I saw Superman

I was taking advantage of cutiest-tootiest's nap time a couple of days ago and decided to do a little shopping for the imminent arrival. I went to a store called Crib and Teen City. Not the most creative of names, in fact a little odd, if you ask me, but it does imply that there will be lots of cribs and the like inside. It's in a weird little building with one other store that's situated a little too close to the street, so it's awkward to get into their driveway. I had to circle back once to figure it all out. I went inside and a salesman approached with the usual, "May I help you?"

"Do you carry bassinets or something like that, smaller than a crib?"

Blank stare. "We have a lot of cribs, why do you need a bassinet?"

A little put off by his assumptive air, I replied "I already have a crib, which is now a toddler bed, so I need something for this one," pointing to my red-clad protruding belly.

"Oh," he said, "the only thing like that is a changing table." I wonder if this man has been taking too much medication. "Maybe you need some other furniture for the room?"

I felt a little badly for the guy. I used to work in retail and I know what a complete horror show it is, especially when there's no customers. His face and awkward transition tell me he is desperate to sell me something. Anything. "Do you have low bookcases, the kind where she can reach everything?" I offer, nodding towards the sleepyhead.

"No, just those kind," he says, pointing to a very tall, thin shelving unit. "You can try that unfinished wood store down the street. Or anywhere, really."

"Okay," I say, with my characteristically uncomfortable laugh. "Sorry you don't have the bassinets. Thanks, anyway."

His face drops a little and he leans on the railing next to him. "Okay, thanks for stopping by."

I went outside and noticed that the neighboring strip mall is connected to this parking lot, so I decided to take a stroll over there. There's a swimwear shop--nope, a discount drug store--maybe later, a beauty salon for the well-heeled older lady, a kitchen remodeling shop and a couple of restaurants. Food. Yes, food is good. The Italian place had a $7.95 lunch special, so I decided to try it.

Upon entering a maze of doors, I am confused by the sheer amount of mirror images reflecting back at me. I know they like mirrors in these old-fashioned places, but this was actually impressive in a garish sort of way. An entire wall was covered in mirror glass with faux columns separating it into sections. It was so clean and well-placed in terms of lighting that it really did make the restaurant appear twice the size. I had to check the faces seated near me and then their reflections in the mirror to confirm that it wasn't.

They seated me in the back since the size of my belly and the presence of my stroller might scare away the geriatric regulars. Did you know that pregnant is embarazado in Spanish? Maybe Italian too, ay? Anyway, so I was there in the back enjoying a very simple, but fresh and nice capellini pomodoro and to my left I see a very imposing figure perusing the menu. They seem to know him at this place. Without being too conspicuous, I let me eyes wander bottom to top and I am stunned by his face. Nevermind that the man is about 6'10" tall and is dressed not unlike the Brawny man, it was his face!
His face was the closest human replica of the comic book drawings of Superman that I've ever seen. Superman lives in Scarsdale! Really, I didn't know people could look that architectural. He looked like the ideal worker that they used to draw in the 30's. Like Atlas. Almost like an ox, actually. I had to stop myself from staring. I wanted to take a picture, just a little snap with my cell phone or something.

But then I thought this poor guy (they called him Brian, I think) probably has been plagued by hero-worshippers his whole life. Maybe even asked to save somebody. I could see by his rough hands, style of dress and the gigantic portion of pasta he was finishing that this man was working hard to make his way. When his bill came and I saw the way he spread out the change on his hand to count it methodically and individually, I realized that Superman always relied on instinct and super brawn. In real life, that and a quarter get you a phone call.

Parking in reverse

It's getting kinda hard to back out of parking spaces because my side-to-side rotation is very limited. I have to use my mirrors more and go very, very slowly. Otherwise I get some nice kicks in the side and shooting pain to boot. So it was suggested to me that I start going in backwards so that coming out will be forward.

I've seen people do this many times and I still think it's bizarre. Why? Why would anyone want to try to align perfectly with a parking space using the back end of the car instead of the front? The only thing I can think is that it's like doing the crossword puzzle every day. Instead of sharpening your mind, maybe this sharpens your reflexes?

There's a guy who parks backwards every day in our lot. I've cringed watching him reverse park his Ford Taurus several times. It looks like he accidentally presses down on the gas pedal instead of the brake, causing him to zoom backward so fast that he might run something or someone down if it weren't for the grass median. He seems proud of himself.

I think I'll stick with the front end first.

Annoint my head, annointy, nointy

Getting onto certain talk shows puts a star in the artist caste. One of these shows is Charlie Rose. I love Charlie, I really do. My first boss in New York was friendly with the producers of Charlie Rose and used to send them faxes all the time with publicist speak and salutations like "lovey". That's when I first became aware that there was a person named Charlie Rose who had a floating table in blackest space where alien life forms from various media would land.

I think some of the interviews are pretty insightful and/or incisive, some are the usual worshipper fare and some of them surprise the hell out of me. Like last night's interview with The White Stripes. The White Stripes? What in God's name were they doing on Charlie Rose? I mean I know they get tons of buzz and rave critical reviews, but aren't they a bit, I don't know, gothic or something for Charlie Rose? Just seeing them sitting there like this was going to be an intellectual discourse about their innovative technique made me blink a few times. (Side note, why does Jack White want to look like the spawn of Satan and the Pillsbury Dough Boy?)


What scared me even more is that Charlie Rose was practically genuflecting in worship of them. Isn't Charlie Rose a little mature for their sort of thing? I would think somebody kind of brought him up to speed on who they are (hell, I'm not even cool enough to know more than a couple of their tunes), but he was seriously smitten. And what's up with the two White Stripes, anyway? What a weird kind of relationship they must have.

Meg White seemed shallower than my daughter's bath water and Charlie didn't even try to draw her out much. I'm still giving her the benefit of the doubt, but her portion of the interview was kind of like, "I just want to reach people and feel their energy. I do whatever Jack wants me to do."

So, Mr. Rose spent most of the time wanting to know how it was for a God like Jack to dwell on this earth with mere mortals. I have to admit that Jack did seem pretty smart. Weird in kind of a scary way, but smart. Did you know that he produced Loretta Lynn's recent album? Yeah, it was one of those shows.

It happens to everyone

I've never been a big fan of crude humor, save for a few hilariously funny movie scenes (Dumb and Dumber) or snippets from novels (Grapes of Wrath). In general I find toilet humor or sexual humor to just be stupid. I think it's because it's all been recycled a little too much. Plus, I'm kind of a snob, anyway.

So translate my mild disgust with, uh, natural urges to real life. I hate all the noises associated with bodily functions, my own and especially other people's. I'm not talking about sex noises. That's a whole 'nother realm altogether which is more of a...keep it on the DL issue. I mean that I hate when people's bodies make telltale noises that say something's just not right in here. When someone has a chronic cough or throat clearing issues, I'm often thinking, "God, can't you do that somewhere else?" Pretty snotty, right? Don't get me started on things that people can control like chewing loudly with open mouths. Eeewwww.

I think my mom sort of fostered this sensitivity to noises because she was always, always making a big deal about manners, particularly table manners. Over time, I myself became accutely aware of all the sounds of impolite eating. Now I can't even stand when people drink too fast and you can here glugging and liquid traversing the esophagus. I often point out to those closest to me when their noises are putting me off (you know, when they're horrendously ill, suffering from allergies or in need of the Heimlich Maneuver). I displayed my full caretaking capacities this very night when I sent a sick family member off to fend for himself because I couldn't take his sinus' soliloquy anymore. I'm a nurturer, can't you tell?

Funny how instincts work, though, my daughter's noises never bother me. In fact, I find them all endearing. But one day I'm sure I'll get my come uppance, as they say, when this same girl will be nauseated by the wiggling of my dentures and the tap-tap of my cane when I come over to her house for Thanksgiving dinner in 2050.

I always listen to the words

So I was very proud of myself for reopening a story that I'd previously written. For whatever reason, it had been on my mind lately and I kept thinking that it just had something. A nugget of brilliance, if I do say so myself. But you have to do some serious mining to find it.

It's been resting now for a good six months, so I figured I could be more objective about it now. I tend to fall in love a little too much with my own description (this is where I excel), so I need the resting period in order to stop cooing over accidental, but lovely alliteration and the turn of the phrase. I don't know why my brain works this way, but I've always been a sucker for words. I like clever and sometimes I get too rapt in the melifluous words to see that the whole piece needs CPR.

I opened the piece as it was last revised. I had a time limit since my daughter was at nursery school, so I got right down to business. I turned on the comments to give myself a good talking to. The first page was great! Man, it had a catchy opening, the dialogue was good, the description was right on. The characters were taking on a personality. I was grinning to myself, thinking, "You see, you were right! This one is good. It has something."

Then there was the second page and the third. Still interesting, some great elements, but I already had to insert a few comments. Then the plot began to escalate and the climax was coming (oy, please don't go there) and things were starting to get, well, a little ridiculous. This story was a spinoff of a larger idea which I had never fleshed out and somehow I guess I figured the whole world would know that when reading it. It made no sense whatsoever! G-sus.

The comments couldn't even keep up anymore. I realized I had worked my lovely story into an almost undoable, tightly pulled knot. There was action and suspense (are you surprised?), but no freakin' basis in any kind of reality. What was I thinking? I'll tell you what. I was thinking that I liked my own words, who needs plot anyway?

Now I am still trying to figure out if I can salvage something good from this conundrum. I might be too lazy to write the whole long story that I originally dreamt up. (I don't think dreamt is a word, but I like it. My grandma says words like that.) Anyway, at least I cracked the cover after a very, very long hiatus. I have to put the little math/science nerd that lives in my brain to work on this puzzle. As most of my deep thoughts and ideas in life, I hope the solution will appear in my sleep. If not, at least in the shower.

Just so you don't think I've forgotten...

I'm a lazy, tired, extremely round bump on a log. Too tired and liquid-brained to write anything worth reading on this blog. I've tried to start a few times recently, but my complete apathy for anything but sleep, food and desperate hope for relief from the now chronic pelvic joint and bone pain makes it impossible. Damn. I only have three more months until my life is literally swept away in a storm of baby crying, boobies and toddler jealousy and what am I doing with it?

Nuthin'. Nada.

I think I'm in that nesting phase or some other mental retardation. All I do when given momentary access to the wireless connection is research cloth diapers, look at maternity clothes, look for blinds and read completely mindless forum or "news" chatter.

Once in a while I watch something with redeeming value on TV. I saw Jodie Foster on the Actors Studio. God that host is an ass. One of these movie yo-yo's has to call him on his blatant pomposity sometime. Geez. Anyway, Jodie is one of those special people that's brilliant and beautiful and doesn't give a crap what people think about her. She's accomplished a ridiculous amount in life. There I was eating trail mix with lots of chocolate chip type things, building energy for my exertion of stretching out on the couch far enough to make the remote work with the cable box.

Now I have to start sleeping at an earlier hour before this baby literally kicks my ass. With that my favorite people, bon nuit.

What's your preoccupation?

Lurking just under that average, everyday facade, everyone has some kind of preoccupation. For some, work is their life and they do what they love. I'd have to say comparatively few. Others have a bonafide hobby like collecting antiques or crafting. But a true preoccupation is more of a mental fixation, an undercurrent, a drive that can't be denied.

For example, my grandma knits and reads romance novels (why do all older ladies do this? a discussion for another time), but what she really loves is kibbutzing. That means chatting you up, coffee talk, friendly gossip. She'll kibbutz with family, friends, the other card-slingers in her regular games, and sometimes even with complete strangers in line or in a waiting room. She's really very social. Like it or not, she wants to be in on the conversation and it's sort of an unspoken understanding that when you see grandma, you get the talking. I happen to love it, so I don't mind.

Some people are preoccupied with finding a partner and deconstruct every conversation with a potential candidate to determine compatibility and hidden meaning. I tried to do that for a while and realized that it's a sure fire road to complete madness. Even if I try to figure people out, I was always too lazy and too obvious for seduction. I've always known pretty quickly whether I like someone or I don't and generally they've known, too. At 5 a.m. over coffee and frites at French Roast, I knew I liked my husband and he did too. That was the first date.

Others keep track of all the sports players and records and scores and historic sports moments...this one can be a hobby or a preoccupation depending on the person. Let's just say that I've known and loved both types. In fact, you could trace my nocturnal nature back to my childhood when I was busy attending Dodger home games while all the little children were fast asleep. Although I was usually pretty bleary-eyed in the morning for school, the upside for me was that I ate Carnation chocolate frozen malts with wooden spoons, Cool-a-Coo ice cream sandwiches and Dodger dogs with much more frequency than I should've been allowed.

So I was thinking about my personal preoccupation. I'm not 100% sure what it is. I do love cliches. Strunk and White's Elements of Style likes to tell us that cliches weaken good writing and that they are too pedestrian for literature. Maybe. But I still love them. (You probably guessed that reading this blog). Cliches endeared me to advertising.

I'd like to write an entire novel with nothing but cliches. That would be fun because I would get to put the vast treasury that I have stored into use. Plus, I could research and maybe find out what the hell some of them mean. One of my mother's favorites is, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." I spent a lot of time in childhood trying to understand what that meant and from whence it came. I'm still not sure, really. By the way, if anyone knows (horse enthusiast) please reply here. But I guess I can't say that cliches are my preoccupation.

I could say that I am preoccupied with being liked or loved, but truly I think that's just part of human nature. Anyone that says they don't have this need is lying or in denial. I also like to be proven right. But I think more than anything, I have a kind of ridiculous need to be recognized. I'm not the type of person who can be a silent partner or somebody's encouraging shadow. I need acknowledgment. Chalk it up to overachievement training or growing up blindingly middle class. I don't know. But I always wanted to be recognized for something and I think that's what makes me want to write stuff down. Then I can recognize myself for accomplishing something tangible.

Aah, that's better.

Difficult

I have been told many times in my life that I am difficult. Difficult to understand, difficult to like, difficult in business, difficult in social situations. Pretty much an all-around pain in the ass. To my credit, I recognize my own difficulty and I often try to force my ornery personality to pipe down. The thing is, I may be difficult, but I am also nice. Does that make sense? Let me elaborate. I am

like a cactus with spines on the outside, but cool water on the inside
a prickly pear with soft inner fruit
angry but affectionate
an overgrown lobster that sometimes gets stuck in my own claws, but I'd sacrifice my best pincer for my fellow crustaceans

You get where I'm going with this.

I hate being difficult. It's one of my tragic flaws. I always wanted to be likeable and cheerful, the kind of person to whom everyone wants to talk. Instead I was always that harmless looking, but rather, as I've been called, aloof or reserved or shy or quiet girl observing. But I'm not really any of those things. I'm cautious. I have been burned so many times in life that I have difficulty trusting. There's that difficult again.

I'm trying, though. When I meet new people, I try really hard to crack my own armor. I'm actually funny and easy-going once you get to know me. (I know, you're just rolling on the floor as we speak). Half the time what's funny is how I make a complete ass of myself by leaning on a tower of boxes and knocking them over or some other klutzy move. Sometimes I snort when I laugh but, on the scale of my stupid human tricks, I don't even get embarrassed by that one anymore.

Today, as I battled with my daughter's nursery school teacher for the second week in a row, I realized that I can't shake the difficult. But sometimes, it's better to be difficult than to let your kid get steamrolled by an overbearing matron in slanty glasses.

I guess I should apologize in advance to my daughter that Mommy is never going to be voted Mrs. Congeniality by the PTA. Hopefully one day she'll be thankful.

Gotta have honeycomb (blinds)

I'm kind of back from my little blogging hiatus. Sometimes you have to get out of your own head to pay attention to real life and prevent yourself from taking up permanent residence there. The mind is a terrible thing to live inside. When the news gets to be too much and reality seems to have bigger teeth than usual, drastic measures are necessary. So I've been been busily playing Susie Homemaker decorating the walls, looking for outrageously overpriced window shades, rearranging, etc. It's truly amazing how much time one can spend doing these things, I mean it's completely mindless and absorbing. But I figure that everyone needs to spend some time this way in life. If you get too into your own clawing frustrations, unmet aspirations or self-depracation...well, you know how it is.

So then it's back to the playground, the nursery school, the paint store and the never ending hunt for low fat, high protein fillers to satiate the fetus and high calorie, nutritous eats for the skinny toddler.

Cognitive Dissonance

The psychology textbook meaning of this term implies true mental illness. But if you break down these two words and take them at face value, it's a perfect term to describe how much we're all on the brink.

Cognitive Dissonance. I like to think of it as mental clutter. You can't think straight because there are tons of conflicting thoughts and emotions competing for airtime in your own brain. Personally, I call it insomnia. Oh, and pregnancy hormones. (I hate it when people associate a woman's behavior with her period and this is something along the same lines. BUT in this case, it is actually scientific fact that there are several hormones produced and released during pregnancy that heighten emotional awareness, protection instinct, etc.).

Anyway, back to the internal cacophony. We're all a little ADD. Seriously, I'm not kidding. It' s the nature of life today. It's a pressure cooker out there. We have to accomplish more, more, more and faster, faster, faster. So it forces us all to sacrifice concentration and enjoyment of the small things sometimes so that we can keep pace at work, at home with the Martha Stewarts of the world, at religious services, with our friends. We have to look perfect, be socially aware, be emotionally available, prove our work ethic, find the love of our life, find all the in places and clothes, etc., etc., etc.

Right now, I'm feeling disaster fatigue. I have a lot of memories of New Orleans and the images and reports of anarchy, starvation, anger, etc. bear no resemblance to those memories. I feel strange that up here, life carries on as always, not much of a change in anything. I still have plans to carry forward, things to accomplish, arrangements to make. I guess this is what happened after 9/11 when we were all shell-shocked and the rest of the country was looking through plexiglass.

Just to clear my own head of all this dissonance, here's a list of some of my most memorable moments from New Orleans, in no particular order since I haven't got the energy for any order. (Note that I said memorable, not favorite).

--Being asked in the Canal Street McDonald's by a perfect stranger, "Do you know what time it is?" and receiving the answer, "Midnight. It's Valentine's Day," accompanied by a wet, open-mouthed kiss.

--Tripping over centuries old tree roots so massive that they have broken the sidewalks.

--Seeing cadillac-sized cockroaches get up and take flight.

--Looking out the window of my private office facing Lee Circle, where the streetcars turn into the French quarter, when I interned at my first ad agency.

--Spending half my Freshman year writing innumerable love letters to my first serious boyfriend after we broke up.

--Being afraid to walk through the open, creaking front door of my Fountainbleu Avenue apartment after being robbed of everything except my portable CD player.

--Passing out on the steps of the University Center after biking several laps around Audubon Park on a 95/95 August day.

--Picking my sorry self up off the floor after several unhappy forays into dating.

--Learning to be the suitor and winning the game.

--Theater majors.

--The Top of the Mart revolving bar atop the World Trade Center in New Orleans, replete with crimson walls, floors, curtains, lights and Peggy Lee tunes.

--The noxious stench of Bourbon Street morning till night, 365 days a year.

--Fried whole turkey, artichoke stuffing, frozen drinks with 7 kinds of liquor served in a bowl-sized goblet at Copeland's.

--All access passes to Fleetwood Mac at the House of Blues as a tip for selling Rayban Wayfarers to their manager. Getting lectured about smoking by Mick Fleetwood.

--Pecan Pralines (not peecan prayleenes, pacawn prawlens).

So many more, they'll have to wait for another day...

A word on New Orleans

Usually I don't watch 24-hour disaster coverage on television. There have been a small handful of times (September 11th, Tsunami) where I've watched a lot more than usual. Hurricane Katrina wasn't on the top of my list because I spent most of my teenage and early adult years hearing regular alerts and foreboding commentary. So I guess I didn't really think that Katrina would be all that bad when it actually hit. I must admit that I am shocked by the amount of damage. I've been to most of the places affected and I lived in New Orleans for over four years. I was quite happy to leave that area behind. But, still, nobody deserves this kind of horror.

New Orleans is a great historical city steeped in its own strange and dark culture. The mood there is always a bit somber and disturbing. The poverty, juxtaposed with the ostentatious wealth, often literally on adjacent streets, creates a perpetual tension. It is a racial and economic clash, literati vs. crippled masses. The heritage of the French, then Spanish mixed with Creole and Cajun, white Southern gentry and Black sharecropper-turned-project-dweller have all made an indelible imprint on the city and all it's very different neighborhoods (they call them wards sometimes...an indication of how much on the brink of chaos it has always been).

It doesn't surprise me that now, when the city may truly and finally be washed out the way the Army Corp of Engineers has always feared, the people have either fled for safety or stayed to find themselves under seige and pilage. I can only imagine what the vast green lawns and the limestone and brick buildings of Tulane that have been the shining gem of the New Olreans elite must look like now or what will become of them as the waters from Lake Pontchartrain fill up the bowl of the crescent city, connecting it to the muddy Mississippi.

I'm not totally callous. I do feel great remorse for the people who will have lost everything including, probably, some of their dearest. And sadness for the loss of the city itself as it is really and truly one of the most unique architectural and cultural places in the world. I have a few friends there, still. Plus, I know that the state of Louisiana is functionally bankrupt and the city of New Orleans may never, ever be able to recover itself to its former level, thereby taking away the only real source of revenue the city or state had (which was from tourism, mostly). It's a bad situation, maybe the loss of a whole civilization like in ancient times.

New Orleans was once a great lion that attracted all of Europe, but it is no New York City and it seems it may go out like a lamb.

The Shushing Game

I'm not sure where this sound originated or why it's associated with telling someone to shut up, but shushing seems to be a built in understanding among all animal life. I know this because my daughter does it all on her own and my cats know what it means. Tonight she woke up out of a dead sleep to shush the rather loud and obnoxious caterwauling* of our male fat cat. It went something like this:

Fatty begins pacing in front of the bedroom door, claws clicking on the wood floor. "Meow. Rowr? Woooooooow. "

Heavy sleep breathing stops for a minute.

"Meow? Mow. Woooooooow."

Two year-old Daughter bolts upright in her bed and raises her index finger to her lips, "Ssssshhhh!!"

"MEEEEEOOOOOW."

"Ssshh! Sh."

"Mah? Prrrow.Meeoow."

Yawning, turning over. "Sh." Heavy breathing ensues.

Angry, heavy footsteps begin chasing blubber belly down the hall. "Mahahahahah."

I smile to myself, thinking how nice it is that I don't live in a Studio with the black-furred singing twins from hell anymore. Even better is that I don't have to be the one chasing them around a 300 square foot circle with a squirt bottle at 2 a.m.. Or missing those last 15 minutes of morning sleep because the pre-alarms are sounding. Now I just have to play (or hear) the Shushing Game.


*Caterwauling technically refers to the crying of a female cat in heat (i.e. somebody come and get some of this and quick). But it is commonly also used to describe the kitty equivalent of howling at the moon a la Tom and Jerry, Sylvester, etc. You know, the singing in the moonlight on top of the fence that caused neighbors to throw shoes or pots and pans.

Windows

People always say that eyes are windows to the soul. This was originally a poetic concept, but it's become cliche now. The idea of this, though, makes me wonder what is a window to somebody's soul. Do I even believe in a soul? Yeah, I think I do. Something like that anyway. Maybe the soul is really the unique roadmap of your brain--whatever makes you completely individual with thoughts that nobody may ever know but you. So how do you see into somebody's soul?

At times, I've spent ridiculous energy trying to figure out what's in a particular person's soul. I'm curious and I consider myself perceptive (usually), so it's like my personal game to try to figure out what people are thinking. If somebody is bitchy, I try to create a whole back story to explain how they became that way. If they're vulnerable like a soft-shelled crab, there's absolutely some reason why and I'm often trying to figure that out (since I often fall into this category myself). My middle name is subtext. Maybe that's why I was a shitty account manager. I was too suspicious and sensitive and at the same time defensive of myself and people I liked. I know, really objective of me.

Anyway, back to the windows to the soul. Some people do have amazingly expressive and telling eyes. Most people don't. But I think everyone has something that is a "tell." Music, writing, jokes, art, whatever. Sometimes it's not a creative outlet, it's just a question of adding up all the little phrases they throw in as asides. Often it's just a way they have, a certain carriage. I can usually tell when a person is attracted to me by his behavior more than anything. In most cases, I can sense when someone is conflicted or hurt or depressed, etc.

What is really hard to understand, though, is what people honestly think of me. I am extremely self-conscious when I can't read them and maybe I have pushed them away because the uncertainty is too difficult for me. I'd like to avoid misreading people and making poor choices as I've done in the past and which has sometimes cost me very valuable relationships. That's why I want to understand where is the right "window."

Anyone have Kreskin's phone number? Actually, I think there's a psychic with my name, maybe I can channel her for free.

Modern Grace

I watched the made-for-TV biography of Audrey Hepburn tonight. I do enjoy Audrey Hepburn, but I think my interest in her would not be as great if it weren't for the constant reminders of Forego.

Audrey did have a certain je ne sais quoi, an innocent kind of charm that was less about sex, more about being alive. That is almost non-existent today, I'll admit. But, times have changed and that sort of naivete would not be appreciated much by anyone in the business of stage or screen. People want vamps, saucy women with attitude that kick box and rip people's clothes off. The butt-kickin' woman of the world propoganda was being spread even when I was a young girl. For me, it was balanced by my absolute love affair with romantic era literature like Jane Eyre, Little Women, and Portrait of a Lady. Oh, yes, and one set of rigidly religious and judgmental parents. But, the books, unlike the lectures, made me dream about being a refined, educated, but benevolent lady only losing composure in the cleansing winds of the heathered moors. That was in between wanting to marry Simon Le Bon or David Gahan and swearing like a sailor (thanks, Dad), of course.

Growing up, I felt guilty that I was not really a jock by nature and that I never wanted to tell or hear gross, sexual jokes (which believe me were rampant all through jr. high and high school and, sadly, even a bit in elementary school). I could've been considered a downright prude in college for not detailing every sexual experience and not being willing to expand my repertoire with every "date." Since I didn't come with monetary class, I had more to lose by that sort of behavior than my heir- apparent classmates.

Okay, anyway, back to Audrey. She was a lovely presence, sort of what I would picture Isabel Archer to be like. She walked lightly, she was pretty but not fakely glamorous, and of course she had that lilting English/European way of speaking. Most importantly in my opinion, she was never ever ever flaunting her wares for public display. That's not to say she didn't have her share of nightclubs and rolls in the hay. But she seemed to conduct herself with class (hey, she did in the movie--it must be true, right?).

Unfortunately, though, ladies are obsolete in film because it's all about sex. While it absolutely doesn't add up to grace, the modern standard for classiness is a decent actress that doesn't take her clothes off and dolls up nicely for the award shows. Ah, but I dare you to name more than two.

An ode to calcium carbonate

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to break down and admit that digestion is an ugly thing. It's ugly at the start and ugly in the end. Pregnancy exacerbates this problem and we won't talk about what childbearing itself does.

Suffice it to say that once you have been pregnant, things just never go back to their proper order. Organs literally shift to make room for a growing fetus and I think they just don't have the werewithall to put themselves back into place. So, the digestion circus (the literal latin and vernacular meanings of the word) is set in motion.

Shortly after the process begins, there is a chain of events: mommy tries to eat food, mommy's stomach gurgles, mommy needs a Tums (or six), mommy waits to see whether Tums can save the evening or whether progesterone has foiled them again. All the while fetus is happily sucking his/her thumb, excreting waste into the umbilical cord and testing the amniotic boundaries with death-defying gymnastics routines.

In a futile effort to avoid this battle, various foods are blacklisted in growing numbers correlated to the size of the protrusion. It starts with the obvious things like spicy, ethnic foods: anything Thai, most of the Indian menu, a lot of Mexican, and pretty much anything else produced by countries that use spice as a replacement for refrigeration. Gradually it becomes almost everything you knew and loved including scrambled eggs, burgers of any variety, souvlaki sandwiches and any kind of bubbly beverage. By the end, you may as well be sucking mashed potatoes through a straw with a side of applesauce and warm milk. This must be preparation for serving these foods to the baby not long after her/his arrival in the air-breathing world.

All this is to say that I couldn't live without my chemical friend, calcium carbonate (better known as Tums, Rolaids, etc.). It reminds me of a little ditty I learned from my friend's refrigerator magnet when I was 12 (her dad was a doctor).


Doxidan in the p.m.
For a b.m. in the a.m.

I'll leave it to you to create your own rhyme about Tums and how they help Bums (the Canadian kind, not the ones that hang out on Hollywood Blvd.). They might be chalky, but at least you can...walk--y?

A life less ordinary

After a very long day visiting family, we came home and had a very long night trying to get our daughter to sleep. At 11:40 p.m., my husband threw up his hands and said that she was just going to stay up until she naturally wound down. So, as my eyes began blinking and I became one with our new sofa, I searched for some news on TV. Much to my surprise, I tuned into ABC and Charles Gibson was eulogizing Peter Jennings. Instantly, I was awake, calling for my husband to pay attention to the news broadcast. We wondered what happened, it was all a huge shock.

I never have time to watch the evening news these days. Usually I get my news at some point in the afternoon and/or online. So I wasn't aware that Jennings had announced he was battling lung cancer in April and since then has been absent from his post.

I can't say that I was a devotee of Peter Jennings, but he has been a fixture since my childhood. After the departure of both Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather and now this, it seems that I am in uncharted territory, in the hands of untested guides. But more than that, Peter Jenning's death is disturbing. He was the perpetually young one, the handsome guy, the one that wooed lady luck. I wasn't aware that he was sick and it seems unfathomable that death can descend so abrubtly. In a time when people seem largely shallow and news is increasingly about celebrity activity, it is sad to see the demise of someone who seemed to pursue more weighty matters. In short, I realize only now that I will miss his presence (and Tom's and Dan's), if not always his journalism.


Perhaps I am waxing sentimental because I don't deal well with death. It reminds me of my own family members that have died, some terribly young like my step-mom. I think about eulogies and the awkward eating afterwards. I think about how one day I'll be the one in the casket eating worms while a small group of people that care will line up in front of the lox platters.

For Peter Jennings, there will be millions of people eulogizing him over extra salty water at the company cooler. That, if nothing else, is a testament to his successful life.

My humble apologies

I did indeed look up Jorie Graham and, in addition to the fact that I feel like a complete dunce for not knowing who she was in the first place, I owe an apology to Anonymous. Although I have a deep appreciation for poetry, especially the finest examples of economy of words, I am not much informed about modern poets. It takes a certain level of concentration and reflection which I seem to lack these days.

In my mid-twenties I went through a phase of wanting to devour poetry, to educate myself on modern influences, to learn all the classics which my public school education skipped over. I wrote some extremely poor specimens myself, mostly to create a release valve during a time of frustration and inner conflict in my life.

But I did not learn about Jorie Graham. Thanks to Anon., I know her now. Without further adieu, a sampling for you.

The Way Things Work

is by admitting or opening away. This is the simplest form of current: Blue moving through blue; blue through purple; the objects of desire opening upon themselves without us; the objects of faith. The way things work is by solution, resistance lessened or increased and taken advantage of. The way things work is that we finally believe they are there, common and able o illustrate themselves. Wheel, kinetic flow, rising and falling water, ingots, levers and keys, I believe in you, cylinder lock, pully, lifting tackle and crane lift your small head-- I believe in you-- your head is the horizon to my hand. I believe forever in the hooks. The way things work is that eventually something catches. Jorie Graham

Unfabulous

There was one year when I was considered popular by some: sixth grade. Instead of the knee-length dresses my grandmother had forced me to wear in earlier grades, I started dressing like a normal pre-teen, donning "Madonna pants" and tank tops. As a result of this, I finally attracted the attention of the boy that I'd had a crush on since the fourth grade, Ryan V. Going around with Ryan launched me into a whole 'nother social stratus. Even though I wasn't loose enough for him at the age of 11 and I eventually lost him to a French girl that came to our school midway through the first trimester, I was already on the A-list at Dixie Canyon Avenue Elementary School.


Every year, a different grade would put on the school production so that during your years at the school, you should be in at least 2 or 3 of them. That year it was the sixth grade's turn to perform a very strange medley of different plays with a circus theme. I got the only singing solo in the whole play. This following my triumphant win at the school spelling bee. I tell you, I was on top of the world in my ballerina costume squeaking out the lyrics to, "Love Makes the World Go Round," from Carousel. In fact, the French girl, Valia, who had stolen Ryan was one of my back up ballerinas. Touché, mon cherie.

The day after the performance, I was happily buzzing about the four square court with my usual team, my three best friends. While we waited for our turn, Steve M, one of the guys in my larger circle even though he'd been consistently tormenting me for three years, approached me. He was a big boy, already taller than everyone else in our class. He came with a small posse of other cool guys.

"Hey Bianca," he said. "Guess what I saw yesterday?"
"What?" I said, half laughing, expecting a joke forthcoming.
"Your right boob."
My face dropped completely. "You're lying. There's no way."
"No I'm not. You were changing in the classroom and the blinds were open. I saw it." His posse chuckles in a mocking way.
"No way, you're totally lying." My best girlfriends nodded in agreement with me.
"Really? You put on that ballet dress thing and you were trying to pull your shirt over your head and your boob was showing."
I began to turn red, realizing that Steve, one of the most merciless boys in our class, had actually seen my bare, completely flat right breast. He was never going to let me live it down.
"Ha ha. He saw your boobie! He he he. Boo-bie, boo-bie," the posse's refrain began. They pinched their shirts at the nipple level and held them out to indicate breasts.

The rumor spread like wildfire and soon all of the sixth grade knew that Steve had seen my right nipple. A few girls were symphathetic, thanking the heavens that they weren't me. But mostly, everyone was laughing. I tried to deny it and tell everyone he was lying, but they all knew it was true. I was completely mortified.

Despite my chagrin, however, my social status was never better. In fact, it was the year we started playing Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare after school in my grandmother's Recreation Room down the street from Dixie. We were always a group of four or five sitting in the dark, at least two boys, often including Steve.

That year, I learned a little something about what it meant to be popular. But that was really the last time that I had any reason to care.

As of today, I am officially not young. I don't feel old per se, but I am supposed to be a real adult now, no longer a member of the American royalty of youth. For a lot of my peers, this milestone is depressing, a full stop in their telegrams. Although I must admit it hasn't quite sunk in yet, I definitely haven't been affected this way.

I have been searching myself for signs of aging, though: some crows feet, maybe, a few extra gray hairs. There are some really subtle things I've noticed, like the fact that my skin is a lot dryer than it used to be. Why am I peeling when the humidity outside is 900%? The stretch marks aren't really helping either. So much for those stylish little bikinis and midriff shirts. You can visit Piedras Blancas, California to see elephant seals on the beach. (By the way, go if you can and take the drive up Highway 1 to San Francisco).

But really, it's not so bad. I haven't been consumed by anti-aging cream fever yet. I'm actually still wrestling with the oily skin demon lingering from my long-gone teenage years. What I'm praying for is that I won't ever need to be dealing with both at the same time. I actually saw a commercial for a combo cream that said something like, "Wrinkles and blemishes at the same time? Who knew?!" Could we elevate the paranoia even more, please?

I don't much care about those things, anyway. After all, I've already roped in a husband and been making babies. Ha ha ha. Ha. Ha?

What I am more concerned with is that my time on this earth is limited and I need to be doing something constructive with it. Speaking of which, maybe I should get started now...

Oh, the places we'll go

My ob/gyn visit was a family adventure, being that it was too early in the morning for any babysitting and my husband likes to sit in and listen to everything happening with our fetus. This time we got a nurse-in-training (NIT, kind of like the CIT's at camp when I was a kid). Because she was learning, I was an aside to a constant stream of conversation.

"Okay, so when the patient comes in you have to ask her all these questions on the form and write the comments over here."
"Okay."

"Biaaanka?"
"Me? Oh, yes?"
"Step on the scale."

"Then once you get that you gotta get everything ready for the bloods if they need it."

"You can go sit on table."

"So then you're gonna do the blood pressure and everything."
She wraps the cuff around my arm and begins pumping.
"Now we gotta ask all these questions here on the list."
She holds up her form and begins reading. "These questions are about your family history and the baby's father, okay?"

(On the side): "You want to sit on Daddy's lap?"
"No-oh."
"Look at the baby, see the picture of the baby?"
"That's a baby. She's eating foo-ood."

"Any history of ghonorrea?"
"No"
"Cyphilis?"
"No"
"AIDS?"
"No"
"Down's syndrome?"
"Nope"
"Mental illness?"
I pause for a minute picturing Thanksgiving dinner. "Uh, no."
"Tay Sach?"
She must mean Tay Sach's (sacks), the disease my Jewish family could actually have on this list. "No, not that I know of."

"Come back here, my girl, we have to wait for Mommy."
"Mommy?" she looks at me and begins to bounce up and down by bending from her knees. "Mom-MY!"

Second Nurse: "Lift up your shirt above your stomach and pull down your pants to the hairline."

"Do you drink, smoke, do any drugs?"
"Aah-ah."

Second nurse gets out the fetal heartbeat monitor.
"Mommy, mommy!!"
"You're gonna hear the baby now! Isn't that so nice?"
Silence.

"Are you sexually active?"
We all laugh. "Uh, I think so."

Second Nurse squirts cold jelly. She places the Doppler microphone on my lower abdomen. No sound. She moves it to the left. No sound. To the very left side.
Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, static, static, whoo, whoo, whoo to the tune of 160 beats per minute.

"It's the baby, my girl! You hear him?"
She looks confused. "What you doing, Mommy?"

"Do you plan on taking any classes with us?"
"This is my second pregnancy."

I look at my husband and daughter. It's only just beginning.

A gooey surprise inside

I've said it before and I'll say it now for you: every person on this earth has some kind of interesting story to tell. It's what makes me depressed sometimes. On the one hand I think that I have something interesting to say, a different perspective to lend. But then I like to read about and I like to listen even more to first-hand stories. There are a plethora of them, much more gripping than mine: My parents sold me into slavery, I had a normal childhood but I still did bad things, Inside I'm really a serial killer, I used to be a prostitute and now I'm in marketing.

The list goes on ad infinitum. As interesting as all the stories can be, it just cements the idea in my head that it's all becoming too much information. Who the hell really cares? It's like inventing a new toothpaste: novel, at first, then knocked off by every competitor that exists. Eventually, the truth comes out that it was all a gimmick anyway. (We're onto you, Simon & Schuster, Random House, etc.)

Fiction is beginning to feel the same as a lot of these memoirs, too. I just bought two new books of contemporary fiction.



I love fiction. I love when I am carried away into some other world, some other place by a skillfully subtle writer. Sometimes the nuance of the words charms me more than anything. But, I have to admit that I'm barely excited about reading these. That doesn't mean I won't thoroughly enjoy them. I like the writing styles well enough. Even the subjects spark my interest a bit. I just can't escape this feeling that I'm being spoon-fed the fiction formula and I have to drink the tonic or else I'll never learn to conform. I know, I know--Me-ow.

I find myself writing in somewhat the same formula (one day I'll let you fine feathered friends read one of these short "masterpieces"), particularly right after finishing some writing class or another. Bleck. I bore myself silly. Or perhaps I'm just a lazy bastard.

Delusions of granduer

I always wanted to win an award for something. Sure I got plenty of awards in high school for events like the Shakespeare competition where I came in second at my school and got to perform my monologue (Portia from Julius Cesear) at the county level. There I had my first true encounter with stage fright and forgot the entire monologue just after I had kneeled down to emphasize the sincerity of Portia's pleading. I kneeled there like an idiot, alone on a stage lit with spotlights, for a good five minutes until I just gave up and left the stage. I got a nice certificate from the English Speakers Union for my efforts.

But I always wanted a real award for some grand achievement: Congratulations, You've Cured Cancer! or Your Story Changed The World, Here's a Nobel Prize!

Now that I am on the cusp of a new decade of life, I've come to realize that I probably won't ever be collecting one of these. The real reason I wanted one, besides that self-satisfaction and ultimate how-you-like-me-now effect, is because I've always wanted to make a tearful, gracious, touching acceptance speech. Really. I'm the one who's always crying watching other people's speeches, weddings, funerals, goodbyes. I want my moment, too.

It occurred to me today that I can have my moment right here on the bloggie, if I want. So I'm calling this entry,

"Rehearsal for A Lifetime of Thanks."

Thank you so much to all those people who drove me to feel, to write, to aspire, to envy.
Thank you to my childhood for providing the acid soil that produced the violet flowers of my youth.
Thank you to my University for teaching me that intelligence isn't really what gets you anywhere in life.
Thank you to New York City for humbling me, browbeating me, pointing out all my imperfections and confirming my inadequacy.

My husband and child(ren) are saints for riding on my crazy wagon and allowing me to express all my awkward affections.
My seester and might-as-well-be sister forced me to give hugs without little pats, shut up and listen and stop talking about sex like an Amish girl.
My friends, although they've come and gone a thousand times, allowed me to be normal and have my share of town-painting and other unmentionables.
My favorite boss and work friends encouraged my proficiencies, laughed at my blunders and gave me the confidence to believe my own braggodocia.

Thank you and good night.


P.S. Even angry little trolls need people to be angry with. Get out and enjoy them. This is not an e-mail forward!

Yeah, sure you forgot to save...

I hate that excuse, dammit. I really do. I hated people in high school that came up with that sorry shit. I hated it in college, although I must admit I came up with some even lamer ones myself. I really hated it in the workplace when some frat boy/sorority girl that never quite left college behind asked me to take up the slack for his/her little blunder. I would try to be the nice girl and cover, but then I would get steamrolled for not "managing the situation" properly. I thought about changing my initials to S.G.--scapegoat.

BUT, I swear on the holy mother (which I can do because I'm Jewish and none of our mothers are sacred) that I wrote this huge post about the woman of my dreams. I mean huge. While I was looking for some appropriate visual aids, I clicked off the window and I lost the whole damn thing. Yeah, you read right. I clicked off my own window. My bloodshot eyes were pried open with horror. My stomach began to churn.

I had stayed up until 2 a.m. writing this odd little thing. I was in denial. I hadn't really lost the whole thing, had I? I spent another half an hour trying to figure out how to recover it. I clicked on every link in the history folder (including the techie forums my husband surfs--how many Star Wars references and high praises for Google Ad$en$e can you read?). I tried to look in the trash folder and through my cookies. I checked the clipboard just in case I might have selected the whole text and Ctrl-C'ed it. Bubkis (Bubkiss? Bubkas? What is that word, anyway?).

But, I never give up. Seriously, it's my tragic flaw, my Achilles' heel. Usually, I just get snappy and swear a lot, frightening everyone around me into leaving. Then I figure out how to fix the problem. However, this time I was beaten. Utterly and completely defeated by my own freakin' thumb. Isn't having opposable thumbs supposed to be an advantage? G-sus. It serves me right, I guess, because I had just dished out a little diatribe about how important it is to exercise my writing muscle (as they like to tell you in ye old writer's workshops). Just when the ego thinks it's free...

Somewhere out there somebody finds this all knee-slappin' funny. It must be Google.

So Worldly

My daughter has a book called, "Caterpillar Hides Away." I love this book. It's not the same as Eric Carle's, "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," which has few words woven into beautiful illustrations and pictures of food with holes punched through. This book is meant to teach color. Apparently, it's also an early lesson about envy. The caterpillar feels sad because she is, "...only dull and green," while everything else around her is vividly colored pink and red, blue and yellow.

Unfortunately, my daughter has developed a pretty keen sense of empathy and when she sees how caterpillar is depressed, she frowns and repeatedly says, "Oh no! Caterpillar's sad!" Sometimes she gets so upset that the whole story is derailed.

Here's the sick part. Every time this little exchange happens, I want to laugh hysterically. Sometimes I am choking on my own words of consolation as little snorts of laughter creep out. You probably think it's because she is so cute. That's true. But the rest of the ugly truth is probably that we (I) have become so jaded and cynical that it seems ridiculous to care about Caterpillar's piddly issues. We know that nobody cares if you're dull and green and you'll always want to be golden as the sun. Unlike real life, at the end of this story Caterpillar wakes up as a multi-colored butterfly and makes quite a stir.

That's what we all want, isn't it? A chance to shine, to get a little recognition, adoration, whatever. Your own children are probably the only people in the world who will ever really look at you with gleaming, hopeful eyes, waiting for you to be the hero. But that's too commonplace. We want fame, we want strangers to adore us and other people's children to talk about how cool we are on the schoolyard. Ain't it grand?

Anything with "...rati" at the end

I was looking at my referrer report today (you know, my current obssession) to see how many people visit my site and how far over the earth my little musings reach. Okay, I'm just greedy. I want to see who reads me. I was very pleased to see that I have some hits from search results. This means some poor, unsuspecting people are trying to find real answers to their questions and instead they wind up on my blog.

Sometimes they want to know how passata is made. So they are directed to Passata and Kalamata. Other times they want to know about writing programs or searched for some random keyword that happens to be buried in one of my posts. I love them all. I want more people to click on my site and grunt in irritation as they have to wade through my narrative to find their word (which of course, isn't at all what they meant to find).

There's Yahoo search and Google, sure. But my favorite is Technorati. I just love this word. In today's crowded jargon market, this one is a keeper. It sounds like it would be some kind of geek site like my husband's happy little venture DevBistro, but then it ends in "..rati," instantly making you think you'll be part of some high society if you go there. This brings me back to my Renaissance Art History courses. Everyone who published books in Renaissance Italy was part of the literati (basically a guild for those gray-haired merchant-class dudes who were considered acceptable specimens for writing). So I guess the technorati must be the guild for...people who like technology? People who like to search for stuff on geek websites? Oh, I know, people who like to write, but only do it on a technological platform. Yeah, that must be it.

But then there's also the glitterati. Another guild for the learned and literate. Oh, wait. Isn't Paris Hilton president of that? Or maybe that's people that went to see Mariah Carey's stunning film debut in Glitter. I have to rent that.

They tried to take my couch

You know you're at the absolute bottom of life's totem pole when the Salvation Army comes to take your couch. I was just about to step into the shower this morning and there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was so tentative I barely heard it.

"Bianca? They can't get the couch out the front door."
I ripped open the door. "What! What do you mean? They came to take the couch?"
"It's July 8th, right?"
"No! No! Shit. Holy Crap." I rushed around looking for any pair of pants or shorts, remotely clean, that fit over my belly. "Wait! Wait!" I pleaded, hopping into my light aqua sweat pants.

I met the two movers in the doorway, both already breaking a sweat, almost breaking my couch. Begging their pardon, apologizing profusely, I asked them to please let me keep it, just a little while longer. I explained that I tried to call yesterday to postpone my donation date. I called several times and no one answered so I left a message.

"Oh, okay," they agreed calmly, half relieved that they didn't have to maneuver it out the door and down the slippery flagstone stairs. "Nobody told us, but no problem."
"Are you sure it's okay to postpone? I'm really sorry," I mealed, hoping to avoid an argument.
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it, " they beamed, nodding to each other in agreement as they backed the couch into its rectangular imprint on the area rug.

I let my shoulders relax and exhaled. Three more weeks before I have to release my well-worn flame-stitched sofa bed into the wild.

My favorite flavor is Dutch treat

One of the most memorable phrases of my life was shouted to me over a no-name noise machine calling itself a band during a first date in college.

This suitor had been "admiring" me at work for some time before sending me flowers. Although he didn't really strike my fancy, my roommate said he was so cute and he obviously was smitten so I should give him a chance. I had been working in the French Quarter long enough to know the calibre of clientele. So, I refused to let him pick me up at my place. He pleaded--a little too much-- that it was only the proper thing to do.

But, I left my undisclosed residence alone and met up with him at this pasta place right on St. Charles Avenue. I wore a vest. Seriously. Plus some light blue, tapered jeans that were frayed on the bottom. The finishing touch was my favorite pair of Mary Jane Doc Martins. He was in a brown suit and tie. Underneath his coat were white suspenders.

We made the usual fits and starts of small talk over enormous bowls of pasta. He invited me to go to the Howlin' Wolf, a music club in the Warehouse District. I glanced outside and saw that it was still light and would be for another couple of hours. The part of me that craved some escape from the utter stagnancy of working away the last bits of summer agreed. On the cab ride over I made sure I wasn't touching him or touchable by him.

We were the first people to arrive at the club.


We ordered drinks. I decided I would try to be more sociable.

"Did I meet you before at work?" I started.
"No. I noticed you working at the luggage store. I thought you were kinda cute. You look like a waif."
"A waif? Are you trying to say I look anorexic?"
"No! In a good way. I mean, I like it."
"Oh. Uh, okay."
"How old are you, by the way? I mean, if you don't mind me asking."
"How old do you think I am?"
"25?"
I chuckled nervously. "Actually, I'm 19."
He sat up in his seat and pushed up his sleeves. "Well, you won't believe it, but I'm actually 32."
I forcibly kept my composure.
"But it doesn't matter. I mean, as far as stamina I probably have twice as much as you do, anyway."
I stared at him for a few seconds. "Not that you'll ever know."
He looked surprised. "Never?"

I shook my head and turned towards the racket emanating from the small stage in the back of the club. I leaned on my hand and tried to listen for one melodic sequence of music. Something to like. I looked down at my hardly touched Amaretto Sour and wondered whether I should just get smashed and try to enjoy the rest of my free night out or whether I should leave it and get out before this guy tried to drag me off to his lair.

"I'd give you a penny for your thoughts," he interrupted, "but since you're Jewish, you probably want a quarter."


That's how I learned to load up on cash before every date.

What's that about?

I think I'm some kind of deranged lunatic. At least I am if you judge me by my dreams. Maybe it's just the pregnancy producing some strange hormones while I sleep (some would contest that being pregnant is lunacy of its own). Sometimes I have anxiety dreams that I give birth to the alien or something.



Other times I dream that I'm saying exactly what I think of everyone's comments.


Other person: Maybe you should take a prenatal yoga class so you don't gain too much weight.

Me: Hmm, sounds interesting. I'll get right on that.

Other person: Yeah, I've heard it really helps you stay toned, makes the birth easier.

Me: Great. While I go do that, would you mind carrying around this basketball for me for the next 7 months? Oh yeah, and don't forget to clean it off after you push it through your obviously sizeable ass.


Then there's the combo pissed off/anxiety driven dream where I'm saving my babies from the gestapo or some such. I hate everyone, can't trust them, have to physically exert myself constantly (my true nightmare) and can never sleep (the ultimate torture).

Maybe it's just the acid reflux.

A stroll along the promenade

This weekend, we relieved our own suffocation at home by getting some fresh air at my in-laws in Coney Island. While my husband and mother-in-law took my reluctant little swimmer to the wading pool, I took a walk down Surf Avenue. I was wearing a maternity tube top (this should be an oxymoron) and, what I later discovered was, a see-through skirt. Fortunately for me, the annual Mermaid Parade was going on so the gawkers lined up along the road couldn't care less about a slightly wobbly, glaringly white, elastic clad mommy. I certainly didn't care since I was on the hunt for mint ice cream.

If you look closely, you'll see why this parade is a good precursor to the Pride Parade which happened one day after in Manhattan. What amazed me is that there seemed to be a lot of the usual parade-going daddies with babies on their shoulders. What fun, little Tommy!

Argh

I had to start including pictures, so I decided this would be an appropriate start.

Ah the good old days

A member of my ever burgeoning household rented, "The Last of the Mohicans" and we watched it last night. I'm not one for cheesy pseudo-epics very loosely interpreted from great classic novels. They usually don't fail to disappoint. This one wasn't a great one, for sure. The one thing that did strike me was the brutality with which the "bad" Indians were hacking up the British and the "good" Indians.

It's truly horrifying to imagine being hacked up by a tomahawk, stabbed several times and then scalped, all while still alive and bleeding a slow death. Guns are certainly more merciful than that, right?

Our universal reaction of disgust spurred a discussion about how life is so much easier these days. In some ways, true. But I have to say that people back then would probably find it dizzyingly complicated to live in our contemporary world. I know I do. I think we all need a nap.

Bittersweet ending

I was thinking today, as I often do, that this blog makes me seem as though I'm completely cloistered and have no idea of what goes on in the world. I sound like I am just wailing on about my mental distress related to writing. But, I finished with my writing class today and got some good feedback. So now I can focus a little better. I've been sticking to the theme too much. I've always been good at following the rules, even if I just make them up myself.

So here's a little departure. I am preparing for a much needed vacation with the family. It might be more work than vacation, but at least I'll be in California and Hawaii. I try to find value in every trip, even if I'm just listening to my great uncle ramble on about how he used to raise hell in his day.

My daughter won't really appreciate the flowing lava or the black sand beaches in Hawaii, but I will. It's like looking at the gooey center of a cherry cordial without having to open it. If I had amazing binoculars or a super night-vision telescope, I could stick it down the volcano's mouth and literally see what the inside of the earth looks like in its most dynamic form.

Interesting how everything in life and nature (really everything, when you think about it) can be reduced to some crass sexual innuendo...I'll let you figure this one out. Actually, this one is kind of cool at the same time, since I would be the volcano in this case. Again it's all symbolic of birth and renewal tempered by danger, pain and even death.

The Last Lap

It's almost over already and I'm just now starting to feel the futility of it all. Two weeks are left in my writing class and, for once, I am actually feeling good about the work I've done. But then there's that little self-doubting troll that lives in us all. Mine tells me that I'm blogger number 9 MILLION and there's enough good writers out there to firmly set my place in utter oblivion. It seems completely impossible to find a foothold.

Who cares about my sad little women, my blundering, but devastatingly handsome men? Why does anyone care about any characters? I know, I know. Because a great writer can draw you in, chew you up and spit you out and you'll bow down and thank him (or her) for it. I'm awefully hungry, too. Then, again, so are they.

Other writers, however, are not my competition. You say that they are? No, no, my dear reader(s?). There is that big, scary marketing behemoth that only admits the famous, the completely devoid of self-worth and anyone who writes about them. Then there are the gatekeepers who used to be friends to writers, but have been seduced by the giant--literary agents. Most importantly, there is me. If I can corral my own fear and stagnancy and send it packing somewhere, maybe there is a kernel of hope. If not there definitely is a bottle of hooch and a bucket from the Colonel.

Round two

I am accutely aware of myself, which is not much fun. Sadly, I find that I am my own best editor and best judge. Everything I am reading in response to my work is what I have thought myself before. I am too honest with myself and it makes me want to crawl back into bed.

I have a flair for descriptive detail. My characters have life. My plot is less than stellar. Ah-ha. My plot is perfect as it lives inside my brain, but has trouble surviving outside. Oxygen turns it. Adjectives devour it. Seratonin gives it the final KO.

How in the hell do writers write when they have children, snoring husbands, tuna steaks to sear, whining cats and freezing rain pouring down the windows? I don't have time/patience/stamina/concentration to flesh things out properly, so I just end up submitting work I very well know is half-assed. Don't they see how marvelous it really is if you just read between the lines??

That snotty little SAT superstar, top-of-the-class geek that I thought I buried long ago keeps rearing her ugly head. She wants to outshine everyone. She wants to elicit comments with multiple exclamation marks. We're gonna throw down.

Just a Few Hiccups

I am hiccuping as if I've swallowed an entire swimming pool and it wants back out. My husband and daughter are sleeping soundly, as are the two cats at my side. But I am out here in the blazingly hot living room hiccuping until my chest hurts. What in God's name caused this all of a sudden? I haven't eaten or drunk anything in hours.

The only thing I can think is that the newly posted lecture in my writer's workshop has set my insides whirring. My brain has set off the fire alarm to let me know I am certifiably insane for taking on this workload while minding an ever more active toddler all day and night. Or maybe my stomach is complaining because it sees the onslaught of caffeine coming and it wants none of that. Actually, any part of me could be unhappy with this trauma, except perhaps that small corner of my brain that says, "Lady, you're gonna have to get off your ass and do something constructive unless you want me to torture you for the rest of your God given days."

That small quadrant of grey matter is Queen of this castle and, as it seems, quite powerful enough to take on any protestors in my life. Amazing. Now I just need it to figure mathematical probabilities and algorithms or whatever it takes to go home with a vault full of cash from the casino.

So it Begins...

Much to my own surprise, I have actually begun my writing workshop for the spring. I was on the fence about whether to enroll because of the stress it will put on each of us in my family for different reasons. Ultimately, I realized that I just have to kick myself in the ass and go because it's easy to use any excuse not to do something. I could easily sit here on the couch and watch some inane television for the next four months and happily pass another season. I could just as easily take this class and get little sleep for the next few weeks and feel accomplished. So I chose the latter.

I'm practicing my late night writing session capabilities right now. Fortunately for me, I've been an insomniac most of my life. But, I'm hoping to get things turned around a bit so I write in the normal world's morning instead of the just past midnight morning. We'll see how I do.

My class is an online class. This is strange to me because I feel like it could be any other day of my internet browsing--it doesn't quite feel serious yet. Hopefully it will. There are actually 16 people in this class. Amazing. One of them could be somebody I've run across on blogger. I'm about to check that out. It would probably be my little secret because God knows my readership could stand to be bigger here.

I'm reading your blogs, though. Ask me a question for my next entry...

Press Releases and Day Old Chicken

I've been giving some pointers on writing a press release in the last week and I realized two things. First, that I am so incredibly happy not to be immersed in the storm of "releasing" some corporate development to the media on a daily basis. I mean, who really cares that AOL bought some other small website or that some new executive got hired at one of the studios. Yawn. Secondly, I learned a lot more than I even care to know at this point. I'd like to put my years as a corporate communications monkey in the circular file, if you know what I mean. I'd rather change smelly diapers all day then hear another pep rally inspiring the team to arrive at 5 a.m. in order to release this "big" news. What a bunch of bull puckey.

Well, at least some one I care about is actually benefitting from my knowledge by torture. In the aftermath, I'm trying to reheat an entire chicken in the oven. No small task, my friend. In yet another scheduling debacle yesterday, I prepared a whole chicken that we did not eat. So it spent the night soaking in its own juices (i.e. fat globules) and now I'm trying to coax the thing to heat in the oven. Perhaps the Chinese leftovers will come to the rescue again.

I must sign up for my infamous writing workshop now before I miss the deadline or all the classes are full.

A bientot.

Passata and Kalamata

I fished through several recipes from my BBC cookbook today and finally found one
a) for which I have most of the ingredients and
b) my hungry/picky family will not complain about, here at the homestead.

Most of the recipes use fantastic ingredients only found in the Scottish Highlands or Heathered Moors or something. Many of them use ingredients I've never heard of in my life. Today's selection: Passata. What the hell is passata? I had to Google it and figured out that it's some kind of crushed tomato paste that's probably somewhere in between the varieties we have in U.S. stores. I'll be substituting smashed up canned tomatoes, thank you.

Brits. Geez.

Yeah, I know, we love 'em anyway.

At least I have the black olives in stock (California, actually, not Kalamata).

In other ground-breaking news, my husband agreed that Mommy and Baby should sign up for our respective classes. I'm happily buzzing about looking for which ones can handle us. Something active for baby to expend energy so she'll nap, something somewhat stimulating for Mommy to remember she has a brain. As you can see, Mommy has taken to talking about herself in the third person, so it is questionable.

Off to set my salivary glands going in the kitchen.

Pennies from Heaven

My husband and I are trying to decide which classes to enroll our baby in, what classes to enroll Mommy in and if we can finally put a few sticks of furniture in our living room. Such a mundance conversation, I know. The funny part of it is that we really shouldn't be paying for any of it right now. But we're going to anyway--after all, it's the American Way. I wouldn't want us to be un-American.

You see, I'd like to be even more American and write the Great American Novel. Uh, correction--the New York Times Best Seller Great American Novel. No sweat, right? Before I can do that, though, I have to be a great American capitalist, feeding the coffers of those pillars of education called writer's workshops. Essentially, I will have to force myself to write in the wee hours at the cost of precious sleep, since that's the only time the baby sleeps and I don't. Then I will scramble to read the endless pages of my twelve classmates on the day of class, writing my comments in the margins on the way to said class. All this blissful torture for the mere pittance of $600 U.S.

Then the furniture will cost us a few thousand and Gymboree or some such will add a $300 cherry on top of our debt sundae.

So, off I go to convince my otherwise intelligent husband why this agenda is valid.

To be continued...

Entertainment for All Ages

I'm hibernating for the winter. It's too cold here for me and the onset of winter every year pushes me into an ever-longer state of hibernation. When I first came to New York, I was trying to be brave and often walked around in negative-temperature-with-wind-chill situations wearing nothing but my work suit. One night, I walked from one end of Midtown to the other, literally the entire width of the island of Manhattan, wearing crepe pants and no overcoat. After I arrived home and saw how red raw my legs and hands were, I decided I must be out of my mind. Every year since then, I've acquired more and more winter supplies, but, ironically, have ventured outside less and less.

So, inside my warm home, I find entertainments for myself and my daughter. As you'd imagine, there's plenty of TV watching. But, there's also lots of puzzles, games of chase, snacking, pretend with toys, building a false sense of excitement about looking at the computer, etc. My daughter has made leaps in her development as a result of all this indoor entertainment. She can perfom all life's necessary tasks now: changing the channel, increasing the volume, turning the TV on and off and repeating just about anything she hears. And only 20 months old!

She can tell you the schedule of all her favorite cartoons and knows the shows you like, too. Hmmm, unless she's going to work for TV Guide...

I'm on the hunt for another mommy and me class to force me out the front door.

A Tune to that Name

The minute I hear one of the names with which I have a memory association, I find it hard to think of that name in any other context. If I meet a new person with the same name, I am predisposed to thinking of that person as having a similar personality. Eventually I do get past that, but usually the original name-to-personality connection overshadows the new one. Here's a few from my real life for kicks:

Natasha--a girl that my first serious boyfriend had a one-night stand with before we started dating. She moved in two doors down from me while we were together and I realized she still wanted my boyfriend. I failed to recognize the ominous foreshadowing of her arrival. We began arguing about her intentions and his and these "talks" about her started the swift decline of our relationship.

Annette, Janette (and variations with the correct spelling)--one in the same to me. The two worst bosses I have ever had. Both petty, ungrateful, lazy and deceitful. Anything with a 'nette on the end sounds a general alarm. I should thank them, though. That double threat confirmed my decision to get the hell outta advertising, I mean Dodge.

Mark--one younger man that sucked me in and spit me out, one older one that wasn't sure of his orientation and one co-worker that pestered, challenged, pushed and annoyed. Actually the last proved the best of the three musketeers. Years later, I keep contact with him.

Kyle--my first college boyfriend that charmed me silly first semester and shattered me completely second. My complete devastation at his hand forced the writer inside me out. I wrote. I gained a reputation for my prolific writing. A rapt audience of several people, unbeknownst to me, were reading my many letters to him. Then I began to journal.

So many more which I'm sure will come to me in my dreams...

Born Again M.F.A.

I drove around Sarah Lawrence this weekend and was pleased to see how picturesque and charming it is. It has the same English country/Tudor/cottage architecture as the rest of Bronxville and much of Westchester. It's quite a small campus, though, compared to where I spent my undergraduate career. It's smallness gave me trepidation. How can such an institution have a name with weight? How can the program truly be comprehensive if there are only a handful of students and faculty? How can I be accepted if there are dozens or hundreds of applicants for a single digit class size? How will I know if the program is even what I need?

I've had many conversations about why I want this degree. I'm not entirely sure what all my motivations are, but I know that I will feel a great sense of accomplishment if I'm able to do it. It was a struggle for me to get through college between working two jobs, having little passion for my major, lacking effective study habits and just plain tiredness. Oh and there was that little habit of wanting to attend parties every weekend and, uh, meeting eligible gentlemen (boys, as it were). At a certain point, you just stop caring and plow through like a mule. Maybe this second degree is a means of redemption in my own mind.

I just want some respect. Is it so much to ask? It's funny that an anti-authoritarian like me actually wants to be in a position of respect. It's all too ironic and psychology textbook-like. I want to make a living doing something I love, contribute something positive to my own reputation, for once, and leave a proud legacy. It's amazing how I can persist in my (delusional?) optimism despite so many shoeprints on my face.