Category Archives: Can’t decide on a category

I don’t wanna

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I’d love to write an erudite post about how the online community is reading Infinite Jest this summer, and how I welcome their inertia so I can undertake Read Number Two. http://infinitesummer.org/archives/215

But I’m just wiped out.

I’d like to enjoy my trip with family to do one thousand things with old friends  while Spouse attends to business. But I’m just too tired.

I’d love to be witty and silly and roll my eyes about how hard parenting is. But I just can’t find the energy right now.

Geez.  I’m not able to be a poser, an activity director, or a snarky whiner? That must be some serious exhaustion. Borne of only three nights of pint-sized knees in my back, A/C wars with Spouse, and running around from place to place trying not to keep the Tazmanian Devil in a hotel room for more than 30 minutes at a time.

and we’re here for another two days…

Memories light the cobwebs in my mind

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It’s been a lovely month for finding old friends, and  I am feeling much more connected to the world, myself (past and future) thhanks to a couple of recent visits.

First, a late, weeknight drive into The City to see old friends reminded me what it’s like to casually move about, unencumbered, and free to eat, drink, and talk at midnight. It felt good. I didn’t want to leave. Three old friends and one new proved interesting, exciting, and accomplished. It was nice to see them, and the follow up two days later was particularly sweet, because a conversation begun became an actual adult interaction, even with Peanut in tow. Rather apocalyptic, because we were in the financial district after hours, and were really the only humans for several square blocks. Oh well.

So tack onto the post-theate reunion another visit from an ACT ghost this week and I feel quite pleased with my life. Shocking, I  know, given the tone of most of my blogs. I thought finding my stage friends, with whom I connected creatively and celebrated nocturnally, would make me feel paralyzed in my current life. I thought seeing friends 10 years after we were all young and brash and creative would make me feel old and unfulfilled. Nope. I’m glad we had those days, annd I miss the stage, but I’m glad to have those friends, glad that our lives have sprouted dozens of facets we didn’t have before. We’re all more interesting, and maybe we’ll keep in touch for the next ten  years.

I also visited a lovely writer in DC who made me feel less crazy, less stifled, less alone only because she’s just as crazy, stifled, and alone as I am at home. I know it sounds ridiculous to enjoy being frustrated that I can’t have a conversation because someone else’s kids make it nigh impossible to interact, but if feels reassuring that it happens to everyone with children. Something feels good about the universality of a deep sigh in the middle of a stream of “Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy listen look listen look why why why mommy mommy mommy.” It feels good to look sidelong at someone who is thoughtfully driving you to the airport while their kids shriek in the backseat, and to  share a joint eye roll. Not because the situation is at all fun. Not because you both *swear* there were snacks in the car that disappeared somewhere between the loading, playdate pickup, and symbolic open road, but now need to listen to the understandable, if a bit shrill, begging for calories from the back seat. No, not my idea of a great time. And yet, my idea of a really, really great time. Because I am not alone. Bless the blogosphere and moms and titter and and all those books that remind us of that fact.

And bless the brilliant book I’m just beginning. Oh, boy oh boy you’re gonna love this book. I’ll tell you when it’s published, I swear, but this woman can freaking WRITE. Dang. Feels good to read so much. To read so much that I like. To read and feed myself so I can go home and know I have old friends and new friends and all manner of brain cells still firing. They cannot kill us, and even if they do not make us stronger, they make us different. And I guess there’s something to figuring out what in the heck they did make us. Are making us. and what we’re making ourselves. Snacks or no.

*Sigh*

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Dulles, you are officially the weirdest airport from or to which I’ve ever flown. A strange apocalyptic bus takes you from security along the runway to the terminal. The restaurants are alternately hardcore, midwestern meat and potatoes and vegetarian raw food agglomerations of sprouts. The insistence on delaying my flight for weather in the middle of summer shocks me beyond words (man, California is looking more and more like paradise, with its lack of humidity or summer storms).

But here’s the thing…the people are nicer than I’ve experienced in a while. Employees nice, sense of humor, polite, generally human. Passengers, too. I’m sure it helps flying Virgin America, with whom I will attempt to share all future flights; and flying to SF, where if the people are weird, at least they’re my kind of weird.

I noticed today, in Arlington and in DC, that I am certifiably born of gypsy stock. Trip to Seattle, I suddenly wanted to live in Seattle. Trip to DC, I consider moving to DC. And afternoon walking though a warmish, humid-ish Arlington and I want to move to Arlington. What is this wanderlust that tells me any breath of comfort I feel means I need to relocate my entire life to that very geographic nexus?

i guess it’s a good thing Dulles intrigues me, because from the frequent, polite, informative Virgin America announcements at the gate about airport-widee delays and weather-basd flight halts, I might be living here for a long, long time.

Good gravy

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No Internet for several days; then tech comes just as I leave for five days to wash laundry and cook and clean and laugh and cuddle for/with/near four of the best people on the planet.

I will post, I swear.  I’m just out of touch with reality for a while…

Memorial Day

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Humbled by the sacrifice of centuries’ worth of families throughout the world to our nation’s ideals.

Horrified at how, at times, those sending those families (for it is whole families and not just the amazingly courageous who go) to fight may do so for the wrong reasons.

Reading Joker One by Donovan Campbell. And I am speechless. Read it.

I don’t believe in war, but I believe, deeply, that we owe veterans more than we can ever repay. Thank you. From every cell under my skin. May every single one of you come home honored for the sacrifice you have chosen to make. This country would not exist without each one of you, including those we’ve lost.

Thank you.

Stranger in a strange land

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Wonderful trip, gorgeous landscape, and generally friendly people. But man, it is rather sad to be a vegetarian in Kansas City. We were welcomed warmly, but we’re coming home a little low on protein…

When we went out to dinner, the waitstaff were very polite when they told me that, no, they didn’t have a meatless burger option and yes, the chili has meat (this ain’t the West where they put beans in chili, either—this is straight up chili the way God intended…meat and spices) , and sure they can make the salad without turkey and ham, but who would want that, and yes the sauces were all dairy, why wouldn’t they be, and yes the soups all used beef stock or chicken stock, how else do you make soup? (The Japanese restaurant acros the way didn’t have tofu or edamame, so it wasn’t just our choice of restaurant; it was a whole different planet.) So I had my really tasty plain garden salad with a side of sauerkraut (jarred, but good) and grilled onions (burnt, but yummy), and Peanut had a side of cheese (which he announced loudly was “pretend cheese” because all they had was American cheese [and btw, is that the best face we have to put forward as  Americans? Really?  And the cholesterol-lovers insanity that is an “American breakfast”? Can’t we claim something a little tastier and healthier as our food ambassador? American wild rice or something? San Francisco has been battling the Rice a Roni bit for years (since the SF treat is artisan chocolate and sourdough), and the French aren’t exactly pleased with the fries and toast thing (pan perdue isn’t really from France, and pomme frites aren’t native, either), so I guess we can suck it up and claim processed oil as our signature cheese. But you can’t make me  eat it.]

As expected, at the  markets, there was no hummus section or organic foods. Saw that coming 1,000 miles away. We came prepared with whole food bars and almonds and dried fruit. But I was surprised that there was no plain yogurt or at least yogurt without gelatin, and no dairy or egg products  produced without hormones or antibiotics and fed a vegetarian diet.

There was great popcorn and plenty of bread. And rolls. And crackers, if we were willing to waver from our self-imposed ban on hydrogenated oils (which we did, because principles are fine and good when you have choices, but of course I’m gonna eat the jello-whipped-cream-pistachio-pineapple-marshmallow goodness because gelatin may come from cows but it doesn’t have a face and I can pretend for one weekend that I didn’t know it was in there). I ate potatoes but Peanut won’t, so he had a ton of cake. And his first chocolate milk. And as many Odwalla smoothies as we could cram in our hotel fridge. (Hey, Iowa and Missouri: really nice work, there, on offering the hotel fridge and microwave standard. Made life much easier. Thank you. You totally rock compared with the nickel and diming coastal hotels that have a fridge stocked with stuff that they charge you to *move* let alone eat or drink, and no microwave at any cost.)

So when we get home we’re going to have hummus and tofu and plain organic yogurt and organic produce and beans and rice until we’re green at the gills. But for now we’re really happy to have seen family. It was an easy, fun trip, and we were lucky to have it.

[And to keep having it, now that we’re waiting at the Kansas City airport for weather in SF to clear before they’ll board us…looks like lunch may be more bread and crackers.]

Valliantly finding happiness

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Fascinating look in the Atlantic Monthly at George Valliant and The Grant Study, a 70+-year look at the lives of promising young men and what they’ve become. The data is being analysed, as seems fitting, as stories about these men and their lives. The results are remarkable.

One of my favorite quotes from Valliant in the podcast accompanying this article is about “the miserable process of getting from 25 and 35 when you’ve got all this health and all this your and you’re scared stiff that when it’s all said and done you’re not going to amount to a hill of beans…”  I’ve said before that 25 is hands down the worst year ever, in terms of existential angst, and I’m finding that mid-thirties ain’t much better. Now that he mentions it, the whole period had some bursts of “okay, I think I’m going to make it,” but it is a morass of angst and torment and existential malaise.

I hope to heaven the hill of beans can begin now…

Iowa homecoming

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I haven’t been to Iowa since I was a year old. And it’s beautiful here. But it doesn’t feel like home.

A recent comment from a reader in Oregon noted that said reader was thinking of moving back to the midwest. I don’t know, man. I’ve lived a lot of places, and San Francisco is home for me because I’ve spent more time there than anywhere else. But also because I have a thing for major Universities, the ocean, theater, symphonies, and 24-hour days.  So I’m probably staying somewhere between The Pacific Northwest and Northern California. Iowa and Missouri are (mostly) gorgeous, but things close earlier than I can handle. And I don’t fit here. There is no soy for my coffee, nor is there nonfat milk. Nor is there coffee. There’s coffee flavored water. And that’s okay, but it doesn’t feel like home. There is no organic section in the market (although Kansas City had three frozen entrees from Kashi, all of which I purchased) and there is no recycing anywhere, let alone in public places. We’re eating popcorn and hormone-antibiotic-pesticide yogurt for breakfast because the word vegetarian makes people projectile vomit out here…understandable, but it doesn’t feel like home.
There is a reason I couldn’t find parks. Because everything is a park. Our hotel, the only thing for miles and miles, is lakeside, and we awoke to a window full of vast expanses of thick-trunked trees, distant views of barns and silos, the sound of canadian geese, and a steady breeze lapping the muddy water across the front of slowly trolling boats. But radio stations play country and Jesus only. In KC we found alternative rock, classical, NPR, rap, elevator music, classic rock, and 80s nostalgia stations. Iowa border switched to just steel guitar and the Lord.
For those who have lost their corn, Iowa and Nebraska may be the way to go. I could handle the winters, I think, since I’ve spent time in South Dakota, Nebraska, and Boston. But unless I’m in Chicago, I don’t see the Midwest in my future any time soon. I don’t need skyscrapers. I need cafes full of writers, indie music, and stellar theater.
Good luck deciding. Peanut LOVES it here. He’d move with ya.

Do your bleeding heart a favor

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Do not start searching online for rescue dogs. And especially don’t start looking to rescue a dog of one breed, then see a picture of a wounded dog and start contemplating a cross-country trip to rescue it. And especially don’t click on the links to dogs with special needs and decide to adopt every single deaf dog in the country.

Especially the ones whose “parents split up and they didn’t want him any more.” Are you kidding? I’m sorry, what? You split up and sent your dog to the shelter? There’s a special place in hell for a–holes like you. Dog can’t get adopted out of the shelter even though he knows ASL, because he needs to be the only dog at home (gets  spooked when big dogs sneak up on him). Oh my god, it’s my kid! *He* also knows ASL and wants to be the only kid at home  because he’s spooked when big dogs sneak up on him. I am seriously considering taking a trip to Ohio and bringing home the last thing we need right now just because there’s a lonely soul out there who deserves love.

Someone please adopt these dogs before I wind up with all of them…

The neverending meme

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Okay, faemom, you asked for it. I’m already thinking I shouldn’t have copied and pasted. ‘Cuz this is, like, an hour of uninteresting schlock about my least favorite person…but I can’t turn down a quiz, homework, or opportunity to practice my Oprah interview, so here goes:

What’s your current obsession?

Figuring out my life. I’ve done some stuff and I want to do some other stuff. But not all the goals will be met just with the work I can do in a 24 hour day, and I’m a bit baffled as to which to tackle next. So I obsess over choosing and balancing and Lincoln Logging my life, even though it’s all just pretend because the little hostage taker is ruling the roost for now. Because after all these years, I still foolishly think I can plan stuff and have it go off as scheduled.

What’s you favorite color and why?

Don’t have one. Colors found in nature amaze me. Colors created by humans amaze me. Shades white, black, and grey fascinate me. And I’m a ‘it depends’ kind of person. The best color for a clear sky is not the best color for a rainy sky is not the best color for the living room is not the best color for frosting. Mmmmmm frosting.

What are you wearing today?

Clothes.  Whatever was nearest the bed when I got up. Probably mostly what was already on when I got up. No jewelry or shoes.

Why is today special?

I’m still breathing and so are the people in my life.

What would you like to learn to do?

Control my temper. Speak Spanish and French, read Latin. Quilt. Live in the moment. Suffer fools gladly. Get my kid to listen the first time I ask nicely. Work my SLR. Code html. Juggle (literally, not metaphorically). Find some balance in life. Let things go. See other things through to the end. Cross stuff off my list instead of just adding to the list. Find my list. Design fonts. Fly an airplane. Overcome fear of heights (probably that one first, before the planes.) Nap. Paint (art not walls). Sculpt. Throw pottery.

What’s for dinner today?

Cheese.

What’s the last thing you bought?

A book.

What are you listening to right now?

Snoring cat, increasingly forceful rain tapping the roof and window, occasional car going past the house, and the whipping frenzy of two pinwheels “planted” (by one adorable small person) in the windowbox outside the kitchen. Refrigerator. But overwhelmingly: quiet. Kid asleep, Spouse out with friends. Mmmmm, aloneness.

What’s your most challenging goal right now?

Get through the day without judging my every thought and choice. Also a PhD and a finished novel. But mostly the inner critic thing.

What do you think about the person who tagged you?

I think it’s grand that she didn’t tag but instead offered the option of joining. Very civilized of her, as is her wont.

If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?

New York City. Don’t get there as much as I would like, can’t afford it when I do, and could rent that sucker for a mint.

Favorite vacation spot?

Toss up…Kauai on the south shore near Poipu or the French side of the France/Spain border in the Pyranees.

What would you like to have in your hands right now?

A copy of my novel with the “Winner of the Nobel Prize for Fiction” emblazoned cover.

What would you like to get rid of?

The list is long, but since each niggling thing on that list makes me who I am, I’m going to say—nothing. Wishing to get rid of things is just regret repackaged. Do or do not. There is no try.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?

Bed.

What super power would you like to possess?

Ability to be loving, patient, thoughtful, productive, creative, fun, and brilliant on just three hours of sleep a night.

What’s your favorite piece of clothing in your own closet?

The sweater Spouse just presented me before my trip to Seattle/sanity, saying that he thought it might be cold and I ought to have a new sweater.

What’s your dream job?

Editor at my own publishing house where we produce all manner of linguistic, grammatical, fictional, and non-fictional texts by genius writers. Free to those who cannot pay and ragingly expensive to those who can. I spend my days reading drafts, discussing the language with brilliant colleagues, and ensuring social justice throughout the world.

If you had $150 now what would you spend it on?

Savings account. Because that’s the way I roll.

What do you find annoying?

You name it. I’m not a tolerant person. Want a short list? Car alarms, leaf blowers, gas lawn mowers, voters who toe the party line without thinking, obscene wealth, narrow American worldview, grammatical errors, whining, country music, racism, sexism, reader response, unnecessary apostrophes, most of my college students, moms who say they just love parenting even though they have fulltime jobs and a nanny.

Describe your personal style.

Fashion style? Self-effacing, untidy, Pretty in Pink meets Katherine Hepburn meets poor college student meets mousy Berkeley soccer mom.

Communication style? Stream of consciousness and confrontational.

Management style? I’ll get you the tools you need to do your best job and any help you need, then I’ll stand back and  you’d damned well better deliver.

What fashion show would you want tickets to?

Can’t think of a bigger waste of time.

Who’s closet would you want to raid?

Annette Benning.

What are you most proud of?

Tough call…wrote and performed stand-up comedy;  got my Master’s degree; did more than a dozen triathlons while afraid of open water swims; stayed in a distant place after a nasty breakup just to prove I could make myself proud of something concrete rather than tuck tail and run home; left a pretty awesome job because I could do better; called and apologized six years later because it was the right thing to do.

Probably the comedy. Got paid in money and applause, and the latter lasted a lot longer.

The bloggers I’d like to know about are:

Any and all who have something interesting to say, even if they avoid this meme like the plague.

(The original meme included rules, which I deleted because I resent rules. Also because one of the rules was that I should change one question. So instead I changed the rules. You may now do whatever you like with this meme. )

Easy weekend

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Two adults, one child, one 16-ft. truck, three days, and a house and garage full of stuff to move less than one mile.

I bet we’re done in  two and a half days.

Another rental, this time away from the noises and neighborhood we’re not crazy about for different noises and neighborhood until Mr. Mortgage (over at his new blog which is finally up at Field Check Group) suggests that, some time in 2011, that the bottom has finally arrived and it’s time to buy.

These are a few of my favorite spam…

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No, I’m not going to post the spam here. But I will categorize, analyze, and belittle for your reading pleasure.

Blog spam is quite different than email spam. Email spam tries to sell you something, get your money to Nigeria, or increase your [fill in the blank: size/pleasure/results/income/whatever]. Blog spam, though, tries to get your readers to follow a link to something they’re selling, whether product or ideology.

My delight stems from the approaches:

1) The “I stop here today read your amazing blog wow this is post I find  interesting for the thank you for posting” poorly translated obsequious post. Optional bonus: the barely coherent promise to “be frequent visitor here”

2) The dump of unrelated words and a link. Totally  nonsensical and pointless…if you’re just commenting hoping to find someone who doesn’t screen comments and posts everything, why bother with the random words? just post the link and hope it gets through.

3) My new favorite: the beligerent spam. These are new to my comment section and include a sentence of praise for the post, an acknowledgement that the following link has nothing to do  with anything you’ve ever said, and the admonition “don’t be an ass. This isn’t spam.” Oooooh. Thanks for telling me. I thought unrelated comments that refer not to my nonsense but instead point my readers to your nonsense was called spam. But if you call me an ass for thinking about deleting your comment, that makes it not spam? Nice tactic.

Maybe if I start asking people on the street and deriding their “do I know you?”s with “don’t be an ass, this isn’t mooching!” I will actually have an income. That would be nice, no? Try it yourselves. On strangers. With whom you have nothing in common and who have no interest in your having extra money. Ask them for some. Pre-empt arguments with “don’t be an ass; this isn’t unsolicited.” See how it goes over. Then tell me about it. I’ll even let you link to your site if you have actually read something I’ve written. Even if you call me an ass.

For really, at least this new spam tactic calls a spade a spade. Except it won’t call a spam a spam. Puzzling.

Can’t you do those sums in your head?

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Number of times kid woke me last night, screaming, scared, or needy: three

Number of times spouse work me last night, snoring: three

Number of times cat #1 woke me last night, kneading kitty bread on my all-too supple belly: two

Number of times cat #2 woke me last night, yowling to go outside, totally ignoring the eight year precedent as an exclusively indoor f–king cat: two

Total times some other creature woke me last f–king night: look, I got an A+ in calculus at a pretty prestigious University, but I can’t even add right  now. And does the number really matter? I am the grouchiest (what is the right word? “bitch” has too many connotations that my anger and frustration are misplaced because I’m a woman which is false [the misplaced part not the woman part…as though there is a “woman part”]; “a–hole” connotes that I’m less shitty today because I more puckered; and “motherf—er” just doesn’t work right for so many reasons…let’s try again) the grouchiest shell of a human this side of Alaska.

Aaaaargh!

I think I need a career as a pirate. Those f—ers get some respect.