Things I Want In My Cubicle: Part 1
Decals for the beige cabinets:
Pretty wall hook to compensate for not having a cube-closet anymore:
Twin Peaks-esque lighting:
Sunday, August 24, 2008
It's A Rich Man's Game
Until I get time to post about the merciful solution to my childcare disaster, I present ...
Things I Want In My Cubicle: Part 1
Decals for the beige cabinets:
Pretty wall hook to compensate for not having a cube-closet anymore:
Twin Peaks-esque lighting:
Things I Want In My Cubicle: Part 1
Decals for the beige cabinets:
Pretty wall hook to compensate for not having a cube-closet anymore:
Twin Peaks-esque lighting:
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Up All Night
My poor baby.
After the childcare plan collapse, I’ve been scrambling to find someplace for Mr. Baby to go every day. And I mean both that I’ve been scrambling for daily coverage and that the scramble happens anew every single day. This week, it’s been rare for me to know before 3pm where he’s going to be the next day. Fortunately, the only store-related credit I have remaining is with my former playgroup regulars, and St. Laura of Velasco has very kindly and lovingly taken up way more than a reasonable amount of slack as I flail about desperately trying to find a long-term solution to our babysitting needs.
In the meantime, my pleasant, easy-going baby is starting to show signs of cooperation fatigue. Our usually seamless morning drop-offs have become dramatic and teary, especially when those drop-offs involve leaving him with a total stranger in a totally strange, though fully licensed, location. I’ve had to return to the days of eating cold dinners, since nothing but me picking him up will calm his meal-time fits of separation anxiety. And our nights have regressed, with him up and nursing frequently, refusing to fall asleep without touching some part of me, flopping his half-awake body toward me and resting his head on my stomach, using me as a source of physical comfort in a way unseen since his newborn weeks.
And yes, okay, I realize that four days of somewhat unpredictable but generally familiar care isn’t going to cause permanent damage and it probably doesn’t explain every recent change in his behavior (there are pretty solid hints that he’s got more teeth coming in, plus he’s about three hours away from walking), but my guilt and stress and fear over not having the childcare issue resolved feeds into my every perception about his well-being. I just won’t feel like he’s okay until I find a place for him to be okay.
In the meantime, Miss M is taking kindergarten by storm, marching into her classroom every morning with barely a glance back in my direction. We’re struggling a little in the off-hours, as the early mornings and time-restricted lunches catch up with her, but she’s doing great while she’s there and I don’t have to think about it every minute of the day, so that’s the best I could hope for right now.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
I'm So Far Out To Lunch
"So, how's the job going?"
Well, since you asked ...
The job is good. It's an adjustment to go from the autonomy of self-employment, but that adjustment is greatly eased by the check slipped into my top desk drawer every other week. My assignments are interesting and challenging and I get really useful and positive feedback on a regular basis, which can't always be said for either retail or motherhood. My team is very friendly and generous, and although we all seem to take an interest in each other's lives, we just haven't forged a personal connection - they noticed my tattoo, but not my new haircut. And the rest of the company is ... well, I can't really say. Not because it's bad, just because I don't really know anyone outside of the three other people in my department. Those other people seem nice, when they're talking to each other in the breakroom or having work-stalling conversations over the cube walls, but I tend to feel invisible when I'm moving in their midst. I know this is partly because a) I'm conversationally stunted and will never take the opportunity to jump into a discussion uninvited, even when the women down the row are saying that breastfeeding makes babies spoiled, and b) about 25% of our division has been hired in the last quarter and so there are a whole lot of newbies walking around. And then just to complicate social matters, my team was moved down a floor last week, so those people whose shoes I was just about to get brave enough to compliment are now an even more gaping distance away.
Some people would solve this issue by putting on a brave new-kid face and charging in, confident that their charms would win out. But I've been the new kid so many times that my instinct is to lay low and hope my greenness doesn't expose me to scorn or ridicule. And just like elementary school, the biggest struggle of the day is deciding where to eat. Since the idea of sitting alone and eating lunch in the breakroom turned my stomach, I did a quick Google Map search of the area and found a restaurant within walking distance from my office. "Restaurant" might be stretching it a bit, really, but tucked inside an office building in the Ridgeway Loop, with no outdoor signage or any indication that it's there (oh, I already loved its humility), is Lisa's Lunchbox.
When I walked in the first day, Lauren at the counter took my name as well as my order. Which seemed like a fairly standard, Starbucksy thing to do, but then I noticed that she was greeting everyone who came in by name. I got a pre-boxed turkey and swiss special for five bucks (home-made chess bar and chips included) and took it back to my cubicle. The chess bar alone brought me back the next day, and when I got to the front of the line, Lauren said, "It's SAM, right?" Why, yes, it is.
The food is great (I'm deeply fond of the ham and swiss panini, which they serve with a side of ranch dressing for dippin'), but what really draws me back (multiple times a week) is the atmosphere. Not the brightly lit, styrofoam cup ambiance, but the actual tone of the place. I sit alone reading a book, but I don't ever feel like I'm by myself. I listen to the gossip behind the counter and follow the conversations with other customers. I hear Lisa talking about the challenges of small business ownership and I feel like part of the same club. These t-shirt-clad thirtysomething women (Lisa and Lauren are joined by Laura - oh, the alliteration alone delights my writing heart) seem more like my people than the other business casual corporate types sitting around me.
If you come out east to have lunch with me, know that I will suggest Lisa's. And if you're anywhere near Ridegway without me, seek it out yourself. And then go back again, because the trip's even more worthwhile when the minute you walk in, they say, "Hey, cute haircut!"
Well, since you asked ...
The job is good. It's an adjustment to go from the autonomy of self-employment, but that adjustment is greatly eased by the check slipped into my top desk drawer every other week. My assignments are interesting and challenging and I get really useful and positive feedback on a regular basis, which can't always be said for either retail or motherhood. My team is very friendly and generous, and although we all seem to take an interest in each other's lives, we just haven't forged a personal connection - they noticed my tattoo, but not my new haircut. And the rest of the company is ... well, I can't really say. Not because it's bad, just because I don't really know anyone outside of the three other people in my department. Those other people seem nice, when they're talking to each other in the breakroom or having work-stalling conversations over the cube walls, but I tend to feel invisible when I'm moving in their midst. I know this is partly because a) I'm conversationally stunted and will never take the opportunity to jump into a discussion uninvited, even when the women down the row are saying that breastfeeding makes babies spoiled, and b) about 25% of our division has been hired in the last quarter and so there are a whole lot of newbies walking around. And then just to complicate social matters, my team was moved down a floor last week, so those people whose shoes I was just about to get brave enough to compliment are now an even more gaping distance away.
Some people would solve this issue by putting on a brave new-kid face and charging in, confident that their charms would win out. But I've been the new kid so many times that my instinct is to lay low and hope my greenness doesn't expose me to scorn or ridicule. And just like elementary school, the biggest struggle of the day is deciding where to eat. Since the idea of sitting alone and eating lunch in the breakroom turned my stomach, I did a quick Google Map search of the area and found a restaurant within walking distance from my office. "Restaurant" might be stretching it a bit, really, but tucked inside an office building in the Ridgeway Loop, with no outdoor signage or any indication that it's there (oh, I already loved its humility), is Lisa's Lunchbox.
When I walked in the first day, Lauren at the counter took my name as well as my order. Which seemed like a fairly standard, Starbucksy thing to do, but then I noticed that she was greeting everyone who came in by name. I got a pre-boxed turkey and swiss special for five bucks (home-made chess bar and chips included) and took it back to my cubicle. The chess bar alone brought me back the next day, and when I got to the front of the line, Lauren said, "It's SAM, right?" Why, yes, it is.
The food is great (I'm deeply fond of the ham and swiss panini, which they serve with a side of ranch dressing for dippin'), but what really draws me back (multiple times a week) is the atmosphere. Not the brightly lit, styrofoam cup ambiance, but the actual tone of the place. I sit alone reading a book, but I don't ever feel like I'm by myself. I listen to the gossip behind the counter and follow the conversations with other customers. I hear Lisa talking about the challenges of small business ownership and I feel like part of the same club. These t-shirt-clad thirtysomething women (Lisa and Lauren are joined by Laura - oh, the alliteration alone delights my writing heart) seem more like my people than the other business casual corporate types sitting around me.
If you come out east to have lunch with me, know that I will suggest Lisa's. And if you're anywhere near Ridegway without me, seek it out yourself. And then go back again, because the trip's even more worthwhile when the minute you walk in, they say, "Hey, cute haircut!"
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Starfish And Coffee
There was so much build-up to Miss M’s first day of school that the actual event was fairly … well, anti-climactic, really. After worrying all summer and barely being able to sleep the night before (good thing I was up when the alarm went off at 5:30, because some tiny prankster with an affection for buttons and surprisingly distant reach had turned the volume aaaaall the way down), rushing around that morning getting supplies in order and barking last-minute commands to brush teeth and hair, the point of all the fuss was almost completely lost. Not that it wasn’t exciting to see her all dressed in her uniform, her new Hello Kitty backpack bumping the back of her knees as she walked up to school, but once we got through the throng of children anxiously bustling toward their various destinations, the drop-off was pretty easy. I’m sure it helped that we’d just been at the school for an orientation and tour, and that she saw familiar faces (human and canine) on the way in, and that Miss M had met her teacher and was immediately greeted by name, and especially that Connor was in the very same class in the very same room on the very same day. I’m sure it also helped that she’s been in a happy school environment for the last two and a half years, so even though this was a big new step, the idea of being away from her folks all day isn’t a huge source of trauma.
When I asked her about her day, I fully expected a contrary response, but instead she reported that it was “very, very good.” She said that she colored and did tests (“I got three wrong but about a hundred right.”) and played outside and allegedly watched a movie, although I’m not sure about that part. She made some claim about no one wanting to play with her during recess, which crushed my heart under the weight of playground rejection memories, but since she has a tendency to fabricate instances of suffering and victimization, I’m not immediately concerning myself with that issue. Especially since I can’t imagine that Connor left her sight.
Since they stagger kindergarten entry, yesterday was her only day of school this week, which gives both of us a chance to recoup and prepare for the new shift in routine. And double-check that Mr. Baby hasn’t changed the clock radio levels again.
When I asked her about her day, I fully expected a contrary response, but instead she reported that it was “very, very good.” She said that she colored and did tests (“I got three wrong but about a hundred right.”) and played outside and allegedly watched a movie, although I’m not sure about that part. She made some claim about no one wanting to play with her during recess, which crushed my heart under the weight of playground rejection memories, but since she has a tendency to fabricate instances of suffering and victimization, I’m not immediately concerning myself with that issue. Especially since I can’t imagine that Connor left her sight.
Since they stagger kindergarten entry, yesterday was her only day of school this week, which gives both of us a chance to recoup and prepare for the new shift in routine. And double-check that Mr. Baby hasn’t changed the clock radio levels again.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Feels Like Home To Me
So about the time most of my extended family was gearing up to attend the annual Corn Capital Days street dance, I was listening to rockabilly in a Memphis tattoo parlor, having a symbol of my ancestral homeland stabbed into my skin.
I walked into the shop ten minutes early for my appointment (again), and I saw that my new design was already sitting up on the counter. And it ... wasn't what I expected (again). But this time, I paused. JS could tell I was not sure about it, and he graciously offered to come in on his day off if I wasn't happy. But the more I looked at it, the happier I was. It wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind, but it was really, really pretty, even just as a sketch on tracing paper. It captured the rosemaling detail (that my initial choice of artist said was "untattooable") so perfectly, and although the star shape wasn't as prominent as I'd envisioned, he'd modified my original idea to allow as much space for the pretty stuff without causing the design to wrap all the way around my arm. And as he stood patiently waiting for me to reject him again, I said, "Let's do it."
I then sat in the front waiting for JS to prep his station and for the sorority girls to get out of the bathroom for two damn minutes already. I was still debating whether or not to enact my emergency anti-anxiety plan when JS stepped out and said he was all set. So before you could say half-a-Xanax, I was whisked off to the back of the shop, trying not to shake visibly while JS ran the disposable Gillette over my forearm.
He'd reduced the original design by 75%, but when he pressed the stencil onto me, it still covered nearly the entire visible diameter of my lower arm. I hadn't really grasped until that moment that the part of your arm that shows when your elbow is bent is not the same part that shows when it's relaxed at your side. But the placement looked good and the size was just right, so I gave the thumbs up and climbed up onto the table, which suddenly reminded me more of a lethal injection restraint than a massage table.
And then, reminding myself that I'd delivered two babies without any pain relief, I offered up my arm and immediately began the same breathing technique I used through my labors. JS fired up the needle and got right to it.
The first sensation was strongly reminiscent of getting blood drawn, especially since it was right over my strongest vein. I tried to let go of that thought, though, and associate the constant buzzing with an insect flying near me or, better yet, a hummingbird. This, combined with much-appreciated conversational distraction, helped to keep the pain and anxiety factors down. Really, the most disconcerting thing about the first hour of work was having my hand fall so thoroughly asleep that I wasn't even able to identify where my fingers were. Because, of course, I wasn't looking at my arm. Oh, no no no. I've always been in the habit of averting my eyes when there's a needle being stuck into me, and this didn't seem like the time to break it. So I just had faith that things were progressing well and didn't take a peek at how it looked until we took our first break.
At that point, just the outline was done, but it already looked pretty great. I was trying to visualize how the color would work - both what it would look like and how it would feel to fill in all that space. Part of the reason I'd picked JS to do the work was because I really liked his use of color in the portfolio samples I'd seen, so I was pretty much just relying on his instincts to bring out the Nordic feel. The plan was to go with dark, drab colors with brighter highlights, but beyond that, I just left it up to him.
We got back to work, and the minutes started moving a little bit more slowly. I wasn't in pain, per se, but the aggravation of the constant poking, repeated wiping, and incessant watchful glare of the heroin-shooting goat in the Stryper t-shirt (featured in the painting directly in my line of sight) started to get to me. I made it pretty smoothly through the first hour and a quarter, but the last fifteen minutes were not much fun at all. It started to sting, not just where the needle was jabbing but across the entire area. Every time JS wiped away ink and A&D ointment, it felt like a dry washcloth across sunburn. But in the grand scheme of physical discomfort, it was pretty low in both duration and geographical involvement. Just when I was starting to think I'd rather not do this much longer, it was over. I sat up and took a good, long look.
My goal, over the last year and a half of tattoo planning, was to end up with a design that was both meaningful and inspiring, something that reminded me of where I've come from and would be something I'd want to look at every day in the future. And now, finally, there it was.
It was beautiful. It was home.
I was absolutely amazed by it. Looking at it felt like glimpsing a part of my body in a mirror that I'd never been able to see before - surprisingly unfamiliar but still me. It was lovely in its own right, but it also referenced the original art and concept so perfectly. That sounds a little arrogant, considering it's attached to me, but I can't take the credit. JS did a fantastic job. And he seemed pretty proud of it himself, along with grateful for the change of pace from Celtic tramp stamps.
And so, without further ado ... l'etoile du nord.
Thanks, Team, for helping me through it. And sorry, Dad.
I walked into the shop ten minutes early for my appointment (again), and I saw that my new design was already sitting up on the counter. And it ... wasn't what I expected (again). But this time, I paused. JS could tell I was not sure about it, and he graciously offered to come in on his day off if I wasn't happy. But the more I looked at it, the happier I was. It wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind, but it was really, really pretty, even just as a sketch on tracing paper. It captured the rosemaling detail (that my initial choice of artist said was "untattooable") so perfectly, and although the star shape wasn't as prominent as I'd envisioned, he'd modified my original idea to allow as much space for the pretty stuff without causing the design to wrap all the way around my arm. And as he stood patiently waiting for me to reject him again, I said, "Let's do it."
I then sat in the front waiting for JS to prep his station and for the sorority girls to get out of the bathroom for two damn minutes already. I was still debating whether or not to enact my emergency anti-anxiety plan when JS stepped out and said he was all set. So before you could say half-a-Xanax, I was whisked off to the back of the shop, trying not to shake visibly while JS ran the disposable Gillette over my forearm.
He'd reduced the original design by 75%, but when he pressed the stencil onto me, it still covered nearly the entire visible diameter of my lower arm. I hadn't really grasped until that moment that the part of your arm that shows when your elbow is bent is not the same part that shows when it's relaxed at your side. But the placement looked good and the size was just right, so I gave the thumbs up and climbed up onto the table, which suddenly reminded me more of a lethal injection restraint than a massage table.
And then, reminding myself that I'd delivered two babies without any pain relief, I offered up my arm and immediately began the same breathing technique I used through my labors. JS fired up the needle and got right to it.
The first sensation was strongly reminiscent of getting blood drawn, especially since it was right over my strongest vein. I tried to let go of that thought, though, and associate the constant buzzing with an insect flying near me or, better yet, a hummingbird. This, combined with much-appreciated conversational distraction, helped to keep the pain and anxiety factors down. Really, the most disconcerting thing about the first hour of work was having my hand fall so thoroughly asleep that I wasn't even able to identify where my fingers were. Because, of course, I wasn't looking at my arm. Oh, no no no. I've always been in the habit of averting my eyes when there's a needle being stuck into me, and this didn't seem like the time to break it. So I just had faith that things were progressing well and didn't take a peek at how it looked until we took our first break.
At that point, just the outline was done, but it already looked pretty great. I was trying to visualize how the color would work - both what it would look like and how it would feel to fill in all that space. Part of the reason I'd picked JS to do the work was because I really liked his use of color in the portfolio samples I'd seen, so I was pretty much just relying on his instincts to bring out the Nordic feel. The plan was to go with dark, drab colors with brighter highlights, but beyond that, I just left it up to him.
We got back to work, and the minutes started moving a little bit more slowly. I wasn't in pain, per se, but the aggravation of the constant poking, repeated wiping, and incessant watchful glare of the heroin-shooting goat in the Stryper t-shirt (featured in the painting directly in my line of sight) started to get to me. I made it pretty smoothly through the first hour and a quarter, but the last fifteen minutes were not much fun at all. It started to sting, not just where the needle was jabbing but across the entire area. Every time JS wiped away ink and A&D ointment, it felt like a dry washcloth across sunburn. But in the grand scheme of physical discomfort, it was pretty low in both duration and geographical involvement. Just when I was starting to think I'd rather not do this much longer, it was over. I sat up and took a good, long look.
My goal, over the last year and a half of tattoo planning, was to end up with a design that was both meaningful and inspiring, something that reminded me of where I've come from and would be something I'd want to look at every day in the future. And now, finally, there it was.
It was beautiful. It was home.
I was absolutely amazed by it. Looking at it felt like glimpsing a part of my body in a mirror that I'd never been able to see before - surprisingly unfamiliar but still me. It was lovely in its own right, but it also referenced the original art and concept so perfectly. That sounds a little arrogant, considering it's attached to me, but I can't take the credit. JS did a fantastic job. And he seemed pretty proud of it himself, along with grateful for the change of pace from Celtic tramp stamps.
And so, without further ado ... l'etoile du nord.
Thanks, Team, for helping me through it. And sorry, Dad.
Friday, July 25, 2008
I've Done Everything For You
Gaaaaaaah!
I was stymied, once again, in my Great Tattoo Quest by yet another tattooer with more talent than time management skills. I'm allegedly all set for Saturday, but the requests for pictures are already coming in, so I hope a few more shots of our beach cuteness will appease the masses ...
I was stymied, once again, in my Great Tattoo Quest by yet another tattooer with more talent than time management skills. I'm allegedly all set for Saturday, but the requests for pictures are already coming in, so I hope a few more shots of our beach cuteness will appease the masses ...
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Taste Of Ink
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Hear that?
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I think it's getting closer.
BZZZzzzzZZZZZzzzz
It's ... it's almost on me!
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Stay tuned ...
Hear that?
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I think it's getting closer.
BZZZzzzzZZZZZzzzz
It's ... it's almost on me!
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Stay tuned ...
Monday, July 21, 2008
Back To Life, Back To Reality
Hey, here I am!
And just where have I been? Well, work, mostly. It seems that full-time corporate employment can really cut into your blogging (well, not for everyone). By the time I'm home and the kids are fed and bathed and bedded down for the night, I have about a 19-minute window before I collapse, and those 19 minutes are usually reserved for the news (aka Comedy Central between 10-11pm). Work is good and interesting and validating and I found a really good lunch place within walking distance of my office, but I'm still trying to figure out the whole balance thing. Mainly, how to balance the dozen boxes of Mothersville files and receipts and other stuff I didn't put into storage so that they don't collapse in an avalanche of thermal paper.
Of course, nearly two weeks of cubicle life can really drain a girl, so after 8.5 days of hard labor, I high-tailed it to the beach with the usual crew. Miss M and Mr. Baby had a fabulous time and I set a new personal record for amount of sand tolerated in my vicinity.
But now we're back, and the boxes are still here, and I've got 51.5 more days until I qualify for paid time off, so if anyone needs me, leave a message with Mr. Colbert.
And just where have I been? Well, work, mostly. It seems that full-time corporate employment can really cut into your blogging (well, not for everyone). By the time I'm home and the kids are fed and bathed and bedded down for the night, I have about a 19-minute window before I collapse, and those 19 minutes are usually reserved for the news (aka Comedy Central between 10-11pm). Work is good and interesting and validating and I found a really good lunch place within walking distance of my office, but I'm still trying to figure out the whole balance thing. Mainly, how to balance the dozen boxes of Mothersville files and receipts and other stuff I didn't put into storage so that they don't collapse in an avalanche of thermal paper.
Of course, nearly two weeks of cubicle life can really drain a girl, so after 8.5 days of hard labor, I high-tailed it to the beach with the usual crew. Miss M and Mr. Baby had a fabulous time and I set a new personal record for amount of sand tolerated in my vicinity.
But now we're back, and the boxes are still here, and I've got 51.5 more days until I qualify for paid time off, so if anyone needs me, leave a message with Mr. Colbert.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Hope This Very Special Day Brings You Lots Of Joy
It's been quite a year, Mr. Baby.
Thankfully, the difficulty, intensity and pain you used to enter this world was not foreshadowing. There has been an ease and joy and familiarity to you since the very beginning. After we got through those first few days of constant, wary brow-furrowing at everything you encountered, anyway.
We've been through a lot since then, but you have remained the happiest, friendliest, baby-est baby I've ever seen. Even in your darkest mood, even in your greatest pain, you are rarely more than ten seconds from a smile. You've endured every change and transition with the same calm demeanor, which I try to tell myself is just a naturally unflappable temperament and not early signs of Nordic repression.
You are so open to the world it both buoys and breaks my heart. As your mother, I worry that your agreeable nature will someday lead you to be taken advantage of, but I also relish the fact that you may grow into a socially confident child and adult, which would be a pretty new phenomenon, genetically speaking. You already bring so much light to me and the people around you. I can feel the tension around me lift when I'm, say, standing in line at the grocery and the other customers catch your attention. Your eager smile and twinkling eyes seem to ensnare and soothe anyone within sight of you. Everyone who sees you thinks you're taken with them and that your delight is specifically directed, and I don't ever try to correct this impression. I don't want to diffuse the natural joy you bring to everyone you meet.
As a second child myself, I know I've already fallen behind in documenting your milestones and developmental highlights. But as the mother of two, I've also learned that the day you started crawling isn't as important as the memory of your tiny fingers unconsciously reaching for me in the middle of the night or the achingly soft dent on the back of your neck. Your first year has sped by so much more quickly than your sister's, and knowing this, I've clung more tightly to your babyhood rather than spending hours on end wishing it would please go faster.
Things are about to change in a very drastic way. We've spent every day of your life together up to this point, and now your days will be filled without me. I'm not sure I can accurately explain how painful that fact is to me, but "surgery without anesthesia" is the closest description I can muster. But I also know I'm lucky. Nearly every mother who comes into my store says how nice it must be to have my baby at work with me, and I know nothing can replace the time that we've been able to have together. I'm going to miss you madly, but it's some consolation knowing that's because of the bond we've formed over the last twelve months.
You're an amazing little man, Mr. Baby. You are strong and curious and quick to laugh. You are thoughtful and cautious and easily offended. You love to eat. You love to play outside. You love to eat what you find outside. You love nearly anyone, especially kids and babies. You don't like dogs and cats as much as you used to (sorry about letting you watch both the critters die). You haven't taken a step but you can climb all the way up a slide or rock wall or flight of stairs. You sleep on your belly with your butt in the air, the way Cha Cha says I used to do. Your sister absolutely thrills you. You say mama and dada and bye bye and, I think, car. Or cat. Or keys? You point and clap and mimic like a little blond monkey. You are, quite simply, delightful.
I wish I could promise to protect you from every struggle ahead, but that's not realistic. What I can promise is that you will have so much love surrounding you that that the falls will always be softened. I believe in you already, in the gifts you have to offer, and I can't wait to see them opened to the world.
Happy birthday, my baby boy. I love you so much.
Thankfully, the difficulty, intensity and pain you used to enter this world was not foreshadowing. There has been an ease and joy and familiarity to you since the very beginning. After we got through those first few days of constant, wary brow-furrowing at everything you encountered, anyway.
We've been through a lot since then, but you have remained the happiest, friendliest, baby-est baby I've ever seen. Even in your darkest mood, even in your greatest pain, you are rarely more than ten seconds from a smile. You've endured every change and transition with the same calm demeanor, which I try to tell myself is just a naturally unflappable temperament and not early signs of Nordic repression.
You are so open to the world it both buoys and breaks my heart. As your mother, I worry that your agreeable nature will someday lead you to be taken advantage of, but I also relish the fact that you may grow into a socially confident child and adult, which would be a pretty new phenomenon, genetically speaking. You already bring so much light to me and the people around you. I can feel the tension around me lift when I'm, say, standing in line at the grocery and the other customers catch your attention. Your eager smile and twinkling eyes seem to ensnare and soothe anyone within sight of you. Everyone who sees you thinks you're taken with them and that your delight is specifically directed, and I don't ever try to correct this impression. I don't want to diffuse the natural joy you bring to everyone you meet.
As a second child myself, I know I've already fallen behind in documenting your milestones and developmental highlights. But as the mother of two, I've also learned that the day you started crawling isn't as important as the memory of your tiny fingers unconsciously reaching for me in the middle of the night or the achingly soft dent on the back of your neck. Your first year has sped by so much more quickly than your sister's, and knowing this, I've clung more tightly to your babyhood rather than spending hours on end wishing it would please go faster.
Things are about to change in a very drastic way. We've spent every day of your life together up to this point, and now your days will be filled without me. I'm not sure I can accurately explain how painful that fact is to me, but "surgery without anesthesia" is the closest description I can muster. But I also know I'm lucky. Nearly every mother who comes into my store says how nice it must be to have my baby at work with me, and I know nothing can replace the time that we've been able to have together. I'm going to miss you madly, but it's some consolation knowing that's because of the bond we've formed over the last twelve months.
You're an amazing little man, Mr. Baby. You are strong and curious and quick to laugh. You are thoughtful and cautious and easily offended. You love to eat. You love to play outside. You love to eat what you find outside. You love nearly anyone, especially kids and babies. You don't like dogs and cats as much as you used to (sorry about letting you watch both the critters die). You haven't taken a step but you can climb all the way up a slide or rock wall or flight of stairs. You sleep on your belly with your butt in the air, the way Cha Cha says I used to do. Your sister absolutely thrills you. You say mama and dada and bye bye and, I think, car. Or cat. Or keys? You point and clap and mimic like a little blond monkey. You are, quite simply, delightful.
I wish I could promise to protect you from every struggle ahead, but that's not realistic. What I can promise is that you will have so much love surrounding you that that the falls will always be softened. I believe in you already, in the gifts you have to offer, and I can't wait to see them opened to the world.
Happy birthday, my baby boy. I love you so much.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Planet Earth In The Palm Of Your Hand
Being a natural introvert, my favorite thing about journalistic writing is the interesting people I get an excuse to meet and talk with. I was a little sad when my interview time with Sarah Terry was over because it was such a pleasure getting to know her. I hope y'all will feel the same if you read my story on Sarah's eco-conscious household. I also make regular stops by her blog to see what amazing craftiness she's up to lately.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Fathers, Be Good To Your Daughters
The phrase "Just wait until your father gets home!" was never uttered in my household while my sister and I were children. And although this was partly because my mom was the Chief Disciplinary Officer in our home, it was also because there was not a one of us who believed that my dad would ever handle a situation with anger or even the most vague threat of violence. I can't ever remember a day of my life, in childhood or beyond, that I have been afraid of how my father would react to a given circumstance. A little dread at possibly disappointing him, sure, but never fear that I could lose his love or even his patience.
Which is not to say that my dad is a pushover or a milquetoasty man. For reasons I never understood, his demeanor seemed to intimidate most of my young friends, and he still makes most babies and children a little bit wary. I suspect that's because he treats everyone the same, whether they're fifty or five. He is calm, reserved, patient and a bit smart-alecky, which plays pretty well with grown-ups but can be a little weird to kids who are used to everyone playing big and goofy with them. But that temperament was a perfect fit to mine as a girl, when I was easily overwhelmed by loud noises and overt emotions. That's his genetic legacy to me just as surely as the dome nose, anxiety-prone digestive system and love of Fats Domino.
I hear a lot of mothers comment on the difference they see in how their fathers act around their grandchildren in comparison to how they remember being treated growing up. But when I see my dad around my children and my niece, the most frequent sensation I feel is nostalgia. With these little ones, and especially his granddaughters, he is the same quietly strong, loving force that held up my sister's first two-wheeler and optimistically coached my dismal basketball team. They also get the same half-octave-deeper, half-step-slower Dad Voice if they flagrantly disobey. (My sister can expertly mimic the exact tone of his one stern word: "Girrrls.") And they can bask in the same knowledge that, whatever they do, he will treat them with kindness, fairness and respect. And I hope that, like his daughters, his granddaughters will carry that expectation through their lives, with him and every man they meet.
Happy Father's Day, Pops. I love you.
Pops and "Scooter"
Pops and "Wildcat"
Pops and "Jack"
Which is not to say that my dad is a pushover or a milquetoasty man. For reasons I never understood, his demeanor seemed to intimidate most of my young friends, and he still makes most babies and children a little bit wary. I suspect that's because he treats everyone the same, whether they're fifty or five. He is calm, reserved, patient and a bit smart-alecky, which plays pretty well with grown-ups but can be a little weird to kids who are used to everyone playing big and goofy with them. But that temperament was a perfect fit to mine as a girl, when I was easily overwhelmed by loud noises and overt emotions. That's his genetic legacy to me just as surely as the dome nose, anxiety-prone digestive system and love of Fats Domino.
I hear a lot of mothers comment on the difference they see in how their fathers act around their grandchildren in comparison to how they remember being treated growing up. But when I see my dad around my children and my niece, the most frequent sensation I feel is nostalgia. With these little ones, and especially his granddaughters, he is the same quietly strong, loving force that held up my sister's first two-wheeler and optimistically coached my dismal basketball team. They also get the same half-octave-deeper, half-step-slower Dad Voice if they flagrantly disobey. (My sister can expertly mimic the exact tone of his one stern word: "Girrrls.") And they can bask in the same knowledge that, whatever they do, he will treat them with kindness, fairness and respect. And I hope that, like his daughters, his granddaughters will carry that expectation through their lives, with him and every man they meet.
Happy Father's Day, Pops. I love you.
Pops and "Scooter"
Pops and "Wildcat"
Pops and "Jack"
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I Have Tried, In My Way, To Be Free
There has been a lot going on at SAM headquarters lately, and one of the biggest chunks of mental real estate has been occupied by my career options. As all nine of you know, I currently own and operate a small retail endeavor that has been striving to keep its head above water for the last five years now. When I took it on, a bit over three years ago, I had a lot of big ideas about what could be done to build on the mission and plans of its devoted founder. But as the years have gone on and life has brought its own variables into the mix, I've come up against some of the same challenges that moved Kristy to leave for the more stable, predictable and benefits-providing world of secure employment. In many ways, things look a lot like they did a year and a half ago when I first attempted to sell the place. There's so much I want to do with the store, so many things that I think could really help it succeed in both financial and community-oriented ways, but I still don't have the time, energy or resources to make those things happen.
And so, in the last month or two, I've been looking more seriously at job openings. In nearly five years of hunting, I've never had much luck finding anything in the Memphis area that could make any use at all of my specific skills (mainly: Googling and smartassery). But then, suddenly, I was practically swimming in them. And more useful yet, the resumes I was sending out were actually getting into the hands of real people. Real people who were calling and emailing me to set up interviews. I had more interviews in the last month than I did leading up to my college graduation (yet wore the same suits for all of them). And perhaps because I didn't have that desperate, earnest fervor of a near-graduate, they went a lot better. I was actually getting second interviews. I thought those were purely mythical!
Somewhere in the back of my head, I was aligning the fact that I had somewhat impulsively given 60-days notice to my store landlord with the sudden emergence of all these other job opportunities, but I hadn't consciously figured out how I was going to handle what happened next with the business. And as the weeks passed and the move-out date drew nearer, I was so embroiled in corporate psychological analysis and mock projects that I couldn't focus on how the store could be kept open. Plus, the self-doubting part of me always assumed the other opportunities would fall through and I'd have enough time to scramble together my next plan before my lease was up.
So imagine my surprise when, in the course of one week, I had two interviews (one a second) that both seemed very promising. And then, wedged in the middle of those, a call from a local ... let's say post-natal services provider who had heard the store may be closing and wanted to discuss the possibility of partnering to create a new type of resource center (keeping it a bit vague for now to protect her identity as well as her idea). And so that, combined with the increasingly serious discussions we've had about joining forces and realty with the midwives, made the possibility of an amazing new version of Mothersville seem very doable and very exciting.
So there I was, with two very strong, feasible job opportunities in front of me, as well as a brand-new and seemingly more profitable avenue for the store. There were intense pros and equally vivid cons with every situation. When I thought about taking one path over the others, I was continually pulled back by the alternatives. I can't remember ever being so torn about a decision. I couldn't sleep, I lost my appetite, my every waking thought was focused on determining the best choice for me and my family. It took up most of every conversation I had during that time, including my therapy session. My therapist said the answer would present itself. She's not usually one for platitudes, so I tried to believe her.
And then it happened. There wasn't a dramatic parting of clouds or a chorus of angels, but the fog of conflicting inner voices started to lift a little. As I envisioned every possible scenario, I kept coming back to the one that offered an opportunity to use my degree and strongest skills, and was willing to give me good money and benefits for it. Working in education was appealing, as was the flexibility of the schedule, but I knew it couldn't sustain me on its own. I'd have to count on a certain amount of freelance work, which is an oxymoronic situation. Sticking it out with the store felt good to my heart, but my head and gut said nuh-uh. My head even clarified a bit by saying, "You've done everything you can. You've run yourself ragged trying to make life easier for a lot of other moms. It's time to make your own life easier." (Always less profound, my gut just said, "Hey, does this look like an ulcer to you?")
I stayed up until nearly midnight on Sunday night working on the next phase of the education job's hiring process, just to be safe. And then the next morning, I got a call from the staffing manager at the company I'd been leaning toward.
And ... I let it go to voicemail.
I still wasn't quite ready. If you've read Slam (as 70% of you have, based on your GoodReads profiles), you may recall the part where Sam throws his mobile into the sea so as to wait just a little bit longer before finding out that his teen-age girlfriend is pregnant. Just to have one more day before his whole life changes. And that's what I needed to do. Although instead of throwing my cell phone into the ocean, I threw myself into a YMCA pool and spent the afternoon bobbing around with Mr. Baby. Enjoying the Monday off, enjoying the time with him, and making peace with the idea that our regular Mondays off were about to come to a close. We dried off, got dressed and I called the recruiter back. A voicemail/callback later, and I had an official job offer.
The feeling after I hung up was complicated. Excitement, fear, anxiety, pride. Overwhelmed by both the positive and negative aspects of the situation. I called my parents almost immediately, and hearing their enthusiastic response helped to tip the scales a little, just as long as I didn't watch Mr. Baby hyper-crawling around with a giant smile on his face and a thought bubble over his head saying, "Really? You're going to leave this all day?" But that's a weepy post for another time.
Point is, I made the decision. I have a job. I'm going back into the full-time, corporate work force. As, of all things, a professional writer. And I am, for the most part, very excited and optimistic about it. The to-do list that's now trailing away from my body and out the door behind me? Still a bit daunting. But the big, dark tunnel I've been stumbling my way through now has a fairly large circle of sunlight dead ahead. Shining, unexpectedly, from the east side of Poplar Ave.
And so, in the last month or two, I've been looking more seriously at job openings. In nearly five years of hunting, I've never had much luck finding anything in the Memphis area that could make any use at all of my specific skills (mainly: Googling and smartassery). But then, suddenly, I was practically swimming in them. And more useful yet, the resumes I was sending out were actually getting into the hands of real people. Real people who were calling and emailing me to set up interviews. I had more interviews in the last month than I did leading up to my college graduation (yet wore the same suits for all of them). And perhaps because I didn't have that desperate, earnest fervor of a near-graduate, they went a lot better. I was actually getting second interviews. I thought those were purely mythical!
Somewhere in the back of my head, I was aligning the fact that I had somewhat impulsively given 60-days notice to my store landlord with the sudden emergence of all these other job opportunities, but I hadn't consciously figured out how I was going to handle what happened next with the business. And as the weeks passed and the move-out date drew nearer, I was so embroiled in corporate psychological analysis and mock projects that I couldn't focus on how the store could be kept open. Plus, the self-doubting part of me always assumed the other opportunities would fall through and I'd have enough time to scramble together my next plan before my lease was up.
So imagine my surprise when, in the course of one week, I had two interviews (one a second) that both seemed very promising. And then, wedged in the middle of those, a call from a local ... let's say post-natal services provider who had heard the store may be closing and wanted to discuss the possibility of partnering to create a new type of resource center (keeping it a bit vague for now to protect her identity as well as her idea). And so that, combined with the increasingly serious discussions we've had about joining forces and realty with the midwives, made the possibility of an amazing new version of Mothersville seem very doable and very exciting.
So there I was, with two very strong, feasible job opportunities in front of me, as well as a brand-new and seemingly more profitable avenue for the store. There were intense pros and equally vivid cons with every situation. When I thought about taking one path over the others, I was continually pulled back by the alternatives. I can't remember ever being so torn about a decision. I couldn't sleep, I lost my appetite, my every waking thought was focused on determining the best choice for me and my family. It took up most of every conversation I had during that time, including my therapy session. My therapist said the answer would present itself. She's not usually one for platitudes, so I tried to believe her.
And then it happened. There wasn't a dramatic parting of clouds or a chorus of angels, but the fog of conflicting inner voices started to lift a little. As I envisioned every possible scenario, I kept coming back to the one that offered an opportunity to use my degree and strongest skills, and was willing to give me good money and benefits for it. Working in education was appealing, as was the flexibility of the schedule, but I knew it couldn't sustain me on its own. I'd have to count on a certain amount of freelance work, which is an oxymoronic situation. Sticking it out with the store felt good to my heart, but my head and gut said nuh-uh. My head even clarified a bit by saying, "You've done everything you can. You've run yourself ragged trying to make life easier for a lot of other moms. It's time to make your own life easier." (Always less profound, my gut just said, "Hey, does this look like an ulcer to you?")
I stayed up until nearly midnight on Sunday night working on the next phase of the education job's hiring process, just to be safe. And then the next morning, I got a call from the staffing manager at the company I'd been leaning toward.
And ... I let it go to voicemail.
I still wasn't quite ready. If you've read Slam (as 70% of you have, based on your GoodReads profiles), you may recall the part where Sam throws his mobile into the sea so as to wait just a little bit longer before finding out that his teen-age girlfriend is pregnant. Just to have one more day before his whole life changes. And that's what I needed to do. Although instead of throwing my cell phone into the ocean, I threw myself into a YMCA pool and spent the afternoon bobbing around with Mr. Baby. Enjoying the Monday off, enjoying the time with him, and making peace with the idea that our regular Mondays off were about to come to a close. We dried off, got dressed and I called the recruiter back. A voicemail/callback later, and I had an official job offer.
The feeling after I hung up was complicated. Excitement, fear, anxiety, pride. Overwhelmed by both the positive and negative aspects of the situation. I called my parents almost immediately, and hearing their enthusiastic response helped to tip the scales a little, just as long as I didn't watch Mr. Baby hyper-crawling around with a giant smile on his face and a thought bubble over his head saying, "Really? You're going to leave this all day?" But that's a weepy post for another time.
Point is, I made the decision. I have a job. I'm going back into the full-time, corporate work force. As, of all things, a professional writer. And I am, for the most part, very excited and optimistic about it. The to-do list that's now trailing away from my body and out the door behind me? Still a bit daunting. But the big, dark tunnel I've been stumbling my way through now has a fairly large circle of sunlight dead ahead. Shining, unexpectedly, from the east side of Poplar Ave.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Hundalasiliah!
I was just going to do a straight-forward Top 50, but a) that's a nearly impossible task in light of 30+ years of recording, and b) I can't resist an opportunity for at least a little exposition. And so, in honor of Mr. Nelson's 50th birthday, I present
Ten Top Fives About Prince Songs!
I. Five Partyingest Songs
5. Trust
4. D.M.S.R.
3. 1999
2. Housequake
1. Let's Go Crazy
II. Five Least Embarrassing Political and/or Spiritual Songs
5. Planet Earth
4. The Cross
3. 4 The Tears In Your Eyes
2. Pop Life
1. Sign O' The Times
III. Five Filthiest Songs (Darling Nikki barely makes the Top Ten, Mrs. Gore)
5. 319
4. Head
3. Sexy M.F.
2. Erotic City
1. Come
IV. Five Loveliest Songs
5. I Wish U Heaven
4. Still Would Stand All Time
3. Take Me With U
2. The Arms of Orion
1. Forever In My Life
V. Five Least Justifiably Popular Songs
5. Batdance
4. Diamonds and Pearls
3. The Most Beautiful Girl In The World
2. Cream ("Sh-boogie-bop?" Seriously?)
1. U Got The Look
VI. Five Saddest Songs
5. Condition Of The Heart
4. When U Were Mine
3. Purple Rain
2. Nothing Compares 2 U
1. Sometimes It Snows In April
VII. Five Kid-Friendliest Songs
5. Uh ...
4. Hm ...
3. Er ...
2. Um ...
1. Starfish and Coffee!
VIII. Five Sexiest Songs
5. When 2 R In Love
4. Superfunkycalifragisexy
3. Hot Thing
2. Anotherloverholenyohead
1. Adore
IX. Five Funniest Songs
5. Vicki Waiting (there's an entire joke!)
4. Glam Slam '91
3. Mr. Goodnight
2. Alphabet St.
1. Bob George
X. Five Songs I Cannot Control The Urge To Sing Along To, Down To Every Exclamatory Noise, Not Already Mentioned Above
5. Raspberry Beret
4. The 1 U Wanna C
3. Little Red Corvette
2. I Would Die 4 U/Baby I'm A Star (required to be played in succession)
1. I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man
Happy birthday to a hometown hero and permanent musical companion. Every stage of my life has had Prince on the soundtrack.
The astute observer will notice that there are a number of albums not represented on this list. That's because those albums are either shamefully forgettable and/or were released during the post-Crystal Ball period when Prince and I were not on speaking terms. We worked it out, though.
Ten Top Fives About Prince Songs!
I. Five Partyingest Songs5. Trust
4. D.M.S.R.
3. 1999
2. Housequake
1. Let's Go Crazy
II. Five Least Embarrassing Political and/or Spiritual Songs
5. Planet Earth
4. The Cross
3. 4 The Tears In Your Eyes
2. Pop Life
1. Sign O' The Times
III. Five Filthiest Songs (Darling Nikki barely makes the Top Ten, Mrs. Gore)
5. 319
4. Head
3. Sexy M.F.
2. Erotic City
1. Come
IV. Five Loveliest Songs
5. I Wish U Heaven
4. Still Would Stand All Time
3. Take Me With U
2. The Arms of Orion
1. Forever In My Life
V. Five Least Justifiably Popular Songs
5. Batdance
4. Diamonds and Pearls
3. The Most Beautiful Girl In The World
2. Cream ("Sh-boogie-bop?" Seriously?)
1. U Got The Look
VI. Five Saddest Songs
5. Condition Of The Heart
4. When U Were Mine
3. Purple Rain
2. Nothing Compares 2 U
1. Sometimes It Snows In April
VII. Five Kid-Friendliest Songs
5. Uh ...
4. Hm ...
3. Er ...
2. Um ...
1. Starfish and Coffee!
VIII. Five Sexiest Songs
5. When 2 R In Love
4. Superfunkycalifragisexy
3. Hot Thing
2. Anotherloverholenyohead
1. Adore
IX. Five Funniest Songs
5. Vicki Waiting (there's an entire joke!)
4. Glam Slam '91
3. Mr. Goodnight
2. Alphabet St.
1. Bob George
X. Five Songs I Cannot Control The Urge To Sing Along To, Down To Every Exclamatory Noise, Not Already Mentioned Above
5. Raspberry Beret
4. The 1 U Wanna C
3. Little Red Corvette
2. I Would Die 4 U/Baby I'm A Star (required to be played in succession)
1. I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man
Happy birthday to a hometown hero and permanent musical companion. Every stage of my life has had Prince on the soundtrack.
The astute observer will notice that there are a number of albums not represented on this list. That's because those albums are either shamefully forgettable and/or were released during the post-Crystal Ball period when Prince and I were not on speaking terms. We worked it out, though.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
I Come Back To The Place You Are
More commute-time radio musings ...
As I was heading in to work this morning, I caught the second half of "In Your Eyes," which is universally accepted as one of the best pop songs, ever (I'm not going to have any arguments from the Peanut Gallery, do you hear me, people?). Which got me to thinking about my own favorite songs, ever. And just as I started compiling it in my head, KT Tunstall's "Black Horse and a Cherry Tree" came on, and man, I love that song. Which made me realize that a list of my favorite songs, ever, would be really, really hard to create. I'd have to divide it by decade and sub-category and go all Rob Fleming about it to be truly accurate.
So I thought it might be easier to list my favorite albums ever; collections that were, back to front, completely pleasing to me. And I'd limit it to records I actually own or owned, just to narrow the field, because otherwise there'd be no hope of ever finishing this exercise. I mentally flipped through my parents' reel to reel tapes and our Columbia House vinyl selections, the cassette tapes I bought with my minimum wages in high school, and the CDs that first crossed my path in college and haven't released their hold on me yet, despite the onslaught of medium-less media. I made it to about 1983 (and the oft-ignored masterpiece of She's So Unusual) before my head started to hurt and I gave up on that idea, too.
But in all this musical contemplation, I began another, more focused list project that will take some time to complete. No more details on that right now, but look for it on, say, June 7th.
As I was heading in to work this morning, I caught the second half of "In Your Eyes," which is universally accepted as one of the best pop songs, ever (I'm not going to have any arguments from the Peanut Gallery, do you hear me, people?). Which got me to thinking about my own favorite songs, ever. And just as I started compiling it in my head, KT Tunstall's "Black Horse and a Cherry Tree" came on, and man, I love that song. Which made me realize that a list of my favorite songs, ever, would be really, really hard to create. I'd have to divide it by decade and sub-category and go all Rob Fleming about it to be truly accurate. So I thought it might be easier to list my favorite albums ever; collections that were, back to front, completely pleasing to me. And I'd limit it to records I actually own or owned, just to narrow the field, because otherwise there'd be no hope of ever finishing this exercise. I mentally flipped through my parents' reel to reel tapes and our Columbia House vinyl selections, the cassette tapes I bought with my minimum wages in high school, and the CDs that first crossed my path in college and haven't released their hold on me yet, despite the onslaught of medium-less media. I made it to about 1983 (and the oft-ignored masterpiece of She's So Unusual) before my head started to hurt and I gave up on that idea, too.
But in all this musical contemplation, I began another, more focused list project that will take some time to complete. No more details on that right now, but look for it on, say, June 7th.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
High School She Was That Girl
So in a random fit of Googling, I decided to look up the girls I remembered from high school with some degree of intimidation - because they were cooler or richer or artsier or existentialistier or grown-upper than I was at 15. The dark-eyeliners and the danceliners. The people I was too barricaded in my preppy, churchy, college-bound world to get to know, and the people I simply didn't care to. And the exercise was fascinating - sometimes surprising, sometimes totally validating. I discovered that the mysterious, insular girl who took the edgy photos of the artsy kids for the senior yearbook is now doing marketing and design for big corporate clients. I saw that the smart, sporty girl I always felt meek and mousy around had become a 10k-running attorney. And I learned that the girl I considered, rightfully or not, to have the worst "reputation" in our high school (no link, sorry) is getting her PhD in one of the most respected English Literature programs in the country.
Whether these girls turned out the way I expected them to or not, it was an eye-opening exercise, because whoever they became, they looked a lot like the women I know and value in my life today. It made me wish I could go back in time and get their future email addresses, just so I could write them now and say, "Hey, glad to see you're doing well." Because I am. Whether they were girls I envied or feared, I'm happy to see that my adolescent intimidation foretold the qualities that are contributing to their successes today.
Okay, maybe except for the Trojets.
Whether these girls turned out the way I expected them to or not, it was an eye-opening exercise, because whoever they became, they looked a lot like the women I know and value in my life today. It made me wish I could go back in time and get their future email addresses, just so I could write them now and say, "Hey, glad to see you're doing well." Because I am. Whether they were girls I envied or feared, I'm happy to see that my adolescent intimidation foretold the qualities that are contributing to their successes today.
Okay, maybe except for the Trojets.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Hangin' Tough
So I was driving home from work last night thinking, "Where have all the Huey Lewises gone?"
By which I meant, where are the silly pop bands that everyone listens to and secretly enjoys? Where are the grown men willing to wear bright clothing and mug in front of a band doing choreographed dance moves? Why does every single group on the radio (or satellite, whatever), especially those that are male-dominated, take themselves so damn seriously? The closest we seem to get are angsty young men singing about obnoxiously quirky girls with twee, antiquated names, and I've had about enough of all that.
And then I turned on The Today Show this morning and there they were, five adult men in fedoras, open vests and loose ties, footwork flawlessly synched up despite the New York springtime rain pouring down around them. And just as I was heralding this decade's ability to produce the new News, I realized that this blast of bubblegum was actually blowing in from the 90s. Upon closer inspection, I discerned that those five thirty-something guys were very familiar. As familiar, in fact, as my adolescent bedroom wall.
Yes, it was New Kids On The Block. And yes, my (probably former) friends, even though there was no one around to witness it, I'm going to confess that I actually felt a little flush when I recognized each slightly more filled-in face. Because I was, once upon a time, one of Those Girls. Well, maybe not one of Those Girls - I didn't own a pin-covered porkpie or cover my Keds with I <3 NKOTB or anything - but I did enthusiastically attend more than two concerts and I'm pretty sure I remember using my Donnie Wahlberg t-shirt as a pillowcase. I forced my parents to sit through repeated playings of every cassette whenever we were in the car (including the Christmas album I won by calling into KDWB and listing the Top Nine at Nine in under nine seconds), and I even vaguely recall making arguments as to their artistic merit (although that may have been the songwriting genius of Jack Wagner's third album I was defending, come to think of it).
I can recognize it now, the obvious marketing ploy laser-sighted at my demographic. I can plainly see how their sexy-but-safe personas were directed straight at the girls of my age, the pre-daters who believed that teenage love might be romantic, still oblivious to the realities of curfews, groundings and minimum wage. I think these are now called "tweens," but back then, we were just hyper little girls.
Older and debateably wiser, I can see the strings behind this latest incarnation's pop puppetry. I know when I'm being pandered. The record execs know that those little girls have grown up and had little girls of their own, and now they're trying to suck us all in at once. In the crowd outside Rockefeller Plaza, there were two generations - Those Girls and Those Women - mouthing every lyric and holding up neon-posterboard signs. But I'm pretty confident that I'm still not one of Them, because instead of the flush of excitement I felt as a pre-teen, the flush I felt today was one of maternal concern. I wanted them to hit their notes, I wanted them not to fall on the slick stage, I wanted Jon to pinken up and not look so much like he was going to hurl due to his crippling stage-fright (which he described on Oprah a couple years back).
And I sort of, just a little, wanted to hop on iTunes and buy the new single. Because although it wasn't the most poignant or well crafted song I've ever heard, it was upbeat and fun and didn't once mention a girl named after a Biblical character or British monarch.
By which I meant, where are the silly pop bands that everyone listens to and secretly enjoys? Where are the grown men willing to wear bright clothing and mug in front of a band doing choreographed dance moves? Why does every single group on the radio (or satellite, whatever), especially those that are male-dominated, take themselves so damn seriously? The closest we seem to get are angsty young men singing about obnoxiously quirky girls with twee, antiquated names, and I've had about enough of all that.
And then I turned on The Today Show this morning and there they were, five adult men in fedoras, open vests and loose ties, footwork flawlessly synched up despite the New York springtime rain pouring down around them. And just as I was heralding this decade's ability to produce the new News, I realized that this blast of bubblegum was actually blowing in from the 90s. Upon closer inspection, I discerned that those five thirty-something guys were very familiar. As familiar, in fact, as my adolescent bedroom wall.
Yes, it was New Kids On The Block. And yes, my (probably former) friends, even though there was no one around to witness it, I'm going to confess that I actually felt a little flush when I recognized each slightly more filled-in face. Because I was, once upon a time, one of Those Girls. Well, maybe not one of Those Girls - I didn't own a pin-covered porkpie or cover my Keds with I <3 NKOTB or anything - but I did enthusiastically attend more than two concerts and I'm pretty sure I remember using my Donnie Wahlberg t-shirt as a pillowcase. I forced my parents to sit through repeated playings of every cassette whenever we were in the car (including the Christmas album I won by calling into KDWB and listing the Top Nine at Nine in under nine seconds), and I even vaguely recall making arguments as to their artistic merit (although that may have been the songwriting genius of Jack Wagner's third album I was defending, come to think of it).
I can recognize it now, the obvious marketing ploy laser-sighted at my demographic. I can plainly see how their sexy-but-safe personas were directed straight at the girls of my age, the pre-daters who believed that teenage love might be romantic, still oblivious to the realities of curfews, groundings and minimum wage. I think these are now called "tweens," but back then, we were just hyper little girls.
Older and debateably wiser, I can see the strings behind this latest incarnation's pop puppetry. I know when I'm being pandered. The record execs know that those little girls have grown up and had little girls of their own, and now they're trying to suck us all in at once. In the crowd outside Rockefeller Plaza, there were two generations - Those Girls and Those Women - mouthing every lyric and holding up neon-posterboard signs. But I'm pretty confident that I'm still not one of Them, because instead of the flush of excitement I felt as a pre-teen, the flush I felt today was one of maternal concern. I wanted them to hit their notes, I wanted them not to fall on the slick stage, I wanted Jon to pinken up and not look so much like he was going to hurl due to his crippling stage-fright (which he described on Oprah a couple years back).
And I sort of, just a little, wanted to hop on iTunes and buy the new single. Because although it wasn't the most poignant or well crafted song I've ever heard, it was upbeat and fun and didn't once mention a girl named after a Biblical character or British monarch.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Walls Have Ears
Writing this one-handed and half-brained, as I'm balancing a baby on my lap who hasn't slept more than twenty minutes at a stretch in three days. I was blaming a particularly fierce bout of tooth-erupting, but after waking up with a 102-degree fever, fussing inconsolably and then throwing up all over me, I started to think something else might be up. Or maybe it didn't occur to me until the third time he threw up all over me. Regardless. I eventually pieced together that Mr. Baby was not his usual happy self.
Fortunately I was already up at 6:55, which is when our doctor's office starts taking appointments for the day. Although somehow, when I called at 7:02, she was already booked up for the day. So I made a 10:15 appointment with a doctor I'd never met and tried to get Miss M ready for school with a screaming baby on my hip. (I may start pinching Mr. Baby in the mornings, because the girl is much more agreeable when her brother is in distress.)
By the time we arrived at the office, the Tylenol and sweet potato puffs had kicked in and Mr. Baby was happily scaling the coffee table and playing peek-a-boo with the coat rack. I almost packed up and took his cheeky little grin home. But when he screamed himself purple while getting laid flat to be weighed and measured, I was pretty convinced that his ears were hurting him.
And sure enough, when our mysteriously accented new doctor came in and inspected his ears, she quickly pronounced that there was an infection on his left side. If he'd been my first baby, I might have asked more questions and pushed her as to whether it was likely viral or bacterial, but after three days and nights of no sleep and a constant soundtrack of "mmmeeeeewwwwwwmmmmmeeeemmmmmmamamamamamamaaaaa," I just took the amoxicillin prescription and thanked the nice (Italian? Brazilian?) doctor for her time.
So now Mr. Baby is about to start his first round of the pink stuff, a milestone that Miss M managed to hold off until well after her third birthday. I'm trying not to take it as a statement on my mothering and just accept the fact that Mr. Baby lives in a wider, more social and, yes, germier world than his sister did as an infant.
P.S. for the relatives - he's now 18lbs and 27"
Fortunately I was already up at 6:55, which is when our doctor's office starts taking appointments for the day. Although somehow, when I called at 7:02, she was already booked up for the day. So I made a 10:15 appointment with a doctor I'd never met and tried to get Miss M ready for school with a screaming baby on my hip. (I may start pinching Mr. Baby in the mornings, because the girl is much more agreeable when her brother is in distress.)
By the time we arrived at the office, the Tylenol and sweet potato puffs had kicked in and Mr. Baby was happily scaling the coffee table and playing peek-a-boo with the coat rack. I almost packed up and took his cheeky little grin home. But when he screamed himself purple while getting laid flat to be weighed and measured, I was pretty convinced that his ears were hurting him.
And sure enough, when our mysteriously accented new doctor came in and inspected his ears, she quickly pronounced that there was an infection on his left side. If he'd been my first baby, I might have asked more questions and pushed her as to whether it was likely viral or bacterial, but after three days and nights of no sleep and a constant soundtrack of "mmmeeeeewwwwwwmmmmmeeeemmmmmmamamamamamamaaaaa," I just took the amoxicillin prescription and thanked the nice (Italian? Brazilian?) doctor for her time.
So now Mr. Baby is about to start his first round of the pink stuff, a milestone that Miss M managed to hold off until well after her third birthday. I'm trying not to take it as a statement on my mothering and just accept the fact that Mr. Baby lives in a wider, more social and, yes, germier world than his sister did as an infant.
P.S. for the relatives - he's now 18lbs and 27"
Friday, May 09, 2008
More Than Words
We were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a pre-bedtime snack of hard-boiled eggs when Miss M looked up from her salt pit to ask me a question.
"Mom, what does ... 'crack up' mean?"
Now, for some reason, I just instinctively knew that wasn't the phrase she meant to ask me. But instead of going the easy route, I sought clarification.
"Do you mean 'break up,' honey?"
"Yeah, break up! What does break up mean?"
I tried too late to save myself by using a time-honored parental tactic.
"Where did you hear that, honey?"
"L, at school. He said he was going to break up with me."
No. No no no. We are ten years too early for this conversation. Another diversionary tactic.
"Big L or Little L?"
"Big L."
Hm. That didn't buy me much time. There's only one way to handle this now.
"I don't know what that means, honey."
She went back to eating her egg for a minute, then burst out in frustration.
"You don't know anything! You don't even know what a word means!"
And I didn't argue. Because I can read her a book and she'll think I'm brilliant again, but for a girl who wears her feelings on the outside of her body, it would take much longer to recover from a peer's insult. At four and a half years old, I'd rather her think I'm an idiot than feel rejected by a boy.
P.S. I hate you, Big L.
"Mom, what does ... 'crack up' mean?"
Now, for some reason, I just instinctively knew that wasn't the phrase she meant to ask me. But instead of going the easy route, I sought clarification.
"Do you mean 'break up,' honey?"
"Yeah, break up! What does break up mean?"
I tried too late to save myself by using a time-honored parental tactic.
"Where did you hear that, honey?"
"L, at school. He said he was going to break up with me."
No. No no no. We are ten years too early for this conversation. Another diversionary tactic.
"Big L or Little L?"
"Big L."
Hm. That didn't buy me much time. There's only one way to handle this now.
"I don't know what that means, honey."
She went back to eating her egg for a minute, then burst out in frustration.
"You don't know anything! You don't even know what a word means!"
And I didn't argue. Because I can read her a book and she'll think I'm brilliant again, but for a girl who wears her feelings on the outside of her body, it would take much longer to recover from a peer's insult. At four and a half years old, I'd rather her think I'm an idiot than feel rejected by a boy.
P.S. I hate you, Big L.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Monday, May 05, 2008
She Blinded Me With Science
I know all six of you don't need me to link these every time, but just to make things easier for my mom, here's my latest CA piece.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
I Want Candy
Okay, wait, hold on ...
When I was making up that pros/cons list about Memphis, no one informed me that I could get nine pounds of Everlasting Gobstoppers for under $20.
Now I have to rethink everything.
When I was making up that pros/cons list about Memphis, no one informed me that I could get nine pounds of Everlasting Gobstoppers for under $20.
Now I have to rethink everything.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Memphis Looks Bad In The Morning
About a month ago, when my store was broken into, the windows of the house next door were busted out and a friend was robbed at gunpoint in his own home, all within the course of one week, I said that if one more criminal act invaded my world, I was going to lose it.
Anyone hear that cracking sound?
Last week, while I was at work, a man walked up to the shop next to mine. He looked my neighbor in the eye and pulled on her door with one hand, a gun at the ready in his other. Sadly but fortunately, she was cautioned by our past hold-ups and keeps her door locked. When he couldn't get in quickly and easily, the man fled.
The what-ifs, of course, are terrifying. What if he'd gotten inside? What if her store had been closed and he'd walked one door down? What if I'd been out getting my mail? What if we hadn't gotten that door buzzer installed?
But it doesn't even take the what-ifs to scare and anger me anymore. The plain facts are enough. An armed criminal was within feet of me and my baby. Again. And I just don't know how I can accept that anymore.
When I contacted our local business association to tell her what happened and suggest a cell phone-based system to alert neighbors, via text, when these acts occurred, the association president rattled off the three or four similar crimes within the past week or two. Which, frankly, I didn't find especially encouraging. But that's really all we Memphians have for each other right now: competing tales of crime, binding us together in a web of fear.
My bleeding heart tells me that I should be working to change this, somehow create a more equitable community that won't be a breeding ground for lawlessness. But I'm too busy trying to figure out how to get my kids safely out of the car and into the house without being hassled by the guys walking up my driveway claiming that they need bus fare. I want to think that I could be part of the solution, but the fact is I'm too overwhelmed by the problem to even consider it. And I don't think I'm alone in that. Asking the fed-up, freaked-out residents of Memphis to fix the crime situation is sort of like asking the citizens of New Orleans to climb off their roofs and shore up the levees. We are in a constant state of victimization, and we need outside aid.
I don't think we need eager church youth groups or celebrity sympathizers or anything, but just a little perspective would be useful. Community organizers from areas that have successfully pushed through these types of problems, or even representatives from cities that have never had to address these issues because their basic infrastructure prevented them from happening in the first place. I could perhaps stave off my desire to pack up and run to Olivia if a fleet of Minnesotans drove their Subarus down to give us some pointers on creating progressive public services and safe, successful schools. And, until that took effect, stood in front of my store to tell all potential ne'er-do-wells, "Doncha know there's more to life than a little bit of money?"
I have love for Memphis, probably a lot more than most lifers. I find beauty in the river and her delta. After nearly nine years here, I feel a tie with my non-native landscape, as if both the current and kudzu run through me now. The culture could hardly be more different than the one in which I was raised, but it is warm and welcoming and my other-ness is treated like a benefit rather than a threat. And for reasons no one seems quite able to explain, Memphis is a wellspring for artists who are, regardless of medium, moved to act as storytellers. And I love a good story. Sure, the cost of living and affordable housing and respectable salary rates are all appealing too, of course, but when I think of what makes me feel at home here, it's nothing that can be displayed on a calculator. There's just something here. It is not its easiness to rhyme that has made Memphis the most sung-about city in the world. And I love it.
But ... but. I'm not too naive to see that Memphis ain't really loving me back, and it's not just because she keeps pointing a gun in my general direction. My Yankee sinuses are in a state of chaos for half the year because of the abundance and foreignness of pollen. I can't stand to eat ribs without a knife and fork, subjecting me to ridicule and derision from even my dearest friends. And perhaps most disappointingly, the retail business I pour my heart and soul and varicose veins into can't turn a profit because the idea of nursing a baby disgusts about 87% of the population here.
So I'm constantly weighing the pros and cons of this city, and when the glare off a 9mm enters my peripheral vision, it's hard to see the pro column at all. I love Memphis, but I'm not going to be her bitch.
Anyone hear that cracking sound?
Last week, while I was at work, a man walked up to the shop next to mine. He looked my neighbor in the eye and pulled on her door with one hand, a gun at the ready in his other. Sadly but fortunately, she was cautioned by our past hold-ups and keeps her door locked. When he couldn't get in quickly and easily, the man fled.
The what-ifs, of course, are terrifying. What if he'd gotten inside? What if her store had been closed and he'd walked one door down? What if I'd been out getting my mail? What if we hadn't gotten that door buzzer installed?
But it doesn't even take the what-ifs to scare and anger me anymore. The plain facts are enough. An armed criminal was within feet of me and my baby. Again. And I just don't know how I can accept that anymore.
When I contacted our local business association to tell her what happened and suggest a cell phone-based system to alert neighbors, via text, when these acts occurred, the association president rattled off the three or four similar crimes within the past week or two. Which, frankly, I didn't find especially encouraging. But that's really all we Memphians have for each other right now: competing tales of crime, binding us together in a web of fear.
My bleeding heart tells me that I should be working to change this, somehow create a more equitable community that won't be a breeding ground for lawlessness. But I'm too busy trying to figure out how to get my kids safely out of the car and into the house without being hassled by the guys walking up my driveway claiming that they need bus fare. I want to think that I could be part of the solution, but the fact is I'm too overwhelmed by the problem to even consider it. And I don't think I'm alone in that. Asking the fed-up, freaked-out residents of Memphis to fix the crime situation is sort of like asking the citizens of New Orleans to climb off their roofs and shore up the levees. We are in a constant state of victimization, and we need outside aid.
I don't think we need eager church youth groups or celebrity sympathizers or anything, but just a little perspective would be useful. Community organizers from areas that have successfully pushed through these types of problems, or even representatives from cities that have never had to address these issues because their basic infrastructure prevented them from happening in the first place. I could perhaps stave off my desire to pack up and run to Olivia if a fleet of Minnesotans drove their Subarus down to give us some pointers on creating progressive public services and safe, successful schools. And, until that took effect, stood in front of my store to tell all potential ne'er-do-wells, "Doncha know there's more to life than a little bit of money?"
I have love for Memphis, probably a lot more than most lifers. I find beauty in the river and her delta. After nearly nine years here, I feel a tie with my non-native landscape, as if both the current and kudzu run through me now. The culture could hardly be more different than the one in which I was raised, but it is warm and welcoming and my other-ness is treated like a benefit rather than a threat. And for reasons no one seems quite able to explain, Memphis is a wellspring for artists who are, regardless of medium, moved to act as storytellers. And I love a good story. Sure, the cost of living and affordable housing and respectable salary rates are all appealing too, of course, but when I think of what makes me feel at home here, it's nothing that can be displayed on a calculator. There's just something here. It is not its easiness to rhyme that has made Memphis the most sung-about city in the world. And I love it.
But ... but. I'm not too naive to see that Memphis ain't really loving me back, and it's not just because she keeps pointing a gun in my general direction. My Yankee sinuses are in a state of chaos for half the year because of the abundance and foreignness of pollen. I can't stand to eat ribs without a knife and fork, subjecting me to ridicule and derision from even my dearest friends. And perhaps most disappointingly, the retail business I pour my heart and soul and varicose veins into can't turn a profit because the idea of nursing a baby disgusts about 87% of the population here.
So I'm constantly weighing the pros and cons of this city, and when the glare off a 9mm enters my peripheral vision, it's hard to see the pro column at all. I love Memphis, but I'm not going to be her bitch.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
If I Had A Hammer
The blog has been suffering lately due to my efforts at breaking into the gritty world of Memphis journalism. Or sawdusty, anyway.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Building A Mystery
I just noticed that, when he's sleepy and sweaty, Mr. Baby smells like unfired clay.
Part-Time Model
Ways in which Mr's Baby's modeling career has been sidelined in the past month:
- face attacked by his best four-legged friend
- spinning head-first into large pieces of furniture while trying to stand unassisted
- inheriting his mother's highly visible reaction to mosquito bites
- tanning from the wrists down
- crawling out of bed
- mysterious nose injury involving a kitchen playset
- sitting too close to his mother while she was doing the New York Times Sunday crossword in fine-point Sharpie
But still ...
You know who
- face attacked by his best four-legged friend
- spinning head-first into large pieces of furniture while trying to stand unassisted
- inheriting his mother's highly visible reaction to mosquito bites
- tanning from the wrists down
- crawling out of bed
- mysterious nose injury involving a kitchen playset
- sitting too close to his mother while she was doing the New York Times Sunday crossword in fine-point Sharpie
But still ...
You know who
Monday, March 31, 2008
Don't Want To Dig The Dirt
I'm not scared of bugs. I don't really enjoy having them on my physical being or anything, but I won't shriek at a cockroach or do the oh-no-oh-no-a-bee dance. I'm generally the relocator of spiders whenever the need arises. I've helped numerous palmetto bugs find alternate accommodations. No big deal.
Rodents don't really get to me, either. Not the small ones, anyway. I find mice to be a bit of a nuisance and I'm not interested in sharing my pancake mix with them, but when Cha Cha kept seeing one scurrying through the kitchen, my only effort at trapping it was to throw some painters tape over the crack next to the dishwasher that it kept popping out of.
So I was thinking, in my general day to day life, that I was pretty brave about undomesticated critters. And then I was proven completely and totally wrong. Because, as it turns out, I have a raging, irrational and uncontrollable aversion to one particular creature, and this creature, just to really mess with me, keeps showing up when I'm most vulnerable.
I am afraid of slugs. And they keep getting into my shower!
Maybe "afraid" isn't the right word. It's more of a revulsion, a core-deep feeling of wrongness when I reach over for the Ivory and see those two tiny antennae waving at me. Now, obviously they aren't going to leap from the tile and attack me with their 57,000 slug teeth (shudder). It's just the very principle of their existence that bothers me. I was faced with an epic dilemma when I considered de-slugging the shower - I had to decide between sharing my daily routine with invertebrate visitors or actually touching them. It was a tough call, and it took me three days to get up the nerve and fortitude required to grab a wad of toilet paper and flush the little suckers (hey, I saw Flushed Away, they'll be fine down there as long as they don't mess with Le Frog).
I don't remember actually seeing a slug before moving to Memphis - the gastropods where I come from seem to prefer staying indoors, anatomically - so this isn't a lifelong fear. It's something that seems to have emerged fully formed on a day that I can still clearly remember. A night, actually. I stepped outside to feed the dog and felt something soft and slimy and cold and possibly demon-possessed slipping underfoot. It was so deeply and soul-penetratingly unpleasant that I can't look at them without recalling the sensation of suicidal slug between my toes.
"Yes, yes, SAM, all very fascinating, but why should we care?" the hypothetical readers exclaim. And so without further ado, I bring you ... Miss M's new favorite book.
Rodents don't really get to me, either. Not the small ones, anyway. I find mice to be a bit of a nuisance and I'm not interested in sharing my pancake mix with them, but when Cha Cha kept seeing one scurrying through the kitchen, my only effort at trapping it was to throw some painters tape over the crack next to the dishwasher that it kept popping out of.
So I was thinking, in my general day to day life, that I was pretty brave about undomesticated critters. And then I was proven completely and totally wrong. Because, as it turns out, I have a raging, irrational and uncontrollable aversion to one particular creature, and this creature, just to really mess with me, keeps showing up when I'm most vulnerable.
I am afraid of slugs. And they keep getting into my shower!
Maybe "afraid" isn't the right word. It's more of a revulsion, a core-deep feeling of wrongness when I reach over for the Ivory and see those two tiny antennae waving at me. Now, obviously they aren't going to leap from the tile and attack me with their 57,000 slug teeth (shudder). It's just the very principle of their existence that bothers me. I was faced with an epic dilemma when I considered de-slugging the shower - I had to decide between sharing my daily routine with invertebrate visitors or actually touching them. It was a tough call, and it took me three days to get up the nerve and fortitude required to grab a wad of toilet paper and flush the little suckers (hey, I saw Flushed Away, they'll be fine down there as long as they don't mess with Le Frog).
I don't remember actually seeing a slug before moving to Memphis - the gastropods where I come from seem to prefer staying indoors, anatomically - so this isn't a lifelong fear. It's something that seems to have emerged fully formed on a day that I can still clearly remember. A night, actually. I stepped outside to feed the dog and felt something soft and slimy and cold and possibly demon-possessed slipping underfoot. It was so deeply and soul-penetratingly unpleasant that I can't look at them without recalling the sensation of suicidal slug between my toes.
"Yes, yes, SAM, all very fascinating, but why should we care?" the hypothetical readers exclaim. And so without further ado, I bring you ... Miss M's new favorite book.
Monday, March 24, 2008
U Got The Look
Okay, I have to admit it. I've been harboring a secret ambition, one so silly and superficial that I've been a little embarrassed to discuss it, but I trust that my loyal readers (hi, mom!) will be gentle with me. So ... I've been thinking about going into ... modeling.
No, no, not me, goofus! Baby modeling. It has recently occurred to me that, as the mother of the world's most baby-esque baby, I really should be capitalizing... er, sharing the beauty of Mr. Baby with the world. Or at least whoever pays really close attention to the kids in local pediatrician ads. It just seems wasteful to let his perfectly round head go unappreciated.
Of course, Mr. Baby is not my only gorgeous child. He is, however, the only one whose temperament is suited for professional image-making. He will go to anyone, smile for any reason and generally leaves an echo of "awwwws" in his wake. Miss M, however, has a tendency toward shyness around strangers, plus the pressure of having her picture taken often makes her act like she's being Tasered. So although her beauty is, quite unbiasedly, astounding, it is, quite sadly, unmarketable. At least until she's a grown-up model and it's considered perfectly acceptable to throw food and scream unintelligibly at the photographer.
But come on, seriously ...
(Staff photo)
No, no, not me, goofus! Baby modeling. It has recently occurred to me that, as the mother of the world's most baby-esque baby, I really should be capitalizing... er, sharing the beauty of Mr. Baby with the world. Or at least whoever pays really close attention to the kids in local pediatrician ads. It just seems wasteful to let his perfectly round head go unappreciated.
Of course, Mr. Baby is not my only gorgeous child. He is, however, the only one whose temperament is suited for professional image-making. He will go to anyone, smile for any reason and generally leaves an echo of "awwwws" in his wake. Miss M, however, has a tendency toward shyness around strangers, plus the pressure of having her picture taken often makes her act like she's being Tasered. So although her beauty is, quite unbiasedly, astounding, it is, quite sadly, unmarketable. At least until she's a grown-up model and it's considered perfectly acceptable to throw food and scream unintelligibly at the photographer.
But come on, seriously ...
(Staff photo)
Saturday, March 22, 2008
The Second Hand Unwinds
You know that thing about a watched pot not boiling? I think the same may be true about a blogged baby. In the few weeks that I've been on hiatus (again), Mr. Baby has:
- popped out his first two teeth (bottom front)
- begun sitting up on his own with 93% reliability
- perfected a hyper-speed commando crawl
- branched out from breastmilk to dietary newcomers like sweet potato, bananas and his currently most beloved peas
- pulled himself to standing with minimal assistance
Miss M started walking at almost exactly eleven months, but I have a feeling Mr. Baby won't make it two more months without getting on his feet for good. Mostly because Miss M is moving plenty fast herself and he's going to need to come up with a more efficient escape method.
- popped out his first two teeth (bottom front)
- begun sitting up on his own with 93% reliability
- perfected a hyper-speed commando crawl
- branched out from breastmilk to dietary newcomers like sweet potato, bananas and his currently most beloved peas
- pulled himself to standing with minimal assistance
Miss M started walking at almost exactly eleven months, but I have a feeling Mr. Baby won't make it two more months without getting on his feet for good. Mostly because Miss M is moving plenty fast herself and he's going to need to come up with a more efficient escape method.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Let's Go Out Tonight Like It's Last Year
Despite my semi-retirement from the Memphis music scene, I couldn't resist partaking in at least a fringe element of this year's Folk Alliance conference. I missed all the official conference showcases, but I think I may have ended up at one of the best shows of the week regardless. I skipped out of cocktail hour early and walked into Otherlands last Friday night feeling strangely light, as if an 18-pound weight had been lifted from my arms (thanks, Sassy-Urfs!). After using the last of my agent credit to slide Steph and me in for free, I immediately bumped, quite literally, into Jimmy, a very patient semi-former client, and spent the rest of the evening running into my favorite folkies at every turn. The show itself was a collection of local and out-of-town FA conference attendees, hand-picked by Cory who did a highly impressive job of pulling talented and engaging musicians from the halls of the Marriott. The most talented and engaging, of course, being my former high school and college classmate, TAFKA John Mayer, currently performing as John Elliott/The Hereafter. He only played three songs, just like all the other guests, but his part in the show felt so much bigger because of his grotesquely overgrown awesomeness. I want to bust in two when I see him play, I'm so proud of him.
The evening came to a relatively early close for me (causing me to miss Blair and any of the secret guests still to come), but still, as one of my few babyless ventures out in the last eight months, it was a simply wonderful night.
The evening came to a relatively early close for me (causing me to miss Blair and any of the secret guests still to come), but still, as one of my few babyless ventures out in the last eight months, it was a simply wonderful night.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Food, Glorious Food!
Not to flail at an already mortally wounded horse, but since it's been mentioned both in person and in print, I follow up my previous list with The Quite Brief List Of My Favorite Foods and Best Meals Ever.
1. a bowl of in-season Bing cherries
2. parmesan-and-mustard-encrusted pork chop at the original incarnation of Marena's
3. gnocchi in pesto at Bella Arte in Hot Springs, AR
3a. really, any form or nationality of dumpling, from pierogi to ravioli to shumai
4. bean and cheese burrito with the magical pseudo-mole sauce from Chi Chi's
5. banana pancakes with peanut butter syrup at Blue Plate Cafe
6. lamb shwarma with a side of hummus and extra pita, pretty much anywhere it's offered
7. chocolate chocolate chocolate
8. virtually any dessert not containing the words "flaky pastry crust" or "coffee"
9. a rare sirloin with spinach salad, au gratin potatoes (I know!) and buttered sourdough, ideally at my parents' table
10. Kristy's lasagna, delivered hot to my table when I was 11 months pregnant
1. a bowl of in-season Bing cherries
2. parmesan-and-mustard-encrusted pork chop at the original incarnation of Marena's
3. gnocchi in pesto at Bella Arte in Hot Springs, AR
3a. really, any form or nationality of dumpling, from pierogi to ravioli to shumai
4. bean and cheese burrito with the magical pseudo-mole sauce from Chi Chi's
5. banana pancakes with peanut butter syrup at Blue Plate Cafe
6. lamb shwarma with a side of hummus and extra pita, pretty much anywhere it's offered
7. chocolate chocolate chocolate
8. virtually any dessert not containing the words "flaky pastry crust" or "coffee"
9. a rare sirloin with spinach salad, au gratin potatoes (I know!) and buttered sourdough, ideally at my parents' table
10. Kristy's lasagna, delivered hot to my table when I was 11 months pregnant
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Get Yourself An Egg And Beat It
Inspired by Sassy (because that's a nicer reason than saying she ripped off my idea in the first place), what follows is The List of Foods Normal People Eat But Which I Will Avoid If Given The Option and Would Happily Go The Rest Of My Life Without Eating.
1. any member of the squash family
2. baked, mashed or hash-browned potatoes
3. raw tomato, or any cooked chunk larger than a dime
4. saffron
5. bell peppers
6. jalapeno peppers
7. chili peppers
8. you get the idea
9. cucumbers
10. lettuce in condiment form
11. raw onion
12. cole slaw
13. mushrooms
14. whatever Sloppy Joes are made out of
15. tuna
16. and pretty much any other fish
17. whipped cream
18. anything "blackened" or in any way charred, deliberately or otherwise
19. pastry dough
20. celery
21. watermelon, cantaloupe, honeydew, etc.
22. capers
23. cocktail sauce
1. any member of the squash family
2. baked, mashed or hash-browned potatoes
3. raw tomato, or any cooked chunk larger than a dime
4. saffron
5. bell peppers
6. jalapeno peppers
7. chili peppers
8. you get the idea
9. cucumbers
10. lettuce in condiment form
11. raw onion
12. cole slaw
13. mushrooms
14. whatever Sloppy Joes are made out of
15. tuna
16. and pretty much any other fish
17. whipped cream
18. anything "blackened" or in any way charred, deliberately or otherwise
19. pastry dough
20. celery
21. watermelon, cantaloupe, honeydew, etc.
22. capers
23. cocktail sauce
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
3 .. 2.. 1.. Contact!
It took almost seven months, but it finally happened. Miss M was all up in Mr. Baby's grill (as usual), being loud and aggressively "lovey" (as usual), and he was just sitting there placidly in his high chair (as usual), trying to digest a single grain of brown rice. Miss M translated "stop yelling at your brother" to mean "try making another really loud noise near your brother," and so she began singing.
"I'M GONNA GET YOU, YOU BETTER RUN, I'M GONNA GET YOU, HERE I ..."
THWACK!
No, that wasn't the sound of Miss M's head exploding from its own vibrations. It was Mr. Baby, wielding his ducky spoon and taking perfect aim at Miss M's cheekbone. Yes, the little man finally fought back. And he knew it, too. As Miss M sat screaming and crying tears of befuddlement, he just looked at her, raised his barely visible eyebrows and grinned his biggest gummy grin. And as the responsible, peace-loving parents, we waited until Miss M stomped off to her room to give him a high-five.
"I'M GONNA GET YOU, YOU BETTER RUN, I'M GONNA GET YOU, HERE I ..."
THWACK!
No, that wasn't the sound of Miss M's head exploding from its own vibrations. It was Mr. Baby, wielding his ducky spoon and taking perfect aim at Miss M's cheekbone. Yes, the little man finally fought back. And he knew it, too. As Miss M sat screaming and crying tears of befuddlement, he just looked at her, raised his barely visible eyebrows and grinned his biggest gummy grin. And as the responsible, peace-loving parents, we waited until Miss M stomped off to her room to give him a high-five.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
And I Still Miss Someone
I was at the post office the other day and saw two people greet each other across the parking lot with a half-wave and surprised smile of recognition. It made me realize that there's something I miss by living so far from where I grew up, beyond the closeness to family and friends. I miss those unexpected encounters with the past.
My history in Memphis begins eight and a half years ago. I was, at that point, pretty much a fully formed adult - married, employed, on the brink of home ownership. Aligning myself with the Memphis music scene proved that my youthful foolishness wasn't completely expired, but for the most part, the only differences between 1999-SAM and 2007-SAM are a mortgage and stretch marks.
When we were in Minnesota over the holidays, the first person I saw when we walked into church (the church where I took first communion and was confirmed, where I taught Sunday School and worked for the Youth Director) was Heather. Or as I considered her during high school, my romantic doppelganger. It seemed we were always interested in, or were being shown interest by, the same boys throughout our adolescence. From the felon to the missionary to the moody, introspective Lutheran, our dating lives kept jumping across each others' (with her generally showing greater success). I hadn't seen her in years, and then there she was, sporting a mom-bob very much like my own, chasing her toddler around the fellowship hall. We said happy hellos and made family introductions, then politely made our way into the sanctuary. Where I managed to sit for about ten minutes before Mr. Baby started making his Pagan leanings known. As we were bouncing around the narthex (yes, I'm going to use as many church architectural terms as possible in one post; kiss my flying buttress), Heather's husband came out with their daughter. It was sweetly pleasing to see that the girl who had dated some of the hottest yet surliest boys at WHS was married to a man who looked and acted like a kindly chemistry teacher.
I miss seeing those changes, seeing how the people who formed the earliest part of my life have turned out. And I miss being around people who knew me when I was in those formative years, people who saw every little triumph and ridiculous failure that made me who I am. Heather probably read the desperate letter I wrote to Moody Lutheran, and therefore knows a little bit about me that no one in Shelby County ever will. Those little bits of me are all over the Great Lakes states. Some days this blog is an excuse to pull a few of them together and hold them out in my hands to my current friends and say, "See? This is why." But as much as I miss those bursts from the past, I am nothing but grateful that they got me where I am right now.
My history in Memphis begins eight and a half years ago. I was, at that point, pretty much a fully formed adult - married, employed, on the brink of home ownership. Aligning myself with the Memphis music scene proved that my youthful foolishness wasn't completely expired, but for the most part, the only differences between 1999-SAM and 2007-SAM are a mortgage and stretch marks.
When we were in Minnesota over the holidays, the first person I saw when we walked into church (the church where I took first communion and was confirmed, where I taught Sunday School and worked for the Youth Director) was Heather. Or as I considered her during high school, my romantic doppelganger. It seemed we were always interested in, or were being shown interest by, the same boys throughout our adolescence. From the felon to the missionary to the moody, introspective Lutheran, our dating lives kept jumping across each others' (with her generally showing greater success). I hadn't seen her in years, and then there she was, sporting a mom-bob very much like my own, chasing her toddler around the fellowship hall. We said happy hellos and made family introductions, then politely made our way into the sanctuary. Where I managed to sit for about ten minutes before Mr. Baby started making his Pagan leanings known. As we were bouncing around the narthex (yes, I'm going to use as many church architectural terms as possible in one post; kiss my flying buttress), Heather's husband came out with their daughter. It was sweetly pleasing to see that the girl who had dated some of the hottest yet surliest boys at WHS was married to a man who looked and acted like a kindly chemistry teacher.
I miss seeing those changes, seeing how the people who formed the earliest part of my life have turned out. And I miss being around people who knew me when I was in those formative years, people who saw every little triumph and ridiculous failure that made me who I am. Heather probably read the desperate letter I wrote to Moody Lutheran, and therefore knows a little bit about me that no one in Shelby County ever will. Those little bits of me are all over the Great Lakes states. Some days this blog is an excuse to pull a few of them together and hold them out in my hands to my current friends and say, "See? This is why." But as much as I miss those bursts from the past, I am nothing but grateful that they got me where I am right now.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Taking Care Of Business
Mr. Baby reached an exciting milestone yesterday: his first neighborhood business association meeting! We did our best to maintain a homey, crackled veneer of professionalism as he grabbed at the crab legs and baked brie during the pre-meeting social and I nursed him during the association officer election. He was an amusing prop during the member introductions ("I'm from Mothersville ... obviously."). But then it all went downhill when the grown-ups tried to have conversations that didn't involve him. The board president began explaining what the association had accomplished over the last year. "Mamamamama!" The festival chair detailed the highlights of the last event. "Mamamamamaaaaaaa!" Our city councilperson outlined the plans for our district. "MAMAMAMAMAMAAAAA! (pbbbbbbllllltt!)" His dwindling consciousness and increasing bowel activity were our cues to exit, so we slipped out as unobtrusively as possible, only braining three local business owners with my giant Mary Poppins diaper/laptop/saddle bag on our way.
Isn't it darling when they first grasp parliamentary procedure?
Isn't it darling when they first grasp parliamentary procedure?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
My True North
Alright, people, the time is nigh. The urge to do permanent, non-sun-related damage to my skin has become overwhelming. Plans are in the works for a Girls' Tattoo Night Out and I need to be prepared. The picture below is the closest I've found to the idea I have for my art, but after my unfortunate experience in Minnesota, I want to go in with my exact image in hand. So once again, our inspiration is The North Star. L'etoile du Nord, as it were. I like the organic, fluid elements of this star image, and the incorporation of the compass rose arms to clarify the directional element, but I would ideally like either a 9-point star or a 5-point with the 4 directional arms. So go to it, artsy types. Time's running out for you to make your mark on SAM.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
For It Was Written In Numbers
Per request/demand, I've made some updates to my 100 Things. I'm resisting the urge to expand the list, not because I haven't been thinking of lots of fascinating new things about me, but because the minute I get in front of a keyboard, I forget all of them.
Monday, January 07, 2008
WW3 Is A Giant Ice Cream Cone
There are very few things I remember from my Intro to Psychology class - and, frankly, college in general, despite my teetotaling teenage lifestyle. I remember that my professor had two dachsunds, which he featured frequently in his pioneering use of PowerPoint. And one of the only Psychology-related facts I recall is from an experiment conducted using popcorn. While telling the subjects they were testing something else, they gave them popcorn buckets of various sizes. What they learned was that, the more popcorn someone was given, the more they ate. Even among those reporting the same starting level of hunger, the people who were given bigger buckets ended up eating greater amounts.
This experiment popped into my frontal lobe as we were breaking in the new Costco card this past weekend. As we piled four gallons of orange juice and two infant-sized bottles of syrup into the cart, it occurred to me that we were falling directly into the giant popcorn bucket. We tried to restrain ourselves and only buy the items we go through frequently, but there's no getting around the fact that, once you have a really large amount of something, you can't help but consume it more quickly. I'm using a giant glob of shampoo at a time, mostly because the 2-lb. bottle is so unwieldy I can barely hold it in one hand. We're doing laundry around the clock just to get the VW Beetle of a Tide box out of our traffic pattern. We seem to be putting Mexican cheese on everything we cook, just because the Wisconsin-sized bag is in the way of all other food in the fridge.
So even though I know we'll go through fourteen pounds of bacon, I'm plagued by the knowledge that we'll go through it even faster when it's just sitting there in front of us, flaunting its abundance of smoky porcine goodness. It just can't be helped. It's science. All I can hope to do is confine myself to the products we really need. Like that 40-gallon barrel of popcorn.
This experiment popped into my frontal lobe as we were breaking in the new Costco card this past weekend. As we piled four gallons of orange juice and two infant-sized bottles of syrup into the cart, it occurred to me that we were falling directly into the giant popcorn bucket. We tried to restrain ourselves and only buy the items we go through frequently, but there's no getting around the fact that, once you have a really large amount of something, you can't help but consume it more quickly. I'm using a giant glob of shampoo at a time, mostly because the 2-lb. bottle is so unwieldy I can barely hold it in one hand. We're doing laundry around the clock just to get the VW Beetle of a Tide box out of our traffic pattern. We seem to be putting Mexican cheese on everything we cook, just because the Wisconsin-sized bag is in the way of all other food in the fridge.
So even though I know we'll go through fourteen pounds of bacon, I'm plagued by the knowledge that we'll go through it even faster when it's just sitting there in front of us, flaunting its abundance of smoky porcine goodness. It just can't be helped. It's science. All I can hope to do is confine myself to the products we really need. Like that 40-gallon barrel of popcorn.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Hats Off To Thee
Reasons that, despite all the preceding, I'm not moving back to Minnesota:
1. slush
2. scraping ice off car windows
3. January-March
4. having to send my children to stand at a school bus stop in the dark among head-high snowdrifts and older boys who whitewash them with ice-packed snowballs
5. self-righteous tattoo artists who won't work on a nursing mother
1. slush
2. scraping ice off car windows
3. January-March
4. having to send my children to stand at a school bus stop in the dark among head-high snowdrifts and older boys who whitewash them with ice-packed snowballs
5. self-righteous tattoo artists who won't work on a nursing mother
Sunday, December 30, 2007
I Made Minnesota My Home
While I was up north, a local station was running a feature called "The MN 150." Basically, a list of 150 people/places/things from Minnesota that elicit native pride. So after all the time I had to myself on the flight back to Memphis, what with The Admiral and Miss M in first class and Mr. Baby and I jammed into coach with the entire Christian Brothers University basketball team, I'm expanding my original list. These are personal and don't reflect all the great things about my home state, just the things that make me love/proud of/happy to be from Minnesota.
1 About-to-snow smell
2 Accents intensified by miles from Minneapolis
3 Adults wearing knit hats
4 The Andrews Sisters
5 Augsburg Press
6 Aveda
7 Bagel shops aplenty
8 The Basilica of St. Mary
9 Being no more than ten minutes from a large body of water at all times
10 Bemidji
11 Best Buy
12 Betty Crocker
13 Birch trees covered with snow
14 Bob Dylan
15 The Bookcase
16 The Boundary Waters
17 Briana Scurry
18 Broom ball taught in p.e.
19 Byerly's
20 Cabins up north
21 Canterbury Downs
22 Caribou Coffee
23 Carleton College
24 Charles Schulz
25 " Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis"
26 The Coen Brothers
27 Count Chocula
28 Creepy Talking Paul Bunyan statues
29 Dairy Queen
30 Dayton's
31 Dudley Riggs' Brave New Workshop
32 Duluth
33 Eddington's wild rice soup with warm breadsticks
34 Elaborate Park & Ride stations
35 Every small town having its own festival
36 F. Scott Fitzgerald
37 Fine Line
38 First Ave/7th St. Entry
39 The Fitzgerald Theater
40 " Franken '08" bumper stickers
41 " Funkytown"
42 Gale Mansion
43 Garrison Keillor
44 The Gay 90s
45 Gov. Jesse Ventura
46 Grand Ole Creamery
47 Grumpy Old Men
48 Gustavus Adolphus College
49 The Guthrie Theater
50 Hamm's
51 Harmon Killebrew
52 Hating the good people of Iowa for no good reason
53 Hating the nefarious people of Wisconsin for innumerable reasons
54 Holidazzle
55 Hotdish
56 Interstate 35W
57 The Iron Range
58 Jane Russell
59 Jerry Juhl
60 Jessica Lange
61 Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis
62 Joan Kroc
63 Judy Garland
64 Kenwood
65 Kid Jonny Lang and The Big Bang (technically a Dakotan but they don't have cities so he got famous in MN)
66 Lagoon Theater
67 Lake Calhoun
68 Lake Minnetonka (and its purifying waters)
69 Lake smell
70 Land O' Lakes
71 Laura Ingalls Wilder
72 Lefse
73 Liberals
74 Loon calls
75 The Mall of America
76 Mankato
77 Mary Tyler Moore
78 The Mayo Clinic
79 Mickey's Diner
80 Minnehaha Falls
81 Minnesota Orchestra and its rich history of having the silliest named conductors in classical music
82 Minnesota State Fair 1: fresh french fries, fried cheese curds and chocolate malts
83 Minnesota State Fair 2: Princess Kay of the Milky Way butter sculptures
84 Minnesota State Fair 3: biggest pig in the state and the world's smallest horse
85 The Minnesota Twins
86 Morris Day and The Time
87 Mr. Wizard
88 Mystery Science Theater 3000
89 Nearly European levels of social services
90 NFL fight song featuring actual Norwegian
91 No sales tax on clothing
92 Noerenberg Gardens
93 Northern lights
94 Ojibwe
95 Ole and Lena jokes
96 Olivia
97 The Ordway Theater
98 Outdoor ice rinks
99 Paisley Park
100 Paul Wellstone
101 Pee-wee league hockey
102 People who jog in the snow
103 The Pillsbury Doughboy
104 Pinky Nelson
105 Pontoon boats
106 Prairie Home Companion
107 QVC
108 Red Balloon Bookshop
109 Red Wing pottery
110 The Replacements
111 Richard Dean Anderson
112 Rollerblades
113 Schwan's
114 The Science Museum of Minnesota
115 Scotch tape
116 Sears, Roebuck & Co.
117 Seven Corners
118 Shinders
119 Sinclair Lewis
120 Skyways
121 Snowplows
122 " Song of Hiawatha"
123 Spam
124 Spoon Bridge and Cherry
125 Spritz cookies
126 St. Olaf College
127 The St. Paul Saints
128 St. Paul's Winter Carnival
129 The State Capitol building
130 The State Theater
131 Steve Zahn
132 Stillwater
133 Summit Avenue
134 Sven Sundgaard
135 Target
136 Terry Gilliam
137 use of the word uff-da
138 The University of Minnesota
139 Uptown
140 Valleyfair
141 Wabasha Caves
142 The Walker Art Center
143 Walter Mondale
144 Way more than 10,000 lakes but we rounded down
145 Wayzata
146 Will Steger
147 Women's high school hockey
148 Wood fires
149 Wooden docks
150 You know who
1 About-to-snow smell
2 Accents intensified by miles from Minneapolis
3 Adults wearing knit hats
4 The Andrews Sisters
5 Augsburg Press
6 Aveda
7 Bagel shops aplenty
8 The Basilica of St. Mary
9 Being no more than ten minutes from a large body of water at all times
10 Bemidji
11 Best Buy
12 Betty Crocker
13 Birch trees covered with snow
14 Bob Dylan
15 The Bookcase
16 The Boundary Waters
17 Briana Scurry
18 Broom ball taught in p.e.
19 Byerly's
20 Cabins up north
21 Canterbury Downs
22 Caribou Coffee
23 Carleton College
24 Charles Schulz
25 " Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis"
26 The Coen Brothers
27 Count Chocula
28 Creepy Talking Paul Bunyan statues
29 Dairy Queen
30 Dayton's
31 Dudley Riggs' Brave New Workshop
32 Duluth
33 Eddington's wild rice soup with warm breadsticks
34 Elaborate Park & Ride stations
35 Every small town having its own festival
36 F. Scott Fitzgerald
37 Fine Line
38 First Ave/7th St. Entry
39 The Fitzgerald Theater
40 " Franken '08" bumper stickers
41 " Funkytown"
42 Gale Mansion
43 Garrison Keillor
44 The Gay 90s
45 Gov. Jesse Ventura
46 Grand Ole Creamery
47 Grumpy Old Men
48 Gustavus Adolphus College
49 The Guthrie Theater
50 Hamm's
51 Harmon Killebrew
52 Hating the good people of Iowa for no good reason
53 Hating the nefarious people of Wisconsin for innumerable reasons
54 Holidazzle
55 Hotdish
56 Interstate 35W
57 The Iron Range
58 Jane Russell
59 Jerry Juhl
60 Jessica Lange
61 Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis
62 Joan Kroc
63 Judy Garland
64 Kenwood
65 Kid Jonny Lang and The Big Bang (technically a Dakotan but they don't have cities so he got famous in MN)
66 Lagoon Theater
67 Lake Calhoun
68 Lake Minnetonka (and its purifying waters)
69 Lake smell
70 Land O' Lakes
71 Laura Ingalls Wilder
72 Lefse
73 Liberals
74 Loon calls
75 The Mall of America
76 Mankato
77 Mary Tyler Moore
78 The Mayo Clinic
79 Mickey's Diner
80 Minnehaha Falls
81 Minnesota Orchestra and its rich history of having the silliest named conductors in classical music
82 Minnesota State Fair 1: fresh french fries, fried cheese curds and chocolate malts
83 Minnesota State Fair 2: Princess Kay of the Milky Way butter sculptures
84 Minnesota State Fair 3: biggest pig in the state and the world's smallest horse
85 The Minnesota Twins
86 Morris Day and The Time
87 Mr. Wizard
88 Mystery Science Theater 3000
89 Nearly European levels of social services
90 NFL fight song featuring actual Norwegian
91 No sales tax on clothing
92 Noerenberg Gardens
93 Northern lights
94 Ojibwe
95 Ole and Lena jokes
96 Olivia
97 The Ordway Theater
98 Outdoor ice rinks
99 Paisley Park
100 Paul Wellstone
101 Pee-wee league hockey
102 People who jog in the snow
103 The Pillsbury Doughboy
104 Pinky Nelson
105 Pontoon boats
106 Prairie Home Companion
107 QVC
108 Red Balloon Bookshop
109 Red Wing pottery
110 The Replacements
111 Richard Dean Anderson
112 Rollerblades
113 Schwan's
114 The Science Museum of Minnesota
115 Scotch tape
116 Sears, Roebuck & Co.
117 Seven Corners
118 Shinders
119 Sinclair Lewis
120 Skyways
121 Snowplows
122 " Song of Hiawatha"
123 Spam
124 Spoon Bridge and Cherry
125 Spritz cookies
126 St. Olaf College
127 The St. Paul Saints
128 St. Paul's Winter Carnival
129 The State Capitol building
130 The State Theater
131 Steve Zahn
132 Stillwater
133 Summit Avenue
134 Sven Sundgaard
135 Target
136 Terry Gilliam
137 use of the word uff-da
138 The University of Minnesota
139 Uptown
140 Valleyfair
141 Wabasha Caves
142 The Walker Art Center
143 Walter Mondale
144 Way more than 10,000 lakes but we rounded down
145 Wayzata
146 Will Steger
147 Women's high school hockey
148 Wood fires
149 Wooden docks
150 You know who
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Through The Years We All Will Be Together
The holidays are about tradition, but no one ever really knows when a tradtion is starting or when one will have to end.
For almost as long as we've lived in Minnesota, my parents have hosted Christmas for both sides of our family. This has meant an average of twenty or more guests piling into the ancestral estate each year, from grandparents to baby cousins once removed. But this year, due to an unfortunate combination of weather, illness and loss, it was a relatively quiet Christmas. With Uncle Pete and Aunt Greg snowed out, Pottymouth Grandma with Grandpa Ace in the hospital, and the Mater Familia and Todd celebrating with unlimited platters of divinity in Valhalla, we were down to just two of my dad's brothers and their families. Two aunts, two uncles, two cousins and a spouse. That's it. It was practically like being by ourselves.
Traditionally, our extended family has poured into the house around noon, swooping past a gullet-gorging buffet to gather in the living room, where we would then offer gifts to Gramma B and open those she'd given to us. It was an almost painful exercise, due to Gramma's fondness for craft fairs and garage sales, but as we got older we learned to appreciate the humor and misguided affection in receiving a beadazzled sweatshirt or an almost-complete set of coasters.
Traditionally, our busy Christmas days have wound down into mellow Christmas evenings, with the elders parked around the kitchen table and the older cousins taking advantage of the fully stocked bar/gameroom that my parents felt driven to create five years after I graduated high school. But this year, no amount of foosball smack talking could cover up Todd's absence, and watching my dad and cousin stomp our husbands in pool didn't bring my sister and me the satisfaction it should have.
I don't know who suggested it, but somehow, all of us but an ailing Cha Cha found our way out into the steady snowfall and into the front yard of our more topographically blessed neighbor. We dragged sleds and pre-schoolers up the hill and then went down, over and over again. It's such a goofily simple enterprise, sledding, but requires no mental effort and is filled with such basic joy. It was exactly what we needed to fill the gaps left by those who weren't with us. There was no way to ignore that they were hurting, but watching Todd's brother and mother, and even his uber-Nordic father, flying head-first down that hill with huge smiles on their faces was an enormous gift to all of us.
I don't know if this is a new tradition or not - Minnesota weather is too unpredictable to count on sled-level snow every year, let alone a group of grown adults wiling to go play in it - but it was a transition. It gave us the time we needed to enjoy each other's company without losing too many moments to the company we missed.
For almost as long as we've lived in Minnesota, my parents have hosted Christmas for both sides of our family. This has meant an average of twenty or more guests piling into the ancestral estate each year, from grandparents to baby cousins once removed. But this year, due to an unfortunate combination of weather, illness and loss, it was a relatively quiet Christmas. With Uncle Pete and Aunt Greg snowed out, Pottymouth Grandma with Grandpa Ace in the hospital, and the Mater Familia and Todd celebrating with unlimited platters of divinity in Valhalla, we were down to just two of my dad's brothers and their families. Two aunts, two uncles, two cousins and a spouse. That's it. It was practically like being by ourselves.
Traditionally, our extended family has poured into the house around noon, swooping past a gullet-gorging buffet to gather in the living room, where we would then offer gifts to Gramma B and open those she'd given to us. It was an almost painful exercise, due to Gramma's fondness for craft fairs and garage sales, but as we got older we learned to appreciate the humor and misguided affection in receiving a beadazzled sweatshirt or an almost-complete set of coasters.
Traditionally, our busy Christmas days have wound down into mellow Christmas evenings, with the elders parked around the kitchen table and the older cousins taking advantage of the fully stocked bar/gameroom that my parents felt driven to create five years after I graduated high school. But this year, no amount of foosball smack talking could cover up Todd's absence, and watching my dad and cousin stomp our husbands in pool didn't bring my sister and me the satisfaction it should have.
I don't know who suggested it, but somehow, all of us but an ailing Cha Cha found our way out into the steady snowfall and into the front yard of our more topographically blessed neighbor. We dragged sleds and pre-schoolers up the hill and then went down, over and over again. It's such a goofily simple enterprise, sledding, but requires no mental effort and is filled with such basic joy. It was exactly what we needed to fill the gaps left by those who weren't with us. There was no way to ignore that they were hurting, but watching Todd's brother and mother, and even his uber-Nordic father, flying head-first down that hill with huge smiles on their faces was an enormous gift to all of us.
I don't know if this is a new tradition or not - Minnesota weather is too unpredictable to count on sled-level snow every year, let alone a group of grown adults wiling to go play in it - but it was a transition. It gave us the time we needed to enjoy each other's company without losing too many moments to the company we missed.
Monday, December 24, 2007
You Make Loving Fun
The official motto of my paternal grandmother's family is "Haec Omnia Transeunt," which translates to "All these things pass away." If my nuclear family had an official motto, it would be "Amas Quacae Krusteus," or, "We kid because we love."
It's something I feel I should explain to strangers, if I were capable of speaking to them. I realize every time I'm together with my parents and sibling that our primary form of communication is to mock each other. Our first language is sarcasm. To an outside observer, I'm sure it seems odd, or maybe even harsh, but we all understand that it's with only the deepest affection that we pick each other apart.
This blog itself is the subject of mockery. Cha Cha and Auntie K were sitting at the kitchen table having a conversation that, frankly, I wasn't paying much attention to when they wondered aloud if they were being bloggable. And they weren't, especially, but now I can take this chance to make fun of them for their desperate plea for attention. Turnabout!
We realized this morning that we've passed this predeliction on, as we watched Cousin A observe Mr. Baby sucking his thumb, then stare at her hand, pretend to gnaw on it, then giggle. Clearly, she's one of us.
It's something I feel I should explain to strangers, if I were capable of speaking to them. I realize every time I'm together with my parents and sibling that our primary form of communication is to mock each other. Our first language is sarcasm. To an outside observer, I'm sure it seems odd, or maybe even harsh, but we all understand that it's with only the deepest affection that we pick each other apart.
This blog itself is the subject of mockery. Cha Cha and Auntie K were sitting at the kitchen table having a conversation that, frankly, I wasn't paying much attention to when they wondered aloud if they were being bloggable. And they weren't, especially, but now I can take this chance to make fun of them for their desperate plea for attention. Turnabout!
We realized this morning that we've passed this predeliction on, as we watched Cousin A observe Mr. Baby sucking his thumb, then stare at her hand, pretend to gnaw on it, then giggle. Clearly, she's one of us.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
It's Like A Hard Candy Christmas
Greetings from the North!
After an only slightly delayed start, we made it to the homeland in good time. Much better time than we would have in the Mitsubishi - thanks, Worldperks miles!
Our first stop after the Lindbergh Terminal was Byerly's, a grocery store that denizens of Schnuck's or Kroger or, lord help you, Piggly Wiggly can't even comprehend. The olive bar alone is bigger, cleaner, and better lit than any grocery in Memphis. There's an expansive organic selection, easy access to international goods, a well stocked natural health section, and the take-out - oh, the take-out! It contains an entire Big Bowl to-go, plus several other fresh, ready-to-eat options, just in case all that crazily easy shopping makes you too tired to cook. Both children fell sleep while we navigated the rush-hour-on-the-Fridy-before-Christmas-in-front-of-the-Mall-of-America traffic, so we cruised by Byerly's on the way home from the airport and arrived at the ancestral estate with two grocery bags full of hot food. Which was exactly what we needed after losing at least one child in the snow drift beside the ancestral driveway.
This is just the beginning of the Minnesota food idiosyncrasies, of course. The Commander (aka Uncle Buckbuck) came home from his Byerly's run today with a giant pack of Nut Goodies, which he mistakenly believes will survive the night just because they're in the freezer. If they do, it will only be because I'm too stuffed with venison sticks and kettle corn to open the Amana.
After an only slightly delayed start, we made it to the homeland in good time. Much better time than we would have in the Mitsubishi - thanks, Worldperks miles!
Our first stop after the Lindbergh Terminal was Byerly's, a grocery store that denizens of Schnuck's or Kroger or, lord help you, Piggly Wiggly can't even comprehend. The olive bar alone is bigger, cleaner, and better lit than any grocery in Memphis. There's an expansive organic selection, easy access to international goods, a well stocked natural health section, and the take-out - oh, the take-out! It contains an entire Big Bowl to-go, plus several other fresh, ready-to-eat options, just in case all that crazily easy shopping makes you too tired to cook. Both children fell sleep while we navigated the rush-hour-on-the-Fridy-before-Christmas-in-front-of-the-Mall-of-America traffic, so we cruised by Byerly's on the way home from the airport and arrived at the ancestral estate with two grocery bags full of hot food. Which was exactly what we needed after losing at least one child in the snow drift beside the ancestral driveway.
This is just the beginning of the Minnesota food idiosyncrasies, of course. The Commander (aka Uncle Buckbuck) came home from his Byerly's run today with a giant pack of Nut Goodies, which he mistakenly believes will survive the night just because they're in the freezer. If they do, it will only be because I'm too stuffed with venison sticks and kettle corn to open the Amana.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Visions Of Sugar Plums
Holy crap, are these good!
I have not found a seasonal treat as tasty since the lamented demise of the Kemps Santa-shaped ice cream sandwiches of my youth, a never-duplicated combination of vanilla ice cream and a vaguely gingerbready outer cookie-ish layer that got just the exactly right amount of soggy. I check every year just to see if they've started making them again, but am foiled again and again. Although this year, my search did bring me to these. Do not ever doubt the sinister genius of midwestern dessert-makers.
I have not found a seasonal treat as tasty since the lamented demise of the Kemps Santa-shaped ice cream sandwiches of my youth, a never-duplicated combination of vanilla ice cream and a vaguely gingerbready outer cookie-ish layer that got just the exactly right amount of soggy. I check every year just to see if they've started making them again, but am foiled again and again. Although this year, my search did bring me to these. Do not ever doubt the sinister genius of midwestern dessert-makers.
All I Want For Christmas
I don't consider myself a materialist. When called upon to make up wishlists, I have a hard time thinking of anything I want badly enough to ask someone to give to me. If I had a little more pocket change I'd probably spend it on carcinogen-free make-up or some clearance Steve Madden pumps, but I don't really long for any particular thing.
Except, of course, my tattoo. As I mentioned way back in February, I've been plotting my first tattoo pretty much since the start of my last pregnancy. The baby is here now, and yet the ink is not. This, however, is not due to any lack of desire or even planning. I've been carefully researching tattoo shops and artists and I came to the conclusion several months ago that I wanted to get my tattoo done in Minnesota. The design I've chosen represents my homeland, and I really like the idea of having it actually created there. So I picked my shop, picked my tattooer, and compiled a whole online folder of inspiration images to help in the generation of my design.
With our upcoming trek to the tundra at hand, I emailed to set up my long-awaited appointment and was swiftly and heart-breakingly informed that the artist whose portfolio I've been flipping through for the last six months will be out of town for the holidays. Gah! I'm not giving up, though. I've emailed back to check on another artist's availability (the shop is chock-full of great ones), so there's still hope that I'll be able to get the one thing I really want for Christmas. By which I of course mean my mother's complete and unending disapproval.
P.S. I'm only going to have one week in MN to see my tattoo from design stage to completion, so if any of you artist types out there would be interested in taking a quick stab at a design to speed up the process, let me know and I'll send you the link to the Idea File.
Except, of course, my tattoo. As I mentioned way back in February, I've been plotting my first tattoo pretty much since the start of my last pregnancy. The baby is here now, and yet the ink is not. This, however, is not due to any lack of desire or even planning. I've been carefully researching tattoo shops and artists and I came to the conclusion several months ago that I wanted to get my tattoo done in Minnesota. The design I've chosen represents my homeland, and I really like the idea of having it actually created there. So I picked my shop, picked my tattooer, and compiled a whole online folder of inspiration images to help in the generation of my design.
With our upcoming trek to the tundra at hand, I emailed to set up my long-awaited appointment and was swiftly and heart-breakingly informed that the artist whose portfolio I've been flipping through for the last six months will be out of town for the holidays. Gah! I'm not giving up, though. I've emailed back to check on another artist's availability (the shop is chock-full of great ones), so there's still hope that I'll be able to get the one thing I really want for Christmas. By which I of course mean my mother's complete and unending disapproval.
P.S. I'm only going to have one week in MN to see my tattoo from design stage to completion, so if any of you artist types out there would be interested in taking a quick stab at a design to speed up the process, let me know and I'll send you the link to the Idea File.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Better Not Pout
The very few exceptions to the previously stated end date of acceptable holiday music:
1) Pretty Paper: Booker T produces Willie Nelson, what's not to love?
2) Springsteen's "Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town"
3) A small portion of the retro-poser crooners (Bublé, Connick, Krall) who don't mess too badly with the old school arrangements
4) The annual public resurrection of Darlene Love to sing "Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)" on Letterman
5) The Elf soundtrack
1) Pretty Paper: Booker T produces Willie Nelson, what's not to love?
2) Springsteen's "Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town"
3) A small portion of the retro-poser crooners (Bublé, Connick, Krall) who don't mess too badly with the old school arrangements
4) The annual public resurrection of Darlene Love to sing "Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)" on Letterman
5) The Elf soundtrack
Sunday, December 09, 2007
They're Singing Deck The Halls
Throughout my childhood, the coming of Christmas meant that the giant six-hour Christmas tape would be threaded into the reel-to-reel player, filling our home with a constant loop of holiday music drawn primarily from the 40+ songs included on the original Time-Life Treasury of Christmas. This set of albums featured classic songs by unparalleled artists - Ella Fitzgerald's "Jingle Bells," Gene Autry's "Rudolph," Julie Andrews' "Joy to the World," an indispensable dose of Johnny Mathis and of course a couple from Elvis. Perhaps this is why I have so much trouble listening to any Christmas music recorded after 1972, but I think the real reason is that all Christmas music recorded after 1972 is, quite simply, ridiculous.
This point was emphasized for me when we pointed the satellite toward XM's "Holly" channel. The constant stream of Amy Grant, Celine Dion and Clay Aiken is just about enough to send me crawling back to the analog altar of my youth. With the single self-righteous, religiously confused yet relentlessly appealing exception of "Do They Know It's Christmas," I unilaterally dismiss all seasonal music offered by or to my generation. XM would truly be earning its fee if it thought to separate Christmas music out by decade, or at least at the dividing point between good and horrendous (that point occurring, of course, in the joyless 13-year void between John Lennon's "Happy Christmas" and Wham's "Last Christmas"). Because really, all I want for Christmas is to be able to hear The Ronettes harmonizing about their "Sleigh Ride" without having to worry that Mannheim's Steamroller is following right behind.
This point was emphasized for me when we pointed the satellite toward XM's "Holly" channel. The constant stream of Amy Grant, Celine Dion and Clay Aiken is just about enough to send me crawling back to the analog altar of my youth. With the single self-righteous, religiously confused yet relentlessly appealing exception of "Do They Know It's Christmas," I unilaterally dismiss all seasonal music offered by or to my generation. XM would truly be earning its fee if it thought to separate Christmas music out by decade, or at least at the dividing point between good and horrendous (that point occurring, of course, in the joyless 13-year void between John Lennon's "Happy Christmas" and Wham's "Last Christmas"). Because really, all I want for Christmas is to be able to hear The Ronettes harmonizing about their "Sleigh Ride" without having to worry that Mannheim's Steamroller is following right behind.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
I Know Now Why I Live In Shame
Things That Prove I'm A Dork, Or Possibly 68 Years Old:
1. As funny as I find "How I Met Your Mother," given the option, I will always choose to watch "Antiques Roadshow" instead.
2. The most frequently used pre-sets on my car radio feature stations playing music recorded before I was born.
3. I can hand-code a website but don't know how to play any video games created after Super Mario Brothers.
4. I really want a Sonicare toothbrush.
5. I wore a plaid button-down shirt the last time I went out alone after dark.
1. As funny as I find "How I Met Your Mother," given the option, I will always choose to watch "Antiques Roadshow" instead.
2. The most frequently used pre-sets on my car radio feature stations playing music recorded before I was born.
3. I can hand-code a website but don't know how to play any video games created after Super Mario Brothers.
4. I really want a Sonicare toothbrush.
5. I wore a plaid button-down shirt the last time I went out alone after dark.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Baby, Baby Keep Me Happy
On to happier things then. Constantly happy things, specifically.
I know that somewhere down the road this will probably come back to haunt me - like when his teachers say he's disrupting class with his cheerfulness or his big sister's friends can't stop agreeing to go out with him - but right now it's hard to do anything but enjoy the fact that Mr. Baby seems nearly incapable of being in a bad mood. He has eased incisor-free out of what seemed to be a teething phase and is now back to being his regular contented self.
Sure, he fussed a bit when his sister (avoidably but accidentally) kicked him square in the frontal lobe. But he was back to chipper in no time. He smiles at us, at our friends, at our friends' children, at strangers, at animals, at personable-looking buildings and engagingly patterned socks. If anyone looks at him for more than five seconds, they will get a grin in return. It's the greatest party trick ever. And at this point, I feel like it's sort of cyclical. He's so used to people smiling at him when he smiles, that he just likes to get things going.
And while I know better than to take credit for an easy or even a happy baby, I do feel like my general outlook, stage presence and coping ability have been better with this child than with my first. Of course, other times I feel like he's developing a people-pleasing personality to handle the unusually high stress level in his life, what with the constant onslaught of curious strangers and reckless, four-year-old feet.
I know that somewhere down the road this will probably come back to haunt me - like when his teachers say he's disrupting class with his cheerfulness or his big sister's friends can't stop agreeing to go out with him - but right now it's hard to do anything but enjoy the fact that Mr. Baby seems nearly incapable of being in a bad mood. He has eased incisor-free out of what seemed to be a teething phase and is now back to being his regular contented self.
Sure, he fussed a bit when his sister (avoidably but accidentally) kicked him square in the frontal lobe. But he was back to chipper in no time. He smiles at us, at our friends, at our friends' children, at strangers, at animals, at personable-looking buildings and engagingly patterned socks. If anyone looks at him for more than five seconds, they will get a grin in return. It's the greatest party trick ever. And at this point, I feel like it's sort of cyclical. He's so used to people smiling at him when he smiles, that he just likes to get things going.
And while I know better than to take credit for an easy or even a happy baby, I do feel like my general outlook, stage presence and coping ability have been better with this child than with my first. Of course, other times I feel like he's developing a people-pleasing personality to handle the unusually high stress level in his life, what with the constant onslaught of curious strangers and reckless, four-year-old feet.
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