psychic trauma and upset and so on and so on.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Memories of Fruit #1: The Persistence of Peaches
More peaches. Juicy and cold. No peach pie yet because we eat them too fast. But soon.
Growing up we had peaches in our backyard. My grandmother and I would sit out on the stone step at the back door on a summer's night and eat a peach we had just picked. The first bite was my favorite - puncturing that fuzzy flesh and then sucking up the juice right down to the pit. I remember the hard stone of the stoop under my bony butt. The hard stone where my great grandmother had fallen during her stroke. She lay inside in a hospital bed unable to speak and unable to walk. Sitting and eating the peach was our little thing - my gramma and me- a quiet close to a day spent bent over doing factory work or in my case talking to tulip trees barely held together by light and riding my wagon around the neighborhood.A few years later, they started spraying the neighborhood for mosquitoes. The trees didn't die instantly. They deteriorated over time until finally they stopped bearing fruit. I have an enduring memory of them - their branches cut off, gnarled and grotesque against the darkening sky. I would sit out on the stoop and throw pebbles at their trunks. Or sometimes I'd hurl myself at their trunks hoping to wake up their roots. But no life was left in them. No matter how hard I shook. Finally, I sat down against the biggest's blackening base and waited. Just waited and cried. After my grandmother had them cut down I would stand on top of the stump and pretend I was the tree spreading my branches against the sky. Or I'd jump up and down on the stumps mindlessly aching for peaches.
From Blossoms
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
The Weight of Sweetness
No easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness.
Song, wisdom, sadness, joy: sweetness
equals three of any of these gravities.
See a peach bend
the branch and strain the stem until
it snaps.
Hold the peach, try the weight, sweetness
and death so round and snug
in your palm.
And, so, there is
the weight of memory:
Windblown, a rain-soaked
bough shakes, showering
the man and the boy.
They shiver in delight,
and the father lifts from his son's cheek
one green leaf
fallen like a kiss.
The good boy hugs a bag of peaches
his father has entrusted
to him.
Now he follows
his father, who carries a bagful in each arm.
See the look on the boy's face
as his father moves
faster and farther ahead, while his own steps
flag, and his arms grow weak, as he labors
under the weight of peaches.
No easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness.
Song, wisdom, sadness, joy: sweetness
equals three of any of these gravities.
See a peach bend
the branch and strain the stem until
it snaps.
Hold the peach, try the weight, sweetness
and death so round and snug
in your palm.
And, so, there is
the weight of memory:
Windblown, a rain-soaked
bough shakes, showering
the man and the boy.
They shiver in delight,
and the father lifts from his son's cheek
one green leaf
fallen like a kiss.
The good boy hugs a bag of peaches
his father has entrusted
to him.
Now he follows
his father, who carries a bagful in each arm.
See the look on the boy's face
as his father moves
faster and farther ahead, while his own steps
flag, and his arms grow weak, as he labors
under the weight of peaches.
Both Poems by Li-Young Lee
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Someday Maybe He'll Wrestle An Alligator
It's nearly four hours since I left home and I've yet to get the call that Carter cut off his hand so I'm supposing it was okay to let him use the box cutters. After all he was being supervised by the babysitter and it's not like we gave him an axe for Chrissake.
It went something thing like this:
"Mom, will you set up a play date for me? (our babysitter) says it's okay if one of my friends comes over."
"No, that's not such a good idea, Carter."
(If the babysitter only knew the hell that could be raised.)
"Why don't we cut out the doors and windows for your recycled city?"
My husband brought home three appliance boxes for the project and they're just waiting for the creativity to flow.
"Can I cut out the boxes?"
"I'll cut them out."
"Oh, why can't I? I've used boxcutters before."
"When?"
"Dad let me use them. He lets me use them all the time."
"Are you serious?"
"Okay, he let me use them one time."
"I'll wait and you draw the doors and windows and I'll cut them out."
Heavy sigh: "Okay, I'll go get a sharpie."
He comes back and starts to draw an elaborate matrix of windows and doors. There's no way I'm going to be able to cut them all out before it's time for me to leave. Finally the babysitter offers to do it. Great.
"Mom, can I please I cut out the cardboard?"
"I'll watch him," the babysitter offers.
So I said yes.
That's right. No! Hell no to the play date. Yes! Why not? To using the box cutters.
Lesser of two evils folks. Lesser of two evils.
When I came out one last time to check on him he was cutting out small windows and holding the instrument dangerously close the blade.
I played with a real bow and arrow when I was eight years old and I only got shot in the head once. You can't even tell now.
It went something thing like this:
"Mom, will you set up a play date for me? (our babysitter) says it's okay if one of my friends comes over."
"No, that's not such a good idea, Carter."
(If the babysitter only knew the hell that could be raised.)
"Why don't we cut out the doors and windows for your recycled city?"
My husband brought home three appliance boxes for the project and they're just waiting for the creativity to flow.
"Can I cut out the boxes?"
"I'll cut them out."
"Oh, why can't I? I've used boxcutters before."
"When?"
"Dad let me use them. He lets me use them all the time."
"Are you serious?"
"Okay, he let me use them one time."
"I'll wait and you draw the doors and windows and I'll cut them out."
Heavy sigh: "Okay, I'll go get a sharpie."
He comes back and starts to draw an elaborate matrix of windows and doors. There's no way I'm going to be able to cut them all out before it's time for me to leave. Finally the babysitter offers to do it. Great.
"Mom, can I please I cut out the cardboard?"
"I'll watch him," the babysitter offers.
So I said yes.
That's right. No! Hell no to the play date. Yes! Why not? To using the box cutters.
Lesser of two evils folks. Lesser of two evils.
When I came out one last time to check on him he was cutting out small windows and holding the instrument dangerously close the blade.
I played with a real bow and arrow when I was eight years old and I only got shot in the head once. You can't even tell now.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
We Have Too Much Cabbage
Yes. That's right. Bet you can't even guess how many is too much can you? I bought a share in our local CSA (right down the road from where we live) and there has been a head of cabbage in our basket every week for about a month or so.
This week's came with the following note: These are indeed large. Do not be overwhelmed.
How much coleslaw can a body take? We're about to find out. Or I could freecycle it. Lest you think I jest - people give away food, used cosmetics, and dryer lint all the time. Waste not.
This week's came with the following note: These are indeed large. Do not be overwhelmed.
How much coleslaw can a body take? We're about to find out. Or I could freecycle it. Lest you think I jest - people give away food, used cosmetics, and dryer lint all the time. Waste not.
Ring a ding ding
Oh look how cute this is. I want it. I'm thinking of how much fun the kids would have if they managed to wrest it from my clutches.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Alton Brown Breaks Down the Apple Pie
This morning we eat a beautiful juicy peach and I've been thinking about peach pie ever since. I'm currently planning a pie-making day. It takes time to make a good pie and if you don't believe me, this episode of Good Eats confirms it.
Question: Does anyone have a grandmother, aunt or relative of any sort who has a pie bird? Have you ever heard of pie bird?
Question: Does anyone have a grandmother, aunt or relative of any sort who has a pie bird? Have you ever heard of pie bird?
Sunday, June 29, 2008
A Charmed Life: Growing Up in MacBeth's Castle
The strongest/most interesting parts of the book are Campbell's stories of medieval Scottish history and her descriptions/perceptions of the natural (sometimes supernatural) world around the castle. She relates well what it was like to walk in two worlds - the historical and the present and of her growing awareness of the rift between the two.If I were directing MacBeth, this would be one of the source books even though Cawdor was never MacBeth's castle. Campbell captures the bloody battles and competition amongst the highland warrior clans explicitly - including a tale about Muriel, the only woman ever to be Thane, who was branded as a baby (strictly for identification purposes in case of kidnapping) and whose nanny bit her little finger off above the joint (when the feared kidnapping finally took place, just to be absolutely sure, should the girl ever return home that she was indeed the heir to Cawdor). Campbell's chronicles of her father's erratic behavior, addictions, and abuse along with a very long list of eccentric ancestors makes great material for creating the characters of MacBeth and Lady M.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Mr. Snow Miser: You done me wrong.
What is it with summer? Last year I contracted Fifth Disease (you may know it as Slapped Cheek) and had painful arthritic symptoms in my hands and knees for two months. Last week my back went into spasm during a water gun fight we had at a picnic for my husband's startup. Let me tell you it is painful. Still. It's been a whole week. A friend loaned me an inversion machine, but I can't lift it and since Roger is out of town - it is left sitting in the garage. I'd probably just get myself stuck on it and life would turn into one of those wacky I Love Lucy episodes.
I've been managing the pain by taking hot baths, icing, and taking Tylenol gel caps. Which was working fine until I burned my back by over-icing. This is something you should never do. Oh, we've all been warned - ice for no longer than twenty minutes. I studied sports massage and worked in a physical therapy clinic - I guess that's why I thought I was immune to the rule.
I was not. I climbed into the bath last Saturday and felt this hellatastic pain at one point on my spine. I reached around and a gooey gob of skin came off! Like I'm fucking Thomas Covenant!
I screamed for Roger to come look at my back. He reported that along with a small circle void of epidermis there were two long reddish rectangles on my back that resembled the cells on my icepack. The pain and the itch are exquisite.
Do Not Adjust Your Television Set
Andy on Love Boat. Does it get any better? No. It does not.
315 Johns: Authentic Warhol or Fo Fo Fo Faux?
When is a Warhol not a Warhol? Apparently when a Factory boy makes it and Andy doesn't know about it.The title, “315 Johns,” sounds less like the name of an artwork than a headline describing a prostitution bust. But in the second volume of the catalogue raisonné enumerating the works of Andy Warhol, it is listed as a 1967 Warhol creation: a series of silk-screens made from a photograph of the artist John Chamberlain and arranged in a heroic grid.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Friday, June 06, 2008
You've Got to Break Many Eggs to Get a Few Flat or Give a Kid a Flat Egg & He'll Maybe Eat for a Day- Afterwards You Must Feed Them to the Wolves
Donut Friday. That's the day Roger takes the kids to school and stops by the donut shop. Donut Friday's the day dad makes breakfast - flat eggs made to order. Salt. No pepper. Not ever! Flat-freakin-eggs.
The kids think their dad's ability to make flat eggs is a skill of the highest culinary order- no gently curdled scramble over medium heat for them. But today Dad was in Seattle and I was left to make the eggs. Who knew that it could be so hard to render an egg rubbery and crepe-like? Can I tell you? I went through half a dozen eggs trying to emulate their dad's flat egg technique. Olivia screamed at me after each failure - "that's not how dad makes them!" When we were down to two eggs I warned them that if they didn't like these then -horrors!- no donuts. But the threat of a Donut-less Friday did not deter them - oh no! They will have their freakin' flat eggs and their donuts too. And I did manage to make two serviceable flat ones. Carter sighed and agreed to eat the last one even though it had a rise, nay an indentation, an inexplicable microscopic formation, a minor change in elevation that rendered it un-flat. "Okaaaay, mom, I'll eeeeat it," he sighed. "I'll eat it. Can you cut in slices like Dad does?"
Slices?????!!!!!! Slices????!!!!!!!!!
The kids think their dad's ability to make flat eggs is a skill of the highest culinary order- no gently curdled scramble over medium heat for them. But today Dad was in Seattle and I was left to make the eggs. Who knew that it could be so hard to render an egg rubbery and crepe-like? Can I tell you? I went through half a dozen eggs trying to emulate their dad's flat egg technique. Olivia screamed at me after each failure - "that's not how dad makes them!" When we were down to two eggs I warned them that if they didn't like these then -horrors!- no donuts. But the threat of a Donut-less Friday did not deter them - oh no! They will have their freakin' flat eggs and their donuts too. And I did manage to make two serviceable flat ones. Carter sighed and agreed to eat the last one even though it had a rise, nay an indentation, an inexplicable microscopic formation, a minor change in elevation that rendered it un-flat. "Okaaaay, mom, I'll eeeeat it," he sighed. "I'll eat it. Can you cut in slices like Dad does?"
Slices?????!!!!!! Slices????!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Where the Streets Not Only Have Names, But Cameras
Where in Dublin is Bono? Check out the Bono Probability Positioning System. Click on Bono's face to find out the probability of actually seeing Bono at that location.
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