I Must Face the Facts

My new computer is a lemon. I love its lightness, love its dimensions, but...

1) It has this ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, problem of hibernating as soon as I turn it on. It was doing this all the time, so I took it in and they replaced the computer, keeping the hard drive, and it stopped doing it quite as often, but still does it randomly, but I didn't have time to take it in again, plus I don't know that they would have replaced it again, plus by now it is probably too late, but really it is the most annoying thing, and I can't believe I am just living with it.

2) The space bar started sticking and I brought it in and they replaced the keyboard, which did solve that problem (as well as the annoying click on the down arrow).

3) The screen seems to have gotten permanently smudged, though that is more of an aesthetic issue when the computer is off as, say, right now when I am typing in Blogger, I can't see the smudges.

4) Programs freeze and hiccup way more than I think they should in such a new computer.

Now please don't say Mac, you Mac-obsessed folk, because S got a Mac for his birthday and, really, the only thing I like about it is that you open it and it's on. It's quite slow, and I don't like not being able to double-touch on the touchpad or right click, and it's got way too many bells and whistles for me, so that would not be the solution. Plus, while I have been known to buy a second datebook because I did not like the first, and this year I hedged against that possibility by buying two datebooks (luckily S wants the second), when it comes to computers, we are definitely in it for the long-term--the Mac replaced a desktop that was at least five years old, maybe six, and that was so slow and shaky I couldn't bear to use it. So, basically, I am stuck with this one, and it's often fine, but when it's not, I'm annoyed--with it and myself.

Best Headline of the Day

Lynne Spear's Parenting Book 'Delayed Indefinitely'

Telling Tales

For many years I have made a point of telling people when someone else says something good about them. I figure spreading compliments is an easy way to make the world a tiny bit better. By the same token, I never tell people when others say bad things about them. This seems like a no-brainer: if spreading positives makes the world better, wouldn't spreading negatives make it worse?

Case in point: the other day I had dinner with a friend, and in the course of the conversation it turned out that she is not so hot on someone I like a lot. Both these facts emerged organically, and they didn't bother me at all: the things she dislikes about the other person are things I fully acknowledge, but in my case they are trumped by things I like; in her case they aren't. No problem: to each her own. But at the end of the evening, she anxiously said to me, "You won't tell [other person] what I said, will you? I mean, I know you're her friend." I assured her--and it was true--that it had never occurred to me to tell the other person, that this was just something I don't do.

I have a friend who loves to tell me when other people dislike me or say mean things about me. It used to get me very upset. "X says Y doesn't like me!" I'd wail to S. "I must be a terrible person! I need to change everything about me, especially the things Y doesn't like!" because X would inevitably fully detail the dislike and its causes. After a while--and this has been going on for many years--I realized that this was X's issue. X (who doesn't read this blog) and I go way way back, and I've always been older and several steps ahead. She adores me and has also called me up to tell me that in a workshop she realized that I was one of the most influential people in her life--in fact, she's told me many times how important I have been to her, and she still turns to me for advice and commiseration. But as she's gotten older (though never as old as me) and gained her own power and influence, I think it's been hard for her to share space with me, and thus the need to cut me down. It still hurts when she says these things, and probably I should tell her not to, but my issue is not being willing to cause conflict in this relationship, so I live with it.

Yesterday I was having a drink with Local K, and she was telling me about a friend who had told her that a lot of people were having problems with another friend, and how she felt terrible and like she needed to tell that person (these are all people I know peripherally and Local K knows well). I immediately told her I would never do that (thinking how odd it was that this topic was coming up for the second time in three days), but she pointed out that the people who are having the problems all work for the other person, and it was a professional issue. I agreed that in that case it might be useful to tell her: if you hear bad things about someone that might affect them negatively, perhaps you have the moral responsibility to tell them? In that case, does countering the negative by exposing it become a small positive?

Need to think about it, but meanwhile this whole topic makes me feel slightly squeegy, so I must be sure to find lots of compliments to give today. That shouldn't be too hard.

They Couldn't Make This Shit Up!

Britney's 16-year-old sister is pregnant. And if her network and her mom are confirming it, she's presumably keeping the baby (abortion is not the kind of thing you go public with if you're a starlet, or a Spears). I'm not quite sure why I feel the need to blog this, because, frankly, it's hard not to go into insulting race-and-class terminology, and I don't really want to go there, for reasons of political correctness, though obviously I do want to go there, for reasons of, well, obviousness.

Earlier this fall I read an issue of Vanity Fair, maybe October, and it was actually really good. I was going to blog about it: it had this incredible piece about corruption in Iraq, a month before the story hit the papers (now I'm thinking maybe it wasn't corruption? it was something unbelievable in Iraq--unbelievable, but true, of course--only I'm too tired to remember what it was) (too tired may be the basis of this entire post). And there were a bunch of great articles, and then there was this totally gossipy irresistible piece about Paris, Lindsay, and Britney's mothers. Basically it said Kathy Hilton is a total sleaze who is in it for the money even though she should have enough money, Dina Lohan has had a very tough life and needs the money, and Lynne Spears is a good mother who doesn't deserve this.

Huh. Well, that's one interpretation. And I should probably stop now, because I'm about to fall down the slippery slope of mommy-bashing, which I theoretically don't want to fall down, but don't you think one of the most important things today's mothers need to do for their daughters is make sure they know about birth control?

Card Update

I've found a picture. I've figured out text (always a sticking point). I've decided on a card.

But I can't get Snapfish to load the picture onto the card without cutting off M's head. Is this a sign? (A sign about cards, not a sign about M.) (And, yes, I've tried to resize the picture, but it doesn't seem to care.)

I do love the text, though, so I might need to keep at it. Somehow. Maybe without Snapfish. Though that would be a lot more work.

You Know, He's Right

OK, so Mike Huckabee thinks the Bible is the literal truth, and opposes abortion, and various other scary things, but the Bush administration DOES have an "arrogant bunker mentality," and I call bullshit on Mitt Romney (who is so unspeakably heinous I can't even speak about him).

A Sad and Pathetic Tale

Today I had four meetings in three places. This involved walk to public transportation to first two meetings to public transportation to third meeting to walk to fourth meeting to walk to public transportation to walk to home. All this took place upon a landscape covered with copiousness of ice and snow. But everything went swimmingly--good meetings, effective and timely transport--with the exception of the boots.

The boots? you ask, with surprise. But aren't you the queen of boots? Why, yes, I am. There are, as you will remember, the five pairs of black boots, including the styling goretex ones, and then there are the hiking boots, the turquoise and green rainboots S gave me for my birthday, the warm and waterproof lace-up snowboots, and then there are the Timberlands. Or rather, I should say, there were the Timberlands.

I decided, upon contemplating the copiousness of ice and snow, that the styling goretex boots were too high-heeled, the warm and waterproof lace-up snowboots were too warm for a day of meetings, and the Timberlands were ideal. The Timberlands are so old I'm not even going to search for a link, but they are (were) (can you tell where this is going?) the perfect femme-butch boots: brown with solid Vibram soles but a nice point to the toes that gave them a certain je ne sais quois. And they seemed perfect for the conditions of the day.

Off I went in the Timberlands (and parka, hat, and gloves, because I have reached my mid-40s and am no longer vain) (that is, am no longer vain when it is freezing cold, which would be about 1% of the time). And then my foot started to feel funny. Both feet, actually. And I looked down and the solid Vibram soles were somewhat askew. And there was a little chunk taken out of one of them, like it had been bitten.

To make a long story short, as I walked the frozen tundra of city streets, my boots FELL APART ON MY VERY FEET. The entire front half of the left sole dissolved, and the middle of the right sole dissolved, and I left pieces of sole all over the city, and soon I was walking on thin leather, and did I mention the frozen tundra? Luckily I was wearing wool socks, and luckily I had a sense of humor, but by the end of the last piece of walk, in the dark, on the tundra, my feet were very very cold. And wet.

The delightful butch-femme Timberlands are now in the trash.

(Both S and my dad were quite indignant, but the fact is that I bought the boots round about 1992, so I really have no grounds upon which to complain, except that my feet were so incredibly cold. And wet. Which means the aftermath is simply a blog post, not a lawsuit.)

Not the Steroids Post

I feel like I should have something to say about the Mitchell report, but I really don't. I mean, I could wax indignant about steroid-abusing baseball players being above-the-fold front-page news when people are dying in Iraq, icecaps are melting, the price of oil means poor people can't heat their homes, blah blah blah, but that's pretty obvious. And, frankly, I don't particularly care about steroids, aside from the role model thing and the health risks for teens. It wasn't even illegal back when they were doing it (I think), so who cares?

S argued that it doesn't matter for bodybuilders, who admit that what they do is just entertainment, but in baseball there is competition! and records! to which I replied, uh, isn't baseball just entertainment? to which he did not have much of a reply. I will admit to a touch of schadenfreude at the number of high-profile, championship-team Yankees named, especially in comparison to the Red Sox (Eric Gagne? by the time we got him the steroids were definitely not relevant, unless they were addling his capacity). But that's about it. Really, I've barely paid attention.

And speaking of sports and not paying attention, I lost M yesterday. It was during her swim meet warm-up. There were about 60 kids in identical suits and caps. She wasn't a boy, she wasn't a tall kid or a heavy kid, but that left...maybe 30 possibilities? She wasn't super fast and she wasn't one of those little ones who barely know their strokes. That left...maybe a dozen, scattered across the lanes, in motion. And it didn't help that I was looking for her old purple goggles when it turned out she was wearing her new blue ones. I scoured the lanes, but there was no way. It turned out I was even focusing on the lane where she was swimming--they were divided vaguely by speed, and I know how fast she is, though apparently I don't recognize her stroke, which made me feel terrible, like when some random child cries and I look up, certain it is M or E, because I am one of those unnatural mothers that doesn't recognize her own child's cry. Though I knew I was being silly, the whole experience of not being able to spot her was quite horrifying.

Eventually they got out and I located her, though it took me a couple of tries. She was usually the one chewing her goggle straps. She did better at this meet than last--won a heat, cut 16 seconds off her 100 back, only got DQed once, for not touching the wall on a flip turn (i.e. a stupid error, not a personal inadequacy). I got a fair amount of work done up in the stands, though it was hot, loud, and full of swim parents who are a fairly unpleasant breed, the loud ones spanning the range of competitive to boring, the quiet ones, like me, perhaps interesting, but in no mood to interact, having gotten up at 5:20 to drive an hour in the cold dark and have the kids on deck by 6:40. That's A.M. We took naps when we got home.

To Card or Not To Card: The Annual Debate

Pro: There are so many people out there that we love, and the holiday card is a great way to keep in touch.

Con: Well, they don't seem to love us so much. Last year we sent out maybe 80 cards and received maybe 20. So far this year: 3.

Pro: The children are beautiful and we need to show them off.

Con: Who cares if the children are beautiful, and isn't it self-aggrandizing to show them off?

Pro: We always have this debate, and we always end up sending a card, even if sometimes it's a Valentine's card.

Con: Well, this year we are very busy and not in a particularly cardly mood.

Pro: But then we'll feel bad about not being in touch with all those people we loved in my first sally.

Con: We always feel bad about something, so we can just put that on the list.

Con seems to be in the lead, but will Pro suddenly strike forth? Will inspiration strike? What will happen with the writer's strike? And how about all those baseball players who recovered from their long-ago strike with steroids? Tune in sometime in the next few months to discover How the Card Turns.

My Little Mountaineer

for Postacademic

E (in parka, snowpants, snowboots, and nylon gloves, preparing to climb the pile of snow at the end of the block that is as tall as she is): I've got my ice axe! I'm climbing the Jungfrau!

Crank That Kosher Boy

According to M, her friend A's brother G's friend from camp made this video. After watching it, I find that very hard to believe (clearly it was made by adults of some sort), but Hebrew school gossip is Hebrew school gossip, so what's a Jewish mother to do?

Here's a Question

Why don't men write confessional essays about the pain of having an enormous penis? Or having a tiny penis, for that matter.

Certainly the essay about the burden of having enormous breasts has been written way more times than it needs to be. It's even been turned into a book. And it always features the Town Shop and Orchard Corset Center (along with Wacoal), which makes me wonder what one does with enormous breasts if one lives in Duluth. Or maybe no one has enormous breasts in Duluth (and now I'm also wondering why the Wacoal website starts with a modernist couch, and how many modernist couches there are in Duluth, and whether perhaps the modernist couch suggests to the large-breasted in Duluth that if they buy Wacoal bras, it will be almost the same as living the glamorous life in New York).

But putting aside breasts and bras to focus on form--narrative form, that is--we can turn to my question. Let me propose a few answers:

The confessional essay in the mainstream media has become thoroughly feminized--witness the ratio of women to men in Modern Love which, over the last several months, tracks precisely at 4:1.

The breast, unlike the penis, is a visible signifier, so the essayist draws attention to what is already noticeable, rather than revealing the hidden. Certainly fashion, to which writing might be compared, works hard to reveal the breast, but leaves the penis alone. And women do not seem prone to catcalls at the sight of penises--perhaps, going back two sentences, because of the visibility aspect.

We are, as a culture, singularly interested in breasts (see fashion, above).

Penises take us too close, generically speaking, to pornography (I'm sure Ron Jeremy's autobiography covers the topic, or rather, uncovers it).

Surely, though, there must be something of interest to say in what one does with one's enormous penis, how one feels about it, how one's partners react to it--or maybe, as in the case of enormous breasts, not.

I'm Really Busy

But here's some Courtney.

The Benefits of Family Dinner

M (as E is being particularly annoying at dinner): Don't even say we're not going to do drugs because of this. This would make someone do drugs.

How Much Do You Think They Paid Her?

Because the best way to contact your daughter is through an open letter in News of the World.

More Adventures with Babka

I now have babka down. I finally typed out the recipe for all the people who asked me for it (because it is THAT good). When they look at it, gasp, and exclaim, "but it's so COMPLICATED," I shake my head with assurance, and say "oh no, really, once you get into it, it's not that hard, and it's so worth it" (refer to the link above for my first time, when I was very much not assured) (and send me an email, or put your email address in a comment, if you want the recipe).

One of the people who wanted the recipe was Local J, only when I sent it to her, she realized she already had the cookbook. And she took the daring step of turning the page, and discovered the most decadent recipe ever. I think it's called something like kuchem-buchem. Basically, you mix cocoa, sugar, and melted butter. Then you take some babka dough and make it into little balls. The recipe says to make a dent in the ball and fill it with a teaspoon of the chocolate mixture, but that didn't work at all. By the third ball I had the technique figured out: flatten the ball into a disk, put a teaspoon of the chocolate mixture in the middle of the disk, and close it up like a beggar's purse. Then roll the ball in the chocolate mixture (yes, chocolate on the inside and outside--I told you it was decadent) and arrange the balls in a buttered baking dish. At that point, I took the liberty of pouring the leftover chocolate mixture over the whole thing. Then you bake it.

It is, simply, outrageously delicious. So from now on, it will be one round babka and one pan of outrageous, decadent chocolate balls. Bring on your Jewish holidays--I'm ready for them! (Though after two parties, two missed parties, trays of latkes, and bushels of presents, I'm about ready for this one to be over.)

Eldridge Street Synagogue

My pal Gopnik is excited too.

Here's Looking at Me

I have the most ridiculous smile. It stretches across my face like a watermelon slice, crinkling my eyes, puffing my cheeks, and making the already-round front of my head wider than it is tall. The problem is I just can't stop it. Once, in college, my friend and I were profiled by a magazine that accompanied its profiles with caricatures. They sent their caricaturist over to sketch us in our daily lives, and he produced picture after picture with that smile dominating my visage. I asked him to try one without the smile, because, truly, I looked ridiculous, and he couldn't do it. I appear to have no face without the smile.

I need a photograph of myself by the end of today. It needs to be a serious photograph--not serious in that I can't be smiling, but serious in that I can't be on top of an Alp, eating a just-picked apple, or standing on one foot making a face in the middle of a field. I woke up yesterday morning in a panic, remembering the photo need, and made S take pictures of me. Don't ever take pictures of yourself first thing in the morning, especially in winter. Enough said about that.

In the evening he took a few more, and general consensus is that they are fine (note: I speak only to general consensus, reserving my own opinion for my self-image support group). Two, in fact, have been deemed thoroughly acceptable, even "adorable" and "great" by the peeps without whom I can make no meaningless decisions (K, reliably, did note that "just your smile is big").

So now, of course, I am stuck with deciding between these two fine photographs, one of which has good color and lacks the smile, but makes my eyes look squinchy and my chin recede (note: the peeps who proffered "adorable" and "great" chose this one). We've adjusted the color on the other, so it's fine, but it features...the smile.

Luckily, I am very busy this morning, so I can't obsess. Then I have maybe an hour in which I can obsess and get about six other things done, and then I am busy again. So the decision will be made one way or another, though I don't think it will make me smile.

Did I mention that I'm also ridiculously vain?

Recent Cooking

Yesterday I made 14 apples (Fuji, Cortland, and Braeburn) worth of applesauce, which was supposed to be sufficient for two Hanukkah parties this weekend, but it's only two quarts, and I have a feeling I'm going to be making more applesauce come Saturday. I'm sure that last year I made many fewer apples worth, planning enough for two events, and it wasn't enough, so I made more this year, only it seems still not to be enough. Is there some law of insufficent apple returns?

On the chocolate cake front, I appear to have been usurped, at least in the case of S's birthday, for which M made the cake 97% on her own (I handled oven duties and layer manipulation during the frosting process). In case you were wondering, it was the devil's food cake from Gourmet, but she chickened out on the brown sugar butter cream and went for chocolate sour cream frosting. It was delicious, but I'm not quite sure I'm ready to give up my mixer.

Today's Post

I've had maybe half a dozen posts in my head today.

There's the Iran post. Isn't this deja vu all over again? The president seems determined not to learn from his mistakes, and this shit makes me CRAZY.

There's the conference update post. E's conference was, as predicted, lovely. M's was fine too--we walked into her history teacher's room, he said "I think she needs a challenge," and we said "oh, you are so insightful, that would be great." I also told the math teacher about my substitute concerns. She told me to tell the guidance counselor. He told me to tell the assistant principal. He nodded sympathetically and non-committally, though he did admit the school's fault in not notifying parents of the original teacher's long-term absence. Ah, bureaucracy.

Then there's the Hanukkah-so-far post. Last night's present was computer games (fashion design for M; Spanish and French adventures for E) which were a theoretical hit, but posed some practical problems. M set up on my computer, which took forever, and E set up on the girls' computer, which wouldn't load the game, so E ended up going to bed in tears for the second night in a row. But today she is getting double screen time and all is well. This morning's present (when S works at night we give presents in the morning when he is home, though we still light candles at night) was Town flannel pajama pants, the plaid ones the girls' hockey team and every girl in middle school wears. M had actually asked for these, to my great annoyance, as I'd already decided to give them to her, so she was thrilled and went off to school in them. E at first said she was NOT going to wear them to school because they were PAJAMAS, but then she did.

OK, what else, oh, there's the two-career family/cultural history/Maslow's hierarchy post, but I think I'll hold off on that one.

And then there's the post I'm actually going to write : the one about kids' clothes. Dawn has been writing about trying to find clothes for Madison, and my friend A was talking about this recently too. They have big daughters (sorry, Dawn, you've written yourself out of any more handmedowns, because it sounds like Madison is as big as E) who don't fit into the current styles. I have tiny daughters who, until recently, barely fit into the current styles either.

M couldn't wear Lands End, Gap, or Target--you've never seen anything as ridiculous as the waistband of a pair of leggings gaping around a little girl's waist. Eventually we discovered Old Navy Slim, the ones with the elastic and the buttons, and with the elastic pulled to the last button, her pants barely stayed up. But finding her pants was a constant problem.

I'm not trying to chime in that thin kids have it tough too--on the one hand they do, but on the other hand to have it tough because your body is at the extreme end of a culturally approved norm is completely different from, well, the opposite (kind of like the white people can be discriminated against, but it's not racism thing) (kind of).

Actually, what interested me as I thought about Dawn's post was standardization, and its impetus, industrialization. 100, 200 years ago, neither Dawn nor I would have had these problems because we would have been measuring our daughters and making clothes that fit their exact bodies (if we were rich, other people would have done the sewing; if we'd been poor, our kids would have worn whatever we could scrounge, regardless of size). Now we have been freed from this labor of fitting the clothes to our daughter, but instead we have to do the work of fitting our daughters to the clothes.

Usually I think about the inadequacy of standardization in terms of education: no one educational system works for every kid; age- and grade-based standards and benchmarks neglect the fact that every kid develops at her own rate; etc. But it's interesting to think about the myriad ways we have been standardized (Big Mac, anyone? McMansion?). And then, of course, there's the fact that standardization also generates choices, so we can spend hours on websites exploring different clothing options, or make excruciating educational choices between Waldorf, Montessori, KIPP, International Baccalaureate, ad infinitum, not to mention plain old one-size-fits-all public school.

I won't wax grandiose about the benefits and costs of industrialization and standardization--that's too predictable. It's just interesting to see one more area in which it's played out. And it's interesting too that when I went back to Dawn's post for the link, several people had offered to sew clothes for Madison.

Did you know

that the thesaurus in Microsoft Word offers no options for "obscene"? And I don't quite want obscene, I want a word similar enough that it would probably be in a thesaurus, but I can't quite think of what it is. And now that I've written obscene twice, the spelling looks totally odd--I wonder if obscene is in spellcheck...

Edited to add: Hooray for www.thesaurus.com. I went for profane, which isn't exactly right either, but is better. Maybe it will just come to me.

As We Say In Our Family

Happy Chanuka Monica!

(usually I spell it with the H, but for some reason this calls for the Ch)

Exercise Addiction

I believe I have exercised every day for at least the last six months, probably longer, though the farthest back would be January or February, because I was so sick last winter and couldn't possibly have exercised. Lately I've been running five or six days a week, and walking or going to yoga on days I don't run. Over the summer I only ran two or three times a week, at best, but I swam every day and walked, oh, countless miles. The walking is my default: last spring I would walk to work and back, half an hour each way, and this fall I've walked all sorts of places--to the subway, instead of taking the bus; downtown, instead of driving. I walk to yoga, take a yoga class, and walk back. Really, I'm quite obsessed, and, besides the fitness and weight implications that are always there, my biggest concern is that if I don't work out, I'll lose my mind.

I feel this in general, but usually it's more tempered: I must work out most days so I can keep myself in a general state of sanity. But lately the idea of not working out is itself anxiety-producing. So yesterday, when it was snowy in the morning, and I had to drive to work in the middle of the day, and be a mother at the end of the day, I tried to tell myself it was OK to take a day off, I mean, I hadn't taken a day off since I could recall, but at 9 p.m., post-children, I found myself googling "free yoga" and "yoga video online" and "free yoga video online," and that's how I found this class, which was easy and relaxing (and dissolved into a bizarre cloud medley at the end), but taught me something new about child's pose and twists, and kept me sane for another day.

(This morning [cold and ice] I went for the first time in months to the gym [treadmill and elliptical].)

Any Mindy Fans Out There?

If you love this book (and we do), you will be thrilled by this news item (and we are).

Teacher Conferences

Both of our teacher conferences are tomorrow and I am at the extremes.

Really, I have nothing to say to E's teacher except "We love you." She is totally tuned in to E. She differentiates beautifully (example: she had the kids drawing items for addition problems, but when it was obvious after three problems that E had this down, she had E write out how she came to her solutions, which showed that E is already using...eh, I'm not so down with the math terminology, but E adds 11 and 4 by taking 1 away from 11 to get 10, and then adding the 1 and 4 to get 15, which may not seem that exciting and important, but take my word for it, it is--basically it means she is thinking conceptually, not just counting units...anyway, that's just one example, but this teacher does it all the time: lets E take the next step, or as many steps as she wants to take). She also has clearly been tracking E's social movements, just as we have, and we are all pleased that E is finally engaging in a real way with the girls in her class. So, basically, there is no reason to even have this conference, except that it's always nice to hear someone praise your kid.

M's conference is another story. Basically I am in a suppressed rage about her school. This school has been the locus of significant community conflict over the last year, and now that we are actually in the school, I am just hornswoggled by the idea that anyone could defend it, let alone claim that it is a wonderful, kid-focused place. My anger begins with cluster placement: I try to support school decisions and believe that school staff are operating on knowledge I may not be privy to. I'm totally down with separating old cliques, but I have just not been able to come up with any justification for putting every single one of M's friends in one cluster, and her in another. She's surmounting this obstacle, but surmounting is not the best way to start off your middle school career, and it's definitely been a lot harder than it needed to be.

Then there's the sick teacher. M's favorite teacher, whom she has for homeroom, English, and science (we won't go into the ridiculous organization of the sixth grade clusters), has been out for weeks with pneumonia. There has been no communication from the school--when I emailed the principal, I got a two-line non-informative response which promised we'd hear as soon as there was news, and apparently the fact that the teacher is still out is not news. The substitute sucks. Last week the substitute was sick and the substitute for the substitute was great--had them draw cells as cities to understand the functions of the different parts of the cell--but presumably one doesn't get a substitute for a substitute forever.

Which brings me to my main complaint, and the one that I think I am going to bring up as carefully as possible in the conference--because the big issue here is that I can't go nuts on them, as I'd like to, because M is in the school, it's a very vindictive place, and the most important thing I need to do as a parent is help her have the easiest (not academically, but emotionally), most successful middle school experience she can. Anyway, she is bored. A lot of the work is actually fine, but she finishes it before the other kids do, and then she just reads. And if M is bored of reading, you know there is not enough happening in those classrooms. And the thing is: it would be so easy. She finishes the worksheet on pre-modern societies? Give her Clan of the Cave Bear and tell her to write a book report! Have her do research on the internet! Give her an art project! She WANTS to learn and to work. She's super-independent and responsible. If you can't meet the needs of that kind of kid, you really shouldn't be teaching (don't get me started on that one, and definitely don't get me started on the worst teacher, who is a psycho sadist from hell).

I'm painting an overly-bleak picture here. I'd say M's experience is generally on the OK-fine spectrum, and there have been projects she loved, classes she likes pretty much every day, and lots of new friends. But going into this conference is testing my capacity to be reasonable, and I hope I can achieve my best self, for her sake.

Modern Love Blah Blah Blah

Today's Modern Love is your typical, not-particularly-well-thought-out firestorm igniter. In case you don't feel like clicking: woman is hideously mistreated by her sorority sisters, comes to mistrust all women, finds her mistrust justified in every group of women she encounters.

I can already tell you the response to come: sorority sisters will protest that their sororities generated life-long bonds of love and support, people will say that this proves women suck, and eventually the author will blog about how dismayed she was by the response, and how once again her opinion of women has been proven (and Daniel Jones will rub his hands together and cackle with glee).

Could it be that, justifiably scarred by her terrible sorority experience, this woman has ever since approached other women with suspicion and a carefully-maintained wall of reserve? And perhaps other women have noticed this, and held back, leaving her feeling isolated and alone?

God, I sound terribly like a victim-blamer, which I do not mean to be. But I firmly believe that some people suck, lots of people don't, and, for the most part (not always, sometimes you are dealing with terrible people, and sometimes bad things just happen), what you get back has a lot to do with what you put out.

And now I can link to this Doonesbury cartoon, which I just loved, for every reason you can imagine.

Recent Movies

Enchanted (in the movie theater! today! with M and E!)
You just can't think about this one too much. Like, uh, what is the takeaway from choosing reality over fairy tale and getting to live happily ever after? Irony + Disney = confusion. Then there's the whole black/Asian/Latino people as scenery thing (shades of 90210). So don't think, just enjoy. Because aside from some dragginess about 3/4 of the way through, this year's loopy Disney princess option is thoroughly enjoyable, especially the opening animation sequence, the NY animals cleaning the apartment, and the Central-Park-goes-wild-for-romance number. And, man, I would love to see this one on gentle hallucinogens.

Hairspray (also in the movie theater! with M, E, and grandparents!)
As I write this, M is listening to "Hello Baltimore" on YouTube (while playing Stardoll). Grandparents and grandchildren loved this one. I liked it well enough. My favorite character was the white best friend with the racist mother who falls in love with the black boy (E just remembered that she is Penny). Of course I liked the John Waters cameo. My major analytic thought was that Hairspray shows what's wrong with Disney TV movies: they try to whitewash politics with bland diversity, which in turn makes for blandness uber alles. But the "let's just dance together" politics of Hairspray also irked me, though I felt hideously cynical for not just getting into the rhythm.

The Bourne Ultimatum (in the movie theater with S! on a Saturday night!)
In case you don't remember, I haven't done action since Face/Off where I was disgusted with the gratuitousness of the speedboat chase and swore off the genre with no regret. But everyone kept saying The Bourne Ultimatum was great, and I started to wonder if I should give action another try, and then it was playing at the corner, and there we were. And it was great. I was kind of blown away in sort of a Rip Van Winkle way, like when I saw Madagascar after not having seen an animated film since, maybe, Dumbo. How do they film that stuff? Can the CIA really watch us like that? Was such an anti-status-quo film really tops at the box office in George W. Bush's America? I think the reason I could stomach the action--really, I quite loved it, though I had to clench S's hand throughout--was that it was so seamless integral to the plot, which was itself seamlessly non-stop.

Dream Girls (DVD, with M and E)
Eh. I saw the show in previews, way back when--thanks Wikipedia, it was 1981, I was in high school, we were all blown away, and Jennifer Holliday absolutely ruled. The movie? Like I said, eh. Not in a bad way, it was fine, and I especially liked the roman a clef aspects--tracking Diana Ross's image, etc. But the film definitely falls into the trap of adapting a stage musical. That is, a musical is inherently anti-realist, because we don't go around breaking into song. Enchanted and Hairspray go with it by taking realism and imposing musical upon it, knowing full well that musical trumps realism, but winking at us and enjoying their merry business. Dream Girls tries to have it realist, with song, and no winks, and ends up with a stylized episodic...um, I need a noun here, and I don't have it...I think because I am merging two points: one about music, the other about narrative, neither of which quite work in Dream Girls, and I think the failure is related, but I can't quite say why.

Fifty First Dates (DVD, with M and E)
My continued efforts to engage M with film via romantic comedies continue to fail. I think I need to give up on her and focus on E, who loved this one, despite the need for constant interpretive narration. Both girls found Adam Sandler's physical comedy hilarious, and I think M liked it more than she thought she did, because she kept talking about it the next day, but she didn't enjoy it much at the time. Oh well. I believe I quite liked it the first time; this time I was mildly amused.

I've also rented The Departed and Mystic River (in preparation for Gone Baby Gone) and not watched them. Which must mean something. Especially since when I eventually write my Recent Books post it will have a long section of abandoned books. And unfortunately I can't write about my favorite recent book because it won't be out till April. But I will be able to write about Pamela Des Barres's new book, which I'm currently in the middle of, and, wow, talk about a thoroughly enjoyable ideological mess!

Greener Grass

I have a friend who is falling blissfully in love with someone an airplane ride away, and I have to say I'm a mite jealous. For one thing, falling in love just seems utterly enviable and exciting. For another thing, long distance seems just dreamy.

Oh I love my family, love my life, wouldn't give it up for anything, blah blah blah, this is all just a thought...

BUT. Imagine being able to work without guilt, put things down and not have them disappear, not have anyone else put things down and never pick them up (that one is huge at the moment). You could eat whatever you wanted whenever you wanted, and get in bed with a book at 7, or stay up till 1 working and then take a nap the next day. AND two weekends or ten days a month, you could completely focus on companionship and romance and all that.

Technology seems key--with email, texting, and unlimited anywhere minutes, staying in touch would be so easy, even if it is the next best thing.

Now, I know the reality. I spent plenty of time in long-distance relationships and they were always couched in yearning and punctuated by infidelity, but back then all my relationships were couched in yearning and punctuated by infidelity. Now I'm mature and grounded and...

OK, so it's just a fantasy. But I still think it's a good one.

Just What We Needed

Billboard seen on the way to work:

East Coast Big City this is your wake-up call. Caffeinated schnapps is here.

Couldn't you just mix your Red Bull with your Boone's Farm?

How Alcott Really Felt

Little Women pre-therapy. [link from Dawn]

Sasaki Colorstone Redux

Post-Thanksgiving (should have been pre, but we're the type who don't realize what we need till we need it), we just went wild and bought six plum plates and six bowls--two blue, two green, two plum--on Ebay. Can't wait for the next 14-person dinner party! (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, and I assume most of you don't, background is here.)

On to the annual guilt-ridden Amazon holiday order. I know you Christmas folk out there had all your presents before Thanksgiving (or maybe those bloggers don't read me), but Hanukkah is a week out and we have nothing, zip, nada. We barely even have concepts. The only ideas I have are the books, plus I need a bunch of other books, and the totality of the books I need and want is unlikely to be found at a single independent bookstore, hence the guilt-ridden Amazon order. (Actually, it's not true that we have no concepts: there are the books, and there are, well, there are a very few other things, but definitely not eight nights worth!)

Bad Yoga Karma

Several months ago, E and I went to a family yoga class. You can read about it here, if you skim past my yoga whining.

Really, go read it, it's pretty funny.

OK, if you're not going to read it, I'll just tell you that the family yoga teacher pretty much sucked.

And now she's stalking me. Somehow I found myself signed up for her family yoga email list, which is fine, except that we all seem to be inadequate family yoga list members. She's trying to drum up business for a family yoga class this Sunday. I think I've gotten three emails from her, and I've thought about signing up, but after this email, I might have to pass (except E wants to go):

Greetings,

I hope you had a peaceful, joyous Thanksgiving Holiday. [Start by stroking us and making us feel all yoga.]

This list was originally started because there were a few Moms attending yoga classes who expressed interest in Family yoga. Based on their input we held our first event on Sunday March 4th 2007 and the event was extremely well received. Many of you have expressed interest in having Family Yoga events on a regular basis. But unfortunately due to various factors, the last 2 events that I produced at the studio were very poorly attended. [Perhaps because the first one was so bad?]

For this reason I decided to bring in an outside teacher who has a fabulous reputation teaching kids and adults. [Yoga Mom], working mother of 3 and a yoga teacher has committed her time to come into [City] (she lives in the suburbs) this Sunday to bring you a Family Yoga event second to none! I am very excited to have [Yoga Mom] possibly as a regular instructor for Family Yoga at [Yoga Studio]. [OK, fine, very nice.]

This event can only happen with your continued support. We need 10 more people to register in order to hold the event this Sunday. It would be a real shame to have to cancel this event after [Yoga Mom] already committed her time on a Sunday to be with us. [Guilt building: YOU are ruining Yoga Mom's life and livelihood. SHAME on you.]

If you are planning to attend the event - please register ASAP. If we do not get 10 more people pre-registered by this Friday November 30, unfortunately the event will be cancelled. [And it will all be YOUR fault.]

Without your support I will not be able to continue holding Family Yoga Events at [Yoga Studio]. [YOU! You are ruining my business! You ungrateful yoga faker!]

Pre-registration is simple and easy. We are accepting Visa & Mastercard online. It takes no more than 5 minutes to pre-register and with your support we may be able to build Family Yoga into a strongly attended monthly event at Om City Yoga. [But without your support, everything goes to hell in a handbasket, and it will all be YOUR FAULT.]

Thank you. Namaste. [I'm calm. Really, I am. I am not going to hurt you, YOU YOGA INGRATE YOU!]

Damn yoga hippies.

In Which I Unabashedly Show Off My Daughter

(I was going to just type these off and send to grandparents and aunts, but why not share with the world?!) (All transcriptions verbatim.)

E's "I Am Thankful" assignment

I am thankful for my family. My sister who plays with me. My dad who takes me to school wet or dry. My mom who takes care of me. My uncles who plays with me and my sister and cousins. My aunts who take care of my cousins. My grandparents who take care of me when my parents are away and all the other people who I did not mention. It is important to be thankful because it meen you have a lot of good things.

E's pumpkin poem (first they "brainstormed" the alliterative words, she told me) (she did not say alliterative)

Pick pumkins in a patch.
Under leaves find them
Make many mavalois Jackolanterns
Put ps o Jackolanterns
Kids kick and crack pumkins
In a wheelbarrow lots of pumkins lay
Naging parents for more not to many

Can You Plagiarize Yourself?

Or is it OK if one piece is published in America and the other in England? When do you think the book comes out? And if she can't manage to get enough material for two DIFFERENT articles, does she really think she'll have enough for a book?

Well, goodness, she's Jane Smiley's daughter. That will help with the book contract. And explains Salon and the Independent.

[Note: I am being snarky. I am assuming she is trolling for a book contract. Really I know nothing about her beyond the links above. The first paragraph is based on a Jezebel post which reminded me of something I recalled blogging. The second paragraph is based on my out-of-control google habit. Neither article is worth this much of my time and attention.]

Literary Tidbits

Recalling our first successful foray into books on tape, we prepared for Thanksgiving driving with a visit to the library. This time we discovered that books on tape are not magic bullets: it all depends on the reader. Since it was our first time, we had no idea that part of the reason we loved Ballet Shoes was the engaging, multi-vocal, dramatic voice of the woman who read it. Little Women, in contrast, was a bust. The reader's voice was not particularly attractive to begin with, and her reading was monotonous at best. We made it to supper after the Christmas play, and that was it. Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's Farm was a great improvement, even if the dramatic variation occasionally verged on shrill. The book is a wacky commentary on, hmm, I'm guessing either 30s or 50s middle-class motherhood. Looks like 50s. Anyway, the fathers are useless, the mothers are distraught, there are lots of women's clubs and crazy food like peanut butter-sardine-prune salad (I made that one up, but really they are all like that), and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, who has no kids of her own, as far as I can tell, is the master of motherhood.

***

On a lovely hike in a rocky glen, the grandfather, uncle, teenager, M, and I played Quotations--is that a game? If not, it should be. Basically (you knew this ten words ago), one person says a quotation and the others have to guess who said it. We ranged from Archimedes to A Tribe Called Quest, but we specialized in Big Bill, Big Bob, and the Big Bs*, which tells you something about how white, middle-class, liberal, and over-educated our family is. At any rate, it was very fun, and especially fun that everyone was having such a good time and could contribute and participate, and that the rocks of the rocky glen made for such good climbing.

***

E spent about half a day with Abby Hayes and has now moved on to the Beacon Street Girls. She is in first grade, and the Beacon Street Girls are in seventh grade, or so M tells me, and I'm feeling a bit anxious about this, but it's not like I'm going to stop her. M says the stuff that's too old for her will just go over her head, and I'm guessing she'll give up pretty soon, as the real point is to Do What M Does. She's quite excited, though, pointing out to me how the font changes when there are emails, and that each chapter has the name of a girl so you know who's thinking it. She is becoming very observant in her reading. The other day she told me that some books take you into people's heads, but some books just watch people. I did not take the opportunity to discourse upon omniscient narration, but I did tell her she was right.


*That would be Shakespeare, Dylan, and the Beatles, for anyone who might be wondering.

Thanksgiving Knitting

Thanksgiving is usually the beginning of my knitting season, but this year the season started early, when K and D visited a few weeks ago while the knitting store around the corner was holding its going-out-of-business sale. I should probably feel sadder--or more guilty--about the knitting store around the corner going out of business, and I know I will rue its absence when I go to my knitting box and discover I don't have the size needles I need for a project (though truly, by now I have so many needles I can't imagine that happening, though of course it will, for I will inevitably choose the one project that uses the one size needles I don't have). But really that store was mainly good for emergency needles: the yarn selection was small and not particularly interesting: they rarely had what one needed for a project, nor did they inspire impulse buys.

But a knitting store's going-out-of-business sale is a knitting store's going-out-of-business sale, that is, something not to be missed, especially if it is around the corner, so off we went, and K got yarn for a baby present and herself, and I got blue striated yarn to make leg warmers for M and purple yarn and red textured yarn to knit together for a scarf. Given the Clapotis road block, I felt the need for completion, so I started the scarf that weekend, 17 stitches on size 15 needles, seed stitch. I finished it on Thanksgiving, really I knitted almost all of it on Thanksgiving, and it is quite pretty and satisfying.

Then I spent Friday night un-knitting Clapotis which was annoying but satisfying. The rest of the weekend I knitted Clapotis, and I am now eight rows from beginning to decrease, which means I'll finish sometimes around next Thanksgiving (especially if I deviate to the leg warmers), but at least I'm back on track.

By contrast, Libby really accomplished something (I cooked absolutely nothing, though I did set the table: truly, Libby has me beat on every front).

Where (and What) Do You Read?

The couple of times I've tried Virginia Heffernan's new column in the Times Magazine, I've not been so engaged, but tomorrow's (yes, my dear sister, I'm reading tomorrow's paper today) is excellent. I too lurk all over the internet, and I too am skeptical of doom-and-destruction analyses of, well, pretty much anything cultural. Yes, things are changing, but things have always changed: that's how culture works. On the internet, we spend a large part of our time reading. Middlemarch sold about 18,000 copies when it first came out; The Kite Runner has sold 1.4 million copies (not that the two are comparable, and neither are 19th-century and contemporary publishing and reading practices, but I was trying to find an example of popular literary fiction). Look at slash fiction sites, and try and tell me we are no longer literate and creative. Or you could just go lurk on Jezebel. While avoiding reading The Inheritance of Loss (oh, that would be me, not you).

Holiday Observations: Thanksgiving 2007

Icon of the contemporary holiday: person sitting on front stoop, talking furtively or frantically (or both) into cell phone. Spotted several when M and I went for a bike ride. Never got to that point myself, though I must confess to some sotto voce texting.

A guitar and a copy of Rise Up Singing can improve any social gathering, so long as your generations include a certain type of 40something white folk.

Okkervil River on the Beach

S played a video of Okkervil River’s “A Girl in Port” and I said “we’ve been to that beach,” but it’s an Italian beach in the video, and the beach I’m thinking of is south of Barcelona, and it doesn't look like that after all.

We spent a week in Barcelona when M was two--we were in England and wanted to go on vacation, and it seemed like a good place for a two year old, which it was: a park every three blocks, a zoo, Gaudi and Miro, bird cages on La Rambla, the beach.

“A Girl in Port” is almost unbearably romantic.

I’m thankful for Okkervil River, and the beach, and Barcelona, and Mike Lowell, and the fact that in 424 days we'll have a new president who I probably won't like much but will not like much less than this one.

(And, of course, for all the standard stuff: family, friends [very much so, my friends], work [enough work, finally, more than enough work, and good work!], health--actually, I am truly and alertly thankful these days for all of those things, standard though they may be.)

Late Decadence in the Reign of Consumer Capitalism

[The title doesn’t corollate perfectly, but I like the way it sounds.]

How can you not love Mike Lowell even more when he talks about why he stayed with the Red Sox?

"I enjoy Boston," he said. "My family enjoys Boston. Secondly, the Red Sox organization does everything it can to win a World Series - for my career, that's a big factor. Thirdly, before this contract I had financial security, so I like to believe that I'm not all about money." [more here]

On the other hand, it’s easy to say you're not about money when you’re making $12.5 million a year.

I was thinking the other day about baseball salaries, stimulated by A-Rod of course. $27.5 million a year? For hitting a bat and catching a ball? Can we just take a moment to acknowledge that this is totally out of control? I mean, I love Mike Lowell to death, and there’s simply no way to justify the fact that he makes $12.5 million a year for doing what he does. As far as I’m concerned, nothing anyone does is worth anything like that kind of money.

I’ve been hanging out with teenagers again. Poor inner-city Black and Latino teenagers. The ones newspaper articles veer back and forth between demonizing and pitying.

In real life, these kids want jobs. The other day one was talking about looking in three different towns and not finding anything. Another was all excited about getting an interview at a non-profit work program, until he discovered that it was for high school graduates. They share tips and grasp at irrelevant straws.

These kids are no saints. Is it possible that they walk into stores, heavy with attitude, ask if there are any jobs, and then leave when told no? Uh, yeah. In fact, it's likely.

S meets a lot of kids like that. He hires a few. Some work out. If a kid has a good work ethic, but no skills, he teaches her skills. If a kid has skills but no work ethic, he's usually gone within a few shifts. If a kid has neither skills nor work ethic, forget it. The rare kid with skills and a work ethic (and there are some) makes everything worthwhile, and he is thrilled to launch those kids into their careers.

White suburban kids have skill and work ethic issues too, but they are more likely to have cultural capital and connections.

When the headquarters of big local corporations leave town because of mergers and acquisitions, they tend, sooner or later, usually sooner, to give up their local philanthropies. No more sponsorship for Shakespeare in the park; no more summer jobs for local kids.

I should be able to connect all this to mortgages, credit, and recent high-level resignations, but, honestly, I don't really get that stuff.

I just know we've got some really big problems here.

My Little Public School Brainwashee

E: We're doing the funnest thing in morning work today! There are these parts of a turkey and we get to cut them out, put them together, and color them!

Sweet Caroline

This has got to be bullshit. I mean, read the lyrics, for god's sake. But it was sweet of him to say it.

My Favorite Republican Candidate

I'd been thinking of writing a post about Mike Huckabee even before Salon proclaimed him the environmentalist Republican. OK, so he's against global warming because God wants him to be, and he supports nuclear power, but still, compare to Republican currently in office and be impressed.

That's not why I liked Mike Huckabee, though.

I like Mike Huckabee because he is a huge supporter of arts in education. I like this for two reasons. First, because I'm a huge supporter of arts in education (again: compare dude in White House). Second, because it shows he has the capacity to think for himself, not just toe some poll-generated party line (do we even need to go there with the comparison?). Which does, in a way, bring us back to the environment.

I'm not going to look up the rest of his record. I don't need to know his positions on abortion, gay marriage, or even the war. It's not like I'll ever vote for him. I just like knowing he's out there.

Edited to add: For some reason I'm seeing lots of Huckabee references today, and I'm getting an inkling that's he's not so hot on evolution, but I am not going to do the legwork, I tell you, I refuse to give up my illusions of his reasonable enlightenment.

Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God!

I was just, not an hour ago, driving home from a meeting, thinking that it's actually kind of nice to be done with baseball, to have all that baseball bandwidth free for other things, and that I was even pretty calm about Mike Lowell, I mean, if he goes, he goes, that's the way it is, or so I thought an hour ago.

Then M just called me from school and told me they'd signed Mike Lowell, and my response is memorialized in the title to this post, though words can't quite capture the squeals. It's actually not quite so definitive (ah, sixth graders and the transmission of information), but it's looking good.

I guess I do care. And I'm really really happy. And so is M.

How About...Being Really Superficial, For a Change?

I've been writing posts in my head about books, movies, economic injustice, E's tantrum-filled weekend, and my achievement of a new state of parental Zen patience, which hopefully will persist till the end of this trial, but I think I'm going with cosmetics.

I have also recently achieved a new state of cosmetic stability, and I am quite happy about it.

I have super-sensitive skin, and for years, like, uh, maybe 20 , I used only Clinique products. Then I got sick of them. So I went to Origins, talked at length with an earnest and supportive beautiful-skinned saleswoman, emerged with a slew of White Tea products, took them home, used them, and was not so happy. But they were expensive, so I finished them, not so happily.

Meanwhile, Lucy's friend K is a famous dermatologist (really, she was in a magazine), and she says Neutrogena is just as good as anything else. So when I started to run out of the unhappy White Tea products, I replaced them with Neutrogena. Now I have Neutrogena make-up remover, toner, face moisturizer, cleanser, and scrub. And they're all great. And cheap. And I can get them at the drugstore.

The best thing is that, all those years using Clinique, I thought I had dry skin. My face was so dry I felt it. I used this Clinique super-moisturizer in a pretty little blue glass tub at night, and it was like giving my face a drink of water. I was positively a Clinique advertisement. But, you know what? Now that I use Neutrogena, I don't even need moisturizer at night anymore. I'm now a Neutrogena advertisement!

Then there's the hair. The hair has never been stable, and while I would predict 20 years with Neutrogena barring unforeseen circumstances, I'm sure the hair situation will change within months. But for now, we're good.

The lice fiasco led to much discussion of my hair, with conclusions regarding dry hair, dry scalp, and dandruff, which led to experimentation, which led to current solution. But first I must explain that I have ridiculous hair. It is quite thick and was once curly, but now it is generally straightISH except when it is curlyISH and then there are the times when it is something in between. In other words, my hair is highly variable, depending on outside variables including weather (mainly), product, swimming, running, blowdrying, and probably things I don't even know about, but wish I did, because then I might be able to control my hair. My hair is also much more of a problem in winter. I also need a haircut because I am totally sick of my hair, but I don't know what to do with it, so I'm taking suggestions.

Currently, though, my hair looks and feels fairly reasonable when I wash it with Grandpa's Wonder Pine Tar Shampoo and use Paul Mitchell Instant Moisture Conditioner.

As for my body, I've used Lubriderm Seriously Sensitive since I can remember, and I don't see that changing.

And if this post doesn't make you question why you read blogs, then you may be too far gone for help.

[Note: there are no links in this post, because those cosmetic sites are complicated and confusing, and I didn't feel like running back and forth into the bathroom to check what I actually have, and I certainly wasn't going to bring all my cosmetics out to the computer, so I didn't have to run back and forth into the bathroom.]

Gram

The latest from the purveyor of all things CD is Amoeba Records' Gram Parsons with the Flying Burrito Brothers, Live at the Avalon Ballroom 1969, complete with liner notes by Miss Pamela (and how excited are we to discover that she has a new book? very excited). It's taken from the amazing Grateful Dead vaults--the Flying Burrito Brothers opened for the Dead that night, and what I would give to have been at that show!

It's funny how Gram gets rediscovered every few years, but I suppose he is so fundamental that it's just going to keep happening. You don't need to subscribe to the great man theory of history to say that Gram was a crucial, perhaps the crucial, link in the chain that led us to Uncle Tupelo, Wilco, the Jayhawks, basically alt-country as we know and love it today. This live recording actually sounds super-country to my ears, and the word that keeps coming to mind as I listen to it is "pretty," which I think has become a totally debased word, but really does have something to mean.

Why pretty instead of beautiful? Because there's something light about these songs. Eh, that's not right either, because I don't mean anything flimsy, which light seems to evoke in this context. And I don't want to go down the overworked road of beautiful, lovely, sweet. I've been thinking about this CD for two days now, and I still can't find the words, which is very unusual for me.

I'll just say that it is a total pleasure to listen to, if you have any investment in this strand of music history, but also for itself.

This Is The Weirdest Day

I started out running at 7 this morning in a long-sleeve shirt over a t-shirt, but the long-sleeve shirt was tied around my waist within three blocks. I went to a meeting in a skirt and top, no sweater or jacket, and boots with no tights. I saw a woman walking down the street in a tank top.

But I just got home and put on jeans, a sweater, and a sweatshirt.

November 15. Craziness.

Causality

Pretending to be the mindful parents people believe us to be, S and I are trying to figure out WHY E might be behaving this way (this morning she was delightful again, but I have no faith). We've come up with some ideas.

1. Not feeling well. Yesterday she complained about her stomach hurting, and she farted a lot, so gas could explain yesterday's extremity, though I don't think she's had gas for ten days.

2. A's imminent departure. Her best friend from school is moving three towns away and his last day is the Wednesday before Thanksiving. She talks about this a lot.

3. General minor upheaval. We had guests the last two weekends. I have been working a lot more--and a lot more visibly to her. I have been out more than she is used to recently. She is almost always with S or a grandparent when I'm not there, and both girls like their new babysitter (who has gotten E to bed without tears three times in a row!), but she has passionately expressed her displeasure at my absences. Ironically, S has been working less and home more, but that could still count as upheaval.

4. Swimming. I just have a gut feeling that the physical exertion and anxiety (diving off the block, learning new strokes) of swimming might be stressing her, though she claims to love it.

I guess, cumulatively, all that might make a little girl fussy, though the rest of us are fine with it (M, by contrast, is great these days, and I think swimming is an important part of it).

Can Mercury Be In Retrograde for Only One Person?

J and J came to visit the weekend of the time change. E stayed up late Friday and Saturday night, and by Sunday she was a basket case. We went for a lovely walk, during which the kids climbed lots of rocks, which usually she loves, and all she did was weep--everyone else got to climb first, nobody was paying attention to her, the world was unfair.

Well, it's been ten days now, and she's still weeping, and the world is still unfair. I am mean and horrible, M never pays attention to her AND gets everything her way, S is mean and horrible for going to work, everything is my fault because I am trying to get some work done, everything she tries to do goes wrong, and NO, SHE IS NOT HUNGRY!

She doesn't want to play, she doesn't want to read, she doesn't want to go to the playground, and SHE DOESN'T WANT ANYTHING TO EAT. She can't do the monkey bars because of her calluses, but she can't not do the monkey bars because they're always there.

There has been much rolling on the floor, weeping, and running into her room, throwing herself on the floor, and weeping.

We're talking ten days now (with, to be honest, some normal periods, but really, it is like this for a good chunk of every day).

Baths are one of the few things that calm her, but tonight there wasn't enough hot water, so the bath wasn't deep enough, so no go. Not for the first time, I've resorted to TV, which is working for now, though I have little faith.

I'm trying to stay patient. I text S regular "updates from the psych ward" to keep my sense of humor in operation (because, truly, her melodramatic agony can be quite hilarious). But at this rate, one of us is going to end up in the real psych ward, and it's not going to be long.

Edited to add: After an hour of TV, she was sweet and loving at bedtime. Maybe I need to start administering TV prophylactically.

This I Love

A-Rod ditching Boras?

Reason #Umpteen That I'm Glad We Live In Town

Today M went to school wearing, in her words, the "typical Town girl outfit": pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and her hair in a ponytail with a thin headband (can you tell she hangs out with the sixth-grade girl hockey players?!). Clearly we do not inhabit the world described in this article about middle school fashion.

(Reason #Not-Very-Big-Number That Living in Town Is Kind of a Pain: My work seems to be taking me to East Coast Big City, where S also works, so there is a fair amount of inconvenient or unenvironmental [or both] commuting these days. But I guess that's the price middle-class parents pay to keep their kids happy in semi-suburbia.) (We're hoping that "semi"will keep our kids happy instead of disaffected in suburbia. Pajamas and all, Town kids do seem generally happy.) (Except when mean girls who should know better don't let them go to the park to play soccer with the boys.)

I Know Baseball Is Done

But after a long day, in lieu of meaningful content, I offer you my favorite Red Sox fan line(s) of 2007:

Jacoby Ellsbury is the bomb
I want to be his babies' mom

Bat Mitzvah Chronicles 1

We’ll call that last bat mitzvah post the Bat Mitzvah Prologue. Now we're heading into the thick of it. This weekend, we finally got M’s date, and we went to our first bat mitzvah of one of M’s friends.

About the date, all is good. It’s a morning service, a month before her birthday, with her friend A’s bat mitzvah in the afternoon, but A’s mom is totally cool, and in fact suggested that we plan a visit to a spa for the following week. I knew I liked A’s mom, and now I like her even more.

About the first bat mitzvah…well, what I’d really like to do is start writing bat mitzvah reviews, but I’m afraid my blog ethics won’t let me. Truly, we know very nice people and I’m sure the many bat (and bar) mitzvahs we will attend in the next two years will be delightful, and to review them would only be to reveal the base depths of my nitpicky, nasty self. Plus, the possibility of a bat mitzvah being recognized is just not worth it. So I will have to restrain myself to unobjectionable comments.

This weekend’s bat mitzvah was lovely. To not cavil at the tiny things I might cavil at makes me feel better than caviling would, and perhaps this is the beginning of a brave new me. Except maybe not.

And now for the unobjectionable comments.

I didn’t know the town where the bat mitzvah was had synagogues, and as we followed the directions, it seemed even more unlikely. We passed a lot of churches, and then turned into a dilapidated residential neighborhood, and the address was a dilapidated building, with an odd collection of giant crates in the parking lot (really). But inside it was exquisite. Quite small: maybe 100 seats on benches downstairs, and a balcony around three sides. Glowing golden wood everywhere, with carvings and curves, and shiny white paint, and lots of gold gilt. I felt like I was in a Polish shtetl, and it was such a different vibe from your usual modern or institutional hulk of an American synagogue. If you've ever been to the Touro synagogue, it was like that, except cozy instead of grand. Surely the synagogue was part of what made the bat mitzvah so lovely.

The women at the bat mitzvah were all wearing flowy garments and expensive comfortable shoes. Need I say more? All I will say is there was a time when I expected to wear flowy garments and expensive comfortable shoes when I grew up, but I don’t seem to have grown up that way. I wore high-heeled boots, probably the highest heels in the place; tailored black trousers and a boxy black sweater jacket that together look like a suit; a tight pink t-shirt; and my new purplish-red and black scarf. I did not look like the other moms. Which is OK.

Actually, there was one mom in a fitted wrap dress, and of course she’s the mom I ended up talking to. Her daughter goes to camp with M and the bat mitzvah girl, so we talked about camp, and it turned out we do similar work, and it turned out she knows a good friend of mine from college, so we chattered away. But, you know, I am quite certain that I will never become a brave new me, because I seem incapable of not being my nasty, nitpicking self, and I made two snarky comments to this woman, and they seemed to make her a bit nervous.

One of the comments was uncalled for, but one was about something I assumed anyone sensible would snark at, sort of along the lines of “isn’t the president awful?” which I would never have said to a stranger in No Longer Red State, but is pretty safe around here, but I guess not (that's an analogy--I was not talking about the president at a bat mitzvah, though I suppose one might). Oh, and there was a third moment that made her laugh nervously: when I said that slide shows always make life look perfect--hmm, I wonder if she thought I was insinuating that this family’s life is not perfect and the slideshow was a cover-up, which I was totally NOT insinuating. I don’t even know anything about this family, except that M adores the daughter, I just was truly, earnestly, even wistfully, remarking upon the slide show phenomenon, and how wonderful it makes life look, but I guess if you’ve been snarky once (and at that point it had only been once), you’ve established your reputation. Oh dear.

Note for bat mitzvah consideration: Slideshow?

[This post, which I wrote in Word, because I did not have internet access where I was writing, forced me to add shtetl, snark, and snarky to my dictionary. Clearly, I did not write that dictionary!]

2009 Is Going To Suck

But maybe it won't be so bad if I'm a paraplegic.

Men are unhappiest at almost 50, and women at just after 45. Paraplegics are not unhappier than healthy people. People who live with teenagers are the unhappiest of all. [link]

Research

Can you help me out?

Go to the window in the room you're in and touch the glass. Is it cold? cool? warm? hot?

Now what's the weather like outside? And how's the temperature inside?

Thanks.

Confession

I believe that, aside from the occasional op-ed or book review, the only thing I ever read by Norman Mailer was that story about having sex with that girl (Jenny, help me out, what am I talking about?).

Edited to add: Jenny failed me, and then I had a vague recollection, clarified by Google: "The Time of Her Time." Oy.

The Chimeric Oasis in the Distance

I don't know what it means that Harbin Hot Springs has come up twice in the last 24 hours, but surely it must mean something (like that I wasn't hired to write that article totally sucks, and that the older woman doing yoga in the pool on the Harbin website totally rocks). But this isn't about Harbin, where I spent a delightful day many years ago. It's about Orr.

Hot water is one of my favorite things. Hot showers, hot tubs, hot springs: I love them all, hence that day at Harbin, many more days here than I could afford, countless visits to slightly dank Asiatic-ish hot tub places across the country, lovely afternoons at dammed-up hot springs in the California mountains, not to mention every morning's too-long shower, which I know wreaks havoc with my skin and our oil bill, but I can't help it.

But I have never been to Orr Hot Springs, and that is an issue (that Orr appears to lack a website also seems meaningful).

When S and I lived in the Bay Area and were childless and early in our careers (i.e. had a lot more time), we loved to road trip in Sonoma and Mendocino. If we only had a day, we'd go to Marin, especially Hog Island and Point Reyes, and sometimes we went to Napa, but in Sonoma and Mendocino, there are beaches and forests, wineries and hippie bakeries, beautiful green hills and towering cliffs, and winding roads that you know will eventually take you to either the 1 or the 101, so you can get lost to your heart's delight, which we often did.

One lost late afternoon, heading east from Mendocino with nowhere to stay that night, I spotted a sign for Orr Hot Springs. "Let's go there!" I eagerly exclaimed. But we were already past the turnoff, and though I suggested that it would be easy to turn around, S wanted to keep going. He promised me that some day we'd come back.

Well, I'm sure you can guess the denouement of this story. We had a delightful evening in Hopland, enjoying both the brewery and the inn, but we did not return to Orr, not the next day, not on subsequent trips north, not ever.

I began to think--this was pre-google--that perhaps I'd imagined Orr Hot Springs. And in my imagination it became the perfect place, the hot water that would finally satisfy me, the ideal apex of hot spring nirvana.

And then my sister-in-law started going there. Regularly. Which made it even worse.

Now Orr Hot Springs has become a family joke: a sign for the things you want, that you're promised you'll get, but you never do. Everyone rolls their eyes when I begin my Orr laments.

Someday, though, as god is my witness, with this radish in my hand (get the allusion, please!), I will lie in the water at Orr Hot Springs. And it will be good.

Can You Say Meth?

I mean, I try to stick up for Courtney, but this is some kind of crazy. (No, I did not actually read it--it's unreadable.) (link, of course, from Jezebel)

Alternative Lives

If I had totally different values and knew a lot more rich people, this would be the perfect job for me.

Transience, Technology, and Intimacy

I have lived in seven places as an adult, counting college and the country.

S has lived with me in five of those places.

B and I met in college, lived together in Washington after college, lived in the Bay Area at the same time. Her father lives in No Longer Red State Capital City, so she was one of the few people who visited us there, and we are often together in the country.

A few friends from college have lived in other places at the same time I have.

Mainly I have left a lot of people behind, or they have left me. Sometimes I think about all the people I once was close to. I can't decide whether I'm sad that we're no longer close, or happy we once were. Probably both.

K and I have not lived in the same place for twelve years.

In the last two days, K and I have exchanged 39 emails, three texts, and a phone call. We have discussed their visit this weekend, dinner reservations, running, her chipped tooth, whether I should keep blogging, my new job, and Amy Winehouse. In twelve years, we have rarely gone a week without some form of contact, unless one of us is out of range.

Local K and I will often text, email, phone, and see each other on the same day. I try to figure out, sometimes, why we do what when, but I can't, really. I just know at the moment which to do.

Eighteen months ago, I had no interest in texting, a sentiment I probably expressed in this very blog. In June, when we got a new phone contract, we got, I think, 300 texts monthly, apiece. I hope this is enough.

It used to be that only S, my parents, and the girls' sitters and schools had my cell phone number. Now everyone has it, and at least once a day one phone rings while I'm talking on the other.

I try to avoid the phone.

Texting is my new means of intimate connection. I text with S, M, my niece T, K, local K, J, C, and Lucy. That's pretty much my core. Except my sister. Her phone is very old. I am urging her to get a new phone. She finally got a new car, so there's hope.

The only effective way to reach T is by text. When I phone or email, I don't hear from her for days. If I text, my phone beeps in response within seconds. Nobody texts faster than T.

T is fourteen. She has 60 friends on Facebook, and counting. She sits on the living room floor, playing games with E, chatting with me, one iPod ear bud in her ear, texting pretty much constantly. She is the next generation. She lives her life at once in private (head bent over texts) and on display (meeting people on Facebook).

E has just discovered texting. She texts her dad and T. She wants to text me, but she's using my phone.

My favorite text of E's, sent to T: "Fighting. Mean M mean."

I wonder how my friendships with the people I've left would have fared without blogs and email. I know there are people I would never have become friends with without blogs and email (they know who they are).

I don't Flickr, Tumblr, Twitter, or Facebook. I have no interest in any of them. I don't want that level of display. But I blog, and eighteen months ago I had no interest in texting.

I used to read so many blogs. I used to read lots of blogs of people I didn't know. But eventually I ran out of time and interest, especially for blogs of people I didn't particularly like, but whose self-display engendered a sick fascination. My google reader now has seven blogs of people I know in real life, one blog of someone I have read forever and quite adore (a great writer), and one person I am slightly sickly fascinated by (a girl can't be perfect).

I seem to embrace new technologies for their potential to facilitate existing intimacies, once the technologies upon which I have relied become too open. This suggests that Facebook is not in my future, but I may be wrong. I may simply not understand yet, as I did not understand texting.

Though I think I still don't understand texting, I just do it.

In the country my cellphone doesn't work. I check my email every few days. When I want to find someone, I walk up the road, or I go down to the lake, or I sit on a stoop, and eventually they show up. We are all very predictable in the country. We know how to find each other.

I'm not making any generalizations. I'm just talking about me: a middle-aged, hopefully no longer transient mom, poised between technophile and technophobe.

Heroines

I have a friend who is a doctor in a rural state. She and her husband, also a doctor, have set up a micro practice. It's just the two of them: no secretary, no nurse, no P.A. They schedule their own appointments and return their own phone calls. They see patients on the hour, so they have enough time to really pay attention, and to do preventative care, as well as deal with the problem at hand. They take Medicare and Medicaid, so they are making available to low-income patients, of which they have many, the same kind of care rich people get from boutique doctors. They already have 450 patients, all of whom they know.

My friend also spends one day a week doing abortions, because they need to be done.

She is one of my heroines, and so is this woman.

Chocolate Oblivion Truffle Torte

I feel about dark chocolate a bit like I feel about knitting (25 years), running marathons (13 years), and yoga (12 years): that I must proclaim to the world that I was on board long before the bandwagon started filling up, because, you know, I am so incredibly cool, avant-garde, and fashion forward.

The last time I actively chose milk chocolate unattached to peanut butter (i.e. Reese's) was in India in 1990 when I ate a Cadbury Dairy Milk every day, very much for comfort rather than taste. These days, if the only choice is milk, I just say no, and we don't even discuss the travesty that is white. But dark, now that is another matter, and apparently the rest of the world is coming around to the same opinion, or at least so says Bill Buford in an article I have not yet managed to finish, despite my commitment to the topic.

Lately, though, the commodification of all things dark chocolate has become a bit much for me. I will say with no shame that I can't tell the difference between Madagascar and Ecuador, and 80% chocolate does not taste good. I go up to about 70%, and then I stop. M, who also prefers dark (E does not particularly care), thinks 70% is too much, which is why we added four tablespoons of sugar to the Chocolate Oblivion Trufffle Torte, which we made with Scharffen Berger 70% Cacao Bittersweet.

We had guests with celiac, which meant flourless cake, so I turned to Nigella, but we had no rum, so I turned to Rose, and there we were. Butter, chocolate, eggs. And the aforementioned sugar. A lot of melting. A fair amount of beating. Some folding. Minimal baking. Chilling.

Totally to die for. Outrageously delicious. I'm not sure why my descriptors are so lacking, because this cake was outstanding, in an out-of-control, dark-chocolate, truffle kind of way, hence, I presume, its name, but this one is a serious keeper. In fact, I think I must go eat some more of it right now. Sorry I can't give you any through the computer, but you might want to go make it yourself, if you have any attachment to dark chocolate and deliciousness.

Doing Good, Theo

I am quite happy with Red Sox post-season moves so far. Signing Wakefield was the Right Thing To Do for many reasons, value included. And I know I said I would understand if they let Schilling go, but I'm glad they worked this one out. Truly Schilling is worth as much in team leadership as in pitching capacity at this point, and he is my favorite blowhard Christian Republican, though I hope he never runs for office. I had structured an incentive-based deal that would segue him from pitching to coaching (S even thought it was a good plan), but Theo did not take my calls. I guess he didn't need me.

The likelihood of losing Crisp is a sad but inevitable thing. I will miss his outrageous catches, and especially the way the announcers at Fenway say "Coco Ka-riiissssp," but the guy deserves better than we can give him. So long as we have Manny and Ortiz, Manny will be doing his Manny thing in the outfield; J.D. Drew is not going anywhere with that salary, and hopefully will perform at his post-season level for many years to come; and, well, what can you say about Jacoby Ellsbury (that could be a really twisted Love Story quote if you want, or not). Basically Crisp should go somewhere he can be a beloved starting outfielder.

Still, the fat lady won't sing till the ML and AR situations are resolved. Good indications from Theo (you might have to scroll down), but I don't think the fat lady has even arrived at the ballpark yet.

And now I really should put in some outrageous disclosure that I can then harangue my mom for missing, because she skipped yet another Red Sox post, only I don't think I have an outrageous disclosure. Alas, my boring life.

Work

When I was thinking about whether to leave my job in No Longer Red State, I decided that work, for those of us privileged to have choices, can be righteous, interesting, or lucrative, and the ideal job would be all three, but you should have at least two. Of course this formulation leaves out the work-life dimension. My job in No Longer Red State had some theoretically righteous components and was adequately lucrative, but I found it increasingly uninteresting, and the kicker to all this eh-ness was that I (we) did not like where we were living, so we left. I'm quite sure, though, that if the job had been truly righteous, interesting, and lucrative, or firmly two out of three--or if S's job situation had been similarly compelling--we would have overcome our dislike and stayed.

The first job I had in Blue State was lucrative, but neither righteous nor interesting.

The second job I had in Blue State was righteous, but neither interesting nor particularly lucrative.

I think I have come into work that is righteous, interesting, and, if I change some of my plans, sufficiently lucrative. This seems good.

Alert the Culinary Gods!

E ate half a baked potato for dinner, her first new food since I can remember!

Katie Holmes's Marathon

1. My last marathon, ten years older (than her), I beat her by an hour and 27 minutes.

2. How nice life must be if one has time to train for a marathon with a one year old.

Link, if you need it.

Autumn Notes

Snagged the first clementines on Saturday morning, and the box was gone by Sunday evening (granted, there were eight of us this weekend, but still). They were perfect: tiny, juicy, with that ideal Clementinian balance of sweet and barely tart. Clementines mean November, and the first boxes are always so good, but then they get woody and dry and so quickly nasty and moldy. I think I must get another box this afternoon.

I ran in tights for the first time yesterday morning, and then again today. I ran faster than I've run in months, though I didn't feel any different.

We have not yet turned on the heat.

None of these statements are metaphors, though they seem, somehow, as if they should be.

Mark Ronson

Thanks to Jackie (for the recommendation) and the perpetrator of all things CD (for the legwork), I am love Love LOVING Version, Mark Ronson's second album. I've had it playing in my car for five days straight, and I just can't wait to drive so I can hear it some more. It's wacko Brit covers, fun dance pop, with some killer guest vocals, and I don't care what the snobby boys at Pitchfork say. My favorite tracks of the moment are Lily Allen and Amy Winehouse, of course, but also "Amy" with Kenna, and, especially, "LSF" with Kasabian which just thrills my blood, I have no idea why.

Butterfly

I must announce--and I know this is of interest only to grandparents, aunts, and Jenny, though the rest of you are welcome to cheer loudly--that E did butterfly at practice last night. (She is looking over my shoulder and proudly declares, "Eight lengths!") (Actually, she said "Eight laps!" and then we had a little google-solved debate over laps and lengths, revised her declaration, and she now proclaims proudly, "Which could be four laps!") (Shall I continue to quote her? "Four laps! Eight lengths!") (And now she has returned to her french toast.)