Blue Collar Appeal

I find it hilarious (in a sad sort of way) that Hillary Clinton is viewed as the candidate for the blue collar worker, the one who understands them and that Barack is viewed as the elitist. Hillary grew up middle-class in Chicago and attended both Wellesley and Yale University Law School. I don't know how you get much more elitist than that.

Yes, Barack went to Harvard Law School, but he did not grow up privileged; he didn't have money-and he was raised by his single mother (until she remarried) and grandparents. He worked during college (if I remember correctly). He is not currently wealthy (and Clinton is). And while both are committed to social justice, Barack probably has a better first-hand understanding of blue collar workers and the working poor than does Hillary.

It just goes to show you it's all about perception, not fact. Sigh.

Two Hundred Seventy-One and a Half Superdelegates and a Baby

The AP is reporting that Obama has 275 superdelegates in his camp and that Clinton has 271.5. 271.5? How exactly does one get half a delegate?

"My left side belongs to Obama, but my right belongs to Hillary."?

"Well, I'll vote for Hillary, but only half-heartedly."?

"I'm a "small person," so they'll only give me half a vote."?

"I'm pregnant, and I'm certain my fetus is for Hillary. I asked her to kick once for Obama and twice if she was for Hillary. There were definitely 2 kicks, so that's an extra half a vote right there!"

What's funnier than half a superdelegate? The following quote from the same article.

"ABC News and The New York Times reported separately that Obama had passed Clinton in superdelegates endorsements on Friday. Both of their counts, however, had fewer Clinton superdelegates than the AP count. The AP verifies all superdelegate endorsements included in its count."

Chocolate Pretzels

Chocolate pretzels may just be the perfect pre-menstrual snack. Extremely efficient way to kill two cravings at once.

Gee, aren't you glad you took the time to read?

Actually, I have much to write about: Passover, Jodie Foster, novels, falling in the pool and ruining thousands of dollars of electronic equipment, the Pacific Design Center, etc., etc. However, no sooner do I recover from Passover break, than I have to prepare for a trip to NY--with kids. So you still won't be hearing much from me until I return from New York.

The kids are so excited--it'll be their first trip to that big, bad Apple. My son has been wanting to pack and call the taxi cab (to the airport) since last weekend. And just try dissuading a 6-year-old from a course of action he has set his mind on . . .

Bye all--talk at ya later. I'll enjoy an H & H bagel for you.

WTF

I don't know what happened to the fonts on my last post. I'm sorry--I've tried and tried to fix it, to no avail. I don't know WTF is going on, but it sure does ruin the post. So sorry.

Post Haste

Okay--still swamped with birthday stuff (my son's "real" birthday is today), Passover stuff etc., so instead of writing something original--I'll crib from my kids.

First, though, my kindergarten son had a piano recital at his school last night, and I was so proud of him. He really can play! Even cooler? He was pretty darn proud of himself. He has natural talent--if only I could convince him to actually practice periodically. . .

Okay--here's another one of those things that may end up lost in translation. It is a little comic strip-type work my 9-year-old daughter drew. As I do not have a scanner, I can't scan in the artwork, so I'll just have to describe it--don't worry, there is dialog, too; just picture the speech bubbles!

First Frame: A cat in profile, looking at a scowling mouse in profile (although I must confess, I initially thought the cat was a fox. . . .). Way up in the sky, barely noticeable (I didn't even notice it until the 4th time I read the strip), a little unidentified object in the distance. Cat to Mouse: Can I eat you? Mouse to Cat: When pigs fly!

Second Frame: Again in profile: Cat looking up mouth open in surprise, mouse standing on Cat's nose, also looking up, open-mouthed. What are they looking at? A pig on a hang glider, complete with curly tail and goggles. Pig, looking down, smiling: Hey guys!

Third Frame: Again in profile, Cat (still looking fairly fox-y to me) with it's mouth open on the ground, tongue rolled out like a red carpet. Mouse resignedly walking up the cat's tongue into its mouth. Mouse: Okay. . . .

F0urth Frame: Full frontal view of the foxy cat, with a big Cheshire grin on it's face. Cat: I love a happy ending.

Fifth Frame: Full front view of the mouse in the stomach, floating in stomach juices. Mouse, scowling: Hmph!

Macabre sense of humor my daughter has. But I swear--it really was funny!

Hope everyone survived tax day more or less intact.

Until next time. . .

Yada yada and matzoh

Okay--bit of a lull there. It's not that I didn't want to write--it's my usual plaint--too busy. I even started drafting a couple of things. . .only to find I didn't have time to complete them. One of them I'm ditching altogether--too whiny--even for me.

What, pray tell, is keeping me so busy?--Oh, this and that. Among other things, my son's birthday party was this past weekend. (Californians are flakes about RSVPing, in case you wanted to know). Additionally, no sooner does my husband get back from his 2-week business trip, than my housekeeper unexpectedly has to take off to Mexico for a week, as her mother is gravely ill.

Now, it's always a little more difficult for me when she's gone--I really rely on her more than any other human being, as my husband works all the time and we have no family here, but it's usually bearable. (Well, it's bearable for me, because I've lived with my slob of a self all my life. For my husband, my housekeeping skill--or rather, lack thereof-- is, at best, a grimace-and-bear-it situation when the housekeeper is here. It verges on disaster (can you spell D-I-V-O-R-C-E?) when she's gone. Just so you know, though, I'm not DIRTY, just messy. Really. Truly. Cross my heart. For example, I will keep the bathrooms and kitchens pretty darn clean. . .I figure anything remotely connected with an orifice should be clean, clean, clean). But the week before Pesach (or Passover, if you prefer) is probably one of the worst times EVER for her to be gone. There is so much cleaning and clearing out, packing up and unpacking, washing and scrubbing, shopping and cooking that goes on that I normally rely on her very heavily at this time. Ah well, guess dear hubby will have to pitch in if he wants the kitchen as Pesadich as he normally likes it.

An aside: My housekeeper was not sure if I would "let" her go see her possibly dying mother. Good grief. What kind of monster does she think I am? I don't know how I could have lived with myself if I had said no. Who would do that? Are people really that heartless and selfish? Never mind, I don't even want to know. I think I prefer to live in the la-la land of my own making, where people really do want to do the right thing. . .

So, it will continue to be hit or miss for the next week or two. I'm hoping to slip in a book recommendation, some humor, and lord knows what else (probably a little whining. . .I'm still me, after all).

For all of you who celebrate (or barely tolerate) it--Happy Pesach. Enjoy the matzoh (and all its attendant digestive, um, effects)!

Congrats

A big congrats to my husband for being named one of the Top 10 Copyright attorneys in the state. Way to go, oh copyright guru!

Melancholy Baby

Don't know why. Just am.

P.P.S.

I got carded (and that hasn't happened in a decade or more)! I almost hopped over the counter and planted one on the vendor! He definitely made my night.

Oh, and we had great parking karma. As we were waiting in the long line of cars attempting to enter the parking lot, we allowed some guys in a white Chevy Malibu to cut in front of us. Next thing we know, we're being flagged to go into the reserved parking area, where selfsame guys had given us a free parking pass. My friend and I would like to think it's because we're still cute, but most likely it was just that we were nice enough to let them in.

We tried to find them after we parked and at the end of the concert in order to thank them (and to assuage our consciences for having cursed them out--to ourselves--as we let them in line)--to no avail. Somewhere out there, are two chivalrous dudes in a Chevy Malibu to whom two chicks in a Honda Pilot owe a big thanks. So thanks, guys!

P.S.

I certainly did not expect Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine to show up at Bruce's concert. But he did--played The Ghost of Tom Joad with the Boss--and I've got to say--his guitar work BLEW me away. Remind me to go to the next RATM concert. He's fucking incredible. (Yeah, I know I sound like a teenage boy. . .)

Here's a link to a bootleg You Tube video of the song. Unfortunately, it cannot do justice either to the sound or the visuals of the performance. Still worth a gander, though.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJT1EdKRF2g

Bruce ROCKS!!!!!!!

This one's for you, Jerome!

Vegetable Insults

Sorry about the radio silence. As you may recall I was out-of-town this weekend (more on that another time), and I was just knackered beyond belief today. Now, I'm getting ready to head out to a Springsteen concert. . .and so will not have time to post much of consequence (as if any of it were really of consequence). . .

Still. . .something just happened . . .so I thought I'd share. . .This probably won't be nearly as funny as it was when it occurred, but what the hell:

I picked up my kids from their after-school activity today, and as usual when they are particularly pooped, they were bickering about some utterly stupid thing or another. As we were getting out of the car, my daughter closed the door before my son could get out--a not unusual tactic of hers. This happens to be something that really gets his goat. As they continued to bicker, he then decided to make his exit from the rear hatch. . .I suppose I should be impressed with the kids' ability to multi-task bickering and whatever else they're doing. . .Anyhow, as he was climbing over the back seat the kids continued to hurl insults at each other. . . Finally, my son looked at my daughter and, stuttering in his frustration, yelled:

"You . . .you're. . . an ARTICHOKE!"

Then he fell off the seat, plop.

And we all just cracked up. There is nothing like a good vegetable insult to improve everyone's mood.

Actually, I'm hoping that we come up with more vegetable insults. Much more creative and less damaging than stuff like dumb-dumb and poop-head. I wonder if Brussels Sprouts are next on the menu?

A toute a l'heure. (And to all you francophones out there--I haven't yet figured out how to put in proper accents in french, so you'll just have to imagine they're there, over each "a.")

I don't know

I don't know what I want to say today--I have a couple of topics percolating, but I don't feel up to dealing with them. And nothing else has struck my fancy today. It's amazing how the stress of anticipating packing can suck the creativity right out of you. We're off for a weekend of family camp. Should be fun, pray it'll be fun, even if dear hubby can't make it. Luckily, I have lots of friends going, so hopefully I won't be too lonely--or feel too bereft.

So, off I go to make our packing list. . .Talk at ya after the weekend, probably.

Wilted lettuce

I know I write about my kids a lot, but I'm a stay-at-home mom, so it should be no surprise that much of my life, and my blogging, revolves around them. No exception today.

My kids continue to blow me away with their ability to describe their feelings (usually their negative ones, but, hey, creativity is creativity). Last night, my daughter and I were having a pre-bedtime chat. She was talking about cliques and other stuff related to friends-- this social maneuvering seems to start earlier and earlier, by the way--and she was trying to describe the way she felt when one of her friends stopped in the middle of their game and joined some other kids instead. "Sad," I suggested? No. "Angry?" No. "It's hard to describe," she said, going silent. After a few minutes' pause, during which she had clearly been thinking hard, she said "Wilted lettuce. I feel like wilted lettuce when that happens." She's so far ahead of me in her use of simile; no way I could've described it any better.

Tonight, my son and I got into an argument--bottom line was that I had to take a toy away from him for the night because he failed to live up to a very clear agreement we had made (an agreement as to what he needed to do, as well as what the consequences would be if he didn't). Needless to say, tired as he was (and he hasn't been sleeping very well the past few days) he was extremely upset about this and I had to chase him around a bit before I could get the toy back. He was really feeling wretched, but he came up with a great idea: he was going to draw how he mad and sad he felt on a series of notecards--which he ultimately taped up to the wall by my bed, so I wouldn't forget how he felt! Well, the final notecard held a monochromatic picture of a rainbow, superimposed with the words (spelling his): "I fel like a ded rainbo." Again, I don't think I could have said it any more aptly than he did. (And I felt it like a punch to the gut, which I suppose was it's intended purpose!)

Like I said, sometimes my kids blow me away.

It's hee-eeere. . .

Yes, folks, it's that time of the year again, the time all westside Angelenos starve themselves the entire month of March for--Grilled Cheese Month at Clementine! The ooey-gooey fun starts tomorrow! So put those scales away, ignore the fact that bathing suit season is on the way and load up on all the cheesy goodness that is Clementine in April. See you there! www.clementineonline.com

Dishwasher Rant

Why is it that every housekeeper we have ever employed has no clue how to load a dishwasher? This is a source both of annoyance and perpetual mystery to my husband and me. Now, I'm not trying to be racist, classist or otherwise politically incorrect--in fact, I'm about as wracked with liberal guilt as anyone.

(I'm not sure my dear hubby is as wracked as I am, but he is overall a person of integrity and fairness, willing to judge by performance above all, and thus is far less prejudiced than many folks I know. Except maybe when it comes to intelligence. He does not suffer fools gladly, or even tolerably well. This quality--the integrity/fairness quality--may also be attributable to the fact that his parents sent him to a sleep-away camp primarily for poor inner-city youth when he grew up. To this day, we have no idea what his folks were thinking, or if they even knew what the camp was. In any event, I think it's safe to say he was pretty much the only shrimpy, jewish nerd at that camp. He quickly learned what he needed to do . . .he befriended the biggest and baddest guys at camp by ghost-writing their love letters for them; in return he got protection and a sort of respected mascot status. Whatever else he may or may not be, my husband is not a fool, and his survival instincts are spot on.)

Now, I understand that not all of our housekeepers may have had a lot of personal experience with dishwashers. But you'd think after years and years of working for us and seeing how we very logically and consistently load the dishwasher ourselves, they'd figure it out. And not one of them ever has. Or is it just their passive-aggressive way of sticking it to the man? Who knows.

And yes, both my husband and I are fully aware how petty this complaint is. But we just can't stop being irked--no matter how hard we try.

Outrage and other Miscellany

1. I had to make make my yearly mammogram appt. It's approximately 2 months before I'm due, and I thought that if I called today, it would be plenty of advance time. Probably any other Average Josephine would think the same.

How wrong I was.

I could not get an appointment until the beginning of AUGUST. Now, granted, this is just a screening mammogram (and I'm assuming, hoping, that if it were a diagnostic mammo, I'd have an appointment pronto), but more than a 4-month wait for the pleasure of having my breast tissue squeezed flatter than road kill under a semi? It's outrageous, ludicrous, and it's really pissing me off. Can you tell? It's not like Cedars is the next hip, hot and happening restaurant, you know. ("Pardon me, may I get a well-placed mammogram machine?" "I'm sorry, we're booked solid--if you want a good mammography machine, the next available appointment is in 2010."). Jeez, are velvet ropes next? I'm sorry, the Mark Taper Building's not all THAT.

And people are scared of socialized medicine?? Oh yeah, we're doing a helluva lot better with our free enterprise-driven system. . .

2. PMS sucks. Especially on days when your car battery eats it and you can't friggin' get a mammogram for more than 4 months. And why is it that PMS seems to get worse the closer to menopause you get? Shouldn't it be the opposite?

Hmmph. I'm cranky.

That should make my trip out of town this weekend--to a family retreat with the kids--great fun, huh? Even more fun? My husband, presumably part of the family, probably will not be making it to this family retreat. (Did I mention it is a FAMILY retreat?), as he is out-of-town for two weeks for work.

3. On the other hand, I'm actually finding life easier without my husband around. Is that bad?

I suck

When I went to drive carpool this morning, I found my battery dead and my car inoperable. I had left the keys in the car, and I assume I hadn't turned the ignition all the way off. My husband is out-of-town (although it wouldn't matter, b/c I wouldn't be able to fit everyone in his car, anyway). I had to call my cohort in carpooling and have her come back to get both her kids and mine. And where was she when I called? Heading to shul to say kaddish for her recently deceased father. I feel like such a heel. And an absent-minded idiot.

Conceptual Art?

So, my kids got a hold of my label maker today. I have to admit they are fun little machines to play with.

Anyhow, I'm now finding labels randomly posted all over the house. My daughter's labels include such predictable gems as "Keep Out of My Room" and "Wash your face and brush your teeth." They also include the rather more cruelly funny, "Hey! You wet your bed!" Twisted little sense of humor that one has.

My son's labels--well some of them made me think that I have a budding conceptual artist on my hands. His labels include: "me is me" (on the computer mouse) and the truly cryptic, but nicely alliterative "print paper in a poop box."

Sure makes you think. . . .I'm not sure about what. . .but it makes you think!

Mother and Son

I can see why people think there's a special bond between mothers and their sons. (And between Dads and their daughters--but today is about the former).

My son, who is almost 6 (5 and 11/12ths according to him), can truly be the sweetest thing ever and a mom's best friend. Or at least best esteem-builder. (He can also be a hellion of epic proportions, but that's a whole 'nuther story).

While my husband wouldn't notice if I glamorized myself up the wazoo--or at least he probably wouldn't say anything about it (I'm not sure which is worse)--I can always count on my wee little son to notice. All I have to do is dress a little more nicely, don some earrings and a little makeup, and he is sure to notice and say something to the effect of "Mama, you look so pretty." This is unbidden, uncoached, and completely unself-conscious--I swear on my life. (Of course, it is also sometimes accompanied by a glare and the question "Are you going out tonight?") The amazing thing is that he started doing this around the age of 3. I thought for sure he'd grow out of it--and he may still, I suppose--without appropriate male modeling--which he most definitely does not get--but he hasn't. He always notices, always comments--a little breathlessly, which is charming in the extreme. And it just makes me feel so good--I have to be honest. What it means to my life that pretty much the only positive male reinforcement I get comes from my son is a matter perhaps best brought up in therapy. In any event--it's a different discussion.

Speaking of positive reinforcement, I make sure to give him plenty for his charming pronouncements. This is not so much in the hope that he will continue to compliment me, but rather in the hope that, one day down the line, he will be equally as aware, equally as free with a compliment with whomever he chooses to be with. There are few things as gratifying as being genuinely appreciated (not just for appearances, of course) by the ones you love.

I finally asked him yesterday, after he again told me how pretty I looked, where he learned how to say such nice things. He looked back at me, clearly puzzled, shrugged his shoulders, and said--"But you do look pretty." As if I were insane to ask. As if it was a patently obvious thing for him to say.

This openness and honest sweetness, free from the fear of baring emotions, is one of the things I love about children in general, and in particular, about my son. There can be a downside to all this emotion-baring, too. But today I prefer to focus on the good.

I'm going to end here. I think there's a little boy out there who could use a big hug.

Tuna Tip

Some of you may already know this, but for those who don't--there is a minimal/low mercury canned tuna option out there. It comes from Wild Planet, and can be ordered from Amazon.com. Minimal mercury fish come from super small tuna who haven't had time to ingest a bunch of mercury. The low mercury fish are a little bigger, but still low in mercury. It only comes in cans (I've gotten quite spoiled by those little tear-open packets), but I think it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make in order not to poison my children or myself, for that matter. I have so little brain power left, I need to do whatever I can to preserve it!

Bon Appetit!

Potato Bugs and Happy Accidents

A friend of mine recently started blogging. In one of his first posts he mentioned potato bugs--metaphorically, really, but that's beside the point. I don't know whether I should be embarrassed about this or not, but I had no idea what a potato bug looked like--so, God Bless Google images. I looked them up. (As the Little Duckling said to the Pigeon in the Mo Willem's classic The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog: "Hey, I'm a curious bird.") And potato bugs are huge, and just really gross. (It's always good to learn new things--even icky ones).

So, what was the happy accident? In my research, I found that there is some mighty fine and mighty funny writing and blogging out there about potato bugs. Seriously--there is a whole cadre of funny potato-bug-haters. Who knew? I even ran across a comment on one of the blogs from one of my favorite bloggers from a very different context: Cybele from Candy Blog. However, I don't want to think too much about a connection between candy and potato bugs. I just don't. Although it could prove to be a very effective diet aid.

Serendipity can be a wonderful thing.

Life Without Chocolate?

Unthinkable.

And the blogger writes on. . .

I could go on and on about how lame I am and how long it's taken me to post. . .but that gets old really quickly--especially since almost every one of my posts seems to start with something along those lines.

But, as it has been a long time, I will give you a quick update on some things referenced in other posts. . ..

We had to put our old dog to sleep last summer, about a year after I wrote about her declining health. She was in so much pain and so ill, we really had no choice--the only guilt I feel was in perhaps not doing it soon enough. She may have suffered more than she needed to--it was so hard to tell, because she was such a stoic animal. My husband and I got her before we were even married, so her death seemed fraught with so much underlying meaning . . .none of which I have any desire to get into here. I miss her dearly.

My darling daughter, now 9, has now lost some of that magic I wrote about. She no longer believes in the tooth fairy or other related magical stuff. However, she has transferred her allegiance to Harry Potter (or should I say, become obsessed with Harry Potter), and there is still a part of her that believes that maybe, just maybe, some magic is really real. My son is now convinced, by the way, that he is a wizard (he still believes!) and that my daughter and I are witches. Oh, would that it were true. . . Well, I AM a witch sometimes, but I don't think it's exactly what my son had in mind.

Having recently re-read my post on bras, it occurs to me that it is time to buy some new ones...Wonder what raptures the experience will engender this time?

As for, um, body hair trends--thankfully, I have heard nothing more on the matter--and I do so hope that will continue to be the case! At least until I start sprouting those errant old-lady hairs on my chin. (As for you men out there in the blogosphere, don't even try laughing; have you seen what starts to grow out of your ears as YOU age?)

Finally, I mentioned in one of my posts that if you knew who some of my law-school classmates were, you'd be more inclined to agree with my assessment of myself as an underachiever--well, since one of the aforementioned classmates is Barack Obama--you get the picture. . . (By the way--Go Barack!)

Lovely writing again. Hope I'll have something more substantive to say next time. Cheers.

Middle Ages

Okay, it's official. I'm middle-aged. How do I know this? Not so much because of my chronological age, but because the other day, I received a catalog in the mail entitled "As We Change." And it was addressed to me; the postal carrier did not, as he is often wont to do, deliver someone else's mail to my door. No. There it was, clear as could be (for a person who was not wearing her reading glasses): My name, my address. This cannot be happening. No way.

What is "As We Change?" Well, it appears to be the middle-aged women's equivalent of all those baby and children's catalogs. But for the aging boomers instead of their kids. And instead of having fun, energetic names like "Sensational Beginnings" or "Right Start" or "Leaps and Bounds," we get the bland, vague and flat-out dull "As We Change." Um, like when do we ever NOT change? As (purported) middle-aged women, is this title representative of what we are supposed to be like? Dull and bland and unobtrusive? Are we supposed to blend in, not make waves and certainly not remind everyone else (much less ourselves) that we're all going to get old. As for the products sold, are they supposed to help us embrace aging? or help us fight it--or at least the signs of it (slimming clothing, wrinkle creams, lip puffing elixirs and kegel-cisors). Are we supposed to be post-sexual (how much more un-sexual can padded panties be?) or sexual dynamos (vibrators, sensation enhancers and lubricants).

And how on earth did they know to send the danged thing to me? Is there some secret mailing list for people over forty? Do you hit some magic number and the catalog powers that be say, "Aha--she's broken the demographic threshold now--I bet she's having night sweats, time to send in the old lady catalogs. Hmm, wonder if she needs the incontinence insert? Nah, probably can wait a little while on that one." I mean, REALLY.

lazy? busy? lazy? busy?

So. . .it's been about a year since I began this blog, and about 7 months since I last posted. Pathetic. And the excuse is always the same. . . .too busy. And if it comes to choosing between sleep and writing, baby, let me tell you, sleep wins every time. (For that matter, if it comes to sleep and just about anything else that is optional in my life, sleep wins).

But now it's summer, my time has eased up a bit, and maybe, just maybe, I'll be motivated to write some more. . .I hope so. I've enjoyed it. Later, folks.

Thank you--kid style

Hapy New Year, one and all. We still have visitors here, and have for about a month, so things have not been conducive to sitting down and writing anything thoughtful--or funny for that matter. But I read a thank you note my 8-year-old-daughter wrote yesterday and thought its entertainment value made it worth posting, misspellings and all. I bet you've never received a thank you note like this:

"Thank you for the Polly Poket set, S---. I think it's so cool. How do people make things that good? You know I told you that [my brother] flushed the skies [skis] down the toilet? I hope that doesn't happen to Polly. Love, E----"

Ollabazami

Okay--I'm way too busy during this holiday season to write about anything extensively. . .but I did have to post the following:

The kids and I were riding in the car yesterday, and being the spoiled children they are, they've learned that I will usually let them listen to what they choose in terms of music. (Although that usually means what I've chosen to have in my CD changer, so there is some editorial choice on my part. But even the best of songs will lose its appeal by the 1,572nd listening--in a row.)

Anyhow, my 4 and a 1/2 year old asked to hear Ollabazami. I, of course, had not a clue what he was referring to. Back and forth we went--me explaining I had no idea what song he was talking about and him insisting it was in my CD player. With the level of frustration mounting on both our parts, he finally launched into the song itself:

"Ollabazami is on its way-ay. Ollabazami is here to stay-ay . . . ." I couldn't help it--I laughed so hard I almost had to pull over (which he did not appreciate--not being one to enjoy being laughed at). I realized that he was talking about "Oliver's Army," from the Elvis Costello CD we had been listening to lately. It took my finest rhetorical skills to separate him from his interpretation of the song and to convince him of the correct lyrics.

God I love kids!

Upon further overnight reflection, however, he is now convinced that I (along, apparently, with Mr. Costello) was wrong and that the lyric is "Olivahzombie."

And nothing I say can shake his conviction.

Ah, well. . . .if you can't beat 'em . . . .

Altogether now: "Olivahzombie is on it's way-ay, Olivahzombie is here to stay-ay, and I would rather be anywhere else but here today. . . ." Hmm. Kinda catchy.

Kids, harrumph.

Count on your kids to suck the wind right on out of your sails. Yesterday, my daughter happened to see me as I was getting dressed. She pointed to my underpants, which were lacy and pink and, I thought, a nice compromise between cute and sexy (and still appropriate for my advanced age), and said, giggling uncontrollably, "What kind of underpants are you wearing? They look like a DOILY! Mommy's wearing DOILY UNDERPANTS!"

What more can I say? Sigh.

Beauty and the B***

And that last word in the title is not "Bitch" (or "Beast," for that matter), as you will soon see.

Last week I went to a bookstore with a friend of mine for an author event, the author being a friend of a friend of hers from NY. Or more like a tennis partner of a friend of hers. The author in question was Alex Kuczynski (Am I wrong in feeling proud that I can spell--not to mention pronounce-- that last name correctly without looking it up? Do I rock or what?), and she was in town to promote her recently released, and highly lauded, book, Beauty Junkies: Inside Our $15 Billion Obsession with Cosmetic Surgery. (Check out the 11/13/06 New Yorker review of the book, for instance). I will, at some point, if I am granted more than a single free moment between now and the New Year, have something to say about the book itself. This posting however, is about what happened, what oh so interesting things I learned, at the event.

Worried we were late (bloody LA traffic), my friend and I hurried into Duttons Beverly Hills (What? You thought it would be the Brentwood branch???). After surreptitiously checking out everyone's face and body for telltale signs of "work" (and of course, EVERYONE was checking out everyone else for the same thing), we were in line waiting to meet the fabulously tall Ms. Kuczynski (5' 11" BEFORE she dons her 4" leopard print wedge heels--which were also fabulous, I have to say. At that point, I was more interested in her shoes than the faces or other various body parts of the guests). The only person we recognized was Steve Martin's ex, Victoria Tennant (who looks beautifully ethereal, btw--but not necessarily physically altered). It turns out the filmmaker Henry Jaglom was there, too, but we only realized that fact after Alex introduced him to some other people. Perhaps there were other famous folk in attendance, but not being in the industry, my friend and I couldn't spot 'em. Nothing even approaching the tres cool sighting my family and I had of Al Pacino in Baskin-Robbins a few days later. Someone buy that man a comb, for God's sake. But I digress. . .

So, there we were, chatting away in line while Mr. Jaglom had Ms. Kuczynski sign a whole pile of her books. We didn't even really notice the slightly overweight man right behind us in line. However, once we began speaking with her, Ms. kuczynski introduced us to this gentleman--the famous, at least in our neck of the woods, Dr. Steven Teitelbaum, plastic surgeon. Well, we figured the conversation might turn to the obvious--but little did we know that in a very few moments we would know far, far more about Dr. T and pubic trends than we ever, ever wanted to know. And no, I did not mean to say "public." You read it right the first time.

Somehow, and I'm not clear on how we got there, the subject of waxing came up, and the talk turned to someone named, I think, Lydia, who is (according to another friend of mine) a well-known waxer in NY. (I wonder if there's a fancier word for that? Depilator?) Now, apparently, someone Alex knew (and I'm a bit fuzzy on the details here) told Dr. T when he was in NY to try getting his scrotum waxed. My friend and I blanched. While it is one thing to get the bikini area waxed, we were horrified at the thought of waxing the tissue-thin skin on the scrotum. We were also horrified to learn that Dr. T had tried it and loved it, so much so, that he was planning to do it again the next time he was in NY. Needless to say, this was the height of TMI. In the space of, no exaggeration, 2 minutes of meeting Dr. T, we'd learned what has to be among the most intimate details of this guy's life. Everybody all together now:

"Ewwwwwww"!

He, however did not bat an eye while relating all this, and I don't know if he simply enjoyed the outrageousness of making such statements to perfect strangers, or he just deals with so many private parts and functions of the body that he was desensitized to what might be considered a bit, well, too private. Now, while I'm trying to take all this in and follow the rest of the conversation, having to do with men joining the wax brigade in legions--asses, backs and, of course, scrotums, I'm also desperately trying to remember if scrotums are considered to be unusually hairy. Well, I've never noticed anything unusual or particularly off-putting, but maybe I'm not terribly observant. Or maybe I've just been married too long.

Perhaps Alex was trying to get the conversation on slightly more conventional grounds when she mentioned that she no longer waxed her legs. . .but still did her bikini line. (At least that's how I remember the conversation; it's quite possible that in my state of shock I got it all mixed up.) If that was her intention, it was to no avail, as the next words out of Dr . T's mouth were "Why [do you still wax your bikini area]? The BUSH IS BACK!" That part of the conversation I was NOT fuzzy on. (Is it possible to blanch and blush at the same time? If so, I did it.)

I could just imagine Dr. T on the Today show. . .

"And now for our segment on fashion and beauty, here's the world-famous plastic surgeon Dr. Steven Teitelbaum who, with the help of these fabulous nude models, will comment on the latest in pubic trends and other body work for this season . . . Dr. Steve?"

"Well, ladies, you'll be glad to know: THE BUSH IS BACK, as you can see from our first model. I find this look much more appealing as the larger swath of pubic hair nicely balances out the extra-large breasts most women-in-the-know- are sporting these days. You know how we Plastic surgeons like symmetry. . . Actually, I predict that next season we may see more women seeking butt and hip implants to continue balancing out the upper halves of their body. Don't want anyone tipping over!!!! Heh, heh, heh! Thank you Tiffany.

"Now, our next model, Sampson, sports the newest trend in male hairlessness--the waxed scrotum. Samson, could you turn around and bend over? See how smooth and shapely he is--just like a baby's bottom. And speaking of bottoms, as you can also see, the waxed ass continues to be a big, big trend this season. Just makes wearing those silky briefs so much more. . . sensational! Back to you, Matt."

Well, needless to say, the rest of the evening was a bit of a let down, in comparison. Kuczynski, who is really very intelligent and well-spoken--after all, you don't get to write for the NYT if you're a complete idiot--spoke for a short while and answered a couple of questions--in her rather lock-jawed way. But she looked great. Those early surgeries she had when she was in her 20's and early 30's (it's all in the book) must have stood her in good stead. Still, despite claiming in her book not to have had botox lately, her forehead was suspiciously immobile and wrinkle-free. Is it, as she claims in her work, the result of a decade's worth of botox (ab)use, or has she just fallen off the wagon, hmm? No one asked, and I certainly wasn't gutsy enough to. My proper Southern and Jewish upbringing frowns upon (oops, frowning causes facial wrinkles), embarrassing anyone in public.

As for what was going on beneath her dress, I most certainly do not want to know. . .

Long Time, No Blog

We-elllll--I had good intentions. Frankly, I've been so busy since the end of August that I have not only not had time to blog, I've not even had time to have IDEAS. Usually, (if there can be said to be a usually after only a few posts), an interesting topic or funny thought will come to me; I'll notice it, and then make a note to write about it later. Okay, so, if I've been having ideas, I've not noticed them. Mind's a blank slate. Well, not quite blank--more like filled with chores, errands, appointments, dates, times, plumbers, contractors, fundraising, etc.

Ah yes, the Curse of the Mother of the Young. I suppose I could spend hours bemoaning the lack of respect we moms get for the incredibly unimportant job we have of raising good, kind, smart, empathic, sympathetic, motivated, sensitive, athletic, unselfish children--you know, producing an all-round good guy/gal kind of human being, but why bother? The people who would recognize it, already know all about it, and the people who need to get a clue will only ever read it when those proverbial pigs fly. I don't think anyone realizes (except those of us who do the job) how time-consuming (maybe time-gobbling would be more accurate) and all-encompassing a job raising those cute litte rugrats can be.

Now, before any folks get their knickers in a twist, I am NOT dissing the working mom. If anything, the working mom generally has an even harder time--with two full jobs. And as for all of you with the other type of private parts, well, I don't mean to exclude those of you who take on what has "traditionally" been the mom's role; you guys are in the same wildly rocking boat. But truly, there are so few of you . . . On second thought, maybe your boat is a little different--b/c many in society probably look in askance at the role you have chosen to take on. And that's no fun, is it?

So all the aforementioned blah, blah (which I did not intend to write about when I started this post) really just illustrates the hazards of making generalizations. Though they are kind of fun to do when you're in a pissy mood.

I think I'll have some things to say about vacations, air travel and the words kids choose to call their mothers. . .but I've got to go supervise dinner.

Ah, a mother's work is never done. . .

Postscript: I saved this in draft form, thinking I'd go back later and edit. . .but then I realized it would never end up getting posted. I've got to just post stuff in raw form when I get the chance--b/c my life right now does not afford me the luxury of lots of time for writing. . .So here it is. . .raw and unedited.

Long time, no type

Well, it's been a long, long time since I've written. First there was family vacation and then the chaos of the first week of school. I think I can now take a deep breath. . .and let my fingers do a little walking.

The question is. . .what to write about? I'm so out of the habit now (writing is like exercise; once you stop doing it, you lose the motivation and the ease), I'm not sure on what subject I'd like to opine. Do I talk about my trip? The fact that I just had another birthday? My guilty pleasure at having the kids back in school? The fact that when it comes to volunteering, it seems I'm just a girl who can't say no?

I think this requires further consideration. Okay, okay, further procrastination. But don't worry, now that I've warmed up, I'll be back---which reminds me of something I want to write about. Next entry will be about the Governator.

Laughable instructions

Have you ever noticed how instruction manuals can sometimes be hilarious?

There are the manuals that have been awkwardly translated into English from the original language by someone for whom English is neither a first nor second language. Think of the Russian "translator" in Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated and you'll have the idea. (If you haven't read the book, well, you're just a literary loser, clearly out-of-touch with the Young Turks of the publishing world and woefully behind on your contemporary reading list.)

Then there are the instructions that state the obvious. "You must switch the power button to the "on" position for the ______ to work." Uh, well, DUH!

Of course, there are also the instructions without a single written word--only pictures. Only pictures a chimp could decipher. Only pictures which lead one to believe that the instructions you are being given are for, say, a carburetor instead of the bookshelf you are actually trying to assemble.

Then there are the instructions that show incredible solicitousness for your well-being--like the ones I read today about loading a battery into a remote control:

"Gently insert a fingernail in groove [1] and pull out the holder in direction [2]." (If you saw the battery compartment on the remote, you'd note that this part of the instruction falls into the "obvious" category, as there is no other direction in which to pull the holder). Then under the picture in smaller print: "Take care not to break your fingernail." I kid you not.

Can't you just see some pissant (and rather paranoid) lawyer going through the instruction manual with a fine-tooth comb looking for potential liability? Can't you just hear the warning bells going off in the poor SOB's head? "Ooooh, Danger, danger Will Robinson, someone might break a nail--and sue us."

Or perhaps the manual was written by a woman who'd had her expensive and freshly manicured acrylic nails broken one too many times in her many battery changing adventures. Oh, the travails of modern life.

Or scariest of all, maybe the company really does care about each and every one of us--from nose to nails, and wants to do everything in its power to protect the sanctity and integrity of our bodies.

Uh-huh. Yeah. Right.

Fleeting Thought

I had a fleeting thought today in the car, a germ of an idea. Alas, by the time I got home, it had fled right out of my head. Bummer.

I must need to eat more sugar.

Who are you. . . .? Who, who. Who who?

Apologies to the Who. . .

You are related to me and left an anonymous comment re Wishing Star--don't you want me to know who you are? Or are you being coy and mysterious?

Stuff

So, once again I haven't been writing much of late. Too much to do, too little time to write. And frankly, I just haven't had much to say. I could talk about the mid-east--but it is too upsetting to me, and I don't think I would do it justice. Maybe I'll change my mind later. . .

The British Terrorist plot? Freaky scary. Do I want to talk about that? No. Too upsetting. And I'd need more unfettered time to really put some thought into both of these truly important topics. And we all know I'm really not all that into thought. . .

Anyhow, I'm pretty tired--I had an upper endoscopy yesterday, which I was looking forward to about as much as. . . .well, as much as having a camera on a tube shoved down my throat. Don't really need to compare it to anything else, do I? Pretty heinous in and of itself. Especially for someone, like me, who gags when brushing her teeth. Dental X-rays? Not pretty. Last time I had them done, my gag reflex resulted in a nose injury.

Huh? you might ask.

Basically, I was so close to loosing my cookies when they put in the x-ray film that I had to rush out of the exam room and into the bathroom, where I threw back the toilet seat so hard, it came crashing back down on my eye and nose as I bent over. I thought I'd just nailed my eye, but when I looked in the mirror afterwards, I saw a trickle of blood flowing from the bridge of my nose. It was so purty. And truly embarrassing to explain. I think the dental office staff thought I was pathetic. Funny, but pathetic.

So I told my doctor she better knock me out for this one. And so she did. Or she gave me a truly terrific amnesiac drug so I can't remember what happened anyway. Either way, I'm grateful. (Although there is something creepy about having your memory erased by another person--very "Eternal Sunshine.").

The whole thing, therefore, turned out to be a non-event. The worst part was the recovery from the anesthesia. I've been tired and out of it for two days now. (Yeah, yeah, those who know me can spare me the wisecracks about my always being out of it. . .). The doc took multiple stomach biopsies so my stomach has felt, much as one would suspect, like someone scraped out some of my insides. Unpleasant, but fully bearable.

I will be traveling to my hometown next week for a family visit, and I'm sure that will provide plenty of fodder for the blog. No more writer's block for me! In addition, flying cross country with children given the current terrorist alert could prove to be a life-altering experience. Let me tell you, my kids (preschool and above) will not be happy with the carry-on restrictions.

"Mommy, where's my drinky yogurt?"

"Shut up and drink your breast milk. Oh, you don't like breast milk?--well then drink your formula, then."

"But mommy, I'm SEVEN." Ack.

And they're saying no gels in carry-ons either. Does that mean I have to leave the jelly off the PBJ sandwiches? I'm sure jelly is a fine disguise for explosives. Gives a whole new meaning to "bold new flavor."

Yep, I should have lots to write about during and after the trip. Until then, Adios. I've got to pare down my hair care supplies. . .

Schedule complications

Does anyone who does not have children realize how hard it is to schedule anything, much less time with another mom? I swear it's more complicated than NASA's scheduling of the Space Shuttle. "Okay, I have 8 minutes between 1:07 and 1:15 for coffee, does that work for you??? Arrghhh.

Wishing Star

I don't know how they do it, maybe it's their innocence, but kids have an uncanny ability to send their cherubic, but still piercing, arrows straight through our parental hearts.

For example, my daughter has become obsessed with dogs and getting a puppy. And by obsessed, I mean every book she checks out of the library is either a doggie reference book or a dog story. We no longer read bedtime stories together. Noooooo, we have to read a book called the Dog Bible--which is basically an encyclopedia of dogs, dog history, dog breeds, dog care, dog training, dog trivia, etc. She visits a website about suitable dog breeds for children as often as we will let her. I'd venture to say that she knows more about dogs and the various breeds at this point than most veterinarians. And she is relentless. She asks every day, many times a day, when she can get a puppy, despite the fact that we already have dogs. Yes, that's dogs, plural. ("But mo-om, I want my own puppy.") For weeks this has been going on. This is worse than some girls' obsession with horses.

Our answer is always the same--not while we already have multiple dogs. You'd think, since the answer is always the same, she'd get the idea. Maybe she thinks if she keeps asking, I will, in a moment of sheer forgetfulness or insanity, give her a different answer. I get it, I get it: She REALLY wants a puppy.

I've got to say that this has really been getting on my nerves.

Until she up and does something that (almost) melts all my resolve.

One day recently, we found the following note, written in her almost-second-grade handwriting, under her pillow:


"Dear Wishing Star,
I wish for a puppy. How long will it take for a wish to come true? Will my wish be granted?
Love,
(Insert daughter's name here)
P.S. My bed is the blue bed with flowers on it."

Well, I caught my breath and my eyes filled with tears. If this were an older kid, I would assume that the note was meant to manipulate us into getting a dog. But darling daughter is still young -- at the point where she still kind of believes in the tooth fairy, wants to believe in the tooth fairy, even though some friends have told her there's no such thing. And she never even mentioned to me or her dad that she had written this note. Not a word, not a peep. Not even when she didn't get a return communication (as she sometimes does from the tooth fairy, as you will see below). This clearly was between her and her wishing star. No, I don't think any manipulation was intended.

The longing in her note--along with the directions about where to find her bed--nearly broke my heart. She's done this to me one other time, as well. Whenever she loses a tooth, darling daughter usually leaves a note to the tooth fairy under her pillow asking for the gift she'd like in exchange for her tooth. One night some time ago, we retrieved a note that asked for "a pair of really real wings. So I can fly." She didn't want a book or money or a toy. She wanted to soar.

Her notes brought me back to a time when I also believed such things were possible--and not just as a faint, sweet memory, but with a visceral I-just-traveled-back-in-time jolt. I remember how it FELT to have such hope. Don't you remember when you felt as if you had a direct line to the universe, and someone or something would respond to your entreaties, however unreal they might be? I think this reminder of innocence and hope is a bittersweet gift our children give us, and I so wanted to make her, this little girl who still believes in magic and wishing stars and tooth fairies, happy. But I couldn't. At least not in the way she wanted. I could, however, help her maintain her sense of magic and wonder a while longer.

And so the tooth fairy responded with a note--but one that had to tell my sweet girl that even the tooth fairy could not bring her wings. One that said that only fairies and other naturally winged creatures were allowed to have wings in this world, but that she could still fly in her dreams.

I'm feeling guilty about the wishing star taking so long to respond to dear daughter's appeal, but I've been weighing what to do. Should I just let it go--and maybe cause a little of the magic to go out of her world, or should I respond, as I did on behalf of the tooth fairy--in such a way that mixes fact and fiction, so that she can remain a little girl, full of wonder, a while longer?

Hot, Hot, Hot

Okay--I think I've got this west coast heat/humidity wave figured out.

The East Coast summer got tired of the East Coast (and who wouldn't in the summer?) and decided to vacation in the West. Unfortunately, silly Summer didn't realize that it would be bringing the east coast heat and humidity with it. (Yo, Summer, ever heard of packing light??).

Remember that old Ben Franklin saying--Fish and visitors stink after three days? (I think I at least paraphrased it right. . .). Well, someone needs to remind East Coast Summer that it has now outstayed it's welcome, and then some. Time to go back home. Vacay is over. Been nice knowing you (not). We're tired of you barging in here and taking over. You've cost us too much and made a mess of our place. We'd like our home back, along with cooler temperatures,
drier days and lower electricity bills.

And don't let the door hit you in the low pressure system on the way out.

And while I realize it's wonderful out here, East Coast Summer better not be thinking of making a permanent move. That's one illegal immigrant I'd happily deport.

Blog Notes Part Deux

In fairness to my dad, of whom I made fun in my last post, I do understand that people have varying levels of privacy with which they are comfortable, and my openness may have been a bit too, too for my dad. (A shout out to my husband, who pointed out he has similar issues about privacy. Uh-oh, I married my dad). And, in this case, I think gender probably has something to do with it. While most women of my generation--or close thereto--have commented on how funny and on-target my bra post was, I think most men don't get the need to talk about it, in much the same way they don't understand the excitement about the bra itself. I suspect that with women, we relate to our bras and breasts in a different and more multi-faceted way than men do. Okay, that's probably stating the obvious. But with us, our breast are rather more of a pedestrian thing--yes we are concerned about sexual attractiveness--but that is not the sole way we think about our assets. We also think of them as a source of nutrition for our babies, and then there is simply the chore of dealing with them on a daily basis--not just in terms of looks but also in terms of comfort and maintenance. (Doing the monthly breast cancer check is hardly the stuff of romance. More like the stuff of abject terror.) Hey, they're a part of our body--and in the end we don't tend to idealize them the way men do, and, for many women, at least, they most certainly are not all about sexuality. That's just one component. (At least once we're past our teen years). As such, for many of us (again--I wouldn't deign to speak for all women), we probably treat and view our breasts with more irreverance and, at times, indifference than men would. Now this is not to say that this part of our anatomy is not important to us as women, but, as a part of our bodies, the mammaries simply are demystified. Trust me, I wouldn't be writing about somebody's male parts in the same way I would my own body parts. I was going to say that men probably don't think of their organs primarily in a sexual way--but then I realized that was just stupid!

Okay, enough anatomy. . . . back to blogging thoughts. . . .

My mom's initial reaction to my blog--before having read it, mind you--was to tell me that I should be writing as a profession, to make money.

Hold on a sec, wait, what's that sound????

Oh, yesssss, that's the sound of all the writers who are much more talented and serious than I am howling, HOWLING with laughter.

A couple of my friends had concerns with the blog that had nothing to do with the blog itself, but with my self-description. While I'm flattered that you guys care so much AND take me so seriously, I want to say: MY TONGUE= FIRMLY PLANTED IN CHEEK. I was just trying for a wee bit humor. So, to those of you who were worried that I wasn't living my life, but waiting for it to begin--no, I'm fully aware that my life is happening now and I'm enjoying it and living it as best I can. I'm merely trying to figure out what else I'd like it to include. That is, in fact, one of the reasons I began to blog. And, as with all of us, some days are better than others.

As for those of you who are concerned about my self-image as an underachiever, well, perception of underachievement is relative. If you knew who some of my law school classmates were (and some of you do), you'd understand why I might somewhat jokingly refer to myself as an underachiever. But I wouldn't worry too much about that either. I'm working toward the life I want to live, and that's good enough for me. (Thank god for therapy, no??)

I also remind anyone with concerns about the larger ramifications of "putting myself out there" that I have an audience of maybe 5 people--and that's being generous. Hard to see how much damage that can do.

So, it has become clear, early on, that some of the stuff I write about here will offend or worry some folks. I guess that's to be expected--nature of the beast, and all. But please know, there are times when I'm just trying to elicit a chuckle. And please do take everything with a grain of salt. I'm a firm believer in poetic license.

Final comment: This is who I am--take it or leave it.

Blog notes

Haven't written in a few days. Have a number of ideas percolating, but have been too busy or too tired to write much--hazards of momhood in the (hellishly hot) summer.

Before I get to any other ideas, I wanted to share some thoughts on this blog and blogging in general--some of these thoughts having been generated by responses by friends and family.

1. Blogging is a great way to avoid paying bills. Which I should be doing right now. I've been looking for new ways to procrastinate, and this is significantly more fun than scrubbing the toilet or cleaning out my closet.

2. Blogging can be, and probably is in my case, a wonderfully narcisstic endeavor. Where else can one write about oneself, one's thoughts, offer to share them with others, and assume they will (a) read them and (b) find them fascinating? Of course, in my case, I only know of one person for sure who has read this blog more than once (thank you!)--and it is neither my husband nor any other member of my family. So much for inflated self-image.

3. My Dad's reaction to my blog postings was to send me an article from CNN about a British woman in France who was terminated from her job in a hoity-toity advertising firm (also British, need I say more?), because of her blogging activities. Basically the firm felt her postings reeked of impropriety and reflected badly on the firm. My response to dad was manifold:

First, I am unemployed, and even if I were employed, I would hope it would not be at a stuffy firm. Been there, done that. Second, I am not writing about said non-existent employer in my blog--even anonymously. Third, while I wrote about cleavage, I did not post a picture of my or anyone else's cleavage--taken at work no less-- on my blog. (I like my bras, but not THAT much, people).

My dad, clearly contemplating my future employment prospects, worried that I would be too identifiable from my blog. First, this posits that there are actually enough people reading my blog who might both take offense AND otherwise have considered hiring me. Low odds, indeed. Hmm. See above re blog readership. Also, there surely are many middle-aged, unemployed, infertile, former lawyers named Karen in Los Angeles. I mean, REALLY.

Okay, I can no longer procrastinate on the shower front--I have an appointment to keep. I've got more on reaction to my blog, but I will post later. And please forgive any typos, grammar errors, etc. I don't have time, as I usually do, to edit this post. Ciao.

. . . Thanks again

Okay, my husband, after having read my ode to brassieres, wanted to know why I hadn't yet waxed rhapsodic about my new computer. Which he bought for me as a "surprise." Inasmuch as anything I've been dropping hints as broad as the Grand Canyon about for months can be a surprise. Who am I kidding? Those weren't hints, they were bang-him-over-the-head-with-a-cast-iron-frying-pan demands. Of course, given his level of sensitivity to such things, he probably perceived them as the most subtle of nudges.

Men.

Anyhow, he got me the new MacBook with Intel processor---he even sprung for the BLACK one. (And what's with Apple, charging hundreds of dollars more simply for the color black? It's the same bloody thing inside. The sheer greed is appalling. Then again, the black does look soooo much cooler.) It's my first laptop and my first Apple--and I have to say I do like it. I like it, like it, like it, dear. I really like it. In fact, it was part of the reason I've been inspired to start this blog, that and the fine work of Cybele at www.candyblog.net (Check it out--if you're a candy freak like me, you'll love it!)

When you can tote this little sucker around anywhere with you, it really makes writing when the mood strikes so much easier. I can go from room to room with my kids as they need me, and I'm no longer tethered to the computer in our overheated greenhouse of an office. (That, by the way, is what happens when you enclose a former sleeping porch on the second story with all glass. What WERE they thinking???) This is both a good thing and a bad thing. On the one hand, I can get important stuff done, like catching up on all the good goss on Eonline, wherever I am. On the other, I no longer can get away from the kiddos with the excuse that Mommy has to work on the computer. "Bring your new computer wif you," says the 4-year-old (Speech therapy is going so well. . . ). Despite this further reduction in my privacy (bathroom privacy having long been history), I still feel I come out ahead, and the portability of my Mac has stepped up my productivity. For someone who doesn't have a "real" job, that is. And let's face it, as soon as my kids mastered the mouse, which was scary early, I never had a chance. I was always competing with those cute little buggers for computer time. And they throw much better tantrums. So, I ended up with all this kids' stuff cluttering up my computer. . . Reader Rabbit, Stuart Little, Dragon Tales, Clifford, but no Teletubbies or Boobahs, thank gawd. There were more kid-related icons on my desktop than adult ones. It's so nice now not to have to share. They can play, I can play. It all works out nicely. And I've told them that they never, never, never get to play with mommy's computer. I will not share.

I love setting a good example for my children.

Despite my repeated thanks, my husband continued to need reassurance that I liked my gift. (Um, would the fact that I spend more time with it than with him be a clue??) The other day, less than a week after I got the computer, I noticed finger smudges on the exterior and on the touchpad--the one downside to this chic new little black Book. It was driving me crazy, so I asked my husband how he cleaned his computer (a Powerbook, if you must know). He handed me some Apple wash and a special lint-free cloth, and I proceeded carefully to erase every fingerprint from the ebony surface of the computer. While I was performing this task, my husband asked, yet again, if I really liked my new computer. I looked up at him, eyebrow cocked, and asked him what I was doing. "Cleaning your computer," he replied, somewhat confused. "When was the last time you ever saw me voluntarily clean ANYTHING??" I asked, and I went back to polishing my Apple. And dear hubby? He hasn't asked whether I like my computer since.

Distraction

Do you realize how hard it is to focus on writing when you're watching The 40-Year Old Virgin? Just try it sometime. You'll see what I mean.

Thanks

Thanks, y'all, for all the positive feedback you've given me! It's hard to put yourself out there.

Now, can anyone think of a better name for this sucker?

PSA

Do not walk into, bump or otherwise touch an illuminated Halogen lamp. Especially not the glass part. It is fucking hot and you will get horrifically burned.

This public service announcement has been brought to you buy the Idiot's Guide to Burns and Other Stupid Accidents.

AHHHH Bra

Never, never, never underestimate the power of a good bra. I had forgotten what wearing a good fitting bra can feel like--and let me tell you, at least in my rather limited life--it approaches heaven.

Because I have endured endless fertility treatments and borne two children over the last 10 years, my breasts have seen more fluctuations in size than Pamela Anderson's, on a WAY smaller--- make that a WAY, WAY, WAY, smaller--scale. I was going to say "seen more ups and downs" as opposed to "fluctuations in size," but frankly, the only direction in which my boobs are travelling lately is down. And that leads me to another question--how is it possible that someone with barely any, um, leverage, can sag? I never thought it could, much less would, happen to size 32 me, but hey apparently when it comes to National Geographic breasts, God has made sure not to discriminate among the sizes. Big, small, infitesimal, somehow gravity manages to grab ahold and pull. Hmm, do men stretch out like that? (And I'm not talking breasts). I do not think I want a visual survey.

Anyhow, it had been a couple of years since I'd bought new bras and my current ones were ill-fitting, constricting and uncomfortable. I let this go on for months until I just couldn't take it anymore. I had an unusual hour free during the day and popped into the local lingerie/bra store. You know the kind. The one with the old ladies who size you up apprasingly and manhandle your precious pearls into one sling after another, then personally rearrange them for the perfect effect. Sounds creepy--but it really is the breast, um, I mean the best. (Okay, that was just bad punning. So sorry). The sensation of suddenly having my breasts supported instead of squashed was liberating. It might sound counterintuitive to feel liberated while being contained, as it were, but it is much more liberating than just floating free. Ask any woman of a certain age--or bra size.

It's interesting, I've gone from hating padded bras (back in my perky days, when natural looked, well, natural AND good) to refusing to wear anything but padded bras. And there have been great strides made in bra technology. Man, I can go up a bra size, add killer cleavage and have it look like ME! Why anyone without a medical reason (say, mastectomy) would want to go under the knife when you can just walk into Saks and have a whole new set within minutes is beyond me. Cheaper, too.

Men simply do not understand the pleasure of a good fitting bra, although they have been known to appreciate the effects of a good bra. I was prancing around, gleefully re-trying on all my bras post-purchase, positively singing with joy, and my husband looked at me like I was an alien, albeit one with really good cleavage. . .which in turn led him to some leer-worthy ideas--most of which involved removing my bra. But he simply could not understand how good it felt to be wearing the bras.

The next day, in contrast, I mentioned to a friend who was visiting how great it felt, and she immediately knew what I was talking about and launched into her own story of her recent bra purchases. We bonded for a good half-hour over bras and boobs and mutual admiration of our newly supported assets. Now that's what friendship is all about.

The Good Life

I've been thinking a lot about mortality lately. Not so much my own, as in general. And that of one of my dogs. And that of one of my friends. It's been a rough week.

Although it may be the cliche of all cliches, hitting my forties has caused me to reevaluate all sorts of things in my life. Yes, ye olde mid-life crisis. (How can I be mid-life, when I still feel 25?--See? Cliche, cliche, cliche. Now if I could only figure out how to type the "e" so that there is the accent aigu over the "e" in cliche, I'd be set.) What makes a good life? And am I living it? A Good Life, the life I'm supposed to lead?

As for this week, well, among other things, I'm facing the fact that one of my dogs, who's around 14 years old, is probably going to die sooner rather than later. I've been avoiding thinking about it, except in the most fleeting way, for some time now.

She had been finding it hard to get around because of arthritis and seemed so sad. So the vet put her on some NSAIDS (yep, the same anti-inflammatory stuff they give human arthritis patients). A few doses of that (what I thought was a) miracle drug, and she was like a new dog. So much so that our other dog perceived her as a threat to her alpha status and attacked her a couple of times. That coupled with a lot more activity than usual, caused her to re-tear the cruciate ligament in one of her hind legs. It must be called the cruciate ligament because it causes excruciating pain when torn. (I know, I know, it's not. I imagine, without looking it up, that the two words share the same Latin root having to do with "cross"). She was hobbling around on three legs in the most pitiful way.

Now, NSAIDS have a tendency in dogs (I don't know about other animals) to cause liver damage, so after about a month I had her liver enzymes tested. They were sufficiently elevated above the normal baseline that we had to stop administering the NSAIDS. The effect was almost immediate. No longer cheery, she was stiff, slow--and just looked so sad. The vet started throwing around phrases like "quality of life." Reading between the lines was not too difficult; he was using vet-speak to prepare me for the rather sooner than later decision I would have to make about euthanasia.

I couldn't bear it. She was my first dog. And (don't laugh) my canine soul mate. You know how sometimes you just know upon first sight that some person, be it friend or more, is connected to you in an intense way? Well it can be the same way with pets. And so it was with me and my dog. She was a rescue, had been abused and trusted no one easily--especially men. Yet, when we saw each other it was as if she instantly knew she could trust me, and we understood each other. She had the deep, melancholic eyes of an old soul. Even more telling, she immediately liked my then-boyfriend, now husband. The only male, at first, she was not afraid of.

To this day, almost twelve years later, she still wants to be with me more than anyone, and gets agitated when I leave the house, often waiting by the door (or going outside and barking incessantly) for my return. Even if the house is full of other people.

Someday, I'll tell her story. She is an amazing dog. And with us she has had a very good life (although with the advent of my kids, she did not get the attention she once did). For now, I find myself unable to think about the time when she will no longer be a part of my life. On the one hand, I want her with me always, and on the other I do not want her to suffer unnecessarily. I will soon have to make an impossible choice---and I can't bear it.

Paren. . .

After reviewing my last posts, I think someone ought to ban my use of parentheses.

Just a little pinch. . .

Okay, a couple of folks (one of whom lives in NC in the midst of tobacco fields) were kind enough to point out that chewin' tobaccy has it's own risks (to the user--although frankly, from a purely moral perspective, if you know the risks and choose to assume them. . . .) and places a burden on the healthcare and insurance systems (the secondary, non-physical effect). Agreed. It'd be nice if they'd ban the substance (for recreational use) entirely. But I was thinking about more immediate PHYSICAL effects on non-users. The non-users did not choose to assume the risk. ("Hmm, do I breathe today or not???") Besides, I figure you've got to start small(ish). After all, it's not easy to break a habit that's had centuries to develop.

Virgin Territory

This is my first attempt at blogging. Be patient, please. Rather than a new post, this post is an edited copy of a ranting e-mail I sent out today.

There's front-page article in the LA Times today in which the U.S. Surgeon General is reported to have said second hand smoke is, under all circumstances, BAD. Duh. So why isn't it being regulated??? Most illegal drugs don't have immediate negative physical effects on those people around the consumer of the drug. It seems a no-brainer that if some drug negatively affects non-consumers, shouldn't the drug be, um, off the market? If tobacco smoking were "invented" now, the FDA would be all over it.

@#$*!!! tobacco lobby.

I say ban tobacco smoking! (I can dream, can't I?) And if anyone wants his or her tobacco fix, then let 'em have a chew--a big ole pinch between the cheek and gum, nothin' better. At least then, the only person being harmed is the consumer. And just think what it would do for the spitoon market.