I really, really like it when people wear funny hats. I think I've mentioned before on this blog that my favorite thing to do when I host playgroup is to make all of the kids wear funny hats.
When Husband went out of town on business to Mexico while I was pregnant with Baby, he wore a sombrero in the airport when I came to pick him up. No flowers, no jewelry, just a funny hat. My love for Husband melted me to my bones. When Husband went out of town on business while I was pregnant with Twins, he came outdid himself and wore two paper cowboy hats all the way home, including through Canadian customs (he got some extra checking as a result) and in the taxi home (needless to say, the taxi driver declined the crazy hat man's invitation to come to church with us on Sunday).
You have to understand, although my husband is an outgoing and outspoken person, he actually gets kind of embarrassed by doing uncool things in public. It was all for me. Just thinking about it makes me all giggly inside. I have such a huge crush on Husband.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Justice Stevens
I loved this New Yorker article on Justice Stevens. I follow the gossip and back-stories on Supreme Court justices in much same way I do with celebrities and politicians. That's one of the fun take-aways from law school--you get to have kind of a personal relationship with the Supreme Court justices, past and present, by the time you graduate.
I remember one of my law professors asked a student what Justice Stevens was thinking when he wrote his opinion in the case of the day. Then the professor wrote WNKWJSIT across the board, and he told us all to remember this acronym for "We never know what Justice Stevens is thinking." A bunch of law students actually tried to memorize this phrase, thinking it would come in handy on the exam. Law students are so cute.
The reason that my law professor was so annoyed with Justice Stevens was because he always seemed to put in his two cents in a separate opinion, but that opinion always missed the mark, just a little. I can relate. I have often left a discussion and then realized that my contribution, my earnest contribution, was really just blabbity-blabbity.
My favorite, most favorite, opinion by Justice Stevens was his dissent in Bush v. Gore (where the Supreme Court decided not to allow Florida to recount the ballots in the 2000 elections). The opinion itself is kind of a drag to read until you start to read between the lines about who is saying what. It's weirdly fascinating to see some of the most liberal justices rallying for strong states' rights and the most conservative talking about the need for strict federal oversight of state elections laws. Stevens criticized the Court for deciding the case on such obvious party lines. Justice Steven got to the crux of the matter, I think, and at last, he was the one precisely on the mark while the other justices were dancing around the point of the case with their legalese:
"Although we may never know with complete certainty the identity of the winner of this year’s Presidential election, the identity of the loser is perfectly clear. It is the Nation’s confidence in the judge as an impartial guardian of the rule of law."
I think I actually teared up when I read those sentences (I was emotionally groovy like that in law school). I think Justice Scalia probably teared up a little too, bless his teeny tiny heart.
Justice Stevens is contemplating retirement (he's 90 or something). He deserves a nice long peaceful retirement, and I think Obama will select an excellent replacement for him. I'll miss him when he's gone.
I remember one of my law professors asked a student what Justice Stevens was thinking when he wrote his opinion in the case of the day. Then the professor wrote WNKWJSIT across the board, and he told us all to remember this acronym for "We never know what Justice Stevens is thinking." A bunch of law students actually tried to memorize this phrase, thinking it would come in handy on the exam. Law students are so cute.
The reason that my law professor was so annoyed with Justice Stevens was because he always seemed to put in his two cents in a separate opinion, but that opinion always missed the mark, just a little. I can relate. I have often left a discussion and then realized that my contribution, my earnest contribution, was really just blabbity-blabbity.
My favorite, most favorite, opinion by Justice Stevens was his dissent in Bush v. Gore (where the Supreme Court decided not to allow Florida to recount the ballots in the 2000 elections). The opinion itself is kind of a drag to read until you start to read between the lines about who is saying what. It's weirdly fascinating to see some of the most liberal justices rallying for strong states' rights and the most conservative talking about the need for strict federal oversight of state elections laws. Stevens criticized the Court for deciding the case on such obvious party lines. Justice Steven got to the crux of the matter, I think, and at last, he was the one precisely on the mark while the other justices were dancing around the point of the case with their legalese:
"Although we may never know with complete certainty the identity of the winner of this year’s Presidential election, the identity of the loser is perfectly clear. It is the Nation’s confidence in the judge as an impartial guardian of the rule of law."
I think I actually teared up when I read those sentences (I was emotionally groovy like that in law school). I think Justice Scalia probably teared up a little too, bless his teeny tiny heart.
Justice Stevens is contemplating retirement (he's 90 or something). He deserves a nice long peaceful retirement, and I think Obama will select an excellent replacement for him. I'll miss him when he's gone.
My Birthday
Tomorrow is my birthday. The first day of spring. The first day of the first sign of the zodiac. How I love my birthday.
I will be 29 years old tomorrow. I remember when my mom was 29 years old. At least she said she was 29 years old. My mom's not one to lie about her age, but sometimes she gets a little mixed-up with arithmetic. I think that's the youngest age I remember my mom. How old would that have made me? I don't know. I'm not good at arithmetic either. Four maybe.
I think almost all of the traditions in my family were associated with birthdays. We had a birthday about once a month, excluding the months of July, October, November, and December. (Did my parents wisely try to keep birthdays separate from major holidays? I think they were just lucky. Planning like that requires, you know, arithmetic). We got to choose our meals. I vaguely remember one year that I got to eat my favorite foods for every meal (waffles, egg salad sandwiches, fried chicken) and my brothers and sisters had to eat some of my least favorite foods (oatmeal, peanut butter sandwiches, macaroni and cheese). This wasn't part of the tradition--probably just my mom being weird that year. Anyway, we also got to make the entire family guess our favorite things, and I can't overemphasize the importance of this tradition in a large family. There was one year when my mom thought it would be fun for everyone to guess the birthday person's least favorite things. Again, weird.
Now the only tradition I have for my birthday is that I am happy from sun up to sun down.
My favorite birthday may well have been last year's (but that may be because I remember it the best). I lived in New York City. Three siblings came to visit. The weather was sunny. We went to Brooklyn for dinner (fried chicken). I wore a beautiful scarf and a purple shirt. I ate chocolate cake from The Little Pie Company.
Tomorrow I won't have family in town, the weather (sigh) will not be nice, and there's no way I'll be able to wear that purple shirt, but I'll still be happy. Husband will take care of me, as always, and Baby will chatter about rockets. I'll curl up on my red couch in soft stretchy pants, and I'll watch the snow curl across Lake Michigan while I direct love to my embryonic twins. I'll eat strawberries.
I will be 29 years old tomorrow. I remember when my mom was 29 years old. At least she said she was 29 years old. My mom's not one to lie about her age, but sometimes she gets a little mixed-up with arithmetic. I think that's the youngest age I remember my mom. How old would that have made me? I don't know. I'm not good at arithmetic either. Four maybe.
I think almost all of the traditions in my family were associated with birthdays. We had a birthday about once a month, excluding the months of July, October, November, and December. (Did my parents wisely try to keep birthdays separate from major holidays? I think they were just lucky. Planning like that requires, you know, arithmetic). We got to choose our meals. I vaguely remember one year that I got to eat my favorite foods for every meal (waffles, egg salad sandwiches, fried chicken) and my brothers and sisters had to eat some of my least favorite foods (oatmeal, peanut butter sandwiches, macaroni and cheese). This wasn't part of the tradition--probably just my mom being weird that year. Anyway, we also got to make the entire family guess our favorite things, and I can't overemphasize the importance of this tradition in a large family. There was one year when my mom thought it would be fun for everyone to guess the birthday person's least favorite things. Again, weird.
Now the only tradition I have for my birthday is that I am happy from sun up to sun down.
My favorite birthday may well have been last year's (but that may be because I remember it the best). I lived in New York City. Three siblings came to visit. The weather was sunny. We went to Brooklyn for dinner (fried chicken). I wore a beautiful scarf and a purple shirt. I ate chocolate cake from The Little Pie Company.
Tomorrow I won't have family in town, the weather (sigh) will not be nice, and there's no way I'll be able to wear that purple shirt, but I'll still be happy. Husband will take care of me, as always, and Baby will chatter about rockets. I'll curl up on my red couch in soft stretchy pants, and I'll watch the snow curl across Lake Michigan while I direct love to my embryonic twins. I'll eat strawberries.
A Self-Indulgent Post
I wonder how long you have to go without posting before Blogger actually gives up on you. A long time probably. I think my little handful of readers will give up on me before Blogger does, and I know I have at least a couple who still check on my blog periodically. Dear old Blogger. Dear old handful of readers...
So let me catch you all up. What to say, what to say?
I'm pregnant with twins.
I'm moving to California.
I boxed up our snow clothes yesterday and it's been snowing nonstop ever since.
It's my birthday tomorrow.
I have a mystery pain in my shoulder.
Baby had an accident this morning after two accident-free weeks.
Husband's been traveling for two weeks.
And you know, now that I've gotten all of that off my chest, I feel better, I really do. Each and every one of those items deserves a separate post, I guess, and most of them will get a post eventually (except the mystery pain; who wants to read about someone's mystery pain?; maybe the same person who wants to read about Baby's potty training adventures; it's not that interesting, but like Baby's potty training psychology, it is mysterious).
So let me catch you all up. What to say, what to say?
I'm pregnant with twins.
I'm moving to California.
I boxed up our snow clothes yesterday and it's been snowing nonstop ever since.
It's my birthday tomorrow.
I have a mystery pain in my shoulder.
Baby had an accident this morning after two accident-free weeks.
Husband's been traveling for two weeks.
And you know, now that I've gotten all of that off my chest, I feel better, I really do. Each and every one of those items deserves a separate post, I guess, and most of them will get a post eventually (except the mystery pain; who wants to read about someone's mystery pain?; maybe the same person who wants to read about Baby's potty training adventures; it's not that interesting, but like Baby's potty training psychology, it is mysterious).
Monday, February 01, 2010
More on Potty Training
This potty training thing is no joke.
I had heard from multiple trusted sources that I shouldn't potty train until I knew Baby was ready. So I waited and waited for a Sign that Baby was ready. I'm not sure what sign I was waiting for, specifically. Maybe something like, I don't know, Baby climbing on the toilet and using it?
Then, after Baby turned three and he became the only child in my acquaintance who was not potty trained, I started tentatively asking him, "so, Baby, do you want to try the big-boy toilet today?"
"No. No fanks," was his reply, always.
Baby's not really much sold on the big-boy thing. It's more effective to replace "big-boy" with "rocket." Turns out, Baby was slightly more interested in trying the rocket toilet than the big-boy toilet (or the rocket underwear, rocket toilet paper, whatever).
I'm really only on the potty training wagon now because of peer pressure. Diapers are convenient. Stick Baby in a diaper under his snow suit, and send him out to play for hours. Do you know how hard it is to convince a three-year-old to strip out of his snow pants to use the toilet? Diapers are a pain to carry around, but guess what, so is a plastic bag, a dry pair of pants, and a map of the city with post-its on the public restrooms.
But I am determined for whatever reason to get this child going on the toilet like the rest of America. We are potty training with a vengeance. After doing a bunch of reading on the subject (sheesh, there's a whole cottage industry built around potty training), I've decided to employ a number of methods at the same time:
threats ("if you wet your pants, you lose them for the rest of the day"),
bribes (movies, candy, popcorn, multivitamins, toys, books, what haven't I offered this child?),
songs (a certain song about fish worked for a while but now we've moved on to "The Little Drummer Boy" and "Five Little Ducks."),
dances (erm, don't ask about this one), and
Pavlovian psychology (at some point, I should un-train Baby from peeing every time someone says, "ready, set, blastoff,").
And I'm probably doing something horrible to Baby's psycho-social-whatever with this mish-mash of mish-mash. But now that Baby is very, very old, I think he can handle it.
I had heard from multiple trusted sources that I shouldn't potty train until I knew Baby was ready. So I waited and waited for a Sign that Baby was ready. I'm not sure what sign I was waiting for, specifically. Maybe something like, I don't know, Baby climbing on the toilet and using it?
Then, after Baby turned three and he became the only child in my acquaintance who was not potty trained, I started tentatively asking him, "so, Baby, do you want to try the big-boy toilet today?"
"No. No fanks," was his reply, always.
Baby's not really much sold on the big-boy thing. It's more effective to replace "big-boy" with "rocket." Turns out, Baby was slightly more interested in trying the rocket toilet than the big-boy toilet (or the rocket underwear, rocket toilet paper, whatever).
I'm really only on the potty training wagon now because of peer pressure. Diapers are convenient. Stick Baby in a diaper under his snow suit, and send him out to play for hours. Do you know how hard it is to convince a three-year-old to strip out of his snow pants to use the toilet? Diapers are a pain to carry around, but guess what, so is a plastic bag, a dry pair of pants, and a map of the city with post-its on the public restrooms.
But I am determined for whatever reason to get this child going on the toilet like the rest of America. We are potty training with a vengeance. After doing a bunch of reading on the subject (sheesh, there's a whole cottage industry built around potty training), I've decided to employ a number of methods at the same time:
threats ("if you wet your pants, you lose them for the rest of the day"),
bribes (movies, candy, popcorn, multivitamins, toys, books, what haven't I offered this child?),
songs (a certain song about fish worked for a while but now we've moved on to "The Little Drummer Boy" and "Five Little Ducks."),
dances (erm, don't ask about this one), and
Pavlovian psychology (at some point, I should un-train Baby from peeing every time someone says, "ready, set, blastoff,").
And I'm probably doing something horrible to Baby's psycho-social-whatever with this mish-mash of mish-mash. But now that Baby is very, very old, I think he can handle it.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Circulation
When I start to get cold, my nose gets cold first. If I didn't care about looking like a dufus (and I do care about this, in spite of what the pharmacist at Walgreens may think), I think I'd wear a nose bag as soon as the weather starts to get cold. Do those even exist? The only time I've seen one was in a BBC video version of "A Child's Christmas in Whales." Since I can't wear one, I just primly place two fingers over the bridge of my nose when the cold is too unbearable. I have no idea what people think I'm doing. Holding up invisible glasses?
The next body parts to get cold are my feet. Luckily, this is a circulatory problem that I share with a large segment of the population, so there are plenty of socially acceptable remedies, starting with wool socks and squashy house slippers.
I loved the winter that I was pregnant with Baby, when I was never, ever cold. I just felt heat radiating off of me all the time, powered by a bean-sized fetus. This was when I was living in my parent's basement for crying out loud, an astoundingly cold place. Husband and I just went ahead and left our milk out on the table because putting it back in the fridge would just warm it up.
Baby demands so many things from me. Sometimes, like tonight while I sit with my wool socked feet propped up next to the heater and I type with one hand while the other is hooked over my nose, it's good to remember that Baby did manage to keep me beautifully, blissfully warm for one winter.
The next body parts to get cold are my feet. Luckily, this is a circulatory problem that I share with a large segment of the population, so there are plenty of socially acceptable remedies, starting with wool socks and squashy house slippers.
I loved the winter that I was pregnant with Baby, when I was never, ever cold. I just felt heat radiating off of me all the time, powered by a bean-sized fetus. This was when I was living in my parent's basement for crying out loud, an astoundingly cold place. Husband and I just went ahead and left our milk out on the table because putting it back in the fridge would just warm it up.
Baby demands so many things from me. Sometimes, like tonight while I sit with my wool socked feet propped up next to the heater and I type with one hand while the other is hooked over my nose, it's good to remember that Baby did manage to keep me beautifully, blissfully warm for one winter.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thanksgiving Playlists
I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year, and, because I've run out of things to work on that don't involve spending money or crowding my freezer, I'm putting together a Thanksgiving playlist. I should be working tonight, but my boss failed to e-mail me something that I don't totally need, but I need enough that I can procrastinate working with a clean conscience (see previous blog on prerequisites).
The most obvious song to put on a Thanksgiving playlist--for me at least--is the theme song to Ratatouille, "Le Festin." I think I have my playlist put together, but I'm interested to know: what would be on your playlist?
The most obvious song to put on a Thanksgiving playlist--for me at least--is the theme song to Ratatouille, "Le Festin." I think I have my playlist put together, but I'm interested to know: what would be on your playlist?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Prerequisites
I have so many photos to post on my blog where I do things like that, but I cannot for the life of me find the little dongle thingy that connects my camera to my computer, so the last entry on the photo blog continues to be blurry pictures of me standing in my empty apartment. The mommy-blogging community will have to continue its breathless anticipation for photos of Baby's Halloween costume (firefighter) and our trips to the cemetery, Sears--excuse me, Willis--tower, Lake Michigan, and Ikea.
And I get to continue navel gazing on this blog.
For those of you who didn't know I had another blog, e-mail me. If you don't know my e-mail address, then you'll have to content yourself with reading this secret, special, photo-free blog.
So, once, when I was in high school, I tried to read the scriptures every day. I decided to start this habit by getting a little chart where I would color in a little block for every chapter of scripture that I read. It worked perfectly for a while, and I had about half of the chart blocked in until I lost the yellow highlighter that I had been using to color in the blocks. The idea of using a different color highlighter on my chart was enough deterent for me: I stopped reading.
And that's the problem with setting up a trick for getting something done. As soon as you lose your highlighter (or your special weightlifting gloves or your cookie sheets or your iPod headphones or whatever), the whole project falls apart.
I have grown accustomed to doing housework while I listen to audiobooks. If you dislike housework (actually, dislike is not a strong enough word to describe my feelings toward cleaning my house), you really should try audiobooks. They absolutely do the trick. But be careful because you might have download problems and them wonder how you're supposed to clean your humungous apartment without an audiobook to keep your mind off of the fact that you're scraping Jello off of an ABC placemat.
Anyway, I'm trying to download this one book. I'd say what it was, but the author is a very well-wired sci-fi guy, and I'm nervous that he gets Google-notified whenever someone talks about his books on a blog, and I'm too shy for him to look up this blog and say something charming about how pleased he is that I tried to listen to his books while I cleaned Baby's placemat.
Hopefully the lake effect will blow some wireless waves toward my phone soon. My kitchen sink is starting to emit a weird smell...
And I get to continue navel gazing on this blog.
For those of you who didn't know I had another blog, e-mail me. If you don't know my e-mail address, then you'll have to content yourself with reading this secret, special, photo-free blog.
So, once, when I was in high school, I tried to read the scriptures every day. I decided to start this habit by getting a little chart where I would color in a little block for every chapter of scripture that I read. It worked perfectly for a while, and I had about half of the chart blocked in until I lost the yellow highlighter that I had been using to color in the blocks. The idea of using a different color highlighter on my chart was enough deterent for me: I stopped reading.
And that's the problem with setting up a trick for getting something done. As soon as you lose your highlighter (or your special weightlifting gloves or your cookie sheets or your iPod headphones or whatever), the whole project falls apart.
I have grown accustomed to doing housework while I listen to audiobooks. If you dislike housework (actually, dislike is not a strong enough word to describe my feelings toward cleaning my house), you really should try audiobooks. They absolutely do the trick. But be careful because you might have download problems and them wonder how you're supposed to clean your humungous apartment without an audiobook to keep your mind off of the fact that you're scraping Jello off of an ABC placemat.
Anyway, I'm trying to download this one book. I'd say what it was, but the author is a very well-wired sci-fi guy, and I'm nervous that he gets Google-notified whenever someone talks about his books on a blog, and I'm too shy for him to look up this blog and say something charming about how pleased he is that I tried to listen to his books while I cleaned Baby's placemat.
Hopefully the lake effect will blow some wireless waves toward my phone soon. My kitchen sink is starting to emit a weird smell...
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sweet Home Chicago
We've been in Chicago for a little over a week now. I like Chicago. I like many, many things about Chicago.
It's not the big city, but it's a big city, and I have to say, it's kind of nice to live somewhere that no one thinks the center of the universe. Ironically, Chicago is more "central" in a lot of ways than New York--geographically, cost-wise, and politically (I guess, sort of).
Chicago also feels more American somehow. Many American things happen in New York, and New York City is an American icon, but it really is unlike anywhere else in the United States. Living in Chicago--with its front and backyards, big grocery stores, clean sidewalks, car accessibility, and friendly population--feels like I'm returning to my roots, even though, until about two weeks ago, I'd never been here before.
It's not the big city, but it's a big city, and I have to say, it's kind of nice to live somewhere that no one thinks the center of the universe. Ironically, Chicago is more "central" in a lot of ways than New York--geographically, cost-wise, and politically (I guess, sort of).
Chicago also feels more American somehow. Many American things happen in New York, and New York City is an American icon, but it really is unlike anywhere else in the United States. Living in Chicago--with its front and backyards, big grocery stores, clean sidewalks, car accessibility, and friendly population--feels like I'm returning to my roots, even though, until about two weeks ago, I'd never been here before.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Apartment II
I'm sitting in the 57th street Starbucks, trying to find things to do to stay out of the way of the movers. They've been packing for two hours so far, and I expect we have about five more hours before my little 56th street apartment is empty again.
Husband did not like the 56th street apartment, and I suppose, from a real estate perspective, I can understand why. It was overpriced, old, drafty, dark, scratched, and crowded. It represented all of the annoyances of the city with none of the upsides.
But I loved it ferociously, and it's flaws made me want to love it more: to fix it, scrub it up, add another light fixture, refinish the floors, and replace the old pipes. I celebrated its scanty accomplishments and forgave its many disappointments. The thick walls and dark paint were comforting and womb-like for me. At the end of noisy and cold days, I would look around at my red and gold walls and feel like I lived in a jewelry box. The smallness of the apartment made me feel like I had burrowed securely into the city, nestled closely against my family, my books, and my kitchen. I would heft the stroller up the six front stairs, unlock the old front door made of glass and curly metal, and jiggle my key into the door of Number 1C (it took some jiggling, believe me). As the door closed behind me and I turned on the light and stepped out of my shoes, I felt the satisfaction of clicking the last piece into a jigsaw puzzle.
I loved learning about previous tenants of the apartment: the college students who lived there before us in a mish-mash of loft beds and futons, the gay couple who had kept the place cleaner than it had ever been, the voice teacher who hosted his Christmas party for more than a hundred people in it. It made me happy to think that New Yorkers had been occupying this space since 1910. New Yorkers like me.
It was the first place that Baby recognized as home, and in a way, it was the first place that I recognized as home. It was my little Eden, my First Place.
Husband did not like the 56th street apartment, and I suppose, from a real estate perspective, I can understand why. It was overpriced, old, drafty, dark, scratched, and crowded. It represented all of the annoyances of the city with none of the upsides.
But I loved it ferociously, and it's flaws made me want to love it more: to fix it, scrub it up, add another light fixture, refinish the floors, and replace the old pipes. I celebrated its scanty accomplishments and forgave its many disappointments. The thick walls and dark paint were comforting and womb-like for me. At the end of noisy and cold days, I would look around at my red and gold walls and feel like I lived in a jewelry box. The smallness of the apartment made me feel like I had burrowed securely into the city, nestled closely against my family, my books, and my kitchen. I would heft the stroller up the six front stairs, unlock the old front door made of glass and curly metal, and jiggle my key into the door of Number 1C (it took some jiggling, believe me). As the door closed behind me and I turned on the light and stepped out of my shoes, I felt the satisfaction of clicking the last piece into a jigsaw puzzle.
I loved learning about previous tenants of the apartment: the college students who lived there before us in a mish-mash of loft beds and futons, the gay couple who had kept the place cleaner than it had ever been, the voice teacher who hosted his Christmas party for more than a hundred people in it. It made me happy to think that New Yorkers had been occupying this space since 1910. New Yorkers like me.
It was the first place that Baby recognized as home, and in a way, it was the first place that I recognized as home. It was my little Eden, my First Place.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
My New York Week with a 3-Year-Old
Monday
Took Baby to the Central Park Zoo (until he started knocking kids down)
Had a pizza lunch with Ashley and Makinlee after running into them at the zoo
Showed apartment to a nice pair of high school teachers named Meg and Scott
Celebrated anniversary dinner with Husband at Rosa Mexicano
Played Wii with Husband and Connie until the wee (get it?) hours of the morning
Tuesday
Took Baby to preschool where he learned that red and yellow make orange
Played at the "Choo Choo Playground" on the Hudson (until Baby started knocking kids down)
Brought Magnolia Bakery birthday treats to Husband's co-workers
Attended a Relief Society dinner titled (of all things) "Homecoming"
More Wii
Wednesday
Showed apartment to a nice hairdresser named Alyn
Took Baby to Central Park (until he started knocking kids down)
Picked up groceries at four different stores and still forgot soy milk
Burst into tears while walking through the Upper West Side because it was so blasted beautiful
Had dinner at Mark and Jaime's house where Baby did not push anyone
Thursday
Worked while Husband took Baby to preschool (yellow and blue make green)
Showed apartment to a Pottery Barn employee named Courtnie
Went to Museum of Arts and Design to see Madeline Albright's pin collection (so cool!)
Took Baby to play in the fountains at Columbus Circle (knockable kids were all in bed, I guess)
Watched Pam and Jim get married
Friday
Meant to drop Baby off with a friend in Westchester
Ended up staying in Westchester all day, thinking I could get used to the suburbs
Walked Husband home from his last day of work, carrying his framed diplomas under his arm
Completely forgot to go to cub scouts until it was too late (sorry, cubbies)
Reread large sections of Time Traveler's Wife, looking for mentions of Chicago neighborhoods
Saturday
Taught piano lessons in the morning
Went to SoHo for lunch at Aunt Gayle's place
Attended a Maurice Sendak show at a SoHo gallery (left when Baby started pushing kids)
Cleaned the apartment for a viewing, but the viewer didn't show
Stayed up catching up on work and watching The Great Escape on PBS
Conclusions: I love New York; I'm out of ideas to stop Charlie from pushing; and I may never sublease my apartment as long as I live
Took Baby to the Central Park Zoo (until he started knocking kids down)
Had a pizza lunch with Ashley and Makinlee after running into them at the zoo
Showed apartment to a nice pair of high school teachers named Meg and Scott
Celebrated anniversary dinner with Husband at Rosa Mexicano
Played Wii with Husband and Connie until the wee (get it?) hours of the morning
Tuesday
Took Baby to preschool where he learned that red and yellow make orange
Played at the "Choo Choo Playground" on the Hudson (until Baby started knocking kids down)
Brought Magnolia Bakery birthday treats to Husband's co-workers
Attended a Relief Society dinner titled (of all things) "Homecoming"
More Wii
Wednesday
Showed apartment to a nice hairdresser named Alyn
Took Baby to Central Park (until he started knocking kids down)
Picked up groceries at four different stores and still forgot soy milk
Burst into tears while walking through the Upper West Side because it was so blasted beautiful
Had dinner at Mark and Jaime's house where Baby did not push anyone
Thursday
Worked while Husband took Baby to preschool (yellow and blue make green)
Showed apartment to a Pottery Barn employee named Courtnie
Went to Museum of Arts and Design to see Madeline Albright's pin collection (so cool!)
Took Baby to play in the fountains at Columbus Circle (knockable kids were all in bed, I guess)
Watched Pam and Jim get married
Friday
Meant to drop Baby off with a friend in Westchester
Ended up staying in Westchester all day, thinking I could get used to the suburbs
Walked Husband home from his last day of work, carrying his framed diplomas under his arm
Completely forgot to go to cub scouts until it was too late (sorry, cubbies)
Reread large sections of Time Traveler's Wife, looking for mentions of Chicago neighborhoods
Saturday
Taught piano lessons in the morning
Went to SoHo for lunch at Aunt Gayle's place
Attended a Maurice Sendak show at a SoHo gallery (left when Baby started pushing kids)
Cleaned the apartment for a viewing, but the viewer didn't show
Stayed up catching up on work and watching The Great Escape on PBS
Conclusions: I love New York; I'm out of ideas to stop Charlie from pushing; and I may never sublease my apartment as long as I live
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Context
Yesterday I saw the security guard from the church building without his uniform on. It was so weird. I hadn't realized how much I had associated him with his uniform. And the day before that I saw another guy from church wearing jeans and a baseball cap when I had only ever seen him wearing a suit and tie before. Again, weird.
I typically can't remember what people wear. I'd like to think that this is because I am such a fabulously deep person that I don't pay attention to surface details. It makes me wonder if I wasn't really appreciating these two people for themselves but only for what they represented: Suit guy is the person I talk to when I want to turn in cub scout receipts; security guard is, you know, a security guard. Of course I knew that suit guy occasionally wore something other than a suit, but I had never thought about it before. Is this a bad thing? Would I be a better person if I saw every person as a multifaceted individual? Would that be too exhausting in a city like New York (or, supposedly, Chicago) where I come into contact with thousands of people every day?
Hmm.
I typically can't remember what people wear. I'd like to think that this is because I am such a fabulously deep person that I don't pay attention to surface details. It makes me wonder if I wasn't really appreciating these two people for themselves but only for what they represented: Suit guy is the person I talk to when I want to turn in cub scout receipts; security guard is, you know, a security guard. Of course I knew that suit guy occasionally wore something other than a suit, but I had never thought about it before. Is this a bad thing? Would I be a better person if I saw every person as a multifaceted individual? Would that be too exhausting in a city like New York (or, supposedly, Chicago) where I come into contact with thousands of people every day?
Hmm.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Slow Music
Singles like to ask each other what kind of music they like. It's a realy typical date question because, supposedly, it gives a lot of information about your date's personality. (Now, that's a topic for another post because I find these days that I'm often really surprised by the type of music someone likes). It's also a question that I haven't been asked for years. Not once. My answer used to be "fast music." And that was basically true. I never really got into any one type of music, but I did know that I hated slow songs of any variety.
I used to listen primarily to music to energize me, to get me shaking my groove thing around the apartment while put on my make-up, moved into another apartment, drove, or whatever. I'd bounce around the kitchen with a dish towel during "Wake Up, Little Susie," but I'd stop what I was doing to physically march over to the cd player and skip "Bridge Over Troubled Water."
Nowadays it's all about "Bridge Over Troubled Water," and it has been for a long time. I only tolerate "Wake Up, Little Susie" on the way to "Scarborough Fair," a song I used to hate.
Does this mean I'm getting old? Am I ever going to bounce back to fast music? I have a feeling that I'm starting a path to being a tired, cranky, old woman who has to be narcotized with Enya to stop her from poking strangers with her cane. (Ok, I don't listen to Enya yet, but, you know, it's no longer inconceivable). Maybe I should fight this urge with tap dance lessons or something.
By the way, as the majority of my readers know (how many to I have now? Two? Can you have a majority of two readers?), we are moving to Chicago. It was change that took a great deal of my attention. Hence the cyber-silence. I feel like I should apologize, but the truth is, dear readers, writing blogs was a low priority, and my thoughts would not have been fun to read. But I'm feeling better now, and I am marching forward with confidence--to the sort-of beat of Billie Holiday.
I used to listen primarily to music to energize me, to get me shaking my groove thing around the apartment while put on my make-up, moved into another apartment, drove, or whatever. I'd bounce around the kitchen with a dish towel during "Wake Up, Little Susie," but I'd stop what I was doing to physically march over to the cd player and skip "Bridge Over Troubled Water."
Nowadays it's all about "Bridge Over Troubled Water," and it has been for a long time. I only tolerate "Wake Up, Little Susie" on the way to "Scarborough Fair," a song I used to hate.
Does this mean I'm getting old? Am I ever going to bounce back to fast music? I have a feeling that I'm starting a path to being a tired, cranky, old woman who has to be narcotized with Enya to stop her from poking strangers with her cane. (Ok, I don't listen to Enya yet, but, you know, it's no longer inconceivable). Maybe I should fight this urge with tap dance lessons or something.
By the way, as the majority of my readers know (how many to I have now? Two? Can you have a majority of two readers?), we are moving to Chicago. It was change that took a great deal of my attention. Hence the cyber-silence. I feel like I should apologize, but the truth is, dear readers, writing blogs was a low priority, and my thoughts would not have been fun to read. But I'm feeling better now, and I am marching forward with confidence--to the sort-of beat of Billie Holiday.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Portia Back in Provo
I need to keep this short. It is 1 am, New York time, and Baby is wandering around the bedroom, lifting up his shirt and saying "dood morning." He needs a good example of how to sleep in a foreign bed in Grandma's basement. But what can I do? I can't sleep either.
Suffice it to say that I have been back in Provo for a week and a half now. It's Provo in August, which is almost as good as Provo in September, which is the best time to be in Provo. Interestingly, it is also the best time to be in New York, in my opinion. I just love me some September.
I adore Provo. I'm sleeping in my parent's basement in the room I slept in when I was in high school, and for some reason it's making me act like a high school student, leaving clothes all over the floor and my bed unmade. If anyone in Provo ever visited me in New York, they would be surprised to find that I put clothes away and I make my bed without fail every morning.
I have lots of things to say about Provo--more than I have time to write here, with Baby zinging around like a rubber band (he found a top hat somewhere (aren't basements the best?) and he's being unspeakably cute with it right now: Baby + top hat + stripey jammies + 1:30 am).
We went to my parent's church picnic tonight. I took Baby to the Bean Musuem yesterday. I hiked Timp the day before that. These are all things I can't do in New York. I've also managed to snub, disappoint, discomfit, or confuse half of my in-laws, many of my immediate family, and a few of my high school friends. These are also things I don't tend to do when I'm safely deposited in New York.
More on Provo soon.
Suffice it to say that I have been back in Provo for a week and a half now. It's Provo in August, which is almost as good as Provo in September, which is the best time to be in Provo. Interestingly, it is also the best time to be in New York, in my opinion. I just love me some September.
I adore Provo. I'm sleeping in my parent's basement in the room I slept in when I was in high school, and for some reason it's making me act like a high school student, leaving clothes all over the floor and my bed unmade. If anyone in Provo ever visited me in New York, they would be surprised to find that I put clothes away and I make my bed without fail every morning.
I have lots of things to say about Provo--more than I have time to write here, with Baby zinging around like a rubber band (he found a top hat somewhere (aren't basements the best?) and he's being unspeakably cute with it right now: Baby + top hat + stripey jammies + 1:30 am).
We went to my parent's church picnic tonight. I took Baby to the Bean Musuem yesterday. I hiked Timp the day before that. These are all things I can't do in New York. I've also managed to snub, disappoint, discomfit, or confuse half of my in-laws, many of my immediate family, and a few of my high school friends. These are also things I don't tend to do when I'm safely deposited in New York.
More on Provo soon.
Friday, July 31, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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