Left Coast Mom is on Vacation

Lots of travel over the past month and now we're off to Wyoming!

We'll be gone until Monday night, so probably no posts until Tuesday.

Some of those to come:

• BlogHer wrap up
• Couple of product reviews and a pinkey swear that they're not compensated (apparently, the FCC is trying to get in on the action).
• Possibly a Dammit, since I haven't done one of those in awhile.
• Perhaps an anti-Dammit, because I don't want you to think I'm always angry!
• More Hannah-isms, and perhaps a couple of Charlotte-isms--she's getting pretty sassy, too. It
• It's probably a good thing that we still can't understand all of what she says.

See you in a week-ish!

Recipe for Making It to the Morning Sessions

There seem to be more cocktail parties at BlogHer this year than actual sessions, so this is for this is for any-her in need of a little after-party pick-me-up.

Vampiro
This spicy morning-after cocktail was featured on the last day of the 2009 Tales of the Cocktail conference in New Orleans, at a session called "Paying the Piper: Your Hangover and You."

1 serving
Ingredients:

* Ice
* 2 1/2 ounces tomato juice
* 1 ounce freshly squeezed orange juice
* 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lime juice
* 1 ounce silver tequila
* 1 teaspoon honey
* 1 tablespoon finely chopped onion
* 3 thin crosswise-cut slices hot chili pepper, such as jalapeno
* 1 dash Worcestershire sauce
* Salt

Directions:

Fill a highball glass with ice.

Combine the three juices, tequila, honey, onion, pepper slices, Worcestershire sauce and salt to taste in a cocktail shaker. Add ice and shake vigorously, then pour (strained) into the glass.

You're welcome!

Recipe Source:
Created by Wayne Curtis of the Atlantic and John Myers of the Grill Room in Portland, Maine;adapted from "Stir Your Soul: Tales of the Cocktail Recipe Book" (Mud Puddle Books, 2009).

Finally Finding Myself, at 40

I've never really liked having my photo taken, even though I was, for a very, very brief period a "model-in-training" if you will, with a couple of shows to my credit.

I've also never thought I was more than run-of-the-mill attractive. Crooked smile. One eyelid a tad lazier than the other. Chin too pointy. Ears too small. These observations aren't all a result of me spending too much time in front of the mirror--though after 40 years, most people have logged a few hours there, whether or not they care to admit it. I've actually heard all of these comments from various people over the years. One charming ex went so far as to preface anything that even approached compliment-hood with "Don't let this go to your head, but . . . "

But why were some photos fabulous and the others, ah, crap?

For instance, my friend Kat always took really good photos of me. In fact, I never looked like the Me that I saw in other photos, but rather, closer to the Me I thought I saw in the mirror. Other people, it didn't (doesn't) really matter how I felt that day, what I was wearing, if I had dropped a couple of pounds or if I had won the lottery (still waiting!), I always manage to look short and squat and very far from the Me I think I know. Well, the Me I'm trying to get to know, anyway.

It recently occurred to me that it wasn't so much how I looked, but that it was the way in which I was relating to the person behind the camera. Kat felt like a sister from the day we met. We told each other everything. There was no hiding anything, and I suppose it never occurred to me to hide from her camera.

Other cameras are held by those for whom I may have conflicting feelings: I may love them, but may also be afraid that I don't measure up. That I'm going to fall short in some area or another. That I'm not smart enough, or ambitious enough or competitive enough. And on and on and on. This is not the fault of those hands in which the camera rests. The fault is mine, because I think those things about myself and project them on to the people I am most afraid of disappointing. And so I curl in to hide, to protect myself from, well, really, from myself.

I've been in and out of therapy for a few years now working on the root cause of this lack of self-esteem, and even when not speaking with a professional, I've made a huge effort to stop the negative thinking and to stop worrying about what other people think of me. I have good days and bad days, same as everyone else. But I think my better days are more frequent, at least in terms of self confidence, and now I have photographic proof. I think.

Last week I updated my profile on facebook with a photo I had taken myself, using the Photo Booth on my Mac. I was bored with the old photo and thought this would be the perfect little project to assist in my efforts at procrastination elsewhere.

Whadda ya know? I was actually looking right at the photographer--who in this case was me. Clear, direct, unafraid, unapologetic. Maybe it seems like a shallow, navel gazing thing, but I see it as evidence that, after all this time, I'm coming to terms with being me. That I was ok with what I was going to see.

There were two other photos--Hannah likes the sepia-toned one best, but I thought I'd post both of them, mostly because the thought of THREE photos of me being out there makes me squirm. I guess I'll have to be ok with that, too. Even if my chin is too pointy and my eye sort of sleepy looking . . .

Feeling Old, Part 24,364

Our babysitter, who just graduated from high school, doesn't know the band Tears for Fears.

But

She did say that it was great that we still like to go to concerts.

And this after we sat through the concert (which was AWESOME!) thinking we were insufficiently aged.

Can I spell Karma? (No, not usually. I like to add an "h.")

Short and Sweet

No, no. Not me. But thank you for immediately thinking that's what I meant! So charming!

It was only this:

I love that public transportation around here doesn't waste time letting you know that a bus is out of service. Which is exactly what the buses in Virginia* always said--that and the route. You'd just have to wait for the entire message to scroll by. But here, you get a short, sweet, one word answer before you can even ask the question:



In case you can't see it, the message in the back is "NOT."

Due to budget cuts, they'll be shortening that to "NO."**


UPDATE:
Bah--the front of the buses now offer the very polite "Not In Service."

* That's what it was six years ago, anyway.
** No, not really.

Can I Get a Mulligan?

I went to the doctor on Friday because I thought I might have bronchitis AGAIN.

Why do they have to weigh you for that??

Oh, right. In case medication is needed.

Most reluctantly, I took off my sweater and shoes and, for good measure, my sun glasses. You know, because they must weigh all of seven ounces.

Surprise! I didn't like the answer the scale gave to the age-old question of "Jeezus Edith! Who switched my jeans for the not-quite-supermodel size?!" Which would be why I wasn't wearing jeans that day, so I shouldn't have been surprised. And this particular nurse won't even hedge a bit and drop it half a pound. She just murmured something about how no one likes the scale, especially if they don't feel good about themselves anyway. Wow! Dr Phil in drag and orthopedic shoes--at my doctor's office!

On Saturday, I started my period and almost immediately lost five pounds. I want a do-over!

Ouch. Form Rejection!

I got the first official rejection of my book today.

Well, the first 10 pages, anyway.

The very first email in my box.

I knew it was coming--especially after I read over the query letter that went with it. It's amazing how many things you can find that should have been worded differently, or the one little typo that most people wouldn't have noticed, Of course, I did--too late. And I'm guessing the agent did. They have this thing, this odd fascination with words.* Of course, it couldn't have been all the fault of the query; I did send some of the book, too.

But now that the dreaded rejection part of the process is over, and I have the crying-over-the-first-rejection part of the process out of the way, I can finish things up and keep sending it out.

And resist the urge to just rewrite the whole manuscript again, first.

Sigh.

*It's a joke, people!

Sad, But Possibly True

Perhaps a glass of wine will loosen things up!

I Feel Old

Hannah is the youngest kid in her art class--the others range from 12-16 or so.

This past Tuesday,* they were all talking about Michael Jackson when Judy (the teacher) asked if they wanted to listen to some of his music.

Before Judy could turn on the CD player, a 15-ish year old girl turned to Hannah and said

"Michael Jackson had lots of records. Have you ever heard of those? They had songs on one side and then you had to pick them up and turn them over to hear the rest of the songs! My mom said that records were pretty heavy, too."

This on the heels of an article about the three days it took a 13-year-old, tech-savvy teen to figure out that there were actually two sides to the cassette tape used in the ancient Sony Walkman he was test driving.

It's a lot easier for me to see why kids Hannah's age wouldn't know about the joys of the LP and the jumble-of-tangled-tape agony that was the cassette player. After all, she's only six. But, dammit, a 13-year-old was born in the same century as I. And I'm not yet old enough to refer to the Internet as "that thing you young people use" or as being nothing more than "a series of tubes."

So when the most-sought after gadgets of my middle- and high-school years are spoken of in the tones of awe and wonder usually reserved for the discovery of an ancient civilization, yes. I feel a little old. Not quite hot-tea-and-a-parka-in-July old, but maybe a bit chase-the-snot-nosed-little-bastards-off-the-lawn-with-a-cane old.

Not really.

Well, maybe.



* For some reason I haven't been able to sign in to Blogger for a few days. My excuse du jour for the recent dearth of posts.

It Must Be True . . .

I just read this in The Week, their section "It Must Be True . . . I read it in the tabloids." Haven't stopped laughing yet:

"Two baby flamingos at Britain's London Zoo have developed a phobia of the color pink. The month old chicks, named Little and Large, both have the pale gray plumage flamingos are born with. In an attempt to feed them, zookeepers used a pink sock-puppet of an adult flamingo, but it only terrified the chicks. Their resulting phobia of anything pink has worrying implications for their future mental health. "We'll just have to hope they get used to the color," said keeper Alison Brown."

For some reason this reminds me of a recent-ish (January, 2008) study which showed that the vast majority of children dislike clowns. Are afraid of them, even. And yet, there are still clowns all over childrens', well, pretty much everything--from pajamas to blankets, and yes, even some hospital walls. So I don't hold out much hope for those poor flamingo chicks--they're just gonna have to get used to that scary, pink sock monster. Of course, there's always Prozac . . . .

Ecomomics of Happiness

It's true. The little things do make you happy. And sometimes they do make you spend more money.

Most Wednesdays, I take the night off and treat myself to dinner at the same place. Sometimes I hit the gym first; occasionally I try a new place--only because I keep thinking that I need to break myself of the "creature of habit" habit. But I'm rarely satisfied--well OK, there was the one time I skipped dinner all together and saw Burn After Reading instead--but I generally wind up at Vino Santo. Because food-wise and not-minding-if-I-bring-a-computer-a-book-or-a-friend-wise, this is my absolute favorite place to go for a lovely dinner. Every once in awhile I do take a friend!

Tonight, I tried to talk myself into either staying home (a bad mashup of "I'm too unmotivated to decide on anything" and "maybe I should tighten that belt a bit") or trying something different. But old habits and my adoration of the Vino Santo Caesar salad with grilled chicken won out.

I might call it a habit, but what really keeps me coming back is that, like tonight, when I got there, the only open table was "my" table. There were two couples waiting, but as soon as I arrived I was told that MY table was ready. And after dinner when I confided to the waiter that I loved seeing them so busy on a weeknight, he told me that they had actually turned away a table because the only one open was . . . MY table.

I’m not sure that everyone else would find the Caesar salad to be as tasty, or the pan roasted sole with a white wine, butter and caper sauce to be as divine. In fact, even my favorite Daniel Gilbert* might say that, because of the habituation factor, even I don’t enjoy the salad or fish as much as I did the first time. And yet.

Vanity has ever been an economic motivator and it is always in the merchants’ best interest to make sure you want to come back again and again. After all, why would you not want to go where every body knows your name (Norm), where the staff all know where you like to sit and know which menu items you might like and those . . .well, maybe not so much.

It may have been a complete fabrication--even a partial would have felt good--but the waiter said that it was my table, and they were going to hold it on the (very good) chance that I came to claim it. And I was told that my “usual” house white had been replaced and that I probably wouldn’t like it. I didn’t. It was then upgraded to something much nicer—cost (to them) be dammed. Maybe it was a small exaggeration. But there WAS a couple waiting by the door, and there WAS only my table open.

The upshot is that it made me happy. It didn’t cost them a whole lot.

And it made me want to keep going back.



And this post just reminded me to buy my own copy of Burn After Reading.


* I am embarrassed to admit that I didn’t catch Mr Gilbert on the Colbert Report a couple of years ago. But now you can! God I love the Internets!

Hannah-isms

I.
Hannah:
Daddy, can I [[whatever it was]]?

Thomas:
No.

Hannah, not even bothering to wait until Thomas had left the room:
Mommy, can I [[same whatever it was]]?

Me:
No.

Thomas:
Hannah, why did you just ask Mommy when I JUST told you No?

Hannah, without missing a beat and with a smidge of attitude:
Uh, because she's older and she owns the house?
(only true on one count)


Sadly, Thomas did not find this as amusing as I.



II.
Hannah, gazing up at me:
37, 38, 39 . . .

Me:
What are you counting?

Hannah:
The little lines around your eyes. I lost track of the little holes [the pores] in your face.

Ah, That New Car Smell

I told Tomas that he could get a new car. This new car:

If It's Too Hot in the Kitchen . . .

I could have burned my house down today.

Not in a fit of pique. Not in festivities-gone-awry celebration of the impending end of school year.

No, because I was cooking. With the window open. Next to a cluttered counter. On a windy day.

According to the National Fire Protection Association (NFPA), cooking fires are the number one cause of fires in the home, and twelve percent of kitchen fires occur when something that can catch fire gets too close to the equipment.

In this case, it was paper, caught up by a gust of wind and pushed under the sauce pot, into the flame. I had my back to the stove, but fortunately my nose is very sensitive. By the time Thomas asked if something was burning I was able to say, "Not anymore."

I know I'm not the only one (or, I hope I'm not the only one) who can't manage to keep the kitchen counters clear, so here are a few tips from the NFPA:

• Stay in the kitchen while you are frying, grilling, or broiling food. If you leave the kitchen for even a short period of time, turn off the stove.
• If you are simmering, baking, roasting, or boiling food, check it regularly, remain in the home while food is cooking, and use a timer to remind you that you are cooking.
• Keep anything that can catch fire — oven mitts, wooden utensils, food packaging, towels or curtains — away from your stovetop.

If you have a cooking fire

• Just get out! When you leave, close the door behind you to help contain the fire.
• Call 9-1-1 or the local emergency number after you leave.
• If you try to fight the fire, be sure others are getting out and you have a clear way out.
• Keep a lid nearby when you’re cooking to smother small grease fires. Smother the fire by sliding the lid over the pan and turn off the stovetop. Leave the pan covered until it is completely cooled.
• For an oven fire turn off the heat and keep the door closed.

As I learned today, if it's too hot in your kitchen, maybe it's time to do a little de-cluttering.

The Dammit

As sad as I am to have to do it, The Dammit is back. Swear words abound, so cover your ears and try to block the spittle!


Dammit #1:
I'm sick of my book. It's so close to being done, and I'm sick of it. I'm beginning to wonder if I like being able to say "I'm writing a book" more than the thought of saying "I wrote a book! (And NO I don't know when it will be published!)"


Dammit #2:
I had an intellectual disagreement with the woman I want to co-author book number two. Or three. It's caused a bit of a brain jam and I'm not entirely sure why. So the disagreement is Dammit 2a and the brain jam is Dammit 2b. I don't mind so much that we had a difference of opinion--that happens a lot--but this was a real stunner, from a quarter where I least expected it.


Dammit #3:
I could have posted this as a Random Question of the Week:
Why are there always so many more men than women in the right to life crowds?


Dammit #4:
This should have come a couple of weeks ago, but we were all sick and I wasn't blogging. All of this Prop 8 crap. It's bullshit. People were calling in to NPR saying that "it's just a word--if "they" get all of the same rights and benefits as marriage, why do they need the word, too?" Well, if it's just a word, why the fuck are you working so hard to deny an entire community the dignity and recognition you confer upon yourselves with that word?

And why is it OK to say that some-THING is the "perfect marriage of a this and a that?" A cookie that's "the perfect marriage of chocolate and espresso." An interior design plan that's "the perfect marriage of traditional and modern." Why is that OK?

And while we're at it:

For all of you Prop 8 supporters: How does a same-sex marriage affect my marriage? How the fuck does that make my marriage any less than what it is? And who the fuck are you to take on the role of defender of MY marriage? YOU cheapen the institution. YOU make a mockery of it. YOU are allowed to marry and DIVORCE at will. YOU say that marriage is for procreation, yet YOU are free to divorce and remarry as many times as you like and at whatever age you choose, usable sperm and eggs or not. YOU are able to divorce your first spouse after a couple of years and yet deny marriage to a couple who have been together for 20.

I'm sure none of this is exactly coherent, but I was a little pissed when I wrote it.

Dammit.

Happy Birthday To Me . . . .

I love having a family with a sense of humor. I love even more that I love having a family with a sense of humor (which may only make sense to me):




Thanks, John and Penny, for having a sense of humor and for sharing it with me. Oh, and for liking me. That's good, too :) And thanks to everyone else for the birthday wishes!

Hannah-isms

1.
Charlotte is not a morning person. She comes by that honestly.

Hannah is most definitely a morning person. Charlotte does not appreciate this, but Hannah persists in her belief that the power of positive chattiness will convert her little sister. So I couldn't help but laugh when, a few mornings ago, I heard:

"Good morning Char Char! Can I have a good morning hug? C'mon, give Nana a little huggie."

And then

"Awwww, I got a good morning shove!"



2.
With a little time before art class and no Philz in sight, I asked Hannah if she'd like a Frappuccino:

"A crappuccino? What's a crappuccino?!"

Exactly.

3.
I turn 40 tomorrow. Today, Hannah informed me that I don't look 40.

39, maybe.

But definitely not 40.

Who Says Chickens Aren't Cuddly?

Not Hannah:

Little House of Horrors

Spring is supposed to be the season of rebirth and renewal, but this year, it has translated into a few plagues visiting our family.

First, Hannah has strep throat. The nurse says this is only the second time she's seen it come up positive that fast. Antibiotics for 10 days. While we're in the doctor's office, Charlotte breaks out in full-body hives. Benadryl for three days.

For the past several weeks, Charlotte has been unable to shake a cough, though the cold that brought it on has long since decamped. Off to the doctor, who thinks it's due to allergies. Claritin for 10 days.

Fast-forward 11 days, and we're back in the doctor's office for the same cough. Another 10 days of Claritin, plus Benadryl and an inhaler. (The inhaler does NOT go over well, to put it very mildly.)

That same day, Hannah breaks her arm. Thomas takes her to the doctor because I have a doctor's appointment for a cough, sore throat, fever and earache. My diagnosis: bronchitis (second time in less than six months) and a sinus infection. Antibiotics, an inhaler and lots of sleep. Hannah's diagnosis: Broken radius and cracked ulna. Cast for 4-6 weeks (neon pink) and Tylenol with codeine.

Fast-forward another week: I'm better. Charlotte's cough seems to be getting better though she still refuses to use the inhaler. Hannah has an appointment to get another x-ray of her arm and to choose a new cast color (acid green). The next day, the school calls to ask me to pick her up from school as she has a severe headache and a temperature of 102. A trip to Urgent Care and two chest x-rays. Diagnosis: Early stage pneumonia. Antibiotics, Tylenol and lots of sleep.

Sunday night, Hannah is bitten by something that leaves her with a rash and welts all the way around her torso. Topical antihistamine and Benadryl which we beg from the neighbor as we've used up the 20 gallons we bought earlier in the year.

And that brings us to today. Everyone is better. Charlotte is still coughing but nowhere near as much. Hannah is back to her old self. I actually get to write a blog post, though by no means as entertaining as I'd like it to be.

And while I can't blame it on the house, I decide that it is as good a time as any to do a little Spring cleaning. All the windows and doors are thrown open. The house is scoured from top to bottom. Dust bunnies are routed. Toothbrushes are tossed. Walls are wiped down and the playroom carpet taken out and beaten.

Hopefully that will be the end of this little run of illness, but we're keeping our eyes on Thomas: I'm not sure his running-induced blisters count as his share of this mess.

Random Bit of Grossness

We've* now gone from playing "Guess What I Found In the Dog's Poop?" to "Guess What Color the Sock Was?" and "Who Left Tiny Blue Panties Where the Dog Could Get Them?"


* By "We" I mean "Me" as Thomas refuses to play anymore.