Dear stupid dog, I've gone to live with the children on Jolly Farm. Good bye forever.

Library books I have sitting on my nightstand with the hope that I will have time to read some:

- Catherine Wheels – Leif Peterson (creepy but nicely written and odd little book. The end just leaves a hundred different threads dangling, but it’s ok, it works. You don’t know what’s real and what’s not, and you don’t particularly mind.)
- Everybody into the Pool – Beth Lisick (I requested this from the library a while ago and reading the flap copy now cannot imagine why. But it’s amusing enough if a bit redundant in that Gen-X sort of way.)
- Love, Work, Children – Cheryl Mendelson (liked the title)
- A Place of Execution – Val McDermid (other mystery readers have been recommending McDermid to me for eons)
- The Babes in the Wood – Ruth Rendell (an article on Salon recently convinced me to give Rendell another shot, since the last time I tried one of her books I was about 16. I am enjoying this one very much, and I like the detective, Inspector Wexford.)

I finished The Leopard Hat a few days ago. It’s odd that I picked that book to read around the same time I tracked down an old college friend by discovering her mother’s memorial website – the feelings each woman has/had for their mothers are almost disturbingly intimate. Angela was a close and dear friend and was supposed to be my roommate sophomore year but in the summer between years, she tried to commit suicide and her father pulled her out of school and cut off all contact. So yes, Angela was always a bit overwrought and dramatic, but the depth of passion she felt for her mother, that I read on the website, feels foreign to me. I can’t recall ever feeling this way about my mother, whom I loved and whom I miss terribly, but - I can’t believe I am going to admit this out loud, as it were – at the same time, I felt a sense of relief when she died, not just because she was finally out of pain, but because my life is so much easier not having to contend with her influence in it. There is a part of me that KNOWS beyond a shadow of a doubt that if my mother were still alive, I would be divorced. I would probably still be slogging away painting in theatres. I might not even have kids. And so, while I loved her and did everything I could to help her during her illness and take care of her, I still feel horribly guilty that my emotions about her death are mixed.

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From the library today (I had a nice chat with my favorite librarian, the one on whom I have a schoolgirl crush....sigh...):

- Truth and Consequences – Alison Lurie
- The Wolves of Willoughby Chase – Joan Aiken
- The House with the Clock in Its Walls – John Bellairs (illustrated by one of my favs, Edward Gorey) – if it’s not too creepy, I’ll pass it on to Primo.

Also, Gina gave me her library copy of The Undomesticated Goddess, Sophie Kinsella’s new brain candy. And I got the DVD of “About Schmidt” to watch New Year’s Eve.

For Primo, I picked up the first two “A to Z” mysteries, some of Jon Sciezka’s “Time Warp Trio” books, some Magic School Bus chapter books, and an amusing-looking fairy tales spoof called Ten in a Bed. The boy is voracious.

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My one productive act of today – hanging the niece/nephews pictures, and my family’s Ellis Island rubbing and family portraits. Oh, and I did buy my brother’s son an outfit for his belated Christmas gift. I am also going to send him one of those Baby Einstein videos – probably "Baby van Gogh," as that’s my favorite because of the wind parts.

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I need your help. These are the shoes I bought in the past twenty-four hours. Do I keep them? Help. Are they cute, or just weird? Are they charmingly retro or just frumpy?

Skechers Sport, black




Nine West, tan suede, VERY comfy




Clarks, brown, more dressy for work with skirts, mostly


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Snippets:

• Christmas Eve my brother-in-law was passing around an article about re-hymenization. How sick is that thought? As if losing it the first time wasn’t nerve-wracking enough...I think if I told Hubster that that was going to be his anniversary gift from me, like the woman in the article did for her husband, he’d divorce me.
  
  
• Primo wanted to know why our (Episcopalian) priest was married, but H.’s uncle the Roman Catholic priest was not. I told him that Episcopalians are allowed to marry, but not RC priests. He considered for a moment and said, “That makes no sense at all!” Out of the mouths of babes…
  
  
• I finally got my hair trimmed up today. Why is it that when the hairdresser talks to me I want them to shut up and let me relax, and when they don’t, I worry that I am a awful person and that is why they do not wish to converse with me? Of course, once this one did start talking, it was all about how he wept at the last Madonna concert – and I wished he’d shut up.
  
  
• Isn’t it difficult to leave pictures of your children that you do not purchase at the portrait place? I man, they’re not shredding the little guy, just his photo, but it was weird.
  

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So my week in review:
Monday – open house here for various people, including an old friend from college whom I have not seen in years – he lives in L.A. and really only comes back for Christmas (and whom H. surprisingly remarked about, “I wish he lived here, he’s a really good guy. It’d be nice to have him around.” I wholeheartedly agree.)

Tuesday – the annual luncheon for ex-bookstore employees. I used to work at one of the big chains and about half a dozen of us get together every year right after Christmas for a nice, long, gossipy, boozy lunch.
Debra has just returned from China and brought us all these little boxes, with a Good Luck penny inside. I specifically got the baby one.


Lynne brought my boys Christmas ornaments, including this lovely train ornament for my Thomas-mad children. And also her son’s new CD. Check it out, it’s pretty decent for a first CD, and he covers a Radiohead song. Props to him!

We always do lunch somewhere luxurious that is members-only so it’s always free, which I alternate between reveling in and feeling guilty about, as the members never let us contribute to the bill.

Tuesday evening we had what was supposed to be turkey dinner with our wonderful neighbors, who called at 2ish and said the turkey was still frozen and we were going to have homemade pizza. It was great – forget calling take-out from now on, I am just calling them! And I didn’t have to noodle around with sweet potatoes or veggies, so instead I just made a whipped-cream-and-Nabisco-chocolate-wafer log which we devoured.

H. made the observation to me later that he was surprised that their upstairs was very NOT finished, and I wonder if he now feels better about the unfinished state of our house? God, I sure hope so!




Wednesday – the family portrait in the a.m. The ONLY thing I asked H. to do this week, I needed his help wrangling the children. And at 9:15 Wednesday morning, he said, “Oh, I have to go with you?” Yes! It went smoothly – we got some decent all-cousins shots, despite my boys’ recalcitrant hair that was driving Grandma absolutely fucking bonkers (she suggested gel and bobby pins).


We also got some adorable solo shots of Terzo, and a nice shot of just my hoodlums. So while I might not have picked those shirts, the portraits this year are done. Hooray! I don’t have to go out to the freaking mall again for at least another year!

After the portraits, which blew our Christmas budget, incidentally, the sisters-in-laws and Grandma all went out to lunch at a place called the Bookworks Cafe. Very cozy, very cute. And look at my lovely salad – butterfly-shaped jicama, star-shaped carrots, chunks of blue cheese. Delish, and pretty.

I took a pic of all of us and thought about posting it and letting you guess which was me, but decided against it. My one sister-in-law said, “Oh, are you going to post this on the blog?” (Primo spilled the beans while I was snapping away Christmas Eve). I said, “Oh, no!” but was THIS CLOSE to doing so until I decided I did not want to out myself.

Then we all went to H.’s band’s practice Wednesday evening and I hung out with the drummer’s wife, Terri, whom I adore, and the singer’s very pregnant wife, Mel, whom I enjoy very much, and ate too many buffalo wings and baklava. We thought we could put the boys to bed down there, like a slumber party, but they refused to sleep, and then Primo threw up in Terri’s office. Then Terzo threw up in the living room. We must come back, Terri said, as there were still two rooms downstairs and the whole upstairs in which the boys need to vomit.

Today I went and got my hair cut, and bought shoes (see above), and had lunch at the coffee shop, and went to visit Gina, and stopped at the library. I bought these blank books at Old Navy for TWO BUCKS a piece.



I skipped the January-birthdays party at the in-laws this evening – I am not only Perfect-familyed-out, I am peopled-out.

Get me (ka-ching!) – I’m giving out wings!

In the “Because I do not have enough to do” category:
Primo fell out of my bed this morning, where he had crawled during the night due to a nightmare, and knocked over a bedside table and a lamp, breaking the table and bending the lamp stem.

And in the “Let me bitch to you because who else can put up with it” category: Hubster, who felt the need to go to the gym, even though *I* haven’t gotten to exercise in God knows how long and God, does it show! forgot his sneakers (Christmas Eve he forgot his swimsuit) and came home to pick them up and GO BACK downtown to go to the gym. He’s been gone for almost three hours, all told. (P.S. But now he came home and is cooking me eggs and bacon – so all is forgiven.)

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Christmas Eve dinner went swimmingly (Haha! Get it? Swimmingly? Never mind.) and to my delight, just about everything was edible. I did try to get away with eating seven peel-n-eat shrimp and counting them as the seven requisite fishes, but that didn’t go over so well. So I ate the fried cod (cold but still good), the shrimp, the crabcakes (lemony and tender, if prepackaged), a smelt or two, and the woefully-overbaked (45 minutes!!) salmon. I won’t touch the baccala and potatoes or the linguine with clam sauce for love or money. I think next year I will institute the Christmas Eve Cocktail. The Red Devil has clam juice in it and that should count. Especially if tuna salad does! Which I did not eat. I can eat tuna salad of my own devising any day of the week, thank you very much. The limp penne and meatballs I skipped altogether. I suggested throwing some anchovies in the green salad/antipasti next year, for yet another fish, but that met with cries of derision from the culinary troglodytic masses.

We were regaled with music. My 8-year-old niece sang, in appropriately dirge-like tones, a song all about the coldness, hopelessness, and despair of life, that she had learned at her Catholic school for the Christmas concert. By the third verse, I was all ready to cut my wrists with the cheese knife. Good thing she’s so cute anyway.


We manfully plodded through the new tradition (my mother-in-law conjures up one a year, I swear to you) of singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” inspired and coached by these glasses which I think she got at Kaufman’s After-Christmas sale last December 26. Primo may have been the only one who1)knew all the words without the glasses, and 2)actually enjoyed this event.


The present-opening mayhem did not even begin until 8:30 p.m., which is generally the time my two older boys are in bed, lights out. Which meant I had two fairly strung-out boys on my hands. I wish we could get together in the afternoon for gifts, let us all go to our respective masses, and then reconvene for dinner, but suggesting that was met with a reaction, of course, completely out of proportion to its heresy.

At any rate, everyone was very excited and pleased with their gifts. And in the “Aren’t I an ingrate” category: Why does my mother-in-law find it necessary to hand me envelopes containing large sums of cash for the boys from all her card-playing cronies whom I could not pick out in a line-up, when I am nursing the baby, consoling wailing Segundo for one reason, and scolding sobbing Primo for another, all while ripping wrapping paper off their gifts for them? Apparently the Hubster is incapable of receiving these gifts? She makes me nuts. Can you tell? (And I don’t just mean those yummy sugar-and-spice pecans.)


Oh, and wait – the grandchildren photo. Seconds after this was taken, all the younger ones started melting down. Merry effing Christmas to you all, too. Doesn’t Segundo look like an angry, drunk elf?

Finally – FINALLY - we all got home, brushed teeth, set out cookies and carrots, checked the NORAD website one last time (Santa was in St. Andrew’s, Canada) and went to bed. Or at least the boys did.

Hubster and I collapsed in front of the TV to relax with a local Christmas music special featuring an enormous blind man in janitor’s coveralls tunelessly singing along with an all-female madrigal group, a three-hundred-year-old rocker, and a chubby Mariah Carey wannabe. At about ten thirty, Primo said loudly from his bed, “Mom! Dad! Go to BED or Santa will never come!” And then Segundo half woke up, crying for more of Grandma’s meatballs. No, I did not make that up.


Here’s the calm and peaceful post-Santa, pre-children scene.

Complete with Segundo’s favorite Christmas ornament. From now on, whenever I doubt myself as a parent, I am going to look at this and say to myself, “Yes, but how many mothers allow their children to hang clothes hangers on the Christmas tree?”

Around 3:30 a.m., Primo climbed into bed with me, wide awake and chatting. He finally shut up and went to sleep. And then next morning – around six? Count 'em, there're three. Then at 8:30 a.m.? Here’s Primo. We sent his brother in jump on him shortly after I took this picture.


Everyone loved their gifts. Even Mimi. I tried to talk Santa into buying her some clothes but I know Segundo won’t let her wear them anyway. Although he did give her a new tattoo for Christmas with his new gel pens.


I scored a waffle iron (years of hints) and even better, H. made me waffles.


The mountains of rustling crumpled wrapping paper freaked the cats right on out.

The best part? I got a two-hour nap Christmas afternoon, read about a hundred pages of a really engrossing if creepy Catherine Wheels, by Leif Peterson, and savored a Green and Black’s mint bar.

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Christmas night – over the Hubster’s aunt’s teeny tiny little house where I drank too much, ate almost an entire plate of ladylocks, spit out (into my napkin, people!) a mouthful of the MOST DISGUSTING cake I have EVER tasted (prompting my mother-in-law to make H. taste it, whereupon he had the same reaction and she proclaimed in disgust that she didn’t know what was wrong with us), and managed to get stuck talking to a boring cousin’s even more boring clandestine homosexual lover about kung fu.

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Christmas 2005 – and a good time was had by all.

"'Cause I wanna be anarchy..."

We figure we'll use this for their first album cover.

"Fra-gee-lay. Must be Italian."

I went grocery shopping at 6 this morning, while there was still a parking spot to be had – my mother-in-law called yesterday to ask me to bring a green salad to Christmas Eve dinner. So I am going the tossed-green-salad-with-some-antipasto-fixings route, to culinarily/ethnically match the Hellacious Spread of Seven Fish-Flavored Slops.

I’m also making that chocolate-wafer-and-whipped-cream dessert thing, although personally I would be happy slopping the cream right on the wafers and popping them right into my mouth. But some people apparently have more finesse than I.

I have realized that if I have half an hour or so to empty the dishwasher, start the laundry, straighten up, all before the boys get up, I am much more pleasant to be around. Of course this morning I had the benefit of caffeine too – thank God the Starbucks was open. Merry Christmas Eve, and a grande non-fat peppermint mocha, no whip, to all!

I also did some last-minute Christmas shopping at the store – Hubster is receiving the following thrilling gifts (but I can guarantee he will like all of them, however weird they may sound):

- A 4-pack of the pens he keeps stealing from me, in black
- Three little photo holder stick-like thingeys for his office gallery of the boys (driving over the bridge to his office, you can tell which office window is his because it is lined and layered with frames)
- A DVD from Target of “Flash Gordon” episodes
- A Su Do Ku book of puzzles
- A Penguins T-shirt (because he needs another T-shirt like I need a hole in my head)

And I bought Segundo the Winnie the Pooh bear he saw and wistfully admired while grocery shopping last week. Hubster and I were discussing the possible present inequity last night – I spent the same on both and they have roughly the same number of gifts to open, but Primo got a “big” gift – the electric guitar – and Segundo did not. We decided they’d cope – but I have also decided to gift Segundo with the baby stroller I picked up for Mimi at the thrift shop last week. Actually it will be tagged for Mimi…I mean, how could I not get the ugliest doll in the universe a Christmas present? Poor little thing, no hair and all…

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These are my favorite pens. And I bought the pack with all the pretty colors. Merry Christmas, me!



How I manage to get through the holidays...note the artistic juxtaposition of the Bacardi-and-Coke with the pacifier...




The magic trunk of gifts, inside and out. The boys have no clue this is where all the loot is – and unless Primo starts reading this over my shoulder, my secret should be safe for a while.



I made this for my friend Celeste THREE Christmases ago and have yet to staple it to its frame and give it to her. See why you should be glad I only had to contend with virtual gifts for you all?



And, it may be Christmas but the laundry never stops. It’s like the Christmas miracle —or actually more like the Hanukkah miracle, I suppose.

Wear the old coat and buy the new book. - Austin Phelps

Mine is the boring grey wool, very warm, pea coat. Ho hum.

Friday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird

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Italian Wine Cookies

for Badger and all that leftover wine...

1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup wine, any kind will do
1 cup vegetable or corn oil
3 1/2 to 4 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
Extra granulated sugar

Mix sugar, wine, and oil together. Set aside. Mix flour with baking powder. Incorporate the flour mixture gradually intot he wine mixture, stopping when the dough is still soft but no longer sticks to your hands. (It will stick alittle bit, it just shouldn't be goopy.)
Break off small pieces of the dough (approximately a heaping teaspoon). Roll each piece of dough into a small rope and form each rope into a round "o", pinching the ends togther. Dip the top of each cookie into the extra granulated sugar.
Place on ungreased cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 30 minutes, until they are golden brown. (They do not spread.)
Makes approximately 5 dozen cookies. They store very well, and are awesome for breakfast with a cup of tea or a nice latte.

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for Joke - I could not find the Henry Petroski bit online. But I believe it's the last chapter in his book, The Book on the Bookshelf, which was a pretty good read. So keep an eye out for it or get it at the library, and read the chapter on how people organize their books - even by, gasp, color and size. Troglodytes. (Except you, Joke. No, not you.)

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I had to make a star for the top of our tree.

10 Things I Hate About You

No, really, what I mean is, 15 Things About Books.
Gina < Joke < Badger.

1. I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time my junior year in college. I was sick with the flu, on a Saturday night, on the night of one of the biggest parties of the year at the fraternity where I was a pseudo-little sister. My boyfriend, who was a brother there, was supposed to come see me for a little bit but apparently the partying was too good. Instead, he was hanging out with a friend from the chemistry department, this cute little preppy girl he nicknamed Boub, who he swore he was not romantically interested in – she certainly was not interested in him, in the three years I knew her I determined she may have been the most asexual person I’d ever met. At any rate, after pathetically calling him something like six –ok, maybe ten - times, I finally just crawled under my comforter with a cup of hot chocolate and P&P. I did not expect to enjoy it – it being a classic and all – but I loved it. As my little Jewish grandmother would say, “What’s not to love?” Oh wait, I don’t HAVE a little Jewish grandmother. Anyhoo…I wish I could also follow this up by telling you I had the courage to dump the boyfriend but I did not, and actually almost ended up married to him. But that is a story for another day.

2. I did post-bacc work in lit, working under the delusion that getting a PhD in English literature would be a good idea and lots of fun. Oh, and marketable. The first class I took was an Intro to Critical Reading class, and I had a raging crush on the professor. I pretty much made a fool of myself over him. But we did read some great stuff, Satanic Verses being the most memorable, and I learned that I could tackle any book I wanted, no matter how classic or monumental or groundbreaking. That class, and that prof, changed the way I read.

3. I met Gina shortly thereafter, in a 19th-century Brit lit class. She was saying something most assuredly brilliant about Silas Marner or Great Expectations and I resolved then and there to see if she wanted to go for a drink with me after class. She did – just like a date – and we went to Hemingway’s, and the rest, as they say, is history.

4. All of my books are catalogued – fiction alphabetically by author and non-fiction by Library of Congress. I prefer the beauty and elegance of Dewey but did not have the time to generate Dewey numbers, I could just look up the LC numbers. I have everything entered into a database so I can lay hands on pretty much whatever I need almost instantly, and the non-fiction is tagged on the spine. Once I get bigger shelves built, I will tag the fiction as well. And between work and my home library, if you give me a subject, I am adept at figuring out at least by letter the general area where a book lives. I am pretty sure every librarian acquires this skill.

5. I collect books about sharks. (My favorite is Thomas Helm’s Shark! Unpredictable Killer of the Sea.) And I really enjoy reading books about mountain climbing. Eiger Dreams is a particular favorite.

6. The best gifts I have ever received have been books. (Don’t tell the Hubster – I do love my diamond earrings!) Ones that stand out: the ill-fated fraternity boyfriend gave me an antique copy of Poems of Childhood illustrated by Maxfield Parrish, one of my favorite artists. A dear friend from freshman year in college(who later attempted suicide and with whom I lost touch shortly thereafter because her father cut off all contact with her old friends) gave me an inscribed copy of Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet which I treasure to this day. And my mom gave me any number of gorgeously illustrated children's books, all inscribed and dated. I like to read them to my boys, and see her handwriting, it makes me happy.

7. Two hours before my wedding (but after my hair was done) I was in Barnes and Noble across the street from the church picking out books to read on the plane. And hunting down a dictionary of the saints – we were going to Italy and I wanted to be well-informed when I finally viewed the Sistine Chapel. In my defense, the groom was watching a hockey game.

8. I never go anywhere without a book. You never know when you might have a chance to read –stuck in traffic, waiting at the doctor’s office, in line at the post office. If I am going on vacation for a week, I take about half a dozen books. If I am going to be away for a weekend, I take two to four books. I am sure there’s a mathematical formula to work out somehow, like
time away * opportunity = number of books
but I haven’t taken the time to figure it out. I just know that if I am not at home, I have a book with me. And I generally have two or three books going at a time.

9. My father used to worry that the weight of my books in my room would cause the house foundation to crack or sag. And that was when I had only two tall bookcases full.

10. I have read James Joyce’s Ulysses in its entirety. I even enjoyed most of it, especially the Molly Bloom parts. Granted, it was for a class on the modern novel, and I had to write an in-depth paper on it, but I remember lying on our grotty old plaid couch with a drink and the book and enjoying the experience. And the book. Probably the drink helped.

11. I weeded my collection ONCE and have lived to regret it. I buy slightly more discriminately now (even though I have a box of books I picked up for a ten-dollar donation at the library books sale last spring waiting to be taken home yet). But I will never get rid of another book.

12. My cat’s name is Septimus, after a character in my favorite play, Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia. I also once had a cat named Hepzibah, after the rabbi’s daughter in Harry Kemelman’s Rabbi Small mystery series.

13. I enjoy a good mystery – really, more psychological thrillers like Elizabeth George, Caroline Graham, and Minette Walters, or non-mystery mysteries like Josephine Tey. I have read and do own every Ellis Peters ever written.

14. I can still vividly picture the library of my childhood, with the children’s section off to the right and the adult bestsellers in the sunny nook with all the windows. The railroad ran by right out front, and you could watch the train from those windows. The card catalogs were right in front of the circulation desk as you walked in. Mrs Stanaitis was the children’s librarian and she was wonderful and, as I remember it, beautiful, too. (Peg, do you remember her?) When I started reading grown-up books, I tended towards the innocent stuff like Miss Read and D.E. Stephenson books. In particular, the Miss Buncle books, gently humorous books about a woman who pseudonymously writes a sort-of-autobiographical book about her tiny village and the mayhem that ensues. They are out of print now but I am always on the lookout for them.

15. I love used book stores. My idea of a blissful vacation is to read, eat well, and hunt through used book stores. They don’t even have to be really good used bookstores, although that’s nice when it happens.

15 Things About Books

From Joke, via Badger.

1-Like Joke, I read and walk. I once fell down the stairs and ripped a hole in the knee of a favorite pair of khakis doing this (fairly recently), but I continue to do it anyway.

2-I started listening to audio books because I can’t read and run.

3-My mother insists that I learned to read while I was learning to use the toilet. She says she strapped me into a “potty chair” and left me in front of Sesame Street and The Electric Company with a bag of Oreos. (This explains more of my bad habits than you can possibly imagine, but none of them to do with reading.)

4-If I find myself in a bathroom with nothing to read, I’ll grab shampoo bottles or whatever else is near. Sometimes there's more to read than just "Lather. Rinse. Repeat." (That’s more to do with an absence of books, but I stand by it.) PS-My current bottle of conditioner says I should, "Cleanse hair with Sham-pure . . ." The stuff I wash my face with "Cleanses without drying." I think the word cleanse is ugly, and wish people would stop using it.

5-My sweet, super-young sixth grade teacher at St. Pius X loved that I loved reading and gave me a copy of Go Ask Alice. I guess she thought I was mature enough? Or she wanted to see to it that I was “scared straight”? I don’t know, but I won’t pretend it didn’t affect me. “Acid and smack/There’s no way back.” Bwah, hah, hah, hah!

6-Harriet the Spy messed me up, but good. I was devastated when the other kids read her notebooks, and I swear that from then on I’ve never written a word without having an audience in mind—even my journals are written as if I’ve been expecting someone to read them. And I still sometimes sing (in my head), “It’s time for my cake and milk, my milk and cake . . .”

7-Teddy would have been called Madeleine if he’d been a girl, because Madeleine L’Engle is the kind of woman I’d like to grow up to be.

8-I read the first Flowers in the Attic books in late grade school. I guess my mom didn’t care, because she was just glad I was reading, but . . . there’s something to be said for screening what your kids read. Yikes.

9-I think Stephen King is (or at least used to be) a good writer. I don’t care much for horror as a genre, but I’ve always said that I’d want to read about his characters in any setting.

10-I have a thing for books published in the 1950s for teenagers, especially those about manners and grooming. I used to get one in particular from the library all the time, and I remember that it encouraged you to dry yourself with a “big Turkish towel” after showering.

11-I cried when Erma Bombeck died.

12-I read the Narnia books as a kid, but didn’t have a clue about the Christian allegory until college.

13-My first real boyfriend gave me a copy of Blue Skies, No Candy (he had replaced the actual cover with one from a book about baseball), and I kept it under my bed. It was the first of that kind of reading I’d ever encountered, and I went through a period where I read it over and over and over.

14-I’m not a big Virginia Woolf fan despite my feminist tendencies. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, though, is my favorite play.

15-Joseph Conrad’s books make me swoon like a school girl over his brilliance and manliness. Hemingway can bite me with his scotch and cigars and guns and big fish. I’m not saying he wasn’t a master of the craft, but as far as manly men and their manly subjects go, Conrad kick’s Papa’s ass.

And you can be sure Way down deep I'm demure...'Cause I'm shy...

Our priest and his brother-in-law were mugged on our street last Saturday night, walking to his house after a concert at the church. They were attacked from behind by two young men who threatened them with a knife (unseen), beat them up, and stole their wallets and cell phones. I am SICK about this. Bruce is physically ok, and so is his brother-in-law, and it could have been so much worse. But now I am scared to even walk to the coffee shop at night, or come in from my car after working nights. It just added more fuel to Dan’s fire about this neighborhood and the house. I don’t know what to do. Yes, it could happen anywhere but the fact is, it happened HERE, less than a block from my house where my three children were asleep. Children I am supposed to keep safe from harm. No, I don’t take them out at night that often but it so happens that Primo and I are going up to the carol sing at the church this evening. There was an armed robbery last Saturday afternoon as well, and I really don’t know what to do with that. I will not be a prisoner in my own house, out of fear of the animals. I will not NOT let my children take walks and go to the park out of fear. But how do I keep them safe? As Dan pointed out, the first time one of them comes home bloodied, I will lose my mind. Am I crossing the line between good sense and paranoia? Then there’s Dan and his usual issues, made worse by this incident. If we move and he complains about – oh, I don’t know – pick something – having to drive everywhere, or the neighbors’ riding mowers being too loud, or having to cut the grass twice a week – I will have to kill him. Why is the Zoloft-snarfing, rum-sucking crazy woman being the voice of reason here?


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I actually *finished* another book. Eve Adams’ Garden of Eden. It’s pseudonymous, but I am fairly certain it is Jan Karon trying to be edgier than usual. I will be curious to see if Gina agrees.

Otherwise, I feel that the time is right to begin reading Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown No, I don’t know what changed, I just know I am ready for it now. After I finish Valerie Steiker’s The Leopard Hat: A Daughter’s Story, which I picked up at the library on a whim and which reminds me very much of Ruth Reichl’s books for some reason.

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I finished the Christmas shopping for the niece and nephews this weekend. The older ones got Barnes and Noble gift cards (nothing quite like buying people stuff you want for yourself; I contend these make the best sorts of gifts); the younger ones all got crafty stuff like paint-your-own-pottery sets and color-your-own-velvet-posters and Scratch Magic paper. Stuff that Primo would love to get his hands on and that would keep him occupied for an afternoon or two. Those kids do love to make a mess.

The grandparents? Books – The World in a Phrase: A Short History of the Aphorism by James Geary for Grandpap, two Maeve Binchys for Grandma. With any luck I will get to borrow the book from Grandpap before they leave for Florida, unlike the Anne Garrels’ book, Naked in Baghdad that we gave him two years ago, that he left in Florida before I could read it.

The maiden aunt? Lottery tickets.
The priest uncle? Ditto.

My first (blood) nephew? I have not yet shopped for him because I know I am going to go over budget, and I won’t see him till probably February. He’s not even a year old so he won’t know!

The babysitter? Baked an apple cake.
The preschool teachers? Making fudge for them tonight.
The mailman is on vacation this week. Yet another reason to love him to bits.
Our wonderful neighbors? A nice bottle of wine and probably an apple cake.

Dan? Nada. Nothing. Zip. Zero. I am a bad wife. So sue me.

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I really need to stop listening to the Christmas music on the radio. I keep hearing monstrosities like Leann Rimes’ version of “O Holy Night” and Porky Pig’s “Blue Christmas.” I am a Christmas music traditionalist. I want Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” and Rosemary Clooney singing “Silver Bells.” I don’t want songs about Christmas shoes and dying mothers and flatulent reindeer. I don’t want reworkings of Pachelbel’s “Canon.” I don’t want Paul McCartney simply having a wonderful Christmas time over and over nor do I wish to hear Band Aid telling me “Well, tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you.” If you must be cute, play “Snoopy and the Red Baron” and the Whos’ song from the original Grinch movie. You can play the Waitresses’ “Christmas Wrapping” but for God’s sake, STOP PLAYING John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s “Merry Christmas (War is Over).” If I hear it one more time, I will scream. And I call for a global ban on “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and every spoof ever written of it. It’s not funny or charming or anything but BOOOOOOORRRRRRIINNNNGGGGG, people. Give me Christmas carols – “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Silent Night,” “Joy to the World.” Stick with the basics. Simplicity rules. And take Newsong out behind the Christmas tree and SHOOT THEM.

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Snippets:

I went grocery shopping with the sprogs yesterday and bought the makings for some Christmas cookies. Rum balls, Italian wine cookies, amaretto biscotti – does anyone see a pattern emerging? Merry Chrishmas and Happy Holidaysh.

Our church had the children’s Christmas pageant this past Sunday. Gosh, all those little sheep and donkeys and wise men and angels – and especially little Mary in blue - were adorable. Except I happen to know that one of the angels is a bratty, annoying hellion in real life. Revoke her tinsel halo! (But one of the other angels is a sweetie pie who lives next-door to us, and the third was a tall, ethereal blonde made for playing the Anglo-Saxon angel ideal.)

Hungry in LA sent me a Christmas gift (and yes, I opened it RIGHT AWAY!): this. She will go in my library right next to the Great Writers Finger Puppets set, also a gift from H.I.L. She gives the coolest gifts! Thanks, dear! Merry Xmas to you and the hubster.

Yesterday I saw two people driving in a car, each on their own cell phone. Do you suppose they were talking to each other?

I have finally discovered a use for all the cute blank books I yearn to buy at the book store – taking notes for the blog. So much for the paperless society.

All right, I had the babysitter lined up for next week but just realized today that the library is closed. Because of the noisy boiler not allowing him to relax, Dan has already informed me he will be going to work next week. Soooo….I will be home for five days straight with all three boys by myself. Someone have a good reason why I should not just slit my wrists now? Anyone? Bueller?

An Angel Gets Her Wings

My grade school librarian, the woman who introduced me to the Moffats, the Austins, the Brontes, and the first book that ever made me cry, Bridge to Terabithia, has died.

She was a tiny woman with wire glasses and a puff of gray and black hair and blue, blue eyes. Her hands were delicate, like origami swans, and I can still see them fluttering up to pull books off the shelves for me. I was in fourth grade when she put an arm around my shoulder and told me what a special book Terabithia was, and that she felt I was ready for it.

She knew because, in addition to being an absolutley ideal children's librarian, Mrs. D. was one of my oldest friend's grandmother--I've known her since I was five. She was also one of those sweet, happy ladies who gave her entire life to her family and her church. God made the best kind of difference in her life--Catholicism helped her to be happy and loving and good, rather than guilt-ridden and fearful and angry, like so many of the other old Catholic ladies I knew.

I'm sad for her family, but I'm happy for Mrs. D. She lived a great life, and now I know she's right where she wanted to be. What more can anyone ask for?

"Christmas, children, is not a date. It is a state of mind." - Mary Ellen Chase

Ok, somehow Christmas feeling appeared in our house this weekend…

The tree was bought, lighted, and decorated. I was delighted to discover that my boys subscribe to the exact same tree-decorating theory that I do, namely, put every single ornament we can find on the tree. (Well, except I own at least four more crates of ornaments – but the boys don’t know that.)


I hung my Cinderella coach on top and have to manufacture a star or angel of some sort this week. Primo nixed putting Terzo on top of the tree because “we don’t want any holes in the baby.”

I hung up the sled door hanger and put out the sweat-sock snowman, who is missing an eye, but what the hey…it’s Christmas. The Grinch was inherited from my older brother who was given it by a psychotic, now-ex, fiancee. I used to display it in my cube at work, but now he lives at the house.




In our old neighborhood, one of the neighbors left a little ornament in our mailboxes the week before Christmas, from Santa. This reindeer was the last one we received before we moved.

Every year my mother-in-law buys us all wreaths. They are always pretty, and always the first decoration we have up. She’s much more organized than we are!

The tablecloth was my grandmother’s, and the gingerbread house was a very thoughtful gift from an old friend.

I picked up the sleigh yesterday while finishing up Christmas shopping for my niece and nephews. Joann Fabrics' Christmas stuff was all 70% off, and I needed something to put all our holiday cards in. I myself am not sending Christams cards this year, however, other than the email one, because I finally came to my senses about caring for a newborn AND taking and picking a photo, and ordering the photo card, and then addressing 60-plus cards.

Maybe I will manage to have a Merry Christmas after all.

The Birthday Party

Yesterday was quite a day. Teddy and I picked up his (red velvet--which it seems that bakeries don't like to make either, by the way--I had to call all over the place, and the one place that would make it charged an extra $6 for red velvet) cake at 10:00. The girl behind the counter brought us an ENORMOUS box with our last name written on it, and I thought I had gone mad and ordered the wrong size. She opened the box to display a beautiful cake that read, "Happy 21st Birthday Mommy, Love TJ." Teddy looked at me in horror, but I laughed. The girl looked at us, closed the lid, and found another box with our last name on it.

We got home in time to stow the cake in the fridge (whipped cream icing) and wait for the friends to arrive--right on time. Ted doesn't have what seems to now be looked on as a "regular" birthday party, with twenty of his closest friends. Since his sixth birthday he's been choosing two friends to spend the day with us, and we kind of do whatever he chooses, and then have cake with the friends and the relatives who live nearby. Then the friends can sleep over or not, depending on whether they can/want to.

Teddy loves this, and feels sufficiently special. His dad and I can afford it, and we still get the cake and family part of the day worked in. Plus, the stack of presents is much more reasonable.

This year Ted's dad and I turned him and his two friends loose in Dave & Buster's. Do you all know D&B? It's like Chuck E. Cheese's for big people. I sat in a booth and had what seemed oddly like a date with my gay ex-husband for two hours, while Teddy and his friends ran around like old ladies in Vegas, only playing games that awarded them prize tickets. Whatever. They pooled their winnings, and some 3000+ tickets later, we were on our way home with bags of junk (or tresure, depending on who you are).

Cake and presents with family. Lovely. Easy. No problems. One of the friends had to go home, because of relatives visiting from out of town, so that left me with Teddy and his best friend, who sleeps over all the time. They played for a while, and I could have cleaned up and spent the evening happily reading my book, but NO. I thought it would be fun to take them to see King Kong. (Insert foreboding music here.)

Teddy's friend had been coughing and sounding vaguely froggy all day, but seemed happy and fine so I didn't think anything of it. We went to dinner at the restaurant in the theater, and then went to the movie. Ted usually sits in the middle when we take a friend to the movies, but this time the friend did--thank God. His cough started to get worse as we sat there, and I kept asking him if he was okay, and making him sip his drink. He kept telling me he was fine. And then he started to wheeze. I said, "Can you BREATHE?" He said, "A little bit."

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Sirens went off in my head. I said, "We need to go," and lead Ted and the poor little friend out of the movie (with only about 30 minutes left to go, by the way). We got to the lobby and the friend was gray and crying, clutching at at his throat, saying, "I can't breathe."

You really don't ever want to hear anyone say those words. It's especially hard when it's a kid who's in your care but not your own. I know a lot about my own kid and how he acts/looks/feels when he's sick. I can read him. I know when to take him to ignore him, baby him, or take him to the ER. But this kid . . . this kid wasn't mine, and I'd never seen him so much as shed a tear. And now he was telling me he couldn't breathe.

I considered calling an ambulance, but calculated that it would probably be quicker to drive him to Children's Hospital myself. I called his parents, and said, "J is sick. He's having trouble breathing and is getting really scared. Meet me at Children's." Then I lead a freaked out Teddy and a panicking J to the car. The poor little guy was wheezing and trembling, and I did my best to keep him calm.

We got to the ER and I answered as many questions as I could, letting everyone know that this wasn't my kid, and that his parents were on their way . . . and then I sat with one arm around J and the other around Teddy, until a nurse called us into a room and took over. It seems that J has the flu, complete with the broken-glass sore throat that I had a few weeks ago. The sore throat and congestion (and, I suspect, feeling so sick so quickly, without his parents) conspired to make breathing difficult. His parents showed up, in tears, falling all over him and then me. I apologized for having to scare them, and then thanked me profusely for doing the right thing.

And then I brought Teddy home, where we ate Fritos, discussed as much of the movie as we'd seen, watched The Fresh Prince, and went to bed.

Good Lord.

Teddy's still sleeping. I've been up for a while, but plan to take a nap this afternoon.

Oh, and the movie? WOW. It's a good old-fashioned great time at the movies. It's so much fun that the boys didn't even mind the love-story parts. (No sex, just kissing, but gross to the boys nonetheless.) People (including me) were throwing up their hands and gasping and clapping . . . it was so much fun that we're going to have to go back to see those last 30 minutes, because Teddy doesn't know what happens. I do, of course, but I don't want to miss my chance to sit in a theater and cry. :-)

But I think that the most likely reason of all May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

Dan has taken the two older boys downtown this frosty morning, to see the store windows, check out the ice rink, and – ack! – buy me gifts. I thought we had agreed NO GIFTS. I was floating along in my sea of delusion, confident that I did not have to worry about gifts for Dan – who is awfully difficult to buy for, by the way. He informed me that the gifts are from the boys. Oh ok. So really I just have to come up with gifts from the boys for their dad – who is awfully difficult to buy for. Oh, and yeah, we did buy his parents a kitchen table and chairs from Ethan Allen but we have to buy them gifts from the boys. Why oh why does he do this to me? Doesn’t he know I am crazy enough all on my own? I don’t need any more help reaching optimal craziness. And I don’t have a free day this entire week, because my Thursday hours got switched because the library is not open at night this week. In the two hours since the boys woke up this morning (I was about to say, since I woke up, but I was up and down all night with a trying-to-poop baby) I went from looking forward to decorating the tree and baking this weekend, to freaking out and stressing over presents that two hours ago I DID NOT EVEN KNOW I had to buy. Tonight is the Perfect Family Christmas dinner (not to be confused with the Christmas Eve Extravaganza of Seven Fishes – really, tuna salad SHOULD NOT COUNT); then the festivities really gear up: Primo’s preschool Christmas party, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day dinner, the “Girls’ Luncheon,” and then in between all this, we are planning to wrangle all eleven grandchildren up to some portrait place on the busiest shopping stretch in the city the Wednesday after Christmas to have a picture taken. Now I say, the two newest are MINE and I could not care less, lousy mama that I am, whether we have a family portrait with them in it. Also, the dress code this time? Red, white, and denim. Gag. The first family portrait we all wore our yucky white Perfect family crest sweatshirts. The second one we all wore white shirts and khaki bottoms. In truth, we looked like a Gap ad, except we were all about twenty pounds too fat. This time, it’s my sister-in-law’s favorite disgusting color scheme, red, white, and blue. My kids happen to wear a lot of red because the woman who kindly ships us boxes and boxes of her son’s outgrown clothes has a penchant for red. But none of my children look particularly fetching in red. And both of my older ones are chin-lickers. So their faces are all chapped up. So I am going to have to break out the Cover Girl.

The bright spot in all of this? Last night, I thought we were out of rum, because I finished off the gallon last weekend at Primo’s birthday party. But lo and behold, in our cupboard, was a fifth of rum that we’d bought at the beach this summer and decided to bring home with us instead of leaving it for our hosts’ son and fifteen of his best friends to gulp down. Hallelujah and glory, glory, we are NOT out of rum. Is it bad that I am thinking of rum at ten a.m.? Yeah, I kinda thought so.

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Here are some catch-up photos.

Primo’s snowman. Identifiable only by the carrot.


Segundo’s snowmen. Identifiable only by the carrots.


My newest mug, is it not so cool?


Cookie cutter décor in my kitchen.

Stockings not quite finished for the boys, except Primo’s, but hey, I’ve had close to five years to finish his.



For God's sake, woman, what is WRONG WITH YOU? Quit taking pictures and FEED ME!

I regret to inform you, Sire, that the young lady has disappeared, leaving behind only this glass slipper.

This Cinderella coach has been mine since I can remember. It is just plastic with gold paint, but I love it and always have. It used to hang on my mom's tree every year for me. I was so not the kind of princessy little girl that this was meant for, but when I hang it up, I feel like that kind of dainty, precious, pretty little kid, with big dreams and never-ending optimism. You know, exactly the opposite of ME.


Friday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird

As we all know, Christmas is that mystical time of year when the ghost of Jesus rises from the grave to feast on the flesh of the living!

This photograph of Terzo wearing a onesie given to him by Hungry in LA has been set as my desktop at work. So appropriate, no?


Segundo in work garb (or so he informed me…) Is that what I look like when I leave the house?

I will post my favorite ornament for a show-and-tell tomorrow but I just want to say RIGHT NOW that I have green glass pickle envy.

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The director of the library stopped by the reference desk on her way out. She wanted us to know that if the library were to close early, that had her blessing. We are NOT closing early, regardless, but I had just come in so told her that the roads were not too bad – messy but not bad. “They’ll be much worse when the temps drop. So if you’re careful and watch out for all the other idiots on the road, you’ll be ok.” Oh. My. God.

There have been three requests for a journal called Heterocycles at the library today. You can only imagine where my depraved mind went. The library catalog offered up this tome: Tellurium-Containing Heterocycles. What? You really want to know what they are? Heterocycles are organic chemical structures containing non-carbon elements. Epoxides (oxiranes), aziridines, pyridines, thiophenes, many other structural classes are heterocyclic. Happy?

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Has anyone else heard that godawful Christmas song, “The Christmas Shoes”? Whoever gave that song the green light should be taken out and SHOT. Also, there is a special place in Hell reserved for the producer who okayed the children’s chorus singing at the end. It was SO BAD I couldn’t even turn it off, I was paralyzed with horror. I was truly afraid that if I moved, I would vomit. (And I have to ask – is it against the rules for poor people to be CLEAN? Are they too poor to buy soap? I want to know. Forget the shoes, kiddo, buy some Ivory. That’ll really make your mom happy.)

I got to hear one of my favorite Christmas songs today on the radio, “O Holy Night.” Gives me goosebumps. Every time. Also goosebump-inducing is this line from “Mary Did You Know?” “Did you know…when you kiss your little baby, you’ve kissed the face of God?” Don’t we all feel that when we kiss our babies? Kissing my little Terzo is just like that. Even after he’s spit up on me for the gazillionth time. (I know you're wondering, but I am indeed serious. The holidays bring out my schmaltzy side, apparently.)
Of course, I also got to hear a charming little ditty to the tune of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” called, “The Restroom Door Said Gentlemen,” which wasn’t half so bad as “I Saw Daddy Fondle Santa Claus.” Which honest to God I heard the other day.

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Snippets:

Because it’s really important to know when there’s a Volcanic Ash Advisory.

This AA Milne Christmas story is just cool. With his clever wordplay, I enjoy reading his Pooh stories as much as, if not more than, Primo does. I’m looking forward to reading this.

I want this. And I may just buy it for myself.

I want one of everything, please.

Bumper sticker spotted on the way home from Toys R Us today: (accompanied by a graphic of the state of Florida) “Electile Dysfunction.”

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Near my dentist’s office (I had my teeth cleaned this morning – the hygienist commented that she was so happy I had “taken some time to do something for myself.” Sorry, but having my teeth scraped and prodded and flossed is NOT my idea of pampering myself, babe!) is this great little store called Snow Lion Imports. I had exactly three minutes to browse – they had gorgeous raw silk Tibetan wrap skirts, and even gorgeous-er patterned wool wraps from Nepal. And some great jewelry, especially necklaces, especially one in onyx and silver, with several layers of beaded neck stringeys. And cute little gilt-trimmed bags. And a gradated-blue scarf with deep blue fringes. And a lovely blue mandarin-collared silk shirt. And lots and lots of great textile-y stuff I WANT.

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Good googley moogley, I actually FINISHED a whole book. (Two, in fact, if you count the first Magic Treehouse book. Which I really don’t. Except that Jack and Annie are working to solve these riddles so they can become Master Librarians – how cool is that? I only had to complete a graduate degree.) Anyhoo, I finished Ayun Halliday’s Job-Hopper: The Checkered Career of a Down-Market Dilettante - she reads very much like Sarah Vowell, another nasal-voiced chickie I enjoy a lot. I am one of a very teeny-tiny minority of people who has NEVER waitressed (my people skills are lacking…hard to believe, eh?) and this book merely reinforced my belief that that may have been my smartest-ever career move.

There was a typo on the back cover of the book though that is driving me nuts – how can any editor worth her salt let a typo on the BACK COVER get by her?? During her time in the paid job market, Ayun Halliday has managed to rack up a terrifying array of short-lived stints, including ersatz costume designer, belligerent artist’s model, bain of professional secretaries everywhere (a.k.a. “temp”), and Bert of Sesame Street for enthusiastic department store crowds. Inexcusable! Lynne Truss has nothing on me, I tell ya!

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Primo and I had to go to Toys R Us today to exchange the duplicate engines he had received for his birthday. He already has Toby and Percy. He could not make up his mind. He dithered and whined and whimpered and couldn’t decide.

I told him that he’d have twenty dollars of store credit and then that he had ten dollars from Grandpap’s money game. (This money game is this tense little exercise in which Grandpap holds out two fists, and the unfortunate child picks one. If he picks correctly, he gets the dollar in Grandpap’s hand. If he picks incorrectly – nada. OK, now here comes the stressful part for our little gamblers – he can go for a fiver with his one, but if he guesses wrong this time, he loses both. And Primo guessed wrong this time, which, to be honest, almost NEVER happens. He manfully joked, “That’s never happened before,” and then came to me and buried his head in my lap. Grandpap decided to salvage the situation by offering him a special birthday opportunity to go for a ten, and God knows how he rigged it, or if he rigged it, but Primo got his ten. So things were ok again. I hate this game but apparently I am the only parent that does. But then I have all *sorts* of bizarre opinions, like my kids have to eat dinner if they hope to get birthday cake, and they are not allowed to drink soda. So who will listen to me?) At any rate, Primo had his ten to spend too. So he picked out Henry and James. I happen to know that he is getting Henry and James for Christmas from his aunt but decided that I’d let him get the engines he wanted now and deal with returning the duplicates (again) later. He’s five, and it’s his birthday, and sometimes that trumps all other considerations. We were walking out of the store when Primo stopped to play on one of those ride-on thingeys that you put the quarters in and they move – only he doesn’t like them to move so he’s a cheap date – when he remembered that we had bought Terzo James for Christmas, along with a video. So we go back into Toys R Us, and he decided to return Henry as well, and he gets Trevor. Who is much cheaper than James or Henry. So I tell him to pick out another, and he gets Alfie and Jack, who are also way cheaper individually than Henry or James. OF COURSE I wind up kicking in extra money because I have forgotten to factor in tax and whatnot, but considering I have been filching his money to fuel my peppermint mocha habit for the past week, I can’t deny him, and he was so happy and excited by his purchases that he even said he’d share them with Segundo right away. And I don’t have to set foot in Hell Iz Us – er, Toys R Us - till after Christmas when I have to return the duplicate James engine. Or maybe the boys can learn to live with two Jameses – Jamii? – maybe he can be re-dubbed James the Schizophrenic Engine.

See, sometimes I am a good mother.

Show and Tell Plus One

Blackbird asked for Christmas decorations, so here goes.


This is actual tin tinsel. I love it. I don't necessarily love the tree, but I so love the tinsel.


My bathroom is too small to show you more than this little slice of it, but I tied these nasty red satin balls (donated from my ex's long-dead grandmother) to my shower curtain. I wouldn't use them any place else, and they've been in a zip-lock bag for ages, but here, in the bathroom, they make me happy.


This used to be a nightlight, and I've had her since I was five. My sister has a mouse wearing a Santa hat. The nightlight became a fire hazard a long time ago, and the angel isn't really my thing, but I love her anyway.

And here's the Plus One:


Teddy brought this guy home from school today--he made it in Art.

In Praise of Alan Moore

I just read the second volume of Top Ten, which is a saga about a super hero police force in a city where every citizen has some kind of super power. The concept is cool and the stories are fast and engaging and they kick ass. The characters are defined and developed, and they kick ass too. This isn't a comic for youngsters, because there's violence and swearing, sexual innudendo, other adult situations, and shots of an old man's butt, but it's definitely something to check out if you're at all curious about graphic novels.

Alan Moore is also the wonderful mind behind The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, which I can't say enough good things about.

Seriously, people. If you're frazzled and overwrought because of too much Christmas vulgarity, and you find that you can't concentrate on any of the various books you've tried picking up in order to sooth and distract yourself, have a look at some of these. They're fast, furious and fun. Oh, yeah: They're addictive, so beware. I'm hoping for B&N gift cards for Christmas so I can get Watchmen next.

Birthday Boy

This picture is part of a bunch my sister and I had taken to give to our parents for Christmas. If you want to know what I look like, this gives you a really good idea. Only my hair is darker and sort of curly, and shoulder-length. And I have glasses. And I'm fatter. And a grown woman. But really, he looks just like me.

Teddy is now half-way to being old enough to VOTE. I pulled him onto my lap this morning, to give him ten kisses, and I almost burst into tears. Because he's too big for my lap. Sigh. On the whole, I'm glad he's growing up. I like the person he's becoming, and I like watching to see how he turns out. I don't *want* to be the mom of a baby. But I really will miss my cuddly little boy. Sniff.

"Once you feng shui the organs, it's kind of cozy!"

Everyone was late this morning. Primo was all gloved and jacketed and booted but then the mom who helps me out by picking him up so I don’t have to take the baby out in the cold was fifteen minutes late and he had ungloved and booted himself…so she had to wait…and I got mad at him and then felt like the biggest heel in the world for yelling at him in front of her, and then she felt obliged to apologize for making him wait…completely unnecessarily, although I totally recognized the impulse.

The babysitter was late so I had to hop in the shower before she got there. Thank God the baby let me just plop him in the car seat where he obligingly went to sleep. Dan had used all the clean towels hanging in the bathroom so I was running around in a towel looking for something to dry my hair with in the 62-degree upstairs. It was 62 degrees because the noise from the boilers bothers my husband - the second-floor boiler is especially loud - so he turns the heat way down so he doesn’t have to listen to it and then he goes to work. And while I don’t really mind running around in a towel in front of my husband, the babysitter really does not need to be subjected to that sight. We don’t pay her nearly enough for her to have to put up with THAT.

By some miracle of God, my gloves and hat and scarf and boots were where I’d left them – Segundo likes to put on my shoes and walk around the house in them and then leave them in unexpected locations where I would never in a gazillion years think to look for them. Like in the baby’s crib or behind his dad’s guitars.

I knew the roads would be a mess – and they were – not helped by the old lady driving the BMW in front of me, at 15 miles below the speed limit, switching lanes without signaling, and wearing a hideous hat to boot.

By the time I got to work and found a parking spot (the university bought the two parking lots across the street and, instead of letting people park there while waiting for the weather to break so they can build, have just cordoned them off and made the parking situation here just so much hell), I was already running late. I had a meeting with my boss at 10:30 to discuss upcoming projects. And I didn’t get out of the meeting in time to go pump before my coworker took off for lunch.

But things aren’t all bad – like hearing the Royal Guardsmen singing “Snoopy’s Christmas” on the radio this morning. And the fact that Segundo woke up this morning and came downstairs saying, “Me wuv oo, Mama, me wuv ooooo…” My next-door neighbor picked up a container of rock salt at Home Depot for me yesterday because she knew we needed some. I get to have lunch with Gina today. I have time to stop at the library and the liquor store on the way home tonight. I got to see Leslie who I did not even know was in today. A prof at the pharmacy school was so incredibly appreciative of a relatively minimal effort on my part that he made me feel like a million bucks. I had a great dream last night about one of my best friends from college. I slept long enough to HAVE a dream. And Terzo smiled at me this morning.

It’s not that I am turning into Pollyanna, fat chance in hell of that, but I am just trying to focus. And de-stress. And not be miserable. Because the holidays stress me out and I am trying to enjoy something about them instead. Even if it’s grown men singing about dogs in fighter planes.

And my coworker just brought me a piece of banana cream pie from the faculty dining room.

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You Are Lemon Meringue Pie

You're the perfect combo of sassy and sweet Those who like you have well refined tastes

What Kind of Pie Are You?

I really liked the How Machiavellian are You? quiz too but to my distress am hardly Machiavellian AT ALL. Which disappointed me. I remember writing a paper on Niccolo Machiavelli in the seventh grade, I thought he was so cool. Still think the whole concept is cool. I wanted to be a little bit Machiavellian at least. But no, I am trustworthy and honest! Dammit!

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Primo’s running monologue:
What’s scarier, Vacation Under the Volcano or Dinosaurs Before Dawn? I mean, being at the beach and having to go under the volcano would be scary…but dinosaurs are big and they can eat people. I don’t know. I wonder, which do you think is scarier? …Where’s Africa? Is Africa left? I mean, east? Is it east-er than us? Is it east-er than where Uncle Drew lives? Is east left? Or right? If I shake the compass, will it still point to north? And you know what’s really cool? If you don’t want to go anywhere you just close up the compass! …Hey Mom, I got Toby for my birthday and I put Toby on my Christmas list. How will Santa know not to bring me Toby? And when we return my extra Toby and Percy, should I get Diesel and Skarloey, or Donald and Douglas? Which do you think Segundo would like? Should I let him pick one, even though it’s my birthday present? I bet he’d like Donald and Douglas, but I really want Skarloey…Hey, do you know where the extra film for my toy camera is? I thought it was in the refrigerator but I looked and I can’t find it and it’s not in there. Mom, will you get up and find it for me?

Finally I open one eye and say, “Primo, will you PUH-LEASE shut up for two seconds?”

“Ok, Mom. I’ll shut up. One, two…that’s two seconds. Will you get up and get my film for me now?”

I have only myself to blame as I am sure Primo did not inherit this diarrhea of the mouth from his father, Mr. Taciturn. (I would have changed my name when I got married but I figured that would be false advertising, as Mrs Taciturn I am not!)

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I just bought five books at the campus bookstore, from the dollar table, in less than ten minutes. See, it IS a sickness.
Best Food Writing 2000. Because the next best thing to eating food is reading about food.
A Welcoming Life: The M.F.K. Fisher Scrapbook. I enjoy Fisher’s food books and am intensely curious about Chexbres, the mysterious stranger she left her husband for, and who apparently died an agonizing and drawn-out death. Figured this photo collection might shed some light on the subject. Because I am morbidly curious.
Second Nature: A Gardener’s Education. Michael Pollan’s Botany of Desire has been extolled to me as one of the best books ever, so why not spend a buck on this, his other book? From the back cover: “Chosen by the American Horticultural Society as one of the seventy-five greatest books ever written about gardening…”
Mrs. Whaley and her Charleston Garden A gardening memoir by an old Southern lady that looked charming.
The Flamboyant Garden A book about growing vibrantly-colored flowers in your garden and how to incorporate them into your already-existing plant plan. Not that I am a particularly wonderful gardener, but it was only a buck and the pictures are pretty.

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Snippets:

What about the HobNobs Literary Prize? Or Scrumpy Jack’s Literary Prize?

This is sooooo cool. I am such a nerd.

And what the hell is up with this craft project? This reindeer looks like Rudolph meets "Mask." Honestly…it’s just screwy.

I received an email from Gina with a list of “Fifty Things I Am Not Allowed to Do at Hogwarts.” My favorite was number 14, “I will not start every Potions class by asking Professor Snape if today's project is suitable for use as a sexual lubricant.” Gina’s vote: number 20, “I will not call the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher Kenny, even if he is wearing an orange anorak.”

Also received this from Gina (clearly a slow morning at work for Gina yesterday) and I like it enough to share: Remember this motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!

Primo wanted to know who Jesus’ father was – God or Joseph. He decided that Joseph was Jesus’ grandfather, and God was Jesus’ father. And then yesterday he wanted to know if pets went to heaven or hell. And if we were skeletons in the afterlife, is everyone dead running around heaven as a skeleton? I don’t know how much more theology I can handle.

Segundo tells Thomas the Tank Engine jokes: “I told Primo that Toby is number TEN!” Hahahahahahahaaaa!!

I hate turtlenecks. So why do I wear them? Yes, they look sleek and trendy and make my hair look good, but I want to rip them off within an hour of putting one on. And I still have two hours of work to go! Argh! Of course, I feel the same way about socks and bras. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I need help.

In church on Sunday (at which the music was particularly lovely – Jacob Arcadelt’s version of the Ave Maria, “Oh thou that tellest” from Handel’s “Messiah,” and the Toccata in E Minor by Pachelbel) there was a guest preacher, from a public charter school, who spoke about John the Baptist. I was half-listening and half-admiring my baby when I heard him say…something. I thought, “There is NO WAY I just heard what I heard, I must have MISheard.” But then he repeated himself. I have never before heard and probably never will again hear the word “genitalia” issue not once, but twice, from a preacher’s mouth, from the pulpit.

More fuel for the fire… Thanks for the link, Andrea.

Stan Berenstain, creator of the interminably smug and annoying Berenstain Bears, died November 26. Peter Leo of the Post Gazette crafted an amusing column out of this sober fodder. I especially loved the quote by Charles Krauthammer calling Papa Bear the “Alan Alda of grizzlies.” And just for the record, I HATE Love You Forever. It creeps me out.

My Poor Sister

I've been busy and distracted, what with the birthday and Christmas and finals and all, but I wanted to make sure to pass this along:

Long set-up (because you need this background information): My mother and grandmother are both nurses. My mom spent about twenty years in the ER, starting there when I was in second grade. My mother has seen some horrible, horrible things at work: She’s seen abused women and kids, rape victims, drug addicts, violently crazed people, suicides, grisly accidents, and lots and lots of death. Think for a moment about how daily exposure to that kind of stuff might affect your parenting.

Are you thinking? If you’re anything like my mother (and now my sister and me), you’d be a tad overprotective: I am technically still not allowed to ride my bike on the road.

So my very loving, if slightly crazed and seriously paranoid, mother inadvertently turned my sister and me into hypochondriacs. I can honestly say that my sister (three years younger than me) is much worse than I am; I lie in bed at night convinced that I have a brain tumor and that Teddy has all matter of hidden ailments that will kill him in all kinds of ways, yes. (Incidentally, Teddy has no idea that I have these concerns—I totally mask it well, to the point of seeming rather blasé about most injuries and illnesses. I’m hoping the freaky buck will stop here with me.)

Examples of my sister’s hypochondria, however, show that she’s the clear freak champion of the family. She came to me in tears once when I was in high school, because she kept finding that she was waking up in the morning with her wrists bent downward and clasped to her chest: She was convinced this meant she was mildly retarded. Pain near her ribs was immediately deemed Costochondritis. (My parents and I call her that sometimes.) I can’t tell you how many cancers she doesn’t have—and her migraines exacerbate the brain tumor fear she shares with me.

Oh, in addition to her hypochondria, my sister FEARS DOCTORS AND HOSPITALS. (I’m the complete opposite—just the sight of a medical professional makes me feel better.) The Internet is the worst thing that ever happened to my sister, because it gives her access to all kinds of information she’s just better off not having access to. And because she doesn’t like doctors and hospitals, she spends lots of time calling me (who’s not at all medically qualified) and my mother and grandmother. Also? She can’t take pain. Remember that.

And now, the pay-off: Friday night, my sister was home with her husband and my four-year-old nephew. She needed to go to the bathroom, and sprinted up the stairs during a commercial, but caught her slipper on something and tripped. She crashed forward and slammed her finger into the wooden banister. The resulting “crack” was so loud that my brother-in-law heard it from across the room. He asked what happened, and she said, “I’m fine—it’s just my finger.” She proceeded to the bathroom, clutching her wounded hand.

Moments later, from her seat on the toilet, she called, “T! Come here!” And then fainted. On the toilet. She was totally out, and came to when he grabbed her by the arms and shouted for her to GET UP. My nephew, of course, was terrified and wailing. He had gone to the bathroom before her and missed the commotion on the stairs, and had no idea why his mother appeared to be sleeping on the toilet while his father clutched and yelled at her.

She came to and looked into the toilet where my nephew had just been—and hadn’t flushed. She panicked and blurted, “Oh my God! Did I just poop?” She was horrified, thinking she’d fainted and lost control of her bowels.

This is life with my sister. My brother-in-law? He wasn’t phased by this at all. I, however, am thinking of getting her a t-shirt made that says, “Oh my God! Did I just poop?”

Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children. ~George Bernard Shaw

Here is Dan preparing for the onslaught. I thought I was the only one who had to drink to be around his family.



Primo preparing decorations to tape all over the house.



The Sheik of Araby preparing for the party.



The Steelers game was still on when the party started. I think people drove here during halftime? Everyone crammed upstairs into the library/TV room until the game was over. Very festive.



Primo with one of the Thomas trains he scored. We broke with tradition and he opened the presents as people came. It worked out rather well, and he remembered to thank everyone instead of just being overwhelmed.



Primo blowing out his candles - I accidentally put on one of those trick candles, and everyone thought that was hilarious. Except then there was more spit on the cake than I would have liked.



The aftermath. Everyone had blue lips and teeth but no one would let me take a picture of them. Damn grown-ups and their dignity.

"Peep, peep, fatface!" said Thomas...

Primo's 5th birthday is tomorrow.
He has six cousins coming, their respective parents, and his grandparents.
The party theme is Thomas.

"Mom, can I have a Thomas cake?"

Sure, why not? After Peter Pan last year, Thomas should be a breeze.

I prefer whipped cream icing, as do my kids, and the only time I mind is when decorating cakes - buttercream (at least the fake stuff) is easier to work with in tubes...black icing is very strange...I ate a lot of icing- taste testing and whatnot, you know, and am now sick to my stomach as well as bluish-black-lipped and -teethed...no idea where I am supposed to fit the Happy Birthday message...every year I say, "Next year I am just buying the damn cake," and then I never do...

I am not likely to post till Monday as I have something like 14 adults and eight kids to feed tomorrow - baked ziti, green salad, bread. Chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, grapes for the kids (per Primo's request). Chocolate Thomas cake with whipped cream icing. Copious amounts of alcohol.

Happy Birthday, my firstborn. You changed my life in oh so many ways and I love you.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

Here are my Christmas lights and some ornaments.


Here are all the pretty cards we have received.


Here are all the great presents I lovingly chose for everyone.

Here is our beautiful and fragrant tree.


Here are the decorations in the boys’ room that they did themselves.


Ah, now all I need to do is kick back with some hot cider in front of a roaring fire and RELAX.

Friday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird

as promised...

As I said in the Comments of Gina’s post on Target:

Ok guys, I am writing an entire post on this but let's be clear:

I hit MicroMedex (drug db) yesterday. The emergency contraception under scrutiny (not that I can find the policy outlined on Target's website) is NOT, repeat, NOT an abortifacient. IT DOES NOT CAUSE AN ABORTION. It prevents ovulation, meaning it may help prevent pregnancy JUST LIKE any other form of birth control prevents pregnancy. It CANNOT TERMINATE a pregnancy.

RU-486/mifepristone (or methotrexate) are used to cause a "medical" (as opposed to surgical) abortion.This is NOT the "morning-after pill." This is indeed an abortifacient and is approved by the FDA for such usage.

But the prescriptions under discussion in the Target case (also known as "the morning-after pill", admittedly confusingly so-called) are just normal everyday birth control pills.

SL, your friends who do not prescribe EC because they believe it causes an abortion are misinformed or are not being clear in their explanations. I respectfully would be interested in hearing their position on normal birth control methods and if they will indeed fill *those* prescriptions. And Gina, I would love to find out exactly what Target's policy is on both drugs, so if you find out more, please let me know.

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After some extensive research here is what I emerged with.
I present what facts I can in the interest of helping you make up your own minds. (Please keep in mind that I am a medical librarian by training, forgive me if this is too technical. I think I made it pretty clear but please feel free to question or comment.)

In interest of full disclosure, it does seem to me that:
If you have taken or do take normal birth control pills, taking the “morning-after pill” should be morally acceptable to you, following a logical train of thought. Its actions are physically, mechanically, the same.

I am under the impression (but don’t know for sure and that is what I expressed above to Gina) that what is under debate is instead what I found to be called “emergency contraception” - the “morning after pill,” or Plan B. These are, chemically, levonorgestrel or norethindrone – the agents constituting typical birth control pills.

RU-486 IS NOT the “morning-after pill” and is indeed, straight-up, without argument, an abortifacient. It CAUSES an abortion to occur. I believe that this is not the drug under debate or being disputed in Target’s case. If/when I learn otherwise, you will be the first to know.

Here is the FDA info on emergency contraception:
http://www.fda.gov/cder/drug/infopage/planB/planBQandA.htm
(I don’t much care if it’s prescription or OTC; for the purposes of this post, the issue is its availability through pharmacies.)

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Emergency contraception has been an off-label use of oral contraceptive pills since the 1960s…The mechanism of action may vary, depending on the day of the menstrual cycle on which treatment is started… If a woman becomes pregnant after using emergency contraception, she may be reassured about the lack of negative effects emergency contraception has on fetal development.
[Weismiller DG. Emergency contraception. American Family Physician. 2004 Aug 15; 70(4): 707-14.]

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Now here is where the issue gets murky. Read carefully. There is much food for thought here, and I hope I covered everything fairly and even-handedly, to help you form your own informed opinion. Please let me know if you feel something needs to be clarified further.

ONE SIDE
(http://ec.princeton.edu/questions/ecabt.html) Gynecologists define the beginning of pregnancy as the implantation of a fertilized egg in the lining of a woman's uterus. Implantation begins five to seven days after fertilization (and is completed several days later). Emergency contraceptives work before implantation and not after a woman is already pregnant. Depending on the time during the menstrual cycle that they are taken, ECPs may inhibit or delay ovulation, inhibit tubal transport of the egg or sperm, interfere with fertilization, or alter the endometrium (the lining of the uterus), thereby inhibiting implantation of a fertilized egg.

THE OTHER SIDE
(http://www.afterabortion.org/PAR/V6/n4/birthcontrol.htm) As a birth control agent, the Pill has three modes of operation: (1) it may suppress ovulation, (2) it may thicken the cervical mucous to block sperm passage, and/or (3) it may cause an abortion by making the uterine lining hostile to implantation. The original high-dose birth control pills had high rates of suppressing ovulation, but in an effort to reduce unwanted side-effects, manufacturers have reduced the dosage levels. As a result, the newer "low-dose" birth control pills are less effective at suppressing ovulation and more dependent on mode of operation number three: abortion by blockage of implantation. The "morning after pill" is a continuation of the trend toward more "birth control" through drug-induced abortion.

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Birth control pills - I used brand names Micronor (progestin only) and Ortho-Novum 1/35 (progestin and estrogen) to search; these summaries include ALL estrogen and progesterone oral contraceptives (which contain in various dosages levonorgestrel (Plan B) and norethindrone)).

US PDI (Micronor):The low-dose progestins for contraception are used to prevent pregnancy. Other names for progestin-only oral contraceptives are minipills and progestin-only pills (POPs). Progestins can prevent fertilization by preventing a woman's egg from fully developing. Also, progestins cause changes at the opening of the uterus, such as thickening of the cervical mucus. This makes it hard for the partner's sperm to reach the egg. The fertilization of the woman's egg with her partner's sperm is less likely to occur while she is taking, receiving, or using a progestin, but it can occur. Even so, the progestins make it harder for the fertilized egg to become attached to the walls of the uterus, making it difficult to become pregnant.

US PDI (Ortho Novum):This medicine usually contains two types of hormones, estrogens and progestins and, when taken properly, prevents pregnancy. It works by stopping a woman's egg from fully developing each month. The egg can no longer accept a sperm and fertilization is prevented. Although oral contraceptives have other effects that help prevent a pregnancy from occurring, this is the main action.
Sometimes a woman's egg can still develop even though the medication is taken once each day, especially when more than 24 hours pass between two doses. In almost all cases when the medicine was taken properly and an egg develops, fertilization can still be stopped by oral contraceptives. This is because oral contraceptives also thicken cervical mucus at the opening of the uterus. This makes it hard for the partner's sperm to reach the egg. In addition, oral contraceptives change the uterus lining just enough so that an egg will not stop in the uterus to develop. All of these effects make it difficult to become pregnant when properly taking an oral contraceptive.

Clinical Pharmacology: Mechanism of Action: The primary contraceptive effect of progestins involves the suppression of the midcycle surge of LH. The exact mechanism of action, however, is unknown. At the cellular level, progestins diffuse freely into target cells and bind to the progesterone receptor. Target cells include the female reproductive tract, the mammary gland, the hypothalamus, and the pituitary. Once bound to the receptor, progestins slow the frequency of release of gonadotropin releasing hormone (GnRH) from the hypothalamus and blunt the pre-ovulatory LH surge, thereby preventing follicular maturation and ovulation. Overall, progestin-only contraceptives prevent ovulation in 70—80% of cycles, however, the clinical effectiveness ranges 96—98%. This suggests that additional mechanisms may be involved.[Emphasis mine – BB] Other actions of norethindrone include alterations in the endometrium that can impair implantation and an increase in cervical mucus viscosity which inhibits sperm migration into the uterus. The administration of norethindrone to women with adequate estrogen production transforms the uterus from a proliferative to a secretory phase.

US PDI (Levonorgestrel, aka Plan B): At the cellular level, levonorgestrel diffuses freely into target cells and binds to the progesterone receptor. Target cells include the female reproductive tract, the mammary gland, the hypothalamus, and the pituitary…. Levonorgestrel converts a proliferative endometrium into a secretory one in women with adequate estrogen replacement, reducing endometrial growth... Amenorrhea occurs in most women after more than 12 months of continuous transdermal estrogen-levonorgestrel application.

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Now, here’s the drug info on what we commonly call RU-486, chemically known as mifeprestrome. This is NOT the medication typically prescribed as EC. This is CLEARLY an abortifacient. There is no argument about that.

Micromedex (Mifeprestrome/antiprogesterone):Mifepristone is indicated for use in the termination of pregnancy (through day 49 of pregnancy) and has no other approved indication for use during pregnancy…MECHANISM OF ACTION …The abortifacient action of mifepristone is thought to be mediated through antiprogesterone effects on endometrial progesterone receptors. When administered during the luteal phase, the antiprogesterone effects induce menses and permit the release of prostaglandins from the endometrium … If mifepristone is used before 56 days of amenorrhea, spontaneous abortion usually occurs and does not require surgical evacuation of the uterus for retained products of conception…
[In addition, FYI- BB] Emergency contraception - Postcoital contraception a) Both mifepristone 10 milligrams (mg) and 25 mg have been shown to be effective in preventing pregnancies up to 120 hours after unprotected sexual intercourse (Xiao et al, 2002).

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I leave you with a quote from this article about the initial Target brouhaha,
http://newstandardnews.net/content/index.cfm/items/2522:
In allowing workers to deny prescribed medications to customers based on religious beliefs, the chain joins a growing number of businesses that permit employees to trump national law, patients’ needs and doctors’ recommendations.

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If you want my *detailed* opinion on all aspects of this issue, just email me. I am not being cagey, I am just trying to be even-handed and fair. I tried to use objective, clinical sources for my information. I hope I shed some light on the controversy.

E-Mail to Target

I sent this through the Comments link on the Target Phamarcy site:

I am writing to express my displeasure at Target's policy of not requiring its pharmacists to distribute birth control and emergency contraception *when presented with a doctor's prescription*. I can't believe Target believes its pharmacists should have any say in my reproductive health.

I've been a faithful Target shopper for years, actually believing in Target's hipper-than-thou image. Now, though, as much as it hurts, I won't be shopping at Target--at least until this ridiculous policy is changed. I'm hopeful that other women will join me: Women have *got* to make up the majority of your customer base, and if you can't support us, we shouldn't support you.

I doubt if I'll get a reply, but I'll post if I do. This whole thing makes me SO MAD. I really, really love Target. I won't shop at Wal-Mart. That leaves me with K-Mart, and I *hate* my local K-Mart.

Maybe this will force me to spend less money.

"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store."Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

I know it's early for Christmas gifts but in the interest of reducing holiday stress, and getting in the Christmas spirit, Merry Christmas to all! Enjoy your virtual gifts, I hope I picke dwell. (The nice thing about virtual gifts, remember, is even if you don't like it, you don't have to take the trouble to return it : ))

Gina, I only wish I could *really* give you this -
Merry Virtual Christmas! Oh, and because you'll need lots of reading material for the plane and stuff:





Leslie – You are the only woman I know who could possibly pull these off. Merry Christmas!

and for Ingrid...




David, I think these would look cool in a family room. Always have thought so. Happy Hanukkah!




Peg, you probably already have one of these. I'd give you a virtual gift receipt if I could.
Well, and this, too, you're very easy to shop for! Merry Christmas!




Blackbird, I think you'd look stunning in this Vera Wang (you have to scroll to number four, and imagine it in black.) Topped with this:









Suse (Pea Soup) – This is for you.

And this, too. I had a great scarf picked out but they discontinued it. Even in the virtual world that is a problem as the link GOES AWAY.




Mistress Mary, Merry Christmas!
I like it in carrot, but you might prefer one of the greens.

And I like the chrome in the shifter knobs (scroll down, on the right), but perhaps you'd prefer red or blue or titanium...




Joke, I picked these out first for you - thought they would be elegant yet simple enough for your tastes. Then decided to spring for this too, as it's on sale! For a measly 900 bucks! Merry Christmas!








Sarah Louise, enjoy! Merry Christmas!





Badger, Merry Xmas and all that crap!




Susie Sunshine, I hope you can use this.
Merry Christmas!




Katya, I think you'll enjoy both of these, as one librarian to another...Merry Christmas!



Jess, I would choose the wisteria for you, but I will give you the virtual gift receipt.

And I can't live without my one of these! Merry Christmas!




Carolyn, I'd give you the Red Door Signature Spa Experience but feel free to change it up if you like. Enjoy! Merry Christmas!


Andrea, I know it's not very inspired but I thought you might enjoy these.
But also, I give you a big-ass gift certificate here, and a date with me and maybe Marisa if she's available, to go drink lots of beer. I think your boyfriend must stay home : ) Bwahahahaha!
And for Avi...because it's going to start sooner or later and I thought I'd give him (and you) a leg up...my boys would murder for one of these. But we are all about not spending insane amounts of money that could cover college tuition on toys...silly us....Happy Hanukkah!

Katy, I am not sure exactly what this does but between your craftiness and your theatre degree, you could figure it out. Frankly, I just thought it was pretty in a weird kind of way.


Sueeus, I thought these were pretty.



And you can enjoy some nice tea while relaxing with the first gift. Have a peaceful holiday season.

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Holiday wishes to all of you, and thanks for being part of my life.

I Woke Up with a Wiggles Song in My Head

I have no idea why, but I've been singing about mashed banana and cold spaghetti. Kill me.

*****

Today is the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. I’ve always had a weird thing for WWII. I know it’s tied up in Anne Frank and Jacob, Have I Loved and Summer of My German Soldier, but that doesn’t make my interest any less legitimate. I know I romanticize the period, but I think that, despite the constant fear of losing a loved one in the war, the 1940s would have been a wonderful time to be an American. Granted, I would have looked terrible in those shirtwaist dresses, because I possess one of the shortest waists on record, but . . . I think I would have been pretty happy had I lived then.

*****

So the calendar year is winding down, but more importantly, my personal year is, too: My birthday is next month. I know we’ve talked about this before, but most of the time, I don’t feel particularly grown up, and at nearly 35, that is patently ridiculous. To make matters worse, I’ve also realized that I don’t feel particularly like a woman. Female, yes. Woman, no. Does that make sense?

I can bring home the bacon. Check. Fry it up in a pan. Check. And without going into detail, I am pretty good in the never, ever let you forget you’re a man department, too. So according to Peggy Lee and Enjoli Perfume, I should totally feel like a woman. But why don’t I? And what can I do to change it?

Help me, Internet friends. What (aside from reproduction-related things) makes you feel like a Woman? (And with all due respect to Aretha Franklin, it can be a Natural Woman or otherwise--I'm not in a position to be picky.)

It could be that his head wasn't screwed on quite right...

Ergh! The old SAHM-versus-working mom debate rears its ugly head again in this article on Salon: A new magazine, Total 180, is targeted at moms who have "opted out." But its pages are full of despairing screams, no sex, and women who are "let out" weekly by husbands. I had to write a letter. Ergh and double ergh! Why can't we all just GET ALONG?

*****************************

This article on Salon by Anne Lamotte, who I want to adore but don’t, had me completely perplexed. Read it and see. I don’t get the point. But I did love this quote:
Start behaving well, and you will feel better. This is what Jesus would want… His message is that we're all sort of nuts and suspicious and petty and full of crazy hungers, and it all feels awful a lot of the time, but even so -- one's behavior needs to be decent.

In the same vein:
The sermon on Sunday was about John the Baptist. Bruce (our priest) pointed out that it wasn’t John the Methodist, or John the Episcopalian, but specifically John the Baptist. Who called for burning the chaff with inextinguishable fire and cutting down and burning trees to “make ready the way of the Lord.” (Matthew 3:1-12)
Those Baptists – full of finesse. As always.

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I FINALLY got sheers on one window (of two) in the living room. I dragged all three boys to Bed Bath and Beyond (ever see that Mother Goose and Grimm comic strip where they explore the “beyond” part?) to buy these but of course they were not in stock, they can only be ordered online, something you’d think the website would tell you. So I bought these instead, because damn it, I was not going home without sheers. I hung them up without ironing them; if I ever iron them, they’ll look even better. And then I went online and ordered one of the first panels for the entryway window instead.

I also bought one oven mitt, one of those silicone jobbies in blue, because I am sick to death of burning myself with my ten-year-old oven mitts on. I wanted two oven mitts but they’re twenty bucks a piece. I couldn’t see my way clear to spending forty dollars on a pair of oven mitts. Especially since nine times out of ten I forget to take the oven mitts down to the basement where the stove currently resides (don’t ask) and wind up using an old dishcloth from the rag bin anyway to pull hot stuff out of the oven.

And the boys were entranced by these. So I bought one. Because they’re cute. And so were my boys. And good - they were good boys. While I banged my head against the wall shopping for curtains.

I want one of these – maybe for my birthday? And if I had more counter space, I’d want one of these too.

I wish I could figure out the optimal placement for the things I consider necessary on my countertop - my blue Kitchenaid mixer, the microwave, the knife block, a jar of measuring spoons, the toaster, the banana basket, the cutting boards, the pitcher full of spatulas and wooden spoons, and because we own a very ornamental coffeemaker, that as well. Perhaps one of these would help organization. Or maybe it would just make it worse. I could completely get behind putting the toaster in the cabinet each morning, but my husband would not. So I guess this paragraph answers that “beyond” part.

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We got a big box of Christmassy crap from an old neighbor yesterday. She means well, and it was fun to unwrap everything, but basically she cleaned out her attic and mailed it to us. Yarn-and-plastic-canvas tree ornaments, ceramic reindeer and Santa boots, red votives, a Christmas tablecloth with poinsettias all over it, a Nutcracker snow globe…the boys decked out their room with all the stuff and are now completely in the Christmas spirit.

I scored homemade chocolate-covered pretzels and socks that say “Go away, I’m reading!” Which I will wear with my shirt that says, “Go to hell, I’m reading.” Which might cause my children to say again, as they have in the past, “Will someone put their book down and PLAY with us?”

Which also reminds me, I want to read this book.

**********************

Today is Saint Nicholas’s Day. Primo came home from preschool with a little wooden top that he had received in his shoe…as if we need ANOTHER gift-giving occasion. But my husband rose to the occasion admirably. He helped the boys leave their sneakers in the entryway, and when they woke up this morning they found a quarter in one shoe and a brand new guitar pick in the other! Mama got a teabag and a dollar; all Daddy got was sticks! Because that’s what naughty people get! Which the boys thought was freaking hilarious.

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Snippets:

My father would have been 75 this past Sunday, December 4. He’s been gone almost 18 years. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you and think of you often.

Primo received this Bible from my crazy-evangelical-fundamentalist-Christian cousin Ginny when he was a baby. Dan wanted me to get rid of it but I couldn't see my way clear to ditching a Bible, any sort of Bible, regardless of how badly translated. Primo picked it up yesterday morning and read it all afternoon. He came to me at 7 p.m. and said, "Boy am I tired! I read the whole Bible today!"

Note to self: blow-dry hair COMPLETELY before venturing outside in the 20-degree weather.

And would someone please explain how and/or why these college kids walk around in this weather hatless, gloveless, wearing only a sweatshirt or an unzipped jacket, in flip-flops? I mean, I guess I did the same – I don’t think I even owned an umbrella until last year, but does your cold sensitivity go up as you grow older, or do you just get smarter?

I am SO not giving up these boobs. Terzo will be nursing till he goes to college. Whether he likes it or not.

The guy from housekeeping knocked on the door of the staff bathroom as I was pumping this morning. He wanted to restock paper towels and toilet paper. I stopped to go out and explain that I was pumping – like he’d know what that was, not that I volunteered to explain further – and then I got all tense and nervous, thereby effectively stopping any further milk flow. God, how I hate pumping.

I oh so wish I had had my camera with me! Last week was the library’s twice-a-year Scholastic book sale. As part of the festivities, the organizer had people in costume as children’s book characters like Clifford the Big Red Dog and Charlie Brown running around.
On a large cardboard box in the periodicals area was a label that read:
Clifford the Big Red Dog
Box contains:
Clifford’s head
Clifford’s body

Check out the DuPont Registry gift cars of 2006. (I am sure Joke already knows all about the DuPont registry, hmm?) I like the Hennessey Venom 1000 (I have always liked Dodge Vipers, except for the Dodge part…) and the 1965 Shelby Sunbeam Tiger – gorgeous! (And 14 thousand is NOTHING for a full fire engine!)

Speaking of, I went virtual Christmas shopping yesterday for all my Internet friends. I had a blast doing this because there are no money considerations. How liberating to shop with unlimited funds, however virtual they may be. Gina, in particular, benefits from this perk.
So, my blog buddies, I will be distributing your virtual presents shortly, early, to beat the holiday rush. Merry Virtual Christmas!

The Birth Story

Teddy's birthday is a week from tomorrow, which is the same week as my finals at school and like fifteen minutes before Christmas. With that in mind, I'm posting his birth story now, while I still have a brain. Enjoy, and please send your good wishes to the boy, who will be nine years old on the 14th.

*****

Like many of the best things in the world, Teddy was conceived in London. C and I had been married for six months—and he was still a student—when we jumped at the chance to liquidate all of our belongings and spend his last semester at the law school’s sister school in London. We lived just off the tube stop in Fulham (SW6), in a third floor walk-up above an Indian family who insisted we not try to pronounce their name (granted, a very long one which I’ve since forgotten) and just call them Mr. and Mrs. Russell.

We didn’t have a TV, so all of our news and entertainment came from The Times and the tiny speaker of the clock radio that sat next to our terribly lumpy bed. C went to school and did an internship with an investment magazine, of all things, and I did some copywriting for the same publication (I used to love going into the office, which was in a building right across from Harrod’s) and also worked in a pub right around the corner from our apartment. The couple who ran the pub, Russell and Debbie, had a baby called Dylan who was born on what would one year later be Teddy’s birthday. I always feel sad when I think of Dylan, because he spent the beginning of his life sitting in a baby seat on top of a bar, drinking bottles that I sterilized, while his parents smoked and shouted at one another.

But I digress. C and I were totally alone in London, and totally happy. We walked and window shopped and walked and went to museums and walked and went the opera and walked and went to the theatre and walked and . . . you get the point. We were in love with London (and with each other) and were planning to stay beyond his graduation.

And then I missed a period and started to be really bothered by the smells of all the people riding the tube to work with me. I’m short, so was often forced to ride with my face on level with armpits and coffee breath, and all of the mouth-breathing in the world couldn’t help me. It occurred to me that I might have a bun in the oven. I was twenty-five, a free-lance copy writer who worked in a pub and had no money at all in savings.

I picked up a pregnancy test in the Boots’ down the street, and the instructions indicated that it was best to take the test using “first morning’s urine”. I woke up around 2am to use the bathroom, and decided I couldn’t wait a moment longer; I collected a few drops and set the timer on my watch. C and I shivered, he bleary-eyed in boxers, with major bed-head, and I in a t-shirt, feeling like I had just done a bunch of “whippets”: I was jumpy and shaking, and lights and sounds seemed to be bouncing and magnified.

I had covered the test with a sheet of paper, and when the time was up and I removed the paper to reveal the Yes dot, C and I looked at each other and CRACKED UP LAUGHING. We laughed like idiots, really guffawing and crying, and then wiped our eyes and went back to bed.

He blew off the rest of his semester—because who could concentrate? We bought a book of baby names, which he read while I hung my head out the window to escape the smells of the Indian food that continually wafted up from the kitchen below.

We were on our own and pregnant, and we didn’t tell a soul. Not our parents, not my sister, not our friends. We just sat on the knowledge, not really knowing what to do with it. I had a free check up, thanks to National Health, and even had an ultrasound, which showed I was indeed carrying a squashy grape. What a secret!

Fast forward to our homecoming at my parents’ house, where my mom and dad and sister and C’s dad and step-mom were gathered for dinner. Everyone was still seated at the dining room table, aside from C and me. We announced that we were planning to move from Michigan back to Pittsburgh—something we’d always said we’d never do. Everyone was happy, but only C’s step-mom said, “Do you mind if I ask what made you decide to come back?”

No one was prepared to hear the, “Because I’m having a baby,” that I squeaked out from behind C’s back. Food dropped onto plates. Then there was silence. And then the hugging and happiness and questions commenced. I swear that I was a married woman who was worried that she would get in trouble for getting knocked up!

I didn’t get in trouble, but C and I did have to live with my parents for about three months, while he found a job and I found an apartment.

I was very good at being pregnant until around September, when I started having contractions and making visits to the ER. Hello, Velcro fetal monitor! Hello, short cervix! Hello, pre-term labor! Hello, steroids to make sure Teddy’s lungs were fully developed before he popped out! Hello, bed rest! Hello, cruising around Ikea in a wheel chair! UGH.

We had so many visits to the hospital that we didn’t arrange anything at all as far as a birth plan, or anything like that. I wasn’t interested in a home birth or a midwife or being drug-free. I’m a hypochondriac, for the love of God! I wanted to be near doctors and nurses and drugs and technology and sterile surfaces and stainless steel, and that’s what I got.

Finally, ten days before he was due, the contractions wouldn’t stop. We went to the ER and they sent me to the labor place. My doctor was out of town. Someone decided to break my water, and plunged a knitting needle (or something) into me and opened the floodgates. I hadn’t realized how much STUFF was in there! I was so sick of being pregnant and sedentary that I didn’t care about anything beyond getting the rolling, roiling, kicking beast safely out of me. (So much for that notion of an enchanted young mother yearning to hold her babe in her arms: I just wanted it all to be OVER, already.)

So the contractions got bad. BAD, bad. Puking into one of those kidney-shaped pink trays bad. But you know what? I didn’t whimper, moan, or shout. Someone offered me an epidural, and I nodded. And then . . . bliss. C and I watched the monitor jump around as I contracted and felt no pain. We watched “A Christmas Story”. We phoned the family to tell them that I was in labor, but that it would be hours, so they should all stay where they were. We played two games of Scrabble, AND I WON.

And then the stupid epidural wore off, and someone said I should try to do without it so I’d be able to push. Waves of bone-crushing, retching-ice-chips-into-the-pink-tray-pain came back. Returning to my Stoic In Pain state, I nodded my assent to the removal of the needle from my back.

Around about this time, my mother and grandmother waltzed into the room. They were beside themselves with excitement, as I am the oldest child/grandchild, and Teddy was the first grandchild/great-grandchild. I’m a girl who likes her privacy—yes, it was likely obvious that I was suffering, as I was sweating and retching, etc., but please note that I didn’t yell or cry or squeak. My pain and misery was private. I used all of my energy to just remain cognizant so I could push. I nodded and shook my head at Mom and Gram, sent them telepathic messages asking them to leave, but I didn’t speak. C knew I didn’t want them looking at me, but he wasn’t brave enough to order these formidable looking NURSES from the hospital room.

So they remained. Finally, the sweet nurse came to check me for the last time. I will never forget the look on her face when she had me try a push: She held one of my feet in each of her hands, and told me to bring my knees to my ears. Which I did. She wasn’t expecting me to be as flexible as I am, and shot forward, nearly putting her face right into my region. The insanity of this moment, witnessed by my husband, mother and grandmother, almost made me laugh.

Instead, the nurse recovered and rolled me to delivery, where I pushed for an hour wearing nothing but socks and my glasses, because I needed to be able to SEE, dammit. Everything still hurt, but the pushing was at least DOING something, and I knew I was getting to the end of the torture, so I was okay. C remained up near my head, never even glancing down to the massacre happening below my waist. He kept saying, “You’re doing great. You’re fine. Think of the dog.”

Did you catch that? THINK OF THE DOG! I’m still not sure what this indicates. Yes, Franklin, the miniature schnauzer, was totally sweet and cute. But . . . not so much help as a labor and delivery aid.

Anyway, there was lots of blood. Teddy finally made his way out, feeling very much like the bowel movement people told me about. And the doctor held him up, and he was gross and bloody and slimy and HIS FEET WERE HUGE. He was whisked away for cleaning and Apgar purposes, and I . . . well, I had to deliver that gross, purple, sausage-like placenta thing, which had apparently started falling apart before coming out. C sat near my head, cuddling our blanketed and be-hatted little baby, while I continued lying nude on the table, with the doctor digging around inside me with one hand while pressing on my stomach with the other. It was then that I finally spoke, informing the doctor that the process really did seem to be a good example of adding insult to injury.

He laughed, sewed me up, told me he didn’t think I’d need a transfusion, and THEN gave me my kid. Whose head was very pointy, from squeezing out of me. And also? His collar bone? BROKEN! He broke it during the squeeze that shaped his pointed head. Did you get that? I broke my poor child before I even got the chance to hold him. I don’t think that was fair, do you? Inside his little swaddling clothes, the long sleeve of his onesie was safety-pinned to his chest to keep his shoulder sort of immobilized. How pathetic is that?

True to the doctor’s promise, though, the collar bone healed quickly and without problem. It look me a while longer to heal. I broke blood vessels in my face with all the pushing. I was anemic from losing so much blood. I had stitches in my region. But I was a veritable milk machine—all systems go!—so I felt like I was going to be a good mom after all.

And you know what? I was right. I'm a lazy employee and a crazy woman, but I rock motherhood! Just ask Teddy.

Fine! Be murky!

I’ve been a Felicity Huffman fan since her days in the sadly-cancelled but witty and fast-paced “Sports Night” and now even in her incarnation as Lynette on “Desperate Housewives.” (How can you not empathize with a woman who becomes addicted to her son’s Ritalin so she can get everything done?) Even without the inestimable Stephanie Zacharek’s review of “Transamerica,” (or despite it…) I’d want to see the movie.

*********************

Gina the Flu Girl. Liquids and rest, woman! Maybe a little whiskey in your tea…

**************

Thursday was/is my day of freedom. The babysitter comes at nine and I don’t have to be at work till four.

I stopped by Sarah Louise’s apartment between dropping off old magazines (solicited, not randomly) at the neighborhood school we hope to send Primo to, and hitting Target to Christmas shop, shop, shop! It’s a charming little apartment, it reminds me of the eensy-weensy apartment on the third floor of an old house I rented for 10 months just before I got married. What is it about those cozy (read: cramped and tiny) apartments that lure us in? SL’s perk is the skylight. Mine was the huge, sunny kitchen. Even though my bedroom was just barely big enough for my bed, and the living room was NOT big enough for a regular sofa. (And a bathroom ALL TO MYSELF. What bliss.) SL’s decorating style appears similar to mine: if it’s cute and quirky and makes me happy, I do not care if it’s a McDonald’s Happy Meal toy or a priceless heirloom, it gets displayed. Some call it cluttered, I call it home.

SL had a gift for me, to celebrate my first day back to work. I particularly loved the “Librarian” pin. But the cool calendar for “Women Who Do Too Much” and the book, Normal is Just a Setting on the Dryer: And Other Lessons from the Real, Real World were much appreciated as well. What I thought was especially cool was that SL had stickie-noted certain pages of the book that she thought were pertinent to me. I loved having a book personalized in that way. Thanks, SL!

I hit Target and Toys R Us and then Babies R Us to wrap up my Christmas shopping for the boys. The jury on the toy guitar for Primo is still out, we may cave and buy the more expensive one since the little plastic one is really cheesy. [Nope, Musician Dan okayed it due to the real, tuneable strings. -bb] He also got some Lite Brite refills (but no extra pegs, couldn’t find those); a Magnetix starter set; a chemistry set; a few books; and a math puzzle/game.

I passed on the baby doll for Segundo because it wasn’t as soft as I’d have liked, although I did buy him some baby bottles so he can feed Mimi – you know the ones, you upend them and the “milk” disappears? I appreciate that he tried to nurse Mimi on several occasions but I thought the bottles were pretty neat too. I almost bought him a stroller for her as well. Still might…But Segundo got Lincoln Logs and a doctor’s kit and some Play-Doh in cool colors, a couple of puzzles, a Nerf basketball hoop and ball, and one of those bouncy ride-on balls with the handles. I had one when I was little and thought he’d love it (I got one for Primo too); besides, something has to help them expend some energy indoors during the long, cold winter facing us!

They both got the same things for stocking stuffers – Twistables crayons and a CD case and socks and a new winter hat/mittens (Steelers). Toothbrushes, stickers, some Wiffle balls. A Three Stooges DVD for Primo and an Abbott and Costello DVD for Segundo. They were on sale at Target for a buck apiece, and since the boys are - or at least will be - men, I thought they and their dad could enjoy the annoying slapstick humor together. I like getting the stocking fillers almost more than I like getting the real presents.

The baby got a few board books to chew on and rip up (Wheels on the Bus, Binky, and Time for Bed), and a stuffed monkey (I liked the lamb but decided it was too feminine). I also got him a Thomas the Tank Engine James engine with a video (at Marshall’s for 13 bucks! The train alone normally costs 20!) and a squishy, grippy rubberized train toy. I skimped on him, I admit – he’s too little to know. A two-month-old is hard to buy for.

This all came in under budget, and actually even better than, because I had gift cards for Target and Toys R Us that pretty much paid for half of this stuff. So I had fun and didn’t spend too much! Whoo hoo!! Why does it make it that much sweeter that I saved money? And would it shock you all to know that this is all mapped out in an Excel spreadsheet, complete with total prices automatically calculated? Could it be that I am getting organized and/or turning into my Perfect sister-in-law? I even voluntarily called my mother-in-law on the way home to fill her in on the shopping progress and give her the Terzo cough update (getting better). Who am I, and what have I done with BabelBabe?

Primo’s birthday is the 11th; I had to buy him birthday presents too. He got a CD, and a board game, and a book about the solar system, and a pack of glow-in-the-dark planet/solar system stickers that we will affix to his bedroom ceiling. (I bought these stickers ten years ago when the local Imaginarium store was going out of business, and I did not even have children yet. I still can’t believe I was able to FIND them in my house!) He is currently engrossed in building a model of the solar system out of Styrofoam balls, so the star/planet theme was a no-brainer. He also made it very clear that he wanted the Magic Treehouse books he’s missing, so I picked those up as well.

Is it obvious I had a ton of fun? This might be the most fun I have ever had Christmas shopping. I didn’t need to look for anything for my in-laws since we chipped in with all the other kids to buy them a new kitchen table and chairs (from Ethan Allen – verrrrry nice). I am baking for people like the babysitter and the mailman. The digital camera was Dan’s and my gift to each other. The only thing left is, I still have to buy for the other 9 nephews and niece, but Dan and I do that together, on a weekday, without the kids, and then go have lunch so that’s fun, too. [Except not this year – Dan’s too swamped at work. : ( ]

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Friday morning grocery shopping with Segundo and Terzo. Snow flurries, wind whipping around. (I had the camera in my glovebox.) But yes, YES, there is a God.


This is Mike our mailman. He's a terrific guy, friendly, always ready with a smile or a helping hand (he's opened innumerable jars, and cans of paint for me). He even told me recently how skinny I was getting; how can I not love him? He is retiring at the end of the year; I am going to miss him.


Segundo gave Mimi a bath the other day, after watercoloring her brown. This photo will shortly join the Mimi gallery. It reminds me of "The Shining" for some reason.


I saw this wreath on a neighborhood house and liked it. Wonder if I could make it? I mean, I'm not all Martha Stewart-y like some of you (Susie Sunshine...ahem...)


You can create art while dropping the baby.

This one has a little star. This one has a little car.

This is my car. It is a 2003 Toyota Matrix.
It does not have a name even though I talk to it and pet it on its dash occasionally.
I think the silver color is cool.
It handles well in the snow.


It’s a five-speed. Because real men – women – drive stick.
Because we bought it new, I try to keep it clean but I don’t manage that very well.
I keep a shell from Stone Harbor and a clay heart Primo made for me in the little compartment meant for sunglasses.


Max hangs from the rear view mirror.

It gets 27 miles to the gallon.
It has a CD player, but I mostly listen to the radio.
The rear defrost works – I feel so spoiled.

I test-drove a fully-loaded sport model. The salesman asked what features I wanted. I asked only for a radio, in a manual car, with a rear defrost. He asked me incredulously what on God’s green earth I had been driving before. My beloved Honda Civic was falling apart. This car was quite the step up.

I do wish I had sprung for automatic locks. It would cost close to a thousand bucks to retrofit the car for them now. Live and learn.

The backseat is a bit cramped but I manage. If I have all three boys, I have to put Primo in first, then the baby, or I can’t reach the seatbelt.

There’s lots of room in the back and the seats fold down for big stuff like lumber or Christmas trees.

My car is my kingdom. I love it.

Friday Show-and-Tell, courtesy of Blackbird

The Commitment: Love, Sex, Marriage, and My Family

I just read Dan Savage's new book, and it was sweet and wonderful. Towards the end, Savage's son tells him he wants to be gay when he grows up, and the discussion they have is beautifully handled. I cried. Two thumbs up.

*****

I officially have the flu, and a doctor's excuse to keep me home from work. Sigh. Off to make more tea.