I just visited Facebook for the first time in four months. I'm not really into Facebook. At this point I think I just visit Facebook to maintain the illusion that I'm hip. Although, for a twenty-something, Facebook is hardly about being hip anymore. It's more about being functional. I keep it current for the same reason that I collected signatures in my high school year book. It's just what you, you know, do. And it was pretty fun for a while, but I'm starting to feel like I've been collecting high school year book signatures for a really long time, and the idea that I need to keep on collecting signatures forever is a little daunting.
Not so for Husband. He collects friends, Facebook and otherwise. If you send him a friend request, he will add you, I promise. (As if I didn't know that he had already added every last person who reads this blog). His 1,000 plus friend collection is easily surviving the defriending trend that is sweeping Facebook (it had to happen, and it is a good thing).
Now that Facebook has become what it is, I'm kind of interested in some data. What is the average number of friends on Facebook? Is there a "Most Friends on Facebook" record? What is the most common demographic on Facebook? Someone write a good New Yorker article about this.
Today, to make up for the fact that I haven't looked at it for four months, I left it open on my computer all morning. It was kind of mesmerizing to watch the world go by via everyone's status updates: Julie is making banana bread; George hates President Obama; Pete thinks Obama is *&#ing brilliant; Anne loves her husband; Julie is eating her banana bread.
I don't do status updates: My patchy Facebooking creates a risk that I'll inform the world that I'm changing Baby's diaper or frying green tomatoes or thinking about drinking beer in the White House for four months straight.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
My Three-Year-Old Baby
Should I still call him "Baby?" Yes.
And you know why? Because even though he is as tall as a tree and as heavy has a bus, he seems as desperate to stay a baby as I am to keep him one. Every night, when I come to haul him out of my bed, he mumbles, "Mama, I wanna holdjou lack a baby." Every morning when I give him his plastic dish of oatmeal and his big boy spoon, he says, "I want Mama to hold my spoon." Every afternoon when he wakes up from his nap and I offer him a trip to the toilet, he says, "No toilet; I wanna do poopies in the Mickey Mouse dapper."
His birthday was terrific: no expectations, no disappointments, a lot of presents, and a long day with his most favoritest people in the world. By his fourth birthday, he'll surely have a clearer understanding of what a birthday should entail. And hopefully he'll be sleeping alone, feeding himself, and ditching the Mickey Mouse diapers.
And you know why? Because even though he is as tall as a tree and as heavy has a bus, he seems as desperate to stay a baby as I am to keep him one. Every night, when I come to haul him out of my bed, he mumbles, "Mama, I wanna holdjou lack a baby." Every morning when I give him his plastic dish of oatmeal and his big boy spoon, he says, "I want Mama to hold my spoon." Every afternoon when he wakes up from his nap and I offer him a trip to the toilet, he says, "No toilet; I wanna do poopies in the Mickey Mouse dapper."
His birthday was terrific: no expectations, no disappointments, a lot of presents, and a long day with his most favoritest people in the world. By his fourth birthday, he'll surely have a clearer understanding of what a birthday should entail. And hopefully he'll be sleeping alone, feeding himself, and ditching the Mickey Mouse diapers.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Shakespeare in the Park
Every summer, New York City sponsors a Shakespeare production in the park, free to the public. This year, the show is Twelfth Night, starring Anne Hathaway and Audra McDonald. At 1 pm, you pick up your ticket; at 8 pm, you attend the show.
How long would you wait in line for free tickets to see Twelfth Night in Central Park? On Tuesday, I decided that I would wait five hours, so I smooched Baby awake at 7:45 am and strolled him into the park by 8:00. When I saw that the line was a quarter of a mile long, I changed my mind. After I talked to a few people in various places in the line, I found out that on Monday night, the final ticket was distributed to a person who had arrived at 6:30 am. That person's spot in line was just ahead of a large rock by the swing sets in the Pinetum (lovingly known by Shakespeare in the Park line-waiters as the Rock of Hope). On Tuesday night I thought long and hard about how much I really wanted to see Twelfth Night. A lot, I decided.
Central Park doesn't actually open to until 6 am. So I was trespassing when I lugged my picnic blanket, diaper bag, and crossword puzzle book into the park at 5:30. At 5:39 I staked my claim in line along the fence at 83rd street. (Shakespeare in the Park line-waiters refer to this stretch of line as The Mulch and the people who wait there as Mulch People.) I was at least 100 people ahead of the Rock of Hope. I had come with good ticket karma in the form of a friend who had won tickets in the Wicked lottery three out of three times. I was gold, right?
Wrong. I didn't get the tickets. At 1:30 pm, defeated, I left the park with a heavy heart. Had I arrived a 5:38, one minute earlier, I would have gotten tickets. I could have literally reached out and strangled the last person who received tickets to last night's performance because that's how close they were in line.
Baby had the best day ever. He spent a long blissful morning inspecting pine cones, splashing in mud puddles (mulch puddles?), climbing on the Rock of Hope, and singing to a captive audience of Mulch People. So all was not lost.
And we had babysitting lined up and Husband had already made his excuses to get out of working. So Husband and I went out to eat on a double date with my friend (whose ticket karma is a teensy bit tarnished) and her husband. We ate coconut soup, beef curry, and barbequed chicken with peanut sauce. To my surprise and delight, my friend's husband dressed like a pirate and accidentally walked into a post.
And every person who got tickets to Shakespeare in the Park last night woke up this morning with swine flu, so, you know . . .
How long would you wait in line for free tickets to see Twelfth Night in Central Park? On Tuesday, I decided that I would wait five hours, so I smooched Baby awake at 7:45 am and strolled him into the park by 8:00. When I saw that the line was a quarter of a mile long, I changed my mind. After I talked to a few people in various places in the line, I found out that on Monday night, the final ticket was distributed to a person who had arrived at 6:30 am. That person's spot in line was just ahead of a large rock by the swing sets in the Pinetum (lovingly known by Shakespeare in the Park line-waiters as the Rock of Hope). On Tuesday night I thought long and hard about how much I really wanted to see Twelfth Night. A lot, I decided.
Central Park doesn't actually open to until 6 am. So I was trespassing when I lugged my picnic blanket, diaper bag, and crossword puzzle book into the park at 5:30. At 5:39 I staked my claim in line along the fence at 83rd street. (Shakespeare in the Park line-waiters refer to this stretch of line as The Mulch and the people who wait there as Mulch People.) I was at least 100 people ahead of the Rock of Hope. I had come with good ticket karma in the form of a friend who had won tickets in the Wicked lottery three out of three times. I was gold, right?
Wrong. I didn't get the tickets. At 1:30 pm, defeated, I left the park with a heavy heart. Had I arrived a 5:38, one minute earlier, I would have gotten tickets. I could have literally reached out and strangled the last person who received tickets to last night's performance because that's how close they were in line.
Baby had the best day ever. He spent a long blissful morning inspecting pine cones, splashing in mud puddles (mulch puddles?), climbing on the Rock of Hope, and singing to a captive audience of Mulch People. So all was not lost.
And we had babysitting lined up and Husband had already made his excuses to get out of working. So Husband and I went out to eat on a double date with my friend (whose ticket karma is a teensy bit tarnished) and her husband. We ate coconut soup, beef curry, and barbequed chicken with peanut sauce. To my surprise and delight, my friend's husband dressed like a pirate and accidentally walked into a post.
And every person who got tickets to Shakespeare in the Park last night woke up this morning with swine flu, so, you know . . .
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Hair Cut II
So I took Baby to the barbershop, candy bag in hand. As I walked in the door I happened to glance at the price list. His haircut was going to cost exactly the amount of the robot that had so enthralled him at the toy store last night. I had laughed all the way home from the toy store at those weak, weak parents who would spend that much money on a toy robot. Not me. As far as Baby knows, that robot lives in the toy store, and it would be cruel and unusual to wrench the poor robot away from her family on the toy store shelf. And here I was ready to drop the same amount of money on a haircut. A haircut that would grow out in one month.
Soooo, I gently closed the barbershop door without making the bell tinkle and I made an about face back to the drug store. For one quarter the cost of the haircut, I bought a pair of haircutting scissors.
It's not the best haircut ever, but it's a good darn good haircut. And it only took me from the opening credits of Cars to the part where Lightening finds Doc's collection of Piston Cups. And a package of gummi worms. And a cinnamon roll for the barberista.
I think that, in his heart, Baby actually respects me more for this, I really do.
Soooo, I gently closed the barbershop door without making the bell tinkle and I made an about face back to the drug store. For one quarter the cost of the haircut, I bought a pair of haircutting scissors.
It's not the best haircut ever, but it's a good darn good haircut. And it only took me from the opening credits of Cars to the part where Lightening finds Doc's collection of Piston Cups. And a package of gummi worms. And a cinnamon roll for the barberista.
I think that, in his heart, Baby actually respects me more for this, I really do.
Hair Cut
I'm about to set out the door, so this will be short. I'm setting out to go smash Baby's fingers with a hammer. I mean, I'm going to take him to get his hair cut.
First we're going to the drugstore to buy a bag of candy. Nothing like candy to soothe the pain of having your toenails pulled out with pliers. I mean, getting your hair cut.
Afterwards we're going to come home to watch Cars. By the end he will have forgotten all about his experience with being tarred and feathered. I mean . . .
Wish me luck.
First we're going to the drugstore to buy a bag of candy. Nothing like candy to soothe the pain of having your toenails pulled out with pliers. I mean, getting your hair cut.
Afterwards we're going to come home to watch Cars. By the end he will have forgotten all about his experience with being tarred and feathered. I mean . . .
Wish me luck.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Community Supported Agriculture
Six months ago I paid about $200 to a farm about an hour outside of the city. On Wednesday, I walked into the Church of All Nations on 57th street and, without paying anything, I walked out with a pound of mixed greens, a head of bok choy, six scallions, six heads of green garlic, six radishes, and six turnips. I get to do this every Wednesday afternoon for the rest of the 22 week growing season.
It's like Christmas every week because I never really know what exactly I'm going to get. It all depends on what the farm produces that week. I also don't really know if by the end of the 22-week period I will have gotten more or less that $200 worth of food. But here's what I do know:
The vegetables were all less than one week out of the dirt
The food used a relatively small amount of fossil fuels to be transported to me
The vegetables were grown using organic methods wherever practical
The workers who grew the vegetables were all fairly paid for their labor in advance of the harvest
All of the excess food is donated to the local soup kitchen for the Church of All Nations
Is that not cool? After I can figure out how to cook turnips and bok choy, it will be even cooler.
It's like Christmas every week because I never really know what exactly I'm going to get. It all depends on what the farm produces that week. I also don't really know if by the end of the 22-week period I will have gotten more or less that $200 worth of food. But here's what I do know:
The vegetables were all less than one week out of the dirt
The food used a relatively small amount of fossil fuels to be transported to me
The vegetables were grown using organic methods wherever practical
The workers who grew the vegetables were all fairly paid for their labor in advance of the harvest
All of the excess food is donated to the local soup kitchen for the Church of All Nations
Is that not cool? After I can figure out how to cook turnips and bok choy, it will be even cooler.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Tony Time
I'm posting this really late at night (Jimmy Fallon is kind of working for me lately), so give me a break if it's a little more whimsical than usual. I just realized that it's been five days since the Tonies and I haven't posted about them.
Aren't awards shows so the best? I'm not a very decisive person. I don't much like to take a position on, you know, anything. But, like most indecisive people, I really like to hear decisive people pass judgment on stuff. I spend a great deal of time reading movie, book, and theater reviews (and legal cases, statutes, and opinion columns).
So I love, love, love awards shows, and here's the coolest thing for me about this year's Tonies: This year my husband and I had actually seen more of the shows in the Tonies than we had seen movies for the Oscars. I know, we're quite the theatah snobs. Actually we're not. We have a two-year-old, and if we have a babysitter, we're going to a full-on Broadway show. It only costs $3 more than going to a movie theater (well, not really, but close).
But even when I hadn't seen the shows, the Tonies delivered. All actors really want to be loved, but there's something about Broadway actors that is so puppy-like and desperate for attention and affection. They don't do movies because if they're in movies, it could take months before they hear someone tell them how talented they are. So watching these crazy people win really big awards in front of a big audience is like watching a puppy who has waited thirty years to be loved finally get wrapped into a Christmas present and opened by a little boy who has also waited thirty years to be loved. And then the dog and and boy get up and sing and dance in Radio City Music Hall. And everyone claps, and their moms cry . . .
Neil Patrick Harris was the host. At first I was like, cool it's Doogie Howser, and then I was like, what?, and then I was like, hmm, and then he sang the last song, and I was like, yeah!
Well, Carson Daly is on now. I'm going to bed. If you missed the Tonies, maybe you can watch some of the clips on Youtube or something. The dance number from Billy Elliot was pretty cool (and it was even bettah in puhson, dahling) and the song from the Guys and Dolls revival was zippy. Oh, and make sure you see the acceptance speech for the Best Actor in a Musical, which went to the three little boys who played Billy Elliot.
Aren't awards shows so the best? I'm not a very decisive person. I don't much like to take a position on, you know, anything. But, like most indecisive people, I really like to hear decisive people pass judgment on stuff. I spend a great deal of time reading movie, book, and theater reviews (and legal cases, statutes, and opinion columns).
So I love, love, love awards shows, and here's the coolest thing for me about this year's Tonies: This year my husband and I had actually seen more of the shows in the Tonies than we had seen movies for the Oscars. I know, we're quite the theatah snobs. Actually we're not. We have a two-year-old, and if we have a babysitter, we're going to a full-on Broadway show. It only costs $3 more than going to a movie theater (well, not really, but close).
But even when I hadn't seen the shows, the Tonies delivered. All actors really want to be loved, but there's something about Broadway actors that is so puppy-like and desperate for attention and affection. They don't do movies because if they're in movies, it could take months before they hear someone tell them how talented they are. So watching these crazy people win really big awards in front of a big audience is like watching a puppy who has waited thirty years to be loved finally get wrapped into a Christmas present and opened by a little boy who has also waited thirty years to be loved. And then the dog and and boy get up and sing and dance in Radio City Music Hall. And everyone claps, and their moms cry . . .
Neil Patrick Harris was the host. At first I was like, cool it's Doogie Howser, and then I was like, what?, and then I was like, hmm, and then he sang the last song, and I was like, yeah!
Well, Carson Daly is on now. I'm going to bed. If you missed the Tonies, maybe you can watch some of the clips on Youtube or something. The dance number from Billy Elliot was pretty cool (and it was even bettah in puhson, dahling) and the song from the Guys and Dolls revival was zippy. Oh, and make sure you see the acceptance speech for the Best Actor in a Musical, which went to the three little boys who played Billy Elliot.
Monday, June 08, 2009
My Weekly Bread Routine
I am still baking my own bread. It's been a year now. There is no need to tell me how amazing I am because I know, I really do know. The nice thing about making bread is that everyone is impressed by your talent and sacrifice, even though the two hours that I spend making bread are probably the most satisfying of my week. This is my indulgent Monday afternoon routine (which I will move to Tuesdays now that I tutor on Monday afternoons):
1) Put Baby down for his nap. Don't fall asleep with him. Push play on your audiobook.
2) Dump the dishes on the counter into the sink and put the Bosch mixer on the counter. Install the mixing bowl and the dough hook. Get out the shoe box of bread ingredients.
3) Combine 3 cups of bath-temperature water, 3.5 c whole wheat flour, 1 c white flour, 1 Tbs yeast, and 1 Tbs gluten in the bowl. Mix it for one minute into a paste and cover it.
4) Put away the wheat flour, the yeast, and the gluten. Empty the dishwasher and put the dirty dishes that used to be in the sink into the dishwasher. Start the dishwasher. Get out three bread pans.
5) Pour 1/4 c canola oil or apple sauce into a liquid measuring cup. Pour 1/4 of honey on top of that so the honey won't stick to the bottom of the cup. Pour a glob (about 1 Tbs) of liquid lecithin on top of that without touching it. Liquid lecithin has the grossest texture in the world.
6) Pour the goop from the liquid measuring cup into the bubbly paste in the mixing bowl. Add 1 Tbs salt and maybe a few Tbs of flaxseed meal. Turn on the mixer.
7) Start adding more white flour by half cups until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and it starts to look smooth. Add about 2.5 cups in all. Add 1 Tbs dough enhancer. Let the dough knead about 10 more minutes while you put the ingredients away, grease your bread pans, and unroll a sheet of plastic wrap. If you're feeling home-maker-ish, wipe the counters. Mop the floor for all I care.
8) Twist the dough into three equal size loaves. If it won't pick up in one big ball or if it sticks to your fingers, put it back in the bowl and add more flour. Cover the loaves with plastic wrap and put them on top of the fridge. Wash the mixer bowl and put the mixer away.
9) Sweep the cars and trains off the couch and into the car and train tub. Turn off the audiobook and read New York Magazine from cover to cover.
10) Put the loaves of dough into a cold oven. Set the temperature for 350 degree and bake for about 28 minutes or until the dough looks like bread. Let it cool completely before cutting it.
11) Kiss Baby on his warm sleeping lips to wake him up.
1) Put Baby down for his nap. Don't fall asleep with him. Push play on your audiobook.
2) Dump the dishes on the counter into the sink and put the Bosch mixer on the counter. Install the mixing bowl and the dough hook. Get out the shoe box of bread ingredients.
3) Combine 3 cups of bath-temperature water, 3.5 c whole wheat flour, 1 c white flour, 1 Tbs yeast, and 1 Tbs gluten in the bowl. Mix it for one minute into a paste and cover it.
4) Put away the wheat flour, the yeast, and the gluten. Empty the dishwasher and put the dirty dishes that used to be in the sink into the dishwasher. Start the dishwasher. Get out three bread pans.
5) Pour 1/4 c canola oil or apple sauce into a liquid measuring cup. Pour 1/4 of honey on top of that so the honey won't stick to the bottom of the cup. Pour a glob (about 1 Tbs) of liquid lecithin on top of that without touching it. Liquid lecithin has the grossest texture in the world.
6) Pour the goop from the liquid measuring cup into the bubbly paste in the mixing bowl. Add 1 Tbs salt and maybe a few Tbs of flaxseed meal. Turn on the mixer.
7) Start adding more white flour by half cups until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and it starts to look smooth. Add about 2.5 cups in all. Add 1 Tbs dough enhancer. Let the dough knead about 10 more minutes while you put the ingredients away, grease your bread pans, and unroll a sheet of plastic wrap. If you're feeling home-maker-ish, wipe the counters. Mop the floor for all I care.
8) Twist the dough into three equal size loaves. If it won't pick up in one big ball or if it sticks to your fingers, put it back in the bowl and add more flour. Cover the loaves with plastic wrap and put them on top of the fridge. Wash the mixer bowl and put the mixer away.
9) Sweep the cars and trains off the couch and into the car and train tub. Turn off the audiobook and read New York Magazine from cover to cover.
10) Put the loaves of dough into a cold oven. Set the temperature for 350 degree and bake for about 28 minutes or until the dough looks like bread. Let it cool completely before cutting it.
11) Kiss Baby on his warm sleeping lips to wake him up.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Pink Star
I love knowing secrets. It makes me feel important, smart, and popular. There is no secret too small to delight me. When I worked as a secretary at BYU, I had the job to enter quiz scores into the computer. Before I uploaded the scores, I would savor the moment that I alone had access to all of these scores. The scores didn't do me any good, but I just loved having my little secret. After I took the bar exam, during the months that I waited for my scores, I would think, somewhere there exists a person who knows whether or not I passed the bar.
For another instance, I love that I know multiple items on Jamba Juice's secret menu. I found out about the Pink Star because I know someone who knew someone who worked at Jamba Juice and told her to go there and to order a Pink Star. Later, I actually went to Jamba Juice, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and ordered a Pink Star. When the cashier gave me a half smile and put in my order, I was downright giddy. Hooray for me! I was part of the special secret Jamba Juice club.
With a little googling, you could find tons of secret flavors at Jamba Juice, but I bet it won't be as fun for you as it was for me. It's all about being in with the in-crowd.
Almost as good as knowing an honest-to-goodness secret is happening to know information that other people don't. Every Tuesday I get a set of trivia questions over e-mail. I can answer two or three of the questions off the top of my head, but I haven't the faintest idea for the other questions. This week, for example, I knew that the third place ribbon is traditionally white, and I think JWST stands for the telescope that is supposed to be better than the Hubble telescope (yep, it is, I checked). I could easily google the answers to the ones I don't know, but it wouldn't be as exciting.
It's like when you watch a movie, and an actor appears, and you know that you've seen them in a different movie, but you just can't figure out what movie it was. It's easy and fast to hop on imdb.com, but it's much more gratifying to keep watching the movie, go to bed, and wake up in the middle of the night, and clonk your husband in the face while you shout, "He was in Ghostbusters, by jingo!"
Now, I thank my lucky stars for imdb.com as often as the next competitive movie buff. After all, it's possible that, after having been clonked in the face, Husband will say, "it's not Ghostbusters, you lovable nut! It's Steel Magnolias." Out comes the laptop and imdb.com. Otherwise, how could we possibly go back to sleep?
But isn't there something kind of cool -- and nowadays, kind quaint -- about just knowing an actor? Or taking special notice during the county fair to make sure that the third place ribbon really is white? Or summoning up the courage to order a ridiculously-named smoothie that doesn't exist on the menu?
For another instance, I love that I know multiple items on Jamba Juice's secret menu. I found out about the Pink Star because I know someone who knew someone who worked at Jamba Juice and told her to go there and to order a Pink Star. Later, I actually went to Jamba Juice, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and ordered a Pink Star. When the cashier gave me a half smile and put in my order, I was downright giddy. Hooray for me! I was part of the special secret Jamba Juice club.
With a little googling, you could find tons of secret flavors at Jamba Juice, but I bet it won't be as fun for you as it was for me. It's all about being in with the in-crowd.
Almost as good as knowing an honest-to-goodness secret is happening to know information that other people don't. Every Tuesday I get a set of trivia questions over e-mail. I can answer two or three of the questions off the top of my head, but I haven't the faintest idea for the other questions. This week, for example, I knew that the third place ribbon is traditionally white, and I think JWST stands for the telescope that is supposed to be better than the Hubble telescope (yep, it is, I checked). I could easily google the answers to the ones I don't know, but it wouldn't be as exciting.
It's like when you watch a movie, and an actor appears, and you know that you've seen them in a different movie, but you just can't figure out what movie it was. It's easy and fast to hop on imdb.com, but it's much more gratifying to keep watching the movie, go to bed, and wake up in the middle of the night, and clonk your husband in the face while you shout, "He was in Ghostbusters, by jingo!"
Now, I thank my lucky stars for imdb.com as often as the next competitive movie buff. After all, it's possible that, after having been clonked in the face, Husband will say, "it's not Ghostbusters, you lovable nut! It's Steel Magnolias." Out comes the laptop and imdb.com. Otherwise, how could we possibly go back to sleep?
But isn't there something kind of cool -- and nowadays, kind quaint -- about just knowing an actor? Or taking special notice during the county fair to make sure that the third place ribbon really is white? Or summoning up the courage to order a ridiculously-named smoothie that doesn't exist on the menu?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Relocating
We are probably moving to a different apartment when our lease is up. Rents have dropped twenty percent in New York City, but our rent has only dropped five percent. So it's back to the real estate section of the Times...
Would I rather live in the mansion house in Slum City or the shack in Moneybagsville? I feel like this is the decision I am faced with if I want to continue living around here. There's not much in between. Seriously, the difference between one of the most desirable sections of the Upper East Side and one of the scariest most crime ridden sections Spanish Harlem is one block and about $1500 per month in rent.
The answer is that it doesn't matter. Either way my neighbors want to shoot me.
But seriously, where would you live, given the choice?
Would I rather live in the mansion house in Slum City or the shack in Moneybagsville? I feel like this is the decision I am faced with if I want to continue living around here. There's not much in between. Seriously, the difference between one of the most desirable sections of the Upper East Side and one of the scariest most crime ridden sections Spanish Harlem is one block and about $1500 per month in rent.
The answer is that it doesn't matter. Either way my neighbors want to shoot me.
But seriously, where would you live, given the choice?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Rainy Days and Mondays
I'm feeling sluggish and sentimental today. It's not an uncommon feeling for me on Mondays. I've never been much of a hit-the-ground-running type of person, and I tend to face Mondays dead-eyed and slack-jawed. I get better and better as the week goes on, and by Friday night, I'm rocking and rolling.
I lounged across the couch this morning, watching Baby push his cars across the rug while I listened to our bathroom faucet leaking water down the drain. A siren passed on Ninth Avenue. For about thirty seconds I thought sad thoughts about wasting water with leaky faucets and wasting childhoods with lazy mothers. My throat started to tighten, but the metaphor didn't get me anywhere so I discarded it. It was a useful metaphor in a way because it did motivate me to get up, get showered, and get on the phone to arrange a play date.
Here's the nice thing about the realization that Mondays just aren't my thing: Every single thing I manage to accomplish on a Monday is a big deal, worthy of an exclamation point. I washed Baby's hair! I emptied the dishwasher! I applied for another job! I called the super about the leaky faucet!
I lounged across the couch this morning, watching Baby push his cars across the rug while I listened to our bathroom faucet leaking water down the drain. A siren passed on Ninth Avenue. For about thirty seconds I thought sad thoughts about wasting water with leaky faucets and wasting childhoods with lazy mothers. My throat started to tighten, but the metaphor didn't get me anywhere so I discarded it. It was a useful metaphor in a way because it did motivate me to get up, get showered, and get on the phone to arrange a play date.
Here's the nice thing about the realization that Mondays just aren't my thing: Every single thing I manage to accomplish on a Monday is a big deal, worthy of an exclamation point. I washed Baby's hair! I emptied the dishwasher! I applied for another job! I called the super about the leaky faucet!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Husband Mine
Husband just walked into our room and said, "Do you want a cookie? Do you want me to go get a cookie and feed it to you while you read blogs in bed?"
And it's not my birthday or anything. And I'm not pregnant. Husband just rocks like that.
In an effort to keep things real, I should also add that today when we were feeding hotdog buns to the birds in Central Park, he pointed out that the birds ate his pieces of bread more often than they ate mine. He didn't have to point that out, ok? I had already totally noticed, ok? And I was secretly trying really hard to make my little pieces of bread more appetizing.
And it's not my birthday or anything. And I'm not pregnant. Husband just rocks like that.
In an effort to keep things real, I should also add that today when we were feeding hotdog buns to the birds in Central Park, he pointed out that the birds ate his pieces of bread more often than they ate mine. He didn't have to point that out, ok? I had already totally noticed, ok? And I was secretly trying really hard to make my little pieces of bread more appetizing.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Celebrity Sighting
Baby and I were leaving Hecksher Playground (sp?) in Central Park after Baby pushed over his fourth one-year-old in a fifteen minute period. As we were walking out, we saw one of Baby's preschool co-op friends being strolled into the playground. And the person pushing the stroller was the most famous Mormon in the world. I had sort of forgotten that this famous person was Baby's friend's grandpa.
I probably should have used my preschool co-op mom status to my advantage at this point. Perhaps I could have casually mentioned that I was looking for a job and would he mind writing me a letter of recommendation.
I didn't. I just said, "Look, Baby, it's Friend's grandpa," and then I spun on my heel and hightailed it out of there before Baby tried to kick him in the shins. I think we were out of earshot by the time Baby swiped at the air and yelled, "No, Grandpa!" Baby's value as a networking device is complicated. He is often charming, and he provides endless opportunities to fill in conversation gaps, but he is just as likely to insult the networkee.
It was a beautiful day. In a few weeks I will have lived four complete seasons in New York City. I'm becoming just ethnocentric enough to believe that this is something every American should do. Spring is lovely, but fall is still my favorite (hay fever puts a damper on things). In the spring, thousands of migrating songbirds pass through Central Park, and birdwatchers visit from all over the United States. Celebrities also occassionally stop by.
I probably should have used my preschool co-op mom status to my advantage at this point. Perhaps I could have casually mentioned that I was looking for a job and would he mind writing me a letter of recommendation.
I didn't. I just said, "Look, Baby, it's Friend's grandpa," and then I spun on my heel and hightailed it out of there before Baby tried to kick him in the shins. I think we were out of earshot by the time Baby swiped at the air and yelled, "No, Grandpa!" Baby's value as a networking device is complicated. He is often charming, and he provides endless opportunities to fill in conversation gaps, but he is just as likely to insult the networkee.
It was a beautiful day. In a few weeks I will have lived four complete seasons in New York City. I'm becoming just ethnocentric enough to believe that this is something every American should do. Spring is lovely, but fall is still my favorite (hay fever puts a damper on things). In the spring, thousands of migrating songbirds pass through Central Park, and birdwatchers visit from all over the United States. Celebrities also occassionally stop by.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Cars
Cars was probably my least favorite of Pixar's generous gifts to the world. Still, as I watch it for the umpteenth millionth time, I find things I missed the first time. You know that minivan that passes Mac on the interstate while saying "Mimimi?" It has a mattress strapped to it's roof. Well, yesterday I noticed that when it shows the minivan pulling into the truck stop in the next shot, it shows the mattress sliding forward over the windshield and onto the pavement. It calls the question: Why, in a world without a people, where cars have lives and feelings, would a minivan strap a mattress to it's roof.
I learned long ago not to think too hard about the humanless world of Cars, but I appreciate the kind souls at Pixar who added that little detail for me to notice, even now. So nice.
Want to hear a funny Cars story? Baby was walking out of our building the other day, and an old man held the door open for him in the lobby. As he walked out, he muttered one of his favorite lines from Cars: "Crazy old grandpa car." Luckily, he speech was so garbled that only someone who spends all of her time with Baby and half of her time watching Cars would have understood it. I don't think he knew what he was saying, but I'm fairly certain he understood the sentiment behind it.
We'll work on it when I stop thinking it's hilarious.
I learned long ago not to think too hard about the humanless world of Cars, but I appreciate the kind souls at Pixar who added that little detail for me to notice, even now. So nice.
Want to hear a funny Cars story? Baby was walking out of our building the other day, and an old man held the door open for him in the lobby. As he walked out, he muttered one of his favorite lines from Cars: "Crazy old grandpa car." Luckily, he speech was so garbled that only someone who spends all of her time with Baby and half of her time watching Cars would have understood it. I don't think he knew what he was saying, but I'm fairly certain he understood the sentiment behind it.
We'll work on it when I stop thinking it's hilarious.
Loneliness
I lived alone for a week while Baby and Husband were out of town. I wasn't lonely, really. I got bored a few times, and I got sick of searching for a job, but I wouldn't describe what I felt as loneliness.
Now Husband and Baby are back. Husband had to stay late at work yesterday and today so he missed dinner twice. As I washed the dishes from his welcome home slash Cinco de Mayo dinner, which I ate by myself, I felt lonely. As I put Baby's trains away for the tenth time today, I felt lonely. Even when Baby was being mind-bendingly cute, patting my cheeks and singing me songs, I felt lonely. At least I think I felt lonely. Maybe I was just hungry: baby-hungry or job-hungry or my-tooth-hurts-and-I-cringe-before-I-eat-anything-hungry.
In any case, something needs to change.
Now Husband and Baby are back. Husband had to stay late at work yesterday and today so he missed dinner twice. As I washed the dishes from his welcome home slash Cinco de Mayo dinner, which I ate by myself, I felt lonely. As I put Baby's trains away for the tenth time today, I felt lonely. Even when Baby was being mind-bendingly cute, patting my cheeks and singing me songs, I felt lonely. At least I think I felt lonely. Maybe I was just hungry: baby-hungry or job-hungry or my-tooth-hurts-and-I-cringe-before-I-eat-anything-hungry.
In any case, something needs to change.
Uh Oh
My tooth hurts, even though I just went to the dentist. Should I live with a toothache for the rest of my life or go back to the dentist for another couple of hours under the drill?
Hard decision.
Hard decision.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
My Brilliant Teaching Philosophy
I am applying for a few teaching jobs that require me to submit a statement of my teaching philosophy as part of my application. My one-on-one teaching experience is substantial, but my college classroom teaching experience is limited. So I'm writing a teaching philosophy based pretty much on the type of teacher I want to be and not necessarily on the type of teacher I already am.
According to my statement of my teaching philosophy, I am one heck of a teacher. Apparently, I satisfy my students' curiosity at the same time as I feed it with questions. I mentor my students unique needs and I encourage them to mentor one another. I invite my students to engage in original research. I use new technologies in ways that are enriching and appropriate. As it says on my measuring tape, I am practically perfect in every way.
This whole experience has helped me remember some of my favorite teachers. Maybe I'm more polish-the-apple, eager to please than your average brown noser, but I remember my favorite teachers with a great deal of tenderness.
I look back on my teachers who were uninformed or lazy with a great deal of disdain. Funny, because I typically have a pretty high tolerance for ignorance and laziness. I don't take it personally when people don't send thank you cards or when a secretary doesn't know how to use a fax machine. But I still feel pretty annoyed with some of my high school teachers who didn't care enough to learn their own subjects, much less teach them. I had a high school course in Eastern European studies in which my teacher couldn't find Kosovo on a map, and this was during 1998. On the last day of class, we ate borscht. That was the extent of my education in Eastern European studies. It boils my blood because I'll never have that time back: Days and days when I had the time and energy to learn something new.
I'm not going to be that kind of teacher.
According to my statement of my teaching philosophy, I am one heck of a teacher. Apparently, I satisfy my students' curiosity at the same time as I feed it with questions. I mentor my students unique needs and I encourage them to mentor one another. I invite my students to engage in original research. I use new technologies in ways that are enriching and appropriate. As it says on my measuring tape, I am practically perfect in every way.
This whole experience has helped me remember some of my favorite teachers. Maybe I'm more polish-the-apple, eager to please than your average brown noser, but I remember my favorite teachers with a great deal of tenderness.
I look back on my teachers who were uninformed or lazy with a great deal of disdain. Funny, because I typically have a pretty high tolerance for ignorance and laziness. I don't take it personally when people don't send thank you cards or when a secretary doesn't know how to use a fax machine. But I still feel pretty annoyed with some of my high school teachers who didn't care enough to learn their own subjects, much less teach them. I had a high school course in Eastern European studies in which my teacher couldn't find Kosovo on a map, and this was during 1998. On the last day of class, we ate borscht. That was the extent of my education in Eastern European studies. It boils my blood because I'll never have that time back: Days and days when I had the time and energy to learn something new.
I'm not going to be that kind of teacher.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Home Alone
Two days ago, Husband took Baby to California for the week. As I recall, when McCauley Culkin found himself home alone, he started by freaking out (Scared Phase), then ate a lot of junk food and watched really violent movies (Indulgent Phase), then started cleaning the house (Responsible Phase). At some point he beat up the Christmas bad guys. I cycle through these phases in quick succession.
I start my days by sleeping in for a half hour (Mildly Indulgent); then I spend a LONG time showering, dressing, applying make-up, and dancing to my own non-toddler music (Wildly Indulgent); then I excercise (Responsible, even though it feels Indulgent to me); then I get on the computer and job search for three or four hours (Responsible) while I watch Season Three of Alias (Indulgent); then I check the locks on the doors, making sure that there is no cloned double behind it waiting to shoot me and start living my life (Scared, but it makes sense after you watch Alias); then I eat salad and grilled chicken for lunch (Responsible); then I waste time on e-mail and blogs (Indulgent); then I look at our finances and job search some more (Scared); then, while congratulating myself on the grilled chicken and salad, I go to the drug store to buy a bag of chips, which I manage to polish off on the way home (Indulgent).
After I finish every season of Alias, I will be so ready to beat up some bad guys.
I miss Baby.
I start my days by sleeping in for a half hour (Mildly Indulgent); then I spend a LONG time showering, dressing, applying make-up, and dancing to my own non-toddler music (Wildly Indulgent); then I excercise (Responsible, even though it feels Indulgent to me); then I get on the computer and job search for three or four hours (Responsible) while I watch Season Three of Alias (Indulgent); then I check the locks on the doors, making sure that there is no cloned double behind it waiting to shoot me and start living my life (Scared, but it makes sense after you watch Alias); then I eat salad and grilled chicken for lunch (Responsible); then I waste time on e-mail and blogs (Indulgent); then I look at our finances and job search some more (Scared); then, while congratulating myself on the grilled chicken and salad, I go to the drug store to buy a bag of chips, which I manage to polish off on the way home (Indulgent).
After I finish every season of Alias, I will be so ready to beat up some bad guys.
I miss Baby.
Thoughts on Pain
I think pain is bad. I think the human species has evolved to the point that we can use our minds to stay out of trouble instead of our pain reflex. I think that it's time to develop a drug, intended to be administered at birth, that would basically be a forever-long full-body epidural. Paper cut? Pshaw. Amputation? Easy-peasy. Cage fighting? To the death. Torture? Pointless.
Today I skipped off the dentist at 2:00. I slumped home with my right cheek dragging on the pavement at 4:30, my mouth housing more fillings than actual teeth. I think my dentist gave me a triple dose of Novacaine after seeing my eyes fill with tears at the very sight of his scrapey hook tool ("We'd better give this one the wuss treatment").
It is now 7:45 and the lower half of my head is just starting to tingle -- and hurt. I'm considering taking another trip to the dentist's office to ask for another shot of the good stuff that will last me three days or so. I can take my meals through a straw for three days. I wonder if my nifty Real Job insurance would cover it.
Are there people who refuse anesthesia for dental work? Probably, right? I bet they keep a very strict flossing regimen. I know I do, now that I've learned the intimate details of a root canal procedure. They probably floss with barbed wire. Or maybe they don't floss, and every night they grind Pixie Stix into their teeth while they yearn for their next dental appointment. I wonder what it would be like to be them.
The natural childbirth advocates make sense: Heck, I'm a complete ninny about pain, and I cowgirled though labor until I was dialated to an eight. When Baby Two comes along, maybe I'll make it to eight and a half, and by Baby Ten, I'll have such steely nerves that I'll just perform the delivery myself while I'm marching in the Natural Childbirth Parade.
I also wear very uncomfortable shoes. Sometimes.
Pain. Hmm.
Today I skipped off the dentist at 2:00. I slumped home with my right cheek dragging on the pavement at 4:30, my mouth housing more fillings than actual teeth. I think my dentist gave me a triple dose of Novacaine after seeing my eyes fill with tears at the very sight of his scrapey hook tool ("We'd better give this one the wuss treatment").
It is now 7:45 and the lower half of my head is just starting to tingle -- and hurt. I'm considering taking another trip to the dentist's office to ask for another shot of the good stuff that will last me three days or so. I can take my meals through a straw for three days. I wonder if my nifty Real Job insurance would cover it.
Are there people who refuse anesthesia for dental work? Probably, right? I bet they keep a very strict flossing regimen. I know I do, now that I've learned the intimate details of a root canal procedure. They probably floss with barbed wire. Or maybe they don't floss, and every night they grind Pixie Stix into their teeth while they yearn for their next dental appointment. I wonder what it would be like to be them.
The natural childbirth advocates make sense: Heck, I'm a complete ninny about pain, and I cowgirled though labor until I was dialated to an eight. When Baby Two comes along, maybe I'll make it to eight and a half, and by Baby Ten, I'll have such steely nerves that I'll just perform the delivery myself while I'm marching in the Natural Childbirth Parade.
I also wear very uncomfortable shoes. Sometimes.
Pain. Hmm.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Sunshine
The sun was out today. I left my 200 pounds of laundry sitting in my hallway to go to Central Park with Baby. The street musicians were out in full force; the trees were full of blossoms; the daffodils were blooming; we shared a strawberry smoothie and a turkey sandwich. Now, I'm as cynical as the next law graduate, but that's ninety-nine percent happiness. It only could have been better if Baby had coming running up to me to spontaneously give me a hug and a kiss and an "I yav you, Mama." Oh wait, he did. One hundred percent.
Lately I've been hearing a lot of people complain about boring mom blogs that are all sunshine and strawberry smoothies. I agree that these kind of blogs can get a little tedious, but I can relate to moms who only blog about happy-happy joy-joy. It's not that bad things don't happen to stay-home moms. One hour ago, Baby dumped his cup of soy milk into my hair.
But the good times are so freakishly good, it's hard not to turn into a simpering mess of love. Babies do their best to keep our feet on the ground by dumping soy milk, unrolling toilet paper, and socking other babies in the teeth. Let's see, what else happened today? Oh yes, he screamed and strained at his stroller straps for ten blocks straight. At the end of the day though, and on thousands of blogs across the globe, all we remember is the sunshine and the strawberry smoothie.
Lately I've been hearing a lot of people complain about boring mom blogs that are all sunshine and strawberry smoothies. I agree that these kind of blogs can get a little tedious, but I can relate to moms who only blog about happy-happy joy-joy. It's not that bad things don't happen to stay-home moms. One hour ago, Baby dumped his cup of soy milk into my hair.
But the good times are so freakishly good, it's hard not to turn into a simpering mess of love. Babies do their best to keep our feet on the ground by dumping soy milk, unrolling toilet paper, and socking other babies in the teeth. Let's see, what else happened today? Oh yes, he screamed and strained at his stroller straps for ten blocks straight. At the end of the day though, and on thousands of blogs across the globe, all we remember is the sunshine and the strawberry smoothie.
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