In Memoriam

O Great Spirit,
Whose breath gives life to the world
and whose voice is heard in
the soft breeze,
We need your strength and wisdom
that we may walk in beauty.

May our eyes
ever behold the red and
purple sunset

Make us wise so that we may
understand what you have taught us
Help us learn the lessons you
have hidden in every leaf
and rock

Make us always ready to come to you
with clean hands and straight eyes
so when life fades, as the
fading sunset,
our spirits may come to you
without shame.

For:
Bill Murphy, October 9, 1966- August 22, 1998
Steven Murphy, September 14, 1975-August 22, 1998

This Native American Call to Prayer was read at the memorial service for my brother Michael's fiancee, who also died in the accident.

And One of These Days . . .

I'm going to be able to do a few posts--With Photos!--on our vacation. Sadly there's obviously a lot more caca going on. But soon. I promise.

Of Mothers and Daughters

The relationship between mothers and their daughters has provided inspiration for countless movies, novels and memoirs--something I totally get. I don't have much of a relationship with my mother; to be honest, for the past couple of years, I've had none at all. It's true, that old saying, "You can choose your friends but not your family." For my mother and me, a good relationship was never going to happen. From the beginning, we seemed to have wildly divergent interests, beliefs and values.

When asked why our relationship devolved so drastically--to the point that I've spoken to her for a total of three minutes in over a year--the only answer I really have is that I got tired of being disappointed. With a few exceptions, Mom never seemed that interested in what was going on in my life, especially once I was married. There was never what most people would consider an appropriate level of interest or excitement when Hannah and Charlotte were born, in their milestones, or even when I finally told her about everything that Charlotte had been going through. Instead, our very short conversations always turned back to Mom and her health issues.

Of course I was concerned about her, but more and more dismayed at what I saw as a shocking lack of curiosity about any condition or treatment mentioned by her doctors. Every time she called I would have to Google a diagnosis or a new list of symptoms. And she never seemed that interested in my girls, or in my sister's, something I found to be both unfathomable and inexcusable. But this of course is only how it appeared to me. After all, there are always two sides to a story. Perhaps she thought the same of me. Perhaps she was disappointed in her daughter. Perhaps I was just never able to understand and appreciate her view of the world.

Earlier today, Hannah asked me why she didn't ever see "Other Grandma."

"Is it because she was mean to you?"

"No, of course not. She lives on the East coast and we just don't really, well, we just don't talk that much anymore."

"Why?"

"Well, we just don't have that much in common, and we're all so busy . . . "

There was no way I was going to tell her the whole bit about being tired of being disappointed, sad that my mother never called to check in, didn't send birthday cards or any of that grandmotherly stuff. What I did tell Hannah was that there was no way she and I would ever get within miles of that situation. She means too much to me and I approach that love and our relationship in an entirely different way. We have our arguments, yes. We butt heads (often), yes. But that is because we are both strong willed. But we think and we love and we talk about things. And I will make sure that we always do.


My mother died tonight. I'll never get a chance to try to bridge the chasm between us. But I also know in my heart that it was unlikely that the attempt would have made a difference.

Perhaps I'm still numb from all that's gone on this week. Since my brother called with the news, I've had teary moments, but not the gut-wrenching sobs like those for Argus. Thomas says--rightly, sad as this is--that I was probably closer to the dog.

So now I'm having a glass (or two) of wine, hoping that it will assist in my search for the tears that ought to be there. Because right now, the thing that feels the worst is that I don't seem to feel at all.

I'm sure it will come. I'll just have to keep looking.

Random Question for the Week

Why is Evan Bayh still in the running for VP?

I don't think I've been as uninspired by a (potential) VP since Dan Quail. Well, except that Mr Bayh is actually qualified. Just sort of, well, mmyeh. Bland.

OK, Enough With Making People Cry . . .

Of course, to be honest, this will probably make some of you cry.

According to a report from the non-partisan Center for Responsive politics, deployed US troops are donating to Barack Obama's campaign 6:1 over John McCain's. So will we still be hearing that if we don't get on the administration's bandwagon--and McCain's--and stay there that we don't support the troops?

But of course, silly! It's and election year and divide and conquer is the order of the day, not to mention the past six years.

Good Boy!

2 of 3: Argus and the girls, originally uploaded by thomas pix.

Mild-mannered, always sweet. Great Danes are definitely the way to go.

The Homecoming

It's late, though not as late as it seems. We're finally home, the girls are in bed, the bags semi-unpacked, and here I sit, wondering if I am shaking because we've spent a long day in the car and I haven't eaten much since breakfast, or whether it's because my dog is dead and every tuft of hair that blows across the floor reminds me that we're not bringing him home tomorrow.

Hannah was of course terribly upset when we told her (I think one of the harder things Thomas has had to do), but now tells me not to be sad because "we can just get you another dog." She even suggests another Great Dane, the same color, "we'll even call him Argus!" But would just any other Great Dane be able to waggle his eyebrows at you, like Andy Rooney trying to tell a joke that might have been considered off-color 50 years ago? And would that eyebrow trick be as perfectly timed to the wagging of his tail (the dog's, not Andy's)?

I have hundreds of photos of Argus, but not one of them quite captures the expressions that were his alone, from the aforementioned eyebrows, to the guilty look when we caught him eating from the counter, to the apologetic when I pulled out the credit card to pay the vet for stomach pumping or induced vomiting to remove the foil or plastic that had been wrapped around whatever it was that he ate from the counter, or to pay for the multiple casts for his puppy-toes. (He also didn't mind my run-on, uber-tangential sentences, either. That or he never quite mastered the eye-roll.)

Because I still don’t quite believe he’s gone, I don’t know what I’ll miss the most. There was the way he hugged you, tucking your head under his chin and then shaking his head—always so much more gently with the girls. Or the way he used to put his face up to mine until our foreheads touched. Or that he knew that sometimes he could get away with sleeping on the bed when Thomas was traveling. The way he played soccer and Frisbee-block with Charlotte. Or how patient he always was with Hannah, letting her dress him in hats and tutus. That it would never occur to him to eat the chickens wandering around his backyard. Or that, after all this time, he would still bark at Thomas’s car because, no matter what anyone said, Argus was my dog (with the exception of the two months after Hannah was born when he wouldn’t even look at me). Or maybe just the peaceful, comfortable sound of him snoring on his bed in the corner.

And, of course there is also how ridiculously safe I felt with a dog who hated the rain, was terrified of thunderstorms, fireworks, the vacuum cleaner and chirping smoke detectors, and who couldn’t bear to be outside by himself for very long.

We’re home but to an emptier, colder, far less dog-y house. But, as Thomas reminds me, we’ll have at least another year with the dog hair.

So goodbye again, Puppy My Love. Thanks for teaching me how to love a dog and that a dog's love is unconditional. I wish you hadn't had to go. I wish we had been here when you did.

Goodbye, Puppy Love

Argus Kriese 5 July 2000-10 August 2008

Oh Canada!

Left Coast Mom is heading north to Canada for a couple of weeks. First Oregon (camping); then Washington (Thomas has a conference in a very nice lodge); Idaho (camping); Montana (hotel); Banff, BC (camping); and Invermere, BC (hotel). I'll probably be a little spotty about posting but hope to have some photos up tomorrow while I still have internet acess. I don't trust Hannah and Charlotte in a cafe--they're way too excited to be out and about (not to mention entirely too loud!).

Anyone need maple syrup, besides my lovely neighbors who are chicken sitting?

The Hurt

A couple of weeks ago Hannah again asked me how many brothers I have. She thinks it incredible how large my family is, since she has only Charlotte.

"Still five!"


"What are their names?"


"Bill, John, Michael, Steven and Tim."


"Who have I met?"


Uh oh.

"Uncle John, Uncle Michael and Uncle Tim."


"But . . . that's only three. What about the other two?"

It was the first time she had ever asked me that and I wasn't prepared. But she took my overly long pause as evidence that I had not heard.

"Mom? What about Uncle Bill and Uncle Steven? When can I meet them?"


I hate being lied to, so I try really hard not to lie, especially to Hannah. Evade? Yes. Ignore and/or change the subject when necessary? Yes. But outright lying? Not so much.

So I told her.

"You won't, baby. You can't."

There was a long pause. I think she heard the tears in my voice. Then she asked softly,

"Why Mommy? Why can't I meet them?"


"Because they died, sweetie. A long time ago."

For a few moments there was silence in the car, and then from the backseat, the sound of gentle weeping.

Hannah's not inconsiderable flair for the dramatic stems, at least in part, from her kind heart and very tender sensibilities. But while I was sorry that it upset her, I was only a little sorry that I had told her. She's old enough to hear it and, at whatever age it had come up, it would still have affected her more deeply than it would most others. But still . . .

"It's OK, peanut. Don't cry, please? It was a long time ago. Before you were born."


"It's just that I'm so sad for you. Because you lost your brothers. And because I'll never meet my uncles."


"Mommy? Do you miss them?"

"Yes, peanut. Every day."

Every day.

What Matters

Some days the battles with Hannah seem endless and oh, so maddening, and some days I feel I can no longer contain my frustration. But today I am reminded just how petty it is, these quarrels over things that truly don't matter.

Just last Saturday at the BlogHer panel, Blogging About Our Children With Special Needs, Vicki Foreman spoke so movingly and eloquently about her son, Evan. Two days ago Evan died. I only knew Vicki and Evan through her words, on the panel and from her blog, and yet I can't stop crying. And I can't wait for Hannah to come home from camp. I need to hold her tighter than I have in a long time.

Beyond that, I have no words.

Other Things I Learned at BlogHer '08

1. Always feel free to hop from session to session if you're not getting what you want from your first choice.
   
2. Make sure that the panelist's mic is off when asking a question you don't want broadcast to the entire room. (See #1)
3. You are not supposed to say anything negative--or anything that could be (mis)construed as being negative or snarky--about blogger "royalty," no matter how long ago you fell out of love with them. Or even if you still like them.
   
4. The luminous woman sitting next to you might actually be having the same doubts about her level of attractiveness that you have harbored all of your life.
   
5. Never write a book proposal on a pizza box or slip a proposal under an agent's hotel door. That is the "duh" part of this. What I actually learned was that a couple of idiots did both of these things.
6. Women you've never met before can rip your heart fiercely from its mooring and then gently return it, intact but altered, perhaps forever.*
   
7. The people who seem the toughest on the outside are usually, underneath that layer, the squishiest. But I guess I already knew that.
8. The sticker for the book "Can I Sit With You?" is a great ice-breaker. Especially when it's on your coat. (Yes, coat. BlogHer '08 was in San Francisco.)
   

* I'll post the Community Keynote when its available.

How Do You Respond to Utter Stupidity?

I spent a good bit of the day trying to write a post about the Michael-Savage-on-autism idiocy, otherwise known as "Look! Someone need to boost his ratings again!"* I didn't get very far because I couldn't come up with a clever way to bitch-slap him into next Wednesday. Not that I would ever do that. Ahem. So I checked with a much wiser friend who reminded me that I shouldn't add to his link pile and that he didn't deserve the effort anyway.

Fortunately, Gene Weingarten*, the Washington Post's resident funnyman, had already come up with the perfect response:

"Do you remember Michael Savage, the poisonous right-wing radio talk show host whom I reported about in my piece on 24-hour punditry? Michael is back in the news for expressing the opinion, on the air, that "99 percent" of all children diagnosed with autism are "brats" who haven't been told to "cut the act out." He said: "They don't have a father around to tell them, 'Don't act like a moron. You'll get nowhere in life.'"

Savage is not retracting this, even though he admits it might be a little wrong. And I don't blame him. Getting things a little wrong is okay. I remain a supporter of Michael Savage, because I am a fan of his column "Savage Love," in which he deals forthrightly with the fact that he is gay and proud of it, and joyfully gives out highly knowledgeable advice on techniques for active, hedonistic, sexually adventuresome gay males like himself. I LOVE that column." **

The only thing I have to add is this: It's a shame that Michael Savage appears to no longer have a father around to tell him to stop acting like a moron.


* I linked to Media Matters on this because 1) they were the first ones to push it mainstream, thus pissing off MS; and 2) because linking to the Savage site made me queasy. You can Google it.
** Yes, yes. I know--and so does Gene--that Michael and Dan Savage are not the same people. And therein lies the joke.

Hannah's Nanny

Last week while we were at Costco, Hannah started sulking when I told her that, no, we weren't there to get her something. After I repeated it for the fifth time, she started in on a tantrum worthy of a three year old. Well maybe not the screaming, but there was definitely crying and flinging herself around like a rag doll.

On our way back to the car, she looked up at me through tear soaked eyelashes and said "I think we should just get a nanny."

Me: But . . . . why?

Hannah: Because I think you need to go back to work. Maybe we need to take a little break from each other.

Me: Hmm.

You know the nanny wouldn't buy you everything you wanted either, don't you?

Hannah (flabbergasted): But, of course she would!

Once I had assured her that a nanny wouldn't be given extra money to spend on her, and would almost certainly not want to spend her own money on cr . . . er, stuff, for Hannah and Charlotte, Hannah sniffed a few times and said "Ok, I guess we'll just keep you, then."

Yes, BlogHers, You CAN Be Too Nice

I’m at the BlogHer conference in San Francisco and have met many intelligent, interesting and incredibly nice women. So nice, apparently, they didn’t want to tell me that the seat of my now least-favorite pants had split.*




* Thanks, Banana Republic! And before you ask, Yes they were new and No, I have not put on weight over the past couple of days.

Better than a Fortune Cookie

This quote was on my teabag tag:

Anything too stupid to be said is sung.
--Voltaire

I can think of quite a few pop songs that prove his point.

Going Green

I know that green is the new black, but I like to think that we jumped on the wagon way before there was a band on it. At our house in Campbell, the garden provided more vegetables than we could ever possibly eat--meaning that our neighbors also shared in the tomatoes (usually at least three types), zucchini, yellow squash, peas and beans. This year we've planted tomatoes, beans, eggplant, peppers, zucchini, yellow squash, pumpkins and blueberries. We also have lemons, limes, strawberries, plums and fresh eggs. And tons of herbs. Let's not forget the herbs!

But while all of this is wonderful, the crowning glory is probably the solar panels that came with the house. We have a transfer box so that we can sell to PG&E whatever electricity we don't use (net metering). Every month our statement shows either how much we bought from PG&E or how much we sold to them. The latter amount is posted as a credit against our true-up, which happens every July.

I'll admit now, as I did last year, that I've become more conscious about making sure the lights are turned off and that I answer the "It's cold in here!" with "Go put on a sweater!" at least twice before relenting and turning up the heat. It's easier to do when your monthly statement comes with a bar chart showing just how much you used, sold or bought each month as compared to the last.

We got our true-up statement this week and me like-ey: Our bill for the month was 58 cents, for the year it was about 275$. Or about what we paid for one summer month in our last house. Granted, we had to leave the AC running because we were trying to sell that house, but still. I'll take it.

Random Notes

1.
I heard someone in Peet’s say “It was like being in a 3rd world country” because she couldn’t get tech support to come and fix her Internet fast enough. Seriously. So just in case you ever wanted to know just how truly spoiled we are . . .

2.
Now I remember why I fell in love with Coldplay in the first place. Especially since it’s like listening to an entirely different band. Viva la Vida (the song) just makes me happy to my core. I think it’s the sublime combo of his voice and the violins; I’m a sucker for violins.

3.
I read somewhere that there is a push on to make yoga an Olympic sport. Because curling has no summer equivalent? Or is the International Curling Society pushing it so that they're no longer the butt of every Olympic joke. I love yoga but I always thought it was supposed to be relaxing--not competitive. What's next? "Watching paint dry" just doesn't have a ring to it--no pun intended. Any suggestions?

The Dammit, #28

Dammit #1:
These aren’t all of the Dammits that were supposed to appear here this week, but I cannot find the paper on which I wrote the original. Yes, I still compose longhand some of the time. Especially when Hannah takes over my computer to watch (oh dear god no) music videos from Disney Radio stars.

Dammit #2:
We were again denied coverage for Charlotte’s speech therapy. I kind of expected it but was still a little disconcerted to read the closing: “If you are not pleased with the resolution of this matter . . .” Really? If I’m not pleased? I’d offer to rewrite their communications for them but then they might “accidentally” cancel my prescription coverage again.

Dammit #3:
George Bush called the late and little-lamented (by me, at least) Jesse Helms (R-NC) a "good friend and a great American . . . a kind, decent, and humble man and a passionate defender of what he called 'the Miracle of America." Really? Whose “miracle” was he defending? He never met a civil rights bill he didn’t try to kill; fought the creation of Martin Luther King Jr. Day; attacked the National Endowment for the Arts for promoting immorality and anti-Christianity; and worked to prevent health aid in third world countries if any organization even breathed the words “family planning” or “contraception.” He firmly believed that HIV/AIDS existed only in the gay community and that it was their own fault if they got sick—it took Bono to get him to change his tune on AIDS in Africa. I could go on but your eyes are already glazing over and, even dead, JH still turns my stomach.

Dammit #4:
There was something else political but I can’t remember what it was. You’re welcome!

Dammit #5:
Charlotte has stayed up until 10-11:00 every night for the past two weeks so I usually have to (literally) drag her out of bed in the morning to go to school and speech therapy. Friday mornings and the weekend she has off, so when does she get up? 7:30-ish. Except today: I wanted to go to a spin class so she slept in until 10:00. The anti-Dammit here is that she really needed the sleep. Plus I got to have two cups of coffee while they were still hot and read most of the newspaper.

Where Does the Time Go?

Hannah at three and a half:



Hannah at five and a half, minus one tooth:


The second tooth is on its way out already, but she's not as excited about it. Because I told her that the 50 cents included a one-time, first-tooth bonus. But Hannah is still telling people that 1) she doesn't believe in the Tooth Fairy, and 2) that the Tooth Fairy (the one that she doesn't believe in) left her $50.

Happy Birthday, Argus!

Argus turned eight on July 5. Isn't he handsome?

I Heart the Newseum

One of my favorite parts of our trip to Virginia was going to the Newseum--I could have spent another couple of days there. I know--I'm a dork. But fortunately Thomas doesn't usually seem to mind, so I dragged him along. The gallery of Pulitzer Prize winning photographs alone was worth the price of admission (20$), but I thought this was fun too:


Guess what they were all doing (besides escaping the torrential downpour)?



Why, watching the U.S. Open, of course!

The Dammit, #27

I know, I know. It's late. Again. But there are more than a few things bugging me right now, so here's a small selection:

Dammit #1:
Some on the right are still saying that Barack Obama is insufficiently patriotic because he refused to wear a flag lapel pin. I'm actually a little pissed that he felt it necessary to start wearing one. Why? Because he caved. While admitting that calling Obama unpatriotic was "foolish," conservative columnist Michael Gerson wrote in the Washington Post that, by forgoing the flag pin, Obama " . . . has declared himself superior to an almost universal form of popular patriotism." WTF? So why did the flag pin only come into vogue after 9/11? And why do we only see them on scared politicians and pundits nervous about upsetting their critics? (And Jay Leno, but that's different.) Because a certain segment of the population deemed it necessary to prove your patriotism by donning a Chinese-made flag pin and agreeing not to question anything The Decider decided to do.

I'd rather have them actually read the Constitution and sing a bit of the Star Spangled Banner.

Dammit #1A:
About those flag pins: Most of them are made in China—unless you special order and specifically request American-made. Order minimums start at 100, depending on the distributor. I know—I checked.

Dammit #2:
The California hands-free law went into effect on July 1. In part because I rarely talk on the phone while driving, it's been nice if a bit odd to see so many people with two hands on the wheel. Well, except for those who are texting or dialing, because the law doesn’t cover that.

Dammit #3:
Why do people spend 20 minutes writing up a long question to post to message boards about whether anyone has ever heard of the disease du jour? Here’s my admittedly crabby-old-person advice: GOOGLE it. LIVE SEARCH it. ASK it. You'll save yourself 16 minutes (or in this case, 19 minutes, 30 seconds), and save me and a few others the two minutes spent wondering why you would spend 20 minutes writing up a post to ask . . . .

Dammit #4:
I saw this bumper sticker today: "When George W. Bush took office gas was $1.46 per gallon."

The car right next to it had a "W'04” bumper sticker. Yeah, so how’s that working out for you?

A Sign of the Apocalypse?

Starbucks announced today that they will close 600 stores in the U.S., plus scale back the number that had been slated to open. That's 600 fewer chances for Hannah to tell random baristas that Mommy doesn't like Starbucks.

In somewhat related news, I have yet to receive my shipment of coffee from Joffrey's Coffee and Tea. Neither has Thomas. And yes, I'm outing them now--I think I've been very patient and waited long enough. But if you like--they're more than happy to give you 25% off your first purchase! Email me and I'll send you the promo code. But don't hold me responsible if your order never arrives.

Congratulations! It's a Book (Sort Of)

Well somehow it's happened. Somehow I've managed to write enough to have an actual book manuscript and I'm not done yet.

Me being me, I'll go one of two ways: 1) have a panic attack and hope my hard drive crashes again, or 2) spend the next month up all night making it even prettier and writing a proposal. Oh wait--there's a third option: If I increase my medication, maybe I can do both!

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Well, not my summer vacation, exactly, and of course it's not over yet. But the girls and I went to Virginia to spend a week with their grandparents; to visit a few of the tourist traps you can't go to when you actually live in a place; and to remember why I don't love Virginia in the summer. (Hint: When we landed and were waiting on the jet way for the stroller to emerge from the belly of the plane, Hannah stood for a moment, confused, before asking "UGH! What is that??" That, my little love, is what is known as humidity.)

Aside from the 18-hour door-to-door trip, we had a great time. We went to the Zoo, where we got to see all three of the pandas; the Botanic Gardens, which Grandma and I probably enjoyed more than the girls did; and out for a day of boating on Lake Anna, courtesy the neighbors.

The girls were astounded by the enormous copper screen at the Museum of the American Indian and by the prism window, though they were probably more charmed by the fact that they could dance in the rainbows it cast on the floor:


And I love how they were able to pull off the all American look just in time to hang out in the nation's capital:*



* It's all in the photography--thanks, Penny!

Another Sign that Women are Smarter

And meaner, too. Thanks Sarah!

A woman and a man are involved in a car accident on a snowy, cold Monday morning; it's a bad one. Both of their cars are totally demolished but amazingly neither of them is hurt.

After they crawl out of their cars, the man is yelling about women drivers. The woman says, 'So, you're a man. That's interesting. I am a woman. Wow, just look at our cars! There's nothing left, but we're unhurt. This must be a sign from God that we should be friends and live in peace for the rest of our days'.

Flattered, the man replies, 'Oh yes, I agree completely, this must be a sign from God! But you're still at fault. Women shouldn't be allowed to drive.'

The woman continues, 'And look at this, here's another miracle. My car is completely demolished but this bottle of wine didn't break. Surely God wants us to drink this wine and celebrate our good fortune.'

She hands the bottle to the man. The man nods his head in agreement, opens it and drinks half the bottle and then hands it back to the woman.

The woman takes the bottle, puts the cap back on and hands it back to the man.

The man asks, 'Aren't you having any?'

The woman replies, ‘No. I think I'll just wait for the police....'

MORAL OF THE STORY:
Women are clever, evil bitches.

Random Answers of the Week

Yes, Scott McClellan's book, What Happened, is as rambling and confusing a read as any of his White House press conference transcripts. And yes, Karen Hughes should be pissed, nay dismayed, that McClellan writes that he "honed [his] communication skills under her direction."

TuTu Time, II

Hannah loves ballet, too--especially the costumes! Her class played the blackbirds in Hansel and Gretel:

She was very upset that the costumes were to be donated to the school and wants me to make her one just like this. It will be very easy, she assured me, because we already have lots of chicken feathers to make the fringe.

TuTu Time

From Charlotte's first ballet recital:



Her pre-ballet class danced to Kermit's "Rainbow Connection." I was worried that she wouldn't go out on the stage or stay there once the lights went up, but she continues to amaze me. Not only did she stay and follow the teachers' lead, at one point she actually waved to the audience.

It seems a lifetime ago but once upon a time I was afraid that Charlotte might never walk. Then when she finally did walk she would often just collapse for no apparent reason. But there is no quit in her and never has been. And she loved being up there, dancing for a proper audience. When I went backstage to get her, she yelled across the dressing room "Me dance! Me dance!"

So, yes. I cried like a baby.

There's Hope Yet

Hannah and the truth don't often like to be in the same room together. It's not exactly a new phenomenon, but I'm hoping it's a phase and so I found a wee ray of hope in the following exchange:

I was getting the girls ready for bed when I noticed that the duster that belongs in the vacuum was not actually in the vacuum. The girls like to take it out and play with it--sometimes to sword fight and occasionally even to dust!--and it doesn't always make it back to its holster. This does not rise to the level of a time-out offense, but I do like to have it where it belongs in case I need it.

Me: Charlotte, do you know where the duster is?

Charlotte: My room.

Me: Did you take it out to play with?

Charlotte: Yes.

Me: Will you go get it and put it back please?

Charlotte: Ok!

Hannah, eyes and mouth wide in shock: But . . . she didn't even try to lie!

Me, trying not to laugh: No, she didn't. She's usually very truthful.

Hannah: So . . . she's not in trouble?

Me: No, she's not.

Hannah: Huh. Maybe I should try that some time.

Happy Birthday to Me . . .

Can it get better? Barack Obama wins the delegate count (and the nomination). David Sedaris was on The Daily Show (left column, under recent guests). I had a Pamplemousse triple chocolate mousse cake* all to myself and the girls spent the evening "helping" Thomas put together a new play structure.

So Happy Birthday to me, and Happy Birthday to you too, Gait!



* Thanks, Lisa!

Votes for Chickens!

No, we're not asking that chickens be allowed to vote. This will be much easier--especially in states where ID is required at the polls.

Over on Urban Chickens, Thomas has posted a video made by one of Sophia and Zsu Zsu's fans, Stacey. Stacey's daughter, Olivia, has entered the video in the Story Tube competition held by Scholastic. They need you to watch the video and vote--but you have to do it today AND tomorrow, because, yes, I am a slacker and am posting this late.

Here's the deal (Stacey's plea, as copied from Urban Chickens):

[Olivia] was chosen as a finalist and now the winner is being chosen by a live, on-line vote. The winner receives $500 in books plus $1000 in book for their local library (she wants to give it to her school library which just lost massive funding.)

If you like, check out the video and vote at http://www.storytubes.info. You can vote once a day until the polls close on Wednesday night. Tell all your friends, too! Go chickens!!

So go! Watch the video! Vote for it--you'll want to anyway; it's good!

(Olivia's video is bottom row, center.)

More Hockey, Please

I'm watching Game 5 of the Stanley Cup finals--what could actually be the last game of the season. But for that to happen, Detroit has to win and Pittsburgh doesn't seem to have any quit in them tonight. Which puts me in an odd position, fan-wise.

Obviously, I'm a Sharks fan. I still have a soft spot for the Washington Caps because they were my first hockey love. I don't like Detroit. But I loathe Pittsburgh. One of my favorite signs at a hockey game was one posted years ago by a Caps fan, welcoming the "Pittsburgh Professional Diving Team." Hockey fans will appreciate.

Now, because the Sharks don't play Pittsburgh that often, I don't have as much reason to detest as I once did, but Mario still owns the team and I dunno. He always seemed such a, what's the word . . . princess.

All that aside, I find myself sitting here watching Game 5, sort of hoping that the Penguins win. It won't get them the Cup, but it would get an awful lot of us another hockey game. After all, October is a long time to wait.

Electricity is Over-rated

One night a couple of weeks ago the power went out. All I could hear was the ticking of the clock, the dog’s gentle snore and the faint sounds of traffic. I had only four candles and a hurricane lamp to light my pen and notebook and the six newly written pages of my book. "Peaceful" can't quite describe the feeling.

I forget how much noise and light we live with, just from the endless array of things that we plug in, their tiny blue lights and the soft sounds that only stop when the power goes out. The TV, the stereo receiver, the DVR, the DVD player/Mac-Mini, my computer, Thomas’ computer, the clocks on the oven and microwave, two alarm clocks in the bedroom, power strips, night lights in the bathroom and the girls room, the light behind the light switches, phone chargers, the refrigerator, the dryer because it usually needs to be emptied, ceiling fans . . .

Basically there is always something on, always demanding attention, however passively. Even after I turn out the lights and go to bed, these tiny little lights still twinkle like earth-bound stars. So with no power and everything finally and truly off, I felt calm. Peaceful. The tight ball of anxiety that usually lives in my chest loosened just a bit. I decided that the power could stay off all night.

Except that, just then, something just bit me.

Lights, please!

I Wish I'd Written It . . .

Normally I don't promo products here--especially when I have absolutely zero knowledge of the product or the company. But I tripped over this ad/product narrative at woot.com today and, while it might sound like I wrote it, I didn't. Dammit. So really, I'm not promo-ing a product; just the writing. The product will have to speak for itself.

Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Mini Two-Gig MicroSD

Uh, hey, tech engineers, scientists, and product designers? There’s something we’ve been meaning to talk to you about. We’re thinking it's time to find another project to work on. Please don’t make our memory media any smaller than these Dane-Elec 2GB MicroSD Cards.

We understand that you’ve had a blast figuring out how to cram more and more megabytes into fewer and fewer molecules. Unfortunately, the human hand and the human eye have their limits. We’re perfectly happy to save our data 2GB at a time to these teensy little MicroSD cards. The included adapters bulk ‘em up so they’ll fit into SD card slots and be visible to the naked eye. Alas, you’ll have to use your own tweezers and loupe to get them into the adapters. We can’t imagine any possible reason for making them smaller, unless Dane-Elec decides to go after the lucrative, untapped gnome market.

Sure, it’d be theoretically awesome to save the entire recorded works of the Beatles on a grain of sand, or to load GTA IV from a single silicon atom, or to save all of your daughter’s baby pictures to one of her eyelashes. But since people aren’t getting any smaller (senior citizens and Kirstie Alley excepted), it seems to us that your prodigious talents are better spend pursuing other secrets. Like, say, teleportation. Then you could live in Bermuda and instantly commute to work in Pittsburgh. Or eternal life. That’d be useful. The point is, you needn’t concern yourself with shrinking our memory media anymore. We’ve got these Dane-Elec 2GB MicroSD Cards. We’re good.

Chicken Press

Over the weekend Urban Chickens Sophia and Zsu Zsu had a visit from Michael Procopio, food blogger for the San Francisco Examiner. Not only were the chickens on their best behavior, but Sophia was thoughtful enough to lay an egg just about half and hour before Michael arrived.

The column includes some nice close-ups, including one of their business ends--and c'mon, you know you've always wanted a (sorry, couldn't be avoided) birds' eye view of the business end of a chicken. Or is that a smidge too much of "knowing where your food comes from"?

So go, go! Read Michael's column (Urban Chickens: Do-it-yourself Hen Party) in the San Francisco Examiner! As if seeing the chickens weren't enough, the column is funny and I love the way he writes.

The Return of the $54 Million Pants

Last summer I wrote a post about a DC administrative judge who was suing a dry cleaner for 54 million dollars because they lost his pants.

At issue was a two-word sign on the counter: Satisfaction Guaranteed.

They lost his pants, so he wanted satisfaction: the cost of the pants plus compensation for his "mental suffering, inconvenience and discomfort."

Apparently never having heard the old axiom "a man who represents himself has a fool for a client," Judge Roy Pearson included in his opening statement a smidge of rhetoric: ". . . never before in recorded history have a group of defendants engaged in such misleading and unfair business practices."

Fortunately he lost, though for the owners of the dry-cleaner it was a phyrric victory as they spent more than 80,000$ on legal fees. (Pearson was ordered to pay the court costs, separate from legal fees.) And fortunately for us, but unfortunately for Mr Pearson, the commission that decides whether to reappoint administrative judges was meeting around that time. Surprise! He lost his job a couple of months after the case ended.

Fast forward one year and Surprise! Roy Pearson is suing the District of Columbia for the loss of his job. It's only a million dollars this time, but God only knows who he'll sue for the loss of his marbles.

Fact or Fiction?

Yesterday when I picked Hannah up from school her teacher was busy making a birthday crown. For Hannah. Whose birthday is in October. This is not the first time she’s told people a bit of a tall tale: So far this school year, Hannah has had at least three birthdays; I have given birth four times—once to twin boys; we went to Hollywood so Hannah could audition for a movie; and she used to have a brother, but he died when he was twelve. And these are just the doozies.

As you may have guessed, Hannah has a tough time differentiating between fact and fiction. That or she’s already figured out that fiction is often way more entertaining. Assuming that her flights of fancy don’t hurt anyone or result in a visit from CPS, I don’t want to crush that spirit. So now whenever I’m not entirely sure about a story (or even sometimes if I’m absolutely certain that it’s not true), I’ll just ask if it’s the truth or her imagination. This worked for a while but now she has started adding “For real Mom!” to the end of pretty much everything.

So as we walked home, pink birthday crown set jauntily on her head, I decided that it was time that Hannah heard the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I even gave her both endings, first “and the wolf ate him” followed by the more benign, Disneyfied version that has Peter running all the way home, the wolf snapping at his heels. “And he never lied again.”

I let it sink in for a minute before asking if she knew what the moral of the story was.

“Well . . . I think probably that he should never go up that mountain again.”

Doodle 4 Google

Doh! How did I miss this?

Yesterday Google announced the winner of this year's Doodle 4 Google contest, in which kids in grades K-12 are challenged to design a Google logo around a particular theme. I love the overall winner, but--even without seeing the K-3 winner, I'm pretty sure that Hannah could have cleaned up in that age group. (Why yes, I am a tad biased. Does it show?)

The Grand Prize for the overall winner, 6th grader Grace (Suryung) Moon, was a 10,000$ scholarship and a 25,000$ technology grant for her school. The winner in each grade group gets a laptop computer.

Someone remind me about this next year. Our school could use that technology grant.

Sit Down and Shut Up!

No, not you. This is for the sub-human morons who are applauding the fact that Ted Kennedy has what is most likely a fatal brain tumor. Assholes. I wouldn't wish that on Karl Rove or Dick Cheney.

Oh, and thanks for making me boost my cuss-o-meter.

The Weekly Dammit, #26

Charlotte's MRI is over, done and clean (more later, because that is definitely not a dammit). My funk is gone (connection?). The Weekly Dammit is back.

Dammit #1:
Throughout the war in Iraq, the Bush administration's advice to We the People was, essentially, to not bother our pretty little heads over it and oh by the way, how about a nice shopping spree. So all this time, while I've been thinking W a doofus, an idiot, a dolt and worse, it never occurred to me that, though he never asked for anything from us, he had quietly been making his own sacrifice: He gave up golf.

Dammit #2:
I can't sign Hannah up for any of the Redwood City summer camps that her friends are going to because she won't be six until October. The camps are geared toward incoming first graders and older, but rules are rules and Hannah is still five. The lovely people at registration did suggest that I put her in one (or more!) of the Pollywogs camps. With the three- to five-year olds. Thanks, but I'm going to give our camp funds to the Cantor Arts Center again.

Dammit #3:
The Gmail blog announced this month that they've been working to get the mail to load faster. Which explains why mine takes three times longer than it used to, when signing on and when trying to refresh. Of course, I probably don't need to refresh since it will do it on its own eventually, but I like the little thrill of anticipation--maybe there will be something new! exciting! profitable! there.

Dammit #4:
Argus has taken to sleeping on our bed again.

Dammit #5:
Charlotte just washed her hands using an entire bottle of soap. While I"m happy that she takes her personal hygiene so seriously, I think that 7.5 ounces of soap might be overkill.

Random Question of the Week

Originally, the question was "How long can one go without writing one's book before one has to stop saying that one is writing a book?"

Instead the question has become: "If one is constantly composing lines, paragraphs and chapters in one's head, does that still count as writing the book even if those lines, paragraphs and chapters don't always make it on to paper?"

I'm going to break tradition and actually answer this one: "Yes!"

Because I feel like less of a slacker that way.

The Bonus Dammit, #25-1/2

Dammit #1:
The San Jose Sharks fired Ron Wilson yesterday. He's won more games than any other Sharks coach and, with 518 wins overall, is eighth in NHL history. Good move.

Dammit #2:
Reading an article in the Washington Post today about the racist attitudes faced by many of Obama's supporters and campaign workers, I couldn't decide which of my reactions was the worst and/or most naive: 1) Shock, that this still happens; 2) Dismay, that this is one of the attitudes being exploited with comments like "hard working, white Americans." By other Democrats; or 3) Fear, of what some are capable of when they are unable to tolerate difference and change.

I've decided to crush those thoughts under my overwhelming joy that, whatever the outcome of the Democratic convention, we are going to have either an African American president, or a woman. So that's the anti-Dammit.

The Dammit, #25

Dammit #1:
That this was an actual, not-trying-to-be-funny (I think) headline in the Washington Post today: "Americans Losing Confidence in Current Leadership."

Dammit #2:
The military junta in control of Myanmar/Burma is seizing the food, water, building supplies and money sent into the country to help those devastated by the cyclone. In some cases they seem to be taking it for themselves, in others to make sure that they are seen as the benevolent rescuers of their people. Some wealthy citizens have reported that they have been prevented from helping their fellow countrymen. The only upside of this is that many of the Burmese people seem to be on to them.

Dammit #3:
Between scheduling summer camps for Hannah, swim classes for Charlotte, a trip to Virginia in June (!) and trying not to worry about Charlotte's MRI, I haven't had much time for Dammits lately. That might seem like a good thing, but I kind of like the Dammits, if only because they're a sign that I'm getting outside of myself. Sure, that's not all that I look for in life, but you can't always write about sunshine and roses; someone is bound to want to punch you. Dammit.

Gollum Lives in My Gym

Gollum lives in my gym, hiding behind her iPod Nano
The elliptical cringes under the relentless desperation
As her legs pump obsessively. The rate never slows
Except to change direction

Gollum’s precious is no longer the ring
Slipped from bony finger, betrayed by howl and shriek
No. Precious is now the noontime shadow
With whom she furiously competes

Gollum lives in my gym, hiding behind her iPod Nano

The Dammit, #24

I'm dropping "Weekly" from the title until I can get my act together and once again start posting this one, well, weekly. Dammit. It's been awhile, so let's get right to it:

Dammit #1:
Magic Wands. The little man still won't (can't?) face the very obvious fact that the economy is in the tank, or that gas prices are hurting a lot of people who don't have access financial resources on par with his own, or that he is now the lowest-rated president in history. (That last one is in part because he believes that, while history will judge his actions, actual presidential historians have no idea what they're talking about or comparing him to.) So what's a poor imbecile to do? Suggest that, if he had one, he might wave the very magic wand which would have kept his core constituency from voting for him in the first place.

Dammit #2:
On the Obama/Rev. Wright issue: People across the country are, at the least, uncomfortable with and at the at the worst, vilifying Barack Obama for not denouncing his former pastor's controversial comments sooner. But after 9/11, Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson blamed the attack on pagans, gays, lesbians, secularists, the ACLU, abortionists and feminists. George Bush eventually declared the comments “inappropriate.” He was slower still to respond to conservative commentator Robert Knight, who laid the blame for Abu Gharib on many of the same groups, and, for good measure, tossed in the porn industry and the military for allowing women in combat zones.

I’ve heard many people say that Obama should be held to a higher standard because he is a history-making candidate and (yes, still) probable Presidential nominee. But why is he held to a higher standard than the current President of the U.S, who had also made history by virtue of being one of the most disliked, distrusted, polarizing presidents we’ve ever had?

Dammit #3:
Charlotte is having an MRI in two weeks. Her appointment time is 1:30 p.m. Because this has to be done under general anesthesia, she can't have any food after midnight, or liquids six hours prior to the procedure. 13+ hours with no food for a three year old. Dammit. That she has to have an MRI: double Dammit. That it's under general anesthesia: triple (or more) Dammit.

Love the Skin You're In

My favorite sister-in-law has many times remarked that she wished for skin like mine. Flattering, but embarrassing, as I’ve always taken it for granted and never given much thought, or wasted much time or money on it. For years my “regimen” was soap and water. I rarely wear makeup and when I do I generally forget to wash it off before I go to bed. But not so long ago I woke up to find that Mother Time had sambaed her way across my face, leaving tiny footprints under my eyes. And with the approach of what will be my fifth California summer, my freckles have banded together on their yearly trek across my cheekbones and nose, this time inviting along several of their heretofore-unknown relatives.

I don’t mind, very much, these subtle signs of aging, but it is disconcerting to still feel 20-ish (29, to be exact) and see an almost-40 year old in the mirror. Stranger still, The Pet Shop Boys, REM and myriad other bands from my youth are now officially antiques. And my 20-year high school reunion allegedly took place last summer.

Recently I’ve upped the amount of time and money I spend dermatologically and have had a couple of professional facials. As a result I have switched to an SPF 15 moisturizer, though at my last visit the esthetician told me that 1) I need to switch again to an SPF 30; 2) I need a moisturizer with vitamins (80$ an ounce from the spa); 3) an intensive moisturizer for my eye area might help with my "laugh" lines (100$ an ounce); 4) my freckles, though charming, are becoming more prominent; and 5) a big hat might be a good investment. I knew most of this already but it didn’t change the fact that the eyebrow burning I got from Elizabeth Arden* was probably less painful than hearing it put so bluntly.

It must appear that I’m not taking this aging thing gracefully, but I really don’t mind it so much. When I was very young I never thought I’d live to see 33 (and no, I don’t know why 33). But my 30s have been very good to me and I’ve never once wished to relive my teenage years. I have much more to show for my not-so-many-after all years than a few lines and blotches, though as I fully expect to live at least another 38 years, I’m sure I’ll revisit the blotches-and-lines issue at least once more.

So to my sister-in-law I say, “Congratulations! You have your wish.” But I must add that I’ve always loved your freckles. Now if only I may grow to have half your goodness and generosity and humor, I’ll be happy indeed.


* Not personally, but that is the name on the door.

AARP, Here I Come!

I got my first old-lady catalog today. Let’s just call it Fight the Heat. And we’re not talking about the environment, either. I almost tossed it before I remembered my age—you know, just like When Harry Met Sally:

Sally: I’m going to be 50! (I know, she said 40; I’m too close to that already)
Harry: When?
Sally: . . . Someday!

So I decided to at least look through it to see what the future holds in store for me.

The models—for dramatic purposes, we’ll say they were all over 60—were attractive but with that I-just-came-from-my-Botox-appointment sparkle. You know the look: skin pulled back tightly giving their unnaturally smooth cheeks and brow that certain shine.

I sighed as I flipped through pages and pages of 21st century muumuus, tummy-reducing/disguising pants, girdles, granny panties and "personal massagers." Wait, what?! Flip, flip back to the center where they proudly feature four pages of personal massagers and other "relationship enhancing" accessories.

They do say that 50 is the new 30, which is a good thing because when my mother was 50, it was the new 80. Whatever it is, I hope my, er, girdle comes in a plain brown box. And that I'll look as good at 40 as these women do at 60.

I Feel Sick

We sold our tickets to the Sharks' opening game of the second round. Why? Because the announced time was 6p.m., this Friday.

One babysitter will be starting her 24-hour cancer walk (she is an amazing kid!). The other wouldn't be able to leave work early enough for us to make it to San Jose in time. So yesterday we sold the tickets.

Today, the time has been changed to 7 p.m., plenty of time to get to San Jose, park and make it to our seats. Which now belong to someone else.

I feel sick.

She's Ready for Her Close Up, Mr DeMille

Hannah's new favorite song is Great Big World from Hoodwinked. Anyone know a talent agent?

Where’s My Coffee?

Recently a coffee company ran a promotion offering bloggers a pound of coffee in exchange for information on coffee consumption and, hopefully, a blog review. Given my little problem, I jumped at the chance, happily forking over information on my coffee-drinking habits: How often do you drink it? (Daily) How much per day? (2-4 cups; often more) How do you take it? (With a little milk) Do you drink flavored coffee? (Not if I can help it) If you could invent a flavor, what would it be? (Chocolate tequila. No really! I’ve had a fantastic white chocolate tequila truffle from Gearhart’s Chocolates in Virginia. Try one--they deliver!)

The coffee never came. Which I didn’t realize until last week, when I received an email to update me on the promotion results. They had compiled all of the answers and thoughtfully included a brief note to the effect of “If you haven’t yet received your coffee, don’t panic! It’s on the way!” Which sounds very much like “The check is in the mail.”

I haven’t written them off yet, but I'd think they would be more interested in a nice review of their coffee rather than a not-so-nice review of the company. The coffee wasn’t actually free after all; it was payment for marketing research.

How to Spot an Addiction

Most of us, if we're honest, have at least one addiction. I have at least three:

Caffeine: Here we have the usual symptoms: headache, slight tremor (I said it was an addiction!) and incessant yawning.

The day of Thomas’s triathlon, I was so worried that there wouldn’t be enough parking that I most reluctantly drove past the only Peet’s I’d seen for miles. My reward was a half-empty parking lot and all of the above-mentioned symptoms. I had no caffeine until Thomas had finished the triathlon and grabbed a Red Bull for me. My first. If it weren’t all sugar, I could easily see getting hooked on that—I felt all sparkly after the first, so of course I had a second. I hear there’s a diet version . . .

Chocolate: See above, minus the yawning, add in extreme daily craving.

I grew up a Catholic and, every year, I would give up chocolate for Lent. And every year I would fail. Perhaps subconsciously I knew that I was not, in fact, a Catholic, though a friend of my mother’s tried to convince me that I would make a marvelous nun.

I’ll wait until you’ve finished laughing.



So how bad is the chocolate addiction? Trader Joe’s sells chocolate covered edamame. I saw it for the first time yesterday and, after my initial “Eeww,” I went back and considered. After all, I’ve never had chocolate covered edamame. And it was Chocolate Covered. In the end I decided against it, but not so much because of the Eeww factor, but because I still have a perfectly good box of chocolate covered espresso beans.

Hockey: See above.

I love hockey. Especially playoff hockey. I was in the crowd when the Sharks lost the season opener to the Calgary Flames. It wasn’t great, but it was OK—six games left, and we got to rip the officiating on the way home. The Sharks won game two. But when they lost the third game after blowing a three-goal lead (all three scored on the first three and a half minutes of the first period), I literally felt sick. Not as sick as after the 2004 elections, but sick. Game four, the Sharks scored two goals in the last five minutes for the win. The final goal came with 9.4 seconds left in the game--and when you're curled up in a miserable ball of anxiety lest the Flames score again and send it to overtime, 9.4 seconds feels like an eternity.

I don’t know what I’m going to do when the season is over.

Thank god they don’t make chocolate-covered hockey pucks.

Do they?

Score for Twitter

I've always thought that Twitter was pretty cool, but for one reason and another, I stopped using it. Today, with an incredible example of just how well--and how quickly--it brings people together, I have a great incentive to start Tweeting again.

From William Brand of the Bay Area News Group:

BERKELEY : When Egyptian police scooped up UC Berkeley graduate journalism student James Karl Buck, who was photographing a noisy demonstration, and dumped him in a jail cell last week, they didn't count on Twitter.

Buck, 29, a former Oakland Tribune multimedia intern, used the ubiquitous short messaging service to tap out a single word on his cellular phone: ARRESTED. The message went out to the cell phones and computers of a wide circle of friends in the United States and to the mostly leftist, anti-government bloggers in Egypt who are the subject of his graduate journalism project.

The next day, he walked out a free man with an Egyptian attorney hired by UC Berkeley at his side and the U.S. Embassy on the phone.

Twitter, the micro-blogging service for cell phone users, allows messages up to 140 characters long. Twitter users can allow anyone they wish to join their network and receive all their messages. Buck has a large network, so Twitter gave him an instant link to the outside world.

He recalls advice from his Twitter friends came in mounds of terse messages, "It was a combination of things, my Egyptian friends told me to play the "American bitch" and try to force my way out. " They also told him that it was no big deal and to just stay calm.

"They use Twitter sort of like an instant wire service," he said. "It's the way they keep in touch with each other. They go to an event and Twitter what's happening.

Meanwhile, U.S. friends on his Twitter net called the university and the American Embassy.

They also alerted the Associated Press, the International Herald Tribune and other media, which helped put the heat on the Egyptian authorities. He was released on Friday and returned home on Sunday.

Back home in Berkeley last night he said he's still worried about his interpreter and friend, Mohammed Salah Ahmed Maree, who was arrested with him and is still being held incommunicado by Egyptian authorities. Unlike Buck, he didn't have the muscle of the U.S. Embassy and UC Berkeley. (read more)

Pretty fantastic. Now how to get Maree out? Go sign the online petition.

Color Me Proud

Thomas completed his first triathlon, the ICE Breaker Triathlon at Granite Bay, CA, on Sunday. He's written a great post about the first part on his blog, Triathlon For TK, but I had the camera and he's out of town, so I'm going to scoop him on the photos.

The place was already a hive of activity well before the girls and I arrived at 8:00 (and only for Thomas would I be up, bathed, dressed, packed and on the road by 7:30 in the morning. If that's not love . . . :)




Getting ready for the swim . . .


which was 1/3 mile from the transition area (uncounted in the official run, of course):


In the transition area, getting ready for the bike ride:


Hannah waited patiently:



Ready to run!



Just 100 yards from the finish! Go, Thomas, go!


And now he's officially a triathlete!

Hold the Soap, Please!

According to the Cuss-O-Meter, my potty mouth is not as bad as I thought--at least not in "print."


Created by OnePlusYou


Thanks, Pranayama mama!

Words Escape Me

I just found this on the website of a company that sells school supplies:

Choose from Isles and Isles of In-Stock Items!
Our Prices the Lowest, our Quality the Highest
and our Stock the Broadest!

The Downside of Speech Therapy

Over the past couple of weeks, Charlotte has experienced an explosive growth in her verbal ability, going from one word and a couple of signs to three word, spoken sentences. We've heard "Thank you, Mommy/Daddy/Haha*," "Help me, please," "Where ball go?," "My book, open," and more. While it may not seem like a big deal, to us it is HUGE. After so long, I will confess it quietly here, I sometimes thought that she would never speak.

And now, sometimes I wish she wouldn't.

At Peet's today, she pointed at another customer, motioned to a chair and said rather loudly, "Girl! Shit! Shit, Girl!"

And to think I was once embarrassed when Hannah kept pointing out the tattoos of random biker chicks.

*"Haha" is Charlotte's new name for Hannah. She had been "Nana" ever since Charlotte started talking but in speech therapy, they use "nana" to get her to "BAnana." Charlotte realized that Hannah was not, in fact, a banana and so would need another name. So Haha it is.

I Went to the Gym Yesterday . . .

Apparently "Pilates" is Greek for "I have muscles where??"

Maybe Attorney General?

John Edwards said today that he would decline a nomination to become the next vice president. He didn't say why, but I wouldn't be surprised if one big reason is that he doesn't much care for the way the candidates have been conducting themselves of late. He's certainly more intelligent and better qualified than a couple of the AGs we've had in the past few years.

Random Question of the Day

Is it odd that a Republican, in the midst of a process in which he must eliminate 19, refer to that process as being "in the embryonic stages"?

Don’t Mess With Jane. Please.

I’ve had a huge girl crush on Jane Austen for many, many years. This crush led me to take a semester-long course on her life and work. The course also included the various necessary-to-make-it count-for-credit types of literary criticism thereof. So imagine my dismay when I recently came across yet another book billed as the sequel to Pride and Prejudice. As ever, my initial reaction was: How dare you?

It’s one thing to make a movie of Pride and Prejudice, or, indeed, any of the novels; the PBS Complete Jane Austen series has sent me running back to the books to marvel at how much of the dialog was lifted directly from those pages—it still sparkles after almost 200 years. But to attempt to co-opt two of the most popular characters in English literary history? How dare you?* So yet again, I’m forced to reject a book by its cover and bet that it will not be remembered 10 years from now, much less 200.


I'm not including in this the "loosely inspired by" works such as Bridget Jones's Diary, and not only because I think I would be drawn and quartered by that work's legions of fans.

Thank You

Thank you to all who emailed to see if I was still here and doing OK. You know what the yawning gaps in posts usually means; I hope you know just how much your concern means to me. But LCM is back, and maybe even with a few Dammits up her sleeve!

Signs of Spring

Hannah and Charlotte are both on spring break this week, which explains both LCM's absence and the not-so-subtle bald patches appearing on my head. Thank goodness their grandparents were here for a few days or I might have pulled out all of my hair by now.

Bonus! I found out today that Hannah has Monday off, too. To quote Lozo in Diggers, "It's not that I don't love the little #$%^ers . . . "

The Delegate Debacle

Yesterday, Hillary Clinton said that "she absolutely would not accept a negotiated apportionment of Florida delegates." [Washington Post] Of course she wouldn't because her "win" would give her another 38 delegates and at this point, both candidates are scrambling for every one they can get.

Her quote:

"In my view there are two options: Honor the results or hold new primary elections."

I'd like to mention a third option:

HONOR THE DECISION OF THE DNC THAT BOTH FLORIDA AND MICHIGAN WOULD BE STRIPPED OF THEIR DELEGATES FOR VIOLATING PARTY RULES. No one gets any of the delegates.

It is inconceivable to me that either state would be allowed to seat their delegates. They were warned of the consequences; all candidates agreed to forgo campaigning in those two states, and Barack Obama wasn't even on the ballot in Michigan. Why? Because he was playing by the rules.

So aside from the shouted option above, the only "fair" way to do this is to split the delegates 50/50 just to shut everyone up. But if the delegates are seated, thus proving that there is no real punishment for a violation of DNC rules, what's to prevent any state from moving their primaries to the September or October the year prior to the the next general election? In that case we'll all have to be doubly grateful that email is easier to get rid of than direct mail.

File Under Arrogance

Hillary Clinton, through Bill (a guy I used to like and hopefully will again), has "graciously" offered Barack Obama the VP slot on the ticket. Obama's perfect response:

"First of all, with all due respect, I've won twice as many states as Sen. Clinton. I've won more of the popular vote than Sen. Clinton. I have more delegates than Sen. Clinton. So, I don't know how somebody who's in second place is offering the vice presidency to somebody who's in first place."

Paging Mrs Baker

After a year or so of fielding calls for for a Terry Barnes, who apparently owed a lot of people a lot of money, I finally gave in and changed our home number. I'm not talking about a few random calls, either. I've taken calls from collectors--lots of those--but also from a few attorneys' offices and once from a detective. He's the one who told me about the large civil suit. He also suggested that I change the phone number. At that point, I didn't think it was too much of a problem and--silly me--that eventually people would stop calling after a few repetitions of "I'm sorry, there's no Terry Barnes here. No, I'm not Mrs Barnes."

But at long last, I decided that enough was really enough, so I made the call.

The process was pretty easy, though I didn't realize that you could actually choose from a series of numbers. And because Robin from AT&T knew why I was changing the number, she searched for a while t0 find the one that had been out of service the longest.

One week after I changed the number, let our families know that we weren't hiding from them, and updated all of our contacts, it began anew.

"Hello? No, I'm sorry, you have the wrong number. No, there is no Mrs Baker here. Excuse me? (sigh) No, no Mr Baker, either."

The Weekly Dammit, #23

I've been sick for a week or so, but now that the antibiotics, Advil and Sudafed have kicked in, the Weekly Dammit is back! Though I might need to drop the "Weekly."

Dammit #1:
I got sick 10 days ago and finally went to the doctor today. I think this is something that pretty much every mom does. If it were one of the kids, I would have taken them to the doctor in a heartbeat. But I wait ten days to find out that I have an ear and a sinus infection, and as a bonus, that my heart rate issue is probably due to my "deconditioning."

Dammit #2:
In the aftermath of their breakup, conservative writer and former Fox News pundit, Rachel Marsden, released personal emails and "salacious chats" from Wikipedia founder, Jimmy Wales. She's also using eBay to sell what she says are clothes he left at her home.

In my favorite part of the San Jose Mercury News article, she says "My only focus right now, to be really honest, is on my career and finding a way to get back into print, TV or radio here in NYC. All of this other personal stuff is just an unfortunate distraction."

I'm guessing that she's still in Fox News mode and that what she really meant was that the "personal stuff" she tossed out there was a fabulous way to get her name back on radar.

Dammit #3:
Hillary Clinton and her campaign want to get delegates from Michigan and Florida seated at the national convention in Denver this summer. This in spite of the fact that all candidates agreed, long before the primary season began, to abide by the decision of the DNC: because both Michigan and Florida moved their primaries up to January, they would be stripped of their delegates. Whether you call it moving the goalposts or switching horses midstream, it's cheating and poor sportsmanship. And yes, I would say that if we were talking about Barack Obama's campaign.

Dammit #4:
When a telemarketer or other unknown number appears on my sister's caller ID, her kids fight to be the first to answer the phone with "Thank god you called! The pigs are out!" before hanging up. Why didn't I think of that?!

Doctors' Comments On Patient Charts

Happy Monday!

• "Patient has chest pain if she lies on her left side for over a year."

• "On the 2nd day the knee was better and on the 3rd day it disappeared completely."

• "The patient has been depressed ever since she began seeing me in 1993."

• "Discharge status: Alive but without permission."

• "Healthy appearing decrepit 69 year-old male, mentally alert but forgetful."

• "The patient refused an autopsy."

• "The patient has no past history of suicides."

• "Patient has left his white blood cells at another hospital."

• "Patient's past medical history has been remarkably insignificant with only a 40 pound weight gain in the past three days."

• "Patient had waffles for breakfast and anorexia for lunch."

• "She has had no rigors or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night."

• "She is numb from her toes down."

• "While in the ER, she was examined, X-rated and sent home."

• "The skin was moist and dry."

• "Occasional, constant, infrequent headaches."

• "Patient was alert and unresponsive."

• "She stated that she had been constipated for most of her life, until she got a divorce."

• "I saw your patient today, who is still under our car for physical therapy."

• "The patient was to have a bowel resection. However, he took a job as a stockbroker instead."

• "Patient has two teenage children but no other abnormalities."

• "Skin: Somewhat pale but present."

• "Patient was seen in consultation by Dr. Blank, who felt we should sit on the abdomen, and I agree."

• "By the time he was admitted, his rapid heart stopped, and he was feeling better."

• "The patient was in his usual state of good health until his airplane ran out of gas and crashed."

• "When she fainted, her eyes rolled around the room."

• "Patient was released to outpatient department without dressing."

• "The patient will need disposition, and therefore we will get Dr. Blank to dispose of him."

• "The patient expired on the floor uneventfully."