Category Archives: Can’t decide on a category

An anonymous note

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Look, all I’m saying is that, if you leave your favorite chocolate out in plain view, where anyone cleaning out the closets in a end-of-the-year fit of “I have to have something to show for my year besides half finished articles, unpublished novels, a couple of conference badges, and a temporarily delightful three-year-old” productivity in which he or she moves the furniture around [again] and reorganizes the closets, why then I think said chocolate is fair game.

It was only tucked into the pocket of a jacket you rarely use, probably in a vain attempt to foil my chocolate radar. Unfortunately, you should know me well enough to know I’m more of a candy hoarder than a candy eater (if that’s possible) and that I’m always checking closet pockets for cash, anyway.

So, really, it’s your fault. For the obvious hiding place and for the general ignorance of the rules of chocolate engagement.

That’s all. Not my fault. Totally your fault.

Also, not the best chocolate, either. You have poor taste in chocolate and hiding places. Wipe off that sourpuss and go get some Guittard. I left you some of your stuff. Now get me a substitute before I finish your stash. The other hiding spots are dry.

I swear…

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If I make it through this year I deserve a prize. Not a “health care is finally a bit more humane now that we’ve managed the middle man a smidge” award. Not a “saving lives” or even “making lives better” award. Not an award for patience, heaven knows; nor an award for treating man or beast well. Not an award that says “thanks for making the plant better and humanity seem less terrible.”

Just a plain old “making it through each day without offing yourself or anyone else, trying your best to be respectful, watching your mouth, and doing your best to be and raise a decent citizen by the skin of your teeth” award.

If you deserve one, too, by all means, give yourself one. Heck, give yourself one for each day you make it through. I’d offer to give you an award, or create some cute little certificate for you to print, but if you saw the list of other things I need to do and the basic Euclidean-space-temporal framework in which I’m forced to operate, you’d do the work for me.

Happy Freaking Solstice. Hope your night is nigh as long as mine.

Well, it seemed like a good idea…

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Successful planning is biting me in the ass again.

I have to admit my terrible flaw (that’s right. just one.) I’m a hyperplanner. I used to begin assignments the day they were announced, drawing up a timeline that allowed for two serious mishaps and a twice-edited paper by the day before the deadline. And I would stick to the schedule. I acknowledge how gross that is, but also offer that it’s a wicked good skill for freelancing and writing in graduate school.

I plan holiday presents in October, because that’s when I think of them. I buy holiday items eleven months in advance because that’s when they’re on sale. (Did you just suggest I get Hannukah candles a month late? Shame on you for talking to everyone who has ever met me. It just takes a little perspective shift for parsimonious to be 11 months early, dammit. And surprised every year when I open the December-decorations box and find new things with the tags still on them.)

(Also? Bite me. The world at large and the people who care about such nonsense are lucky I even decorate. Waste of my dwindling goodwill and patience, decorating. I still wrap presents by putting them in recycled tissue paper and cramming them in a sort-of-the-right-sized bag. Not a gift bag. Just any not-plastic bag. Cuz I’m that classy. And lazy. And cheap.)

Anyway, this year Peanut started his present list a week after his March birthday. I have never, ever bought him something in a store on request. I always tell him we can put it on his gift list, and I type it into my phone’s memo field. (Spouse just showed me how inefficient I am because when Peanut asked for something last week, Spouse took a picture on his phone so all the info, including price, is right there. Um, wow. That’s wicked efficient. I bow to you, Mr. Pants’-Seat-Flyer Who Has Awesome Ideas on Cutting Corners.)

So in November, when family started asking for Peanut’s list, I had it ready. And I offered to buy the items locally for people to save on shipping and to support local family-owned stores. Many relatives agreed. Way cool. All desired gifts are present and accounted for way before I get nervous that the deadline approaches.

Small problem, though.

I now have to wrap more than a few presents. Spouse and I gave Peanut a small gift for each night of Hannukah, plus a big present for Solstice and one for Christmas. There is no Santa gift to wrap, thankfully. (In our family Santa picks up presents to give to charity but doesn’t deliver because we’re lucky and can give instead of receive from the pretend old bearded guy who is just a story so don’t ask how he gets in the house). But there are, like, a dozen other presents to wrap. I’m used to one a night and then reusing the paper for the next day. I think he’s gonna notice if they’re all in the same pink tissue paper I’ve been using since my birthday two years ago. (Thanks, Mom, for being one of those Martha Stewart wrappers who includes a whole ream of tissue in the gloriously sparkled and themed gift bag. The rose and fuscia paper has served the pinkphilic child through seven major holidays thus far. And counting. [the secret is no tape. Just surround the gift rather than really wrap it.]

But this year’s stash will task my supply. So I’m considering newspaper (dammit, I read online) and magazine pages (dammit, I forgot to steal some from the dentist) or actually buying wrapping paper.

Or just hiding gifts in the house, scavenger-hunt style. Now *that* would go over big with the grandparents.

Just what the doctor ordered

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No, not swine flu vax. Still don’t have access. And not a healthy diet or steady exercise. Because I prefer organic unhealthy and sporadic respectively, thank you very much.

No, the Rx of which I speak was a solo trip to New York for personal and professional reasons. Was it a success? Aye.

Seeing old friends has always been my drug of choice. It makes me feel so intensely good I can’t put into words how I value faces and voices that span all the phases of my seriously stunted personal development. It was miraculous to see some of the people I thought had disappeared into the aether. (Yeah, I went Victorian on that one. I debated the contemporary spelling, but I just finished a George Eliot book and am sprinkling my life with the nineteenth century. For fun and profit. Well, really just fun, but you never know.) So it was lovely to see half a dozen people I value above sleep. (Yes, you five, I did just say I value you above that which I’ve dedicated my life to finding, achieving, and relishing. How do you like them apples?) All this in a setting where I wasn’t chasing a small child or trying to keep him occupied with things he likes so I can do what I like: sitting like a lump discussing books and food and politics and life.

It was also a great relief to get in one more conference before the Baby Formerly Known as Vomitron arrives. I had intended to polish and publish as many articles as I could before next fall and to apply to PhD programs as Peanut settled into what I hope will be a better year for both of us. The onset of 15 weeks of nausea made me reconsider, deflate lethargically, then kick the plans into high gear. The conference reassured me that 1)Some of my work makes me a viable candidate for consideration at the journals and Universities to which I’d apply; 2)I must continue to function at as high a level as possible for the next few months, because academia will just not be possible in 2010; and 3)the stuff on which I wanted to focus my scholarship ten years ago may actually start making its way into the mainstream soon, which is freaking awesome timing, all things considered (and Vomitron willing).

But the highlight of the trip was the food. I love good food, and I certainly have access in San Francisco and Berkeley. Really good food. Really, really good….but here’s the thing. Food eaten on vacation with friends in New York City in the just-beginning-to-crisp autumn achieves a whole new level of great over that which is sandwiched in between gulps and eyebrows that remind, constantly, exactly what the babysitter is costing. Some of the dishes in NY (gnocchi alla sorrentina, a grecian omelette, and pret a manger soup grabbed between conference panels) were fine but not spectacular. And some were as well balanced and nuanced as anything I’d had before (a bread pudding of perfect consistency, a brilliant artisan cheese and local veggies omelette, the freaking mindblowing TKO and linzers at Bouchon, and a brie sandwich on cranberry baguette).

But the absolute best time, money, and calories spent were achieved via a raging 25-month sheeps’ milk local artisan cheese from the farmer’s market is still coating my palate with a NYC magnet, pulling me to go back. And telling me that despite my instincts, there need be no punctuation in the above cheese’s hyper-adjectival clause. Cause a pause would ruin the magic, yo.

Believe me, cheese guy, if I could afford to, I would be back tomorrow. Because I have to get more of that cheese and give it to all my friends. Heck, I’ll even bring Peanut this time. Because he should totally get to see NYC at night in autumn. I loved it. Even more delightful this time than it was 13 years ago.

(Holy crap I’m old. Way to kill the mood about a great trip and future successes by recalling how many years have passed since I was vibrant and carefree. Geez. I need more of that cheese to salve my wounds. Oh, look. Brought home a pound. Good thinking.)

Dear WordPress

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Look here, wordpress. I know you’re not going to write posts for me, though I’ve asked you to. I know you don’t have time to check my spelling, grammar, and punctuation, though I’d really appreciate it if your would.

But would you mind not randomly password protecting my lame-ass posts? There is nothing I put on this silly little blog that others can’t read. I mean, I appreciate you looking out for my personal safety or intellectual integrity and all but…wait. Were you trying to protect me from embarrassment? Nah. You’ve let me post some really lame things before.

So quit with the password protection. It’s lame.

Airport announcements

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Excuse me, lady with the skin-tight satin leggings? The shiny black satin leggings? What are those, supposed to make people think you’re wearing leather pants? Do you know skin-tight is not really a good look for you? Do you remember what happened to the seat of your swimsuit when you sit on the edge of the pool? Gets all nubby and bare? Um, that’s what happened to the seat of your pants. And THAT is why you are no longer allowed on the up escalator on a crowded day like today.

Pardon me, ma’am? Ma’am? Yes, you all in leather. Leather prairie skirt, leather vest, leather coat, leather boots, leather hat? Yes. Well, um, most of the other women here have decided *not* to look like cows and we’re wondering what makes you so confident that you can cover yourself in cow and think you don’t look bovine, metaphorically? I see. We’ll note that as you pass through security.

Excuse me, sir? Yes, you. The one who is looking sweetly across the aisle at your 8-year-old son and occassionally stroking his cheek as he sleeps? Yes. Well, you’re making me feel badly for leaving my kid at home. Smiling and cheering at being free. Would you mind not expressing so much unadulterated affection for your boy? Can we pretend this is the 50s for the duration of the flight and normalize that you ignore your kid so I can get some guilt-free free wifi and sleep and quiet time? Thanks ever so very.

Hello, ma’am? Yes, I know this is the bathroom and it’s okay to brush your teeth at a bathroom sink, but you’re in an airport. And you had to carry that floss and toothpaste and electric toothbrush all the way from where ever you’re from just to feel minty fresh? Do you know about rinsing and spitting, cuz that’s almost as good, as a short term solution. Do I have to watch you remove decaying food from your oral cavity while I obsessively wash and rewash and moisturize my hands because, between preschool and four flights this month, I’m feeling a little germy? How long are you travelling that you can’t just brush when you get where ever you’re going? Where *are* you going? I’ve seen OCD dental hygeinists who spend less attention on their oral health. We’re going to have to ask you to refrain from…oh, no, you didn’t just put that in your carry-on to use on the plane. Do you eat nothing but basil spinach corn on the cob or something?
Crap. Where’s my toothbrush?

Hey, that’s not spam!

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I think the WordPressspam filter might be biased against open dialogue and thoughtful comments. Because here are some of the things it caught today:

sKxthonjfwudyu, [url=http://mrexnftgfbqt.com/]mrexnftgfbqt[/url], [link=http://unfchazxfjub.gov/]unfchazxfjub[/link], http://pqekmqataalu.gov/
I think the spam filter might just be a prescriptivist linguist to single out this one, right? It’s just expressing the commenter’s heartfelt, if a bit non-English, feelings.

And, clearly, the spam filter doesn’t know about my multiple personality disorder, nor that my friends call me “dude” and “fella” and “bro” because it also split this comment away from the post for which the ideas are designed:
hi there dudes
my mother recently ran into an online store. the store is selling wide range of discounted label clothes. the shop is selling the items with almost 65% savings. my daughter really needs to get a pair before the get away but not sure that order will be brought in right on time. I am planning to order those prada shoes but not sure yet.
just urged to share with you bros.
thnx fellas.

And what kind of jingoistic, anti-capitalist spam filter can ignore the power of this:
I stand here today humbled by the task before dufus komas, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our cheap dufus komas. I thank President dufus power leveling for his service to buy dufus komas, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

It’s just the spam filter’s power structures and inherent prejudices trying to silence the voices of the powerless. Fight the spam filter.

And to you, gentle spambots, keep those nonsensical spam comments coming! You’re not wasting my time or limited brain space or anything by deluging my tiny little blog with crap. Really.

A warbly note

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Look, blog, all I’m saying is that you’re pressure I don’t need.

I simply can’t be marginally interesting even half the time, let alone daily.

I’m busy with filling out papers and running all over town for physican’s reports and getting freaking painful PPD injections so I can hang at the preschool with my kid until he gets used to things; I have to polish a 25 page article then cut it to a 15-minute talk (good luck with that one, Captain Garrulous); I have to take a 32-page schlock-fest and make into a 40-page example of my best erudition and then into an awesome 25-page article; I have to plan holiday crapola and travel whosiewhatsis; and I have to figure out how to replace at least half of Peanut’s Halloween stash, because today it was simply magnetic, and the kid will notice. He pours out the whole stash on my bed every morning at dawn, with “mommy, you don’t have to get up, but can you help me pick my candy for today” because I stupidly put a two-piece a day limit and now he’s having this crappy candy for breakfast every day and will be until January. At least. Unless he notices the dearth of nougaty and caramely pieces (kind of sounds like an order of nuns) and calls me out, in which case there’s gonna be a serious meeting about how I’m the Mommy and if I’m gonna blog, I need to mainline sugar, else have nothing to say.

Or at least nothing to say so quickly. Or without proofreading.

Fragile X

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Time ran a piece last year on a wonderful, loving family pulled even closer together by Fragile X syndrome. The article is interesting in part because it shows how one astute physician can notice a pattern and push genetic disease research forward by huge leaps.

There’s a lot of recent information on this disease, and the research into Fragile X is at the forefront of our understanding of autism. Carriers of the genetic difference are also subject to a host of medical issues that trouble families who don’t even know they carry the gene.

Look into it. Get involved. Support research.

Dollars and nonsense

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I think, if you’re going to charge that kind of money to listen to me and tell me the same things my friends do, I’m going to go out with my friends more often, practice with the band more often, and pay someone to clean the house once a month, instead. Because, though I’m sure you’re worth it, that fee is some serious bullshit, given my budget.

Hell, coffee these days is some serious bullshit, given my budget.

Thank heavens for friends, bass guitar, and maybe, maybe, maybe not paying Spouse to clean the house.

This just in.

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Newsflash: most people are idiots.

I’m not just noticing. But most people seem not to know and I feel it is a grave public injustice that the majority of humans do not understand that the majority of humans are severely lacking in the mental capacity department. So I’m telling you on this massive soap box that gets a whopping 200 hits a day. I guess that means 6 billion minus about 200 are idiots. Minus at least another 200 who haven’t found this blog yet.

And since everything on the Internet is true and citable in your poorly written college papers, have at it. 5,000,000,600 people in the world are idiots.

You do know you have to pay me if you quote me, right?

SIGG toxic b.s.

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I am so angry it’s taking all my energy not to scream obscenities and cry. Sigg, the maker of stainless steel bottles I’ve used for YEARS to escape exposure from the scary hormone-disrupting chemicals found in plastic (especially BPA), actually contain BPA. Or did, until last year when they changed their liner without telling anyone about the toxins.

Should I have known when they touted their bottles as an eco-alternative that “does not leach BPA” to read between the lines and see that doesn’t mean “does not contain BPA?” Sure. But I wasn’t the only one fooled. Consumer advocates have been trying to prove for years what we all suspected: Sigg is too good to be true.

Now Sigg is willing to replace their old bottles with their new, BPA-free bottles. I refuse to link to their website because I am angry I could spit BPA tainted water. Several retailers are exchanging the bottles for the new version or for an alternative.

I’m not getting new Sigg bottles. I’m going to put on hold my boycott of Whole Foods, whose dolt of a CEO wrote an editorial opposed to health care reform and basic human services (hello, do you know your customers at all?) because Whole Foods is taking back Sigg bottles for a credit. And with that credit I will buy the bottles I thought I could never afford but am now KICKING myself for not buying earlier, distraught with what I may have done to my body, my children’s bodies, and my Spouse’s body by relying on Sigg for so many years.

I’m scared and mad and feel so f—ing misled. What is the point of reading and researching and trying my absolute best if goddamned companies goddamned lie as a way of doing business?

No aluminum. No Gaiam bottles (I knew that because they taste like plastic). No Sigg bottles.

Yes to stainless steel. Yes to Kleen Kanteen. Maybe to whatever other alternatives you’d like to suggest, if you can prove they’re not taking our money and lying like certain other companies. Like all of them.

Don’t wanna be an American Idiot

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Wow, Berkeley Rep has done an impeccable job translating Green Day’s music into a rock opera. Topical, affecting, disturbing, riveting, rocking musical. I’m still agog after last night’s performance.

Michael Mayer’s directorial hand is obvious in this production—you can see Spring Awakening shimmering in everything from production to staging to script. But American Idiot is very much its own theater. And, damn, it’s good theater.

Driving, pulsing, almost relentless, the transitions are breathless, the casting almost flawless, and the use of gobs of Green Day music with minimal dialogue compels beyond what most musicals accomplish. The lyrics, of course, are artistic rants, so Mayer wisely lets them speak for themselves; but he and Billie Joe Armstrong masterfully add layers I never expected to see without seeming forced. Lighting and sound are teched beautifully; I was honestly worried in advance about volume, because I’m a sissy at concerts, but the levels were perfect. Only the fetus had trouble with the pounding bass and angst-filled vocals.

My fears, other than the volume, were that the show would be a pretense for music, and that a rock-and-roll musical would make me feel old. Neither was true. The music is a show in itself, but Mayer did a great job taking substance and layering it with more. And from the opening number, I felt in tune with the characters: fraught with frustration and anger and powerlessness. Maybe because I associate most of Green Day’s music with my piss and vinegar phases. Maybe because I’m not that old (yeah, right). Probably because it’s a well written and impeccably performed show.

The singing last night was impeccable, and highlights include a flawless Tony Vincent as St. Jimmy; immensely likeable John Gallagher, Jr. as Johnny; intense voice of Christina Sajous as The Extraordinary Girl; the raw and adorable Matt Caplan as Tunny (and my friend T’s newest hardcore crush); and special appearance by the compelling Libby Winters as Heather.

A few missteps aren’t worth mentioning. Human beings on stage are sometimes not on top of their games. Righteous choreography sometimes, maybe once, looks silly because this is a group of people on stage moving in ways the other people in your life don’t. The best person for the role sometimes just doesn’t fit into it, even after months of rehearsal. So what? This show is still headed for Broadway, hopefully with the whole cast and crew intact.

I would give my favorite of the night to Tony Vincent for a riveting performance, but we had our first non-grandparental babysitter ever last night, and she ROCKED it. I’m in love. Not to take away from the cast and crew of American Idiot. You fine people should be proud of an accomplishment both remarkable and laudable. Hence the post. But finding a good sitter I trust is too good to be true, even on the Tony Awards. Everyone else in the world: go see Berkeley Rep’s American Idiot. But don’t take my new best friend the babysitter.

When I am Queen

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I shan’t be able to ban things like tantrums or sleepless nights, though I’d like to. Too easy. When I am Queen, bad behavior will still, alas, have to be beaten out of our foes and children.

But while I’m planning my world domination guidelines, I need your input. What would you ban or mandate?

When I am Queen there will be no:

  • RVs
  • croutons
  • single-serving packs of cookies or crackers
  • pesticide or herbicide
  • High School diplomas granted until candidate proves mastery of the apostrophe (and clear grasp of scientific principles but let’s get punctuation first)
  • leaf blowers or gas mowers
  • car alarms
  • cell phones (yeah, yeah, blah, blah, in *my* day we did just fine with pay phones for emergencies. you gotta problem with it, *you* get yourself anointed Queen. tough to do on my blog, but go ahead and try.)
  • Electoral College
  • mosquitoes

When I am Queen every soul on the planet will have:

  • clean water
  • shelter
  • Charleston Chews, chilled if they find that pleasing
  • free, good health care
  • something in their lives they find beautiful
  • safe food
  • a quiet room all to themselves whenever they want it
  • au gratin potatoes
  • a magic leak-proof pen that appears whenever they need it, where ever they are.

I know I’ve forgotten to bestow or ban something…please, dear advisors, point out my oversight.