A Placeholder
For the longer post I want to write. Thank you so much for your well wishes, about everything. I have felt so cheered by your comments, here and at wondertime.
Monday's column is here.
Somewhat predictably, my end-of-an-era sentimentality turned out to be a teeny bit premature, since the children seem to be migrating back to their queen bed. Which is fine with me. It's just the kind of thing I like to be wrong about.
I hope you're all enjoying the summer so far. xo
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Come and See Me Some Time!
If you happen to be up in the Berkshires. This Saturday, June 23rd. At 7 pm. Which is when I'm reading with my dear, frighteningly talented friend Jennifer Mattern and my virtual, frighteningly talented friend Jennifer Niesslein. Jenn M's blog Breed Em and Weep is on some kind of sabbatical, which I completely disapprove of, but you can still go there and read all her stomach-achingly funny posts from before. Jennifer N's book Practically Perfect in Every Way is out now, and there's a fantastic excerpt here. Here's the information about the reading (below) from the site of our hosts, Inkberry, which looks like a wonderful organization. Did you know that I'd written for the New York Times? Me either! But I'm totally psyched about it. Maybe that's what I'll select my reading from! Come if you can. Party at the Holiday Inn!
A reading on Parenthood and the Pursuit of Perfection
North Adams Public Library, 74 Church St., North Adams
Saturday, June 23rd at 7:00 PM
Free
Jennifer Niesslein, Jennifer Mattern, and Catherine Newman will read from their writings on parenthood and the pursuit of perfection. Jennifer Niesslein is the author of Practically Perfect in Every Way: My Misadventures Through the World of Self-Help—And Back (Putnum, May 2007) and the co-founder of Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers. Jennifer Mattern is playwright, freelance writer, and author of the blog Breed ‘Em and Weep, which won best parenting blog in the Weblog Awards in 2006. Catherine Newman is the author of the memoir Waiting for Birdy and the weekly journal Bringing Up Ben & Birdy at BabyCenter.com. Her work has appeared in The New York Times and the anthologies The Bitch in the House, Toddler, I’ts a Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons and It’s a Girl: Women Writers on Raising Daughters.
Meanwhile, there are columns on wondertime here and here.
I didn't write a Father's Day post, because I was too busy being a total crab apple, but here's photographic evidence from our friend Pengyew's birthday party on Saturday, taken by the extremely talented Sam Masinter:
Maybe my piece for the Times was about how hunky and delightful Michael manages to be, even with crab apples dropping all around him.
If you happen to be up in the Berkshires. This Saturday, June 23rd. At 7 pm. Which is when I'm reading with my dear, frighteningly talented friend Jennifer Mattern and my virtual, frighteningly talented friend Jennifer Niesslein. Jenn M's blog Breed Em and Weep is on some kind of sabbatical, which I completely disapprove of, but you can still go there and read all her stomach-achingly funny posts from before. Jennifer N's book Practically Perfect in Every Way is out now, and there's a fantastic excerpt here. Here's the information about the reading (below) from the site of our hosts, Inkberry, which looks like a wonderful organization. Did you know that I'd written for the New York Times? Me either! But I'm totally psyched about it. Maybe that's what I'll select my reading from! Come if you can. Party at the Holiday Inn!
A reading on Parenthood and the Pursuit of Perfection
North Adams Public Library, 74 Church St., North Adams
Saturday, June 23rd at 7:00 PM
Free
Jennifer Niesslein, Jennifer Mattern, and Catherine Newman will read from their writings on parenthood and the pursuit of perfection. Jennifer Niesslein is the author of Practically Perfect in Every Way: My Misadventures Through the World of Self-Help—And Back (Putnum, May 2007) and the co-founder of Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers. Jennifer Mattern is playwright, freelance writer, and author of the blog Breed ‘Em and Weep, which won best parenting blog in the Weblog Awards in 2006. Catherine Newman is the author of the memoir Waiting for Birdy and the weekly journal Bringing Up Ben & Birdy at BabyCenter.com. Her work has appeared in The New York Times and the anthologies The Bitch in the House, Toddler, I’ts a Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons and It’s a Girl: Women Writers on Raising Daughters.
Meanwhile, there are columns on wondertime here and here.
I didn't write a Father's Day post, because I was too busy being a total crab apple, but here's photographic evidence from our friend Pengyew's birthday party on Saturday, taken by the extremely talented Sam Masinter:
Maybe my piece for the Times was about how hunky and delightful Michael manages to be, even with crab apples dropping all around him.
Monday, June 11, 2007
A Gift
So I don't mean to keep on and on about it, but I finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and I wanted to share something from it that I loved. Have you heard about the book? It describes the year that Barbara Kingsolver and her family tried to eat only local food, most of which they had grown and farmed themselves. But of course I read it as a book about gratitude and parenting, because that's just how I am.
So I don't mean to keep on and on about it, but I finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and I wanted to share something from it that I loved. Have you heard about the book? It describes the year that Barbara Kingsolver and her family tried to eat only local food, most of which they had grown and farmed themselves. But of course I read it as a book about gratitude and parenting, because that's just how I am.
Our holiday food splurge was a small crate of tangerines, which we found ridiculously thrilling after an eight-month abstinence from citrus. No matter where I was in the house, that vividly resinous orangey scent woke up my nose whenever anyone peeled one in the kitchen. Lily hugged each one to her chest before undressing it as gently as a doll. Watching her do that as she sat cross-legged on the floor one morning in pink pajamas, with bliss lighting her cheeks, I thought: Lucky is the world, to receive this grateful child. Value is not made of money, but a tender balance of expectation and longing. (page 287)The latest wondertime column is here, and a new one should be up later today.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Voice
Which is like a cross between Miss Long Island reading her shopping list and a goose honking by frantically after the rest of the V has taken off. And you can hear it here. It is, truly, worse than I thought. Like Meg already said here: "I imagined it a lot deeper." I'm going to smoke a few more cigars before the next taping session.
Last week's column is here.
I'm sorry to always be asking for advice, but does anyone know of a good resource (A book! What problem cannot be solved with a trusty book?) for kids who appear to be pathological nonswimmers? You know what I'm saying here? With the flailing and the dread and the torso craning itself out of the water? Thank you as always.
Which is like a cross between Miss Long Island reading her shopping list and a goose honking by frantically after the rest of the V has taken off. And you can hear it here. It is, truly, worse than I thought. Like Meg already said here: "I imagined it a lot deeper." I'm going to smoke a few more cigars before the next taping session.
Last week's column is here.
I'm sorry to always be asking for advice, but does anyone know of a good resource (A book! What problem cannot be solved with a trusty book?) for kids who appear to be pathological nonswimmers? You know what I'm saying here? With the flailing and the dread and the torso craning itself out of the water? Thank you as always.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Allergy Relief
does not seem to be obtained from rogue biofeedback. Ever since Michael completed his massage program, I treat him like an all-purpose health-care professional: "Look at my wart," I say. I say, "Why is my knuckle sore like this?" Mostly I say, "What about this painful part of my back/foot/leg/bottom?" and so hands are laid on, groans of satisfaction are groaned, and I am grateful. But last night, as Michael was drifting off to sleep, I said, miserable, "Honey, help me with my allergies." Our pine trees have started their annual molt, and while the curtains of pale green dust blow in the windows, I am sneezing and red-eyed and scratchy-throated. When Michael said "How?" I said "I'm so susceptible to the whole mind-body thing, so psychosomatic. I'm probably a perfect biofeedback candidate. Try that." And so Michael put his hands on my chest, looked into my eyes, and said, "Take a break from your self, you crazy, overreacting immune system. It's just eensy particles of pollen! Mere molecules! Nothing to get hysterical about." And lo and behold, I laughed out a sneeze and wasn't cured at all.
Speaking of spring things, I wanted to thank you for your advice about shade perennials! We have hostas, bleeding hearts, lilies of the valley, vinca, violets, and ferns--all of which I love--and now we are the proud parents of a dead nettle, a primula, and a bugbane thanks to your wise counsel. I also have virtual sticky notes all over my computer screen that say things like "lamium: orchid frost." But I think I forgot to mention that I am an appallingly ham-handed gardener. I should be good at it: I'm crafty and a happy, capable maker of food. But I have no patience for plants unless they're dropping their gorgeous fruits and vegetables right directly into a basket that I'm holding out without even really bending my knees or putting down my beer. Alas.
And speaking of growing things, this book--Barbara Kingsolver's latest--is so fantastic that I read it every night before I even get into bed, while I'm still brushing my teeth. I am waiting patiently for her to invite me over for some of that asparagus bread pudding.
The latest wondertime columns are here and here.
Also, I seem to have waited until it was off the newsstand to mention that I've got a piece in the May O Magazine--this one about my bitchy wrinkles.
I hope you're all well and enjoying everything there is to enjoy.
does not seem to be obtained from rogue biofeedback. Ever since Michael completed his massage program, I treat him like an all-purpose health-care professional: "Look at my wart," I say. I say, "Why is my knuckle sore like this?" Mostly I say, "What about this painful part of my back/foot/leg/bottom?" and so hands are laid on, groans of satisfaction are groaned, and I am grateful. But last night, as Michael was drifting off to sleep, I said, miserable, "Honey, help me with my allergies." Our pine trees have started their annual molt, and while the curtains of pale green dust blow in the windows, I am sneezing and red-eyed and scratchy-throated. When Michael said "How?" I said "I'm so susceptible to the whole mind-body thing, so psychosomatic. I'm probably a perfect biofeedback candidate. Try that." And so Michael put his hands on my chest, looked into my eyes, and said, "Take a break from your self, you crazy, overreacting immune system. It's just eensy particles of pollen! Mere molecules! Nothing to get hysterical about." And lo and behold, I laughed out a sneeze and wasn't cured at all.
Speaking of spring things, I wanted to thank you for your advice about shade perennials! We have hostas, bleeding hearts, lilies of the valley, vinca, violets, and ferns--all of which I love--and now we are the proud parents of a dead nettle, a primula, and a bugbane thanks to your wise counsel. I also have virtual sticky notes all over my computer screen that say things like "lamium: orchid frost." But I think I forgot to mention that I am an appallingly ham-handed gardener. I should be good at it: I'm crafty and a happy, capable maker of food. But I have no patience for plants unless they're dropping their gorgeous fruits and vegetables right directly into a basket that I'm holding out without even really bending my knees or putting down my beer. Alas.
And speaking of growing things, this book--Barbara Kingsolver's latest--is so fantastic that I read it every night before I even get into bed, while I'm still brushing my teeth. I am waiting patiently for her to invite me over for some of that asparagus bread pudding.
The latest wondertime columns are here and here.
Also, I seem to have waited until it was off the newsstand to mention that I've got a piece in the May O Magazine--this one about my bitchy wrinkles.
I hope you're all well and enjoying everything there is to enjoy.
Monday, May 07, 2007
The Annual Mother's Day Pimp-My-Book Post
I am writing the annual pimp-my-book post to say that this
might make a nice mother's day gift, no? Although I managed to wait long enough that now you'd have to triple-fed-ex it, which means that for a mere, uh, 35 or so dollars you could send one person a paperback book detailing another person's waxing and waning anxiety, which, as I write this, seems kind of like a bad deal compared to a nice gift certificate for sushi or botox or, ahem, a massage.
And speaking of Mother's Day! Perhaps, if you live in the Boston area, you could take your mum to the DeCordova sculpture park, and the two of you could reminisce about how cute you were when you were just a wee thing (Big Baby, by Nina Levy)
So cute and tiny, in fact, that your mother might have felt more or less like flinging her head over the balcony (Headlong, by Nina Levy):
The new post over at Wondertime is here, and there will be another one up later this afternoon.
Happy spring to all of you! If you have any advice about hardy shade perennials, please write!
I am writing the annual pimp-my-book post to say that this
might make a nice mother's day gift, no? Although I managed to wait long enough that now you'd have to triple-fed-ex it, which means that for a mere, uh, 35 or so dollars you could send one person a paperback book detailing another person's waxing and waning anxiety, which, as I write this, seems kind of like a bad deal compared to a nice gift certificate for sushi or botox or, ahem, a massage.And speaking of Mother's Day! Perhaps, if you live in the Boston area, you could take your mum to the DeCordova sculpture park, and the two of you could reminisce about how cute you were when you were just a wee thing (Big Baby, by Nina Levy)
So cute and tiny, in fact, that your mother might have felt more or less like flinging her head over the balcony (Headlong, by Nina Levy):
The new post over at Wondertime is here, and there will be another one up later this afternoon.
Happy spring to all of you! If you have any advice about hardy shade perennials, please write!
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Rock-a-bye
I had this idea for a post that I was going to call "shame" and it was going to be a photograph of the snow pants Ben wore all winter: the knees patched with thick strips pink duct tape and a close-up of the size (4-5) and also, maybe, of the chart on the wall where you can see that he has grown about 8-10 inches since he was 4-5. I was going to invite you to post your own shame photos in response (not that you would have any, right?).
But then I got sidetracked by this:
And because it is more or less the antithesis of shame--because every cell in Birdy's body passes through the loving and unsullied organ of her beautiful, blessed heart--I thought that maybe this photo would be better suited to a perfect early spring day, this perfect early spring day, when we are leaving the winter and its peculiar shames behind us.
p.s. The new wondertime column is here.
I had this idea for a post that I was going to call "shame" and it was going to be a photograph of the snow pants Ben wore all winter: the knees patched with thick strips pink duct tape and a close-up of the size (4-5) and also, maybe, of the chart on the wall where you can see that he has grown about 8-10 inches since he was 4-5. I was going to invite you to post your own shame photos in response (not that you would have any, right?).
But then I got sidetracked by this:
And because it is more or less the antithesis of shame--because every cell in Birdy's body passes through the loving and unsullied organ of her beautiful, blessed heart--I thought that maybe this photo would be better suited to a perfect early spring day, this perfect early spring day, when we are leaving the winter and its peculiar shames behind us.p.s. The new wondertime column is here.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
P.S.
The whole reason I wrote today was to check in with you about the shootings yesterday, but then I wrote something weird and deleted it and then, shy, said nothing at all. But really, it is one thing to have an abstracted apocalyptic sense of things, the way I do these days. And it is another to live out a flesh-and-blood tragedy, a grief of senseless and unfathomable proportions. Which is how grief always feels, of course. But this--this is something else. I am so sorry is all I really wanted to say. Or maybe something dumb, like "Kiss your kids."
The whole reason I wrote today was to check in with you about the shootings yesterday, but then I wrote something weird and deleted it and then, shy, said nothing at all. But really, it is one thing to have an abstracted apocalyptic sense of things, the way I do these days. And it is another to live out a flesh-and-blood tragedy, a grief of senseless and unfathomable proportions. Which is how grief always feels, of course. But this--this is something else. I am so sorry is all I really wanted to say. Or maybe something dumb, like "Kiss your kids."
My Thyroid Has Great Self Esteem, Thanks to You
Here's why I love you: when I post a paranoid column about my hypochondria and psychosomatic exhaustion and neurotic wasting of doctors' time and also my vague personality disorders, your write me lovingly to say, "Maybe you should get your thyroid checked!" It's like a virtual community of mothers. "They're just jealous!" you say to me. You say, "It's only because you're so passionate!" and "We would have done the same exact thing!" Thank you for that. I see why they call it "support." You know?
Meanwhile, an April Fool's Day post--of all the repulsive things--has lingered here for weeks. Malingered. Forgive me. I can only send you to this column and this one instead. And scare you with the very fierce and frightening Caped Growly Girl King.
Here's why I love you: when I post a paranoid column about my hypochondria and psychosomatic exhaustion and neurotic wasting of doctors' time and also my vague personality disorders, your write me lovingly to say, "Maybe you should get your thyroid checked!" It's like a virtual community of mothers. "They're just jealous!" you say to me. You say, "It's only because you're so passionate!" and "We would have done the same exact thing!" Thank you for that. I see why they call it "support." You know?
Meanwhile, an April Fool's Day post--of all the repulsive things--has lingered here for weeks. Malingered. Forgive me. I can only send you to this column and this one instead. And scare you with the very fierce and frightening Caped Growly Girl King.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
I Wish I'd Thought
to switch my kids' underpants with their dad's! Boy would that have killed them. It makes me laugh just to think of it now, so I will have to file that bit of lingerie hijinks away for next year. (It's not called "lingerie" when it's a man's, now, is it? I see that it looks a little too Liberace for Michael's Fruit of the Looms.)
I have two columns over at wondertime that I haven't linked to: one about Birdy turning four, and one about her great and sudden love of Yiddish.
Happy Passover to you dear ones. And happy Easter. Happy Spring-interrupted-by-the-pouring-down-of-snow. And happy days of melancholy, if you know what I mean. And I know you do.
to switch my kids' underpants with their dad's! Boy would that have killed them. It makes me laugh just to think of it now, so I will have to file that bit of lingerie hijinks away for next year. (It's not called "lingerie" when it's a man's, now, is it? I see that it looks a little too Liberace for Michael's Fruit of the Looms.)
I have two columns over at wondertime that I haven't linked to: one about Birdy turning four, and one about her great and sudden love of Yiddish.
Happy Passover to you dear ones. And happy Easter. Happy Spring-interrupted-by-the-pouring-down-of-snow. And happy days of melancholy, if you know what I mean. And I know you do.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
April 1, 2007
Ben's first telephone conversation with a peer (on speakerphone):
Friend: Hi Ben.
Ben: Hi.
[crickets chirping]
F: Do you have something in your house that looks like poop?
B: Probably!
F: You could put it on the ground and say you pooped!
B: Yeah!
F: Bye Ben!
B: Bye!
In a fit of festivity, I made the children fool eggs with whipped cream and apricot halves and sliced pound cake for toast, and Ben fell for it for approximately, let's see, zero seconds. "Why are these eggs so foamy looking?" he said. "This toast looks so weird." Birdy insisted that the egg tasted like whipped cream, and then we were never convinced she'd understood the whole thing. "My egg was so creamy!" she cried. "April fool!" Still! I did an April Fool's joke! Lame and cranky me! I like the bonus holidays like these, where anything is better than nothing. Nobody expects you to make a Luke Skywalker pinata or rent a team of Clydesdales or anything.
But more successful was the cramming of a long strip of toilet paper down the back of everyone's pants and groaning, "Oh gross! We've really got to teach you more about wiping."
How did you celebrate? Don't leave me hanging. Tell me.
Ben's first telephone conversation with a peer (on speakerphone):
Friend: Hi Ben.
Ben: Hi.
[crickets chirping]
F: Do you have something in your house that looks like poop?
B: Probably!
F: You could put it on the ground and say you pooped!
B: Yeah!
F: Bye Ben!
B: Bye!
In a fit of festivity, I made the children fool eggs with whipped cream and apricot halves and sliced pound cake for toast, and Ben fell for it for approximately, let's see, zero seconds. "Why are these eggs so foamy looking?" he said. "This toast looks so weird." Birdy insisted that the egg tasted like whipped cream, and then we were never convinced she'd understood the whole thing. "My egg was so creamy!" she cried. "April fool!" Still! I did an April Fool's joke! Lame and cranky me! I like the bonus holidays like these, where anything is better than nothing. Nobody expects you to make a Luke Skywalker pinata or rent a team of Clydesdales or anything.
But more successful was the cramming of a long strip of toilet paper down the back of everyone's pants and groaning, "Oh gross! We've really got to teach you more about wiping."
How did you celebrate? Don't leave me hanging. Tell me.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
More Meta Commentary
Things I truly appreciate:
"This article is fantastic; is very interesting and is really good written. It’s just great!! Do you want to know something more? Read it... Glass Bongs and Bong featuring Herbal Smoke, water bongs, bongs online head shop, Marijuana Alternative,glass water bongs, Hashish, Ganja, homemade bongs, Smokeshop, cannibis, legal smoking alternatives for herbal highs and aphrodisia."
Now that's high praise. But really--is anyone looking online to purchase a "homemade bong"? Is it, like, $15 through Paypal, and then you get a box in the mail with a bent Coors Light can in it?
My wondertime column this week is here.
And can I just recommend again that the rest of you Western Mass folks schedule a massage for yourself or a friend with Dr. Hunky? If you already have, I know you haven't been disappointed. We don't call him Mister The Hands for nothing.
Things I truly appreciate:
- The idea that we're cycling together (We're in love! Plus, I get to picture us all on a giant tandem bike with dozens of sets of pedals.)
- Tips on stain removal [Deleted parenthetical comment about the state of the author's undies]
- Suggestions about menstrual products (The Keeper! The Liza Minelli! The Moonbeam! The Spongebob Period Pants! Who new? Well, besides every last one of you guys.)
- When dissenting voices do not post anonymously (For real! Thank you!)
- The fact that so many of you are so naked so much of the time
- The fact that so few of you were paying close enough attention to worry in the first place about anybody driving sloshed
- The image of bloody zucchini
"This article is fantastic; is very interesting and is really good written. It’s just great!! Do you want to know something more? Read it... Glass Bongs and Bong featuring Herbal Smoke, water bongs, bongs online head shop, Marijuana Alternative,glass water bongs, Hashish, Ganja, homemade bongs, Smokeshop, cannibis, legal smoking alternatives for herbal highs and aphrodisia."
Now that's high praise. But really--is anyone looking online to purchase a "homemade bong"? Is it, like, $15 through Paypal, and then you get a box in the mail with a bent Coors Light can in it?
My wondertime column this week is here.
And can I just recommend again that the rest of you Western Mass folks schedule a massage for yourself or a friend with Dr. Hunky? If you already have, I know you haven't been disappointed. We don't call him Mister The Hands for nothing.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Edited
The funny thing is that I had actually written "I" about drinking that wine--but then became self conscious about the lonely sound of it, and so changed it to "we" the better to convey, you know, the fellowship of moderate alcohol consumption there at our friends' house. I didn't want you to think it was somehow just me in the corner with a blanket and a bottle while everyone else sat at the table soberly planning some kind of 12-step intervention.
But then, of course, oops--I made it sound like some kind of DUI/snowstorm situation when really Michael hardly even ever drinks at all.
Because he's too busy huffing ether.
Meanwhile, here's my question of the day: if you were designing a tampon, would you play a kind of menstrual practical joke whereby you appended a string that appeared to be a handy removal advice--but was really a kind of wick to draw blood quickly from body to underpants without soiling the pristine cotton of the tampon itself? This is my question. I would not think to make such a joke myself, but I see that someone has.
And really, I'm just laughing my head off. Because it's funny to see Mama's undies soaking in the sink like she beheaded someone in the night and then mopped at their bloody neck stump with a wadded up pair of Gap bikinis. Really. It's not the stuff of future psychoanalytic emergency sessions, I'm sure. Just good old-fashioned fun.
The funny thing is that I had actually written "I" about drinking that wine--but then became self conscious about the lonely sound of it, and so changed it to "we" the better to convey, you know, the fellowship of moderate alcohol consumption there at our friends' house. I didn't want you to think it was somehow just me in the corner with a blanket and a bottle while everyone else sat at the table soberly planning some kind of 12-step intervention.
But then, of course, oops--I made it sound like some kind of DUI/snowstorm situation when really Michael hardly even ever drinks at all.
Because he's too busy huffing ether.
Meanwhile, here's my question of the day: if you were designing a tampon, would you play a kind of menstrual practical joke whereby you appended a string that appeared to be a handy removal advice--but was really a kind of wick to draw blood quickly from body to underpants without soiling the pristine cotton of the tampon itself? This is my question. I would not think to make such a joke myself, but I see that someone has.
And really, I'm just laughing my head off. Because it's funny to see Mama's undies soaking in the sink like she beheaded someone in the night and then mopped at their bloody neck stump with a wadded up pair of Gap bikinis. Really. It's not the stuff of future psychoanalytic emergency sessions, I'm sure. Just good old-fashioned fun.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Talking About the Weather
I don't know what it is with me--maybe it's all the gigondas wine we drank with dinner that had such a gigantic sound to it that I became gigantically tipsy straight away--but I never felt frightened on our drive home: after our friend pushed us out of his driveway, Michael slid elegantly from one side of the road to the other, we drifted into snowbanks, we saw cars shuddering off the road and pitching into ditches--and the whole time I had a cozy winter feeling as if I were underneath a blanket watching The Nutcracker on TV.
I had intended to write this as a happy post about the gorgeous, late-season snowfall, but instead I seem to have revealed yet another of my personality disorders. What's this one? Treacherous Weather Dissociation? Sleet Mania? I'm not sure.
But it really is lovely here. I don't mind it right at the end like this--winter's little parting joke. If it weren't for the fact that we were supposed to see my parents, and must now wait a week, I would be just about perfectly happy.
Also because I'm not living through this.
I have got to encourage you to read the comments on this one. All I can say, with respect to barfing children, is: I'm glad we don't have a dog.
I don't know what it is with me--maybe it's all the gigondas wine we drank with dinner that had such a gigantic sound to it that I became gigantically tipsy straight away--but I never felt frightened on our drive home: after our friend pushed us out of his driveway, Michael slid elegantly from one side of the road to the other, we drifted into snowbanks, we saw cars shuddering off the road and pitching into ditches--and the whole time I had a cozy winter feeling as if I were underneath a blanket watching The Nutcracker on TV.
I had intended to write this as a happy post about the gorgeous, late-season snowfall, but instead I seem to have revealed yet another of my personality disorders. What's this one? Treacherous Weather Dissociation? Sleet Mania? I'm not sure.
But it really is lovely here. I don't mind it right at the end like this--winter's little parting joke. If it weren't for the fact that we were supposed to see my parents, and must now wait a week, I would be just about perfectly happy.
Also because I'm not living through this.
I have got to encourage you to read the comments on this one. All I can say, with respect to barfing children, is: I'm glad we don't have a dog.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Warts and All
Thank you, as always, for your advice. I wrapped a banana peel around my heel, strapped a potato to it with duct tape, scraped at it with a pumice, an emery board, a microplane zester, and a tea-tree oil soaked cotton ball, dabbed it with plain old nailpolish remover and urine, and voila! I woke in the morning and the entire foot had falled off onto the mattress. I trust it won't grow back.
Wouldn't that be a great short documentary film? "Warts"? Just sped up and spliced together shots of people treating their warts in a million different ways, maybe set to The Sound of Music theme song? If you want to option it, you know how to find me. . .
I have a column here and here. If you're inclined to weigh in on the juggling issue, please do; they're wondering if that's an interesting topic of conversation among mothers. Hope you guys are all thriving.
Thank you, as always, for your advice. I wrapped a banana peel around my heel, strapped a potato to it with duct tape, scraped at it with a pumice, an emery board, a microplane zester, and a tea-tree oil soaked cotton ball, dabbed it with plain old nailpolish remover and urine, and voila! I woke in the morning and the entire foot had falled off onto the mattress. I trust it won't grow back.
Wouldn't that be a great short documentary film? "Warts"? Just sped up and spliced together shots of people treating their warts in a million different ways, maybe set to The Sound of Music theme song? If you want to option it, you know how to find me. . .
I have a column here and here. If you're inclined to weigh in on the juggling issue, please do; they're wondering if that's an interesting topic of conversation among mothers. Hope you guys are all thriving.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Glad to Be You
Of course you don't have two warts on your foot in the first place because lovely, kempt people don't have warts is what I'm thinking. You didn't need to Google image-search them and then spend a half an hour examining the divergence of your footprint in order to diagnose yourself with, well, warts. Of course even if you did have two warts on your foot and you bought the Dr. Scholl's Extra-Strength Medicated Wart Removing Pads, you would have understood within at least the first couple of days that something was wrong. You would have noticed the warts persevering unheeded instead of happily applying the sticky cushioning donuts to your sole day after day only to shake the box weeks later and say to your partner, "What's this?" Your partner would not have come over and taken the sheet of dots from your hand, would not have patted your head and said, "Um, honey? Those are the medicated disks." And you would not have groaned, with two wholly untreated warts on your foot and no more cushioning donuts, "Maybe that's why they weren't working."
Then you wouldn't have opened your bread box to find no fewer than 20 molding heels of bread because over time your family would have learned that, if nobody's going to eat them, you should toss them out to the birds instead of preserving them like a museum exhibit curated around the theme of your own ineptitude.
Nor would you have lain in your children's bed while said children piled eleven sticky little glow-in-the-dark bugs into your belly button, holding your tummy in two fists and shaking so that the bugs looked like they were erupting from a volcanic navel.
Because you have a little self respect, right? So you also would never engage in a conversation with your seven-year-old son about how much money someone would have to pay you to throw a poopy diaper in your face. You wouldn't say "It depends what kind of poop," because, of course, you wouldn't do it for any amount of money in the world. A poopy diaper in your face! Who would talk about such a thing with a child? Let alone entertain various sums! You would certainly never say, "A thousand bucks? Just a regular turd, but sealed up inside and the tabs stuck down and everything? Sure." And when your daughter finally chimed in, jumping up and down on the mattress with excitement and glee, "What about poop smeared right in your nostrils for fifty dollars?" you wouldn't need to draw the line there because you never would have had the chalk in your hand to begin with. Even if your daughter fell to the ground laughing and cried, "I would do it for free!"
This daughter, here.
Of course you don't have two warts on your foot in the first place because lovely, kempt people don't have warts is what I'm thinking. You didn't need to Google image-search them and then spend a half an hour examining the divergence of your footprint in order to diagnose yourself with, well, warts. Of course even if you did have two warts on your foot and you bought the Dr. Scholl's Extra-Strength Medicated Wart Removing Pads, you would have understood within at least the first couple of days that something was wrong. You would have noticed the warts persevering unheeded instead of happily applying the sticky cushioning donuts to your sole day after day only to shake the box weeks later and say to your partner, "What's this?" Your partner would not have come over and taken the sheet of dots from your hand, would not have patted your head and said, "Um, honey? Those are the medicated disks." And you would not have groaned, with two wholly untreated warts on your foot and no more cushioning donuts, "Maybe that's why they weren't working."
Then you wouldn't have opened your bread box to find no fewer than 20 molding heels of bread because over time your family would have learned that, if nobody's going to eat them, you should toss them out to the birds instead of preserving them like a museum exhibit curated around the theme of your own ineptitude.
Nor would you have lain in your children's bed while said children piled eleven sticky little glow-in-the-dark bugs into your belly button, holding your tummy in two fists and shaking so that the bugs looked like they were erupting from a volcanic navel.
Because you have a little self respect, right? So you also would never engage in a conversation with your seven-year-old son about how much money someone would have to pay you to throw a poopy diaper in your face. You wouldn't say "It depends what kind of poop," because, of course, you wouldn't do it for any amount of money in the world. A poopy diaper in your face! Who would talk about such a thing with a child? Let alone entertain various sums! You would certainly never say, "A thousand bucks? Just a regular turd, but sealed up inside and the tabs stuck down and everything? Sure." And when your daughter finally chimed in, jumping up and down on the mattress with excitement and glee, "What about poop smeared right in your nostrils for fifty dollars?" you wouldn't need to draw the line there because you never would have had the chalk in your hand to begin with. Even if your daughter fell to the ground laughing and cried, "I would do it for free!"
This daughter, here.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Wabbit Season
Hey, for a great debate on cartoons check out the comments going on over at wondertime. Oh, I do love a great debate.
But holy clam and cuttlefish! (as Boris would say in Amos and Boris.)
Go weigh in, please.
And your comments on Birdy's valentines are cracking me up--thank you. Also be sure to check out other people's links to their own craftstravaganzas. You guys rock.
xo
Hey, for a great debate on cartoons check out the comments going on over at wondertime. Oh, I do love a great debate.
But holy clam and cuttlefish! (as Boris would say in Amos and Boris.)
Go weigh in, please.
And your comments on Birdy's valentines are cracking me up--thank you. Also be sure to check out other people's links to their own craftstravaganzas. You guys rock.
xo
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Why You Might Not Want Your Preschooler to Make Her Valentines Out of Mexican Bingo Cards
Why not, right? I mean, they're so beautiful and also hip--perfect for every occasion. Which ones will she choose? you might wonder: the beautful green pear? A juicy slice of watermelon? A bird or tree or the "Sirena" mermaid? No. Give her some blank cards and a glue stick, and she will think romantically of hearts:
Happy Valentine's Day, fellow three-year-old! Enjoy these antique buttons and blibs and blobs of glue, and also this picture of my bulging and veiny corazon stuck through with an arrow like something you might get as a shish kebob at a Brazilian barbeque restaurant. I especially like her elegant touch of trimming the heart with fancy scissors. Or:
Sweet Valentine! You're so cute you make me think of the cutest little frog EVER! Also, oddly, of a pioneer bonnet. Oh--and of el Diablo, chipped apart with a pair of scissors into tiny, devilish, decapitated pieces. I love you! And you! I love you so much that
I thought immediately of Death! La Muerte, arriving with his romantic and murderous sickle! With also some scrippy scraps of paper, a die, and a wedge of doily. Happy Valentine's Day, my dear, doomed one.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Nothing Makes Me Feel More Like My Own Grandma
than when one of my kids complains of a stomach ache and I hear myself say, "Maybe you need to use the bathroom." All that's missing is the Russian accent. Also the expression "move your bowels." "You khev to move your bowls?" That would be more like it. And maybe the diagnosis: "Too much stuffed cabbage."
I have columns here and also here.
And I don't think I actually can reprint that NYT bread recipe here, but I swear it's worth the $4.95. I swear it. And you guys? The ones who said that it sounds like too much work? It's not. I actually put up some dough on the weekend, but then around the time I should have been baking it, made a plan with my friend Nicole to take the kids to a concert. So she--she, goddess of breadmaking--said, "Bring it with you. We can bake it at my house later." And so it sat in my car in the arctic morning for 5 hours. And then it sat in her house for another 3. And then, after its allotted rise time, was found mysteriously smashed flat with fingerprints matching those of her rascal two-year-old. And then her oven wouldn't turn on--not even after several whackings with a wrench and/or screwdriver. And then I finally dumped it back in its (dirty) bowl and drove it back home, like a yeasty hostage. And you know what? I baked it and it was fantastic. Don't you love a dough story with a happy ending?
than when one of my kids complains of a stomach ache and I hear myself say, "Maybe you need to use the bathroom." All that's missing is the Russian accent. Also the expression "move your bowels." "You khev to move your bowls?" That would be more like it. And maybe the diagnosis: "Too much stuffed cabbage."
I have columns here and also here.
And I don't think I actually can reprint that NYT bread recipe here, but I swear it's worth the $4.95. I swear it. And you guys? The ones who said that it sounds like too much work? It's not. I actually put up some dough on the weekend, but then around the time I should have been baking it, made a plan with my friend Nicole to take the kids to a concert. So she--she, goddess of breadmaking--said, "Bring it with you. We can bake it at my house later." And so it sat in my car in the arctic morning for 5 hours. And then it sat in her house for another 3. And then, after its allotted rise time, was found mysteriously smashed flat with fingerprints matching those of her rascal two-year-old. And then her oven wouldn't turn on--not even after several whackings with a wrench and/or screwdriver. And then I finally dumped it back in its (dirty) bowl and drove it back home, like a yeasty hostage. And you know what? I baked it and it was fantastic. Don't you love a dough story with a happy ending?
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The YouTube Video
I want to make would be of me hunched in front of a YouTube video of the hands of a lady crocheting. And I'd be casting on my first stitches--got it--pausing and restarting the video just a couple of times while I catch up. And then there would be the moment where the crocheting lady turns the needle back towards the stitches, does a kind of lickety-split ally-oop abracadabra "Slip it back through the humunuh zumunuh like so!" And then the moment of me, with my cheerful pink yarn and crochet hook, saying "Fuck." And clicking the play arrow again. And again. And then this would be spliced together with all the other videos of me watching all the other crocheting ladies on YouTube you can see if you type in the words "learn to crochet"--all the other ladies who speak slowly and clearly, this is the way we do it, following along nicely nicely until they get to the presto-magic-oh-sorry-didn't-you-catch-that part where they obscure from view the mysterious humunuh zumunuh that is keeping me on the WRONG SIDE OF THE CROCHET CONSPIRACY. In the background you might see my kids standing in the doorway, alarmed.
Would you watch that video and email it to your friends? Would you please teach me how to crochet? There is something seriously perverted about trying to learn an ancient womanly handicraft off of YouTube. May I should just try learning how to make a bong from a Pringles can instead. Besides--what do I want to crochet anyways? A tea cosy? Hacky sacks? A yarmulke?
Meanwhile, I wanted to mention the Wondertime columns here and also here. And to thank you for saying all those nice things about the plain-Janeness of this blog--those nice things that I trolled for so shamelessly. Oh this old blog? Really? You don't think it makes me look a little pear-shaped? A little frowsy? Thank you.
I want to make would be of me hunched in front of a YouTube video of the hands of a lady crocheting. And I'd be casting on my first stitches--got it--pausing and restarting the video just a couple of times while I catch up. And then there would be the moment where the crocheting lady turns the needle back towards the stitches, does a kind of lickety-split ally-oop abracadabra "Slip it back through the humunuh zumunuh like so!" And then the moment of me, with my cheerful pink yarn and crochet hook, saying "Fuck." And clicking the play arrow again. And again. And then this would be spliced together with all the other videos of me watching all the other crocheting ladies on YouTube you can see if you type in the words "learn to crochet"--all the other ladies who speak slowly and clearly, this is the way we do it, following along nicely nicely until they get to the presto-magic-oh-sorry-didn't-you-catch-that part where they obscure from view the mysterious humunuh zumunuh that is keeping me on the WRONG SIDE OF THE CROCHET CONSPIRACY. In the background you might see my kids standing in the doorway, alarmed.
Would you watch that video and email it to your friends? Would you please teach me how to crochet? There is something seriously perverted about trying to learn an ancient womanly handicraft off of YouTube. May I should just try learning how to make a bong from a Pringles can instead. Besides--what do I want to crochet anyways? A tea cosy? Hacky sacks? A yarmulke?
Meanwhile, I wanted to mention the Wondertime columns here and also here. And to thank you for saying all those nice things about the plain-Janeness of this blog--those nice things that I trolled for so shamelessly. Oh this old blog? Really? You don't think it makes me look a little pear-shaped? A little frowsy? Thank you.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Pottery Barn Catalogue
I hadn't planned to mention this, but arriving here today I realize that while so many of your blogs are so stylish and beautiful, with the overstuffed armchairs of design and the cozy window seats and the sunny places to lie and read, this blog--which I have had big plans for--remains the college frat boy bachelor pad of the blog world, with the vinyl venetian blinds and the milk crates for furniture and the bare walls. I am sorry for that, and also open to your tactful, low-tech suggestions.
But what I really wanted to say today (besides please go read my wondertime column) is how much I'm just loving your comments. For example, somebody wrote over there that I might consider teaching Michael to be sensitive to the kids' sicknesses, and teach him "with patience," the way you would a child. And I found this to be an utterly radical suggestion. It's hard enough for me to be patient with the children--but with my partner, my god, it barely even occurs to me to try. I don't say that with pride, just realization and a desire to change. Thank you.
Here, you have been talking about your "clothes chairs" which so hilariously mirrors the glide rocker in my bedroom, that I laughed out loud. It's my own special laundry purgatory, where the clothes are neither dirty nor clean: jeans with a tiny bit of mud on the cuff; a running bra worn for a half-mile slog through the neighborhood; a skirt that's too exhausting to hang on the thingy with the clips. I so hear you.
Also I really just appreciate so much hearing that you worry too.
And finally, I seem to have started a rumor that I'm coming to Ottowa, and I wish it were true. I was only expressing to a Canadian blogger here my interest in ice skating down a river, so naturally we got to talking about Ottowa. But I still do often wish I had a river I could skate away on.
I hadn't planned to mention this, but arriving here today I realize that while so many of your blogs are so stylish and beautiful, with the overstuffed armchairs of design and the cozy window seats and the sunny places to lie and read, this blog--which I have had big plans for--remains the college frat boy bachelor pad of the blog world, with the vinyl venetian blinds and the milk crates for furniture and the bare walls. I am sorry for that, and also open to your tactful, low-tech suggestions.
But what I really wanted to say today (besides please go read my wondertime column) is how much I'm just loving your comments. For example, somebody wrote over there that I might consider teaching Michael to be sensitive to the kids' sicknesses, and teach him "with patience," the way you would a child. And I found this to be an utterly radical suggestion. It's hard enough for me to be patient with the children--but with my partner, my god, it barely even occurs to me to try. I don't say that with pride, just realization and a desire to change. Thank you.
Here, you have been talking about your "clothes chairs" which so hilariously mirrors the glide rocker in my bedroom, that I laughed out loud. It's my own special laundry purgatory, where the clothes are neither dirty nor clean: jeans with a tiny bit of mud on the cuff; a running bra worn for a half-mile slog through the neighborhood; a skirt that's too exhausting to hang on the thingy with the clips. I so hear you.
Also I really just appreciate so much hearing that you worry too.
And finally, I seem to have started a rumor that I'm coming to Ottowa, and I wish it were true. I was only expressing to a Canadian blogger here my interest in ice skating down a river, so naturally we got to talking about Ottowa. But I still do often wish I had a river I could skate away on.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Time of Wonder
Happy New Year, dear friends! I wanted to post a quick link to this column at wondertime, and to draw your attention to a comment at the bottom of the page that posts a link to an ebay auction raising money for the Kim family. The art that people have donated is unbelievable: honestly, it's inspiring just to look at those beautiful things. Thank you for posting that.
In related news, things are smoothing out with the comments over there, and I'm still asking you to try it out, and thanking you for trying and/or persevering, and letting you know that the good people at wondertime are eager to hear about your problems! Please send a note describing your problem, along with the e-mail address you are using to sign on, to memberservices@Wondertime.com. I mean, when else do you ever get encouragement to kvetch about your problems? You could even write them about how you, say, finally took your crib apart to put way, only you forgot that every box of memoribilia in the house was stored beneath it. Every box of crap that is now piled up, dusty and exposed, in the middle of your bedroom. I don't know if they could help you with that. I'm just saying you could mention it.
Happy New Year, dear friends! I wanted to post a quick link to this column at wondertime, and to draw your attention to a comment at the bottom of the page that posts a link to an ebay auction raising money for the Kim family. The art that people have donated is unbelievable: honestly, it's inspiring just to look at those beautiful things. Thank you for posting that.
In related news, things are smoothing out with the comments over there, and I'm still asking you to try it out, and thanking you for trying and/or persevering, and letting you know that the good people at wondertime are eager to hear about your problems! Please send a note describing your problem, along with the e-mail address you are using to sign on, to memberservices@Wondertime.com. I mean, when else do you ever get encouragement to kvetch about your problems? You could even write them about how you, say, finally took your crib apart to put way, only you forgot that every box of memoribilia in the house was stored beneath it. Every box of crap that is now piled up, dusty and exposed, in the middle of your bedroom. I don't know if they could help you with that. I'm just saying you could mention it.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Happy Holidays!
We've been home without internet access for nearly a week now (you'd think our vacationing neighbor would be thoughtful enough to leave her wireless on for our poaching pleasure!) and even though I have missed it, I have also not missed it, if you know what I mean. What do you know--in a week I got emails neither from the MacArthur Genius Grant people (We love your blog! Here's a million dollars!) nor from some old pining-away ex who just wanted to write me a holiday note mentioning how powerfully he still fantasizes about my hot body. Go figure. And I was remarkably able to sit still without that dinging-in feeling haunting me round the clock. But now I wanted to check in and see how everyone was doing, see how the balance of magical/exhausting went for you this year. I hope it all tipped towards the magical.
I also wanted to send you to the new(ish) columns over at wondertime, here. They're both linked from the one page in the new site redesign. Fancy! Also, if I could please encourage you to post your comments over there, that would be awesome! Because they want to see your comments over there! They really really want to! If you run into any kind of trouble, come back here and post, and I'll relay the messages, like the little cyber carrier pigeon that I am.
And finally, thank you to Sarah for reposting that Chex Mix recipe (it's in the comments from the last entry), to "anonymous" for all those viagra links (I should really start deleting the spam, I know), and to everyone who posted a wise nugget about the cheese pumpkin. In the end, I fed the rest of it to our starving garbage disposal, but only because a ginormous turkey needed the spot in the fridge, I swear.
All my best to you and your families for a rich, healthy, and wonderful new year.
xo Catherine
Monday, December 11, 2006
Cheese Pumpkin
Okay, it's as bad as it sounds: cheese pumpkin, like the name of a band that's just trying to be weird by putting two different words together in a gross way. But it was part of our farm share, along with other large and frightening winter squashes, like kabocha and hubbard, and so we took it, and so I spent the better part of the afternoon covered in flour and pumpkin guts turning it into something like empanadas with leeks and thyme and cheese--and yes, they were fine, but believe me: you wouldn't have missed the cheese pumpkin. The kids pressed them flat with their fingers and then finally choked them down but were not buying the whole "pumpkin pie" thing I tried Polyannaing on their small and sorry squash-eating selves. Plus, worse, there is still half of a seeded, peeled cheese pumpkin in my fridge to be turned into--what? Cheese pumpkin relish? Cheese pumpkin meatloaf?
That's why I have no energy to write. I blame the cheese pumpkin. But I wanted to say that wondertime is doing something a little funky with its links--to be fixed soon--but this week's column is here.
You should be able to link to last week's from there--by clicking on last week's date in that right-hand column. I really appreciate you taking the time to look. What with all the eggnog waiting to be drunk. Or "egg mog" as Birdy calls it. Cheese pumpkin nog! Cheese pumpkin Chex mix! Sigh.
Okay, it's as bad as it sounds: cheese pumpkin, like the name of a band that's just trying to be weird by putting two different words together in a gross way. But it was part of our farm share, along with other large and frightening winter squashes, like kabocha and hubbard, and so we took it, and so I spent the better part of the afternoon covered in flour and pumpkin guts turning it into something like empanadas with leeks and thyme and cheese--and yes, they were fine, but believe me: you wouldn't have missed the cheese pumpkin. The kids pressed them flat with their fingers and then finally choked them down but were not buying the whole "pumpkin pie" thing I tried Polyannaing on their small and sorry squash-eating selves. Plus, worse, there is still half of a seeded, peeled cheese pumpkin in my fridge to be turned into--what? Cheese pumpkin relish? Cheese pumpkin meatloaf?
That's why I have no energy to write. I blame the cheese pumpkin. But I wanted to say that wondertime is doing something a little funky with its links--to be fixed soon--but this week's column is here.
You should be able to link to last week's from there--by clicking on last week's date in that right-hand column. I really appreciate you taking the time to look. What with all the eggnog waiting to be drunk. Or "egg mog" as Birdy calls it. Cheese pumpkin nog! Cheese pumpkin Chex mix! Sigh.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
My Bodyguards
I feel about you all the way I felt about my high school boyfriend, who used to lean over menacingly on the subway, all 90 pounds of him, and say to various bystanders, "You lookin' at my woman?Are you? Are you, dawg?" (And these various poor men would back quietly away, instead of answering, "Um, no--I actually wasn't.") Which is to say: I am in love with you. "They thought you looked FAT? They did, did they? We'll kill them. Actually, they're dead. We killed them already." But, lovies, I was kidding. The publishers thought I looked great pregnant. They just thought the book would sell better with that other cover, and they were probably right.
But I'm so glad to know you're ready out there, with the riot gear. We will likely need it one of these days.
I feel about you all the way I felt about my high school boyfriend, who used to lean over menacingly on the subway, all 90 pounds of him, and say to various bystanders, "You lookin' at my woman?Are you? Are you, dawg?" (And these various poor men would back quietly away, instead of answering, "Um, no--I actually wasn't.") Which is to say: I am in love with you. "They thought you looked FAT? They did, did they? We'll kill them. Actually, they're dead. We killed them already." But, lovies, I was kidding. The publishers thought I looked great pregnant. They just thought the book would sell better with that other cover, and they were probably right.
But I'm so glad to know you're ready out there, with the riot gear. We will likely need it one of these days.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
One-Stop Holiday Shopping
And want to see something that maybe I'm not supposed to show you?
Interesting, no? They switched it in the end because they thought my pregnancy made me look fat. No, I'm totally kidding about that. Although they did photoshop the bruises off of Ben's legs because it looked like maybe we'd been disciplining him with a croquet mallet. And I'm not kidding about that. I mean, the croquet mallet part I'm kind of kidding about--that wasn't their exact worry. Not that we were whacking at Ben's shins with any kind of bat or club, I swear.
Don't buy the book because you think you would like it or because a friend is expecting a second baby or because it offers a holiday sentiment (albeit in the form of Ben's commentary on the Grinch's penis). Buy it because you pity me. After two weeks of coughing, choking misery, the doctor grinned and diagnosed me with a "cold." Then I had to sit there trying not to look like a person who is waiting to be prescribed the cough medicine with codeine in it. You can't look like you want it too bad. "Anything for the cough?" I said, casual as a fig newton. And finally yes, yes there was something for the cough. Last night I slept on the bottom of the ocean floor--the sleep of the heavily, heavenly drugged.
I wanted to thank you for the comments you have already posted about this column at wondertime. Over and over again, that "you are not alone" feeling offers me more relief than you could imagine. And Ben's fine now, of course. It was just a heartachey breeze blowing past.
There was this, too, from last week that I never linked to, busy as I was laughing at your suggestions that I make that pinata photo the cover of my "next book." (If you have any more information about this "next book" please do write and let me know!)
I hope you enjoyed a Thanksgiving filled with thanks and with the great and ceremonious unbuttoning of your pants at the dinner table.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Another Reason Why I Love You So Much.
Another in a Long Series of Reasons, That Is.
Here I am, thinking I'm going to crack you up--that you're going to be like: "Birthday gift. Birthday gift. Birthday gift. Black brassiere! Ha ha ha." And I thought we'd all have a laugh a little bit at the expense, I'm sorry to say, of the folks who used to give me such a hard time about the dolls, the pink, the whatever it was they imagined we were giving Ben: mascara? crotchless panties? a brazilian wax?
And then instead you all made me laugh. So much. Besides the nursings and the Victoria's Secret outing (both brillian guesses), I had totally forgotten about the accidental boob pinata! What's that expression? You know me better than I know myself. (Note to new readers: it was supposed to look like a heart. I swear. But the red pompoms Ben added later really didn't help. I admit we all felt a little creepy when the kids took a baseball bat to it. But still: Candy-filled juggs! It's the wet dream of every fourteen-year-old boy in America.)
For old time's sake, I offer you this, with my deepest, most grateful affection:
And p.s.: I got the spirograph on ebay--the exact kit my brother and I used!--and it has been a tremendous hit. Not that the bra wouldn't have been a great gift in its own special way.
Another in a Long Series of Reasons, That Is.
Here I am, thinking I'm going to crack you up--that you're going to be like: "Birthday gift. Birthday gift. Birthday gift. Black brassiere! Ha ha ha." And I thought we'd all have a laugh a little bit at the expense, I'm sorry to say, of the folks who used to give me such a hard time about the dolls, the pink, the whatever it was they imagined we were giving Ben: mascara? crotchless panties? a brazilian wax?
And then instead you all made me laugh. So much. Besides the nursings and the Victoria's Secret outing (both brillian guesses), I had totally forgotten about the accidental boob pinata! What's that expression? You know me better than I know myself. (Note to new readers: it was supposed to look like a heart. I swear. But the red pompoms Ben added later really didn't help. I admit we all felt a little creepy when the kids took a baseball bat to it. But still: Candy-filled juggs! It's the wet dream of every fourteen-year-old boy in America.)
For old time's sake, I offer you this, with my deepest, most grateful affection:
And p.s.: I got the spirograph on ebay--the exact kit my brother and I used!--and it has been a tremendous hit. Not that the bra wouldn't have been a great gift in its own special way.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Beavers Are Very Sad Animals
Apparently. Because this is the expression Ben is making in every one of our Halloween pictures.
Maybe it's the incessant chewing down of trees, the constant building of dams and lodges, never knowing which are the dams and which are the lodges or what the difference is. Or maybe it's simply that they pity the fearful snakes they run into.
*Note: for your viewing pleasure, I airbrushed in a few extra chins on myself. Just to highlight the difference between Birdy's peach-face and my turkey-neck-face.
For some reason, after trick-or-treating for hours and generating 36 pieces of seasonal candy (but who's counting? Oh, Ben is.), it occurred to Birdy that she would die an immediate snakey death if she did not unwrap and devour her 10-month-old chocolate Santa from last Christmas. And so she did.
Apparently. Because this is the expression Ben is making in every one of our Halloween pictures.
Maybe it's the incessant chewing down of trees, the constant building of dams and lodges, never knowing which are the dams and which are the lodges or what the difference is. Or maybe it's simply that they pity the fearful snakes they run into.
*Note: for your viewing pleasure, I airbrushed in a few extra chins on myself. Just to highlight the difference between Birdy's peach-face and my turkey-neck-face.
For some reason, after trick-or-treating for hours and generating 36 pieces of seasonal candy (but who's counting? Oh, Ben is.), it occurred to Birdy that she would die an immediate snakey death if she did not unwrap and devour her 10-month-old chocolate Santa from last Christmas. And so she did.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Another in the series of non-posts
I know that you guys don't actually have a spare second, what with your incessant brushing of your lips with a toothbrush and also the constant slathering onto your lips of nipple cream and udder cream and heinie cream (thank you for all your great advice!)--
But:
I wrote this.
And also this.
Over at wondertime.
I'm having a hard time keeping up with both a column and a blog, as you have likely noticed, and I wish I were doing better at it. But then again, I also wish that the caulk around my bathtub weren't dark grey and furry. And that Birdy's baby book didn't contain only a one-month photo and a five-month photo. (Is that better or worse than Ben's, which contains about a million pictures of our tabby cat and of me, pregnant--because that's when there's time to d0 the baby book! Before the baby's born!) And that I could figure out a way to get the spices to stick to the Chex without all that yummy butter.
But our gutters are fixed. OUR GUTTERS ARE FIXED. So really, what is there left to wish for? ("You saved my marriage!" I said to the Slavic teenager who fixed them, and he backed away from me and smiled and said, "Voonderful!" and backed all the way into his gutter truck and drove away.) Working gutters, two sleeping children, and a house full of miniature candy bars. Life is good.
Happy Halloween, you dear ghouls and goblins. I'll try to post some pictures tomorrow.
I know that you guys don't actually have a spare second, what with your incessant brushing of your lips with a toothbrush and also the constant slathering onto your lips of nipple cream and udder cream and heinie cream (thank you for all your great advice!)--
But:
I wrote this.
And also this.
Over at wondertime.
I'm having a hard time keeping up with both a column and a blog, as you have likely noticed, and I wish I were doing better at it. But then again, I also wish that the caulk around my bathtub weren't dark grey and furry. And that Birdy's baby book didn't contain only a one-month photo and a five-month photo. (Is that better or worse than Ben's, which contains about a million pictures of our tabby cat and of me, pregnant--because that's when there's time to d0 the baby book! Before the baby's born!) And that I could figure out a way to get the spices to stick to the Chex without all that yummy butter.
But our gutters are fixed. OUR GUTTERS ARE FIXED. So really, what is there left to wish for? ("You saved my marriage!" I said to the Slavic teenager who fixed them, and he backed away from me and smiled and said, "Voonderful!" and backed all the way into his gutter truck and drove away.) Working gutters, two sleeping children, and a house full of miniature candy bars. Life is good.
Happy Halloween, you dear ghouls and goblins. I'll try to post some pictures tomorrow.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Because I am grateful
And also because, ahem, in all of your fabulous responses to my blog questions, very few of you mentioned "helpful hints" as a reason you come back here and I would like to rectify that, I offer you this pearl: If you have already eaten half a bag of Frito-Lay Naturals Cheetos White Cheddar Puffs Cheese Flavored Snacks, and if you are planning on eating the remaining half a bag, get yourself a pair of scissors and snip off the top of the bag! You will end up with much less cheese dust on your knuckles and wrist. Also, you will be less tempted to, say, put the puffs away, because now there's not even enough bag to rubberband closed, and so you will do the sensible thing and eat every last puff. (Kill me.)
But, now that we're sharing advice like sugar in this neighbor-across-the-fence way, can I ask: when your lips are so chapped that it's like you're wearing another pair of lips on top of your actual lips, and rubbing any kind of balm into them is as effective as, say, spritzing Spray and Wash onto a chain-mail vest to get out the stain on your underwear beneath, what do you do? Can I loofah my lips?
What? You wanted to hear about Ben and Birdy? Oh. There's this. And yes, I took that picture, and yes, that's the yolk of a poached egg decorating her maniac face.
And also because, ahem, in all of your fabulous responses to my blog questions, very few of you mentioned "helpful hints" as a reason you come back here and I would like to rectify that, I offer you this pearl: If you have already eaten half a bag of Frito-Lay Naturals Cheetos White Cheddar Puffs Cheese Flavored Snacks, and if you are planning on eating the remaining half a bag, get yourself a pair of scissors and snip off the top of the bag! You will end up with much less cheese dust on your knuckles and wrist. Also, you will be less tempted to, say, put the puffs away, because now there's not even enough bag to rubberband closed, and so you will do the sensible thing and eat every last puff. (Kill me.)
But, now that we're sharing advice like sugar in this neighbor-across-the-fence way, can I ask: when your lips are so chapped that it's like you're wearing another pair of lips on top of your actual lips, and rubbing any kind of balm into them is as effective as, say, spritzing Spray and Wash onto a chain-mail vest to get out the stain on your underwear beneath, what do you do? Can I loofah my lips?
What? You wanted to hear about Ben and Birdy? Oh. There's this. And yes, I took that picture, and yes, that's the yolk of a poached egg decorating her maniac face.
Whoa Nelly!
So, um, holy frijoles! I askedeth and receivedeth. This is fantastic. Thank you. I probably have just about enough feedback at this point, and am so grateful for your thoughtful responses. Please know--even if I can't thank you all individually, or am too delinquent to, and even if I don't quote everyone directly--your thoughts will completely inform the piece I'm going to write.
Don't forget to bring this coupon for your free mojito!
So, um, holy frijoles! I askedeth and receivedeth. This is fantastic. Thank you. I probably have just about enough feedback at this point, and am so grateful for your thoughtful responses. Please know--even if I can't thank you all individually, or am too delinquent to, and even if I don't quote everyone directly--your thoughts will completely inform the piece I'm going to write.
Don't forget to bring this coupon for your free mojito!
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Special Request
Dear Ones,
I''m not writing to ask you to go read this, if that's what you were thinking.
I'm not even writing to tell you how Ben and Birdy were having a quiet conversation in the back of the car last night and when Birdy said, "I know Benny, it is glorious," I didn't even know what they were talking about until Ben said, "Especially when it's so bright and full like this this." I love them so desperately. Even when we got home and Birdy fell to the floor of the bathroom sobbing when I went to brush her teeth because, "Mama, your pee in the toilet is too stinky."
I'm really writing to ask a favor. I'm working on a piece for wondertime about blogging, and I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions, whether you write a blog yourself or read other people's blogs, or both:
1. Why do you keep a blog?
2. Why do you read other people's blogs?
3. In what ways does blogging--writing or reading--affect the way you parent or think about parenting, or how you feel about your kids or being a parent? (Please be both general and specific, if you can.)
4. Anything else about blogging?
Those are my questions. I would need to hear back in the next day or two (I know--I'm such a procrastinator.) Please feel free to post your response here or to email it to catherineATbodiesinbalancemtDOTcom. And please indicate whether it's okay to quote you, and if you'd want to use your real name or a pseudonym.
Then you can come out here to Western Mass, and I will buy you a drink in gratitude.
Dear Ones,
I''m not writing to ask you to go read this, if that's what you were thinking.
I'm not even writing to tell you how Ben and Birdy were having a quiet conversation in the back of the car last night and when Birdy said, "I know Benny, it is glorious," I didn't even know what they were talking about until Ben said, "Especially when it's so bright and full like this this." I love them so desperately. Even when we got home and Birdy fell to the floor of the bathroom sobbing when I went to brush her teeth because, "Mama, your pee in the toilet is too stinky."
I'm really writing to ask a favor. I'm working on a piece for wondertime about blogging, and I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions, whether you write a blog yourself or read other people's blogs, or both:
1. Why do you keep a blog?
2. Why do you read other people's blogs?
3. In what ways does blogging--writing or reading--affect the way you parent or think about parenting, or how you feel about your kids or being a parent? (Please be both general and specific, if you can.)
4. Anything else about blogging?
Those are my questions. I would need to hear back in the next day or two (I know--I'm such a procrastinator.) Please feel free to post your response here or to email it to catherineATbodiesinbalancemtDOTcom. And please indicate whether it's okay to quote you, and if you'd want to use your real name or a pseudonym.
Then you can come out here to Western Mass, and I will buy you a drink in gratitude.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
38
I want to pretend to complain about how I celebrated my birthday by washing a black marker with all our best clothes (true). Or about how my moles celebrated by growing another eight of an inch. Or how Birdy celebrated by jabbing her celebratory elbow into my grumpy old bosom.
But really I am having such a sweet day. A friend took me running and to a shopping spree at the Salvation Army (Hello, perfect birthday morning!). There were calls and visits; there were flowers and also a bath. Michael gave me a jar of pickled eggs, a wrapped package of locally smoked pork chops, a homemade card of my faced superimposed over a hockey player holding up the Stanley Cup (Hello, Michael's wet dream!), and an IOU for a sewing machine that he's getting for me with my parents. (Will my annual Halloween sewing fiasco now involve fewer expletives and less sewing of my body parts to the children's costumes? Maybe, maybe not. "You can be whatever you like," I've already said to Birdy. "As long as it's a snake or a cat. Which are the costumes we already have. But it's totally and completely up to you. Snake or cat.")
And Ben gave me a little box of marzipan fruits. Ben who was so gracious that only when I asked did he mention that he'd spent his own money. And that is really too much for a crybaby birthday girl like me, the kind of birthday girl who is so lucky and unworthy and happy and sad just like I always am about every single thing, that I have to boohoo into the place where my cake would be if Michael hadn't been so thoughtful as to remember that I don't even really like cake that much. Here's to another year of all of it: I lift my pickled egg to toast you.
p.s. I almost forgot! Please go read this.
I want to pretend to complain about how I celebrated my birthday by washing a black marker with all our best clothes (true). Or about how my moles celebrated by growing another eight of an inch. Or how Birdy celebrated by jabbing her celebratory elbow into my grumpy old bosom.
But really I am having such a sweet day. A friend took me running and to a shopping spree at the Salvation Army (Hello, perfect birthday morning!). There were calls and visits; there were flowers and also a bath. Michael gave me a jar of pickled eggs, a wrapped package of locally smoked pork chops, a homemade card of my faced superimposed over a hockey player holding up the Stanley Cup (Hello, Michael's wet dream!), and an IOU for a sewing machine that he's getting for me with my parents. (Will my annual Halloween sewing fiasco now involve fewer expletives and less sewing of my body parts to the children's costumes? Maybe, maybe not. "You can be whatever you like," I've already said to Birdy. "As long as it's a snake or a cat. Which are the costumes we already have. But it's totally and completely up to you. Snake or cat.")
And Ben gave me a little box of marzipan fruits. Ben who was so gracious that only when I asked did he mention that he'd spent his own money. And that is really too much for a crybaby birthday girl like me, the kind of birthday girl who is so lucky and unworthy and happy and sad just like I always am about every single thing, that I have to boohoo into the place where my cake would be if Michael hadn't been so thoughtful as to remember that I don't even really like cake that much. Here's to another year of all of it: I lift my pickled egg to toast you.
p.s. I almost forgot! Please go read this.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I'm having, like, a totally sucky day
Did you keep a journal when you were younger? Because I did, and let me tell you: these were not the writings of a person brimming over with joie de vivre. Why, when I was glad, would I have wasted one glittering second scrawling away about it? I was out in the sunshine making a daisy chain and just feeling the gladness! So the journal was filled with my ceaseless gloom. My ceaseless and deadly BOYFRIEND gloom, if you must know. In college I dated a Russian major who--how shall I put this?--didn't actually like me. It wasn't just that instead of lighting up a cigarette or whispering honeyed words he lept from bed to scrub briskly at his sex parts with a washcloth; it was that he made me feel like maybe I would have to better familiarize myself with the gloomy poetry of the Russian modernists in order to actualize my girlfriend potential. And so my journal is filled with gloomy entries about this endeavor. "Spent day reading Tsvetaeva (sp??). Tried to read on quad where K. would walk by. K walked by. K. said, 'I like your skirt." He didn't mean it probably. Or did he? He didn't want to get coffee with me after dinner, and then later he said he'd had coffee. (With library girl in the eyelet petticoat?)." Like that. (Aside: God help me if Birdy ever does anything but karate chop the knees off of anyone who makes her feel this way.)
Anyways, I mention this now because this is the impulse that blogging seems to reinvigorate in me. In a column, (there for instance--you knew I was going to plug it somewhere) what with the certain amount of words, and the desire for coherence, I feel like I'm trying to say a little bit about something or other. But here. Here. I am inclined to kvetch in sentence fragments. About Birdy's cold, for example. The school should just add it to the memo. "Your child has been assigned: snack duties for the 4th week, a nature worksheet, the third cubby, and the following viral illness: a common cold" I think how it works is that you get one virus, and then you're supposed to trade it in later for another one that your family has no immunity to. Don't get me wrong--I'll take the gagging mucus cough over any degree of barfing. And we are lucky that these kids get sick and then get better--I do not take this for granted a day of my life. It's just that I forgot to memorize my children's summer faces--the way they look without the snot running down them and drying in patches like crusty, virulent slug tracks. I guess I can wait until June.
p.s. If you "tag" me for a "meme," then I will feel very flattered (Who doesn't like to be picked? Especially people like, you know, certain people, the kind of people who were never picked until somebody finally sighed and rolled his eyes and said, "Fine. But she's not batting and you get her next time.") but also a little uncertain about the whole meme protocol. I am just warming up here, so please be patient with me. (But also: Can I kvetch in sentence fragments in the meme? Because this is the experience I seem to be looking for.)
Did you keep a journal when you were younger? Because I did, and let me tell you: these were not the writings of a person brimming over with joie de vivre. Why, when I was glad, would I have wasted one glittering second scrawling away about it? I was out in the sunshine making a daisy chain and just feeling the gladness! So the journal was filled with my ceaseless gloom. My ceaseless and deadly BOYFRIEND gloom, if you must know. In college I dated a Russian major who--how shall I put this?--didn't actually like me. It wasn't just that instead of lighting up a cigarette or whispering honeyed words he lept from bed to scrub briskly at his sex parts with a washcloth; it was that he made me feel like maybe I would have to better familiarize myself with the gloomy poetry of the Russian modernists in order to actualize my girlfriend potential. And so my journal is filled with gloomy entries about this endeavor. "Spent day reading Tsvetaeva (sp??). Tried to read on quad where K. would walk by. K walked by. K. said, 'I like your skirt." He didn't mean it probably. Or did he? He didn't want to get coffee with me after dinner, and then later he said he'd had coffee. (With library girl in the eyelet petticoat?)." Like that. (Aside: God help me if Birdy ever does anything but karate chop the knees off of anyone who makes her feel this way.)
Anyways, I mention this now because this is the impulse that blogging seems to reinvigorate in me. In a column, (there for instance--you knew I was going to plug it somewhere) what with the certain amount of words, and the desire for coherence, I feel like I'm trying to say a little bit about something or other. But here. Here. I am inclined to kvetch in sentence fragments. About Birdy's cold, for example. The school should just add it to the memo. "Your child has been assigned: snack duties for the 4th week, a nature worksheet, the third cubby, and the following viral illness: a common cold" I think how it works is that you get one virus, and then you're supposed to trade it in later for another one that your family has no immunity to. Don't get me wrong--I'll take the gagging mucus cough over any degree of barfing. And we are lucky that these kids get sick and then get better--I do not take this for granted a day of my life. It's just that I forgot to memorize my children's summer faces--the way they look without the snot running down them and drying in patches like crusty, virulent slug tracks. I guess I can wait until June.
p.s. If you "tag" me for a "meme," then I will feel very flattered (Who doesn't like to be picked? Especially people like, you know, certain people, the kind of people who were never picked until somebody finally sighed and rolled his eyes and said, "Fine. But she's not batting and you get her next time.") but also a little uncertain about the whole meme protocol. I am just warming up here, so please be patient with me. (But also: Can I kvetch in sentence fragments in the meme? Because this is the experience I seem to be looking for.)
Thursday, September 07, 2006
You are the best. Honestly.
I felt like my mom herself had logged on a couple dozen times--what with all the "She's just jealous" honey you poured all over me (after I only fished for it a teeny-tiny shameless bit). Exactly! Jealous! She only wishes she had these scowl lines! She wants a piece of these leaf-impacted and warped gutters that will never be different from how they are until I divorce Michael and move away to a country where they replace the gutters for you automatically as a bonus for just being yourself! What she wouldn't give for water pouring down the side of her house in sheets onto the trashitude of a blue vinyl tarp bungee-corded under the eaves! But you--you guys are a force of kindness to be reckoned with. Honestly.
(Plus, if you ever read the babycenter bulletin boards, then you will agree with me that the hi-effing-larious "pimento cheese" comment seemed suspiciously a lot like our dear old friend "BillyJoe5555." "Carmen" isn't your new persona, is it, BillyJoe?)
Not that I wasn't mortally offended by the suggestion that what I'm writing is "not exactly War and Peace." Really? Well maybe if a very hunky and hard-haunched guy jogs up on a horse with his white teeth and fixes the gutters for me, it will at least turn into "Anna Karenina."
Which is a funny thing to write on little Birdy's first day of preschool. Which is what I'm writing my column about right now. As we speak. Somehow it is getting written. In the meantime, there's this, over at wondertime. This blog is still the best place to respond to those columns, but they are working on a bulletin board over there.
I am sending you good vibes during these first weeks of school. Send them back my way.
I felt like my mom herself had logged on a couple dozen times--what with all the "She's just jealous" honey you poured all over me (after I only fished for it a teeny-tiny shameless bit). Exactly! Jealous! She only wishes she had these scowl lines! She wants a piece of these leaf-impacted and warped gutters that will never be different from how they are until I divorce Michael and move away to a country where they replace the gutters for you automatically as a bonus for just being yourself! What she wouldn't give for water pouring down the side of her house in sheets onto the trashitude of a blue vinyl tarp bungee-corded under the eaves! But you--you guys are a force of kindness to be reckoned with. Honestly.
(Plus, if you ever read the babycenter bulletin boards, then you will agree with me that the hi-effing-larious "pimento cheese" comment seemed suspiciously a lot like our dear old friend "BillyJoe5555." "Carmen" isn't your new persona, is it, BillyJoe?)
Not that I wasn't mortally offended by the suggestion that what I'm writing is "not exactly War and Peace." Really? Well maybe if a very hunky and hard-haunched guy jogs up on a horse with his white teeth and fixes the gutters for me, it will at least turn into "Anna Karenina."
Which is a funny thing to write on little Birdy's first day of preschool. Which is what I'm writing my column about right now. As we speak. Somehow it is getting written. In the meantime, there's this, over at wondertime. This blog is still the best place to respond to those columns, but they are working on a bulletin board over there.
I am sending you good vibes during these first weeks of school. Send them back my way.
Monday, August 28, 2006
I sure hope she finds me here!
I'm really going to miss her. But not as much as I've missed Michael since his unexplained disappearance. . .
Date: 12:56 PM
To: All
From: 3kiddosmom
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Well, I for one, am glad that it is over. I don't dislike Catherine, and I admire one's ability to share their private lives for all to read. But.. enough already. Ya, you have cute kids ( though they dress funny) and you're a good mom, but you're not perfect. And I resent the way everyone responds to you as though you are the Ghandi of motherhood. We all have our own parenting styles, and we all think our kids are perfect, or darn near it. I guess they are truly more loyal fans/ friends than I. I find you hypocritical at times, and insensative to your children's needs by posting EVERYTHING about their lives for all the world to see ( or read). By the way, what happened to you and Michael. He seems to have disappeared....
I'm really going to miss her. But not as much as I've missed Michael since his unexplained disappearance. . .
Date: 12:56 PM
To: All
From: 3kiddosmom
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Well, I for one, am glad that it is over. I don't dislike Catherine, and I admire one's ability to share their private lives for all to read. But.. enough already. Ya, you have cute kids ( though they dress funny) and you're a good mom, but you're not perfect. And I resent the way everyone responds to you as though you are the Ghandi of motherhood. We all have our own parenting styles, and we all think our kids are perfect, or darn near it. I guess they are truly more loyal fans/ friends than I. I find you hypocritical at times, and insensative to your children's needs by posting EVERYTHING about their lives for all the world to see ( or read). By the way, what happened to you and Michael. He seems to have disappeared....
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Bear with me, my friends. While I am entirely accustomed to expressing myself in an 800-word column (see, for example, my, ahem, newest column over at wondertime which used to be called "Naked Crabs," and now seems, er, not to be. . .) I am new to blogging. Mostly, I'm still writing a weekly column, and so I may not post here all that often. And yet. So many of you wrote me here to cheer me on, and I'm thrilled. It's funny--it feels more intimate or something. Like I can tell you here that I'm having a sad week, that an old (but young) friend of ours died on Tuesday, that I cried peeling peaches and groused at Ben while he was playing *solitaire*, for god's sake. And I don't even have to turn it into a lesson I've learned. (The lesson is: People our age get breast cancer. The lesson is: Leave your children alone when they're playing cards by themselves, for god's sake. The lesson is: Love harder, but more easily too.) I will try to write here more regularly, and also more coherently. But please read that weekly wondertime column because they are counting clicks over there, if you know what I'm saying. I'm saying bear with me.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
One Bean Salad (for Becky)
I am sitting here trying to think about how to tell you
things you already know. For instance, the way the fall plunges me into the
kind of bittersweet nostalgia that makes me feel like I have a permanent lump
in my throat, a geode full of tears. The children's hair has grown long, their
pants have grown short, they ride their two-wheelers and theorize about death
and clap when we stop for ice cream and it is the same old same old. But oh, it
gets me every year, this change of season from the bright and buoyant
summertime to the melancholy darkening of autumn: the smell of wild grapes in
the air, the children leaving us for school, everyone missing everyone else all
day long until we are reunited for the blue twilights. I catch them into my
lap, press my nose to their scalps, and it is still the only way I know to be
sure that I am fully here, now, soaking them in before they flood out of the
house on the tides of their own growth and movement. That wild-animal smell of
their hair, which I was born to breathe.
Do you know what I'm saying?
Partly, it's because this is the season of Ben's birth, when
the ripening of peaches plunges me into memories: of my own ripe roundness,
trolling the Santa Cruz farmer's market for the fruit that sustained me: melons
and apples and concord grapes, everything bursting with juice and the righteous
promise of the nutrients that I could practically feel coursing through the
umbilical cord into that big baby. Does it help that we have this gorgeously
huge and burstingly pregnant Anni living in the house with us? With her baby
due this very month? No. No it does not. Or rather: yes. Of course it does. But
it compounds my nostalgia even further, this refracting of memory through the
orb of her expectancy.
Which is where the bean salad comes in, because yesterday was
Anni's baby shower, which was a potluck, and I brought this salad, which was
devoured and adored by a devouring and adoring crowd of Anni's people. Because
it's crazy, lip-smackingly delicious. Also because I had picked the beans from
our CSA not even a full hour before, when I'd taken myself off to the farm to
pick and think, and enjoy the sun and the breeze and the smell of the hot trees
and ferns and the wash of feelings that I never have a minute alone to feel.
Not that I need a minute alone to feel them, not really. Because it is all
around me, even as I'm making the beautiful bean salad, while Ben and his
friend Ava creep around the house in black jackets and wool caps, with plastic
guns and plastic cigarettes and notebooks full of notes, because they are spies
who are spying, and I can hear the tinny rush of their voices through the
walkie talkies they're using. They are so big and so little all at once--I
don't know how adequately to express this. You can smell teenagerhood on them,
literally, but then they're so caught up in their private world of giggling and
make-believe. And they've still got the faces of angels.
One-Bean Salad
Serves 8
Total time: 30 minutes (this includes the bean prep)
You could, of course, use a good olive oil here--and I sometimes
do. But I've taken to using vegetable oil recently because it keeps the whole
thing tasting light and lemony and herbal, rather than strong and olive oily.
Totally your call. Also, as always, if the onion is going to keep anyone away
here, then skip it--but don't skip the mustard because it really helps emulsify
the dressing. Oh, one more thing: lots of herbs are great in this instead of
the tarragon: dill is a classic, and basil is fantastic as is marjoram; and
even without any herbs it's just delicious.
2 pounds green beans, stem ends removed
Finely grated zest of one large lemon
Juice of one large lemon (a scant 1/3 cup)
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 teaspoon each kosher salt, sugar, and Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon tarragon, measured and then finely chopped
1/2 a red onion, finely chopped and rinsed in a sieve under
cold water
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil, then boil the
beans until just crisp-tender, around 5 or 6 minutes (although this will depend
on the size and freshness of your beans, so start checking them way earlier).
Drain the beans and rinse them under cold water until fully cold, then drain
again and wrap in a dish towel to dry them thoroughly.
Meanwhile, whisk together the lemon zest and juice,
vegetable oil, salt, sugar, mustard, and tarragon. Taste the dressing: it
should be tart and zingy, but not punishingly so. Add oil, sugar, and/or salt
to balance, need be--or more lemon juice, of course, if it seems too oily
(which it likely won't).
In a large bowl, toss the dried beans and the onion with the
dressing, then taste again, and add more salt need be. Serve immediately or
marinate at room temperature for an hour or two (at which point you should--I
know I always say this--taste it again to see if it needs anything else).
Friday, July 28, 2006
The Pimping Introduction
Hello! Is that you? Did you find me here? I'm so glad! If you're coming from babycenter, then please know how grateful I am for those fantastic years. Thank you.
(An unrelated aside: It's funny to be floating around out here in blogland, where I could, say, write the f word if I want to. I will save that particular thrill for a rainy day.)
So, I thought I would just mention some things about where else you might come find me, now the the gig is up over at babycenter. I will miss being there very much, as you probably know. I wrote "Bringing Up Ben and Birdy" for four years, and it is all archived here. All eighty katrillion entries of it. Holy moly.
My new column (please don't expect to be blown away by the newness, if you know what I'm saying, as there won't be any shortage of entries about impatience, Chex mix, and saggy boobs) is called Dalai Mama, and it's over at Wondertime. Please come visit me there. There may not be a comment section up yet, but there will be soon. Also, it's a little confusing, since there's the monthly column I write for the magazine, and then the weekly blog that you have to click on from the home page (wait for it to scroll past in that little scrolling box).
I've also been writing for the Oprah Magazine (more about the boobs coming soon!), and I always write a lot for FamilyFun, a magazine I love and that I'm shy to mention since it reveals the Polyanna-I-made-it-from-craft-foam-and-celery-salt side of my personality. But still.
There is the book, too. You know, that book, Waiting for Birdy, which decorum has kept me from begggggggging you to buy: but my god, please buy it. Pleeeease. Then I can bail Ben and Birdy out of prison when they're teenagers. Plus keep up my Chex mix habit.
And finally: do you need the best massage of your entire life and happen to live in Western Massachusetts? Or do you have a friend here who could use a gift certificate for a massage? Have I got the perfect, hunky, strong-but-gentle massage therapist for you! I'm not kidding you. This is a massage that will change your life, and then you can write to thank me for having been the crash-test massage dummy all these years so that you could get a great massage.
Okay, I've pimped my whole family out. Please be well. More soon.
Monday, July 24, 2006
More camping food! And a food-packing list.
High Camp
Eating is my favorite part of car camping, and I can tell
you that I did not feel this way when we were young people backpacking our
earnest way across the Sierras. Those were the days of freeze-dried
something-or-other that was always rehydrating awkwardly in our bellies because
we'd wolfed it down too soon and too fast. Those were the days of too much
jerky, too little yumminess, no cold beer, and a dreaded implement we called
"the dung trowel." What were we thinking?
Because now we are all about the good camping food--which
doesn't mean we're always or ever especially fancy about it. In the ravenous
fresh air, a hot dog browned and blistered on its stick is as good a meal as
you're likely to eat anywhere. As is cheese melted stinkily on a log near the
open fire and served with boiled potatoes and cornichons--our camper's version
of the French dish raclette. We fry
bacon on thick sheets of foil (crimp the edges up so the fat doesn't run off
and catch fire), we roast potatoes and corn in the coals, we prepare various
camp classics featuring the word "hobo" in their names, because what
could be more enticing than the culinary output of penniless train-riding
vagabonds?
We eat and eat, with a kind of righteous ravenousness born
of the great outdoors: chips and salsa, crackers and cheddar, sandwiches of
goat cheese, cucumbers, and fresh dill. In the mornings we sit with our muesli
and our smoky fire-brewed espresso and watch the sun glittering on the pond
through the trees. Under the stars, we pop corn and roast marshmallows and gaze
sleepily into the flames. One year, on my husband's birthday, we even steamed
lobsters in an enormous pot and ate them, dripping with butter, off of paper
plates. And when it rains, there are always the clam shacks, where we stall
over steamers and fried bellies and onion rings and wait for it to let up. But
mostly we cook, and these three recipes here are the ones we return to over and
over. If you eat them with a tent and a roaring fire and lots of gigantic
clacking beetles nearby, they will be mind-bogglingly fantastic, but here's a
secret: you could actually make them at home on your gas grill or in your fire
place, and they'd still be good. Excellent, even.
Pie-iron Pizza
Hobo pies make a filling and delicious amusement: two pieces
of buttered bread sandwich your favorite contents, then toast over the fire in
a long-handled pie iron (Rome Industries, $20) to make the original, low-tech
hot pocket. You can crimp any filling you like inside the crisp, delectable
pies--cheese, marshmallows and Nutella, peanut butter and jelly, even tinned
pie cherries--but this is our favorite:
Bread
Butter
1 small can tomato paste
Mozzarella, sliced
Favorite pizza toppings: olives, peppers, pepperoni
(optional)
Butter a piece of bread, then spread the unbuttered side
thickly with tomato paste before laying on the cheese and toppings. Top with
another piece of buttered bread, press the sandwich into the pie iron, and
toast it over the fire (ideally over hot coals), turning it from side to side,
until the bread looks beautifully browned and the cheese is melted. Keep
checking, and don't be dismayed if you burn the first one: it takes a while to
get the hang of it, but persevere--it's so worth it.
(Variation: Chicken Parmesan Hobo Pies. On your way back
from the beach, pick up a to-go order of chicken fingers from a clam shack or
restaurant and sandwich them in with the tomato paste and cheese. This is the
most decadent and delicious thing--a favorite of kids and grown-ups alike.)
One-pot Camp Couscous
I have been making this meal
for twenty years (Twenty years! Because I am a thousand years old!), and my
kids refer to it as "The Camp Dinner." You could do this over the
fire, but I make it over the same teetering one-burner camp stove we've been
using for decades. It's so easy and satisfying and wholesomely wonderful that
the truth is I sometimes make it even when we're not camping.
Olive oil
1 onion, sliced or chopped
2 medium zucchini, quartered
lengthwise then sliced
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt (or
half as much table salt)
2 or 3 cloves of garlic,
finely chopped
Optional spices (such as
smoked paprika, cumin, or chipotles)
1 14-ounce can of beans,
with their liquid (black and pinto are our favorites)
1 8-ounce can of tomato
sauce (I use Hunt's)
1 cup of water
1 cup of couscous
1 or 2 cups sliced or
shredded cheese (we use cheddar or Monterey jack)
A large handful of fresh
cilantro or parsley, chopped
Hot sauce
Pour a large glug of the
olive oil into a pot or skillet over medium heat, then sauté the onion until
translucent and golden, about five minutes. Add the zucchini, salt, and garlic,
and sauté another five minutes. Stir in the spices, beans, tomato sauce, and
water, and bring to a boil. Stir in the couscous, then sprinkle or lay the cheese
over the top, turn off the heat, and cover. Let the couscous sit for ten
minutes, stirring once after five, then stir in the herbs and serve it in bowls
with hot sauce for topping.
Packing List
A milk crate packed with:
- Stove and fuel
- Matches
- Pot with lid
- Cast iron frying pan
- Wooden spoon, spatula, tongs
- Can opener
- Pie Iron
- Metal espresso maker
- Mini cutting board and knife
- Half-pint jelly jars with lids (to drink from, measure in, hold bouquets, and store leftovers)
- Metal or plastic plates and bowls
- Paper plates (for when you can't bear to wash dishes)
- Mugs
- Forks, spoons, knives
- Heavy-duty foil
- Paper towels
- Ziploc bags
- Wash Basin
- Sponge and eco-friendly dish liquid
- Dish Towel
- Trash bags
- Oilcloth tablecloth
- Candle for the table
A large plastic bin packed with:
- 5-gallon jug of water
- Coffee and tea
- Sugar
- Olive Oil
- Salt
- Smoked paprika and black pepper
- Hot sauce
- Oatmeal and granola
- Marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate
- Couscous (premeasured in a Ziploc bag)
- Canned Beans
- Canned tomato sauce and paste
- Bread and buns
- Peanut butter
- Jam
- Ketchup and mustard (if you forget, swipe a few packets from a restaurant)
- Onions and garlic
- Chips and salsa
- Crackers
A cooler packed with ice and:
- Cheese
- Milk
- Butter
- Fruit, lemons
- Veggies (cukes and zukes)
- Fresh herbs
- Eggs
- Bacon
- Hot dogs
- Beer and Wine
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