zeldafitz

Self-Aggrandizing Slut

2006-06-21T20:33:00.000+05:00

I know the excitement is palpable. Please click on the picture below and order this lovely anthology of short stories by DC WOMEN writers. And no, not just because my story, "Sam Flute" is in it. OK, maybe yes, just because my story "Sam Flute" is in it.

Other illustrious authors included in the volume are: Wendi Kaufman, of The Happy Booker fame, Sarah Louise Williams--a brilliant writer, and the genteel Kate Blackwell. The anthology was lovingly pulled together and edited by DC literary LEGEND Richard Peabody. Join the fun!

Love and Rockets,
Lisa

Finale

2006-05-23T15:54:00.000+05:00

Well it seems the time has come to "turn the page." I started this website one year (and six days) ago. My anniversary chance keyword analysis haiku said, "Say goodbye." The message, it seems, is implicit.

THIS HAS BEEN SO FUN!

Do I sound like a yearbook soundbite?

Sorry.

But it has.

I started this as a way to keep some form of creativity in my life when I was living through very stressful job times. For me, it's been the best exercise in being able to dream up things, notice things, ruminate, and then formulate something--usually a piece of my heart--and put it out into the world.

Now things are converging (colliding?) and it feels like all these swirling thoughts and ideas need to become more focused and coherent--and I need to obfuscate the details and wrap them in a net of fiction again.

Two cool things happened this month. A couple of weeks ago I was at the printer's looking at final proofs of a 130 page publication I've been working on for six months. It's so cool and, if I could, I would so put the link here. It's all about women taking care of themselves and taking care of others. That same week my editor on an anthology of short stories by DC area women sent me the galleys of my short story to review before the book comes out next month.

I was simultaneously reviewing a work publication (that I had honestly put my heart and part of my soul in), as well as this story that reaches deep. It felt a little bit like the epiphaneous, mythical, simultaneous O sequence in Lady Chatterly's Lover. You know, on that professional and personal level.

I'm glad I'm ending things talking about orgasms, aren't you?

I think what happened was, I recognized a dovetail--the two warring factions of my life, work and art (if I can call it that), came together in this symbolic helix for me, and I took it as a sign. A sign of precisely what I have yet to determine, but I felt the first step was to turn this page, and then a few others, and see what happens.

I am still going to READ everyone's website and post long nonsensical comments. 'K?

Thanks so much for coming here and reading and for being so kind and supportive.

À bientôt!

Ian's Cooking Show

2006-05-20T00:05:00.000+05:00

The kids are home from daycare today so Ian is doing his own cooking show. What are you making Ian?

In his best Julia Child trill, "Today we're making GOLDFISH. In juice!" Translation: poisson d'or au jus!

Brother Nick, home on a half day, signals his gastronomic approval! Bon appetit!

Spring is the Cruellest Month

2006-05-19T15:59:00.000+05:00

I was chatting with m'son Nick this morning after he and MZA got back from a morning walk. He said, in reference to his wet socks, "There's one downside to spring, it almost always rains at night. Spring isn't always the happy-go-lucky gazelle running through the buttercup field."

The Diasporic 1980's Film Festival, with a Special Tribute to Frank Capra

2006-05-18T18:01:00.000+05:00

Today is Frank Capra’s birthday! I KNOW! I am sure YOU bounded out of bed and ran around in a wild celebratory frenzy just like I did this morning. Wow. I feel so connected with you right now.

But seriously, this morning, as I lay abed thinking about what to write, something kept moving me toward The Diasporic 1970’s Film Festival. WHICH IS SO AMAZING because, if you’ll recall, it was my discussion with a colleague about her dissertation on Capra's It’s a Wonderful Life that got the whole diasporic film thing going. Kismet, or just plain ouiji board manifest film destiny? You decide.

First off, we’ll have to adjust the genre, and I know how you hate adjusting the genre. It is going to have to be the 1980’s Diasporic Film Festival, followed by an homage to our diasporic boyfriend Frank Capra.

Sharpen your pencils.

The other night MZA and I watched An Officer and a Gentleman because it was on PBS, for God’ sake, BECAUSE it is so damn old it is a classic worthy of viewing on federally funded TV. Sigh. Joints creak.

An Officer and a Gentleman came out in 1982 when I was…um, 19. Do the math because you’re not getting me to spit out my current age anymore. I’m going all Blanche DuBois these days and will only be viewed through a paper lantern scrim. Pass me a lemon Coke.

ANYWAY, I was 19 and so back then we were all in a tizz over the scrumptiousness of Richard Gere and our main focus was a) she’s ON TOP? How embarrassing! And b) did they really “do it” on the set? HOW EMBARRASSING!

Yes, these were the pressing intellectual concerns gracing my somewhat innocent Polly Purebred mind. However this time, I had my mind out of the gutter and I was far more focused on what an AMAZING performance Mr. Gere was giving and also how unbelievably sexy and scrumptious and sinuous he was.

ALSO, please see Lou Gossett, Jr. in a performance so tight and smoking and taught and killer that you'll need a Valium from the intensity. Don Cheadle is the only man to come along in a long time to match that intensity and thespic skill. Additionally, I was quite impressed with the atmospherics of the film—it conveyed the time, place and the particular salty, slightly seedy, company townishness of the Navy base in Washintgon state.

There, that concludes this portion of the Diasporic 1980’s Film Festival.

Let us now honor Frank Capra. Happy Birthday, Mr. Capra!

My favorite Capra film is You Can’t Take it With You. That also happens to be one of my favorite plays. It was written by Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman and I saw the play at Arena Stage when I was 16 and it had this really weird effect on me, in that I wanted to crawl onstage and become a part of this obliviously wacky family. I wanted that chaotic absurd madcap acceptance of all things abnormal kind of life. I WANTED IT SO BADLY.

Of course now I understand that as a teen (read: OUTCAST) it was probably very reassuring to watch a family of kooks embrace all of their kookiness so lovingly and unquestioningly. Kind of like the Munsters Effect, you know? Like we’re perfectly normal, what’s wrong with YOU?

That is a theme that plays out in a LOT of sitcoms (which owe a lot to the wackiness of plays like You Can’t Take it With You and that whole genre)—the wacked out family that ends up freaking out all the “normal” people and it turns out the “normal” people are just freaks anyway. There was The Addams Family, Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, My Favorite Martian, etc. The message was: Celebrate the Freak.

Hmm, maybe I should write a dissertation on how Frank Capra, far from being a director about the diaspora, was really a CHAMPION OF THE FREAK. I have got to stop re-writing everyone’s dissertation! For the love of Pete!

What he truly accomplished was a gentle and respectful representation of the improbable—an angel trying to get his wings, a family of kooks with a delusional daughter in a ballet costume (we’re ALL about delusional dames in ballet costumes here at Zeldafitz) and an everyman who storms Washington with beliefs—yeah, yeah here is where I’m supposed to say that’s the most improbable of all. There, I said it. He also directed It Happened one Night with Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable and lemme just say, it’s very titillating! Indeedy, who knew there was such sexual tension going on back then! It is, again, about misfits, unlikely bedfellows and improbable events.

Frank Capra, far from being the patron saint of idyllic picket fence America, saw further into our eccentric hearts and directed films about our most essential and endearing traits—our undying belief in the rewards of being a good person and the esoteric patchwork of nuttiness that makes a person real, and not just a shell of projected normality.

Close your notebooks class, go out and jump over a white picket fence and then reach into your pocket to see if those petals you thought you dreamt about are still there…

Happy Anniversary to...Zeldafitz!!!!

2006-05-16T00:27:00.000+05:00

Hullo Mates. Yes, one year ago today I began this humble site. So, in honor of The Big Day, I decided to publish a haiku of sorts, taken from the "Keyword Analysis" on my statcounter. So, blogesque, non?

For the uninitiated, the key word analysis shows the words people punch into a search engine, that direct them to your site. They type in these enigmatic queries, and somehow the words match well enough with a part of your own content.

I love how this one panned out:

I drive barefoot,
Woodstock sprite.
She made him wear a silky dress with a zipper--
War’s impact on individuals.
Cocteau Twins/Betty Blue, Acapella Dave Matthews,
“Say Goodbye.”
On the floating/shapeless oceans/I did all my best to smile/’til your singing eyes and fingers…
Depression is nine-tenths of the law.

I think that sums up the year nicely and cryptically, just as I would have it.

Oh, there's that li'l inner hippie (barefoot Woodstock sprite)...

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!!!

2006-05-13T16:39:00.000+05:00

I took two hours off yesterday, from my basement work schedule as Larry Tate starring in Phantom of the Opera, to man the duck pond at Nick’s spring carnival.

Yep.

It took me about half an hour to transform myself from Lon Chaney mode:

Into Perfect Exuberant Springtime Selfless Volunteer Mommy.

I was wearing my stock “springtime” pink tie dyed tunic from last year’s Old Navy collection, jeans and some very “cute” turquoise Old Navy flip flops with a psychedelic pattern on the footbed. Basically, I looked like I just walked off the set of “Hair.” Because that’s what I think a Catholic school mommy should look like.

After the screams of, “Look! It’s a DEMOCRAT!” died down, I got to work manning a blue plastic pond, with glass beads at the bottom and a passel of hard plastic, slightly grungy, duckies floating in it.

When I got there, the mom who explained the duck pond to me said, “This one is really easy!”

At which point my heart sank, because I knew somehow I wouldn’t understand the rules and kids would be waiting in a long line, tapping their feet saying, “This mom sucks! The duck pond was way better LAST YEAR!”

Crisis averted.

For ONCE, I actually “caught on” to the rules of the game, because even a dead clown could have figured it out. Kids have to give one ticket and then they get to “pick a duckie.” The grungy duckies have numbers SHARPIED onto them and the kid gets a prize from a corresponding numbered bucket. I was ready to go!

But then no kids came and I thought, “Uh oh, I am manning the LOSER TABLE. No one will come to my event. I will be standing here, at the edge of the blacktop, while kids joyously choose other games.”

It’s lonely at the ducky pond, lemme tell ya.

That is, until all the Vegas gambling nocturnal vampire kids come out of the woodwork. You should see these kids! The ones that get hooked, I mean, on that fickle bitch “chance.”

Little girls clutched their tickets (please see: life savings, in the future) and bit their lower lips as they advanced toward the aquamarine baccarat table.

“Four again! But I don’t LIKE lollypops!”

Tough shit kid, that’s the luck of the dice.

Does anyone else out there get really irritated with kids who instantly want to bend the rules? BECAUSE I DO.

This was also an object lesson in what it feels like to have a menial job that is frequented by slightly spoiled, middle class, entitled kids. Because when you’re manning a duck pond, you are suddenly in the same social stratosphere as a carnival barker and so suddenly “Nick’s mom” is lost behind the barriers of class, socio-economics and all the other invisible (and sometimes visible) social strata that are in place in our society.

I loved looking at their faces through this mask. I was wearing sunglasses, which helped with the illusion. Only one little girl, that I observed, figured out which duck to choose to get the coveted number 2 basket prizes. Most of the kids really were shooting the moon—betting, hoping on the fates to shine down on them, each time, and deliver the prize they coveted the most.

My initial fears that I would be manning the “Loser Table” soon evaporated into a sea of hopeful faces, waiting in line, “ONE AT A TIME,” and waiting for their shot at Lady Luck.

One thing I have noticed, with increasing sadness about myself as a mother, is that I am not the “cool” mom. I am not the “nice” mom. I am not the mom-whose-house-you-want-to-hang-out in. I think I have become the kind of adult I didn’t like as a kid and I never wanted to be.

BECAUSE I AM A BITCH!

There, I said it. I’m just not Warm Squishy Mom. Dammit. I want to be, sometimes, but it’s just too damn counterintuitive to my nature.

When I was a kid, in the Pleistocene era, I remember when sometimes kids would be mean to me and my sister, who is 11 years older than I am, would say, “Kids are just small adults.” Sadly, it’s true.

Basically, to be any good at dealing with kids, you have to suspend that knowledge and pretend that kids are sunny, sugar-sweetened, innocent, little tabula rasas. But they’re not. They’re just little people, hard wired with all the manipulation and vices as the next person. Oh, proportionally they are more innocent, but the groundwork is there.

The whole time I was manning the booth, I tried to scan the blacktop and neighboring field to see if I could see Nick, so we could lock eyes and he could revel in the wondrousness of having a Participating Mommy.

I finally saw him, amid all the running and screaming kids. It’s really weird how your own child just sort of parts the Red Sea—you can always make out their particular countenance among the throngs.

It made me think of the day he was born when the doctor held him up triumphantly and my sister said, “It’s a BOY!” Right then and there, I saw his profile and it was permanently etched on my retina—the profile of my first-born son.

Later that night, I got up from my hospital bed—you know how you are completely transformed—like you’ve just been through this thing and then you are alone and you wander, butt flying in the wind in a hospital gown, pulling an IV on wheels beside you, down to the nursery and there, amid all the red pruny faces, the beacon of your own baby’s face shines itself out toward you, through the glass.

That’s what it was like when I saw him again yesterday, in his blue and gold shorts (school colors) with a Long Beach East Coast surf shirt. My son, with more of a defined, confident stride than when he was little—this lovely insouciance about him, carrying a blue plastic ball with stylized Hawaiian flowers on it.

After the carnival was over, I wrapped up my table—a little girl helped me scoop up all the glass beads because she liked immersing her hands in the water. Her mother waited impatiently on the side and the little girl said, “I’m helping!” And I said, from deep inside my cryptic heart, “You’re a BIG helper!”

I emptied the duck pond and put all the supplies next to the organizer’s minivan. I went inside to fetch Nick from his classroom. His teacher was there. I LOVE Nick’s teacher. Like, from the bottom of my heart. She has been The Inspiring Teacher that Totally Gets Your Kid. I think you get that once in your kid’s life. Maybe twice.

I cried during our parent teacher conference (as I have for every single parent teacher conference I’ve ever had for Nick—I know, FRUITCAKE) because she looked at me and said, “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” UH OH, that’s when the floodgates began—inside—I managed to escape pretty much without the full waterworks. She looked at me so intently and talked about Nick so clearly, and so lovingly. Well, it killed me. In a good way. She hugged me that day when I left.

Yesterday she got up and hugged me again—really tight—and she whispered, “Happy Mother’s Day,” as I melted in her warm embrace, in front of the entire third grade.

I said, as I squeezed her back, “Happy Mother’s Day to you.” I thought I might never let her go.
Afterwards, Nick looked at me sort of amazed. Because I’m not exactly the kind of person people feel comfortable broaching and embracing, as you may have discerned.

My stint as an anonymous carnival barker was over. I was back in the fold of being Nick’s mom—that cranky bitch!

We walked through the halls together and I felt, somehow, slightly less anomalous.

Poems in Response to the War

2006-05-12T17:15:00.000+05:00

Hi--after hitting the wall, the well's a little dry. Serendipitously, I got this press release this morning from Beltway Poetry Quarterly, so that's the topic for today! It's free and it's a REACTION:

Beltway Poetry Quarterly, the region's premiere on-line poetry journal, announces The Wartime Issue, an anthology of poems by 46 authors from the Mid-Atlantic region, writing in response to the ongoing presence of the American military in Iraq. The issue can be read for free on-line at: http://washingtonart.com/beltway.html.

In her Introduction to the issue, Guest Editor Sarah Browning writes: "When the politicians are compliant and the press is distracted by the next sparkly thing, the poets continue to believe, to speak out, and to say no to fear."

Poets in the issue are all ages, races, and ethnicities. They are gay and straight, and represent a wide variety of religious faiths. Some have many books of poetry to their name and for some, this is their first publication. The poets also take a diversity of approaches to the war in Iraq, telling the story of the war's impact on individuals, families, and communities at home, on members of the Armed Services, and on the people of Iraq.

Browning's introduction explains: "The poems here tell stories Â of loss and of connection despite the anguish. 'A part of us vanishes each day,' writes Adam Chiles in 'Tucson Elegy.' 'We suffer another missed touch,' Venus Thrash tells us in her poem, 'Ritual.' The poems won't let us forget. When the war is, as Reginald Dwayne Betts's 'A Conversation' says, 'tucked into the back pages of the paper,' the poems remind us of the atrocities our own sisters and brothers are committing in our name. Linda Pastan asks what we are capable of. The poems answer, in sorrow: almost anything."

And yet, the poets are also hopeful. Browning writes, "Even in [the poets'] despair and their outrage, they call us, as Melissa Tuckey does in her poem, 'Forsythia Winter,' to 'go ahead, open your hand.'"

About Beltway Poetry Quarterly: Since January 2000, Beltway Poetry Quarterly has published poetry by authors who live or work in the capital of the United States. Beltway strives to showcase the richness and diversity of Washington area authors in every issue, with poets from different backgrounds, races, ethnicities, ages, and sexual orientations represented. It has included Pulitzer Prize winners and those who have never previously published. The journal publishes academic, spoken word, and experimental authors--and also those poets whose work defies categorization.

Read Beltway Poetry Quarterly at http://washingtonart.com/beltway.html.

Saving the World: One Bee at a Time

2006-05-10T17:18:00.000+05:00

I went out with The Ladies on Friday night. Glenda sent out an All Dog Bark--it is not so easy to get everyone together--but we try. We hardly ever have a quorum, except at Christmastime.

We went to Grapeseed in Bethesda, just to go "uptown," since the covens usually take place downtown. Suzanne, Susie, Glenda, Moira and I were there. Holly was en route to or from Bogata--I sent her a link to Michelle's site and she said I made her day because she has the exact same shelf of religious little dudes. Mary also could not make it and Hope was there, in absentia--we talked about you, ladyfriend! Everyone loves your site.

The conversation started off, surprisingly enough (for me) about this website. We discussed the contretemps over a recent post and they said I overreacted (IMPOSSIBLE!). I was so, um, heartened to hear from my friends on this initiative because they don't comment on it--in posts I mean--so it was good to know they are listening.

We talked about the difficulty of incremental revolution, the disappointments of the Democratic party--none of us likes Hillary--everyone, but me, is in for a multiparty system. (When I brought that up with State senate candidate Jamie Raskin on Sunday he said, "How about if we get the two party system to work?")

I told the ladies how I'd been "working" in the garden with MZA--he is building a trellis out back--and he rigged this string with a rock tied to the end of it for me to use as a level while he poured concrete around the posts. I felt like Fred Flintstone. I had to hold the string, pressed against the wood, to see if the rock dangled evenly.

I said, "How did you come up with this?"

He said, "It's physics, baby."

Oh.

I watched him out in the yard--so thoughtful, concentrating, and I thought one of the many reasons why I love him is that he doesn't have that typical (American) male swagger of condescension and "little lady" pedantry.

He was sweating and concentrating and so I looked at him and said, "You're sexy." More to break his intense concentration, than for an insatiable desire kind of thing. You know.

He said, "Is that all you think about? Sex?"

I said, "Yeah."

He paused, then he looked up, beaming, and said, "Hey! Me too!"

Then, as he was pouring concrete into the final post, I looked down and saw some kind of bee-like creature struggling in the concrete.

I said, "Hey! There's a bee down there!"

He got a twig and tried to help the bee out of the cement hole, but he couldn't get it. So he waived his hand over the impromtu bee grave and intoned a Russian blessing--just then, the bee emerged again and he got the twig and helped him out.

I recounted this to the ladies, amid all of our fine talk about revolution, making a genuine difference, and civic and moral responsibility. They had been talking of their immediate involvement in making changes to the world, and I had been bemoaning my revolutionary inertia. They excused me because of the kids and work gig. It was cold comfort because I need to do more--especially in protest of this war, which I have been against since the moment it was publically broached.

When I told them the bee story, Susie said, "Hey! You are saving the world--one bee at a time!"

Sex with Bob Newhart or Che? I'm going with Che...

2006-05-08T19:33:00.000+05:00

I dreamt Bob Newhart came on to me last night.

Maybe you need a chance to let that sink in: I dreamt Bob Newhart made a PASS at me last night.

I am a little concerned about the "symbolism" and all other inherent repurcussions that may or may not have. And I'm a little flipped out. And grossed out. I think, inevitably, that it points to one thing and one thing alone: STRESS.

Because I can't think of anything else to blame it on. And I am looking furiously.

We watched Domino this weekend. HELLO??? Why was I not notified of the brilliance of this film? It is GREAT. OK, and I have a pretty long attention span--I love Henry James, that sort of thing--but this movie is a SHORT attention span person's wet dream. (i just looked up the reviews and it got pulverized! See at your own risk, but I liked it).

I LOVED it.

If I were in my 20's ( a distant memory), this would have been my favorite movie ever, along the lines of "Blue Velvet," "Diva" and "Betty Blue." OK, maybe not "ever," but I really liked it. And Keira Knightly IS the most beautiful woman in the universe. Wow.

Things I liked:

Tough beautiful heroine
Old movie connection: daughter of Laurence Harvey (who starred, incidentally, with Simone Signoret, in the film adaptation of also one my MY FAVORITE NOVELS EVER: Room at the Top)
Total hot scrumptious sex scene IN THE DESERT, in Jim Morrison fashion--totally--with Che Guevara swarthy scrumptious lookalike--a blending of pent-up release (for audience AND characters) and then the brilliant highlight of:
Tom Waites--yes, him--as the hallucinagenic, revealtory minister vision-thing.

Really? What ELSE is Tom Waites if not a mescaline-induced epiphany bearer? Please tell me.

We watched The Color Purple in what was clearly a crack-induced, Netflix queue judgement laspe on my part.

Woof!

I KNOW. I loved it (AND THE NOVEL) when it came out 30 years ago, or whenever that was, when we were all still in hopeless thrall with that hmm hmm Steven Spielberg, who wrenched our hearts out equally over aliens and goonies.

Then he laid his overbearing, overworked hand on The Color Purple, and I think the continent shifted and the cosmos was permanently realigned when the two metoerites known as Oprah and Speilberg collided.

BLECH.

But of course Nick, MZA and I sat riveted and I bawled my fool eyes out, on cue.

As Celie was reading Oliver Twist, and talking about a "systemmatic form of treachery and deception," Nick explained how that was a parallel from the Dickens novel to what was actually going on on the screen.

I asked how and he said, "For example, when Mister is getting ready to see Shug, Celie knows what he needs to get ready, but she waits for him to come to her so she can hand them the items one by one. Then when Mister hides the letters from her, he is deceiving her. It doesn't say that in the script, but they give you hints."

Mmm 'K.

On Sunday, I went to a small house party for this candidate, Jamie Raskin, who is running for State senate in Maryland, in my district of Silver Spring-Takoma Park. I went to high school with him (in DC) and really wanted to lend my support. You never know how those kinds of things are going to go--whether you'll experience the disillusionement of the damned, or whether you'll walk away newly restored.

I experienced the latter. Really. It was so nice.

OK, excuse the weirdly abbreviated format, but must fly. Working on soul crushing initiative (as usual) and really need to get it off into the firmament.

More anon...

Houris on First?

2006-05-05T18:38:00.000+05:00

I showed today's cartoon in the Post to MZA and Nick scrambled around the table to see it. I thought, "Oh, he's not going to get it. I wonder how I'll explain it?"

Just as I began, "Well, you see, they say that there are 72 virgins..."

And he said, "Oh, you mean the 72 black-eyed virgins that, according to Islam, are waiting for you in heaven?"

I said, "Um, yeah."

He said, "They're called houri."

"What? Whores? Are you saying whores?"

"No, Houri, h-o-u-r-i. They are there to pleasure the men and then their virginity is restored."

MZA says, sotto voce, "Pleasure the men?"

"Where did you learn that?" My Muslim husband and I ask.

"From my mythology book, you know, that you gave me."

Right. MZA and I exchange glances.

Moral of the story: Never underestimate your kid. You never know WHAT you're going to learn.

TILT!

2006-05-04T15:26:00.000+05:00

Things I LOVE Thursday (TILT) has reared it's beautiful head! Another reason to be eternally grateful to Weaker Vessel--whew!

I saw this at the gift store at the Sackler Gallery and fell crashingly in love:

It reminds me of Radar O'Reilly, swilling a grape Nehi at Rosie's bamboo and corrugated tin hooch joint, with his adorable sentence-finishing, earnest, teddy bear ways---an American boy who wove himself into the fabric of a war-torn Asian land, amid unthinkable circumstances, without losing his puppy dog, furrowed-eyebrow, virginal charm.

It also reminds me of lots of other beautiful bicultural fusions--Asian billboards, the opiated rickshaw exoticism of pre-communist Shanghai, cinnabar painted lacquer, and one of my favorite novels (and movies) ever, The Lover.*

*The direct inspiration for marrying my own Asian lover, which led to the creation of our own three bicultural fusions.

In Which Our Heroine Ventures Even Further into Uncharted Water...

2006-05-03T22:12:00.000+05:00

I did something I have never done before—I pulled a post because it was on the precipice of garnering some reactions that I didn’t think I could contend with. The post was about my three and a half year old son’s reaction to a black person—first politically correct challenge, she is not “African” American, she is from a different country, therefore I do not call her “African” American.

I pulled the post because I was queasy about writing it in the first place—because it deals with the absolutely monumental hidden elephant in the room: racism, perceived racism—basically everything we want to deny and hide from, AND it deals with my son and I did not want to expose him to anything negative—even 1,000 times removed.

I THOUGHT I felt confident about posting it—why? Because I felt that my conscience was clear and I could withstand any accusations. I still feel that way, but because my boy, who can’t defend himself and who did not give me permission to post that on the Internet, did not give me his OK. And somehow, knowing Ian, I don’t think when he is of age he would like it.

I was also accused of using terminology that was derogatory in a previous post about calling someone “appreciative and quite white” about something. He equated “quite white” with “decent,” whereas I, who grew up in the predominantly black city of Washington DC—the actual city, not a suburb—think of that phrase, as the ultimate put down of white nerdy capitulation. He also said, “You call yourself a writer?”

And I thought, yeah, I call myself a writer. That always seems to be the first thing people want to grab away from you.

I think what I am seeing is so much more of a desire to not engage in discussion but to engage in accusations and insinuations.

It is so much easier to assume something about someone and aim for the jugular than it is to honestly analyze something.

You can equate that with the last election, when it was so much more convenient for Americans to be spoon-fed their reactions on the candidates based on the press spin (that includes ALL press spin, liberal and conservative—we were equally let down) than it was to do the research and make informed opinions.

THAT is what I am afraid of and that is what intrigues me—that as a nation we are so much more comfortable with the shorthand for a person’s beliefs than we are in finding out what that person really stands for and believes in.

I’m guilty of the shorthand. I make assumptions all the time, but I honestly try and leverage my assumptions against more in-depth analysis. I am not always successful, but it is an ongoing goal.

I know I could talk until I am blue in the face about how I am not a racist. I know we all could. I went to the first de-segregated school in Washington DC and I mention that, not so much as a badge of honor, but as a wake-up call that whatever feelings I have on the subject are ingrained in my actual experience, not in something I was programmed to think or feel.

I grew up in a city that was proudly dubbed, by the majority of the population, “Chocolate City.” I was talking to my friend about that moniker and how I could bring it up on my site and he said, with all of his ingrained good humor, “Don’t even go there.”

So that is where we have come? To where we cannot even utter certain truths, certain realities, for fear that we will offend someone?

I cringed when I thought I had offended people about Atlanta. I felt so bad, and yet, it was not a good experience for me and the best part was the people who wrote me (thanks y’all) telling me what I MISSED and how I should give it another chance.

I want to know what I missed. But I do not want to be presumed a racist based on the unfiltered comments of my child.

It’s my own fault—as my sister was quick to point out—because I open myself up to this criticism by writing so publicly. She is MORTIFIED that I maintain this thing, but I have persevered because I wanted to meet the challenge of breaking down the barriers and inhibitions that prevent (my) artistic expression.

I wanted to put myself in the fray and to not be afraid of recriminations.

I know what kind of person I am. I know what I am (most of the time).

I don’t have a pat way to sum this up.

I want discourse; I don’t want to shy away from opinion and criticism and reality. That’s what this site is about. But I am sensitive, I have raw emotions—I am a writer, by vocation and avocation. If that’s what I want to be for Halloween, I think we have to respect that. But I think I’m going to deflect the other labels, or insinuations, because they don’t suit me and they are made superficially, without substance or real perception.

First Carousel Ride (of the season)

2006-05-03T17:47:00.000+05:00

Taken at the carousel on the Mall, in front of the Smithsonian castle...

Lost In Translation

2006-05-01T19:03:00.000+05:00

Maybe I should just rename myself Odysseus?

Because I seem to keep having these odysseys, not just “adventures” or journeys.

My scared little ectoplasm moved out of its familial shell and flew to Atlanta. It was OK, except I do not like Atlanta, Sam I am. Too much concrete, no feeling of time or place or context.

I was in Buckhead, which is supposed to be a nice area of town, again, too much concrete, not designed for walking, and the scourge of Americana in the form of homogenous chains: Starbucks, Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdales, Macy’s, the Corner Bakery, Staples, yawn.

Weird asymmetrical crooked hotel, with everything too narrow and at a tilted slant. Overly perfumed room. Lavender! A gargantuan bed, an indecipherable clock radio, a gargantuan TV, “fancy” spa bath products, institutional shower curtain, a loud A/C, a shitty view—again tilted, slanted—of the driveway, a large asymmetrical building and the Corner Bakery.

Inhale the: LAVENDER! Is that supposed to be classy or something? Asphyxiation by LAVENDER inhalation.

Lunch outside at the Corner Bakery—mozzarella and roasted red pepper sandwich. It was good. Sitting outside on the patio at stainless tables, pretending I was in LA. Hot, sultry, outside, confusing—what am I doing on Peachtree Street of a Tuesday afternoon? Iced herbal tea at the hotel afterwards with colleagues.

Work—set up, exhaustion, dinner in room—way too oily salty vegetarian pasta dish with a glass of Chardonnay. I overtipped the bellman. He feigned tears.

Next day bright and early—I have to write a report of this two day meeting WHICH MEANS I have to actually pay attention to every single thing for two straight days. I think I got carpal tunnel syndrome. In my brain.

I could write a doctoral thesis on the psychology of meetings.

This was a very liberal group of people—Harvard, Stanford and U Penn were very well represented—and yet I found some of them to be so nauseating after a fashion. Like the liberalism became this horrendous ostentatious, dare I say, elitist badge.

Kids, here’s what I thought: I thought no WONDER Republicans make fun of liberals. We’re NAUSEATING sometimes.

I guess I was mad that people were epitomizing every single liberal stereotype—the slightly wacky groovy aesthetic—the Harvard prof with the rumpled brown linen jacket, the John Lennon glasses, the wrinkled khakis. The genial smile with crinkles around the eyes, the anecdotal evidence of reading to his kids in the morning, please imagine red wine dinner parties and Moosewood cookbook lasagna. Add garlic bread as needed. See wife crying in shower. Pass the ice cream eaten directly out of the container. Add Kevin Kline, Glenn Close and William Hurt, stir, lather rinse repeat.

Then there was the “radical” sprightly sprite—see bad Woodstock flashback. He’s the “imp” who alluded to “something he smoked.” Ooooooo so outré! Wears the standard issue red tag faded Levis—WHAT A NONCONFORMIST!—and let’s us all behold his iTunes playlist on his laptop. It flashes up on the screen. Please be impressed with fabulously “cool” musical tastes. Cue the Grateful Dead.

Sigh.

Groan.

I turned to my colleague and said, “Why doesn’t he just put on Beethoven?”

When the Dead came on, I think something short circuited in me. Like I had given him the benefit of the doubt up until then and then I just thought, “Fuck it.” The 10,000 Maniacs were also heavily represented on the playlist. Stop snoring.

Are playlists our new way of defining ourselves? Because what irritated me was that we seem to be counting on these dumbass “signs” and “signals” to define what we “are.” And I just don’t think it’s that simple.

I detected an overwhelming smugness too, which I didn’t like, because it represents a hypocrisy to the whole liberal ideal. I think you have to be a liberal in word and deed and I think showing a playlist with songs that were counterculture and cool 30 years ago is a kind of lazy shorthand for “I am relying on the music and message of another generation. I have no originality. I am frozen in the era when I evolved. See: the 80’s.”

Tiresome.

The second night I ventured forth, in an effort to give the concrete jungle of Atlanta a second chance. I definitely felt like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation. I just sort of levitated to the MARTA train and looked at myself in fluorescent reflection in the window. I emerged at Peachtree Center. Dark concrete, light concrete, a Hooters, fat slow tourists.

I ended up in the lounge of the Ritz-Carlton in a Holly Golightly move—I knew it was the only place that would soothe me. And it did, in a way. Talk about Lost in Translation. Like you can take the Ritz Carlton out of New York—but I’m not so sure what happens to it when it gets to Atlanta.

There was a flat screen TV above the beautiful chandeliered bar—a black woman pianist tickled the ivories in a lovely, genteel, self-effacing fashion, I ordered a $13 glass of pinot noir and “light fare” chicken quesadillas. The service was slow. Guests were wearing jeans. I was not.

I left and went back to Buckhead. I watched a documentary on Billie Jean King on HBO. It was amazing. Then I watched a documentary on the Bunny Ranch. Now THAT was truly amazing. I became addicted to HBO. I also watched Elizabeth I with Helen Mirren and was transfixed. Jeremy Irons—old and reliable—still scrumptious.

The next day the meeting slouched toward a conclusion. The psychology of meetings dictates that people use these kinds of phrases, which make my flesh crawl: “when the rubber meets the road,” a “beautiful dose response result,” “having said that…”

I got on the train and went to the airport. I got motion sick on the train. I was way early for my flight, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be as close to the craft that would transport me home as possible. I bought Rolling Stone (BECAUSE the cover had a picture of George Bush in a dunce cap. I wanted to be cheered up. It worked), Harper’s, Newsweek and lifted a Travel and Leisure from the seat next to me.

The flight back was on a mosquito sized Delta shuttle puddle jumper, waiting dramatically on the tarmac. I felt like Ingrid Bergman, as I think we all do when we walk, windblown and dramatic, toward the cone of a parked airplane.

I got on board. Looked at my ticket and then looked at my flight companion.

I’m not being mean because he was the NICEST man in the universe. And that’s a good thing because we were enmeshed—flesh to flesh, full body lock—for the quaint two hour flight back to DC.

When I rolled out onto the tarmac again, at a slight angle, I thought it might be too dramatic to, you know, kiss the ground, but I THOUGHT about it.

An Ethiopian taxi driver whisked me home. MZA came out to the curb. The taxi driver smiled. I told MZA he was from Ethiopia. We talked about an Ethiopian restaurant in downtown Silver Spring.

I thought about categorizations—me, stereotypical Foreign Service brat/Peace Corps volunteer, reaching out, talking to the displaced? Or just a humanist wanting to connect?

I hope it is purely the latter, without any labels or role playing.

Orgasms and Ectoplasms

2006-04-24T18:49:00.000+05:00

Lying in bed this morning—that sort of cotton encased post sleep, with a slightly increased heart rate—the dream patches through...heavy dream—my white coffee mug in a corner and a cat that is fascinated with what’s inside. Someone pulls out the contents—it’s the decapitated head of another cat.

Lying on side in bed, eyes open: Uh-oh.

Uh-oh.

Like, this one might be more than Dr. Freud can handle.

Then I thought about how you make a pin prick in each side of an egg and blow the contents out through one of the holes and I thought, that is like a metaphor for having your soul sucked out of your system.

Because, really, who doesn’t think of the ectoplasm of the soul as having the opaque gelatinous consistency of an egg white?

Then I thought about intangibles and onomatopoeia and how words like ectoplasm and orgasm end the same way. They start off really strong, with o-r-g-a and then they disrupt and dissolve into a Zen-like chant word—“zum,” as though the word just has to concede that there is no sound to adequately describe the rest of the word. Orga-zummmmmmmm. Ectopla-zummmmmmm.

Then I thought about people who either say or imply that they would never have the time to write one of these websites. Which always amuses me. It’s such an American thing, really, to lord your lack of time over people. As though a person with three kids and a full time job and bla bla bla has random oodles of time to maintain a website.

For me this is a matter of survival—not unlike a man on a desert island sending out messages in a bottle.

C’est moi.

I feel compelled to do this in that same way. For that Ernest Hemingway writerly reason, yeah, like must write every day, yeah yeah yeah. Virginia Woolf and her little writer’s hut out in the back. THAT sort of thing.

But, and I have really analyzed this, I wonder about why so many people, women in particular, feel compelled to record everything, like with the scrapbooking and these websites and stuff.

I think it’s related to 9/11 somehow, even though I don’t like to invoke 9/11 because I believe it’s sacred—the memory of it, since it represents so many lives.

I just wondered about it and about Pompeii and Hiroshima and whole places that have been buried or blown apart and obliterated and what people come back to when they study the detritus from those holocausts is the every day—what people were doing, what they hoped for, who they loved, what kinds of utensils they used.

Write what you know.

I want to know what people know. I want to hear confessions. I want to feel better or uncomfortable or relieved or in collusion with others—it’s good to know there is a common experience going on all the time, in small towns and on farms and in big cities. It’s good to know there are some connections—among strangers, among all of us.

I’m going on a business trip for the next couple of days and I’m a little bit scared, if you want to know the truth. I can’t help it. I am just a little bit scared. To take my ectoplasm out of the thin but secure shell of my family. Just felt a massive surge of love.

I got to spend the past five days with them. I took three days off last week—took Nick on a picnic in sun dappled Rock Creek Park with another mommy and kids from his school. It smelled like Washington. It smelled like high school and decaying leaves and the salt and silt from the creek and the damp undergrowth beneath rocks and fried chicken and sneakers.

By Day Four of my sojourn MZA said, “You seem so much happier.”

I felt like I was feeling things in a primary sense, and not just through the scrim of a church confessional. There wasn’t a filter—the filter of trying to feel life through the bubble of obligation and routine.

I made a compilation CD last night. It was so fun. Except I had a slight feeling that I was making a time capsule of who I was in that instant, much as this website is. The CD started with The Beautiful South singing a cover of the theme song to “Midnight Cowboy,” "Everybody’s Talkin’ at Me” (I can’t hear a word they’re saying) and ends with a song from Billy Bragg and Wilco’s album, “Mermaid Avenue,” that puts Woody Guthrie’s lost songs to music. “Birds and Ships” is the song.

Driving into work this morning I thought about love. All the way in.

LOVE. IT.

2006-04-21T00:33:00.000+05:00

Our far flung correspondent, Nicholas, up on the Cape, alerted us to this fabulousness...

Dada Tuesday

2006-04-18T18:34:00.000+05:00

The existential questions for the day are:

Is it possible to actually enjoy what you do for a living?

If you feel like you are “talking yourself” through the process all the time, does that mean you are not having fun?

Is it a problem if you memorize the carpet fibre colors in your office and compare them to weird foods, such as spinach soufflé and cream of mushroom soup, and somehow those weird food comparisons become the driving metaphysical burden of proof that your life is a rote canned walk-through and not an actual pleasure dome of possibility?

I compare this existential struggle to the love paradigm. If I know what it feels like to be in love, and I do, then surely I would know what it feels like to be doing something with my life that I like.

Yeah, we’re back to this again. Sorry.

It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Interrupting cow.

Interrupting co—

MOO!

Have you ever worked with an Undermining Martyr before? Undermining Martyrs are disloyal and often have a vast array of ongoing never-ending symptoms, like a chronic kennel cough, soul sapping fatigue, and a tendency toward self-serving references about “being in the office all the time.”

Personally? I am on a quest, that often feels futile, to do something gratifying and purposeful and meaningful with my life.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I know.

I think I have truly been in love three times in my life.

Maybe those extra love opportunities are what's undermining my chance at career happiness!!!

I would take being happy in love over being happy in my career.

I would take it, because that’s what I’ve got!

And that’s good. So we’re going to be appreciative. And ignore the overly dramatic symptoms of the Undermining Martyr.

KENNEL COUGH!

Jesus H. Christ, the statute of limitations on that fucking cough has P-A-S-S-E-D!

Don’t you hate it when you’re not sympathetic with others?

Have you ever wanted to give someone a Vitamin C intravenous drip and push them out a window?

I FedExed a package last week—a personal one, not for work—and I just went to fedex.com to see if it landed and there is this adorable little tracking trail of my little pak’s pick up, transit, drop off and the initial and last name of the person who signed for my package.

A small piece of my heart is in that package, and so I am glad to know its Peter Pan midnight flight of a journey. The little log reminds me of a birth journal, a little life haiku involving the fairy dust trajectory of my small dream, that I sent out into the world, on its own.

I cast my net for some help with this small dream, and everyone I wrote to responded and helped me. That meant a lot to me. I think, even if it doesn’t happen, it means a lot when people have faith in you.

And that’s what’s going to carry us above the clouds today while we continue talking ourself off the career ledge conundrum.

P.S.--it was raining yesterday morning and as I was leaving the house I said, "Shoot, I left my umbrella at work!"

MZA said, "It doesn't matter, you're just going from here to a garage."

I said, "Yeah, but it's a two block walk from the garage to my office!"

He said, "Oh, sugar melts!"

Because of his slight, adorable British accent, he pronounces "sugar," "shoo-gar."

It was a moment. I laffed.

Talley ho!

2006-04-17T23:43:00.000+05:00

Talley Ho! I’ve been saying that a little bit more than I should lately.

Friday night Karen and Eric came to town with their sons Jordy and Ryan. We ordered in Chinese food from our favorite place. (We like to rename every Chinese restaurant that has “East” in the title with “Beast,” because we’re hilarious and clever that way.) So we ordered the food from Hollywood Beast this time and it was GREAT!

Saturday Karen and I were “forced” to go to Target :-( without kids :-( :-( because we needed to get Easter supplies. Karen Target and Me are a marriage made in heaven. We walked in and might as well have taken off our shoes and donned scarves—we were that reverential.

We got supplies.

We were under strict orders from both husbands “not to go overboard.”

Right.

We were standing in the Easter Extravaganza World of Target—do you notice how it’s not just an “aisle” anymore, but a whole %$#@ theme park, abetting the manic need we all seem to have to CELEBRATE every holiday within an inch of its life…

Anyways, we’re standing there with a cart that is GROANING beneath the weight of jelly beans (STARBURST ORIGINAL, PLEASE), malted milk ball eggs, Butterfinger eggs, Peeps (Karen was a “must” on this one, I loathe them), etc. and Karen reaches for the BRACHS Chocolate bunnies and I say, “No.” She says, “Lisa, the basket has to have a FOCAL POINT!” At which point all the other maniacal mommies looked at her and giggled. Mockingly? No, in complete collusion with this Easter Basket Focal Point Logic. As in, HELLO!?!

We came home and sort of did a Red Cross disaster relief bag to bag into the house with all the "supplies" that we didn't go "overboard" on.

That night we had, if I do say so myself, a KICKASS dinner party. Roy drove down from New York; Moira, Sheila, Jon and all the kids came too. WHOO HOO! I marinated chicken in soy sauce and ginger, MZA grilled; I made my mother’s “zany rice,” which is steamed Jasmine rice topped with sautéed onions, pine nuts and raisins. Toldja it was zany! Moira brought one of her trademark fabulous salads with EIGHT colors, including a lovely purple hue from beets.

MZA set about making Cosmos (I know, we’re so 90’s, I hear ya) and people partook. Sheila brought a crab ball and spiced shrimp. She and I are the PROUD Maryland contingency. All Marylanders have to do, in order to lord our fabulousness over everyone, is make things out of crab and shrimp.

Hahahahahaha you boring Virginians! Take your sod! We have the fruit of the sea! Pass the Old Bay Seasoning and crack me a beer! Marylanders are real!

The talk got wild ‘n racy, the kids ran around the house, jumped on the guest bed downstairs, watched DVDs and had a great time.

After everyone left, Karen and I set about making five Easter baskets. Which is kinda fun when you’re a little lubed up, I must say. The menfolk sputtered and huffed and puffed and refused to help with stuffing the plastic eggs with Cheerios and raisins. Yes, Cheerios and raisins, because Karen and I are perfect mothers whose only concern is our children’s health and well being. (Yes, that does mean we ate most of the jelly beans…)

We woke up the next morn, which had threatened all week in the paper to be stormy and bad, to the bright yellow sun and the gorgeous blue sky.

I dyed a buncha eggs and kept reassuring MZA that it was ALL PAGAN ALL THE TIME. Eggs? P-a-g-a-n! Bunny? P-a-g-a-n! Jelly beans? P-a-g-a-n!

So he asks Nick, “Nick, what is the real significance of Easter?”

And Nick, proud product of a parochial school, cheerfully says, “It’s about the Resurrection of Christ, Daddy!”

MZA turns to me, betrayed, dejected and says, “You said it was PAGAN!”

I said, “It is! All of it! It’s just a pagan celebration of spring! Rebirth! Renewal! And the Resurrection of Jesus Christ the Lord our God, no big deal honey!”

I hid all the eggs, plastic and boiled, in the back yard. Can I tell you what I felt like? I FELT LIKE THE MOST AMAZING PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE! I was nestling freshly dyed eggs in the bountiful greenness of my yard! For small children to partaketh of! Nestling…eggs…colors…pastels…Paaaaaaas vibrant goodness! The kids loved it. We ate biscuits out on the deck and marveled in the splenderatude. Then we kicked into high gear and got ready for:

My Favorite Event of the Entire year: Oatlands.

Because really? What better way to celebrate Easter than at a horse race, gambling, drinking and EATING?

Oatlands is a point-to-point horse race out in the rolling hunt country hills of Ole Virginny. Why, I used to saddle up out there as a teen! Talley Ho!

Oatlands is the most beautiful place ever in the whole entire universe and it seems to fulfill all my Scarlett O’Hara delusions quite well because when I traverse the elegant grounds, I honestly feel like I am having a three dimensional séance. With a place.

I love it more than anything.

And I love the day, and the horsies, and the hats and the elegant “tailgating” fare.

I LOVE OATLANDS.

Moira and I, through weird serendipity, share a pass to the “Patron Lane” at Oatlands, which means we’re right on the rail as the nags come thundering past. It’s all set on the grounds of this former plantation, and so it’s very bucolic and Degas-esque. Lovely!

We bring as many preposterous things as we can think of, silver cups, silver ice buckets, elaborate centerpieces—lots of “bows” to fanciness, with a heartwarming hillbilly aesthetic firmly in place. In the form of Popeye’s fried chicken.

It is a really, really fun day, spent outdoors, beneath old trees, watching the ponies sail elegantly by, while we stand by the table and graze the day away, whetting our whistles with Bloody Marys, champers and beer.

Talley ho!

SIX SIX SIX

2006-04-14T18:53:00.000+05:00

I don't say no to pregnant ladies...Gingajoy tagged me and so here we go on the fascinating odyssey of SIX SIGN OF THE BEAST Things You Needed to Know About ME:

I rode an elephant in India when I was seven. I was too scared to ride it the first day, so they brought it around the second day and I rode it. Undulating pachydermic rhythms!
I drive barefoot. Well, mostly just the right foot, so I can feel the pedal better.
I got married in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. My family was not able to come*, but all 52 Peace Corps volunteers I was stationed with came to the reception. We had a sit down dinner for 100, two live bands, and LOTS of vodka and champagne. The restaurant was named Smile.
I don’t like any spread on my sandwiches. No mayonnaise, no mustard, no nothing.
I’ve been to the Taj Mahal twice.
I did something naughty on the hood of a pickup truck. I was not alone.

Waaaaaaaaaa, I don't know who to tag.......

I'll come back to that part...

*Not for any nefarious fractured family reasons, just logistics, etc.

THINGS I LOVE THURSDAY (aka TILT)!

2006-04-13T20:15:00.000+05:00

I screwed up and thought today was "Cryptic Thursday," when in fact it is: THINGS I LOVE THURSDAY, spurred on by the pop culture, intellectual, cocktail swillin', high priestess, Michelle, over at Weaker Vessel.

Whew! Boy did she save YOU from my morbid meanderings this morning.

Here's what I love:

You see, I went out to lunch with two colleagues yesterday, because that's just the sort of pan-savoir faire kind of gal I am, and we wandered into a party store.

We all seemed to share the same LIMITLESS fascination with items such a plastic rat that was tricked out with "realistic rat-like motion," stretch rubber frogs, feather pens, AND WE LINGERED, nay, LOITERED clumsily in the Hello Kitty section on the pretense of looking for things for our "girls."

I found a simply irresistable little slightly plushy Kitty IN A RED KIMONO. But that wasn't the kicker. The KICKER was that she was wearing those little crazy red ZORIS.

I clutched my little satin sheathed totem, in her traditional Geisha footwear, and I loved her. I thought, "Um, Daisy?"

I got back to my office and looked at Kitty and imagined Daisy's sweet eyes of wonder. Then I imagined Fancy Red Satin Kitty at the bottom of the toy pile, amid petrified Cheerios and naughty brothers, and I thought, "No. NO!"

Kitty is hanging on the wall in front of me. Eying me enigmatically in her calm Geisha Kitty way.

We're happy together.

This is a Fun Game

2006-04-12T20:25:00.000+05:00

Hi--I'm having:

Pull a Rabbit Out of a Hat I Don't Like That Rabbit Make it a Different Design I Hate Purple Rabbits Be Creative kind of day.

With my kids? Mais non! With my "office kids," oft referred to as "clients." Love them!!! But like zee kids, they can be a leetle, shall we say, demanding! Perhaps a non-purple rhinocerous out of the hat, love? Will THAT make you happy?

Soooooooooo, since I love Belinda, because she is one of the most inclusive, friendly, smart, accessible BlogDames in town, check out her site today. This is a fun game. Also, I've already sent in my guess! So I can NOW share the link with the "masses."

I'm on a roll, kids. First Jon Stewart, next, THE WORLD!

Go here for instructions on how to play. Then go here for her second entry to make a guess as to who she is impersonating. Now. You'll thank me.

But if you beat me, I'll be mad. Be forewarned.

Through the Porcelain Looking Glass

2006-04-11T19:34:00.000+05:00

Saturday MZA and I cleaned the house top to bottom in preparation for a big dinner party with four couples from Nick’s school and ten of their children!!!

I made two polenta and black bean casseroles, MZA made an Uzbek spring salad with yogurt, cilantro and radishes, then he made a big traditional green salad, topped with feta and toasted pine nuts. He also made Margaritas.

We had everything ready—psychotically ready—so we wouldn’t be in a pre-dinner flap. With that many people involved, you don’t really want anything left to chance.

Everyone arrived, festive, cheerful, all toting one and two bottles of wine, a beautiful spring candle, and the kids all immediately filed into a chaotic formation—a band—of power energy that scaled all three floors of the house, invaded the rainy back yard, came back in and swarmed about cheerfully. The adults were all so convivial—I think it was the right time to get everyone together after the winter doldrums and before the summer free fall. Everyone stayed until 11:00, there were hugs all around, I felt really happy and proud that we pulled it off. They were all really appreciative too, and that was nice.

Sunday we lazed about and in the afternoon MZA and Nick were about to go on a bike ride when Nick uncharacteriscally was complaining of a stomach ache. His face lost all color and I told him to go upstairs and lie down. The next thing I knew, the mayhem had begun—nonstop vomiting, cold washcloth on forehead, Nick lying on the bathroom floor looking up at me and saying, “Thanks for taking care of me Mommy.” Crrrrrrrrrrrack. Sound of heart breaking.

I threw the shower curtain in the wash, mopped his floor and Cloroxed the toilet. I was on top of it! It was a desperation borne of, please God don’t let the babies get it. God answered my prayers and gave it to: me.

I know. I KNOW I exaggerate and am given to drama and a heightened sense of everything, but I’m giving this to you straight: I have NEVER been so sick in my life. Food poisoning? Been there. I was in PEACE CORPS, for crying out loud. Food Poisoning is practically my middle name. I would have WELCOMED food poisoning on Sunday night. It would have been a balmy relief from what I was going through.

As I clung to the porcelain parapet of my bathtub, staring down into the narrow abyss between the pedestal sink and the tub wall, at the black and white tiles of the floor, I thought: I have reached the n-a-d-i-r. That’s what I thought. N-A-D-I-R.

Then of course I thought about Elvis Presley and how we shouldn’t have all made such fun of him for dying on the bathroom floor, especially since I was also about to die on the bathroom floor.

And the PROBLEM IS, I deal with medical symptoms a lot with my job, and so I had LOTS of medical symptoms going through my head like “renal failure” dyspeptic coma, diasporic convulsive sporazoa, nadiraphobic dysphasia, death pallor virulentia, etc.

The violence with which this thing took me, stunned me. At one point, during the porcelain parapet nadir bathroom floor moment, I thought I might quite honestly die. I thought, that’s it, MZA is going to have to call an ambulance. They are going to have to take me away. But then I got afraid of barfing off the side of a gurney and I felt safer and better in the cold white calming embrace of the mid-century bathroom fixtures.

When I lay back in bed, I felt myself start to lose consciousness—I was going somewhere much deeper than the troubled semi-slumber that had plagued the endless night—was I fainting? No, it felt like a slip into a deeper realm. I told MZA the next morning that I was going to ask him to call me an ambulance and he said, “There’s nothing an ambulance can do about barfing.”

Mmmmm.

My husband is an incredible, loving, sensitive and unselfish person, however he indulges me not at all in any drama. Which is good, in a way, because it keeps me grounded and gives me perspective. At about 11:30 the next morning he came up to the bedroom and said, “How much longer are you going to be in bed?”

Um forever?

I said, “I don’t know, why?” And he said, “Because I want to clean the sheets and vacuum the room. You can put clean sheets on the bed.”

I said, “When I put on the sheets can I get back in bed?”

He said, “After you take a shower.”

He brought up the vacuum and said, “After you’re finished make sure you sanitize the handle.”

I took off the sheets, duvet, blanket, everything and he took them downstairs, where he was manning a massive laundry initiative. I vacuumed the room, in all my skuzzy fineness, wondering, “How many women have to sanitize their own sick room?”

I unplugged the vacuum and put it back at the top of the stairs. I sanitized the handle. I got in the shower, all shaky, not quite sure I was ready for a soapy sudsy immersion, but it felt like heaven. I got back into bed, in a clean nightshirt, amid clean sheets and I thought, somehow, he’s always right, even when I resist it so completely.

I felt so much better to have the midnight slime removed and to lie in uncontaminated sheets. As I lay there, the sun shone in through the windows, amplified by the pale yellow walls and I looked out at our giant elm (it might be a maple…I’m kind of bad with tree identification) in the front yard, that is just starting to get some feathery leaflets, and I felt at peace.

Then a fully recovered Nick and MZA came upstairs with a smoking tray of white sage and smudged the bedroom, with three ceremonial waves over my formerly possessed body. Nick was loving the “ceremony.” You see, Uzbeks also burn sage to “purify” places, much like the Native Americans do, so we always have a stash of smudging gear on hand, when the spirits become particularly sinister.

I read my friend Nani’s book, The Sea of Tears. Thought, fuck she is an amazing writer. Then I closed the door, turned on my side and slept, quietly, peacefully, uneventfully—without any guilt—I wasn’t shirking any duties kind of thing—until about 6:00 p.m. I woke to the chaotic turmoil known as “Ian” flying through the house, screaming, laughing, crying, yelling: instigating. The bambini were home from daycare. There was a sound of another woman downstairs. I thought: that’s it, I died and MZA has remarried…

I went downstairs and a mommy from the bambini’s daycare was over with her daughter. I descended the stairs looking, I am sure, like Beetlejuice. I sat on the stairs and Nick came up to me and said, “I don’t know how to tell you this Mommy, but you won tickets to go see Jon Stewart’s show in New York!”

I won tickets through a school raffle. I filled out each of my eight raffle tickets so carefully, thinking, you know, as you always do, I will never win this…

But I did.

We’re all healthy so far. And this “near death” experience caused me to have a real and very important epiphany.

More on that later.

My Life as a Midwestern Industrial Town

2006-04-07T19:39:00.000+05:00

Uh oh! Today seems to be, “someone-just-looked-at-me-funny-and-now-I’m-going-to burst-into-tears” day! You know, when you go to someone’s desk, with an unbelievably magnanimous offer of selfless and martyrific proportions, and they look up from their computer huffily—impatient—this person! Who has always been so gracious, so friendly—and says, brusquely “Hold on a minute.” And me, grown up person, aka adult, feels a lump begin to rise in my throat.

Why yes it is raining, and I did oversleep, why do you ask?

Yes it is the 10th straight day our own darling Daisy Belle has woken up at 5:30 a.m. screaming, “I want to sleep in Mommydaddy’s bed!” You must be clairvoyant!

We had to fetch her sweet darling angelic self, breaking ALL of our carefully patented parental rules of No Kids in Bed, as we complacently loaded her under the covers, like the spineless worms that we are. Each of us hugging the farthest parameter of the bed, balanced on sore, overslept-on shoulders, while our little fairy imp-ress slumbered obliviously.

And just exactly when do toddlers lose that angelic sugar breeze baby breath and supplant it with Regular Adult Morning Breath? Whew!

Do I also need to reiterate that the Woman Who Plays Cannibal Beats has the damn thing going this morning? DESPITE the fact that I had to suck it up last week and ask her to turn it down, which I found agonizing, but it had to be done. You know, before the chicken feather altar wanton sacrifice thing happened, or something.

Did you ask if it’s rainy, and gray and dismal?

Did I answer you?

Do you ever have days when listening to someone speak a foreign language suddenly becomes THE MOST IRRITATING THING IN THE WORLD? And you feel like Archie Bunker because all of a sudden you just want to scream SPEAK ENGLISH GODDAMMIT!

You say that never happens to you because you lovingly embrace all cultures and the melodic sounds of other tongues merely reminds you of our own insignificant place in the greater scheme?

Oh.

Do you ever get the feeling that if you have to remember ONE MORE THING, it just won’t be pretty? Like the “wafer thin mint” thing. You know?

That’s where I am. I’m just like, oh, I’m so sorry, but I will be unable to put one more piece of “to-do” data into my sagging and flaccid brain! It is saying, “Uncle!” It is like a vacuum bag that has accommodatingly continued to store dust and crap well beyond the initial red light warning, but now we have reached critical mass.

There’s steam emanating from a roof across the way. I feel like I’m in Gary, Indiana. No, wait, I feel like I AM Gary, Indiana.

And no one likes me anymore. It’s really sad. Everyone is short and impatient and they clearly have moved on to other friends and people. I am alone.

I AM ALONE IN GARY, INDIANA!

And for some reason, everyone is speaking Spanish and all I want to do is sit in a frayed armchair and call people epithets and drink beer out of a yellow generic can and watch TV.

The Women

2006-04-06T18:45:00.000+05:00

Sweetney and Gingajoy got me to thinking about feminism from their recent posts. I commented on Sweetney’s site that I practice feminism by example and not by dogma, whatever that means.

What it means is, I was brought up by a pretty strong dame. My mother is a true maverick. She was born in Ada, OK and she rode horses, played polo, and, when she was 19, her father bought her a Piper Cub airplane. He told her about a program a woman named Jacqueline Cochran was putting together for women pilots in Texas.

My mother went and tried out for the Women's Airforce Service Pilots (WASP) but she didn’t get in. She came back home and told her father and he told her to go back and try again. He told her no daughter of his was going to fail. She went back, tried again, and got in. She became friends with the founders, Jackie Cochran and Nancy Love. Nancy Love was my brother’s godmother.

After the war, the WASP disbanded, my mother met my father at a cocktail party in New York, and six weeks later they were married. My father joined the Foreign Service, they moved to Singapore, then Australia. My mother went on two week riding trips in the Outback. Then they were then stationed to Tokyo, where she took up ceramics, calligraphy, painting and taught English on Japanese TV.

When they came back to the States, she was asked to join the Women’s Advisory Committee on Aviation, where she met a whole new slew of salty kickass dames.
Connie Wolf, the Lady Balloonist, who always, and I mean a-l-w-a-y-s, wore a black hat with a black mesh veil attached, was a good friend who would come over for cocktails and stories.

She also met Janey, the wife of a senator and an accomplished aviator, who was once considered for the NASA space program. Janey is the first woman I remember cognizantly feeling respect for. Because she was such a ball busting liberal realist. She was also an experienced sailor who learned celestial navigation in her 60’s so she wouldn’t have to rely on temperamental machines. She had eight kids, that she sort of stayed home with, and her own small plane that she used to fly her husband to all of his campaign stops.

My mother’s two best friends were “the two Elizabeths,” both OBGYNs. Elizabeth was the first woman chief of staff of Columbia Hospital for Women, here in DC, and she delivered me. She was like my second mother. I gave one of three eulogies at her funeral and it still chokes me up. The other Elisabeth (for whom I am really named because that’s how I spell it) became a psychiatrist when she was in her 50’s, in addition to her OBGYN specialty. She became one of the foremost experts on post-partum depression and pre-menstrual syndrome because of her unique discipline in both fields.

Sooooooooo, conversation around the hacienda was always pretty stimulating. No one ever talked about working or staying at home. It just wasn’t an issue. My mother went to work in the 60’s for the FAA, as part of Johnson’s initiative to get more women into the government at higher levels. She went in, working on congressional liaison, and worked there for 25 years.

I was born late in my parents’ lives—my brother and sister were 14 and 11, my parents 42 and 54. So my brother and sister got one mother—the adventurous, horseback riding, glamorous hostess and I got the still-wonderful hostess, who also worked full time at a demanding job.

My mother hated housework and, as a Foreign Service wife, she had tons of servants and so when she came back to the States and started working full time, she hired a nanny for me and a housekeeper. My mother never did a load of laundry in my lifetime—honestly, I don’t think she could tell the washer from the dryer. She also never made my lunch or baked a cookie or a cake. Ever. Wait, she did make my lunch for my first day of school in second grade. (We had just moved back from India). She made me—and I kid you not—a CUCUMBER AND MAYONAISE sandwich. That’ll go a long way in establishing you as an eccentric fruitcake on your first day of school, lemme tell ya.

My mother didn’t do lunchroom duty, she didn’t stay home with me when I was sick—ever. She didn’t come to my school performances, until I was in high school and started doing theatre in earnest. My father came to the grade school stuff because, after he retired from the Foreign Service, he worked for VOA and was home during part of the day. It never really bothered me about my mother. It was just The Way Things Were. And it sure as hell didn't bother my father, or he didn't show it, because he loved and respected her endlessly.

So I guess I’ve never really known anything else, except really strong, really outrageous, committed, liberal, women who did interesting things with their lives—whether they worked full time or not.

It has never occurred to me to feel inferior to a man. Not once. Not in my intelligence or in what I can accomplish. I know I’m lucky for that. Honestly, I don’t ever recall a man making me feel stupid or inferior. (Well, maybe they have tried, but it's never worked). But there have been plenty of times when a woman has.

What I was also trying to say in my comment to Sweetney, echoing another person, was that I think we need to concentrate a lot more on humanism before we get specific with the feminism. I see a lot of divisiveness among women. And I think the whole stay-at-home vs. working mommy “war” is not media generated—well, part of it is exploited by the media—but I believe that division is based on some common American and human bugaboos such as jealousy, hypocrisy, feelings of inadequacy, stereotypes, judgementalism, etc.

We’re not honest on this issue. I’ll be honest. I am jealous of stay-at-home moms. I always have been. And that is saying something because I’ll tell you the truth, I am not a jealous person by nature. I think there are powder kegs of resentment on each side, offset by judgments and accusations—both verbalized and internalized.

I would like to stay home, but I “can’t” financially—oh, I KNOW the argument, I could if I really wanted to. Maybe I could, but I think it’s actually better that I do go to work. I know an acquaintance who says that going to work makes her a better mother. I would, however, like some balance in the equation.

What works for one woman is not going to necessarily work for another women. I think until we are able to stop being snotnoses toward women who have made different decisions—on working, staying at home, having kids, not having kids, getting married, not getting married, then we’re going to be in a thicket of disagreement.

Which is NOT to say I don’t see a huge melding of the chasm, most notably on the Internet. I think that phenomenon has brought together women from every single facet, demographic and mommy war and the reason I think we are listening more to one another is because we’re hearing the real voices and the real stories without any preconceived notions.

Mom-101 touched on that beautifully in a post where she revealed a picture of herself for the first time. She said she hadn’t done it before because she liked being a voice—just a voice—without having to contend with all the assumptions and compartmentalizations we all make, no matter how hard we try not to.

I love the people I’ve “met” so far. Mostly because I KNOW I wouldn’t have met them otherwise.

Now I gotta go be a working momma—and ain’t we all working mommas.

Listophelia

2006-04-05T20:25:00.000+05:00

Nihilisticism—adherents are often seen in cars, headed to destinations they look like they don't want to reach, cradling aluminum hot beverage cups, swearing at others and listening to mindless banter on commercial radio.

Amorphocism—general free-floating life malaise, characterized by prolonged bouts of self-doubt and inertia.

Microcosia—an inability to think outside of the box.

Megalomaniacism—often called “Ahab’s Syndrome,” a consuming affliction that leads to misguided, unrealistic, never-ending quests for self-aggrandizement, caused by an inflated sense of one's position in the world. Symptoms are exacerbated by severe swelling of the ego and frontal lobe. Research to date has not identified a cure.

Procrastinacea—creating lists of made-up words. Also incurable.

Namaste Pop Tart

2006-04-04T18:24:00.000+05:00

I feel GREAT. I did the Crunch Yoga Pilates Blend DVD this morning. I know! And I am having a Dannon LEMON yogurt and tidy little Fuji apple slices!

Yeah, I want to kick me down the stairs too.

I thought about I Love Lucy as I did the Crunch Yoga Pilates Blend this morning. Specifically, I thought of how much I looked like Fred Mertz as I lumbered through the routine. You remember when he poses for Lucy as a Grecian figure and he throws out his back from standing in a pose too long? You don’t remember that? How come?

So I joyously went through my morning routine. “Hi Kids! Nick, Are you making everyone waffles!” Tralalalalalala. Blue jays perched on our noses and ribbons wafted through the air as angelic choirs hummed in a serenity-filled symphony of unmitigated bliss!

This morning was a lot better than yesterday morning when I was having that Loretta Lynn moment, you know in Coal Miner’s Daughter where she’s on the stage forgetting all the words and she’s having this total breakdown calling plaintively, “Doo…Doo…” and that magnificent stud muffin Tommy Lee Jones comes gallantly swaggering down the aisle and cradles his little bride and carries her off the stage and out of the theatre. Remember that? When the wheels of the bus were just moving and moving and the routine just kept going and she was carried farther and farther away from the hills and the bucolic splendor and the kind crinkled eyes of her father, the gentle stud muffin Levon Helm, forgetting her core and her creativity?

Oh. Yeah. It was THAT kind of morning yesterday.

When I just sit at my desk sort of levitating in a semi-catatonic haze of torpor and disbelief and my hands hover above my paperwork like I am playing with some kind of imaginary Ouija board, trying to divine my purpose and sustenance in life.

YOU KNOW. THAT kind of morning. That then morphs into a whole entire day of puzzled quizzical questioning, vagueness, toppled reason, free floating sadness, a QUAGMIRE, if you will, of mental and emotional directionlessness.

Then the phone rings and I see from the exchange that it’s Manhattan, and so I know it’s my friend Fred who is ONE OF MY FAVORITE PEOPLE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. Ever.

Fred and I like to make fun of…everything. Take no prisoners. He makes liberal fun of me, and then we try and crack each other up—it becomes this sort of Pillsbury Bake-off of crack ups. Then we snigger and snort and kind of spit a little bit and then I take in these big hee-haw breaths and people in my office lose all respect for me and think I am just a gadfly who chats on the phone and laughs about others’ misfortunes.

Fred must have some kind of inner device that is tuned to my abject despondence because he has this way of ringing at just the right “ledge” moment.

And seriously? Never underestimate the therapy of laughter. Because talking to Fred makes me feel EVEN BETTER than I do as Fred Mertz doing the Crunch Yoga Pilates Blend. And eating browning apple slices washed down with a Diet Coke. The Diet Coke is a way of attaining BALANCE in all of this. The fruit is the yin and the Diet Coke is the YANG.

Take notes.

Now fire up that sitar and let’s all lean in to the connectivity, power and balance of one united world.

I bow to the divine in you.

Pass me a Pop Tart, please.

Lisa Bueller's EXCELLENT Day Off

2006-04-03T20:52:00.001+05:00

I took the day off on Friday, the legit way, in advance. I didn’t rely on the worker bee mental health cop out of “calling in well.” Because I am a perfect and dedicated employee.

[beat]

Since I did it the “official” way, I did not have to ride out the day in bed, acting out my Catholic guilt by “doing what I would do if I were actually sick.” That’s what I do when I "call in well." I think it’s more of an excuse to marinate in front of the TV waiting for the afternoon duo-fecta of Dr. Phil and Oprah. With a small side of checking in on All My Children to see if Brooke and Erica still look the same as they did WHEN I WAS A CHILD.

MZA is a man in motion kind of guy, in direct contrast to my lazy and slothful ways. He had a Plan for the Day and that involved jack-knifing out of the house, dropping off the kids at school and daycare and then driving down to the Mall to see the Cherry Blossoms.

Mais oui!

Kids, they peaked on Friday and were exquisite.
We walked down past the Ellipse to the WWII Memorial that I had not seen. Zzzzzzzz. Soviet architecture anyone? I told MZA it looked like an example of “committee-fied” art. Trying too hard to please everyone results in a snore filled pastiche of rightness. Blech. And BOTH of my parents are/were WWII veterans. (My mother was vehemently opposed to the memorial because she said the Mall was getting to crowded.)

We walked. And we talked and we took snaps of each other beneath the fat pale pink petals. Then we walked up to the Freer Gallery and basked in my favorite room of all time, Whistler’s Peacock Room, that has been lovingly restored to its emerald green teak perfection. Then we went to the Sackler Gallery to see the STUPENDOUS Hokusai exhibit, which was truly lovely. At one point I turned to MZA and said, “How does it feel to concentrate?”

I felt almost giddy, to be free of the kids for a spell, to be away from work (!!!) and to just be, as we used to be. We walked back uptown, past the Corcoran
and the White House. By this time we were STARVING. I mean: Code Red. I was almost faint from hunger and MZA just wanted a sandwich.

We walked into a Cosi and I had this instant revulsion at the long “lunch hour” line and all the badge clipped workers standing around in hideous “casual Friday” tragedies.

Blech!

MZA gets kinda grumpy when he’s hungry, which interferes with my restaurant radar (a skill akin to divining water). He walked into one deli and it smelled weird and it wasn’t crowded and I said “no.” We turned a corner and there was a charming little impromptu café set up outside of a Spanish restaurant. Bueno!

Blue canvas umbrellas, large bottles of fancy bubble water and a decidedly Euro clientele. We sat down at a table, surrounded by Lebanese cypresses, and looked at the menu. You know how you look at a menu and there is not one single solitary thing that you want? That’s what happened! But I thought, “F---it. We’re going to just GO WITH IT.” Besides, I would have fainted if we got up again. Things started looking better (mind opening a bit!). MZA ordered a MARAGARITA and I ordered a Heineken. Whoo hooo! Then we ordered fried calamari, seafood croquettes, potatoes with “veins” of blue cheese AND shrimp in garlic and olive oil.

Something light.

Ha!

And it was so damn brilliant. The sun, the muted chatter, the attentive waiter and busboy, the elegantly presented tapas.

MZA looked like a cat in the sun and he said, “I love it.” I said, “What?” He said, “All of it.”

It was the best day of my recent entire life.

An Eight Year Old's Worldview

2006-04-01T18:06:00.000+05:00

We were sitting around the dining room table this morning, in various stages of Honey Nut Cheerios and orange juice, with a chaotic hamster cage dusting of the Washington Post all over the place, when my son Nick looked up from his section of the paper and said, "It's true! Bush has no self-doubt! I guess that's the best thing about him. I try to look for the good in people, but with him it's hard. Most of the time he just seems like a plane going down."

The 1970's Diasporic Film Festival

2006-03-30T20:08:00.000+05:00

BECAUSE we weren’t feeling diasporic, apocalyptic and megalomaniacal enough, I rented Straw Dogs for our viewing enjoyment. I Namaste Sam Peckinpah. My brother dismisses him dismissively as a proponent of “gratuitous violence.” Phooey, I say.

Straw Dogs is the f%$# creepiest, most sinister, weird, fantastic movie in the world. It’s everything that’s “right” about the post-sixties, righteous, American, pseudo-liberal, ideal of bonded nations and genders, fractured right in two by deeply ingrained tendencies toward sexual manipulation, dominance and an instinctual caveman need to subjugate polite intellectual protocol in the name of the savage brutal desire to draw a circle of inviolate, proprietary boundaries around all that is sacred and holy. Namely, home, hearth and woman.

I love Dustin Hoffman, let it be known and say it proud. He is the EMBODIMENT of the whole ‘60’s ethic—the nerd side of the ‘60’s, with his perfect fitting beige cords and Irish cable knit sweater and look of intellectual and moral certitude. It also has Susan George, a toothy braless semi-tart (who also embodies everything I would mostly like to forget about the ‘70’s—bralessness, vapid babydoll stares—but some good things too—zee hair and those damn perfect fitting boot cut jeans! Quel insouciance).

After it was over, MZA, who is pretty laid back and able to absorb almost everything (he’s married to me after all!), said, “Um, that was a pretty disturbing movie.”

MZA has been a willing and able student of my bizarre, all-encompassing taste in movies. Because he is from Uzbekistan, a land colonized by the famously censoring Soviets, he brought with him a delightful cinematic tabula rasa that I have exploited and pilloried at will.

He is a slave to Hitchcock, but I have not been able to convert him to Woody Allen in any way shape or form.

My favorite “old” movie (classic, whatever you want to call it) is My Man Godfrey. Like, I love that movie with every fiber of my being—a topic for in-depth discussion on another day, you’ll be glad to know—and MZA loves it too. He watched it recently, tho, on his own, and said that I reminded him of the mother in the movie. Who is this daft, shallow, senseless cipher who flits around all day fretting, spending money and speaking in a superficial trill.

Hmph.

Oh cruel wronged comparisons!

And finally, just because it’s my website, I would also like to take a moment to talk about Two Mules for Sister Sara. This is another of my favorite movies and it would actually make a really good early 70’s sort of festival (along with Straw Dogs) of gritty “journey” movies that chronicle improbable and outrageous scenarios that test the outer limits of sexual suppression and dominance.

Seriously, I don’t know what's going on with me either, but it was fun! And I’ve only had ONE Diet Coke so far today!!!!!!!!!!!

Eternal Face of the Sunshine Smile

2006-03-30T00:21:00.000+05:00

Today Haiku

It’s a beautiful sunny spectacular day,
Sunny
And perfect
And spectacular.
When I should have been thinking about the social and economic factors that impact gender roles, I was thinking: “Should I cut my hair? Or let it grow?”
I walked to Fancy Chic, Slightly Intimidating Giant, peopled with Very Skinny Bethesda Mommies, for two prepackaged California rolls. For lunch.
Gingery soy goodness!
I also bought products for a basket they are putting together for my colleague with a Bad Diagnosis
I bought: Terra chips, lemon ginger tea and powdered Jell-O custard.
Bake and serve.
I walked by the kids behind the chainlink fence on the school playground.
Small dramas, whispers, a little girl in pink pants and a shirt with a pink heart.
I thought about my own little girl.
Eternal face of the sunshine smile.
The utter impish guilelessness of
That Child.
My little bonus baby surprise blessing.
I never knew I needed a little girl.
But I did.

Of Yoga and Inner Demons

2006-03-28T20:03:00.000+05:00

I should clarify: On the whole office gig, my job is great. Honest. I work with really nice, intelligent people. My commute is--door to door--30 minutes. That is like a DC wet dream.

So what’s the problem? Technically there isn’t a problem. The fault lies not in my office, but in myself. (Clever, eh?)

The whole dilemma is the reconciliation dilemma, the old what-am-I-doing-with-my-life softshoe. I feel like a person who was plopped in a situtation and who is acting a part, playing a role. Sometimes I feel like the gardener in "Being There."

I do some exercizes in the morning, put on make-up (full drag) and get into costume more than anything else. I know a lot of people do that. I guess what I have a hard time reconciling with myself is: Is it possible to do something with your life that doesn't require a constant set of props, camouflage and mindsetters?

Maybe not.

I got up this morning and did a yoga tape. With MZA! Why yes indeedy we are the queerest couple in the universe! It’s confirmed. He’s naturally athletic, perfect, Asian, lithe and graceful, and I am the classic American OAF. It’s great!

I felt so much better after doing it, even tho the bambini came down just at the relaxation floor exercises and “joined in." They’re very “experienced," what with the Pajama Yoga Birthday Party and all. Ian does a mean downward dog. And eagle pose. Nick came down and took one look at all of us, shielded his face with his hand, and said, “Goodbye.”

I just have to: Figure it out. No one is to blame.

More importantly, there is the most amazing second hand bookstore across the street that is a DC institution, Second Story Books. I went there yesterday and communed with the Bookstore Archetypes. Oh yeah. The pale skinned woman with the frizzy hair, the giant yellow teeth, the overbite--the inevitable halitosis--who keeps appearing, with an enigmatic cat-smile, saying, “Excuse me,” in hushed, semi-apologetic tones. The guys behind the counter are all jazz aficionados, of course, arguing over a Benny Goodman “mint condition” record.

I bought two first edition novels by Knut Hamsun, because Henry Miller liked him, a biography of Coleridge (the early years) and an Andre Dubus story collection. As I pulled the Knut Hamsun books from the shelf, I thought about how books sometimes speak to you—I wondered about the psychological draw of the books that pull you in, the ones you want to reach for.

Just as I thought that, my eyes grazed over to the right hand shelf and I saw a copy of:
THE EXORCIST.

The Willful Suspension of the Diaspora

2006-03-27T18:52:00.000+05:00

We watched “The Exorcism of Emily Rose” on Saturday night. Nothing like a good exorcism film to get your Catholic on. Big time. It was, you know, OK, as those kinds of movies go. I thought the performance of the priest, played by Tom Wilkinson, was absolutely seamlessly stunning. Laura Linney gets on my nerves. She’s like a high rent Jennifer Aniston and I feel like everyone wants me to like her more than I want to. I thought she blew in “Mystic River,” for example, but I pretty much thought everyone blew in that, including Tim Robbins who seemed to be channeling Dana Carvey as Garth in "Wayne’s World."

The Emily Rose movie scared me a little bit in that the defense had a witness who said that Emily was prone to being invaded by demons because she was “hypersensitive.” Uh-OH! I thought, “Oh great, now I'm a welcome mat for creatures of the underworld and I'm going to have to hyperextend my back and speak in tongues and whiplash my neck around like a spazz.”

The movie also explained why waking up at 3:00 a.m. means that, while you are not possessed, per se, you are probably in the presence of demons. Because 3:00 a.m. is how the demons mock the Trinity. See?

So of course I woke up in the middle of the night and I turned warily toward the clock and—whew!—it was 4:41. But then last night I woke up in the middle of the night and I turned toward the clock and it was 3:39. OUCH! It might as well have spewed pea soup at me, non? That’s a whole lotta threes!

Speaking of possession, have you ever known a man whose marriage has sucked the brain right straight out of his head? Besides your own husband? (Because your sucking the brain out of his head was the best thing that ever happened to him.) Anyway, I have known about three or four men in my time to whom this has happened. And it’s not pretty. And I find, in my dotage, that my patience has sort of winnowed down to a very thin brittle reed and sometimes I blurt things out—not unlike Linda Blair—that are not very nice. Like they are things that have been festering in me for so f%$#@ long and all of a sudden one of these men—or pod people, whichever you prefer—says something in the language his wife has taught him to supplant the language he grew up with, and I just spit something out—hot green and viscous—and then DON’T REGRET IT AT ALL! Except maybe a little bit, around the edges.

I have become the same way at work, as I think we see evidenced in my last post—like I just can’t willfully suspend my disbelief anymore, you know? Because that’s what it takes to operate in this artificially constructed parallel life we inhabit, known as The Grind.

Seriously.

But just like any well-constructed novel, there are often “cohorts” in the world o’ work—those are people you can go to pull the curtain back and say, OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING! Those are called “insanity touchstones” who verify that you have not, in fact, lost your mind, and they regard a certain set of circumstances to be just as absurd as you do!

On Friday I was commiserating—not that I am a malcontent—let’s be clear about that. I don’t go around fomenting anger and bad blood. I don’t believe in that. I am just referring to the “sanity sound check” sort of thing.

So I was talking to this woman and we were totally agreeing with each other until I took it too far—that old crazy analogous mind—and I said, “Well, you know what it is don’t you? It’s megalomania! Just like…” And I stopped myself before I went into a full blown comparison to Captain Ahab and the doubloon and the clam chowder and all. Because I could see that I had her right up until “megalomania.” That’s not a word you just want to throw around in an office. Like Diaspora.

Seriously, I was talking to this extremely nice person in the lunch room. As I told Belinda, I have a severe phobia of lunch rooms, but I made an exception that one day and decided to try and act like a regular person and actually sit down and partaketh of my lunch in the lunch room instead of hunched over my desk. And I happened to ask this woman about her doctoral thesis and she was talking about Jimmy Stewart—it’s a film thing, which I think is fascinating (but I TOTALLY don’t agree with her choices of film that are meant to represent nationalism in film)--and she brought up Diaspora.

I thought I better keep my trap shut because she seemed pretty keen on her film choices and she’s sick of the whole thesis and just wants to defend it and be done with it and if I came up with two different films (that would be much more appropriate) she would probably go off the deep end. Anyway, she said something about the Diaspora in relation to “It’s a Wonderful Life” and I was all like, “Huh?” Basically I think “Diaspora” and “miasma” are words that should just be kept on the down-low, in writing or something, and not really uttered in polite conversation. ESPECIALLY about “It’s a Wonderful Life,” for God’s sake. What did that movie ever do to hurt anyone?

Yesterday we went to our favorite zany Asian gardens and then had dim sum at our favorite zany Chinese restaurant. As we walked through the gardens, I could feel my stress and anxiety literally evaporate out of me—all those fussy demons extinguished by the calm, the placement of the stone steps, the reflection of the bare trees in the pond, the ducks arguing with each other and cascading into the water, the camouflaged fish just below the surface, the flowers in the conservatory, the kids running and pointing. And MZA saying to Nick, “Nick, do turtles immigrate?” And Nick saying, “You mean migrate? No. They move too slowly.”

Welcome to My Nervous Breakdown...Pull Up a Chair. Get Comfy.

2006-03-25T01:32:00.000+05:00

Question for today:

Is it an existential breakdown or just a fussy cranky work day?

I am having One of Those Days. And I am having a really hard time figuring out if it’s just the usual roll with it, it’s OK type of thing or whether I am finally reaching the end of what has seemed like an endless tether of disillusionment.

You see I am struggling, mightily (as you may have discerned) with this whole “routine.” By routine I mean the relentless 8-track hamster loop of the 9 to 5.

Kids, I hate the 9 to 5. We all do. I know. But I REALLY do. But I am stuck—caught—in its necessitating grasp. It’s eternal vice grip.

You know that Ben and Jerry’s bumper sticker that says, quoting Jerry Garcia, “If it’s not fun, why do it?” It’s a bumper sticker. Made by an ice cream company quoting the wisdom of a drug addled dead musician. And yet that bumper sticker haunts me. Daily.

I have been counseled to honor the mundane in my life. I think that whole Biblical honoring of the mundane and reverence for the lilies of the field and the meek overcoming the earth and the tasks that make up our lives was referring more to wholesome “tasks” that we might find in Little House on the Prairie or something.

Everyone has their dilemma. My biggest dilemma, day in and day out, is why I have not been able to free myself from the rigidity of this schedule. I am obviously rebelling, in the form of this website. Welcome to my rebellion! Pull up a chair. Pour yourself a drinkie.

I am disillusioned.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

This is a good job.

I have finally come somewhere near where I wanted.

I went to seminar at the Mothership yesterday on sexually transmitted infections and the final speaker brought down the house by saying that adolescent girls are more susceptible to STI’s because they have “wimpy mucous!”

It was funny.

But I felt like Zelig yesterday, wandering around the impressive grounds of the Mothership. So respectfully hushed and important, so tended, so architecturally interesting…a collegial idyll with all that ivory tower reverence.

Sometimes I feel like Lucille Ball at work. I try SO HARD. I made one stupid small mistake today and I feel so bad. It went to the boss. At the Mothership of course. And I get crushed about stuff like that. And it’s stupid and so then I ask myself:

Are you doing the right thing? If you were home writing a novel there would be irritations there, wouldn’t there?

Then I start thinking in platitudes again: Life isn’t a dress rehearsal.

Life is not a dress rehearsal.

So if you don’t make the move and start heading in the direction of what you would really like to do with your life, what happens?

Are we supposed to just keep accepting the consolation prize? Is the “gratitude journal” the opiate of the people? Are we supposed to keep counting our blessings so we don’t notice that we still want something more? Is it arrogant to want more? Selfish? Is it missing “the whole point”?

I have to be able to discern whether this is really not for me or whether I am just being a petulant spoiled bitch.

I’m being too hard on myself.

I know what the answer is. I just don’t know how to attain it.

I just. Don’t know how to attain it.

I wish I did. I feel like I’ve made “breaks” in the past. But none of them has stuck, you know? I have made “breaks” but I haven’t broken the mold. Being a 9 to 5 worker is like being an addict. You return to it because it’s something you know, it’s a routine. I can do it. I am a high functioning recovering slacker. A very high functioning one. Because it takes everything I have in me to keep the illusion going.

I want to break out of this more than I have ever wanted anything. I am confronting it with the same sort of prayerful tearful dogged desperation that I approached my search for a soul mate. I think about that process, and how wrong you can be no matter how much you loved someone, he still wasn’t the right one. It takes a lot to persevere, to find the Right One. It’s all a journey. I am so fortunate to have found my man. Now I have to apply that same spiritual quest to this aspect.

Thanks for joining me on this momentary blip. Stay tuned…

[Gratitude journal moment update: I sat down at my desk and this one refrain kept coming to me and it made me smile. I think it was A Sign. I kept hearing my 3.5 year old Ian saying, in full surfer dude absurdity: ROCK ON freaky bro! Really, who needs the Sermon on the Mount when you have kids who can quote SpongeBob chapter and verse, eh?]

Get the Hook!

2006-03-24T19:07:00.000+05:00

The other day Nick, m’eight year old boy, absconded with my New Yorker when it arrived, as usual. I said, “What are your reading?” Thinking he would say the cartoons. He said, “The Talk of the Town. Listen to this Mommy,

There is very little doubt that Bush deserves censure, not only for the warrantless wiretapping but also for the many other catastrophes his Administration has generated, including the manipulation of intelligence to justify the Iraq war, the willful failure to heed warnings of what the invasion’s aftermath would entail, the sanctioning of torture, and the neglect of “homeland security”—to say nothing of a set of domestic policies that sacrifice solvency, safety, the environment, and elementary fairness on the altar of enriching the rich in the name of Christian compassion.”

Don’t thank be for raising a liberal, thank me for raising a liberal who is paying attention.

Aha! My li’l liberal’s auntie is paying attention too. She just called to tell me not to miss David Ignatious this morning:

Bush has lacked the tragic sensibility found in many of our great presidents. He works so hard at his show of easy informality that you rarely sense the inner man and the anguish that must be there. Watching him, you know he's wound tight even as he tries to act loose. The locker-room nicknames and the exaggerated Texas mannerisms are part of the enforced informality. The longer he stays in Washington, the more pronounced his Texas manner of droppin' his g's. It's a kind of camouflage, but it's wearing thin. This is not a president at ease.

In additon, my boyfriend (it’s unrequieted), E. J. Dionne, is ALSO slamming our Naked Emperor this morning:

Is President Bush the leader of our government, or is he just a right-wing talk-show host?

Let the feeding frenzy begin!

Happy Friday!

Crystal Meme: THE RELAPSE

2006-03-23T00:18:00.000+05:00

I was tagged again for a meme! I promise this is the last one, fer awhile. I could NOT turn down Mocha-Momma because she is so nice and smart. Furthermore, this topic is priceless! I have hereby abandoned myself to the potential of alienating EVERYONE with these naughty, embarrassing confessions (see #1 and you will understand).

Songs I'm Reluctant To Admit Listening To

1. “Hello”—Lionel Richie—Anytime I get to admit my “Slimy Lionel" problem is a good time. Full out car karaoke. Pray that fellow drivers around me do not read lips. Is it me you’re looking for…Cuz I wonder where you are…shall I keep going?

2. “What’s New Pussycat”—Tom Jones—would totally throw my skivs on the stage for him. TOTALLY.

3. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass—"Taste of Honey"—play this at my funeral, please. Except you run the risk of me returning from the dead. It represents everything that's “right” about “cheeseball.”

4. “Signs”—Snoop Dogg and Justin Timberlake—I think the lyrics say it all: class, class, class:
[Verse - Snoop Dogg]
Don't think about it, boy leave her alone
(Ooh wee!!) Nigga you ain't no G!
She likes my tone, my cologne and the way I roll, you ain't no G! [lyric misinterpretation: “she likes my ‘cabrone’ and the way I ‘bone.’” Please don’t ask what I thought a “cabrone" was. All the better to “bone” her with, I s'pose.]

5. The Johnny Mathis Christmas Album WITH Percy Faith and His Orchestra—favorite song is the wacked out hipster version of “Winter Wonderland.” I play this CD starting the day after Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day. Ask my husband. It is TRUE.

6. “Let’s Get This Party Started”—Korn—uh-huh! Who knew “started” had so many syllables?

7. Hall and Oates—“Sarah Smile”—full face contortion karaoke!!! With excellent alliteration!

8. Dave Matthews—“Say Goodbye”—I am a SUCKER for this damn song! It takes me DIRECTLY back to those naughty, persuasive cool boys (that I longed for but did not consummate anything with, well, except for one…). I CANNOT HELP MYSELF. I love Dave Matthews. I love his funny, impish ways! The good clean fun decadence! That hint of a South African accent! The crazy percussive riffs! That slightly teenaged prurient love of impossibly beautiful women! But also the knowledge that he is the kind of guy who would have been nice to me! (When I was 20). Let’s review the lyrics please:

And in your eyes I see
What's on my mind
You've got me wild… [Is it hot in here, OR WHAT?]
Stay here with me, love, tonight [Extra points for calling her “love,” scrumptious!]
Just for an evening…
You and me twist up
Secret creatures [Mmmm hmmm]
And we'll stay here
Tomorrow go back to being friends [Absolutely the dumbest most delusional all-male thought process. You know there is NO WAY she can go “back to being friends” after having Hot Monkey Love with DAVE MATTHEWS!!!]
But tonight let's be lovers,
We kiss and sweat…
Just a rogue kiss [Rogue? Just where did that kiss go??]
Tangled tongues and lips, [This kills me—I am so weak!]
See me this way
I'm turning and turning for you [She is fully in his grasp…]
Girl just tonight […THUD. Just tonight. AS IF!]

9. “Hey Ya”—Outkast—please. It’s a must. Shake it like a Polaroid picture? Lyric GENIUS.

10. “Come on Eileen”—Dexy’s Midnight Runners—will TURN THE RADIO UP full volume in the car and sing along like it’s...1982!!!!!!!!!! Every time.

Crystal Meme (note: highly addictive)

2006-03-22T01:33:00.000+05:00

The term "meme" refers to any unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea or concept, which one mind transmits (verbally or by repeated action) to another mind. --Wikipedia

I was "memed" by Ms. Weaker Vessel. I'm with Gingajoy, a fellow tag-ee, on these things--I love them. C'mon and play!

Here is my reply:

Three things you wish for (just for you):

That I could finally have the big Oprahpalooza life-defining moment wherein I magically manage to do something—for compensation—that I love. I mean love to life-affirming pieces.

That I could finish my short story collection at the MacDowell Colony. Six weeks of subsidized writing in an idyllic cabin setting with little picnic lunches delivered to my door daily…

That I could travel more, with Greece and Italy in the current top spots, and Thailand as a perennial revisit.

Three things you would do to/for yourself if there was no one to judge you (or if you had the guts to do it!):

Dye my hair platinum blond.

Get a weekly spray-on tan. So I could have a consistent Anita Bryant/Oompah Loompah glow.

Maybe an eye lift? Since I have been looking more and more like Charlotte Rampling of late.

Three bad habits you have:

Pride

Gluttony

Sloth

(Are there any “good” habits?)

Three insecurities you feel:

Miraculously I have no insecurities! Whatsoever!
I feel perfect in clothes, I love my hair and my complexion is flawless.

Three talents/skills you wish you had:

The ability to sing in an ethereal, trippy, falsetto—acapella.

To paint beautifully, with generous, lush oil swaths on wide canvasses.

I wish I could be a contortionist love goddess…oh wait, I am…

Three things that you would do if you had more time

Write a big fat revelatory novel that would be Oprah’s favorite book EVER.

Become a yoga-butted, flowing-maned, spiritually-centered, granola-eating, neo-hippie who grows her own organic vegetables, tends to her bambini like an inspired, halo-lit, saint-mother, services her husband like a proper courtesan, and lives in a whitewashed, hand-hewn cottage by the sea.

Read PROUST, goddammit, once and for all.

Three things that bring you peace/relaxation:

Our ancestral lake house in northern Minnesota.

P-i-n-o-t g-r-i-g-i-o

The baby doll silk of my bambini’s hair.

Three things that spark your creativity:

Smart people.

Smart-ass people (you KNOW who you are).

Henry Miller, forever.

I hereby tag:

Brussels Confidential, Mom-101, Thumbless Wonder and Mocha-Momma

Happy Navrus!!!

2006-03-21T18:34:00.000+05:00

Navruz, the spring "New Year" holiday, has been celebrated for more than 2,500 years, perhaps for as long as 5,000 years. Originating in Persia and long associated with the ancient Zoroastrian religion, its name means "new day" in Farsi because to ancient Persians it marked the first day of the new year. On this day, Persian kings would have worn a crown with images of the annual solar cycle on their heads, participated in a divine mass in the Temple of Fire, and distributed generous gifts to citizens.

Today, Navruz is celebrated each year on March 21, when the sun enters the sign of Aries on the astrological calendar. In the northern hemisphere, this date frequently coincides with the spring equinox, the day on which the number of daylight hours equals the number of nighttime hours. On our modern Gregorian calendar, the spring equinox varies from March 19 to March 21. Although their calendars were different, ancient peoples followed the course of the sun and moon closely, and knew that the seasons began to change on this date. For them, it was if the powers of light had overcome the powers of darkness, allowing the earth to awaken and life to be rekindled.

I celebrated my first Navrus in the absolutely gorgeous ancient city of Samarkand, where the air is different from anywhere else in the world and the blue tiled domes of the madrassahs and mosques are meant to mirror the firmament.

My beloved husband is Uzbek.

Today is also my father's birthday. He would have been 97 today. I think of him happily every year on this day (except I'm crying a little bit right now).

Biramingiz Mubarek Bulcyn...congratulations on the holiday! (in Uzbek--I just called MZA to confirm I got it right)...and let's rejoice that those powers of light are overcoming the powers of dark, eh?

Note to Michelle: You might be able to get some Vernal Equinox party supplies in Tashkent! And a special shout out to Dash Riprock--have some sumalyak for me, bro! Oh, and Beatricia! Your drain clog is getting cold...

Photo: © Zeldafitz 2005

Whither Meadowlark Lemon?

2006-03-20T19:11:00.000+05:00

My friend Nicholas, who tested the very roots of our friendship by going away to MEXICO for a month, just got back. I received two emails from him. The first one contained one line—no salutation, no nothing—and it was this:

Pajama yoga party?

The second one said this:

Now I’ve read more Zeldafitz. Why don’t you come up and stay with us for a few days/weekend? A mental health weekend?
We’d love to have you……

I wrote him back and asked if he thought I was crazy. I haven’t heard back.

In my ongoing Zelig-like life, I happened to BE at the Patriot Center on the campus of George Mason University on Saturday night. Not watching the Patriots beat UNC or anything (is anyone impressed with this smattering of in-the-loop basketball terminology? Why or why not?). No. I was watching the HARLEM GLOBETROTTERS.

Now I’m going to get a one line email from Nicholas that says:

The Harlem Globetrotters?

It’s true! I was up in the Cub Scout nosebleed section wondering where in the HELL Meadowlark Lemon was.

I sat in the parental row and had Lady Miss Daisy and Nick with me. The Lady Miss Daisy part was Not a Very Good Idea. Nick sat in the Cub Scout row and loved the “game.” He thought it was real. I kept my cynical mouth shut and did not explain that it was rigged and that the “Nationals” (the almost all white team they were playing) were also fictional. I am a Very Good Mother. Take notes.

Lady Miss Daisy did splendidly for the first 40 minutes and then we descended into Toddler Purgatory, wherein she cupped my face insistently in her chubby yet dainty little palms and entreated, “Mooooommy? I want to go hoooooooooome.” Over and over and over again.

So Mommy and Daisy had to blaze. We informed Nick, who gallantly swallowed his tears and then was saved from Kid Purgatory by a Nice Cub Scout Mommy and Daddy who offered to drive him home. Whew!

Daisy and I gingerly descended the terse little concrete stairs, that only a Billy goat could scale, and made our way down to the “8th Portal” or “8th Rung of Hell,” whichever you please.

Oh yes!

We were luxuriating in the cavernous hot dough-filled belly of The American Obesity Problem! Big fat lardassed pretzels covered in blocks of salt, deep fried chicken “pieces” smothered in ketchup, plastic wrapped pink and blue cotton candy, and gobs and gobs of greasy, mushy, tomatoey, overcheesed pizza wedges. BLECHCH. For a few minutes that night, I became FRENCH in my unmasked horror at What We Have Become.

And yet I loved it too. I bought cotton candy for Miss Daisy because that is what I had as a kid, and so it is written and so it shall be. Forever.

Yesterday, we went to the Bad Feng Shui Playground and I did much better there than usual. It was an absolutely stunningly gorgeous day—clear vibrant blue sky, a fresh, slightly chilly, breeze.

It’s like your life descends into these slightly Fellini-esque burlesques of pretzels, soggy pizza dough and toddler mayhem and then you look up at the blond tendrils of your second son, as he sits perched on your husband’s shoulders, and you think, “Ah, now I get it.”

I thought of George Costanza at the playground because I am always having these philosophical conversations with myself along the lines of “What are you doing with your life?”

And as I looked up at the sky, through my jaunty tortoise shell shades, I thought, “Um, I like this." Being at the playground when the weather is nice and the kids are climbing onto the camel all by themselves and Nick is timing his “runs” down the blue tunnel slide like he is a luge guy in the Olympics, “Mommy, I shaved a whole minute off my time!”

I thought about George Costanza because one time when he was trying to think of what kind of a job he wanted he said, “Well, I like movies.” And I thought, “Well, I like being at the playground with my family on a sunny day.” How’s that?

I stopped being French long enough to see a Popeye’s as we were leaving the playground. We looked at it. All of us.

MZA said, “Wow, we haven’t had Popeye’s in a really long time.”

I said, “Mmmm hmmm.”

Nick said, “Yeah! It’s been a really long time!”

MZA said, “Two years I think. Do you want to get in this other lane?” And he started motioning frantically and I switched lanes—giving us a straight shot across Georgia Avenue into the Popeye’s parking lot.

Nick said, “Can we have some now, Mommy?”

MZA said, “We’ll come back sometime and get it for dinner.”

“Awwww.”

I said, “Well, do you guys want some for lunch?”

YAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ian and I went in and ordered four mild drumsticks and two spicy breasts and a side of fries.

Ian said, “I like this place.”

In a bow to my newly Gallic, healthy, organic heritage, I did not order biscuits! We are so enviably healthful and perfect.

It was a good day.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!!!!!

2006-03-17T19:11:00.000+05:00

Yeah, whatever, it's queerball, but there you go. Am I wearing green today? Of course I am, but if you've read previous posts you will know that I ALWAYS end up wearing green on "casual" Friday, the bane of my existence.

Am I Irish? OF COURSE I AM! I have one of those last names that is relatively uncommon in the States but you know, the whole Irish phone book is lousy with us kind of thing. Don't get emotional, I know it's stirring. My one goal in life is to get to the "homeland." Sniff...

More importantly, EVERYTHING good is Irish, especially Irish "twins"....

Office Archetypes

2006-03-16T18:33:00.000+05:00

This is a random selection of office personages I have observed over the years…See if you recognize anyone…feel free to add any that I missed...

The Overbooked Chaotic Bluster Queen
The Skank—pointy toed stilettos, tight jeans; smokes furtively in front of the building with like-minded malcontents; is often “sick” and/or “late” (read: hungover)
The Kitchen Lurker—acts like it’s “his” kitchen; monopolizes freezer with specialty frozen entrees
The Bathroom Lurker—takes a dump at the same time every morning
Manager, Bright and Dark—sometimes nice but mostly pained, depressed and weird
The Bored Receptionist
The Person Whose Role is Not Clearly Defined—walks back and forth aimlessly in front of your office a little too often
The Nark—knows when everyone comes in the morning, leaves at night, and takes lunch; exercise caution
The Greedy Eyer—takes in every inch of your body (with special attention to flaws), makeup, jewelry, etc. in microscopic, near pornographic, detail
The Person Who is Nice When She Comes to Your Office to Talk, but who acts weird if you come to her office to chat
Loud Headset Talker—paces the entire floor carrying on officious conversations at full volume; substitutes Blackberry as necessary
The Laconic Drone—doesn’t “care” for ethnic foods; permanently set on ten second cognitive delay
The Chauvinistic Web Guy
The Nervous Pleaser
The Über Mom
Computer Screen Gazer—stares intently at your screen (disregarding all laws of personal space) to determine what you are Googling and why (hint: set screen saver to deploy after one minute!)
Mr. Cologne of the Damned
The Woman Who is Unable to Be Happy for Others
Surly Disaffected Tech Guy; intimidating glower optional
The Person With a Strange Personal Scent
Mr. Truly Scrumptious
Ms. Charm School Dropout
The Bitter Divorcee With Biological Time Bomb Issues
The Seemingly Innocuous Drone—quiet, but listens to ritualistic cannibal beats that spur disturbing side effects in neighboring office mates, such as wanton blood lust, heart arrhythmia, delirium, convulsions and intense hydrophobia

Naughtiness and Noodles

2006-03-15T22:16:00.000+05:00

I posted a short story, linked HERE for your viewing enjoyment, and several months ago I noticed a large amount of traffic—all for that particular post. Then I started noticing LAW FIRMS on my site meter, also similarly honed in on that post, and I became a little concerned.

Then I got an email from the person that I had fictionalized (thinly) in the story, “Mike Nazareth,” BECAUSE I used his real name (since changed). This, I will grant you, was very naughty of me, but I didn’t really think too much about it because it got published in a small literary magazine on the West Coast in 2001, for Pete’s sake, and when I reprinted it, the rights had reverted back to me and all. Honestly I did not consider all the Grandmaster Google ramifications that could occur.

Zut alors!

So, “Mike” wrote to me, FROM BAGHDAD, where is currently working (as a civilian) and asked me, rather haughtily, to cease and desist using his actual name in the story. I checked with my lawyer, aka my brother, and he forwarded me some advice. According to him, I was well within my rights, but because I am such a stand-up gal, I changed his name. No big deal.

He was very appreciative, especially since I portrayed him in an accurate, but unfavorable light. I thought it was behind me when I heard from him yet again today. It seems he had found yet another incarnation of the story that I did indeed post over a year ago on a different site. I was trying out a different venue for the olde blog and posted a few things there, but have been at this address ever since.

ARGH!

It was such a long time ago that I didn’t even remember my user name or password. But I knew that he wouldn’t let it die, so I mustered all my cognitive abilities and managed to figure it out. I deleted the post. I wrote him back and told him that, and also cheekily admonished him to stop Googling himself and GET BACK TO WORK.

Oh, that viperous Google!! What it unearths!

I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings—honestly I don’t. EXCEPT for when someone has treated me badly. Then maybe sometimes I feel the need to conduct a little naughtiness alchemy. But I learned my lesson and I will not use real names anymore. Even when it’s tempting.

In other news, MZA made his TRIUMPHAL cinnamon beef noodles again last night, which you can find linked here for your culinary enjoyment.

Now, excuse me while I go Google myself…

Whatever FLOTUS Your Boat

2006-03-14T19:10:00.000+05:00

Dash Riprock, our far flung correspondent, who is In a Country Far Far Away that was recently graced with a presidential meet 'n greet, took this renegade snap of the FLOTUS and faithfully sent it on to us. Thanks Dash!

At issue here is a certain dyed wig effect and the pancake does look a little "heavy." We admire her cat-like primness and the librarian certitude, tho. She is so correct! So "pulled together!" So without blame. And the tidy blue wool suit does effectively bring out the color in her eyes!

Do you ever feel like they're having a good cop/bad cop scenario over on us?

I do.

I want to like her. Why? Because I feel guilty for hating her husband so much? Maybe. Maybe we feel inclined to give a little more than we should to her. Kind of like we're kids in a bad marriage and it's DADDY who does all the bad stuff and MOMMY is the good stalwart force of ...what? Feline literary goodness?

Anyhoodle...I need a PopTart intervention. I haven't bought any, nor will I. But I think about them too often. It's bad. I am a blueberry NO FROSTING purist. In case you were wondering. And I know you were.

Park The Cynicism at the Door (today only)

2006-03-14T01:05:00.000+05:00

Saturday I took Daisy and Ian to a Pajama Yoga Birthday Party! I am totally serious! Yep, my friend Moira had the party for her beautiful li’l girl.

I will never forget driving up to the white clapboard community center in tony North Arlington and seeing Miss Moira walk out in flowing red silk Chinese pajamas. She looked at me and said, “Where are your pajamas?”

Ha! She’s knows me better than that.

What I failed to realize was that I had to do some yoga with the bambini!!! No phoning it in. Scary! But none of the adults batted an eyelash. They all put their mats on the floor and heaved to. We reached for the moon, the teacher banged a gong, everyone chanted, Ooooooooommmmm. I’M SERIOUS!! Even the wee ones.

I put Sweete Daisy Faire in this absolutely hilarious pair of lace fringed lime green pants—au couture doncha know!—with a pink leotard garnished with a tulle flower. I am crazy. It’s confirmed. Let’s just say my daughter was the only one who looked like Isadora Duncan.

The kids were so fer cute!! All angelic blond and red ringlets and a Very Attentive birthday girl who was grooving to the swami muse. Part way thru, mid stretch, Moira came up to me and whispered, “I'm getting you back for Chuck E. Cheese.”

That was Nick’s 5th birthday party and Aunt Moira has never quite recovered. Even Nick was stupefied. He was just going on the PBS ads, you know? He didn’t realize the whole carnival horror sequence that was in store for him. That was our one birthday capitulation to The Man. All other birthdays have been homegrown wackedelic Mommy psycho events. As it should be. And so it is written.

OK, so THEN, keep that cynicism at bay, on Sunday it was Scout Sunday. Nick loves it. It was 6:30 a.m. and he was already dressed in his full regalia (Mass insn’t until 9:00). He even voluntarily brushed his hair. Nick’s all about the “costume.” So’s Mommy.

Mommy piled into the shower to wash away the collective greasy film of Weekend Frumpadelia. Oh yeah! Then I grudgingly put on Work Clothes and we trotted up to the church. Nick sat in front with the other scouts and I sat in a tightly packed pew. Apparently my patented Don’t Sit Next to Me Radar was faulty because a man and his kid sat next to me. I was obsessed throughout Mass that everyone would think we were a family. I am so mature.

Mass started and lo and behold, there was a young, extremely telegenic priest in residence. Hmm. He introduced himself as Father Kane and said that he was formerly a parishioner and he had spent the past six months as a chaplain in Iraq. Lump begins to form.

He was really tall and attractive—sorry to write that about a priest, but HEY, we all read The Thorn Birds. Keep it real!

Sooo, he conducted the Mass and it was really beautiful for some reason to see this tall handsome man with such a pleasant and happy countenance manage all the steeped rituals of the Mass and talk to us like he wasn’t bored out of his tree, you know? Like he made connecting thoughts and related things to one another.

He talked about a sacred oasis in Iraq where Abraham used to rest and how they would take soldiers there. Then he told a couple of stories about the troops and how much it meant to him to minister them. He told about receiving the confession of one of the soldiers who was badly wounded.

Kids, I was moved. I mean here’s this young man taking on the sins and burdens of a fellow man. For some reason it was all resonating with me. Then he said, quite completely earnestly and guilelessly, that he reminded the troops all the time that people back home were praying for them and that our prayers were so important and they were keeping them safe and helping them. Lump reaches critical mass.

Then he looked out into the congregation and said that was it was so nice for him to be home, with his parents and family, and he looked at the scouts and said that he used to sit there just like them, as a scout, in those same pews, when he was a little boy. FORGET IT. It was a very emotional moment.

When he was finished, he turned to walk back to his chair and there was this palpable moment in the church when everyone wanted to clap, but you know, you’re not sure if you should, and then there was just this totally spontaneous burst of applause.

The weather was gorgeous all weekend. Nick made a fort across the street at our neighbors’. Ian and Daisy played out in the backyard. I made a plump oven stuffer roaster for dinner last night. It seemed like Norman Rockwell was waiting in the wings somewhere, all crinkled smile and knowing calm, watching us try to carve our own names into the suburban ideal.

Tomorrow: Cynicism will return in all its bounty. And look for an EXCLUSIVE money shot sent to us from a point FAR, far on the compass…

Tiki Me Outta Here

2006-03-10T22:12:00.000+05:00

I am working on this thing right now that requires my FULL attention (which is why I am procrastinating) and there is a woman who sits near me who plays a constant—CONSTANT—low-level South American jungle beat that sounds cannibalistic, ritualistic, pagan, sacrificial and deeply primal, in a ripping of flesh gnawing of bones kind of way, not in a liberating Mardi Gras voodoo kind of way.

It is replete with these unending, pervasive, frenetic CHANTS that all seem to be leading somewhere Not Very Good. Heart of Darkness sort of thing. And I cannot, FOR THE LIFE OF ME, understand how anyone would choose to listen to something like that AT THE OFFICE because I assure you, there is nothing soothing or relaxing about it. I feel my teeth gnashing in a feral salivating crouch for blood as we speak.

It's not that I am culturally insensitive either. I am practically the United Nations Goodwill Ambassador to every cultural phenomenon that ever existed. But I am drawing the line here.

I mean, I expect to turn a corner and see a patch of bloodied white feathers and a makeshift bamboo altar or something.

And honestly? I am about to go out of my mind. You know, and I don’t really need any HELP with that right now.

But I can’t say anything because, I have had Kennel Cough all week, which has not added favorably to the dulcet tones of the office environ, and I don’t want to be carted off by a coterie of masked men bearing shrunken heads (Think: menacing extras from Gilligan's Island). In addition, it is just "low volume" enough to be determined “considerate,” but annoying enough to be like aural slow water torture.

Maybe I should just don a grass skirt, shake some rhythmic bones and sashay over to a tiki bar for a comforting and obliterating potion to forever erase this AGONIZING perma-primate beat that is starting to reconfigure my central nervous system.

Ya think?

Movie Night

2006-03-10T20:08:00.000+05:00

This movie blew us away last night, “I am David.” I ordered it specifically with Nick in mind, but I just had this feeling that it was going to be something, and it was. And I don’t know if that is just because it really hit a home run with me in terms of where I have “been” this past week or what. I JUST LOVED IT. And Nick was absolutely, purely and completely blown away by it.

He went in skeptically, and what I love about Nick is, he honestly admits when he was wrong at the beginning—he doesn’t hold on to that stubborn kid thing of refusing to like something even though he didn’t initially want it.

He loves Netflix because I think more than anything it is a symbol of special time with his parents. We have had “movie night” with him on Fridays for several years now. At first it was a great solution for carving out time with just him when Ian was a baby, and now it is our steady way of carving out time just for him now that there are two little imps competing for our time and attention.

We get to revert back to the module we used to be, before the Invasion of the Bambini, and we all love it.

The movie is a coming of age movie, in a way. You have to suspend your disbelief, and it is slow in parts, but I gave myself over to the whole thing, fully. Yes, it’s implausible, all of that. But hello! The symbolism overrides that. At the beginning of the movie the kid manages to shinny up a ship’s mooring and stowaway and MZA chided Nick and said, “He’s a pretty brave boy. Could you do that?” And Nick said, “No. But he’s fighting for freedom and that is worth it. So I think I could do it if that’s what I was fighting for.”

No more chiding, eh?

I could see the parts that affected Nick the most were the flashbacks of the boy’s mother and father. The movie reaches this gorgeous crescendo and then out of the beautiful silence comes Damien Rice singing “Cold Water,” and kids, I thought my gentle, Irish heart would pierce through my being. No, seriously. I felt like I had just been blown through time and vapor and I could just feel the tears EXPLODE out of me, but in a nice way.

It has Joan Plowright in it and she will forever remind me of my mother because my mother LOVES HER and ALWAYS refers to her as “That MARVELOUS actress who was married to Lawrence Olivier…you know, Lele…”

Well, I got a strong indication last night why my mother is so daffy for her. And her character reminded me of my mother too, in her ability to observe and laser in on certain people that need a little help being drawn out. She’s really good at that. She gains the boy’s trust and I don’t think any of those messages were lost on Nick.

Life at the Puppy Mill

2006-03-08T18:58:00.000+05:00

Yeah, I guess what’s hard—why is it hard?—is the relentlessness of the whole gig. Like you’re sick, with an annoying cough, the office worker’s version of kennel cough, lightheaded, a little clammy queasy—just this ongoing vague malaise that needs to be in bed, but in deference to The Machine we slog through.

I took four horse pill vitamin C’s this morning; I think that contributed to the queasiness. Coughed up a lung, swallowed some CVS “Tussin” and sort of drifted thru the door amid the cheery sunny faces of my bambini. And the Birthday Boy, MZA. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MZA!!

Yesterday was The Discouraged Project Everything is Broken Opera. The printer was broken, the copier was broken—copies that I had to send FED f%$#@ Ex of course—and kept “jamming” every four pages. I went to the guy that sits in the copier room and I said, “You don’t mind if I shoot myself do you?”

He laughed.

Then he helped me. And laughed as I continued to mutter caustic frightening weird things. He has a good sense of humor and also must like children because I kind of act like a petulant child when Everything Starts to Go Wrong.

I was in and out of teary mode all day long—I don’t know why, who can explain these minor blips of sanity incontinence? I can’t.

OK, so then it’s 5 o’clock and MZA calls and asks when I’m leaving and I realize, oh, Kennel Cough Dog, time to go home. Time to make the donuts.

So I leave, all philosophically dejected and all, and I get on the elevator to go up in the parking garage. And you know what happens next. It stops. Between floors. OH YES IT DOES. And I am banging futilely on all the buttons, uh-oh, here come the tears. And I said, inside my head, “The paramedics are going to have to CUT ME OUT OF HERE with the JAWS OF LIFE because the nervous breakdown has BEGUN."

Pause.

Then the doors opened on the third floor and I got out. And drove home.

Life, and Art, In the Balance

2006-03-07T20:29:00.000+05:00

Juuuuuuuuuuuuust as I was skirting down the pitiless infinite chasm of complete and utter self pity and doom, I found out that one of my colleagues has a really serious illness—and there are small munchkins involved. I saw her in tears in the elevator last week and I knew—I just knew—that it was something serious. I have hypochondria for others, in additon to myself, as it happens. It was a very sobering moment that was preceded by...

Self pity—The Ballet

I was hit in the side of head by this tremendous wave of overwhelmedness as I stood at the kitchen sink last night. Are all women doomed to feel that crippling break with sanity while clutching the chrome outlace of a sink? It seems like it.

I just felt my knees buckle—it was all sideways and the tears just came, from nowhere—tears of complete and utter loss—like please sir, make the merry go round stop, will the merry go round ever stop? Will I ever have an unfettered uncluttered undemanded moment? Will another moment in time ever be mine. Ever? Again?

I think what I miss the most about my former self—before children—is my ability to concentrate. The biggest affront to my mind and my spirits has been the loss of that lovely, seemingly simple, function. The time to laser in and think, to contemplate, to course through subject matter—shit, just to walk through a grocery store with a list in hand and logically pile one product into the basket after another and come home and stack ingredients on a counter and make something.

Or to read a book.

Seriously? People recommend books to me all the time and I cry inside. I know! I too have no patience with people who say they have no time to read! But when I tell you I don’t have the “time” to read a book, it means I don’t have the time and concentration and solitary moment to actually sit down and read a book the way I need to read a book.

Read books! I am JANE BOOK. I am all about The Book. I used to go on vacation and read 9 books. Real books—lengthy lovely classic timely literary books. I don’t read “beach reads,” not because I’m a snob, but because I commit myself wholeheartedly to a book. And I want it to be good and worthwhile.

SO, the never-ending dilemma of my life is this: I have an artistic temperament and certainly an artistic bent in life, but I was blessed and cursed with an ability to manage, function, nay even succeed, in the “real” world.

These are conflicting sides of my nature that I have always been able to manage, after a fashion, by supplementing the creative side with plenty of books and museum trips and theatre and movies. Lots and lots and lots. I mean the ballet, plays—at Arena, the Folger, the Kennedy Center, the Studio theatre, New York!—and then my life became supplanted with obligation and a lack of “extra funds.”

I don’t know. My father was a cultural attaché in the Foreign Service and so my life was filled with events—happy events. Taxis, lunches out, plays, foreign films at Dupont Circle, museums, books, so many things.

So I guess when it is ingrained in you and then you wake up morning after morning to face only the mundane in life, it takes a crummy toll. Because art is the celebration, the explanation, the analysis, the interpretation of life. Art is the side of life I want to inhabit. Even though I can navigate the waters of the mundane so swimmingly.

As I get older I find it harder and harder to reconcile with myself. I never wanted to be one of those people who just read books in college and then that was it.

I think what I am saying is, I NEED TO GO TO THE BALLET. And maybe finish f%$#@ Kite Runner that has been sitting on my bedside table for two years. Under a scrim of steadily increasing dust.

I am locked in a semi permeable membrane of life.

I read the New Yorker and the Washington Post like a religious fanatic. Why? Because the only time I have for culture has been whittled down to what I can practically inhale from those two publications.

That’s sad.

But it’s not as sad as getting a really bad diagnosis. Or being a starving child in…

Americans are really good at perspective. What I want to know is, at what point do you get to bury the Puritanical guilt of actually feeling sorry for yourself because you want your life to be a little better—even tho you are so incredibly blessed with so many things? When is it OK to say, I think I am really depressed because I don’t get to the ballet QUITE enough?

Answer: It is never OK to say that. Just because.

However, I feel a shift in the plates of the earth (internally). Some portion of life—the cosmos, the universe, the inside voice of my insanity, is telling me that something has got to give. Something has got to give.

I left the house absolutely dejected. Dejection: An Ode! (that’s one of my favorite poems). I was driving down my street and the tears just spilled—damn f%$# tears.

The street was packed with walkers, commuters, joggers, while I coasted down, with the Cocteau Twins trying to aurally anesthetize me.

It’s OK. Life is good.

It’s also OK, I think, to ponder, to wonder, to want a little bit more. To break out of the relentless never-ending cycle of being on time and showing up and being dependable and working hard and pitching in and being available.

Jane is going to have to figure it out. Carve out a wee pocket of time in life that is my own. Hire a cleaning service. Start to augment the second act of my life with some pockets of what I was gently trained and guided to love—the ephemeral gauzy artistic reflections and recreations that mirror our daily struggle through a lens of compassion and perspective and stories and laughter and dire news.

Art. Mirrors life. I want the reflection, the chance to consider, concentrate and bask for a little bit.

Excerpts from Dejection: An Ode, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

III

My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth -
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

Ouch!

2006-03-06T20:53:00.000+05:00

Oh, it’s a big day! There was the Oscar tragedy last night—quel horreur…Cintra Wilson at salon.com asks the question we are all asking ourselves on this fine and sunny morn:

“How … HOW did Jon Stewart suck so hard?”

Then she ponders this excellent thought:

I wonder if Chris Penn and Shelley Winters had to pass because there was no oxygen for their burning spirits in the airtight Hollywood terrarium this year. I hope Oscar decides to start breathing again soon. I hope America decides to be actually Free again, too, instead of just loudly congratulating itself for having freedom while slowly and sneakily cutting more and more small parts off of it.

I LOVE Cintra Wilson. She and Heather Havrilesky are what make it possible for me to get out of bed most days.

I could tell Jon had flopped within about the first five minutes. I mean, you just sat there like, um, Jon? Dude? Please? It’s time for a laugh now. But as Cintra says, it’s OK because Sasha Cohen taught us you can fall on your ass and still maintain your dignity.

Isn’t that funny? How we all relate everything to Olympic athletes? Like every two years we become this athletically philosophical creed toting mass that looks to SPORTS to inspire us through the deluge.

Why I thought of Olympic athletes only this morning as I struggled through a Kathy Smith exercise video—my elliptical is on the fritz. Why? Because I need it and that is the law of good intentions. Start exercising regularly and EVERYTHING will go wrong. Which is why I started in on my Wide World of Sports/Olympic philosophizing, like, injured skaters still TRAIN, they still GET OUT OF BED on cold frosty morns, NO MATTER WHAT, and they train in pain, in the rain, on the plane and without complain. Blab la bla.

In other news, I received a dispatch from my far flung correspondent Dash Riprock (a nom de plume to protect the innocent). He is in a Country That was in the Path of Bush’s Latest Meet ‘n Greet, so I wrote to ask him if he had a visitation with the Vile One, and this is what he wrote:

Yes, indeed I did get to see The Prez (or as I like to call him, Public Enemy #1) and have to admit that it was pretty exciting. His very pre-prepared speech was full of right-wing religious right drivel and I thought I would gag, but it is a rather once-in-a-lifetime sort of experience.

But here’s the money quote, what we are all REALLY WONDERING:

Laura Bush wears A TON of makeup, has bad liver spots on her hands, wears sensible shoes, and her hair is sort of weird, kind of like a wig or a bad coif from a Tashkent salon krasoti.

Ouch! Dash sure riprocked right into our favorite cat-like librarian goody two shoes! Everyone goes around saying this old tired piece of crap: Well, you might not Like George Bush, but EVERYONE likes Laura Bush. Right? Right?

I don’t like anyone I am “supposed” to like.

And that includes George Clooney. George Clooney nauseates me. Why? Because Tom Shales, one of my favorite journalists, said today in the Washington Post he always looks like the cat who swallowed the canary. To me he looks just looks like the asshole in high school who just got/is currently getting/or is about to get a BLOW JOB.

George Clooney is a walking advert for fellatio and that’s why men are always so “mad” at him for getting all the chicks. They know he doesn’t just “get” the chicks. They know that he is getting massively SUCKED and the women that are all goofball over him know it too. And he is the only man on earth they want to fellate without getting anything in return.

And that is not my kind of man.

Here’s another burning question: Why, WHY does Gil Cates keep inviting Salma Hayek to be a presenter? Why?

I also think I can answer why Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston—because a) she is not as pretty as he is, that’s a given, and b) maybe he got sick of hanging around a skinny weightless cipher who has the half-stoned charm of the nicest girl in high school but hardly the gravitas of our couch lipped, little mother, sex/earth/deity, Angelina.

Jen was on the red carpet and one of the wags shot her a real bruiser of a question like, “What movies did you like this year?” And she looked totally thrown, like that question wasn’t on her pre-approved list. I mean thank God he didn’t ask her where Ethiopia was or what Unicef stood for. Geez.

Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Philippe really give me cause for great, great alarm. They seem like John Travolta and Nancy Allen, the nasty teen shitbirds in De Palma’s Carrie. You know? Just kind of mean and devious and popular and tricky. I do not like them Sam I Am. They are having one over on us.

They are having one over on us. Mark my words.

I like Matt Dillon. Because he is cute and seems real and his eyebrows are very evocative. And he had the sense to kick Cameron Diaz to the curb so she could take up with That Thing.

I was dancing to a song last night. Guess who was singing the song? Snoop Dogg AND That Thing, Justin Timberlake.

I know, I get scared of myself sometimes too.

More importantly, Moira threw a SLAM BANG dinner party on Saturday night (with Jon, Sheila, Mary, Martin, Holly, Jeff and Suzanne), so we all got to have our buzz on, Hollywood be damned. We laughed and were smart asses and some people did shots of verrrrrrrdka and we slathered red caviar on crackers and supped on delectably marinated and roasted LAMB.

And it was lovely.

We talked about whether it’s racist to not want the fox, oh excuse me, the Arabs, to guard our henhouses and many other topics, like the Hot Dwarf, Peter Dinklage from The Station Agent, etc. FUN!

And we talked about That Sexy Brussels Lady—everyone likes your blog, hon, and if they didn’t know about it, we touted them on to it.

Hot Monkey Love: The Dream, the Reality, The Cure

2006-03-03T19:10:00.000+05:00

I had a supremely erotic dream last night about John Hurt.
Specifically, John Hurt as he was in Midnight Express. I am such a nerd I usually only have dreams about my actual husband, except for when I am having erotic dreams about Jack Black. Last night it was the full Monty with John Hurt, tho. But first I shaved his face with a straight razor. I guess I wasn’t into the whole “catfish” look, but I was into the whole cat-loving-dope addict-British accent-gig. Lemme just say, who knew John Hurt had such a package!

Anyhoodle, there was absolute flat-out, over-the-top, drooling, vibrating, insane, lord of the rings CHAOS going on at the hacienda this morning. All generated by this little super hero.
Looks angelic, doesn’t he? The li’l bow-shaped mouth, the white-blond locks. But lurking under that padded musculature is a little gremlin/sprite/king of naughtiness. He caused mommy to LOSE IT in stereophonic Technicolor Panavision. Like, I am a little hoarse. From screaming WASH YOUR HANDS! GO DOWNSTAIRS! But mostly, IIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN STOP IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MZA was in the living room looking, honestly, like a man who had just been thrown from his horse on a medieval battlefield, confused, dazed, holding one shoe, while Nick kept on a steady monologue about how our fish, Bob Dylan, reminds him of a shark when he eats his food because… his fish food smells like other fish, you know why mommy? Mommy? Because he wants to attack other fish so they make his food smell like other fish…MZA was looking for Daisy's other shoe while Ian was set on perma-whine.

I surveyed the scene, as I felt my sanity start to slip out the side door, like, You’re not keeping me in here anymore, bitch, I am OUTTA HERE.

My sanity has left the building.

I said, “Excuse me while I run SCREAMING out the door. Thanks family for making me LOOK FORWARD to work!”

I walked out of the house and I felt like Frances Farmer sort of mid-electroshock therapy—half in, half out. Carrying my #@!&% porcelain coffee cup because I left my metallic one at work. DRAMA!!!!!!!!!!

And really, I don’t think I have written QUITE ENOUGH about how much I hate casual Friday. My whole bed was STREWN with unsuitable detritus: a black blazer, two unwearable black turtlenecks (due to stains), a button-down shirt that does a peek-a-boo thing right at the boobs, a weird stupid “ballet neck” shirt I bought when I was high on crack from Eddie Bauer, and other myriad unwearable tragedies. I finally settled on…hmmm…WHAT I WEAR EVERY CASUAL FRIDAY. Some puce green button-down shirt that I can’t find a matching necklace for.

Changed jeans, give or take, 8 trillion times because all the $#$@@! Jeans from Old Navy cut you right at the ever-so-attractive point of your tummy—right at the BAGEL AND CREAM CHEESE level—causing a dollop of flesh to seductively heave over the side—flab overboard! That is seen beneath the button down, so I have to dig deep—go for the gold—the strrrrrrrrrrretch Gap jeans that are a little more forgiving on this post-spaghetti morn.

It’s a sunny day. It’s Friday. I finally came to a realization that while I have been mentally ill most of my life, it was nothing a consistent diet of hot monkey love couldn’t cure!

Put that in your crack pipe and smoke it.

War, Art, Possibility and Subconscious Expressions

2006-03-02T20:02:00.000+05:00

It’s not a good sign when George Will, the conservative’s conservative, is pissed and wary about the president and the war. I happen to love George Will—hear me out—because he is so fucking smart. I think he’s a pompous ass and I don’t agree with most of his politics, but I will take my hat off every single time for someone who can think and express himself as lucidly as he can. I have had this conflicted contradictory thing for George Will since high school. I feel like I am outing myself. This article is a prime example of how he sets his opinions in brilliant historical context and pulls no punches. He writes, “…the distinction drawn by the U.S. official in Iraq who, evidently looking on what he considers the bright side, told Eliot Cohen of Johns Hopkins, ‘This isn't a war. It's violent nation-building.’” Then he writes about the catch-22 of our soldiers who are “…blamed by an Iraqi population that is being infantilized by displacing all responsibilities onto the American occupation.”

George Will, Rhetoric of Unreality

Which leads me to art. I loved this piece because it shows what the seeds of all these “overprogrammed kids” might be sowing. Hmm, kids who are breaking right out of the gate into areas they want to work in! They asked one of the artists if she was concerned about having success this early in her career and she said she’s been taking art classes since she was 10. For olde Clydesdales like me, who are still struggling with the muse and trying to find a true place in life amid the unrelenting conflicts and demands on time and the tyranny of trying to manage the capitalist scheme, all the while staying true to some kind of artistic spirituality, this made me happy for the future generations. That maybe by being true to their talents and desires they won’t be caught in this never-ending vortex of partial dissatisfaction and unease known as this compromised adulthood.

Talk of the Town, The New Yorker

Then this made me sad. Sad to the core of my being because, I have often thought the scars of what has happened to us under this presidency will only come to us in art and in historical context. Because we are in the process of going through trauma and we don’t even realize it. Our whole nation is like a dreamer trying to scream in the night—mute, frustrated, unheard and not sure if we will ever be able to break through the illusion back into a world where things move when we touch them. This article is about how our collective subconscious is responding to the atrocities we are actively perpetrating overseas and about the daily internal strife we feel at this man who is leading our country into certain disaster while we all stand by, like the radiated victims of Hiroshima, unable to run fast enough or through the scrim hard enough to make the perceived fantastical illusion stop.

Red White and Bleak. The Whitney Biennial, By Blake Gopnik

From Here to Eternity

2006-03-01T01:47:00.000+05:00

Lord have MERCY! Jane has been on quite an adventure this morning. I always have jobs where I feel like Zelig—I pop in and out of all these weird yet fascinating scenarios.

This morning I had to be up and at ‘em so I could help out with a HUGE conference at Our Client’s Mothership. This is a really cool conference—it’s all over the news right now--but loathe would I be to identify it directly. We’ll just leave it at that.

Anyhoo, the Client Mothership is the mother of ALL Motherships and I have never really navigated its “ship” solo. So I got up at 5:00 a.m. And went downstairs and, because the Clydesdale has been feeling a little impinged upon lately, she had some oatmeal. And some coffee. And read the paper a little bit. And then looked at the clock and it was 5:35. Shit! Then 5:45. Still in my robe. Glass of orange juice. I NEED MY POTASSIUM, DAMMIT.

Take a shower. Get dressed whilst MZA semi-slumbers crankily—he’s mad because I make so much noise in the morning, etc. etc. However the Law of Mornings goes: If I bloody hell have to get up this early, I’m taking no prisoners.

I sandblast the Clinique products into place—maybe a li’l too much mascara? Cabaret anyone? Willkommen and beinvenue? With a touch of Roy Scheider in “All That Jazz” thrown in. IT’S SHOWTIME! Gimme a little soft-shoe…

Suddenly it’s 6:24 and I am supposed to be AT THE MOTHERSHIP at 7:00 a.m. And I gotta go through two rounds of security AND PARK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Have I become arrogant in my old age? Ignoring time like a diva?

I blend into the Beltway traffic, glide up some avenues, jog over a little and come to the Ship. I get to the security gate and glide thru—I have a “special badge” that is sort of like a decoder ring. Wave her through, she’s fine! HELLO DOLLY via Maxwell Smart!

I am terrified there won’t be parking. I drive right up to the huge building where the conference will be and I just pull in no problem. Hmmm. Then I breeze thru building security—look at that badge!!!

This was an all-hands-on-deck-command-performance kind of thing, so I helped out with anything and everything, but mainly finding people’s badges. Oh my. See I have a little “alphabet” problem, not to be confused with my “numbers” problem. I literally have alphabet dyslexia. And we had a lot of imperious dames on our hands!! Oh, indeedy we did.

We also had lots of Very Bad Plastic Surgery—I told my colleague it was a cautionary tale, as in: Don’t do it! Unless you want to look like a cat who’s been to a drunk taxidermist.

Furthermore, as I pointed out to my colleague, I think the idea behind plastic surgery is to preserve something WORTH PRESERVING. It’s not time to make those Helen Gurley Brown dreams come true—uh-uh. Basically, if you’ve got a face that’s worth the investment, then go fer it. If you don’t, suck it up. That's why they invented Valium--so you can relax and forget you're aging.

Oooooooooooooooooooo we had some imperious ladyloves on our hands. I saw one who was haughtily surveying the scene and I looked at her and thought, “I see your imperious bitch, and I RAISE YOU.”

Pass Lady Bracknell another cucumber sandwich.

And lemme just say this: If you are standing behind an “official table,” people just want to ASK QUESTIONS. I don’t care about what; they just want to ask them. Like, “I can’t get any reception for my cell phone down here. Do you think it’s better upstairs?”

I witnessed so many fascinating psychological tics and weirdnesses. One of the young members of our staff came up to me and said, “It’s like their whole world is crushed if we don’t have a badge for them.” And it’s true! People approach the table with the expectation that SOMETHING WILL BE WRONG and you feel the pressure and you search, and you get this pit in your stomach, like, “Oh shit, there is not a badge for this person,” and they look sideways like, I KNEW this would happen...story of my life…"It’s H-A-N-S-O-N…” and you’re thinking, Well if you spelled it “H-A-T-F-I-E-L-D" then we’d have a badge for ya! But you don’t! Soooooooooo, "Onsite registration is at the end of the table." And you motion toward the slum, the ghetto portion of the table, and they look at it like you are sending them to a manure heap for lunch. All pursed lips and torqued countenance.

It’s tough. It’s tough, kids. Then we had the Grand Poobah High Finicky Priestess. She was the prizewinner extraordinaire! So Huffy! So Pissed! So Indignant! Everything was ALL WRONG! Does Sylvia Hyde-Pierce-Plucked-Butt know about this? Well! When she finds out…” Yeah, right. We’re all quaking in our boots. NEXT!

I was EXHAUSTED. It’s a workout dealing with the public. And I must say, 85% of them were adorable and polite and sweet. Of course it’s the difficult ones that stick in your craw.

I stopped at Caribou coffee on the way back in because I was DESPERATE for a “treat,” a little soft cushion amid the drudgery, and I ordered a “shot” of hazelnut in it. I think just for the fun of ordering a “shot” of anything. Like I was in a saloon in the Wild West.

Gimme a shot Harry. Make it a double…

Improbabilities, Fatigue and the Desire to be Free

2006-02-27T19:35:00.000+05:00

I don’t know which is more improbable, that I played a cult-like dice game with the moms at Nick’s school Friday night or that I WON the cult-like dice game Friday night.

The cult-like dice game is a group of VERY saucy dames. The major criterion for a coveted invite, I believe, is a hollow leg. Check!

These dames can swill the sauce, lemme tell ya. But they also wield some very rapier wits, darts, barbs and jabs. They treat me like an innocent piker which, for those of you who know me personally, is probably hilarious.

There was talk of lipo, white girl hair extensions (who knew?), good boobs, flat roll up boobs, mini orgasms, weight loss and gain, midwyffery, and what to do with difficult children. All amid a steady flow of margaritas and cosmos. SERIOUSLY!

When I put Nick in Catholic school I envisioned myself as a perma-pariah amid a gaggle of Lily Pulitzer wearing suburban troglodytes. Not so! You seek your own level, as they say, and I have managed to find the smartass rebels! You see, the beauty of Catholicism is: It is the religion of the Italians and the Irish. PARTY!

Saturday I took the bambini to see my mother and that was nice.

Sunday was another improbable experience, Moira, Sheila and I took the younguns to see Clifford the Big Red Dog at the Warner Theatre. Mmmm hmmm. SCARY! There were lots of Washingtonian yuppies in evidence, “Abigail! Abigail!” “No, Jeremy, you may not have more cotton candy.”

I had no idea how the bambini would react/behave. It’s pretty much a crap shoot with any kid under 5. They did great! I was so proud. Ian sat there, rapt, and watched the whole thing. Daisy sat on my lap for most of it and clapped when she was supposed to.

It was emotional to see my kids loving the theatre—theatre was a big thing in my family—yes, a slightly psycho big thing. So to see their chubby cheeked little profiles, set against the ornate gold filigree of the Warner theatre, where I saw my first rock concert—Meatloaf--was sort of life cyclical. Yup. WEIRD! I also saw Lena Horne there with my whole family. Meatloaf, Lena Horne and Clifford. How’s that? It was also SUPER cute to see my lifelong compatriots, Moira and Sheila, all lined up in a row with all of our pups. It was fun. THANKS AUNT MOIRA!

We came home and it was kind of exciting because Nick went to “8 Below” with one of his friends, MZA stayed home and napped, and the bambini had their own special experience to share. We divided and conquered as a family and it was nice to all get together and debrief. You know?

We ate dinner at TV tables in the family room so we could see the closing night of the Olympics. (Real reason: So I could see the replay of my boyfriend, the lambchop Apolo Ohno, win his 500 meter race. Scrumptious!)

This morning came all too quickly. I can’t get out of bed anymore. I CAN'T GET OUT OF BED ANYMORE. The olde Clydesdale is fading, kids. I lay in bed this morning and thought, “Why can’t I get out of bed anymore?”

It reminded me of an old joke. This really old woman goes to the doctor and she tells him she has a big problem,

She says, "Doctor, I can't pee anymore."
He says, “How old are you?”
She says, “I am 95 years old.”
He says, “Ninety-five years old? You’ve peed enough!”

That’s it. I have worked enough. The olde Clydesdale is ready to be put out to pasture and chomp on oats and run free without the bit and the harness and the saddle.

FREE THE CLYDESDALE!

Happy Monday.

P.S.--As we were winding our way out of the parking lot after Clifford the Big Red Dog , I was behind a plodding green Range Rover (the Official Vehicle of Washingtonian Yuppies) and Ian, out of the quiet innocence of the back seat, piped up and said, "Could you go any SLOWER, knucklehead?!"

No idea where he learned such disrespectful epithets...

Beach Blanket Bingo

2006-02-22T23:10:00.000+05:00

We repaired to the beach--Ocean City, Maryland--for the long weekend. Swellegant! We got an ocean front suite because we could afford it! Because it's the middle of winter! Kids ate free at the restaurant--great concept.

There was a sinister Romanian waiter I remembered from when we were at the beach two years ago. MZA asked him some questions and said, "My wife remembered you." The waiter, Adrian, looked at me with these shark cold blue eyes and said, "Your wife has a good memory."

Mmmmwaahahahaha.

We had a jacuzzi tub, two large remotely controlled cabinet encrusted TV sets, two queen beds, two DVD/video players, a full kitchen, a BLENDER, an indoor pool and a roll out couch. Think of the seaside glamor of it all!

Please note the hot dog below and assess the "glamor" for yourself...

My job has turned the job that ate Tokyo the past coupla days, so here are some snaps for now...more on the Heartwarming Key Ring Story (I know! The suspense is killing you!) and the marginalia of sanity as it relates to being in a suite with three kids for three days (and nights).

Jane Fabulous

2006-02-17T19:07:00.000+05:00

Jane Fabulous regained a little footing yesterday.

I tend to plunge into the depths of despair and become convinced that everyone hates me, etc., if I make a mistake. I HATE making mistakes. But then I realized, duh, you know, I am not a copyeditor.

I had my three month review with my boss—whom I respect and like so much—and I finally had to say to her, “Is everything all right?” Which was code for, DOES EVEYONE HATE ME? And she just kinda looked at me like, “Huh?” And I explained that I thought my colleague was a little torqued because I had missed some inconsistencies in a document that is this big fat deal that’s going to be professionally printed and all that. I said, gulp, “I am not a copyeditor, you know.” And she said, “I know! I know a copyeditor is a whole different thing. Unfortunately, we just don’t have the budget in this contract for a copyeditor, so it falls to you.” AND SHE JUST TOTALLY understood.

But not everyone does!!!! I had to tell my colleague, let’s call her Sally—and her reaction was kind of funny, like I had just used the Twinkie Defense or something. Or said, “I don’t do windows,” or “I’m not a writer but I play one on TV.” It just didn’t wash. And I could hear her snickering and telling her assistant about it. Like, heh heh, ooooooooo, the little princess is a “writer” but she’s not a “copyeditor.” Heh heh heh. It’s a little awkward.

The rest of my three month review went swimmingly, however. And that made me feel better. My boss just looked right at me and said, “You’re smart.” Which made me want to cry a little bit. Isn’t that silly? But honest, my chin started to quiver slightly. Not because it was an affirmation or something, like—finally! Someone figured out that I’m smart! Not like that. But in a way like she appreciated me. And she appreciated that aspect of me and she GOT SOMETHING ABOUT ME.

The reason that made me happy—and a little tearful—is that it has taken me a fuck of a long time to get to this point in my career. I have had some really bingbangawalla jobs in my life.

The two years I spent on this one project almost put me in the grave. Seriously. Like nut farm walla. You can read about some of those stellar experiences here and here.

While I was going through it all, I went to this FABULOUS 40th birthday of a friend of mine and I got to see all my excellent women-dame friends. I have this one friend that I just adore and I don’t get to see her too often and she asked how I was doing and I said, “Well, I hate my job.” She looked at me—she’s a big advocate of my writing—and said, “There is no reason for you to be in a job that you hate. None at all.”

For some reason that was this gigantic epiphany for me. I really thought about what she said. She was saying that with all I have to bring to a job, there is no reason for me to be miserable. THE MUSIC SWELLS!!! Doves fly free. Water laps on the sand.

I am a big believer in making a positive out of a negative, tho, and during that two year project I learned A LOT of things. Oh kids, I learned a lot of things. And that project is the reason I started this website—because I HAD to have a creative outlet in my life. I HAD to write and I knew I couldn’t write stories right then because my life was CONSUMED with this project, so I started this so I wouldn’t go completely nuttyfuck.

I didn’t write about the job, per se, or my colleagues because the job itself was pretty interesting and I loved my colleagues. I just HATED Ratalie, my boss. She finally left and we all thought—we were like the munchkins when the Wicked Witch of the West died—I AM SERIOUS—that NOTHING could be as bad as Ratalie. Until Maralago the Dishonest Water Buffalo came. She will go down in history as THE vilest entity I have EVER worked for. I would tell my mother about the Dishonest Water Buffalo and she would be LIVID. She would say, “That makes me so mad I want to come down there and snatch her baldheaded and hide her hair.”

That’s my favorite expression of hers.

Good things happened from those two difficult years. I learned how to work my ass off and meet deadlines and WORK MY ASS OFF. And it has toughened me and made me a lot more confident in what the hell I can actually accomplish.

I’m sorry, this seems to have turned into a Stayfree commercial inadvertently.

Anyway, the moral of the story is: KEEP GOING!

Here’s one more poignant little acorn from that whole experience. When I first started on the project, it was in this horrific 17 story monstrosity in ROCKV-I-L-E Maryland. It was one of those ghastly all-inclusive Starship Enterprise kinds of buildings with its own dry cleaner and florist and BANK and stuff so you would NEVER HAVE TO LEAVE the sinister enclosure.

I was on the 17th floor and I had my own large office overlooking all the broccoli treetops of suburban Merland, and I would sit in that office and cry and cry and cry. I’d have to go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face and I had to keep a double-powder compact of Clinique foundation in my purse to hide the red splotchiness. I had this one colleague who would always ask, “Um, are you OK?” Yeah I’m fine. I’m just having a slightly protracted nervous breakdown is all.

I didn’t have anything to do when I first got there (and oh, that was to change), so I started re-writing this story and it just about ripped my heart doing it. That story means so much to me now—because it’s about a real person, and I loved writing it, and I loved re-writing it, and it is representative of that time I spent on the 17th floor of that wretched building, crying, and pumping breast milk into little plastic bottles for my baby Daisy.

That story, “Sam Flute” is coming out this summer. Watch this space.

From the ashes comes the phoenix.

Sometimes.

Cranky: The Opera

2006-02-16T19:49:00.000+05:00

There was pandemonium in the house this morning. I went downstairs and MZA was standing there, GRUMPY, and said, “How hard is it to take the paper off the butter?”

And kids, we were OFF to the races.

Here was my clever retort: “If it’s not so hard why are you complaining?” GOOD ONE, eh?

Then he started in with the, “I am so tired of cleaning up after all of you…”

lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala...

Nick said something and MZA looked like he was about to jump out of his skin and said, “Sshshshshshsh!!!!!!!! Ian is SLEEPING!” (We treasure those dulcet, silent times of Ian's slumber). I said, "Welcome to Daddy's kingdom." Nick said, "I don't think I want to stay in this kingdom."

Then I was upstairs getting dressed—wearing a black turtleneck and just my tights; Daisy was on the bed talking about “conies” (translation: “coins”); Ian was also on the bed, all ruffled rock star long blond hair, saying things like “I had a dream last night? It was scary! I was going to Nina’s? And then...”

Nick came in as I was standing with my tights-clad back to the repertoire, staring into the closet, waiting for a Hail Mary outfit to present itself. Nick said, “Hi Mommy!” I said, “Hi, welcome to my butt.” Ian said, “OH MY GOD that’s iss-gus-ting!"

Then MZA was changing Ian and Ian kept saying over and over and over again, “I want my Redskins shirt, Daddy? Daddy? I want my Redskins shirt. Can I wear my Redksins shirt? Daddy? Do you know where it is? My Redskins shirt?” MZA said, ALL RIGHT! OH MY GOD, THE DEMANDS! Here! Here is your Redskins shirt!”

I think he was exasperated.

As I was leaving, Daisy spilled her yogurt smoothie on her jammies and MZA groaned, “Ooooooooooo, Daisy!” Which made her cry. (It hurt her feelings). I peeked back in the dining room and said, “Goodbye guys,” and Ian said, “Goodbye Mommy! Have fun!”

I came to work and had The Bad Email from The Client (rabbit pulled improperly from hat sort of thing); followed by a Mistake I Missed on The Agenda.

One of THOSE mornings where you realize that instead of being Jane Fabulous, you are actually a DECREPIT FAILURE with no talent or future or raison d’etre.

You know how it is. The Disillusionment Rhapsody. Which always seems to be preceded by the Delusional Round of Happiness. I was JUST saying to MZA last night, “This project is going really well!"

I jinxed it didn’t I? Just HAD to say it.

Fortunately I bought some Chex Mix yesterday on my way back from the Client Meeting, so now I am drowning my sorrows in a gross mélange of salty weird flavors, washed down with a Diet Coke.

Pass me a disillusionment hanky, wouldja?

OK—here’s the creamy nougat center: I am staring at the two Valentine’s projects Ian and Daisy made, and honest to God they are the cutest dern things I have ever seen. One is a panda made of heart shapes with a sticker that says “Hottie” and the other one is a ladybug with spooky eyes that has a sticker that says, “Kiss kiss.”

Yes, we rely heavily on the poignant treasured totems of love that signify what REALLY MATTERS in this random world that puts too many pretzels in Chex Mix when everyone knows the butter laden Chex squares are the best part. So much time, so little justice.

PS—did you find yourself wondering how fast the Republicans would have eviscerated Clinton [or insert any Democrat—Kerry will do] if he had been hunting illegally, nearly killed his hunting companion, and then buried the story? Hmmmm? That’s all I thought about on the way into work.

Optimist Goth with a Side of Brilliant Short Story

2006-02-15T18:24:00.000+05:00

Ooooooooo we’re all in Meeting-With-the-Client mode this morning. Mustn’t tarry, what ho!

I can’t really write anything, although in defense of Trixi the Dominatrix, I must say that I LOVE my hair, even tho Nick still contends I am trying to look young for my age (MZA chivalrously disagrees).

I think what Nick is really saying is, I don’t look like the other mommies. Which is what he told me one time. He was talking about these two (very nice) mommies and I said, “Am I like them, Nick?” And he just looked at me, stupefied, and said, “No, you’re not a traditional mommy.” MY FAVORITE COMPLIMENT!

So the other day he was asking me what "category" he fell into because at school they are going through the Breakfast Club classification nightmare, as in, "jock," "geek," etc. I said, "Well what category do I fit into?" He regarded me steadily and said, “You, Mommy, are an Optimist Goth.”

Optimist Goth.

That is the name of my new band.

I am so not “Goth,” for crying out loud. It’s just because I wear black all the time.

I am wearing pumps for the Client Meeting and I feel like the houseboy in La Cage Aux Folles who keeps veering all over the place and falling and walking crooked because he has to wear shoes. It’s a little scary. They are Dansko pumps, tho, and sing MUSE they are comfortable. A wee bit too high on the heel, which puts me into Wilt Chamberlain territory, but that’s OK.

One final thought before I tout you onto this short story that KNOCKED ME OUT yesterday: Bode Miller--party boy, frat-goob, hype-buddy--needs to dust off his copy of the Myth of Icarus. That is all I hope.

Now, read this story by Tao Lin. Note the elegant dissection of life in real time. This, ladies and germs, is talent in its purest form.

My Sweet Comic Valentines

2006-02-14T18:11:00.000+05:00

Vague Entropy

2006-02-13T22:32:00.000+05:00

Hair cut on Saturday at new strip mall place. Foolishly assume it will be Hair Cuttery rates. Quickly become disavowed of this notion upon sight of CRANBERRY HERB TEA decanter and smart chocolate biscuits in the waiting area.

Suck it up.

Thank God I put on make-up.

All umber Italianate décor. Stylist is named “Trixi.” Quell all smartass porn name thoughts/comments. Trixi looks like Phoebe Cates WITH a really large ass.

I fall under the sway of the new salon. Honestly, It’s like falling in love—all those tremulous, hopeful thoughts—will this be my new place? So convenient to home! So close to Trader Joe’s! Is this a find? Is it…SALON LOVE?

Trixi and I converse. It is effortless—the salon blind date voodoo pas de deux is going so well! I like her! I tell her I do! I say, “I am so glad I found you!”

And she says, “Well, you were lucky. We have a new receptionist and she doesn’t understand…[can’t hear this part, self-preservation deafness kicks in]…I don’t normally take appointments…such short notice…”

Crest.
Fallen.

She asks what I want my hair to look like. I point to a picture of Joss Stone. Take it as a good sign she doesn't laugh.

She asks how I wear my hair and I say, “I like it tousled—scrunched, I DO NOT want it blown straight.”

She says, “I am going to blow it straight today so I can see the cut.”

DOMINATRIX!

Retreat into lily-livered salon spineless coma. OK. Blow it straight. WHATEVER.

She blows it straight. Another stylist comes up and stands over me, curiously inspecting my hair, they talk about me like I’m in surgery, under anesthesia.

“What color did you use?”

“Just a toner, 10 and 20 and then…”

The other stylist is so close to my head it looks like she’s going to pick lice off my scalp and eat it. Fellow mammal grooming techniques.

I look at my visage, framed by ridiculous Desperate Housewives straight ass cinnabar colored tresses. I specifically said: I DON’T WANT ANYTHING TASTEFUL! God it’s hard to get someone make you look cheap.

God it’s expensive to have someone not make you look cheap. Sticker shock reality—this place, cleverly disguised in a strip mall, is just as chere as a salon in Georgetown.

Come home. Nick takes one look at me, puts his arm up in front of his eyes, and says, “Scary!” MZA says, “Um, it looks good? Why do you always let them blow it straight?”

That is a REALLY GOOD QUESTION.

Nick says, “It looks like you’re trying to look younger than you are.”

O swift cruel dagger of guileless youth!

The next day, after our "nor'easter," I see my neighbor building a snowman with his progeny. He humors me with stolen across-the-fence banter and says, “The snow is really packing well.” I take the bait, foolish naïf that I am, and blubber enthusiastically, doped with the potential of neighborly bonhomie, “I didn’t think we would get so much!”

He shrugs, dismissively, and says, “We’ve gotten more than this before.”

Which, you know, causes my heart to sink. Everything’s just a little, shall we say, deflated, anticlimactic. Everyone is hurting my feelings and THEY DON'T EVEN REALIZE IT!

I need a balm for my soul in the form of cheerfully touted products. I decide that it is time for Trader Joe’s. Fresh affordable zinneas, heavily scented soap, unbleached flour, virtuous, organic, wholesomeness. Nick comes with me. Just so he can go to Starbucks for a de-caff vanilla confection.

We’ve been having the Mrs. Puff Existential Breakdown all morning. Grasping at straws of other potentialities. I even thought this morning, “Maybe California?”

I think that was because of Trader Joe's—like I was thinking that if we move to California everything will be this well-meaning, cleverly packaged friendly fare, that’s all good for you, in warm weather, and I won’t have to face all these vague disappointments.

In the feathery white bright snow.

Love and Spirits

2006-02-12T00:28:00.000+05:00

Some people have the year of living dangerously. Apparently I am having the Year of the Emergency Room.

A couple of weeks ago, m’daughter Daisy was hospitalized, and then Friday morning my sister called to say my mother had fallen and they were taking her to the emergency room.

I drove to Sibley Hospital, which always opens a Pandora’s Box of emotions—it’s where my father was first diagnosed with cancer, it’s where Moira’s mother and brother were treated, it’s where my two babies were born—Ian and Daisy.

Birth School Work Death.

“Winter” by the Rolling Stones was playing on my CD player. Sometimes I want to wrap my coat around you…It’s funny how we take comfort in the long dormant words of a song. I am glad Mick Jagger wanted to wrap a virtual coat around me.

I don’t know what I am facing. Will my mother die this weekend? That is the big bad horrible thought. That mortality question. I am driving, and it’s over long-traversed terrain—the upper skirted layer of DC, Bethesda, Westmoreland Circle, Dalecarlia Parkway (which we used to sail down backwards as teens—daft).

I arrive at Sibley—the unintentional harbor of so many events and emotions. They have no record of my mother’s admittance of course. Because that is The Way Things Go these days—this arbitrary painful indifference—a mélange of crapped-up details and false starts and no accountability.

I did not waiver. I knew she was there—the grand piano tinkled in the lobby, played by the white-haired, red-coated volunteer—the place is manned by older sophisticates in that way, a pleasing comforting atmosphere.

I find my mother in one of the shower curtained-off booths of the emergency room—she is somehow regal, elegant, even in her hospital gown. What my mother possesses is this absolutely artless joie de vie—which she pronounces precisely like the Oklahoman that she is, no pretense, all bad French, which makes the statement, in its way, even more lovely.

My mother is gallant. The ultimate optimist. All pumped fist greatness and just a slight patrician gentility—without a trace of ostentation. My mother has lived all around the world—Singapore, Japan, Australia, and India—and in DC in between, since 1948, AND YET if you ask my mother, to this day, “Where are you from?” She will say, proudly, unabashedly, “A small town in Okalahoma called Ada.” I thought about naming Daisy Ada. Maybe I should have.

I walked into the ER booth and my mother’s face lit up, “Oh, Lele, you came!” Is what she said. “You didn’t have to come! How did you get away?” I looked at her, over the metal barricade of the semi-stretcher, and the tears just started to fall—I knew I shouldn’t but I just couldn’t stop—and this is what kills me about my mother—she knew, she just knew that I was heartbroken to see her, the strongest person in the world, so vulnerable and so she did not say one single word about the tears. So I wouldn’t feel bad about crying. As in, “We’ll just brush it off! Right-o!”

The physician’s assistant leaned over my mother’s bed gurney and said, right in front of her, “Is she baseline?” And I just looked at her, like, I’m sorry did you just speak to me, right over my mother, without acknowledging her presence? And, you know, I could not just refer to my mother as this inanimate marginalized human being, right there in front of her. And I said, “Baseline?” And she said something about –is she always like this is this normal?

I dealt with it somehow but then I went up to the woman later and I said, “You know, it’s kind of weird to talk about my mother like she’s not even there.”

That seemed to hit some long forgotten chord of humanity in her. And she wasn’t a bitch at all—she was really nice and professional, but there is always time to learn bad habits of desensitation and unconscious callousness. Isn’t there?

My mother had fallen and had lain on the floor of her well-appointed apartment for an undetermined amount of time. So they needed to do tests—X-ray, CAT scan, blood work—to determine if the fall was organic or not. Or something.

They came to take her for X-rays and I asked if I could come and they said no and they rolled her off and she said, “Oh please let her come!” And I stood there.

She came back and we had the nicest time. She said, “Tell me about the little people.” And so, relieved, I started telling her a phalanx of stories about my kids and she threw back her head—deeper into the rubberized hospital pillow—and laughed these great life affirming optimistic thrilled laughs and I stood there looking at her in wonder—like, Oh my God, I have this person in my life who loves me and loves my children so much.

MZA has been my guide in all of this older parent agony because he lost his mother just before Ian was born. He tells me over and over again, but in the most beautiful, subtle and distilled way, that no one will ever love you like your mother and once she is gone, that is it. You can have children, a husband, siblings, but you will never experience the love you receive from your mother, never.

Which is good to hear because, as Americans I think, we all too often become consumed with moving on to the next chapter and closing off before we should.

I don’t know, my mother’s spirit really infused me with hope yesterday. Just watching her talk to the nurses—old Foreign Service hat tricks that might as well be Sanskrit they are such lost arts—drawing people out and getting them to talk about themselves.

The nurses were lovely, but they kept calling her “hon” and “sweetie” and “darlin',” which my parents would be the first to tell you is better than “Late to dinner,” or other epithets, but for some reason when you’re in a hospital watching this one-time fabulous person be trivialized by people who don’t even mean it—all the old saws come out—attention must be paid!

Let’s not forget that this person, with the gray hair and the slipped off tie-on gown, was once a horseback riding girl with her own airplane who flew WWII fighter planes and met dignitaries all over the world and voted Democrat all her life and read books and made people laugh and threw dinner parties and made people feel lovely and at home in her luscious house for more years than any of us can recall.

My father used to say to her, “Margo, you are generous to a fault.” And these are the stories that get lost and buried in the misconceptions and sound bitten conveniences of life.

She kept asking questions and no one in the room got to know about her—and all her life had encompassed. I stood there as a silent, but respectful, witness.

Mrs. Puff Goes to Paris

2006-02-09T19:22:00.000+05:00

I love you from the bottom of my pencil case…

I love those lyrics—“Song for Whomever” by The Beautiful South.

At dinner last night Nick said, “I want to be the ambassador to Thailand and win the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Talley ho!

It’s so weird to be shepherding someone through life who is so much smarter and more motivated than you are.

I said to him this morning, “What is that thing Mrs. Puff says? And he said, “ You mean 'Sorry I’m late class, I was driving into work and that whole I’m-going-to-be-doing-this-for-the-rest-of-my-life thing reared its ugly head’?”

Um, yeah. That thing.

Then Ian, who’s three, yelled, “YOU’RE GOING DOWN TUBBY! Next stop, Davey Jones’ locker!”

SpongeBob plays a big part in our lives.

As does Jean-Paul Sartre, naturellement.

I was reading this website of a guy who irritates me; he seems like the James Frey of the Internet, all these hokey quasi-sarcastic morality plays with canned “dialogue” and pat endings. And, as he was recounting another one of his suspiciously tidy life scenarios, he said to his co-worker, in order to explain the moral bankruptcy of mankind, “"Hell is other people,' I say quietly, quoting Jean Paul Sartre.” At which point I wanted to hurl my computer monitor across the room.

I mean, anyone with a half a keg for a brain knows that’s Sartre, even if it’s only instinctively. As in, who ELSE but a disaffected Frenchman with a tight beret would say something like that? Even if you don’t know who said it, there's always Grandmaster Google.

Here’s my Mrs. Puff dilemma, and I recognize that it is not really a dilemma. Am I starting to sound like JEAN-PAUL SARTRE?

Tres bien!

Anyway, I work for a polite, intelligent, highly motivated woman that I both like and respect. No need to adjust that monitor! And I am working on an truly interesting project that will, I hope, benefit many women. It’s a publication.

So this past couple of weeks I have been working with another writer and a graphic designer and I was also working with a graphic designer for my site (behold its glorious wonder!), and it was all this back and forth and creativity and working toward something—the professional equivalent of a simultaneous orgasm. Am I starting to sound like D.H. Lawrence?

Good.

So there’s no dilemma. And yet there is. But maybe it’s the stupid kind of “American” dilemma where we never know how to be satisfied and we just whine meaninglessly (Being and Nothingness!) about things because we are such an insipid immature culture that we have nothing better to do than compare our inner torment with a fat cartoon fish.

Hmmm.

I guess I could just kick Oprah’s erratically toned ass for EVER introducing the concept of LOVING what you do in life.

I suppose it's time to dust off the Gratitude Journal. Maybe I should watch a Lifetime movie too? Just to get the Gratitude Juices flowing?

Or maybe I should just read about what a shit Sartre was to his ladylove Simone de Beauvoir here so I can drop faux intellectualania around while I question the throbbing emptiness of the human condition, and my coffee cup.

My Top Three Tearjerkers

2006-02-08T18:49:00.000+05:00

I've been memed! I don't even know what meme means! Belinda asked me to do it, and believe me when a Best New Blog winner taps you, you jump! I was a finalist in the category...it was an honor just to be nominated...I guess I have to return that Bob Mackie gown...

ANYHOO, herein lie my top three tearjerkers--the movies that make me cry, A LOT.
Note: the answers are in the comments.

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Interplanetary Quandries

2006-02-07T18:47:00.000+05:00

One of my favorite New Yorker cartoons is these two people walking down the street and one says to the other, “What is this endless series of meaningless experiences trying to teach me?” Which brings me to today. I HATE it when I start questioning my direction in life. Oh yeah, I never stop questioning my direction in life.

Lately I’ve been feeling like I’ve been nailed into my bed at night—pushed deeply into the feather bed, the silky pillow—locked into a down-filled embrace of slumber.

I went to bed at 8:50 p.m. just because I wanted to be abed—cushioned, enclosed, warm, comforted. So I slept and awoke at 3:00 a.m. Lay awake until 4:30 a.m., not sure if I would be granted the blissful seduction of the second sleep—that fickle taunting bitchtress who all too often does not oblige. But I was pulled in—all laudanum airy unconsciousness.

Woke up in time to exercise. I wondered why in the HELL it is so hard to get out of bed—is it because it’s dark and everyone is all still snug in their beds? Is it because I know I have no choice? That I must get out of bed at 5:50 a.m. so that I will have that minimum 30 mins. of AEROBIC activity on the elliptical, with the Washington Post ruffling around me like paper in a hamster cage?

I walked up the stairs—all huffing and puffing and sweating and feeling VIRTUOUS and incredible but actually thinking—WHY DON’T YOU DO THIS EVERY DAY??? Exasperation. And then I had the Bad Thought—the kind you want to keep at bay—as I ascended the stairs from the basement I thought: Is it better to just keep going on this endless rat-in-a maze mode so I can’t stop for long enough to think about it?

Oh, yeah, we want to step AWAY from those kinds of thoughts. But we know, deep in our heart, that this routine—the 9-5 razzle dazzle—has worn down to the bone. The jobs have improved over the years—I do things that I like to do and that I am even good at, and yet. And yet.

So what do you do? Move to New Zealand? Move to a manse in Kansas with a fireplace in the kitchen and more square feet than the Taj Mahal? Because if you sell your house in the DC region, everyone knows you can buy a PALACE anywhere else in the universe. Except New York City. Ah, these tantalizing challenges.

DC’s my hometown, though. I mean as hometown as if I had grown up on Main Street in Pine River, Minnesota. It’s hard to think of DC as anyone’s “hometown” because it’s so marble-y and formal and political. But I have the same kinds of soft focus, hazy happy childhood memories of a banana seat bike and riding to school along Macarthur Blvd. in Palisades as anyone else.

I grew up in the leafy northwest region of Washington DC. And I can never extricate myself from this place for very long. It’s my home. The fat lush green trees in the summertime, the heat, the stupidity. My heart lies here—over the sulfuric brown Potomac River—I connect with something far more primal and undiscovered here—the river, the trees, the palisades above the river. The monuments are just trinkets—marble sugar cubes dotting the landscape.

My father is buried in Arlington Cemetery, so he’s across the river from me now.

Everywhere I drive; no matter how many concentric circles outward, has a place and a memory for me. It’s my place in the world. But maybe to achieve more wisdom you have to leave that world and learn a new one. I saw a bus ad for the Lonely Planet guides this morning that said, “Don’t let the world pass you by.” And it beckoned.

That is the state of MY union this morning.

Stupor Bowl Funday

2006-02-06T19:24:00.000+05:00

Intellectually I know I should be a snot about the Super Bowl, but I’m not! I have some weird transgressive gene that allows me to appreciate large, crass, commercialistic, violent, morally vacant events, as long as they have a certain “spirit” to them.

MZA and Nick have treated me as sort of a pariah for these fascinations and Nick was this disdainful petit intellectual last year—he was only missing the beret and a haughty sneer—when he told me that the Super Bowl was STUPID and he certainly was not going to watch it.

Well, the American cheeseball machine has prevailed and this year both MZA and Nick were interested in the game. Ian was too, except he thought the Redskins were playing and he kept singing a really loud, bastardized version of “Hail to the Redskins.” Daisy was game and adorable about it all. Like, oh! My family seems to be excited about something, therefore I am too!

MZA offered to make his triumphant cinnamon beef with noodles (from Cooking Light) for dinner but I, in my American Velveeta Wisdom knew that This Would Not Do. So I did the only right thing and hotfooted it up to Safeway for Pillsbury crescent rolls, Li’l Franks, tortilla chips and Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches.

I came home and dumped the Li’l Franks into a sieve, to drain that disgusting hot dog juice off of them, and opened the crescent rolls and said, “Hey Nick! You want to learn how to make pigs in a blanket?” “Yeah!” And I put everything on the counter and he set about making them and did a bang up job. We baked them and they were SO GOOD! Nothing like a little puff dough and cow entrails to make a day festive.

I also bought a “Family Size” Stouffer’s lasagna AND I made garlic bread. As penance I made a wee salad of fresh baby lettuces too.

I set the bambini up downstairs with “Toy Story” and Nick, MZA and I watched the kickoff and were planted in our places for the game. We SCREAMED and clapped and said, “OH NO!” all together. Nick said, “Oh, that was a bad sack!” Wherein I got to display my incredible football acumen (that I learned from my friend Eve, who is extremely knowledgeable about football) and explained that it was not, in fact, a “sack,” but just a “tackle.” You want to be seriously scared when I am explaining football to you.

MZA is a natural and very gifted athlete who could give a shit about watching televised sports (reason #812 to love him madly). He is from Uzbekistan where soccer reigns supreme, and he doesn’t even like watching that on TV. But we were rapt. Then the Rolling Stones came on and I thought I was going to DIE! When they broke into “Satisfaction” we ALL got up and shook our tailfeathers, Ian did a dramatic bass player knee-dive and played some air guitar, Nick bopped around on the couch and I made a raving dork of myself. We all pumped our hands into the air and strutted like Mick.

This morning my colleague said to me, “Why don’t they get younger acts? They need to make room for new talent.” AS IF! Only the greatest rock band of all time. Hmph.

I got out the TV tables and we watched until the very end. Nick said, “I know it’s totally corny, but I want to watch the post game ceremony.” AND WE DID TOO! And Nick’s favorite player won MVP. After it was all over Nick* leaned over to kiss me goodnight and to thank me—because he got to stay up late and bake snacks and everything. I wondered if I should regret that I hadn’t coddled his effete rejection of these kinds of lardass pointless pastimes, but then I felt OK about it. He had learned a fundamental tenet of what makes America great (in a way): We don’t take ourselves too seriously, and when we do, it’s over a football game.

*Nick is 8 and he is a “good boy” but that doesn’t really cover it. He is such a complex mixture of things—he is fun, outgoing, polite, responsible, and deep.

We let him stay up for the Super Bowl, but he had to take a test today to qualify him for a special program he wants to do—one of the mommies recommended it to me. So I was getting ready this morning and I peeked into his room and he was already putting on his uniform, in the dark, quietly, so he wouldn’t wake up Ian. He doesn’t make a big deal of anything, he doesn’t drag his feet, he’s 8 years old and he gets ready on his own and gets his breakfast. He didn’t complain about the test or get nervous—he was just game, with it, all there.

We drove to Bethesda, parked. We were coming down the steps of the parking garage and he said, “St. Elmo?” And I said, “Yes, it’s the name of the street. Do you know who Saint Elmo is?” And he said, “I believe he is famous for fire—a green fire.” I can assure you, his Mama had to turn to our good friend Google to verify that and, as is often the case, he was right. St. Elmo’s fire is a blue or green aura caused by an electrically charged atmosphere.

We walked to the place. We waited in a waiting room and then a crisp little Asian man came out, took his form and said to me that he would be finished in 60 minutes. I looked at him, as we went through the door, and I said, “OK, I’ll be back in about an hour to pick you up. Good luck Sweetie!” And the Asian man kind of laughed.

I came to pick him up and he was just sitting in the waiting room and he looked up brightly and showed me a magazine and he said, “I’m reading a really interesting article on U2!” I said, “How did it go?” And he said, “Good.” We went back to the street and walked to my office and he said, “It was actually really fun!” And he told me about it and about how he thought he had done. He is confident, but not arrogant.

I brought him to my office and introduced him to a few of my colleagues. My boss said, “Do you have a brother?” And he said, “I have a brother and a sister.” And she asked him if he did his homework every day and he said yes and she said, “You’re so good! What motivates you to be so good?” And he said, “I don’t want my brother and sister to surpass me.”

I dropped him off at school and, ever since he was little boy, he has always run to school—he used to run with MZA toward his daycare place--so today he ran toward the school, rang the doorbell and was buzzed in.

Dada Friday

2006-02-03T22:54:00.000+05:00

Friday: A Haiku

Bloody hangnail
someone near me is wearing THE COLOGNE OF THE DAMNED
is it wrong to crave a Mai Tai on the way into work?

It is a bright sunny day. The frightening vertiginous spires of the Mormon Temple looked—dare I say—menacing this morning, all gilt and spike and crazy angelic flair. Who is the angel atop that marble behemoth? Please, God, don’t make me Google it. Is there a form of methadone for Google?

I'm back. The angel is Angel Moroni (we don’t have this angel in Catholicism, clearly a fraud) anyway, he is the one who buried those crazy gold Mormon plates!

Thoughts of lunch transpire, a revelatory sandwich from Café Gelato, or a sparing maguro sushi with an accent of California roll from Hinatu across the street?

Do you ever get randomly irritated that people keep walking by your office?

Here’s an excerpt from a story I am trying to get published:

Cynthia alludes to her life a lot. She doesn't think I can grasp all the finery and her descriptions always come with careful footnotes. It's my fault. I have a hard time telling people about my life. I don't say things like, My father drank Pimm's Cups, Black and Tans, Campari, and other potables after a round of golf at the Tollygunge Club. I don't mention his chestnut racehorse Pocket Money, the steak sandwiches under the rubber trees, or polo at the Calcutta Pony Club. These are silent facts.

I also leave out the part where my father's small plane goes down over Bombay and I have to fly home alone above his casket with a card pinned to me that says, "Unaccompanied Youngster."

Wouldn’t you want to read the rest of that? I must find a home for it. Believe me, I’ve tried.

It’s a silent, sunny, unseasonably balmy day here in BEAUTIFUL downtown Bethesda.

Isn’t there a dance called the Boney Maroni?

Catatonic Nervous Breakdown Near-Miss

2006-02-02T19:40:00.000+05:00

When you’re feeling like you’re about to catapult into an infinite chasm of charging, relentless despair (you know how that happens), I recommend watching a movie on the Lifetime Channel. Seriously! You will be so overcome with shame, disgrace, and humility that you will want to join the Mormon Church and run for the Senate and take over the world in small bite sized increments.

See, we took the bambini out for dinner last night which we NEVER, EVER do. We are not an “out to dinner” type of family. Even though I grew up in a resolutely “out to dinner” type of family.

The dinner was in celebration of Nick’s stellar third grade report card that included 7 “E’s”—his first in math, etc. We were really proud of him and I wanted to do something, well something a little reminiscent of the gala celebratory nature of the way I grew up. As a semi-spoiled high priestess of softly framed indulgence and half lit glamour. Pass me a Shirley Temple and some lace anklets, wouldja?

ANYWAY, I told Nick that we would take him to Tara Thai, which is a kind of kid paradise in that it has an undersea motif—all blue walls and “jellyfish” halogen lights and an attentive lovely staff and etched fish in glass walls and big splashy painted booths and stuff. It is a mini-chain here in our DC region. We took him to the one in Bethesda once and he LOVED it. He had some zany kid cocktail and he loved the satay and a fan was born.

Well, there’s a much bigger one in “Rotten Rockville” (as Moira calls it) and so I proposed that location because I knew it would be “splashier” and give us more kid bang buck. Oh, we approached it, and the neon sign beckoned amid the large suburban nicely appointed outdoor mall type area. Nick said, “That is the BIGGEST Barnes and Noble I have ever seen! And there’s a Starbucks!” Sing miracle muse! A Starbucks! I love seeing what kids get excited about. Nick said, “This is going to be great!”

We walked in and they were all floored by the “fancy” imaginative décor. The fabulousness of it all! Who says you can’t live through your kids’ wonder, eh?

We ordered chicken with fat noodles for the bambini and when the waiter delivered it Ian said, “I thought you were bringing mini dumplings!” Ah, the fanciful tales we have to tell kids. Nick ordered DUCK on crispy noodles with a side of sweet soy sauce and MZA and I had Panang beef and Pad Thai. AND IT WAS SO GOOD! We had foofy drinks—a mai tai and a gold margarita (one each)—and the bambini had pineapple juice.

But as we were ordering, Ian provoked Daisy and she started to WAIL and Ian kept talking talking talking and I felt myself sort of have that internal goddam implosion, you know? Where you just want to CRY and dissolve and crawl back into an uncomplicated portion of your life where thoughts were completed and conversation flowed and you could LOOK AT THE MENU and THINK and and and…It just reached this fever pitch of, “We are going to go home RIGHT NOW” and then it subsided, just as fast as it began—like a summer squall. And I regained my equilibrium and the food came and the waiter was so kind, so lovely, so generous, SO THAI. I LOVE THE PEOPLE OF THAILAND AND THEIR FABULOUS, GORGEOUS COUNTRY. Let it be known.

We came home and I gave the babies a bath and we wrestled them to bed and then sat down, semi-catatonic from the food, the foofy drink and the EXHAUSTION OF TRYING TO CORRAL TWO SMALL BABIES AND ONE FANTASTIC 8 YEAR OLD THROUGH LIFE and on came a Lifetime movie.

You see, you have to be semi-catatonic in order not to change the channel when it’s a Lifetime movie.

The women, Mary Louise Parker (my lover Billy Crudup’s erstwhile ladylove) just gets the diagnosis that her TWIN sons are autistic. Subsequently, every door slams in her face, her boyfriend ditches her, she loses her job, her social worker, and YET they PREVAIL!!!! They hone their savant gifts into magical fantastic dreams and goals! And mom falls in hot monkey love with Aidan Quinn, and thus we learn a meaningful, timeless lesson of perseverance and fortitude and how to assuage small tremulous nervous breakdown fissures by watching stupid cornball movies that manage to gnaw into our souls like little blessed termites, teaching us lessons we thought our callow, hardened flesh could no longer absorb.

The State of the Union: Translated

2006-02-01T18:34:00.000+05:00

In a complex and challenging time, the road of isolationism and protectionism may seem broad and inviting, yet it ends in danger and decline.

“isolationism and protectionism”=withdrawing troops

The only way to protect our people, the only way to secure the peace, the only way to control our destiny is by our leadership.

“leadership”=killing people

So the United States of America will continue to lead.

“lead”=kill people

Terrorists like bin Laden are serious about mass murder and all of us must take their declared intentions seriously.

I can’t translate that because I still don’t understand how Osama bin Laden’s attacks on New York and Washington justified our invasion of Iraq. In Bush’s simplistic cowpoke jargon, that dog still won’t hunt.

They seek to impose a heartless system of totalitarian control throughout the Middle East and arm themselves with weapons of mass murder.

“They” an amorphous, nameless radical Islamic blob, meant to hustle Americans into thinking that “The Middle East” is just one gigantic powder keg itching to decimate Americans. “They,” the vaguer the better—all the better to bomb the shit out of whomever we choose. Iran, watch your back.

Their aim is to seize power in Iraq and use it as a safe haven to launch attacks against America and the world.

Would “their” aim to seize power in Iraq have ever existed if we had not initiated a war against Iraq? Hasn’t our saber rattling provocative aggression caused this nasty hive to agitate and consolidate against us? In other words, hasn’t our challenge backfired? Have we not enraged the enemy to the point that they are banding together and finding a central cause and unifying themselves against us? Have we not abetted this galvanized force?

Lacking the military strength to challenge us directly, the terrorists have chosen the weapon of fear.

Because there weren’t any “weapons of mass destruction.”

Yet there is a difference between responsible criticism that aims for success and defeatism that refuses to acknowledge anything but failure.

The emperor’s response to the little boy who noticed he wasn’t really wearing any clothes.

Hindsight alone is not wisdom.

Never admit that what you did was wrong.

Second-guessing is not a strategy.

Ignore the facts.

American leaders -- from Roosevelt, to Truman, to Kennedy, to Reagan -- rejected isolation and retreat because they knew that America is always more secure when freedom is on the march.

"We" (Democrats) should not withdraw the troops BECAUSE our beloved Democratic presidents (Roosevelt, Truman and Kennedy) wouldn’t have liked it. (What is Reagan doing in there anyway?)

Keeping America competitive requires affordable energy. And here we have a serious problem: America is addicted to oil, which is often imported from unstable parts of the world.

Isn’t that like the pusher saying to the junkie, “Say, bro, you have a problem...”

Do Existential Breakdowns Love Company Too?

2006-01-31T18:59:00.000+05:00

It is a bleak, dreary, rainy, mud-sludge kind of morning. I have been sick for the past 4 days with a vague compendium of ailments—swollen glands, sore throat, night sweats, and an epic, consuming fatigue. I think it is known in layman’s terms as "Januaryitis." Because January is the cruelest month. Let’s get that straight once and for all.

The weather has been manic depressive, which is nice and also alarming. Nice in that it is 64 and sunny in January (that was yesterday), alarming as to what is causing it. Global warming, a pressure system off the Atlantic coast, or the apocalypse? You decide!

Wendy Wasserstein died and that was sad on many levels. She is responsible for the first words that I uttered on stage in college: “I just tasted my menstrual blood!” Yeah, I know. Gross. But what an entrance, eh? Actually, my favorite line in the play was, “The only people who have penis envy are other men.” Brilliant!

The play, "Uncommon Women and Others," was described as "funny, ironic and affectionate" by Edith Oliver in The New Yorker, who added, "Under the laughter there is ... a feeling of bewilderment and disappointment over the world outside college, which promised so much, and with their own dreams, which seem to have stalled."

She wrote about artificial insemination and the process of having her daughter at 48:

“While I was being injected with hormones that could make a tyrannosaurus give birth to a foldout couch..." Then she said that the beauty of having a child at an older age is "She doesn't have to live her life for me."

OK, that just broke my heart. I read the essay she wrote about her 8 year odyssey to have a baby in The New Yorker in 2000 and it was very painful indeed. I remember it so vividly and it is so cruel that after all that she had to say goodbye to her little girl.

Oh shit, I am getting all emotional and that won’t do. So let’s talk about what happens to your TV when you’re gone all day. Remember how you used to think your toys actually played in your room together while you were gone? You say you never thought that? And that it’s a sign of advanced delusional insanity? Oh…

Anyway, I was home sick yesterday and I turned on the TV and it was like another planet had invaded that austere chrome box in our family room. Ellen Degeneres was wearing an appalling pair of what appeared to be white golf shoes and running around the stage imitating dog show walkers.

The audience was gleaming and laughing and applauding, there were myriad inside jokes—it was as if the WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD WAS laughing and saying, “You see Lisa? This is what we do all day while you are carrying slop piles to the gutter and toting massive bales of hay! You see! While you are sweeping the cinders from the hearth into a tidy pile we are laughing and guffawing and playing and imitating dog walkers on TV!! You silly little bee! Do you see what you’re missing?”

There is a parallel universe.

Then at 3:00 I turned on Dr. Phil. OF COURSE I TURNED ON DR. PHIL. It is mandatory stay-at-home policy. And there were several enraged couples all going at each other in a really unseemly fashion. The one wife told her husband, “I want a divorce!” And the husband said, “Fine. Go find someone else to f%$# your fat ass.” Um, ouch?

Therein lies another parallel universe.

Then Oprah came on and it was AGONIZING. She was conducting this excruciating interview with a stand-up model dad who went seriously south and started robbing banks, shagging other women and doing drugs. He was caught on tape robbing a bank and so his three sons turned him in.

Dad was up there in his orange prison suit, via satellite, while his sons were white knuckling it on the couch and Oprah and this little teeny weenie black shrink were shaking their heads at the mastodon screen saying, “Bill, you haven’t found your heart. And until you find your heart, you won’t understand! He doesn’t get it, does he?”

I told MZA I wanted TiVo once and for all. And he said, “So you can tape OPRAH? No way!”

Hmph.

It’s raining. The only email in my inbox was an email from someone reminding me for the third time that I need to send in some paperwork. And. I almost cried. I just. Almost cried. And it was stupid and I struggled to put everything into
p-e-r-s-p-e-c-t-i-v-e.

I worried about Bob Woodruff and his wife and four children; I felt so sad for Wendy Wasserstein’s daughter, and about the lights on Broadway dimming in her honor. I thought about triumph and victory and gratitude and empathy. Then I thought that I wanted to stop on the way in to work for a “reward bagel.” But I talked myself out of that and opted for the browning, virtuous slices of Fuji apple MZA prepared for me.

It’s raining, the sirens are blaring down the street, my kids are nestled in another’s care, and I am watching the water bead into a mosaic of drops that is steadily obscuring the parking garage across the street.

Rats and Bitches

2006-01-26T19:11:00.000+05:00

It is COLD this morning in our Nation's Capital. Brrrrrrrr. I trundled off to my car and started the engine and a BIG FAT RAT scurried down my driveway and leapt into a crack in our brick retaining wall. ZUT alors!

This is what I luv about MZA—I am Very Tall—5’11—and so not really a shrinking violet, but I got out of the car and knocked on the door and said, “I just saw a RAT!” and MZA, because he is a buff scrumptious manly man, came outside and walked right up to the offending crevice in the wall and jammed a big plank in there. He was not afraid of any old RAT!

I scampered back into my car where Annie Lennox was wailing this exquisite song, "Into the West." Ian came outside in his socks, wearing a blue sweater with "CAR" written on it, and waved and I blew him a kiss and he blew me a kiss and I mimed catching it and he threw back his head and laughed.

The rat made me think of Ratalie, whose best friend was Retro Slut.

I have this very good friend who reads my short stories and gives me effective insight on them, but he gives me a really hard time about, well about being a misogynist. Isn’t that weird? Seriously, can a woman be a misogynist? Discuss.

He said, “I kind of wish I could apologize for all the nasty little bitches you have had to deal with over the years so you would stop punishing them in your fiction.” OUCH! And punish them I have! And it’s been fun!

But, actually, I don’t feel like I’ve been punishing them, it feels more like I have been purging them from my system in a cathartic, exorcistic kind of way, you know?

The truth? I have been way more hurt by WOMEN than by men. Seriously! I love men, I really do. I love women too, and I am very fortunate to know many spectacular dames. Honest engine. But they’s a lot of women out there with axes to grind—issues, competitiveness, jealousy, pettiness—and men are not always privy to these dastardly traits in women. They tend to get the neediness that manifests itself in nagging, clinginess, and desperation.

They don’t get the undermining and the measuring and the greedy eyes that scout for flaws because women love a flaw. Why? Because some women cultivate little interior abacuses in their heads and they slide the little beads over—counting each flaw, click, click, click—in an ancient mathematical form of feline calculus. Each reappointed bead represents a flaw in you, but an asset in them. Listen for those little tell-tale Mandarin clicks, girls!

I don’t like competitiveness. I DON’T LIKE COMPETITIVENESS, SAM I AM. On a boat with a goat or under a moat.

Ah, but let’s cleanse our minds of all these negative thoughts on this sunny frigid morn, and concentrate on the LSDs…I mean…LDS’s (that’s Latter Day Saints, to you)…the temple
was gleaming this morning, all shimmery gold spires and sharp pointed edges—a parachutist's nightmare.

SURRENDER DOROTHY!

Xoxoxo, and je t'aime les femmes…parfois.

Jane’s all over the map this morning

2006-01-25T18:40:00.000+05:00

My new art project will be to photograph the Mormon Temple,*
which I drive by EVERY MORNING on the Beltway. Because it looks different every single day. Once you get past the incendiary, weird, dissonant, predatory aspects of a gargantuan TEMPLE placed strategically into the path of every DC yay-hoo and power gonk in town, it becomes kind of beautiful, in a disturbing yet undeniably pristine white reflective marblish kind of way. It is basically the antithesis of the Taj Mahal, which is all about reflecting love—you know, into eternity. The first time I saw the Taj Mahal I was seven years old and we rode up to it on a man-drawn rickshaw. BUT THAT IS ANOTHER STORY.

*I did not take this photograph. (But I COULD HAVE).

Speaking of stories, I wrote this story one time for a class and I had these scenes in India and it was, say, in the 1970’s or something, and this guy in my class wrote—indignantly, on my story--that it had “inaccuracies” because man-drawn rickshaws were "no longer around" in the early 1970’s. They would have “surely been replaced by motorcycle-powered rickshaws." Yeah, well, they would have “surely been replaced," except that they “weren’t” and I know that because I used to ride around in man-drawn rickshaws all the time, because that’s just the sort of imperialistic young papaya eating princess I used to be. Doncha know.

Then I was literally swooning this morning, listening to Jeff Buckley tell ME “Everybody Here Wants You.” I know. I talk about Jeff Buckley a lot.
But I love him. I know him. And I decided, quite spontaneously, that Jeff Buckley’s version of “Everybody Here Wants You” is the SEXIEST SONG IN THE UNIVERSE. And I am going to put it on my Top Ten Sexiest Songs List.

I also want to do a Movie Top Ten List because I have seen every single movie EVER made. And I feel this qualifies me superbly. OK, there are some huge gaps from about 1992-1998 because I was in a land far far away during those years and I missed out on loads and loads of pop culture iconography.

But, BEFORE that, I had seen every movie ever made. And I mean “real” movies, not dumb arcana like “The Blob,” although I have seen “The Blob,” and only because my man Steve McQueen is in it. I LOVE Steve McQueen. My favorite Steve McQueen movie is “The Sand Pebbles” with Candace Bergen. Steve McQueen makes me think of Sam Peckinpah, whom I also like very much. My favorite Sam Peckinpah movie is “Straw Dogs” WITH the phenomenal (and I am not afraid to say it) Dustin Hoffman and Susan George.

Toldja I was all over the map.

And, to close things out, last but CERTAINLY not least, is a brilliant column today by Harold Meyerson. Because any day the headline “Bush the Incompetent” appears, it is a GOOD DAY.

Pot Schmuck

2006-01-24T19:28:00.000+05:00

I am the only person who signed up to bring something for the pot luck lunch on Thursday. Which is kind of like the sign up sheet said: Only Real Nerds Sign Here.

There my name sits, lonely, tinged with dreaded office cooperative spirit, the jauntily scripted “Vegetarian Black Bean Chili” branding me, permanently, as a corporate toady, who thinks only about lunch and food.

Lesson learned: ALWAYS wait for the sign-up sheet to get some ink on it before you implicate yourself as a team spirited, vegetarian, office wanker goon.

What Fresh Hell is This?

2006-01-23T19:04:00.000+05:00

I got home from work early on Friday and went by to pick up the bambini. They were out for a walk, though, so I came home and had a few uninterrupted minutes to chat with MZA in the living room. The phone rang and he came back out into the living room and said, “We have to go right now. Daisy had a seizure.”

Daisy had a seizure. Those words come at you kind of backwards, as in your mind simply can’t quite masticate that kind of information. But your body kicks in and we were out the door and up the block to Nina’s, the daycare provider. We walked in and another mommy was there, pale with her mouth in an “O” shape and m’sweet Daisy Faire was sitting on Nina’s lap all ghostly pale and her eyes were all wrong and she was listless and looked like she was about to lose consciousness.

We piled Daisy and Ian into the car, raced to Nick's school to pick him up, and headed for the emergency room.

Nick said, “It’s not serious is it?”
I said, “She had a seizure.”
“A seizure! That’s when your brain can’t control your body!”

Leave it to Nick to explain it all for us.

Every red light burned a brand onto my cornea—we slipped down Sligo Creek Parkway, where we have spent much happier times on family jaunts, and drove up to the hospital. I stopped the car and MZA pulled a limp and stoic Daisy from her car seat and headed in with my insurance card in his hand. I parked and came in with the boys. We did some initial paperwork and then went to the triage nurse.

MZA handed Daisy over to me and I held her noodly little body like I was never going to let her go. This is what went through my mind: I thought about Terri Schiavo, of all things. I really did. I thought of how insensitive we all were to demand that those parents just pull the plug and be done with it—and believe me I was the biggest advocate for them to pull the plug—but all of a sudden I just knew I’d be the kind of mother who would never let her daughter go. Oh yeah, there is no other kind of mother.

I explained everything to the triage nurse and, you know, in these times of apathy, disregard for human frailty and general lack of kindness and manners, I was afraid I would not be able to properly convey to this person how worried I was and that my daughter had to be seen RIGHT AWAY. But guess what? Providentially, the nurse absorbed everything I said and reacted with just as much calm urgency as I felt the situation necessitated.

They got my little girl a room and checked her vital signs—fever of 105, which is what caused the seizure. She had a fever that morning and so we gave her Motrin and she rebounded so remarkably we thought everything was OK. We told Nina the situation and Daisy was fine all day, but then they went on a walk and the Motrin had worn off, and her fever must have spiked, and she just collapsed.

So we went back into the pediatric ER and, as we were walking by the nurse’s station, there was a big stuffed Patrick from SpongeBob and my wee sick little girl perked up and said, “Pa-krict.”

We lay her down on a gurney bed. She put on a green hospital gown with the “doggies” on it and they took blood and then put her on an IV for 45 minutes. Her little hand was in a blue splint and a nasty plastic vial was pierced right into the flesh where we had put a kitty cat tattoo last week.

The little girl across the hall was named Lily and her daddy had a cell phone. Oh purge and be damned the cell phone! Especially in the emergency room!

“Well, Lily is now officially a Cagney…”

I heard his voice, drugged with the expectation on the other end of the line and the excited importance of being able to deliver the dramatic news:

“She broke her arm! Yeah we’re in the emergency room…”

I saw that some fun and wacky resident had blown up a green surgical glove for Lily and so I blew one up for Daisy and she was dee-lited.

The doctor came in and she looked EXACTLY like my colleague C, whom I adore. Isn’t it funny how that happens sometimes? It’s like God sends a little emissary or something—here, here is someone, an instant archetype for you to process. Or maybe psychologically we turn people into something we can comprehend or feel comforted by.

It turned out to be the flu and so we needed to give her Motrin every six hours for the next 24 hours and Tylenol in between if needed. The IV drip finished. I asked the pregnant nurse when she was due and she said April.

I asked what she was having and she said, “A little girl.”
I said, “That’s wonderful. What are you going to name her?”
“Penelope, Penny for short.”

That’s cute (sort of). I said, “I have two boys and they are wonderful, but there is something special about little girls.”

Daisy had a double orange Popsicle, cookies and sips of apple juice. She laughed and shot her legs up in the air and then she wriggled out of the hospital gown. MZA took the boys to the cafeteria for French fries.

When it was all over, Daisy and I came walking out of ER and Nick came running up to Daisy and gave her a big hug. Ian came running up to me and, just as I expected, wanted to know where HIS green balloon was. I told him I had it in my purse—airless.

When we got in the car, I had to tell Nick the dinner party we planned for Saturday had to be cancelled. He was really upset—three of his friends were supposed to come with their parents and little sibs. That’s huge for an 8 year old. We’d all been looking forward to it.

Then Nick said, “Did you get a balloon for me too, Mommy?” Uh. No. And he laughed and then I turned around and I said, “Are you OK?” And he burst into tears. I FELT SO BAD. I said, “I only got one for Ian because I knew he’d have a cow about it. I didn’t think you’d want one!” Then a light bulb went off and I remembered my colleague C—clearly a blessed symbol of the day—had given me a small model Mercedes and two classic Mercedes car calendars for the boys. Yahoo! I told Nick I had something special for him when we got home.

We got home and dosed Miss Daisy with the first of a cycle of Motrin. I told her, inexplicably, that it was “Winnie the Pooh’s medicine!” Ian coughed and said, “I have a cough! Can I have some too?” Cough cough.

I kept hugging Daisy and she looked at me so wisely, so intently, as if she knew we had really been through something together. When she was on that gurney bed with the little blue splint and the needle jabbed into her hand, I sat next to her on one of those black stools with the wheels, and for the first time in my life, I knew I could sit by her side for as long as it took, without being tired or uncomfortable or impatient. I sat next to her and held her hand and she looked up at me, for really long periods, right into my eyes, and I knew we were in the process of reinforcing a powerful, mysterious and lifelong bond.

You say "Quintessence," I say "Nirvana"...

2006-01-19T22:33:00.000+05:00

Last night, as I was midway into a bite of broiled salmon, Nick said, “I’ve been thinking about the connections between the Greek zodiac and the Chinese zodiac because the Greeks talk about reaching ‘quintessence’ and the Chinese talk about the yin and yang. So I really think there are a lot of similarities there. What they’re both talking about is reaching some kind of balance, don’t you think?”

Hmmm. Complete insertion of fork in mouth, chew and swallow.

“I’m really interested in astrology—Daddy is a mutable sign and I was wrong about Daisy, she is a water sign. So we have three water signs in the house! Ian is a fire sign, a lion, and I am an air sign, twins, which means I have two sides to my personality. I told everyone in my class what their signs are and what they mean.”

The other day we were in the car and Nick was talking about “crepuscular rays” and if I had been driving, I would have driven off the road BECAUSE I had just put "crepuscular rays" in a short story that I am working on. I said, “Nick, what are crepuscular rays?” And he said, “The light at sunset.” OK then. This is how I put them in my story:

Teddy looks at the sky, with the Tien Shan mountains in the distance and says, “Those are crepuscular rays, see? It happens when objects like mountains or clouds partially shadow the sun's rays. The light rays are actually parallel, but it looks like they’re merging, see? Because of the dust and haze, the light rays seem to converge toward the ‘antisolar’ point. That’s the location on the horizon opposite the point where the sun is setting.

Nick also likes to listen to my iTunes on the computer downstairs and he said, “Mommy, you like Eyeless in Gaza, right?”

I said, “Yeah, why?”

“He said, “Eyeless in Gaza, they must mean Samson, right? Because he was eyeless in Gaza.”

Ever since Nick was little, I have been afraid someone was going to knock on my door and say, “I’m sorry, but your son is the Dalai Lama and he’s going to have to come with us.”

Last night Larry Hagman, as Major Tony Nelson,
came to me, clear as day, except in black and white. It was so weird that even in my dream I was like, “Hmm, what is the symbolism of seeing Larry Hagman in my dream?”

Then Jeannie appeared, also in black and white, and they kissed and Larry gave her a little tongue. Honestly, it was joyous to have Major Nelson and Jeannie, from the early episodes (hence the black and white), just kind of appear, unbidden, in my dream.

Because you see I had a wee crying jag last night, due to Overwhelming Responsibilities and Deeply Rooted Internal Fears about mortality and the epic loving lasting impact my mother has had on me: you know, that sort of thing.

And so I had the Mondo Cry, fueled by full moon lunacy and a little red wine to soothe the rough spots.

This morning I looked all gallant and ravaged, rising from the ashes like Mrs. Miniver—stalwart! What ho!

I think I dreamt about Jeannie because my mind was softening the blow. Dreams, like endorphins, have a calming effect, apparently for me, watching an old TV show is what soothes my troubled soul.

Quintessence is the fifth and highest element in ancient and medieval philosophy that permeates all nature and is the substance composing the celestial bodies. Um, I got that out of the dictionary, if you call Nick, he can probably explain it in more depth.

So we have a mother’s love for her son, a daughter’s love for her mother, intensified by abstract worries, and a mother’s enduring, reassuring love for her daughter—all these cyclical forces of the patterns in life guiding us today, along with the waxing moon, heavenly rays of sun, and the never-ending quest for balance between the opposing sides of our nature.

My Life in Contradictory Spurts

2006-01-17T21:45:00.000+05:00

Thursday—all day meeting at downtown DC Hilton, nicer than I remember, so veddy corporate, but somehow not nauseating. How was it thus? Je ne comprends pas! I sat there trying to be cynical. I was trying to be a disaffected, nihilistic, jaded, bored bitch (OK, I didn’t have to “try” very hard). And yet…I couldn’t summon the emotions. Because, it was all kind of OK.

My colleagues are all Very Smart and funny and—not one single solitary person asked a stupid question. At an all day conference! I know. It was blinding.

Whilst there, I had a small internal requiem for Trader Vic’s, which used to be an anchor joint at the Capital Hilton where some of us used to swill large quantities of Mai Tais, Back in the Day.

I then metro’d up to Close-in Suburb, where I reside, to meet la famille for dinner at Lebanese Taverna to congratulate brilliant son on a fantastic presentation, memorized AND in costume, of the biography of Alexander the Great.

Back downtown for Writer’s Group—love them. Lots of help on new story entitled “Orientation.” Not to be confused with previous story (CLEVERLY titled), “Spatial Disorientation,” that will be included in a collection of “linked” stories destined to meet with great publishing fanfare. In my mind.

Friday—ascent (descent?) into mysterious cult-like suburbial tradition. I played a dice game (you read that right) into the night with a buncha moms from Nick’s school. And. It. Was. Fun. I know, I can’t believe it either, but there you have it. Stunned by the progressive nature of the women, drinks, etc.

Saturday— Brookside Gardens—mama’s Zen meditation haven—geese, ducks, sculptures, children in relief against Asian influenced landscape—lunch, naptime.

Finish painting Nick’s Pinewood derby entry, place authentic WWII fighter plane decals. Pinewood Derby at Nick’s school hall. Also, completely suburban, wholesome. And. Fun. Really fun! A “family night.” Who knew? Nick’s car: absolutely lovely design, however, not so fast! Dad swears next year he’ll be a contender.

Sunday—I don’t know what we did on Sunday. I did make a surreptitious trip to Michaels’s craft store because I suddenly “needed” circular knitting needles and more yarn—to add to my bottomless bag o’ yarn. I think a bag of endless yarn is symbolic—isn’t there some Native American myth about yarn and the moon? Basically I have enough yarn to make a ball as big as the moon. Discuss.

Moira confessed to some kind of “craft” weirdness as well. I told her maybe we should just have a big Dork Convention and get it over with. We both agreed, however, that once you get into buying Styrofoam shapes to make things out of, it’s too late. We have standards, after all.

Monday lovely Monday!!! A beautiful crisp day…bathe the babies, the rest of us shower and spit shine…pick up my mother and whisk her to Chevy Chase…brunch at the renovated Clyde’s…along Louis Vuitton row…drop off my mother and drive along the curving familiar road along the river to
Great Falls, past the Old Angler’s Inn…to the prehistoric rippling falls. The drama. Nick said, “Along with Minnesota, Chincoteague and a lot of other really great places, I think this place is one of my favorites.” He sat on a rock surveying the rapids…it is a little emotional when you see your son taking in exactly same awe-inspiring landscape you took in as a kid.

Daisy wore a little navy blue admiral’s coat and looked like a girl version of John-John Kennedy. Everyone that saw her smiled. And probably thought about John-John Kennedy. I am fairly certain no one looked at me and thought of Jacqueline Kennedy. Although I was wearing a particularly jaunty pair of tortoise shell shades.

I think some internal vibe clicks in when your last kid turns two and a half. Because ALL OF A SUDDEN we are all sleeping through the night and on weekend mornings, instead of being cruelly aroused (for the day) at 5:00 a.m., I can now sleep IF I CHOOSE until 8:44 a.m. I just don’t feel so irreversibly “on-call,” you know? Like when they’re small you feel guilty just for going to the bathroom because you have left your spouse “on-duty.” You know? Seriously.

Raising kids has pretty much had me pistol whipped for the past eight years. Give or take. And now I just feel a slight “give” in the tightly wound fabric. Like I can read two paragraphs in the Saturday paper as opposed to one sentence, chopped up, belligerently by the “I want” opera.

It was a really nice weekend.

Sexuality, Autobiographical Fiction and Misogyny

2006-01-10T19:48:00.000+05:00

I am fascinated with the distillation of experiences. Which leads me to autobiographical writing. If you go to any reading or read any interview of any writer ever in the history of man, the question looming large will be, “Is any of this autobiographical?” At which point the writer will get squirmy BECAUSE the implication is: If it’s autobiographical, then it means it wasn’t difficult to write. Period. It is the same supposition people make when they charge through art galleries, look at the abstract art, and proclaim, “I could do that!” Yeah, but the point is: You didn’t.

The only response I can offer to people who somehow think you are cheating by writing what you know is: Try it. Write about your own experiences. See if it’s “easy” or not. See what you come up with.

There is a thinly veiled snobbery of people who believe “real” writing is a writer creating a world they know nothing about. That is “real” writing. But I think people are compelled to write for different reasons and to express different emotions. I also think that most writers will tell you that every single thing they write is grounded in some way to their own lives. I’ve had people press historical novels on me or recommend sweeping fictional tales—and I can see the look in their eyes: This is real writing, not that self-absorbed shit you churn out.

Then there is the hierarchy of what constitutes “real.” You’re not a real writer until you’re published, but then you need to publish the novel, the collection, the next novel. Then of course there are the friends and family who stand by you no matter what—who’ve had faith from the beginning. But there are also the secret Iago people who think you don’t have talent and you are not “real” because you have not achieved a predictable pattern that they can discern, in the provincial language of American lethargy and diminished attention span.

I don’t write about my life randomly. I write about what I’ve seen and what I’ve experienced. It’s like Stanislavski—seriously!—would you say that an actor who draws on his own experiences to portray a character’s emotions is acting “autobiographically”?

Americans like to “discount,” on all levels. Yes, they like a bargain, that kind of discount, but they also like to minimalize and chip away at achievement. Like the people who aren’t in relationships who wager internally on the true success of other couples. It takes the sting out of not accomplishing something yourself, organically, truly.

I base characters on real people I have known, a lot. Because I think it’s the characters that drive the plot, that drive life and that drive the motivation. Characters are the people you remember, the people that resonate, for good or bad, in your life. I also think people respond to things that are real. I know I do. That’s why I like Matt Klam. Not hearing too much from him lately, eh? Ever since The New Yorker got its new fiction editor who apparently doesn’t like misogynistic vérité.

Do I think Matt Klam is a misogynist? No. I just think he is very sophomoric in what he can handle sexually—a common attribute of American men weaned on the predigested airbrushed perfection of skin mags and botox porn. And this is not the simplistic argument about loving the person “inside.” It’s about sexuality that is not mired in presentation—as in, if it looks good on paper, it must be good. Sexuality is about a lack of inhibition and I can’t think of anything more inhibiting or distracting than dressing the experience in Hollywood’s conception of sex. All upturned rear ends and babydoll poses and strapping tool belts. So simplistic. So Madison Avenue. So nocturnally devoid.

Sex by its very nature is about imperfection and I think Matt Klam has serious issues with imperfection. I think it’s a skewed Puritan problem in that we need to dress the ugly dog of sex in cute clothes, like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, to make it less menacing, more easily digestible. It’s a very American thing. Lingerie as icing instead of something tactile and rippling.

The reason I like Matt Klam is that, man, you get on that merry go round and you are spinning and you cannot believe what he is saying. It is so bad, so disloyal, but so REAL that it’s hard to turn away. I’m glad I’m not married to him (I know that’s vice versa) but I still like his stories. Just like I like early Philip Roth before he became an insufferable bastard who really is a misogynist—if you have any doubt, read Sabbath’s Theater and get back to me. That really is a book I threw across the room. But I used to love Portnoy’s Complaint and The Professor of Desire.

So today’s lesson is: If you are going to be a misogynist, it’s better to be a funny misogynist, and if you write mean nasty things about people you have known in your life: Change their names.

The Post-Holiday Suburbial Nosedive

2006-01-09T18:57:00.000+05:00

Is it Monday morning or am I hallucinating? Oh, we are DEEP in the heart of the post-holidays nosedive.

The weekend was a crazy blur involving an extremely ill-advised jaunt to “Hobby City,” a store near the gigantic Amish Farmer’s Market in the part of Montgomery County (where I live) that is still agricultural in nature. MZA said he needed to take Nick to "Hobby City" to get more supplies for the Pinewood Derby contest, upcoming in the exciting world of Cub Scouts.

Yes, that Uzbek husband of mine is now squiring his lad around for weights, primer, wood paint, etc. Then I made the critical error. I said, “Why don’t we all go?” Uh-oh. The minute I walked in the store I realized my error. There were tons of toys, cars, airplane models and then a whole THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE section. Ian is psycho for Thomas. P-S-Y-C-H-O.

So the whole time there was the Can-I-Have-That-Thomas symphony going on, braided with, “Can we go to Endonnells (translation: McDonald’s) for lunch?” over and over and over and over again. Then Nick dropping the Pinewood Derby kit box, MZA getting slightly apoplectic, “IF YOU LOSE ONE NAIL…” EnDonnells EnDonnells…Luftwaffe gray paint, flying tigers decals ($15). The paints, decals, weights and lubricant came to $47. That’s when you just hand the card over and chalk that puppy up to “Parenthood.” Whateverhood. My kid’s car is going to be good, DAMMIT. As in, if we cut corners now, with the Pinewood Derby car, WHAT DOES THAT SAY ABOUT US AS PARENTS???? MZA is not completely on board with this rationale. Because he is a little more normal than I am. Apparently.

Nick’s Pinewood Derby car is going to be a tribute to his grandmother in a way (hankie alert). It is going to be based on the P-51 Mustang that my mother used to fly as a WASP in WWII He is going to call his car the P-441 (the name of his Cub Scout pack) and the plane’s name will be the “Sweet Bernadette” after his school. One of the other dads carved his plain block of wood into the shape of a plane with a gnarly little rudder/horizontal stabilizer in the back. He’s really excited about it.

Sunday was SCOUT Sunday (are they all Scout Sundays? Am I not paying attention?) and I had the wicked brainstorm that I could just drop Nick off at church and not actually go in!!! This was a stroke of brilliance. Then MZA, Ian, Daisy and I all went to pick him up at church and it was off to:

Bad Feng Shui Playground. I hate this particular playground, but MZA likes it because it is bigger and offers more options. I hate it because it is badly situated, on this weird incline, and all the wood jungle gyms and mazes are so densely constructed that you have the semi-permanent feeling that your child has been abducted. You know, THAT feeling. And the ground, for some reason, is ALWAYS uneven—this time they were putting down mulch in some kind of half-assed frenzy—and so you’re always walking around panicked, with dry mouth, tripping over the uneven terrain, calling out for your babes, squinting into the relentless sun, and trying to detect their small forms amid the grey wood labyrinthian cages. It's great. Let's do a playdate there sometime soon.

I always get testy at this playground, and then am ready to leave, and MZA is NEVER ready to leave, and of course the kids aren’t—I try saying I have to go to the bathroom, I am hungry, um…I am ready to go. And he just looks at me and keeps catching them as they come down the inappropriately large slides squealing with happiness.

Daisy sat on the elephant sculpture, in the Flintstone-like wood car, on the camel sculpture…oh it was so fun! Why am I such a mean Mommy? I FINALLY prevailed and then Nick had to find the coats and down the slide 1…8…10 more times. We got home and I slopped up some grub. Babies to bed, Nick to Cub Scouts meeting, Ian doesn’t nap anymore so he played while I entered the post-holiday nosedive comfort movie-palooza. That would be Joan Crawford in The Women followed by Cary Grant and Doris Day in That Touch of Mink. Mommy sat on the couch, with the newspaper “nearby,” just in case, kind of knitting, while Ian built his Thomas the Tank engine tracks. Miss Daisy slept blissfully from 1:00 until 4:30. Nick and MZA came back from scouts and then on to Nick's first basketball game of the season!

Green curry tofu leftovers (better than it sounds) for dinner with fried Asian dumplings for the kiddies. More nosedive-palooza TV watching of Desperate Housewives, as MZA and I try and construct an all-American TV “routine” in our lives. Because we feel this is important. Then a fabulous “pastiche” episode of Grey’s Anatomy that was the best hour of TV I have ever watched in that I did not need to use even one molecular whisper of brain energy to swallow an entire season of a show whole. It was like eating a pre-digested smorgasbord. Yummy!

After dinner I coached Nick on his 3rd grade HUGE project—a biography of Alexander the Great. Nick has the best reading comprehension skills of anyone I have ever met. He read the biography of Alexander and retained the whole thing, basically--battle strategies, bloodlines-- and then distilled from all these fantastic conquests that Alexander was a merciful man. Nick, in his own words as Alexander, said, "I don't want to be remembered for my death. It's not just about me. I want to be remembered for the battles I won, the lands that I conquered and the loyalty of my army." That being said, he is not so good at staying commited to the whole process—because certain things come easily to him, he is not as intent as he should be on the follow-up (hmm, can’t imagine where he got that).

I helped him put together an outline and notecards. He was kind of dawdling and I, honestly, heard myself saying the following, “STAY ON MESSAGE! Theatre time is double time!” He tuned up to cry and got frustrated…wonder why with Attila the Hun running things. STAY ON MESSAGE. Then he delivered his monologue and it was fun. Way over the allotted time, but I guess Sam Donaldson won’t be there with an electric cattle prod to buzz him if he goes over the two minute limit…Maybe I missed my calling as a political handler?

And then it was 11:00 p.m. and then it was 5:00 a.m. Long discussion with self from 5:00 a.m. to 5:42 a.m. GET OUT OF BED. Hit the elliptical. Tsk tsked through the traditionally thin Monday Post. Had one delectable bite of Nick’s buttered sesame bagel. Back out the door, into the gray dimly lit morn. For the Beltway and the drive to Bethesda.

The Morning, Warts and All

2006-01-04T19:01:00.000+05:00

Brainwashing is 98.7% successful—I am now craving grapefruit juice like nobody’s business.

There was a slight wrinkle in the massively ambitious Fit and Fabulous campaign in that I missed my morning exercise “window” due to rolling over and going back to sleep. Obviously this will NEVER happen again.

Grapefruit juice is the acidic dietary equivalent of Liquid Plum’r. It cuts through all the fat and accumulated grease and overholiday indulgence like battery acid. Grapefruit juice is the answer.

I lost a lengthy and very loud (internally) argument with myself this morning that went something like this: You have GOT to get out of bed. It is 6:33. It is now 6:41. Must be out the door no later than 7:14 or the traffic house of cards will implode.

It’s still dark. All three babes sleeping soundly. MZA is down in the blue lit chill of the basement looking at the computer screen. The coffee is made. Elliptical window is completely obliterated. I hope the coal miners in West Virginia are OK.

Showers are good! This is relaxing me-time! Isn’t it? Don’t I have a fancy purple bath scrunchie to fool myself into believing I am getting a loofah type spa experience every morning?!

Getting dressed. Cannot BELIEVE drug store tights are working out. THIS is as exciting as finding out drug store mascara works.

Decide to wear floral purple fantasia skirt (on the verge of being filed in the What Was I Thinking Folder) in order to fool people into believing my entire wardrobe is not, in fact, completely black. Floral skirt, black wool twin set, insouciant long strand of black pearls (yes, they’re real; it’s rude to ask!) to complete the “theme” for today which is (clearly) 1950’s NYC boho, see: Next Stop Greenwich Village. I love that movie. It reminds me of Someone Special (not myself).

The house is dark; the paper is still on the lawn. I go downstairs to kiss MZA goodbye. He says, “Oooo,” I think in reference to my unbelievably foxy “themed” outfit.

Outside, front stoop, every single neighbor’s car is snugly parked in front of each house. There I am, intrepid, dutiful, committed, hardworking (c’mon, play along) headed out into the gray chilliness.

The coal miners in West Virginia are not OK. I am really sad about that.

The traffic’s not too bad. Pull into the garage at 7:47.

Will substitute Diet Coke for the grapefruit juice. Cold caffeine infusion.

Pud Be Gone!

2006-01-03T20:59:00.000+05:00

Grocery list:

Lettuce leaf
Celery stalk (organic)
Tab
Cottage cheese
Seltzer water
Trim-spa (if it worked for Anna Nicole…)

Resolution(s): Fit and fabulous.

Strategy: Will work out on elliptical EVERY SINGLE DAY for an entire year.

Emerge: Buff. Hot. Will incur envy of EVERYONE on the planet, including all you superior bitches who have secretly thought mean things about me for having that second (or 12th) crab puff. Go to hell all of you! I noticed your greedy eyes hugging my flaws! Yeah well. Let’s talk on December 31st 2006, shall we? Over a coupla herbal teas. Maybe a ginger snap or two. Stop counting, bitch!

Two big fat sauntering lies women tell: a) I lost The Weight for myself; b) I never notice what anyone eats or drinks! Except when I am mentally calculating the caloric intake of every single drop of wine in the 12 ounce glass (the 150 calories in a glass of wine is based on a FIVE OUNCE glass! Look at that tumbler she’s drinking out of!) and the fat content of the cheese you just layered on your 18th Stoned Wheat Thin.

Google: "best exercise video of 2005"

Results: God love the Brits, up came iVillage.com.uk’s Top Ten for 2005 and on the list was Coronation Street: Funk Fit that promises to help work off that “Christmas pud.” The Brits, who brought you the expression for a smarty-pants: Clever Clogs, as in, “Humph, she thinks she is such a clever clogs.” Seriously, that is my favorite expression ever.

Overheard: "Dude, were you the funny guy who left the magazine on my chair? The skin 'zine about bondage?"

Ponder: Should I say I did it? I bet no one would ever suspect!

Revelation: I look absolutely horrible today. You know kind of craggy former glamour, all badly mocked up with mascara that clumped on wayward lashes, eyelids are beginning Charlotte Rampling
perma-descent, like they are not going to be refreshed and tightened with sleep…maybe the Hawaiian Tropic summers were a mistake? Splotchy complexion that is strangely inured to all camouflaging gear—concealer, matte uber cloak base, several applications of loose face powder. I look like a shiksa geisha. Shiksa Geisha! All old and weird and faded bad Hollywood. Like I use a cigarette holder and wear tortoise shell sunglasses and a jaunty silk scarf in creamy colors when in convertibles.

I submitted a story today because this is not only the year of FIT AND FABULOUS but it is also the year Lisa publishes about one million (give or take) stories and becomes the toast of some literary scene. On the moon or something. It’s going to be amazing. In addition to my newly toned and preserved beauty—there will be…

OK, get the hook. But I did submit a story. And I’m feeling good about it.

Happy New Year!!! Good luck working off that Christmas pud and all. If you need any pointers, just give me a ring.

Signed,

Jane Clever Clogs

The Longest Day in the Whole Entire Universe

2005-12-30T01:01:00.000+05:00

Google: self, weird guy from old job, intermittent boyfriend from college, self, caviar bowls, traditional quilt patterns

Consider: Organize files?

Speculate: Perhaps overpriced Google stock is worth it?

Strategize: If that stupid boutique up the street can sell $78 hand painted salt and pepper shakers and goofy painted canvasses that say Once Upon a Time There Was YOU, couldn’t I make a fortune painting whimsical sayings on canvass? Embroider white hand towels with the word “bitch” on them, embellish small magnets with cynical witticisms, craft ceramic drawer pulls in cute shapes like airplanes and fish…

Google: Blank canvases

Re-hash: Phone conversation with Nicholas (on Cape Cod) over Christmas. I confessed that I bought myself a tea towel for Christmas and he replied,

"I bought myself a throw for Christmas."

“A throw?”

“Yeah, you know, a thing to throw over your knees when it’s cold.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s really butch.”

As if Nicholas needs to be any more butch!

Look: Out window. Parking garage is still there. Steam is emanating. From somewhere.

Most exciting part of day: Lunch at Indian restaurant with Nick and MZA. Palaak paneer is fabulous!

Resolve: I will never ever eat again as long as I live. The Palaak paneer, on top of all the holiday indulgences, was like the “wafer thin mint” at the end of that Monty Python movie.

Google: Wafer thin mint Monty Python

Results: Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, wherein the super fat Mr. Creosote explodes when he eats a wafer thin mint.

Speculate: How bored is bored?

Wonder: How come when you are really busy and you can’t spare a minute, you find time to race down to Caribou Coffee for a Large Skim Latte (topped with cinnamon), but when you have all the time in the world, you just sit at your computer wondering about things?

Nihilistically posit: Is caffeine necessary when you have lost the will to live?

Ruminate: I could walk outside. Somewhere. On this gray cloudy overcast day.

Moment of virtuosity: Organize files? Tidy up desk?

Dubiously consider: People who say they use the downtime at work to “catch up.”

Question: Why aren’t I more like that?

Conclude: Lazy.

Fantasize: About Thailand. I like Thailand. I like every single solitary thing about Thailand—the people, the food, the elephants, the big Buddhas, the beer, the Gulf with its turquoise beauty, wild unadulterated Bangkok, the Chao Praya River, tuk tuks, driving a Jeep all over a small island, walking on the beach, eating shark and carved watermelon on New Year’s, sleeping near the sea, luxury, simplicity, lavender Thai silk, orchids…

Analyze: The parking garage across the street is misnumbered, so if you park on “3” you are really parked on “4.” This is sometimes difficult to remember.

Philosophize: Isn’t it weird how we sort through our exotic experiences and make peace with the fact that they only make up 2% of our lives whilst the mundane, like keeping track of parking lot floors, makes up the other 98%?

Realize: It’s really important not to slide into an existential torpor. At work.

Sticky note haiku: Aveda, 1/7 Sat 1:30 pm; Mackenzie-Childs; Pine Cone Hill; Dresden Plate pattern; Must Love Dogs; print logo vector based, not bitmap; check intern’s research.

It goes on. And then it rains.

Philosophy: Brought to you by the Psychedelic Furs, and me.

Dickensian House Parties, or a Tale of Two Dalmatians

2005-12-29T20:25:00.000+05:00

Hmm, I wonder what it would feel like to be the only person in the entire city of Washington DC to be at work. Oh wait a minute! I know how that feels!

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I took yesterday off and snuggled deeply under the down comforter and thought about coffee and the Today Show and all those other perks of a morning spent at home.

We took Nick to Chevy Chase for the day. Oh splendid sunny blue sky! Oh fabulous over-the-top extravagance! Neiman Marcus, Tiffany, Cartier, Louis Vuitton, Barney’s…all in two city blocks. The magnificent half mile. So silly, callow and overwrought, but who cares!

We took Nick to lunch at the Hall of Cheeseball fame—that even has cheese in its name!—The Cheesecake Factory. Which was actually really fun because it’s an Italianate gobstopper with lovely tapestry booths overlooking the hustle ‘n bustle of Wisconsin Avenue below.

Nick liked it right away. He ordered a “Tons of Fun” burger “medium rare” and started things off with a tropical smoothie made with mango and passion fruit. He took one taste of the confection and pronounced it “to die for.”

There are few things more irresistible than an excited little kid in a restaurant booth—ordering with a grave seriousness and attacking new pleasures with relish. And looking out the window, and unfolding a too-large cloth napkin and eating sourdough bread.

We hit Neiman’s, just cuz I love it—the mink and chinchilla scarves, the Michal Negrin baubles, all topped with a phalanx of white fluttering butterflies strung in the glass atrium, like a mad lepidopterist’s conservatory.

Williams-Sonoma—fingering the copper, the Calphalon, the fanciful bundt tins, Villeroy and Boch, wanting everything (sort of, not really), MZA said, “None of this is really your style.” Yes, but it’s 50% off!!

The most fun was T.J. Maxx because it had things you could actually procure, AND there was super duper World Market, a new addition to the Chevy Chase strand. MZA loved it. They had Indian glass bangles, like I used to wear, and sensational zonked out rosey/pomegranate smelling candles. Nick liked the candy section. On and on about Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Jelly Beans—flavor highlights: Earwax and booger. Mmmm.

We walked past all the new behemoths of luxury with beefy black bodyguards at every entrance, but did not walk in. Not out of intimidation, but out of irrelevance—as in, how do hideous brown steamer trunks with beige LVs splashed on them apply to my life?

That night we got ready for Hope’s après Christmas fete. I was wearing black stockings and m'skivvies—still getting ready--and Nick said, “You look like a centaur, Mommy!” MZA said, “What’s a centaur?” I said, “One of those half man half goat things from mythology.” Ian chimed in delightedly, “Mommy is a go-at! Mommy is a go-at!”

Sheila’s holiday party was Dickensian, and Hope’s parties at her parents’ formidable town house on Dupont Circle are Dickensian as well, in that sense of the cold, gray unforgiving city outside and the heightened contrast of glowing yellow lights, tinkling glass and mellow conversational grooves from within. There are Venetian glass mirrors, gilt frames, Japanese art, and voluptuous chandeliers draped elegantly from high ceilings.

Hope, just in from Brussels for the holidays, serves an ex-pat’s dream meal of macaroni and cheese made with penne pasta and little perfect ham sandwiches on mini-buns. All kid friendly. Hope’s father was in the diplomatic corps and so is a familiar archetype for me—the gracious gent, the instant name recognition, the interested gaze, the effortless courtesy and the ability to welcome one instantly to the fold. He greets MZA warmly, always, and says his name perfectly.

Daisy, the committed dog lover, immediately reaches for a stuffed Dalmatian toy from the “Japanese altar”—filled with Dalmatian paraphernalia meant to honor a family member, in this case the family Dalmatian Jessica—and carries it with her, proprietarily, everywhere. She keeps bringing it up to show to the real Jessica.

Hope’s parents kindly decide that Daisy needs the stuffed Jessica and they give it to her. I tell Daisy to thank Hope’s father and she goes up to him, shyly, clutching the spotted dog. He leans over and asks for a kiss on the cheek. I have that breathless Mommy moment—please God let her come through—and she sweetly walks up and plants a dainty one right on his cheek. It’s m’girl’s one touch from a fading era, that the eye catches in the form of a heat image from an infrared camera—a light that detects warmth the naked eye cannot perceive.

Hope and Nick are old friends. I walk upstairs to the informal sitting room and hear Hope giving a discourse to Nick on how “Flemish is actually much more guttural…” while he listens intently.

We drive home through the curving tree-thick Rock Creek Park, watching for deer and minding the low curbs and misted fog, made more opaque by the headlights.

Chismahannakwanzaka

2005-12-27T23:00:00.000+05:00

My hair looks spectacular today. If anyone’s looking for a Breck girl, look no further!!

I’m at work now with 1.5 other people. We are in “show up” mode, which means we are next in line for a Congressional Medal of Honor. BECAUSE if you show up at work the week between Christmas and New Years, you are made of the finest stock of human flesh in the world. Or “whirled,” as Ian would say. “I’ve come to save the whirled!” He also likes wishing everyone a “Very Christmas.”

Christmas Eve was nice at our house—all muted lights and warmth, a fire in the fireplace and babes squealing and scampering hither and yon. Marie, our neighbor, came over and so we were able to share our odd tradition of caviar, champagne and French fries with someone new. I upped the ante and also got ENORMOUS frozen shrimp (that I thawed). That day I made the scalloped potatoes and a caviar pie (again??) for Christmas dinner the next day.

Marie seemed to like the French fries, even though I burned the first batch which I NEVER do. ARGH. Oh well, the second batch came out swell. Then we had a zany Russian cake with hardened meringue-type swirls on top that looked like the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. They blinded the architects of that building because they never wanted it to be recreated. If that doesn’t put you in a holiday mood, I don’t know what will!

Oh, the holidays are packed with enough emotional dynamite for a building demolition, aren’t they? And I never really recognized that before because I had kind of a swell childhood and my parents were very festive, fun people and so they were excellent during a festive, merry season.

Our house was always bright and nicely decorated—nothing psycho mind you—just the Christmas cards hung on a ribbon across the mantle, a humongous Christmas tree in the living room decorated with all of my mother’s carefully chosen, unique ornaments—nothing “predictable!” That’s the dirtiest word in her vocabulary: “predictable.”

My mother would put an antique kimono obi as a runner down the table—it would come down, wrapped in dry cleaner’s cellophane from the linen closet, and she would put the silver candlesticks with three red candle each. Red was as zany as we ever got. We’d use the good silver and for Christmas Eve—we were avowed evening openers—she would make roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and green beans. Santa came on Christmas morning—just for me because I was the only kid in the house. My brother and sister are older and so they were the ones actually setting out the goods. My stocking would be full of oranges, walnuts and small toys.

Now my sister has taken the mantle and she does Christmas just like we used to have it with lots and lots of presents and mayhem, champagne, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It was lovely. And it was a little bit sad. Just because everyone can’t stay as young as they ever were. I think my mother thrived in the role of hostess—in every sense of the word—the planner, the presenter, the provocateur, the ringleader, the grand dame. And now she is a guest. It is a diminished role, one that she is not familiar with.

OK, but we don’t want to be sad right now.

Christmas really and truly is about the kiddies. I love buying presents for the wee ones and then setting up the charade in the living room for them to come down to Christmas morning. Daisy and Ian were especially into it, Nick was too, but he is on the precipice of not believing. Nick was the first one down the stairs. He got an Mp3 player and a remote control car but seemed WAY more excited about the Silly Putty in his stocking. Hmmm. I like playing Johnny Mathis’s Christmas CD over and over again. I get really emotional on “WHAT CHILD IS THIS” Pass the hankies!! I don’t know why either.

We have cards on the mantle and poinsettias and a big fat tree decorated with all my mother’s unpredictable ornaments starting with the little gossamer angels holding little faux candles she got when she was first married, through the weirdness of the ‘70’s Holly Hobby angel people, to the White House Christmas ornaments, to the red velvet embroidered ones from India, to the pipe cleaner circles my brother made on the plane to Australia when he was four. Nick made a paper angel in school to top the tree. MZA gave me my perfume, aptly named EXTRAVAGANCE! And some lovely tea rose Roget et Gallet soap.

The shutter is closing, in a concentric flash, buffered with softness, broken toys, hand-me-down embellishments, cold fluffy champagne, red paraffin, and stains on gilt fabric that may or may not have once encircled the waist of a geisha.

Merry Christmas!!

2005-12-23T18:48:00.000+05:00

I had a little Christmas parable happen yesterday. It turns out someone dropped off a whole bunch of gifts for our whole family—spouses, kids, my mother, everyone, except ME. Seriously. And at first I just sort of blew it off, like, ha ha ha! Gifts do not define Christmas, silly old rabbit! We learned this yet again from watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas the other night, wherein the true meaning of Christmas is divulged by the saintly and Biblical Boris Karloff.

Then a nasty little thud landed upon my heart and I felt: hurt. It hurt my feelings. MY FEELINGS WERE HURT! Sing muse! So I composed a series of very mean, naughty, vile and libelous notes in my head, then I thought about religion and going to church and how I had to become a better person and then slights like these wouldn’t matter so much. This is how my mind works—evil poison pen...then church…then redemption…then back to poison pen. The old get-it-out-of-my-system plea.

I got home and got the phone call. It was a mistake! There was a gift for me after all!

I think what this teaches us is, never actually send the nasty, vicious, cathartic, vilifying note UNTIL you have checked the bottom of the bag of gifts. Isn’t that a beautiful lesson? Hold it dear to your heart from now on.

Then I started thinking about Capricorns and how much I hate them—just women Capricorns, like SledDog and others. I had an interview when I was going through THAT whole drama, and I had this instant reaction to the woman who was conducting the interview that Eve (hi Eve!) calls “instant hate.” You know that reaction? Not to be confused with “instant like,” which happens more frequently (I just said that so I wouldn’t seem too negative all the time, what with it being Christmas and all).

Anyway, I walked in to the interview and the high priestess came in, all fresh Ivory scrubbed sensible frumpiness with no makeup and naturally graying hair and a plain white knit shirt and a necklace with no soul. Just a stupid adornment, an accoutrement, a meaningless bit of “flair” with no heart, no color, no imagination. GOD I HATED THAT NECKLACE. And she looked at me and I could see it. I could see that sensible little prudent mind shunning all my impracticalities and my whims and irrationality. My black tar mascara, the zany glasses, the impertinent blond streaks in my hair that are grown out and mixed with other hair colors (brown, gray, a mélange!) and I just knew I wasn’t getting that job.

SHE is the one who asked me what my best friend would say about me if they called her. AND I GOT CHOKED UP, for crying out loud, because I don’t like mixing metaphors. I have a work life and I have a home life and never the twain shall meet. And I got all confused thinking about what my best friend would say, and then I thought about what she probably would say, and I got all TEARY and goofy. It was a super weird interview moment. And here was her reaction: she got impatient. And boy HOWDY that’s when I knew things were really going south. Because that type of person, the type who just looks at you patronizingly as you leak and sputter with inefficient emotions, is not someone I am going to get along with too well. So I was mad at myself, because I REALLY wanted a new job.

As it turns out, my then company threw this gargantuan, extremely fabulous, anniversary party AT the Mandarin Oriental hotel in downtown DC (it was spectacular, seriously) and I was seated next to this beautiful woman and we started chatting and for some reason I asked her if she was a writer and she said yes and we talked some more and it turns out that I had interviewed for HER job! The sensible Capricorn frump was her boss! And she leaned over to me, in strict confidentiality, and said, “I have never had such a horrible time working with anyone, ever.” She said she got along with everyone, but for some reason they just did not hit it off. And so I asked her, “Is she a Capricorn by any chance?”

She looked at me with her eyes wide open and she said, “Yes! Why?”

I said, “Oh, I could just tell. She reminds me of several people.”

She said, “She reminds me of my stepmother!”

Then I asked, “What sign are you?”

And she said, “Cancer.”

I said, “Me too!”

You see? It never would have worked.

She asked, “But are all Capricorns bad? Because my boyfriend is a Capricorn.”

And I replied, “No! Capricorn men are fine. It’s just the women. After all, Jesus was a Capricorn!”

So I think we have learned some really valuable lessons today about revenge and spite and the true meaning of Christmas, to wit—search the bag 'til you find what you want, avoid Capricorn women if you are a Cancer, and celebrate the most famous Capricorn man in the world’s birth with love.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

I, Sassie

2005-12-22T18:43:00.000+05:00

I dreamt I went up to Jack Black and told him I thought he was the funniest person in the universe and then I was about to kiss him. I don’t know what it says about me that I have sex dreams about Jack Black, but there you have it.

I have pink eye right now and I look like a cross between a Cyclops and Richard Gephardt. It is NOT a good look. I have the stupidest diseases—ear infections, eye infections—like some gigantic baby. But that’s OK, in the realm of diseases I guess I’ll take my puny infections. BECAUSE I am editing some mighty powerful documents right now. I know, when I am working that takes time away from you, so I thought I’d share a sentence I am working on: When these cells are introduced into nude mice, they form tumors. Hmmm. Nude mice. What does that mean? That kind of takes the thunder out of the whole “tumors” thing because all you’re thinking about is: what is a nude mouse? It goes on, ...agouti sister mice are genetically identical but environmentally distinct. One is of a normal size and has a brown coat, whereas her sister is obese and has a blond coat. Are you imagining a mouse in a blond mink right now? Nude underneath? Like she just put it on to go to the store? Me too. I also think the blond mouse hates her skinny ass twin sister. Wouldn't you?

Anyhoo, when you have PINK EYE you can’t wear mascara and for me this is a very serious challenge. Some people compete in marathons as a challenge; I have to talk myself off a ledge every morning because I can’t wear mascara. Like I need a 12-step mascara group er something. I would like to say I don’t wear a lot of mascara, but the fact is, I do. I USED to wear Lancôme Aquacils (I have written about my mascara habit before—sorry) and now I wear L’Oreal’s Lash ARCHITECHT.

It is not enough to dust my lashes with a hint of black color, I need to steel gird them with an impenetrable layer of decorative tar. Sooooooo the problem is, when you suddenly strip yourself of this black armor steel girded coating, you look like a really horrendous version of yourself—the version you are HIDING from the world when you carefully sculpt and layer those dainty translucent lashes every morning.

Do you remember that episode of The Flintstones when Dino gets cast on “Sassie” a TV show about a loyal dinosaur (think: Lassie)? Remember that? NO? How come? Don’t you have every episode of The Flintstones on a convenient brain rolodex that you can call up at will? Hmmm, that’s weird. Well, I'm here to help you out, whilst searching for a picture of Sassie, I found this French version of the show subtitled, "An Amour de Dino." The synopsis is Dino quitte la maison: Les adventures de Sassie! Ze French! Mon dieu...zey make even the love between dinosaurs sound romantique!

Anyway, Dino gets cast on “Sassie” and Sassie is this beautiful dinosaur with curly hair and long lashes and, of course, Dino is in love with her, nay obsessed (kind of like me and Jack Black.) So one day, on the set, he is standing outside her dressing room, looking in the window, and all of a sudden she pulls off her wig AND peels off her fake eyelashes and there is this bare bones straggly haired bald-eyed dino sitting there and he is AGHAST. I, ladies and germs, am Sassie. Robbed of the illusion, no paper lanterns and candlelight to hide the glare, the reality.

MZA has been sleeping on the couch because he is so afraid of getting my pink eye so I have been sleeping, sprawled and uninhibited, across the entirety of our bed. I woke up this morning with my face firmly buried in my pillow, my arms outstretched, like I had been slammed into the bed with a great velocity. Ian came in and lifted one corner of the covers and surmised that no one was there, so firmly implanted in the downy depths was I, and he got that worried inner/outer toddler voice and started walking toward the stairs—“Mommy? Daddy?” Convinced that he had been abandoned somehow in the night. I told MZA later and he said, “Why didn’t you call to him?” THAT is a really good question! I guess because I was so immersed in analyzing his toddler response. Or I just couldn’t barter the cushiony solitude of the dark warm morning for the reality of tending to a forlorn cub. Or something.

Because I was sleeping so hard and so soundly, with my face pushed into the downy depths, I have these super attractive LINES carving a gorge down my swollen puffy eyes and cheek. It’s so cute. I look so cute today. AND it is “casual WEEK” which means I have had to summon FOUR adorable, casual, yet professional, yet tasteful, yet “young” yet...ARGH...outfits from a very uncooperative closet.

But really, these are small things aren’t they? Wasn’t there something else I was supposed to focus on? Oh yeah! World Peace! That old fussbudget. And goodwill toward men. Jack Black is a man…

Chincoteague

2005-12-21T22:49:00.000+05:00

Our Little Sneesh turned 40 last weekend AND SO her sweet sister Moira squired us all to a wooden soaring manse on the edge of a salted marsh to wish her well on her fourth decade. The bonhomie! The gatheredness of it!

The gourmet dinner of shaman-cooked lamb chops, the chocolate confection cake, a stellar antique ring…several (20?) bottles of lovely red wine…a smashing poker match in which the Uzbek proved to be ruthless AND competitive…LOTS of kids underfoot, overfoot and in the air…a long lovely dock leading to the lapping salted mysterious water…an island named after an Indian tribe…birds, ancient exotic Audubon perfectionism…egrets, osprey, cranes, and gigantic blue herons…day trips to the ocean…paying homage…standing at the licking curling foam flecked edges in awe…
Ian chasing seagulls…all capped by the most amazing and wonderful ranger in the world who educated us on the convoluted inner workings of conch shells and whelks…he fished into the tank for a spider crab… Nick cradled a hermit crab in his hand I wish I could have a hermit crab…the ranger said that scientists extract the blood of horseshoe crabs to test the purity of medicines…the blood has magical congealing powers…its blood is its immune system…crab blood…I told Ian to say “thank you” to the ranger and Ian just stared at him shyly…the ranger said, “His smile alone says 'thank you'”…I loved the ranger…he was so kind…and we all became his rapt students, a collective field trip studying bones and shells and evolution and natural selection…the inherent puzzles of mollusks, crustaceans, sand, dunes, wind, sun and rain.

Happy Birthday Sheesh!

Oh, and P.S., our bedroom had knotty pine cathedral ceilings and a skylight...I lay in bed looking at the moon, incongruous and elegant, and I thought how nice it was to be warm in bed (instead of camping or something), and looking at the moon. Cue Cat Stevens...

This is a Post All About PATRICE...

2005-12-15T19:49:00.000+05:00

...BECAUSE she came into town and so we all convened—the coven convened—at the infamous Dan’s Café in Adams Morgan. Dickey, the proprietor, has a capricious schedule based on whether he feels like opening for the night or not. Mary asked him so very kindly, considering Patrice’s imminent arrival, if he would open on Wednesday. He said if we were all coming, he would open. And he did, with a “Closed” sign slyly placed on the door.

You’ve heard about “holes in the wall” and “dive bars.” Everyone has a favorite! Let me just say, Dan’s Café is the penultimate dive bar—it is so quintessential that it may or may not exist. Maybe it is a manifestation of our desire to be in a real place with real people run by no-nonsense wise men. Or maybe it is real. Last night took on the feel of many a fantastic story—Peter Pan, Brigadoon, The Shining, Lost Horizon…a misty surreal past-in-the-present place with only the chill in the air to serve as a reminder of actual time and place. The ONLY thing that has changed at Dan’s Café since I started going there, I don’t I know, back in the late 19th century, is the new jukebox.

It is important to say that you either get Dan’s or you don’t. Period. I don’t hold it against people who don’t get it because we must be inclusive of all ignorant swains, mustn’t we?

Back to Patrice. Patrice is the coolest person in the universe, and this is a widely and pervasively held belief. She suffers precisely zero (0) fools and was heard to say some very naughty but dead-on things about a certain president of ours last night. In fact, she was going to go down to the White House, in a zone chart cab, and elucidate Mister Bush on some of her thoughts. I think the hallowed white façade would have shook from her visceral invective. That I applaud wholeheartedly.

What this is really about is continuity. I love continuity. I like references, enduring symbolism, constants, and linear pervasive themes.

Dan’s is run by Dickey, a sage, tall black gent who brings to mind the dignity and wisdom of Frederick Douglass. He has a keen level stare, a countenance that has observed enough folly, idiocy, human braggadocio and frailty for several lifetimes. He is a black man proprietor in a callow white man’s nightlife playground—Adam’s Morgan—who is interested in you if he’s interested in you, and could give a shit about you if he’s not. I count myself as one of the fortunate ones. He treated me gently, respectfully and sometimes lovingly. And it was splendid. He used to lean over the bar, this was after I had gone there for many years, and ask me so sweetly to come up to Atlantic City with him. It was never lecherous or weird, and I can’t quite explain that, but it just wasn’t. It was real, that’s all. I think I was just someone that he liked, period. I know I wasn’t the only one, but there weren’t many others, and I felt honored.

Dickey’s son Victor is the main bartender—there is a baroque hierarchy and division of labor only a taciturn father and son relationship can comprehend. Victor sits menacingly at the right hand of his father on the opposite end of the bar. He hunches over and lifts his head to take you in, chin down, eyes up. Both men engage in serial bemusement. Victor is very handsome, and knows it very well, and he has a body—pecs, abs, the whole piñata—that won’t quit. He did time in a federal penitentiary and he has the residual buff prisoner’s build. And the sweetest, slyest smile.

I walked in last night and there is—trust me—no fanfare whatsoever. No hale-fellow- well-met call from behind the bar. You go pay your obeisance. To each man, separately. I walked up to Victor and said, “Hey there.” He said, “Let me get up here…” and he hoisted himself up and leaned over the bar so he could give me a kiss. This is a benediction—it does not come perfunctorily or lightly. Then I walked down to say hi to Dickey. The years have finally tagged him, he did look older to me. He was wearing a navy blue knit cap and was playing a nonstop game of Solitaire. He offered me his hand, and I took it, rough and large, and he smiled and said, “Well, look at you! You look as young as you ever did.” And he smiled and if you want to know the truth, I will treasure that compliment, with its inflection and cadence, for a long time. It meant a lot to me to still look like the girl he wanted to accompany him on his jaunts. He smiled and seemed so pleased that life and age hadn’t changed me too drastically. “Look at you…” He knew I had three kids and asked all their ages and asked about MZA and then asked what I was doing—I told him and he said, “Oh! You’re making the big money now!” I said, “No.” But honestly, it was like talking to a professor who had once held a vested interest in you. He asked where I lived and put in perspective. He told me who else lived there too and then about Mark’s Z.’s new baby, because there was this time, that spanned many years, when all of us, this large amorphous, interconnected group, used to habituate that place. And it was a time.

It would be so easy to trivialize, but I always believed there was a reason we were all drawn there—and it wasn’t for the pool or the beer (solely), there was something else. Foremost is the native Washingtonian component (Holly, Hope, Susie, Polly, Moira, Sheila, Colum, JP, etc.)—that is the strong base paint, added to that the longtime DC residents like Patrice, Mary, SueLa and Suzanne. We all used to go and it was a scene, but a very subtle scene. We’d all regard each other and spar with Victor and talk to Dickey and watch each other until finally one day there was a West Side Story breaking down of cliques or gangs or whatever, and we started talking to one another. Susie and I started a salon—one of our first meetings was at the Yenching Palace on Connecticut Avenue—and THAT is when Dan’s really became, not just a place we hung out in individual pods, but a place to find each other and count on having an evening out, no matter what.

Last night, the weird neon signs and the plastic dead hanging plant type things from the ceiling were all there—the frill free bathrooms at the back of the bar—and a new jukebox that sadly did not still have “Sexual Healing” or “To Sir With Love” on it. It was Mary, Suzanne, Patrice, Moira, Sheila, Glenda, Mike and Charlie. That’s it. We talked and cracked each other up—a favorite feature. Either who can out-liberal who or who can crack up who. Toothless insults, and then one very heartfelt toast for our friend Susie on the opposite coast.

Later in the night three black coated lads entered the bar and Sheila stood up vibrantly, exuberantly, and said, “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see the sign says ‘CLOSED’?” And they sheepishly retreated to the door and then Victor waved them in, reluctantly. The ringleader looked like a young Kiefer Sutherland and I could see him lean in to his friends, conspiratorially, so proud of himself, and say, “This place…” As in, You see? You see what I’ve found? Where I’ve brought you? And that made me glad, as a charter member of the ancien regime, to see that its appeal was still clear to some, while we sat on the lopsided barstools and smiled in the luminous blue chilled neon.

I paid my tab and tipped Victor nicely—which always makes him happy. I leaned over to shake his hand in mock formality. He said, “Don’t shake my hand.” And I leaned over and blew him a kiss.

Moira, Sheila and I said goodbye to Patrice. She said earlier in the night, “I can’t tell you how much this means to me and how much I miss all of you. Thank you for coming out.”

We wouldn’t have missed it.

Crazy Glue and Graciousness

2005-12-14T19:45:00.000+05:00

I was awake in the night thinking about bitterness. And love. I have never been a bitter person OR a jealous person, which is practically impossible, but it’s true. Ask anyone. I mean I joke around about being bitter and all, and I am cynical, but mostly I let things go because I know that if you harbor them, they will cause you more harm than the person who is making you feel bitter.

About two years ago, there was this Series of Unfortunate Events, you know how that goes—a train wreck of discovering certain people’s true colors, a King Lear play of division and greed and selfishness and avarice—and I found…I found I could not get over it. It has kept me awake at night, it has gnawed at me, it has disillusioned me to the core of my being, and it has filled me with this sort of low-grade, invincible, secret, enduring malevolence.

Oh, I am going to write about it one day. In BIG splashy Technicolor. I feel like Truman trying to decide if he should detonate the atom bomb. Because that is the effect it will have—that sort of comforting obliteration of an entire obstacle. Maybe I’ll call the novel Enola. Did you know Enola spelled backwards is “alone”? Ha! That's what I'll be if I ever let those nasty cats out of the bitterness bag. But at least I'll feel better.

Anyway, as with most things, having this weird unshakable bitterness has made it easier for me to empathize with people who are continually bitter. And they’re out there! It’s the Stanislavski method of living—take an emotion and magnify it so you can use to realize how a character feels. I do that a lot. Because I’d rather be an informed bitch rather than just an armchair bitch. Being a bitch takes research!

Now, let’s move onto love. My little girl…cue Bryan Ferry…is one of the sweetest little confections ever to grace my life. Last year my sister T gave me this beautiful folk art blue angel for Christmas and she is on the mantle of our living room. My daughter, whose real name is Clare and not “Daisy,” looked up and said that she wanted the “Barbie.” I gave it to her and I said, “It’s an angel. Do you know what her name is?” And she said no. I said, “Her name is Angel Clare.” Because I have always loved that name and I loved that Art Garfunkle album and everything and it’s one of the reasons I named her Clare. And she said, “That’s right! Angel Me.”

I handed her the angel, because she wanted it so much, and told her to be careful, but of course she dropped it and the wings came off. And I thought about Tennessee Williams’ Glass Menagerie when the gentleman caller breaks the horn off of Laura’s unicorn and she reassures him that now he’ll be just like all the other horses. It’s one of the most heartbreaking comebacks in American theatre...that and, “Years from now, when you talk about this...and you will...be kind.” That’s from Tea and Sympathy. Those lines are all about preserving a secret shared moment, kindly.

I think there is rather a casual inclination—a bravado Americans have—of speaking of the past as something that needs to be discarded. I was listening to this radio moron talk about how she donated her old boyfriend’s clothes to charity, “just to get them out of the house.”

I don’t have bitter feelings about past loves. Which, I think, makes me the MOST FABULUS PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE! But seriously, I guess that I believe if you have this closet full of people you are sorry you spent time with and revealed yourself to, then you ultimately don’t have much respect for yourself, you know? I love my friends--and all the old loves, and they know it too. Hey, I am still hanging out with my best friends from second grade—in person and in email (hi y’all!). I just got invited to a reunion of the American International School of Calcutta where I went for two years—kindergarten and 1st grade. And I’m going.

Which is all to say, I have never, ever respected Madonna because I think people who have a need to recreate themselves and morph and nip and tuck and shed skins like a molting bird or snake, don’t like who they are.

So don’t get mad if someone breaks your unicorn or if your little girl, Angel Me, drops the angel and breaks her wings.

Because that’s the reason they invented Crazy Glue. And graciousness.

Echoes and Reverberations

2005-12-12T21:56:00.000+05:00

People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can't find them, make them.
--George Bernard Shaw

Oh the Clydesdale is tired today. It was a busy weekend because all of our weekends are busy. Just cuz.

Saturday MZA, Ian and Nick manned the Christmas tree sale at Nick’s school whilst Daisy and I had quality time together. Sort of parallel quality time, as I scoured the bathroom and she watched Dora. The boys came home, I made lunch, then we put the babies to bed and Nick had to lie down too because he had a slight fever. This meant we didn’t have to drive him to an aquatic amphitheatre in Laurel, Maryland for a birthday party.

I went to the enormo grocery store and got massive ingredients for fudge and coffee cake and chili and I don’t know what else. I came home and morphed into a white tornado and made two coffee cakes, a double recipe of my Christmas fudge (marshmallows, dried cranberries and whole almonds), 2 alarm chili in the slow cooker and quesadillas for the kids. And caviar pie for Sheila’s holiday party. INSANE! And I loved it. I made the caviar pie in a yin yang pattern, as I do every year.

See, Moira and I went to this party one time down on Capital Hill. There were hallucinogens involved, but the less said on that the better. Anyway, we kind of crashed the party, as we were wont to do in those days. The girl that was having it wasn’t very nice (imagine that!). There was this really cool bed in a loft area with an entire skylight over the bed and there was a really neat photograph of a husky that I think Moira’s brother took, AND there was this crazy caviar pie which was the best damn thing I have ever had. They also had flavored vodka that they were serving in little etched colored shot glasses. I am not particularly proud of this, but for some reason, in my “altered” state, I felt that it was necessary to “liberate” the little colored glasses from the mean hostess. Honestly. Like I was “saving” them or something.

It was New Year’s Eve. And I remember dancing and then afterwards Moira and I drove across Memorial Bridge—several times—as the sun came up. We were in my 1970 VW Bug and Moira was standing up on the seat with her head through the sun roof. We were 18 or 19.

So anyways, for some weird reason, the shot glasses and the caviar pie stayed with me and one day I typed in “caviar pie” on epicurious.com and up it came. Seriously! I made the zany thing and it turned out just like Mean Lisa’s!

Sunday was “Scout Sunday” and you know what that means!!! Mandatory church attendance with my li’l scout. And because I was feeling reckless, I took Ian too. Nick was REALLY nervous about it. Of course, just because he goes against type with everything, he was a perfect angel in church. Except he had to mess with the kneeling apparatus, because every kid in the entire universe has to mess with that thing. He clung to me and basically, he was so damn thrilled to have me ALL TO HIMSELF for 50 minutes, that he didn’t really care what the venue was.

Nick and the other scouts came in with the priest and the altar kids. It’s so emotional for me. Go figure. To see my son in the processional. They sit in reserved pews and Nick loves it. I went up for communion and the priest blessed Ian. Then we went home.
Barbara and Marie invited us over for savory small pies and a drink and then we got in our sled (figuratively) and whisked off to Sheila’s annual holiday party, which is the most splendid event of the season. It is when Charles Dickens comes out to play and the whole spirit and feeling of the late 19th century is reenacted. People come from all over and from all walks of life, ages, interests, etc. and Sheila’s table literally groans--not with food, that sounds so pedestrian-- victuals is more appropriate. Hot artichoke and crab dip, Virginny ham and biscuits, a rich strata, cookies, fudge, venison, cheeses, caviar pie.

The holiday party is a chance to see the same people—the people that we see once a year, or maybe twice. The kids love it and instantly fold into the house and all know each other from year to year. Jon beams and brags about how he didn’t do anything, Sheila flits around delightedly. It’s just so fun. Because, I think, Sheila puts her whole heart into it. Which made me think about Iago a little bit and how sometimes there’s someone on the fringes and you can just feel that they are not experiencing the happenings in the same way. And then there were the moments where I was standing, talking to someone, and I thought, here it is, this is life. Like: quickly right now, this is life. Happening. All at once. Amid spices and flavors and aromas and children and GLUGG.

Glugg is a rich naughty Icelandic blend of Aquavit, burned sugar, cardamom, whole figs, slivered almonds, vodka and red wine.

We all get together with these potions and spells and recipes and feelings and recreations and we evolve. I’ve been pregnant at that party, I’ve had small babies at that party, and last night I had all three kids, running up and down the stairs they once couldn’t scale. Sheila’s parents used to invite my parents up the street for Glugg every year. Sheila’s son and my son (Ian) body slammed a sweet woman on the couch together.

It was time to go home and none of us wanted to leave. Lots of rich colors, tapestries, old statues, gilt mirrors, echoes and reverberations.

Willy Loman and the Downtown Train

2005-12-09T21:08:00.000+05:00

The problem with speaking fluent subtext is, it gets really loud in meetings sometimes. And trains.

Meetings!

What I have noticed about meetings is: no one likes them. Everyone has them. People like to digress in meetings. Meetings are an excuse to get up and go to a different room and sit down and doodle, get nervous when it's your turn to speak, and zone out when it's someone’s else’s turn. It is also a time to watch your colleagues to see how hard everyone is trying to impress Le Grande Fromage.

I had a meeting recently with an updated Willy Loman sort of fellow—an anachronism circa 1965 in the IBM uniform—white shirt, blue suit, festive tie. The costume least likely to offend. And all of these montages started to play out—the lonely businessman crying at the foot of a prostitute's bed; the encroaching realization that the trinkets of his ordered life—the slim pleather portfolio, the briefcase with the worn handles, the useless Blackberry that he reaches for to suffocate an awkward moment—are all meaningless. His inability to classify; the inert neutrality of his stare, robbed of all sexual inquiry in literal keeping with all personnel dictums; the cheap chiseled-for-extra-glintiness wedding band—another relic from a bygone era—the clear belief that adhering to all the unwritten strictures of protocol will yield The Reward.

Watching him struggling with the exterior, the sham, the role, the costume, the suit, the plainess of right and wrong, the black and whiteness of it all, made me sad. He didn’t like looking at me. It was something about my eyes and my glasses and maybe the fact that I wasn’t playing by the rules. Maybe he could tell I could see him crying at the foot of a hooker’s bed. You know that’s not true. People like that never realize that the scam isn’t working.

The other subtext was, he wasn’t ready for this new job. He had been a company man, something must have happened, they didn’t need him anymore, here’s a new opportunity, the title sounds good! But he’s not happy. It’s not the same. Past the old heyday. A million references to “When I was at…” This is indicative of someone who feels ripped off because the groove has shifted. He had it good. He had his own well-worn path, a groove if his own and now... Now there are all the young people, the stupid underlings. The good title can’t mask that these are just laundry lists of silly to-dos.

That vacant friendly insecure misogynistic stare. The blankness of the outfit, the false gaiety of the seasonal tie. The raised eyebrows and business-perfect smile at a cocktail reception later. The loneliness and perfunctory rigidity just emanating across the room. The hollow little rituals some people feel the need to perpetuate. It must be comforting, making them believe the planets are all aligned and the correctness and the nonoffending nature of their demeanor somehow ensures that they are in synch with the larger plan of the universe.

I think I have a hard time with people who think that playing by the rules guarantees a reward. I also have a hard time with …people who are not real and who use props and symbols and stock phrases and clothes to mask the messy chaotic chicken blood spattered reality of life.

It’s sort of a simplistic approach to the world. White shirt, blue pinstripe. Like he’d taken a vacuum and sucked all the impurities and imperfections out of everything.

Trains!

So I have a hard time. In meetings and on trains. It just gets too loud—all the thoughts and posturing and fake visages. It’s like having really loud schizophrenia. All the voices and my own mind racing to conclusions. The 67 year old former ballerina on the Metro last night. Stop making me wonder how beautiful you used to be. All haughty and yet defeated on the butternut squash colored Naugahyde of the Bethesda train to downtown.

Snowed

2005-12-06T19:19:00.000+05:00

We got a fair dusting. A fairytale enhancement to the landscape. Sugar coating. A genteel sufficiency.
Montgomery County schools? Two hours late, naturellement. That’s the one thing I neglected to mention yesterday—the two hours late business gets really old after awhile. It’s the full Monty you’re looking for, and that is the government closing. That’s where there’s no guilt all around.

Nick said it was the best morning in the world. He started a snow fort and made the perfect snowball, which Ian summarily crushed with one boot stroke. (Daisy was only an onlooker). Depsite his momentary snowball setback, he had a great time.

Daisy, like a true girl, was FAR more excited about donning her iridescent purple snowsuit. But once her dainty hands got buried in the snow, she was ready for a teary repair to the inner sanctum of the chalet. Ian didn’t like it when the snow found a way to trickle into the space between his sleeve and his mitten. He shook his hand in fury and looked up to the skies in Biblical indignation, like Job.
I am having coffee typing on the computer. I am sitting at home with the sun streaming in. All the trees still have the snow delicately lining their boughs, all the way up. That intricate winter filigree thing.

As I said, I am drinking coffee. I am sitting at home on my computer. I know this would get old if I did it every day. RIGHT? I know. I wouldn’t be able to afford the daycare, which is granting me this serenity right now.

I saw my neighbors this morning. Barbara kindly asked me about my job. My job is great. There is no doubt about it. Nice people, excellent location, worthwhile subject matter. I am no longer working for a dishonest water buffalo. And yet…Don’t you hate the “and yet” part? That’s the part of your secret crummy heart—that fickle worthless place—that refuses to be satisfied. That always wonders, um…is this enough? Why aren’t I happier? That’s so dumb. Be grateful…be grateful…be grateful. I am so grateful and so mindful and Christian and perfect on this subject of being thankful for what I have. And yet tormented that I know it’s not enough. Not only is it not enough, it is not what I want. And yet the olde Clydesdale can’t seem to outfox The Man. Damn Oprah! Follow your dreams and all that.

Time for the shower. The lather rinse repeat. It’s OK. Just the customary, frivolous life assessment. It will be quiet driving in. Transformed landscape. Everyone will be more holiday-oriented. The snow is the best special effect—the seasonal fairy sprinkle that alters the picture and puts us in mind of The Season. And all that.

Of Sled Dogs and Snowflakes...

2005-12-05T22:08:00.000+05:00

It is supposed to snow today in our Nation’s Capital and you know what that means!!! Widespread panic! Oh yeah, then there will be the inevitable party poopers, the dorks who grew up in NORWAY/Antarctica/fill in the blank, where they get 15 feet of snow, even in the summer, who write snarky op-ed columns about what losers DC residents are. We’re not losers! We just like panicking in the snow BECAUSE we like snow days.

Listen, in a city where people take themselves as seriously as they do here—the snow day is mammoth. This is a company town and the company is the gummint. You either work for the gummint or you feed off it like a parasite, as I do. That’s called being a “consultant.” We don’t like the word “contractor,” so save that for your dishwasher installer.

Anyway, this town is so straight-laced, wonky and gooby that the ONLY fun we really truly have is our addiction to freaking out about snow. It’s like living on the North Pole—everyone’s a believer. E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E freaks out, talks about it incessantly, buys too much toilet paper/milk/snow shovels/frozen pizza and then waits for the gummint to close—please oh please. Parents PRAY that school will be closed. Oh they PRETEND to be irritated and there is frequent mention of “I grew up in Buffalo/Minneapolis/Nova Scotia/Alaska…” But the real inside dirty secret is, WE LOVE OUR WEENIE SNOW STATUS!!! Because it is the only time goofing off is sanctioned.

In DC when it snows it is “snow” of course, not the real SNOW of the northern steppes. No, our “snow” is precious! A wee dusting and the Gov closes and everyone starts driving VERY BADLY, (not to be confused with Every Day Bad), and MONTGOMERY COUNTY public schools basically close for the entire winter. Give or take. Which is GREAT because I live in…Montgomery County! Of course Catholic schools answer to a higher authority, but they often go the way of the county schools.

Talk of snow naturally leads me to Sled Dog, or Chien de Sled, a lemony bitch I used to work with who accused me (imagine!) of using my kids’ snow days as a way of intentionally missing work! She would get progressively huffy if I was late or if I--GOD FORBID--called in to say my kids’ daycare/school was closed or something. Yeah, imagine my nerve.

Sled Dog, who was unmarried and did not have children (quel surpris, mais non) would get up early AND WATCH THE SCHOOL CLOSINGS to see if I was telling the truth. True story. Clearly, she was not with the DC program. Hmm, that reminds me. I’ll have to write about Sled Dog one day. You’ll love hearing about her. Because who doesn’t have a bitter, sad, resentful, little twerp lurking in the shadows? Hmmm? The little troll with no make-up who sits like a hunched turtle at her computer monitoring when everyone comes in to work and when they leave and how long they take for lunch. People like that make me want to HURL. She was the kind of person who would say, “I am going to skip lunch today because I’m going out for dinner tonight.” You do that.

See the problem is, people like that think that there is a logical grid to the cosmos and that they can reapportion time, space, calories and snowflakes into a fusion of centered complicity. They think they can CONTROL the universe. My beef (or boeuf) with people like this (it is an archetype) is that they think there is an invisible balance, level or gauge somewhere in the planetary web that weighs all of our contributions on a big fat scale somewhere. Hence, the resentment. In their petty, vengeful minds, Other People are somehow scamming the universe, chalking up endless hours of fun and laziness and contentment while they, the worker drone bees, are keeping the planets aligned with their selfless commitment to toting that bale. You know it's true.

ANYWAY, we all love our “snow” days BECAUSE we love our prized little time-honored excuse to go SLEDDING somewhere really picturesque in DC, like Battery Kemble, with our kids, so we can relive the slushy, wet butt fun of careening down a hill toward a tree screaming our lungs out. We “pretend” to think it’s all “ridiculous” but we all enable one another. The weathermen start manning the SNOW EMERGENCY HEADQUARTERS, the grocery stores start hiding the milk to create a frenzy, the Washington Post starts camping out at Battery Kemble to photograph the patented yearly saucer flying over a bump, and Pop Tarts become scarcer than hen’s teeth.

And Sled Dog, who now lives in Alaska, because she doesn’t like snow and sold her condominium waaaaaaaaaaaaay before the DC housing bubble even thought about popping, is probably sitting in an igloo somewhere missing the winter rite of passage here in DC. She probably had to hire a pack of Iditarod dogs to hoof it to work, while we all "bite our nails" in anticipation of the wintry “deluge.”

My office is ordering pizza for all of us (which is the nicest thing I have heard of, honestly). In case we have to leave early. And, so far, not a flake has fallen.

Wild Horses

2005-12-02T21:54:00.000+05:00

It’s hard to say who gets broken in the mornings, me or my wild pony Ian. Because, as I said yesterday, by the time I am lurching toward the car like a fevered hurtling train (as the Waterboys would say) I feel like my spirit, body and mind have been summarily broken.

Ian came into our room at about 3:30 in the morning, so he infiltrated my system early. Unlike other wonderful, loving, fabulous parents, I DO NOT like it when my kids crawl into bed with me. I LOATHE it, as a matter of fact. Because I am really weird about “boundaries,” even tho I don’t like speaking in psycho lingo. Boundaries. My bed is for me. It is for sleep. And whatever else you do that you know I do OTHERWISE I WOULDN’T HAVE THREE KIDS. But it is NOT an interim kiddie bed.

My friend Eve said, “Oh but sometimes it’s delicious.” Eve said that because she is an adoring, loving, doting perfect mother. And I am a grumpy mean nasty bed grinch. BED GRINCH ALERT!

Well, and Ian is not your garden variety kid. Or maybe he is, I don’t know. But he tends to suck the life, blood and marrow out of everyone he loves, and he doesn’t stop when he’s sleeping. He is 40 pounds of compactly distributed toddler body mass and he is the type of kid who barnacles himself to you in bed, no matter how subtly and deftly you try and pry him loose. And he is a big breather-in-the-face. That hot, salty, snot-nougat toddler breath. Mmmm. And he snores.

When he woke up he came tumbling down the stairs, grumpy and confused, already defying the day for starting. And we were off to the races. “I want hard boiled eggs!” “We don’t have any.” “YES WE DO!! I WANT HARD BOILED EGGS! Do I HAVE to go to Nina’s today?" “Yes.” “Why?”

Then I went upstairs for my shower. Woke up Daisy who sat in her crib with those precious swollen toddler bed eyes, staring at her blanket. Sweet girl. Nick corralled the younguns downstairs. He made them each a waffle and got them their juice. All hail Nick! I told him I didn’t know what the hell I would do without him. I said “hell.” I didn’t mean to. He was really appreciative.

I could just feel the morning unraveling, slipping away from me. I had to open yet another package from Eddie Bauer with appropriately “casual” wear for dreaded “casual” Friday. If I were nominated for an Oscar, I would spend less time getting dressed than I do for “casual” Friday. And let’s not forget, I have a NEW job and so I have to dress “casual” PERFECT. Matching jewelry, carefully calibrated “insouciance.” AGONY.

Last night at the table Ian all of a sudden starting singing this Beautiful South song about a cad who lists all these women’s names: Annabel, Jessica, Phillipa, Sue…I wrote this song for you…” Except he combined lyrics from U2 and that song, which Nick picked out. He sang, “Annabel, Jessica, Phillipa, Sue…no one gets hurt!” Which was a little disconcerting, especially coming from the Terminator. “No one gets hurt!”

I am very proud of m’ son Nick, as you might have discerned. He is very intelligent and polite and funny and just all around a splendid little boy. But Nick’s favorite talent of mine is his UNCANNY ability to decipher lyrics!!! Like, to me, that is the most exciting thing! Honestly, that kid can pick apart any song and he has some amazing taste too.

I showed him how to make his own CD from iTunes—he has his own iTunes list—and he made a very nice CD. He asked if we could listen to it in the car this morning. And it was so weird to be driving along, listening to my son’s CD. U2, Green Day, Outkast, Travis and then, just as I was turning into the garage, Jakob Dylan. My son’s selections. Next he wants to download The Killers’ I got Soul But I’m not a Soldier.

Anyway, as we were leaving the house, Ian burst through the door and let it slam right into Daisy’s face. He ran out into the front yard and said, “I want to run through the field!” And I thought how apt it was that I tell people I feel like I’ve been given a wild mustang every morning that I have to break by 8:00 a.m. There was my pony, running with his arms in the air through the “field” of our front yard. Daisy trotted out to the car. Nick was in the front seat, and I had to retrieve the mustang from the field and strap him into the car. At the babysitter’s he held onto me. My little anomaly—the wild spirited rebel, so full of love that he can’t break the tie that began at 3:30 a.m.

Then I drop off Nick at school. He sees another little boy and they race for the front door.

Morning Basketcase Bingo

2005-12-01T21:43:00.000+05:00

In the kitchen this morning, as he prepared his own bagel and a bagel for Ian, Nick said, “I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamt that the real world and the fantasy world combined to form an apocalyptic world.” I said, “Hmmm. Well. I hope you’re not right about that!” And descended into the basement to face the elliptical.

My elliptical sits, in the furnace room, facing the panoramic view of—the furnace—AND a bald light bulb. It’s so exciting! But I love it. Cuz you know I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love it. BECAUSE I read the paper whilst on the elliptical in a funky multitasking exercise that is probably a lot better for the op-ed side of my brain than my buns of steel. But who the hell cares. At least I make an appearance! It’s sort of like locking myself in a room to have my own damn time for 30 minutes every day. So I was not thrilled when Nick came down and said, “Mommy, Ian is screaming his head off and being impossible.” But then he followed it with, “I haven’t even eaten my bagel. Now I know how you feel.”

Then we got the mandated visit from Master Ian the Terminator, in his grey and yellow Batman jammies—he looks like Batman: The Hard Boiled Egg (what with the colors and all). He stands there and does the Coy Whiny Thing. He knows I am irritated, he mumbles, he fingers items on the basement shelves; he asks me what I’m doing… I finally get off the pony and chase him back up the stairs. If I can’t have 30 crummy minutes masked in exercising virtue to read the Wash Post, then I DON’T KNOW WHAT.

Came upstairs, Ian was super poopy, still whining, Nick was crumpled in half, too tall for the kiddy table that was once his very own banquet table for one, reading the comics, eating his bagel and half watching Read Between the Lions. I changed the poopy diaper with Ian wriggling, whining, resisting, and started to feel: persecuted. Yes, persecution usually follows the existential breakdown. Existential breakdown followed by that sunny persecution feeling, with a side of free floating depression. Hold the mayo!

Um, I don’t know what it is with Ian, but he trounces on every single solitary nerve I have, and then he reaches in further and finds the last crumpled remains of a nerve and crushes that too. He is what is known as exasperating. Everything is “no,” or “why” or “do I have to” and he is only THREE, not 16. He is wild, unpredictable, contrary, impish, mischievous, naughty, adorable, perfectly divine, and IRRITATING.
You know the Jonathan Saffron Foer novel Everything is Illuminated? Well my life is Everything is Irritating. And he and I went to the same high school! Coincidence???????

I lurch through the morning, playing a wicked game with beat the clock. New job, must be on time, doncha know. MUST be out of the house by 7:50 or the whole house of cards is in disarray. Nick tries to put Ian’s coat on and chases him around the house. He finally says, “I had to hog tie him to get his jacket on.” I laughed so hard. Meanwhile, Daisy stands in the living room with her yellow jacket on, her hair combed; her teeth voluntarily brushed and says, “I’m RIDDY Mommy!” With such pride of accomplishment and cooperation.

Nick has his backpack ready and is in his coat. We hurtle through the door, the babies running to the car, and Nick stands there, quietly, with no fanfare, holding the storm door for me as I lock the house. Honestly, it’s the most touching part of every morning for me. I never told him to do it, he just does it. It breaks my heart, if you want to know the truth. Then we get to the babysitter’s and I fumble and unbuckle and liberate the babies from the constraints and hold their little hands and cross the street to her house. As I cross the street I think, I’ve just lived an entire lifetime and it’s not even 7:57 a.m.

Word to the Sistahs!

2005-11-30T23:05:00.000+05:00

Weeeeeeeeelllllll, went out a drankin’ with the lasses last night and what a scurvy lot we were. AYE! Blow the man down (if ye can do it while walkin’ and chewin at the time matey!). Man overboard! Or was that a champagne glass spillin’ it’s dainty contents onto Lady Holly’s skirt?

Siobhan, Holly, Mary, Glenda, Moira, Linda and me. IT WAS SO FUN. We missed ya Hope! There was talk of sex (69, so ‘80’s or still relevant?); cross pollination with scurvy lads at our favorite watering hole, DAN’S CAFÉ; several loud proclamations (you guys are all ASSHOLES!); laughter; gift giving—ba ba ba bling! Topped off by Miss Suzy Q’s generous purchase of a bottle of the Verve to complete the night. And crème brulee and a chocolate explosion thingy and many sloppy heartfelt kisses on the curb of 18th and L as we all melted into the night with our umbrellas and the glow of an evening truly spent with women who take each other in—literally and figuratively—without the bullshit, the competition, the sizing up.

I’ve been so spoiled knowing true women like this—all my life—that when I come up against the usual girlzilla I am always stunned. We are a group of women made up of two sets of lifelong friends, Holly and Susie (Hope in absentia) and Moira and me, two lawyer colleagues, and my Peace Corps comrade.

It was Glenda’s 43rd birthday—viewed in the mirror, object is much smaller: 34! Holly proclaimed that her skin and cleavage were top notch! Impromptu cleavage assessment. Susie was almost a local hero in Ireland—she made the journey and God sent her back to us and we’re overjoyed to have her back. Susie broke my heart when she told me she’d help out with my kids if I applied to the MacDowell Colony. BROKE my heart. Moira and I were back up belly to the bar at the beginning of the night—ECSTATIC with the stolen freedom. CHEERS.

For Christmas we get together every year, no matter what and we always give gifties. This year we’re going to make donations to a charity that we want to support and then say why we did it. We want to start a stock club and then become millionatrixes and star in our own NUDE CALENDAR! The last part was my idea. No one seemed too excited about that. But we’ve got the cleavage girls! Think about it.

Mary shimmered in her baubles, looking every inch the seductive Gibson Girl. We coveted each other’s jewelry—which is all so unique and so reflective of the personalities. Nothing cookie cutter, nothing predictable—proud, asymmetrical, totemic, gaudy, bright, and brilliant pieces. I love y’all. As Jeff Buckley would say, LET’S DRINK and SLEEP! And as E.M. Forster would say: ONLY CONNECT. And we did.

Overheard: ...the Kate Moss vacuum...My monkey is dead!...Your necklace will point him in the right direction...You guys are FUCKING assholes!...You slept with him too?...HOT MONKEY LOVE!

Tuesday's Lessons Questions and Confessions

2005-11-29T19:46:00.000+05:00

The question for the day is: Is it necessary to exercise if you are unattractive?
Answer: I don’t think so.

Case in point, the jogger I saw this morning running WITH A BACKPACK, like running itself isn't torture enough, fer crying out loud. I mean, basically what I am trying to say is--you wouldn't preserve a velvet painting in a climate controlled room, would you? You would, however, restore a masterpiece, like the Mona Lisa (no relation) to its former glory. But if you are dealing with flawed goods from the get-go, I wouldn't waste the money. Skip the botox and the facials and the manicures. Look in the mirror. Do you look like Vivian Leigh? Then put down that scalpel and those fussy delusions of grandeur! Then thank me for saving you lots of money. Now go and learn to be happy in your own skin.

Oh, we’re just being tacky and mean this morning. Having to do with existential quandaries and all. Damn those existential quandaries!

The new job is good but the problem is, it is a “job.” It is a better “job” than the last one I had, but I don’t seem to be in a chalet hugging a Swiss alp pondering the next sentence to grace my purple Mac laptop or anything, you know? Yeah, THAT kind of existential breakdown. Or chugging through the rugged terrain of Afghanistan freeing women from religious oppression and breathing in the ancient charmed air of conquerors and turbaned men. Pass the cumin.

Went up to the kook bank yesterday and I am starting to get a little scared of it. Like I can hear the people in the audience whispering like they do in a horror movie, why does she keep going in there? Appalling Bank Executrix was on another Very Loud Perfunctory Call; the introductory greeting stewardess was on a personal call; the only productive teller was wearing an ‘80’s pink tie.

Walking to the bank there was a Wallace Beery sort of man sitting at the Starbucks twisting his nose hairs into a solitary braid. When I walked back from the bank, he was still there.

I went into a precious little boutique filled with sequined satin jewel boxes, whimsical magnets and grapefruit and fig soap. I thought about nuclear holocaust and communism, naturally. As in, there was not one single thing in there that would be helpful following a nuclear holocaust and no wonder developing countries hate us. Because we have entire stores filled with useless gewgaws manned by barking Chevy Chase beeyatches. I picked up two candles and the owner said, “Those are the best candles.” I said, “Do you have candle sticks?” “No!” Was the breezy and unhelpful reply. I thought, well maybe you should. Since you have 8,000 other useless little trinkets why not have one thing that actually supports, holds and makes sense with another item? How about that?

Here’s another confession: I have developed the weirdest yen. I want a Land Rover Discovery. Speaking of capitalist pigs…

Reason #802 that it’s good I’m not at my last job: they had to work the day after Thanksgiving AND Saturday and Sunday. Ouch.

Do you ever get weirded out when you send someone a really nice email or an email with a question and the person doesn’t write you back?

Does it hurt your feelings when you have a party and someone doesn’t write or call to thank you? It hurts mine. Of course. And if you’ve known me for ten minutes, you would know that. And the people I have to my house I have always known for at least ten years. So anyone who comes to my house would know that it would hurt my feelings. But the problem is, I think some people confuse saying “thank you” with standing on ceremony. Saying thank you is not a formality. It is not a matter of adhering to archaic etiquette rules encased in mothballs. It’s about telling someone who has made an effort that you appreciate it. Because people who welcome you into their homes and their lives are usually people with sappy sensitive hearts. And they need to be acknowledged.

So, lessons learned from today:

1) If you are a dog, put down the barbell. 2) If you put your feet under someone’s table, say thank you. No excuses on this one! 3)Don’t stock up on gewgaws in the event of a nuclear threat. 4) Don’t go to the bank on Wisconsin Avenue above Woodmont. It’s scary. 5) Have a great day!!

Happy Flabgiving!!!

2005-11-22T20:33:00.000+05:00

We had a great weekend. Most excellent! Nick’s Boy Scout Pack was invited to be in the county Thanksgiving parade and so we hustled downtown and parked about a million miles away (all streets were closed) and huffed and puffed up the street. The Pack Leader is a bit of a sarge, so I was terrified of being late. As usual, we were one of the first people there. I put myself through such agony…It was a stunning day—all fall crispness—and Nick looked so cute in his Cub Scout uniform.

The boys all lined up and they had a very fancy banner and they marched through the streets. I walked along the sidelines, taking pictures and clapping and rocking back and forth (like a DORK) to the Redskins marching band that was right in front of them.

I mean, yes, Norman Rockwell and Frank Capra and Andy Griffith and just about every other icon of American down home perfectitude shone down on us. I had…so much fun and Nick did too, although he was a lot more blasé about it. For some reason, ever since he was a baby, he never really cared about parades. And I of course have some kind of daft thing about them. Which is why I cry every year watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade (e-v-e-r-y year). Onward…

Then that night we had a dinner party that...worked. It fell together and it was beautiful. One of those times where everyone arrives and the coats slip off and the conversation starts and there’s just so much revelry and bonhomie and warmth, that it’s great. Oh yeah, and lots of vodka.

It was plov night, which has become sort of a tradition chez nous. MZA makes the national dish of Uzbekistan, plov, and we serve shots of vodka (the hostess does not partake, let’s be clear) and LOTS OF RED CAVIAR. Nick and Daisy practically inhaled the red caviar and Ian was the master of ceremonies for the 4 and under crowd—serving juice boxes and distributing pizza slices.

Everyone looked beautiful—we’re all old friends, from different paths of acquaintance. I liked it. It was nice.

Then Tess, Sheila’s daughter, spent the night. Nick slept on the floor and she got his bottom bunk and Ian slept in his usual top bunk. He calls Tessa “Sara,” for reasons that are not quite clear.

The kids slept late and I made a big smokin’ stack of Bisquick pancakes and we all had breakfast together. Then we took them all to the playground. Nick and Tess took turns riding his bike to the playground. There was Nick, riding down a side street with Tess running, tall and beautiful beside him, her feel getting in her way every once in a while. And I looked at Nick, pedaling away from me, with his goofy helmet teetering on his head and I thought, “This is his life.” It was an epiphany, like here he is, living his life with his babyhood friend running alongside him, in his neighborhood, where he has grown up.

It was another lovely day—absolutely clear and bright and the kids rode bikes on the tennis court. Daisy drew with chalk and Ian blazed around the court on his low slung three wheeler. He’d come whipping around a corner, smile, look at MZA and me and say, “See ya suckers!” Daisy fell on an asphalt curb and scared her self more than anything. I scooped her up and MZA kicked the curb and dutifully told it how bad it was.

The babies took a long nap, Sheila came to collect Tess and we deconstructed, then we puttered in the afternoon. I bought a Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner, for ease and crowd pleasin’ certainty.

Yeah, we’re coming up on Thanksgiving and even this dyed in the wool old crusty cynic must say I am thankful, grateful for my friends and my family, immediate and extended, I love y’all. I hope you have a beautiful Thanksgiving. Tucked in pockets all over the country, I feel like we are bound by such a lovely cord.

Kook Garage

2005-11-16T20:51:00.000+05:00

Now instead of plowing against traffic, and against the grain, and against logic up to the Gooselands, I have entered the “real” direction and natural flow of the world. Which is better? Oh so hard to say! Not really. I find the ceaseless bleed of red taillights somehow gratifying in that I am also headed in a direction other people are. Because they are GOING somewhere and not just blazing up the highway to nowhere (Pennsylvania?) to inhabit an oddly placed building with temperature control issues and canned art on the walls. Give me grubby!

And seriously, I am going to do a documentary about Bethesda. Because, let’s get this straight, it is NOT without its kooks. And yesterday apparently someone unloaded a Central Kook Garage and they ALL came out to play and talk loudly. I walked (walked!!!!) to the bank—this enormous national bank behemoth—and there was only one (1) teller on duty.

I noticed right away that things were weird because these two people were having one of those patented super-nerd borderline retarded conversations about airfares. And they were strangers. Then there was a foreign sort of man who had a serious nasal problem, just sitting on a chair in the middle of the bank, kind of switching his snot load from one nostril to the other. Then there was the horrendous “bank executive loan finance woman” in a comer office who was having an EXTREMELY loud PERSONAL conversation on the phone.

It was the definition of a perfunctory, suit wearing, tight ass, bank executrix kind of conversation. “So, how are you/how are the girls/I could give a shit/let me fire off some more meaningless pleasantries and then get to the important part: myself.”

Then there was the teller at the window who kept putting her fingers in HER MOUTH. And that was a double gross—as in, do you KNOW where that money has been and ew gross, your spit stained hands are touching all the money.

I stood there and HONESTLY, I felt like I was in a Kafka play. I know everyone says that, but this was existential theatre of the absurd drama at its worst. Then it was on to CVS where the Kook Garage had also unloaded a bushel of its contents. There was another ENORMOUS line—I have measured out my life in CVS lines—and when it was RIGHT ABOUT TO BE MY TURN this batty Italian dame in a beige felt fedora comes rushing in and slams into the counter and babbles gibberish about how she was sold a bottle of BROKEN Italian seasoning. She keeps jamming the broken bottle with its fragrant spilled contents into the cashier’s nose. The cashier waves her off, finishes with the customer and then tends to the wiry panicked nut. She wields the broken bottle and the cashier actually tells her to go get another one, even though she mumbles something about how the woman must have dropped it AFTER she bought it. Duh!

So that woman, with her new bottle of Italian seasoning, scurries out onto the sidewalk. So I walk past her, huffy and imperious, I want to say, “Don’t drop that one too, ya kook!”

So, Bethesda, tony suburb, land of sushi, is also a closet kook haven. Which is why I fit in so well. I like walking the streets, pounding the pavement, looking at all the people and checking out restaurant after restaurant. And it’s not a piggy type thing; it’s like a life fascination type thing. Like I have NO DESIRE to bring my lunch. It would feel culturally insensitive, like looking for a McDonald’s in Tokyo or something. I just feel like I should partake of the culture, the variety, the feel of it. The neighborhood, the town. It’s a place. With a feel. You’d understand my rabidity if you’d ever spent any time in Rockville and Gaithersburg, where I was for the past two years. Horrendous. Panera Bread anyone?

OK. That’s all I can sneak in sur le moment. This place is hopping. In a different way from the olde haunt. Much more “next steps,” “calendar items,” “action items,” “to dos,” and stuff. And I work for someone who SHOWS UP and takes her work seriously. I know, be careful what you wish for. But at the end of the day, you just can’t respect yourself if you don’t respect the person you are working for. Or I can’t respect myself. Must go now and check “task” list with cleverly lined out items and feverish, insistent little red deadlines…

Notes From the Underground

2005-11-10T16:54:00.000+05:00

Literally...geez. Miss Fancy Pants goes and gets a new job and doesn' t have time for the important things! Like this! Man. Plus there is a firewall at work that prevents me from directly accessing this site. Annoying! I can still get there, but I haven't even had time to compose as I would like. So I'm here in our basement of a Thursday morn, furiously typing away.

The new job is swell and if there is ANYTHING at all you want to know about menopause or chronic fatigue syndrome, I want you to write me. Are they the same thing, you ask? No. The most important thing about my new job is: there are LOTS of sushi restaurants nearby!

I work in Bethesda, which is a tony li'l suburb of DC that hugs its northwest quadrangle. Scrumptious! The reason I like Bethesda is because, since it hugs that aforementioned quadrangle, where I grew up, I have spent a lot of time in Bethesda! Just incidentally and because it was so close to home and all.

My mother's favorite Chinese restaurant was there, China Village. The owner was a stooped little feverishly busy man who would come out from the kitchen when word that my mother had arrived got to him. He would greet her heartily with her last name and then ask, ignoring any daughters at the table, "How your SON?" Then he would put his arm around my mother and say, "Your mother STRONG! Like tiger." And then rip up the bill.

Often my mother would then say, "Do you want to sashay over to the Opp Shop?" Groan. But we would go and linger among rich people's sensible cast-offs in a church-run thrift store. That's where I went yesterday on my lunch hour. The Opp Shop. I was sorely tempted by an Asian "old" framed print of a Canada goose (you know how I love them) sort of toppling over with unlikely grace. I think I might actually go and buy it. I liked it because it would represent my moving on from the goose preserve and all.

There is also a HUGE Caribou coffee nearby. Every single solitary person in my office has a giant Caribou coffee cup on their desk. It's hard not to get sucked into the cult.

The nearest li'l sushi place looks like it was just yanked out of a Tokyo alley. The crammed front is a store with weird fixins like small dried crab shells coated in sesame seeds called "Party!" Yum. In the back there is a small sushi counter where a very Japanese woman takes your order while carping "Hi!" (that means yes, in my extensive Japanese) into the phone.

The excitement of coffee! And sushi! And staid preppy patrician charitable hand-me-downs. WHAT, I ask, is not to like?

I missed ya.

More anon.

2005-11-03T18:00:00.000+05:00

I am starting my new job today. Am I a little flipped out? Yes. Hardly anyone was at work yesterday, you know how that goes. You imagine this movie send-off and instead it's this total anti-climactic whimper kind of thing. But they had a nice luncheon (doncha love that word?) for me on Monday, catered by my favoriate place. That was nice. My uber-boss gave a really nice speech. About: me. He thanked me. And lemme just say, I was grateful. Because, while I certainly don't want to appear immodest, I DESERVED IT. Brother. Or, bruzzer, as Ian would say.

OK, I gotta go. More later on the Mary Tyler Moore imaginary theme song as I traversed I270 south yesterday with all my papers and photos and plants in my car...headed for new terrain...

Why Job Interviews are Like Satan

2005-10-30T19:26:00.000+05:00

Job interviews are like Satan because I think as a society we have unwittingly absorbed the national swagger of arrogance that the United States is projecting around the world: as in, I can have exactly what I want; I am not willing to think even one millimeter outside the box; I can play with individuals like a cat bandying a mouse around; I am not accountable. I can ask you questions (or interrogate and humiliate you with dogs and fake menstrual blood) and you must answer them, whether they are relevant or not.

If you would like to plunge your self-worth into the depths of a bottomless pit of boiling hot dead pig lava, then start looking for a new job. Try it! Seriously, it will be the most rewarding experience of your life.

You want to feel like you are groveling and pirouetting like Balzac’s dancing dog to the tune of the employment fiddler? Get that resume in gear, start slutting yourself ALL OVER THE PAGE, and be prepared to have 60 resumes: one for each mood of the Cerberus who interviews you.

Make sure you put A LOT of effort into it, because for each droplet of blood you extract from your soul to put on that resume, it will be met with even greater indifference and lack of attention.

It would not be possible for me to tell you how many times someone interviewing me has said, “You were in Peace Corps? What country?”

Hmmmm, I don’t know what country. Maybe the country where I was for FIVE YEARS of this résumé’s chronology?

How long is my resume? Two (2) pages. It is written in bite-sized little sound chomps so as not to tax the brains of anyone out there in haughty employment neverland.

“You were in Peace Corps…oh I see, in…Uzbekistan? Where IS that? Is that near…"[here’s where they stop because they don’t want to sound stupid].
“[Here’s where I answer] No. [Stupid]. It borders Afghanistan.”
“OH!" [Relief: I have heard of THAT!!!]

Here are some very special questions that people still (you will be relieved to know!) ask during interviews:

[Slow intro, making it seem like they are going to ask something original]:

“Where do you SEE yourself in five years?”

[Wrapping a rubber band around my upper arm, tying it with my teeth and injecting a vial of premium smack into my veins. Preferably on a small uninhabited island in the Gulf of Thailand].

BECAUSE the thing interviews reveal about human nature is as time-honored as a pledge having to swallow a live goldfish: I had to answer that dumbfuck question, so now you have to.

It makes things right with the spinning of the earth—it’s called “natural retribution.”

So as the goldfish flips onto my lower abdominus, my esophagus tickling from the rigid fins slithering down its path, I obligingly come up with some BULLSHIT like, “I see myself in a more managerial role…..bllllrrrrr, blllrrrr, blllrr.”

Here’s another one:

“What three adjectives would you use to describe yourself?”

That’s easy: [HOT HOT HOT!]

Here’s what I actually said, in what I thought was a positive storm of braininess:

“Smart, conscientious and reliable.”

What was I supposed to say? Neurotic, quasi-permanently depressed, paranoid, anti-social, bitter, vindictive, weird, abhorrent, angry, petulant? Huh?

I trot out ENVIABLE arrays of glossy, fabulous, socioeconomically, culturally sensitive publications that I have either written or edited, however I still don’t feel the love, the awe. What I tend to feel is: the yawn. The: make it sizzle. The: wow us factor.

And, since I was born and raised with this PECULIAR unfounded sense of royal entitlement, I feel resentful when I have to prove myself. I am not good at selling myself. I am not for sale. I am not good at self-promotion, wowing people or slavishly advertising my genius. As my mother said, “You were gently reared.” There you have it: I was gently reared and now I'm getting harshly reared.

Whatever it is, I am resentful of my gentility because it has left me CLAWLESS in this ruthless world. I can’t defend myself against the junkyard dogs and vicious alley cats. I’m waiting for my cream saturated bowl of milk and a diamond encrusted collar. A white glossy mansion to harbor me from this stinking plebian life spent in a tidy litter box.

But I don’t have the instinctual scrappy guts to see my way out of this mundane world.

True story, my senior high school thesis was called: The Temporal Versus the Mundane: The Tormented 20th Century Artist in the Novels of Hermann Hesse. You think I'm kidding. I didn't know I was writing my AUTOBIOGRAPHY back then.

So what if one of my interviewers saw this post. The Disney ending would be: She has such pluck! We have to hire this girl!

But the reality is, this post actually reveals things about me that are real. And, as we all know, that is not the point of the interview. The point of the interview is to stage a finely choreographed sham meant to make everyone, on both sides of the table, feel like they are engaging in a meaningful discourse that accurately reflects an individual's personality and reveals, in sunny improbablity, where that individual will be spending the majority of her days. It's an unavoidable pantomime, and in the end you get a receipt for your soul. Called a paycheck.

[Disclaimer: I wrote this whilst going thru the dreaded process, but vowed not to post it until I got a job. Superstitious as ever. I can happily and honestly say, I didn't experience any of this BS with the people that actually did hire me.]

Transition Tango!!!!

2005-10-27T00:57:00.000+05:00

Oh man--concept of new job, excellent--but we are still pounding out this stupid stuff here and the new place is sort of asking me to also "look" at things (read: start working on them) and, well, I just feel like CINDERELMO!

Remember how I said I love my colleagues? I do! But you know, you just know, I don't mean ALL of them, doncha? I have been diplomatic for the sake of...something, I don't know, Christianity or something, but lest you think I am a goody two shoes, I'm not. BECAUSE there is one person here that I loathe. And she just came down and chatted with me, in her churlish, no eye-contact way. Then she looked at my beloved ivy plant, that has flourished here during my tenure, giving me hope every day that something can actually thrive in this toxic environ.

And, she said, "Before you leave, give me a cutting from your ivy."

AS IF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Doesn't that totally sound like some fairy tale bargain? Some kind of nefarious secret pact, some kind of voodoo, Rumplestiltskin, forest-dwelling, give-me-your first-born, kind of clause? I don't like it.

How can I conveniently "forget"?

My plant. My beloved plant. My Samson. Were I to cleave its lush curling tendril, would I sap the life out of it? To turn it over to The Undeserving One? Who has made my life a living HELL? Who is the primary reason for my frantic job search amid all this life chaos. She wants a PIECE OF ME!!!!!!!

It's vegetation cannibalism.

Do you think I am overreacting?