Well, another year has run its course. Overall, I have to agree with the consensus that 2008 has been a bitch—with a sweet side of course, on which I have decided to focus herewith. Our darling girl joined us at the very end of 2007, and it has been a joy spending pretty much every one of her waking hours with her. And Henry’s made the transition from toddler to full-fledged fledgling. I’m proud to say I was an early Obama supporter and delighted that he took it all the way. I know it’s sappy but I swear I start tearing up every time I see him on a magazine cover in the checkout line. Also on the upside for 08: hate to admit, but have been loving reconnecting with people from various chapters of my personal history on facebook.
I’m interested to see what 2009 will bring (besides my 20 year high school reunion--yikes!). I spent all of the past year with someone attached to my nipple. (I even brought her along to a meeting with a magazine editor in the fall.) While I’m not planning to up and ditch her or anything, I can say I’m looking forward to more independence and, possibly, a new job/career.
As I look back, it occurs to me that I’ve had the good fortune to celebrate New Year’s in some pretty interesting places (although not necessarily in the best of spirits). Let’s see--there was Barcelona (fighting with a girlfriend), Budapest (fighting with a boyfriend), Sag Harbor (fighting with a boyfriend’s irritating friends) and more harmonious celebrations in Glasgow and of course Paris and New York. For the past few years, we’ve been staying local and keeping it pretty quiet. My usual babysitter (grandma) has a far more active social life than I do and she’s usually made her plans for the 31st well in advance, so I don’t even bother asking. All I can ask for these days is a bottle of Champagne, something decent from Netflix and that nobody comes down with a stomach virus. If we manage to stay up past 10:30, I’ll consider that a bonus.
So, I’ve got a massive pork loin in the fridge waiting to be roasted (or massacred as the case may be). We’re all about the traditional southern New Year’s Day meal around here: pork, greens and black-eyed peas for good luck and prosperity. In honor of our roots in Northern Ireland, we also practice first-footing, which dictates that in order to have good luck in the year to come, the first person to cross our threshold must be a dark haired man. If our first visitor happens to be a blond/redhead/female, he or she needs to come in with a lump of coal (for a warm and happy home). Apparently in the UK, visitors actually travel with their own coal (and booze), but we’ve got a loaner lump at the ready since most of our friends and neighbors are oblivious to this tradition.
I’m not much on resolutions, but I have come up with a few guidelines for the coming year: more wine, less whining; more yoga, less fretting; more compost, less garbage. More snogging, blogging and possibly jogging. And fewer paper towels.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Bring on the Coal...
Trying to shake off my inner grinch with some help from Mahalia Jackson. Lay some O Holy Night on me sister—I’m just not feeling it this year.
Must admit that I've been doing my share of pouting AND crying: broke, sleep deprived, cranky and dealing with a little girl with a gnarly case of diaper rash. As usual, I waited til the last minute to do my Christmas shopping and missed the deadline for super saver shipping on Amazon. And of course, we don’t have our tree up yet.
There’s nothing like a holiday to reinforce one’s sense of inadequacy. My sister, a highly educated, well-paid, very busy working mother (who hardly cooks), turns into Martha Stewart at Christmas. Every year, she’s on top of it all--cookies, lights, perfect tree with perfect presents, all wrapped perfectly. Meanwhile, I’m a housewife and can’t seem to get it together in the slightest. Christian and I have always been pretty lax as far as the holidays are concerned. Our classic slacker moves include putting the tree up on the 25th, forgetting about the stockings, leaving un- or partially wrapped gifts under the tree. Nobody really cared. Until now.
This year, our firstborn is totally with the program. Up to speed on Santa Claus and the eight tiny reindeer, stockings hung by the chimney with care etc. Fortunately, he is still pretty much TV-free and therefore somewhat in the dark about the innumerable quantities of plastic junk to be had. So far, he has asked for a polar bear and a toy boat he spotted in one of his I Spy books. I’m a minimalist and, in many ways, allergic to consumer bullshit, but I still worry that I have failed to find the perfect well-crafted, stimulating toys my kids deserve. Still, I have only the mildest qualms about giving my kids some second hand stuff this year. Hank’s also re-getting a toy he received last year but which got put away unopened amidst the madness.
We are keeping it pretty simple, but I still find it all overwhelming (only one minor breakdown so far, I’m happy to report). For some reason, I volunteered to have lunch here on Christmas day so I have to get my household chaos under control on top of everything else. I’ve insisted on potluck, which has me feeling a little guilty, but I know my limits. My in-laws have decided to bail this year and are taking a cruise, which leaves me at once disappointed and relieved. It feels odd not having them around at Christmas, but it’s refreshing to only have to deal with the holiday quirks of one side of the family.
Anyway, still nursing the babe so have to take it easy on the eggnog, but I’ve got Ella’s Swingin Christmas on iTunes and sugar cookies with sprinkles. Getting together with some favorite old friends on the 24th. And Coco, thank heaven, still has no clue what’s going on.
Must admit that I've been doing my share of pouting AND crying: broke, sleep deprived, cranky and dealing with a little girl with a gnarly case of diaper rash. As usual, I waited til the last minute to do my Christmas shopping and missed the deadline for super saver shipping on Amazon. And of course, we don’t have our tree up yet.
There’s nothing like a holiday to reinforce one’s sense of inadequacy. My sister, a highly educated, well-paid, very busy working mother (who hardly cooks), turns into Martha Stewart at Christmas. Every year, she’s on top of it all--cookies, lights, perfect tree with perfect presents, all wrapped perfectly. Meanwhile, I’m a housewife and can’t seem to get it together in the slightest. Christian and I have always been pretty lax as far as the holidays are concerned. Our classic slacker moves include putting the tree up on the 25th, forgetting about the stockings, leaving un- or partially wrapped gifts under the tree. Nobody really cared. Until now.
This year, our firstborn is totally with the program. Up to speed on Santa Claus and the eight tiny reindeer, stockings hung by the chimney with care etc. Fortunately, he is still pretty much TV-free and therefore somewhat in the dark about the innumerable quantities of plastic junk to be had. So far, he has asked for a polar bear and a toy boat he spotted in one of his I Spy books. I’m a minimalist and, in many ways, allergic to consumer bullshit, but I still worry that I have failed to find the perfect well-crafted, stimulating toys my kids deserve. Still, I have only the mildest qualms about giving my kids some second hand stuff this year. Hank’s also re-getting a toy he received last year but which got put away unopened amidst the madness.
We are keeping it pretty simple, but I still find it all overwhelming (only one minor breakdown so far, I’m happy to report). For some reason, I volunteered to have lunch here on Christmas day so I have to get my household chaos under control on top of everything else. I’ve insisted on potluck, which has me feeling a little guilty, but I know my limits. My in-laws have decided to bail this year and are taking a cruise, which leaves me at once disappointed and relieved. It feels odd not having them around at Christmas, but it’s refreshing to only have to deal with the holiday quirks of one side of the family.
Anyway, still nursing the babe so have to take it easy on the eggnog, but I’ve got Ella’s Swingin Christmas on iTunes and sugar cookies with sprinkles. Getting together with some favorite old friends on the 24th. And Coco, thank heaven, still has no clue what’s going on.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
More Exurban Angst
Went to storytime at the library this week (the first time I’ve dared to show my face at this event since last year when Henry knocked over a little girl with a cast on her leg trying to be the first kid to get a hand stamp from the library lady…) and ran into a woman I know from the playground. We’re not close or anything--I initially thought she was one of those smug SAHMs one sometimes encounters. But I’ve kind of come to appreciate her after a handful of conversations over the past year and a half.
Anyway, she and her husband have a relatively modest house on a chic little country road not far from Lovetown. They have apparently decided that they’re in over their heads and are walking away from their mortgage. They’re moving to a neighboring county on the other side of the mountains where the skies are blue and the necks are red. And the houses are cheap. She seemed upbeat, but I was kind of shaken. Had her pegged as a princess only to find that they’ve been scraping by on one teacher’s salary and just couldn’t take it anymore.
She also informed me that the fabulous 70 acre estate across the road from her (which I’ve often drooled over) is on the market (for over 5 mil). Rumor has it that the upstanding owners are splitting up.
I like to think I’ve got a fair amount to bitch about: a quirky old house, an intractable husband, the economic insecurity of the self-employed and so on. But this was one of those interludes that makes you think about how good you’ve got it. So, let me say (particularly in light of my last post) that I’m grateful for our decrepit (but cozy) farmhouse. Grateful for our wide open spaces and the often stunning view from the front porch. Grateful for my raucous but sustaining marriage. And, of course, ever so grateful that the powers that be have chosen to bestow our little podunk with DSL technology so I can blog a little and effortlessly facebook every day for 15 minutes during naptime.
Anyway, she and her husband have a relatively modest house on a chic little country road not far from Lovetown. They have apparently decided that they’re in over their heads and are walking away from their mortgage. They’re moving to a neighboring county on the other side of the mountains where the skies are blue and the necks are red. And the houses are cheap. She seemed upbeat, but I was kind of shaken. Had her pegged as a princess only to find that they’ve been scraping by on one teacher’s salary and just couldn’t take it anymore.
She also informed me that the fabulous 70 acre estate across the road from her (which I’ve often drooled over) is on the market (for over 5 mil). Rumor has it that the upstanding owners are splitting up.
I like to think I’ve got a fair amount to bitch about: a quirky old house, an intractable husband, the economic insecurity of the self-employed and so on. But this was one of those interludes that makes you think about how good you’ve got it. So, let me say (particularly in light of my last post) that I’m grateful for our decrepit (but cozy) farmhouse. Grateful for our wide open spaces and the often stunning view from the front porch. Grateful for my raucous but sustaining marriage. And, of course, ever so grateful that the powers that be have chosen to bestow our little podunk with DSL technology so I can blog a little and effortlessly facebook every day for 15 minutes during naptime.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Outcast in Exurbia
Had a cup of tea the other day with a high school friend who recently moved back to exurban hell after living in Europe for a number of years. She seems pretty happy about it, God bless her.
“It’s so funny that we both wound up back here,” she said as we nibbled on scones at Panera. “I guess it’s a pretty good place to raise kids.”
“I still hate it here,” I found myself responding. Not exactly sure why it came out like that. In fact, I would say hate is a bit too strong. As is hell. Let’s just say I’m ambivalent and call it exurban heck. Usually things will be going along fairly smoothly and all of a sudden I’ll get a bee in my bonnet and start cursing this god forsaken cultural wasteland. My rants are generally directed at my poor husband who convinced me to move back here five years ago in a fog of love. He’s tethered to this place by a number of cords, so we’re unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.
To set the scene for my out of town readership, the funny farm is nestled among the rolling hills on the outskirts of Lovetown, a sleepy little spot which boasts a post office, community center, library, elementary school, a few antique shops, two convenience stores, two pizza joints and two dental practices. The closest “big” town, which I’ll call Loserburg, is a sea of subdivisions and strip malls surrounding a picturesque, but not exactly bustling, downtown.. I was somewhat revolted recently to get a flier in the mail announcing the arrival of Bed Bath and Beyond in Loserburg. Now they really do have every big box store known to man. And just about every disgusting chain restaurant, too. Wait, I take that back—no Red Lobster yet.
I’m sure my dissatisfaction with my milieu has something to do with the absence of decent takeout and an art movie theater. But I think it’s mostly about my inability to develop meaningful social connections. In New York where I lived prior to decamping for the promised land, I had an interesting career, a satisfying social life and a network of friends with whom I shared a range of interests (including, but not limited to, drinking). My romantic life, however, was pretty much always a mess. Now I have a good marriage and a rewarding family life…and, well, not so many friends.
It would be oversimplifying to say that everybody around here is a redneck or a yuppie (although that’s sometimes what it feels like). The truth is, I’ve met some wonderful women in and around little old Lovetown. But the relationships, for the most part, don’t seem to go beyond the playground. And the friends I’ve managed to make, I hardly see.
Part of the problem, of course, is that a lot of us are geographically isolated out here. Getting together with a friend seems like such a big production. On my last visit to New York, I went to a birthday party for an old friend’s daughter and was envious to meet her posse of likeminded urban moms, most of them women from her neighborhood. I regularly find myself pining for my weird neighbors in Brooklyn. Or even wishing I lived in crummy subdivision--anything for a neighbor.
Now, after all that whining, I should note that we had a great time this weekend at a birthday party for a local friend’s mother to whom I’ve also gotten close. She’s a gorgeous and very energetic eighty, and I must say I’m grateful to know her...
“It’s so funny that we both wound up back here,” she said as we nibbled on scones at Panera. “I guess it’s a pretty good place to raise kids.”
“I still hate it here,” I found myself responding. Not exactly sure why it came out like that. In fact, I would say hate is a bit too strong. As is hell. Let’s just say I’m ambivalent and call it exurban heck. Usually things will be going along fairly smoothly and all of a sudden I’ll get a bee in my bonnet and start cursing this god forsaken cultural wasteland. My rants are generally directed at my poor husband who convinced me to move back here five years ago in a fog of love. He’s tethered to this place by a number of cords, so we’re unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.
To set the scene for my out of town readership, the funny farm is nestled among the rolling hills on the outskirts of Lovetown, a sleepy little spot which boasts a post office, community center, library, elementary school, a few antique shops, two convenience stores, two pizza joints and two dental practices. The closest “big” town, which I’ll call Loserburg, is a sea of subdivisions and strip malls surrounding a picturesque, but not exactly bustling, downtown.. I was somewhat revolted recently to get a flier in the mail announcing the arrival of Bed Bath and Beyond in Loserburg. Now they really do have every big box store known to man. And just about every disgusting chain restaurant, too. Wait, I take that back—no Red Lobster yet.
I’m sure my dissatisfaction with my milieu has something to do with the absence of decent takeout and an art movie theater. But I think it’s mostly about my inability to develop meaningful social connections. In New York where I lived prior to decamping for the promised land, I had an interesting career, a satisfying social life and a network of friends with whom I shared a range of interests (including, but not limited to, drinking). My romantic life, however, was pretty much always a mess. Now I have a good marriage and a rewarding family life…and, well, not so many friends.
It would be oversimplifying to say that everybody around here is a redneck or a yuppie (although that’s sometimes what it feels like). The truth is, I’ve met some wonderful women in and around little old Lovetown. But the relationships, for the most part, don’t seem to go beyond the playground. And the friends I’ve managed to make, I hardly see.
Part of the problem, of course, is that a lot of us are geographically isolated out here. Getting together with a friend seems like such a big production. On my last visit to New York, I went to a birthday party for an old friend’s daughter and was envious to meet her posse of likeminded urban moms, most of them women from her neighborhood. I regularly find myself pining for my weird neighbors in Brooklyn. Or even wishing I lived in crummy subdivision--anything for a neighbor.
Now, after all that whining, I should note that we had a great time this weekend at a birthday party for a local friend’s mother to whom I’ve also gotten close. She’s a gorgeous and very energetic eighty, and I must say I’m grateful to know her...
Saturday, November 22, 2008
NO Nostalgia
Experiencing an intense wave of New Orleans nostalgia after reading Poppy Z. Brite’s recent post about Cajun eggnog daiquiris. I have such wonderful (if hazy) memories of cruising through City Park during the annual Christmas lights display while sipping an eggnog daiquiri. (By the way, if you’re in any way surprised or offended by the idea of someone driving around with a to-go cup full of alcohol in one hand, you have clearly not spent enough time in New Orleans). I’ve noticed that while I wear my love for Paris and New York on my sleeve, I tend to bury memories of New Orleans. For the most part, I find that they’re either too painful or too sublime to contemplate, full of the sense of manic depression that was an ongoing motif during my years there. Seems like I was always either elated or miserable. Of course it could have had something to do with all the booze. But there’s something about that city that lends itself to heartache.
More memories stirred up with the realization that my alma mater is in the process of being dissolved. Well, sort of. While I got my diploma from Tulane University (which is still, from what I’ve read, alive and kicking), I actually attended the women’s coordinate college, Sophie Newcomb. After Katrina hit, Tulane decided to get rid of Newcomb College as a separate entity and merge it with a bunch of other undergrad colleges to save money. While I suppose I was vaguely aware of this through some propaganda from the school that came my way after the storm, it has only recently taken hold in my awareness. The restructuring has inflamed a group of alumnae who contend that money hungry Tulane is just looking to grab up Newcomb’s endowment. It’s kind of like poor old Sophie’s been date raped, used up and left high and dry. The ladies are backing a descendent of Mrs. Newcomb who has filed lawsuit against the university seeking to restore Newcomb to its former glory. While I’m about the farthest thing from a Newcomb groupie and have mixed feelings about my entire college experience, I do feel a little unsettled at the idea of my alma mater vanishing from the earth. Oh well, nothing a little eggnog daiquiri wouldn’t cure, I’m sure.
More memories stirred up with the realization that my alma mater is in the process of being dissolved. Well, sort of. While I got my diploma from Tulane University (which is still, from what I’ve read, alive and kicking), I actually attended the women’s coordinate college, Sophie Newcomb. After Katrina hit, Tulane decided to get rid of Newcomb College as a separate entity and merge it with a bunch of other undergrad colleges to save money. While I suppose I was vaguely aware of this through some propaganda from the school that came my way after the storm, it has only recently taken hold in my awareness. The restructuring has inflamed a group of alumnae who contend that money hungry Tulane is just looking to grab up Newcomb’s endowment. It’s kind of like poor old Sophie’s been date raped, used up and left high and dry. The ladies are backing a descendent of Mrs. Newcomb who has filed lawsuit against the university seeking to restore Newcomb to its former glory. While I’m about the farthest thing from a Newcomb groupie and have mixed feelings about my entire college experience, I do feel a little unsettled at the idea of my alma mater vanishing from the earth. Oh well, nothing a little eggnog daiquiri wouldn’t cure, I’m sure.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
In Case You Were Wondering...
I’m delighted to report that the local library can take me off the delinquent list: my very kind NYC friend Jake had Amazon send me a copy of Ballistics. Astoundingly thoughtful, and in the midst of a pre-wedding maelstrom no less. My old roommate Eileen said that she was on the verge of doing the same thing, all of which I find very touching (not to mention encouraging since it means that a few people other than my husband are reading this blog). This, by the way, was not at all what I was going for with that post. However, in case any of the rest of you are feeling generous, I could really use a VitaMix blender and a Volvo station wagon. Have been dividing my arts and leisure time (such as it is) among Billy Collins, Julia Glass’s new novel I See You Everywhere (a library book I am enjoying but do not in the least feel the need to own), the latest VF and the final episodes (thank God) of the original Star Trek series. Billy, by the way, apparently does not have a facebook fan page. Either that or he has taken up the bass and changed his name to Bootsy.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Just figured out my next career move...
Just had a great idea for the president-elect: why not make me ambassador to France? I really do, as they say on facebook, have more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin. Plus, it would provide job for yet another unemployed American. I think I'd be a hit over there and I'm sure I'd get along swimmingly with Carla (and her husband). So, Barack, what do you say? Maybe after you've tackled that nagging treasury appointment, we can get down to the important stuff!
Halos & Heinekens
My perfect angel is getting to be downright sassy these days. Now that she’s on the go (mostly kind of slithering on her belly), she wants to be on the ground at all times and puts up a fuss when she doesn’t get her way. Her favorite activity: picking up debris from the floor, looking right at me as she pops whatever it is into her mouth, and then crawling away as fast as she can while laughing devilishly.
She’s been down on the afternoon nap these days and turns into quite a crabapple later in the day. The window between 5 and 7 pm is usually rather hellish around here. Henry’s usually kind of surly after his nap (if I can get him to take one) and now with baby sis getting in on the act, it devolves into one of those old Calgon commercials with the screaming/whining children, the pot boiling over on the stove etc. Unfortunately, they don’t make Calgon anymore, so no chance of getting taken away... On top of that, Christian has been working in another accursed exurb about an hour away and has been getting home late, so it’s been kind of an exercise in solo parenting for the old mama. Not complaining though because it’s paying the bills…
He did get home the other day in time for me to scoot over to a tennis class I’ve been taking at our local community center (which has pretty much become the hub of my universe). Fun class, but the best part was having a couple beers with the ladies afterward. We closed down Lovetown’s new pizza joint (at 10 pm!). Didn’t know two little beers could give one a hangover, but apparently that’s all it takes anymore. (This is the same gal who once put away a magnum of Pierre Gimonnet over pork chops with one other person.) Marriage, commuting, pregnancy and, now, breastfeeding have led me to cut waaay back. But the nursing gravy train is getting ready to unload its little passenger. Will this mean a return to the drinking life? Unlikely. While it wasn’t so bad nursing a hangover in an office (you know, you can kind of hide under your desk and try to leave early), the days in the motherhood game are just too grueling to survive in a depleted state. But a couple of Heinekens with some new friends….that I can handle.
She’s been down on the afternoon nap these days and turns into quite a crabapple later in the day. The window between 5 and 7 pm is usually rather hellish around here. Henry’s usually kind of surly after his nap (if I can get him to take one) and now with baby sis getting in on the act, it devolves into one of those old Calgon commercials with the screaming/whining children, the pot boiling over on the stove etc. Unfortunately, they don’t make Calgon anymore, so no chance of getting taken away... On top of that, Christian has been working in another accursed exurb about an hour away and has been getting home late, so it’s been kind of an exercise in solo parenting for the old mama. Not complaining though because it’s paying the bills…
He did get home the other day in time for me to scoot over to a tennis class I’ve been taking at our local community center (which has pretty much become the hub of my universe). Fun class, but the best part was having a couple beers with the ladies afterward. We closed down Lovetown’s new pizza joint (at 10 pm!). Didn’t know two little beers could give one a hangover, but apparently that’s all it takes anymore. (This is the same gal who once put away a magnum of Pierre Gimonnet over pork chops with one other person.) Marriage, commuting, pregnancy and, now, breastfeeding have led me to cut waaay back. But the nursing gravy train is getting ready to unload its little passenger. Will this mean a return to the drinking life? Unlikely. While it wasn’t so bad nursing a hangover in an office (you know, you can kind of hide under your desk and try to leave early), the days in the motherhood game are just too grueling to survive in a depleted state. But a couple of Heinekens with some new friends….that I can handle.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
True Blue
You know it’s truuuuuue. We turned Virginia bluuuue.
(Must give credit for that charming little couplet to my old pal Libby from my days as a reporterette at a local rag.)
Oh man, it’s delicious! And the Old Dominion electing a second Democratic senator: icing. Haven’t actually done a cartwheel yet. Too exhausted from staying up all night crying tears of joy. And fighting with the old man. He was all hot under the collar because BO said we could “perfect our union”. Doesn’t take too kindly to anyone trying to one-up the founding fathers…
Don’t know if I’m gonna be able to contain myself when Barack winds up meeting Carla. Is it legal to have that much cool in one room?
(Must give credit for that charming little couplet to my old pal Libby from my days as a reporterette at a local rag.)
Oh man, it’s delicious! And the Old Dominion electing a second Democratic senator: icing. Haven’t actually done a cartwheel yet. Too exhausted from staying up all night crying tears of joy. And fighting with the old man. He was all hot under the collar because BO said we could “perfect our union”. Doesn’t take too kindly to anyone trying to one-up the founding fathers…
Don’t know if I’m gonna be able to contain myself when Barack winds up meeting Carla. Is it legal to have that much cool in one room?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Mixed Marriage Update #2
Well, the ever lovin’ is in a bit of a funk today as it looks like his team’s going down. I can’t help feeling sorry for him, even though I’ll be doing cartwheels if things turn out the way they’re projecting. Christian was still at it at three this morning, trying to convince me not to vote for Obama. I don’t think he was in any way expecting me to pull the lever for the other side, but was perhaps holding out hope that I might get a wild hare and go for Nader or some such. I have been known to vote third party, but there’s no way in hell I’d have done it this time.
My darling thinks my candidate is a socialist and a demagogue. I’m one of those lefties who’s convinced we could use a little more socialism-- in our health care system for sure. I’m well acquainted with the frustrations of being self-insured. And while I don’t mind coughing up a little cash for health care, I’d like just a little bit to show for the thousands I’m shelling out to insurance companies. I want a decent, comprehensive policy for a reasonable price, and it’s something I don’t think I’m ever gonna get without some kind of government intervention.
As for the demagogue part, I don’t think there’s any need to apologize for a guy who has a way with the English language and uses it to inspire people. Au contraire, electing an orator will be such a breath of fresh air after eight years of being inundated with twangy cliches and malapropisms. Just don’t think I could handle four years of Miss Wasilla’s nasal whine and bitchy platitudes. I don’t want somebody in the White House who’s just like me or my neighbors because frankly we’re not all that smart. I don’t want the rest of the world to laugh at us. I want somebody cosmopolitan and sophisticated. Plus I just found out BO’s a Leo which makes him even more appealing. Definitely one of my love signs…
On the subject of love signs…There are times I wonder how I could have fallen in love with a person with such differing views. My husband is an intelligent, creative, well-traveled, compassionate guy. He gravitates toward liberals in his personal relationships. But he’s as conservative as they come, a tough talking nationalist who thinks government is the problem. We make it work, though it does get intense around election time, and I have to protest when he comes home for lunch and tries to turn Limbaugh on. Being a tolerant liberal, I pretty much avoid any efforts to bring him around, but he just keeps on swinging away, hoping I’ll see the light. I’m always looking for common ground, but there isn’t much, at least as far as politics go. I only hope we’re blessed to live a long life together, canceling each other out every November.
My darling thinks my candidate is a socialist and a demagogue. I’m one of those lefties who’s convinced we could use a little more socialism-- in our health care system for sure. I’m well acquainted with the frustrations of being self-insured. And while I don’t mind coughing up a little cash for health care, I’d like just a little bit to show for the thousands I’m shelling out to insurance companies. I want a decent, comprehensive policy for a reasonable price, and it’s something I don’t think I’m ever gonna get without some kind of government intervention.
As for the demagogue part, I don’t think there’s any need to apologize for a guy who has a way with the English language and uses it to inspire people. Au contraire, electing an orator will be such a breath of fresh air after eight years of being inundated with twangy cliches and malapropisms. Just don’t think I could handle four years of Miss Wasilla’s nasal whine and bitchy platitudes. I don’t want somebody in the White House who’s just like me or my neighbors because frankly we’re not all that smart. I don’t want the rest of the world to laugh at us. I want somebody cosmopolitan and sophisticated. Plus I just found out BO’s a Leo which makes him even more appealing. Definitely one of my love signs…
On the subject of love signs…There are times I wonder how I could have fallen in love with a person with such differing views. My husband is an intelligent, creative, well-traveled, compassionate guy. He gravitates toward liberals in his personal relationships. But he’s as conservative as they come, a tough talking nationalist who thinks government is the problem. We make it work, though it does get intense around election time, and I have to protest when he comes home for lunch and tries to turn Limbaugh on. Being a tolerant liberal, I pretty much avoid any efforts to bring him around, but he just keeps on swinging away, hoping I’ll see the light. I’m always looking for common ground, but there isn’t much, at least as far as politics go. I only hope we’re blessed to live a long life together, canceling each other out every November.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
NY State of Mind
It’s a blustery, Novemberish day here on the outskirts of Lovetown. I’m kind of down on country life after an all too brief weekend in NYC. Coco and I left the boys at home and headed to the big city for robust couple of days, which included a swanky wedding in midtown, a baby’s birthday party in Astoria, and a laid back Sunday morning in Caroll Gardens. I’m totally into CG where my glamorous friend Manon put us up. I didn’t get to spend enough time there when I lived in the city. I was a committed Williamsburger back then. It was already a trendy spot back at the turn of the millennium but not so insufferably, self-consciously hip as it has become. Unbelievably, I paid less than $800 a month for my unattractive but remarkably spacious 1 BR in a quiet neighborhood at the Lorimer Street stop. From what I encountered last time I visited, Wburg is a little bit over the top these days. If I could convince Christian to move to Brooklyn (yeah right), I think I’d settle in CG. It’s charming, low-key, and they have a gorgeous Trader Joe’s on Atlantic Ave. in an old bank building. Imagine being able to walk to TJs…Such a romantic notion to this frustrated exurbanite. I got all nostalgic seeing people with those pull-along grocery carts (the kind usually associated with old ladies). Oh man, I used to use mine all the time.
Manon watched the babe while I got gussied up and went into Manhattan for the wedding of a dear friend. Great to see so many acquaintances from the old days in the wine biz. Had hoped to attend with my darling spouse but extenuating circumstances made it more expedient to leave him at home. In the end, going solo turned out to be kind of pleasant. I am always so exhilarated to be able to spend some time in my own head. And how can I describe the sheer joy going to the bathroom by myself for an entire afternoon! Oh and I got to sit next to the bride’s cute twenty-something cousin who let me check out his iPhone.
Got an interesting question from a couple of fellow wedding guests: do you feel like a tourist when you visit New York now? The answer is yes and no. I definitely don’t feel like I live there anymore, and I don’t know my way around the subway system like I used to. On the other hand, when I’m in town, I spend most of my time experiencing life in neighborhoods. Henry did ask me to bring him a model of the Statue of Liberty (he had apparently seen one at show and tell). My plan was to grab one at Grand Central on my way to the wedding. But after the longest subway ride ever from Brooklyn, I was running late for the ceremony and didn’t have a minute to spare. Had I succeeded in my mission, I guess that would have placed me squarely in the tourist camp. Since I didn’t, I guess I’d prefer to call myself a “returning visitor.”
Anyway, sweet little Coco traveled like a champ and enjoyed her afternoon with Auntie Manon. Must admit, I found driving in the city a little unnerving this time. We got a little lost in Queens at one point, and again trying to get out of Brooklyn to head home (they had closed my usual ramp onto the BQE). Asking for directions, I totally felt like a tourist (but an adventurous tourist who spends her time driving around in the outer boroughs). I was once again (as I always was when I lived there) grateful for the kindness of the natives. They got me back on track and I was on my way--it was a beautiful Monday morning and I sank my teeth into a fresh poppyseed bagel as I drove over the Verrazano heading home.
Manon watched the babe while I got gussied up and went into Manhattan for the wedding of a dear friend. Great to see so many acquaintances from the old days in the wine biz. Had hoped to attend with my darling spouse but extenuating circumstances made it more expedient to leave him at home. In the end, going solo turned out to be kind of pleasant. I am always so exhilarated to be able to spend some time in my own head. And how can I describe the sheer joy going to the bathroom by myself for an entire afternoon! Oh and I got to sit next to the bride’s cute twenty-something cousin who let me check out his iPhone.
Got an interesting question from a couple of fellow wedding guests: do you feel like a tourist when you visit New York now? The answer is yes and no. I definitely don’t feel like I live there anymore, and I don’t know my way around the subway system like I used to. On the other hand, when I’m in town, I spend most of my time experiencing life in neighborhoods. Henry did ask me to bring him a model of the Statue of Liberty (he had apparently seen one at show and tell). My plan was to grab one at Grand Central on my way to the wedding. But after the longest subway ride ever from Brooklyn, I was running late for the ceremony and didn’t have a minute to spare. Had I succeeded in my mission, I guess that would have placed me squarely in the tourist camp. Since I didn’t, I guess I’d prefer to call myself a “returning visitor.”
Anyway, sweet little Coco traveled like a champ and enjoyed her afternoon with Auntie Manon. Must admit, I found driving in the city a little unnerving this time. We got a little lost in Queens at one point, and again trying to get out of Brooklyn to head home (they had closed my usual ramp onto the BQE). Asking for directions, I totally felt like a tourist (but an adventurous tourist who spends her time driving around in the outer boroughs). I was once again (as I always was when I lived there) grateful for the kindness of the natives. They got me back on track and I was on my way--it was a beautiful Monday morning and I sank my teeth into a fresh poppyseed bagel as I drove over the Verrazano heading home.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Thinking Thin
Got a surprisingly warm (if characteristically cheeky) email from a long lost, world traveling misanthrope friend the other day (from the New Orleans days--found me on facebook) congratulating me on not getting fat. That, apparently, has been the fate of many of the women he knew in his former life back in the States. Yes, I’m delighted to say that the last of the baby weight seems to have come off—and then some. This presents the unexpected negative that most of my trousers (word choice carefully introduced to avoid offending my UK readership) look like shit on me. I suppose there are worse problems to have. I should note, however, that my failure to incorporate purposeful exercise into my routine has left me pretty flabby. This, along with proliferating varicose veins, cadaver-like skin tone on the lower half of my body and infrequent waxing, has left me rather bikini-phobic despite being back in a size eight.
Like most of us gals, I’ve spent a lot of time preoccupied with my weight, from the freshman twenty to a borderline eating disorder in my early twenties, until finally arriving at something approaching healthy moderation. Lately, my approach has been just not to think about it, which seems to be working. There's also the fact that(although I sometimes feel it’s gonna drive me to drinking) parenthood has, in fact, cut down on my alcohol consumption big time.
My exercise routine, which in the past has varied from running five miles a day to stimulants and techno, now consists mostly of chasing after my preschooler and the occasional home yoga practice. I just started a once a week pilates class (my first ever) in hopes of overcoming my weakling status. And then there’s tennis…
Like most of us gals, I’ve spent a lot of time preoccupied with my weight, from the freshman twenty to a borderline eating disorder in my early twenties, until finally arriving at something approaching healthy moderation. Lately, my approach has been just not to think about it, which seems to be working. There's also the fact that(although I sometimes feel it’s gonna drive me to drinking) parenthood has, in fact, cut down on my alcohol consumption big time.
My exercise routine, which in the past has varied from running five miles a day to stimulants and techno, now consists mostly of chasing after my preschooler and the occasional home yoga practice. I just started a once a week pilates class (my first ever) in hopes of overcoming my weakling status. And then there’s tennis…
L’Oeuf Story
Got my butt kicked by some old ladies the other day (on the tennis court, that is). I was invited to play in a round robin by a local club at which I’d taken some lessons a year or so ago only to find that the ladies at my skill level were all in the AARP set. The fact that I’ve barely picked up a racket in the past year only goes so far as an excuse. More to blame for my decided mediocrity would be a general lack of coordination, bad eyesight and an old prescription, and a complete inability to focus. Yup, the odds are definitely stacked against me. Plus I’m a total chicken at the net. While I haven’t yet given into my inclination to cover my head and duck, I sometimes come pretty close. My only saving grace is being a tall chick, but that will only get me so far. It was fun as hell though, the ladies were gracious, and having a chance to leave the kids in the nursery for an hour and a half was worth the humiliation. You know I’ll be back out there. So look out, Grandma, this hapless housewife is back in action.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Ex Libris
Still haven't returned the Billy Collins book. They'll be coming after me soon, I'm afraid. Not ready to give it up, but I suppose I'll do the considerate thing: turn it over to the next (clearly very enlightened) person and get back in line...Wonder if Billy has a facebook page?
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Mother's Little Helper #2
Here’s what every housewife needs: a good dose of poetry in the morning.
I’ve been enjoying Billy Collins’ latest collection which is entitled Ballistics. Poetry makes so much sense for the harried/befuddled set, mostly because it can be enjoyed in discrete readings. You don’t need to remember what the last one was about to enjoy the next little gem. It’s also pretty darn uplifting. BC has been a favorite of mine ever since I hung out with him at the Cedar Bar ten years ago or so with a group of fellow hangers-on after a reading. There’s a riff on Frank O’Hara (another in my pantheon) that knocked me out. The only problem is it’s a library book. You see, things are tight here at the funny farm these days. As we navigate the rough terrain of raising a family on one income, we’re cutting out a lot of the incidentals. One of my cost cutting directives has been no new books until Christmas (and then only a few…). So I’ve been patronizing the local library with the frequency of Homer hitting the Quickie Mart. We are incredibly fortunate to have a bustling little branch right here in Lovetown. Normally it works out fine: we read the work in question (up to a zillion times if it’s a kid’s book), return it and move on to the next one. But Ballistics is now overdue and it’s stressing me out. I tried to renew it online and got an irksome “failure to renew” message because some other (clearly very enlightened) local citizen has requested it. I’m feeling kind of proprietary about this one because it’s thanks to me that the library system even owns this book. They didn’t have it in their collection until I requested it. It’s mine! Of course, it’s not mine, and I’ll be handing it over (maybe a few days (weeks?) late). Some books you don’t want to borrow. Some books you just want to have…
I’ve been enjoying Billy Collins’ latest collection which is entitled Ballistics. Poetry makes so much sense for the harried/befuddled set, mostly because it can be enjoyed in discrete readings. You don’t need to remember what the last one was about to enjoy the next little gem. It’s also pretty darn uplifting. BC has been a favorite of mine ever since I hung out with him at the Cedar Bar ten years ago or so with a group of fellow hangers-on after a reading. There’s a riff on Frank O’Hara (another in my pantheon) that knocked me out. The only problem is it’s a library book. You see, things are tight here at the funny farm these days. As we navigate the rough terrain of raising a family on one income, we’re cutting out a lot of the incidentals. One of my cost cutting directives has been no new books until Christmas (and then only a few…). So I’ve been patronizing the local library with the frequency of Homer hitting the Quickie Mart. We are incredibly fortunate to have a bustling little branch right here in Lovetown. Normally it works out fine: we read the work in question (up to a zillion times if it’s a kid’s book), return it and move on to the next one. But Ballistics is now overdue and it’s stressing me out. I tried to renew it online and got an irksome “failure to renew” message because some other (clearly very enlightened) local citizen has requested it. I’m feeling kind of proprietary about this one because it’s thanks to me that the library system even owns this book. They didn’t have it in their collection until I requested it. It’s mine! Of course, it’s not mine, and I’ll be handing it over (maybe a few days (weeks?) late). Some books you don’t want to borrow. Some books you just want to have…
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Fall Ramblings
We’re enjoying a run of perfect fall days here in our little corner of the Blue Ridge. The light at the farm in the morning and late afternoon is painfully beautiful. We’ve got some picturesque hay bales, too. I’ve got the blues though. Not sure what that’s about…Maybe the shortening days, the chill in the air. The end of farm stand peaches. The last of the local village fêtes has come and gone. And then there’s this cold that Hank and I seem to be passing back and forth.
Add a little nostalgia to the mix—there’s something about fall that brings me back my former life. I moved to Paris and New York in the fall and that’s when I miss them most. I’m sure most of you urbanites will agree that there’s nothing like fall in the big city, when everything comes back to life after the sleepy summer. Fall always meant good hair days, a new sweater, a new pair of boots. I’d love to be walking along the sidewalk among the colored leaves in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn with a hot cup of coffee in my hand and a swing in my step. I miss that feeling of self contained-ness.
In an attempt to shake it off, I’m taking a cue from Henry’s preschool class and focus on apples and pumpkins. I’m after the perfect apple (unlike my crazy mother who likes to go to a local orchard and pick up half-price “grounders” and bring me bags of mushy, bruised fruit). I’ve already had some pretty sublime ones, crisp and tart and am ready for more.
Today it was the pumpkin patch with Henry’s class. We found a couple good ones. I’ll leave the carving to papa. I’m not so proficient with the scalpel…
Add a little nostalgia to the mix—there’s something about fall that brings me back my former life. I moved to Paris and New York in the fall and that’s when I miss them most. I’m sure most of you urbanites will agree that there’s nothing like fall in the big city, when everything comes back to life after the sleepy summer. Fall always meant good hair days, a new sweater, a new pair of boots. I’d love to be walking along the sidewalk among the colored leaves in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn with a hot cup of coffee in my hand and a swing in my step. I miss that feeling of self contained-ness.
In an attempt to shake it off, I’m taking a cue from Henry’s preschool class and focus on apples and pumpkins. I’m after the perfect apple (unlike my crazy mother who likes to go to a local orchard and pick up half-price “grounders” and bring me bags of mushy, bruised fruit). I’ve already had some pretty sublime ones, crisp and tart and am ready for more.
Today it was the pumpkin patch with Henry’s class. We found a couple good ones. I’ll leave the carving to papa. I’m not so proficient with the scalpel…
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Raffi's Hipster Alter-Ego?
Henry and I have been grooving on some Dan Zanes kids records we found at the library recently. As with just about anything these days, listening to CDs usually turns into a mini-battle of wills. Hank’s obsessed with Dan’s version of Hop Up Ladies. This is (mercifully) a very nice song--good thing because we’ve been listening to it about a hundred times a day (not using hyperbole here). There always comes a point at which I finally have to tell him that’s it, that I have to turn on the radio to listen to Marketplace or something like that. Meanwhile, I’m partial to his fabulous versions of Waltzing Matilda (with Debbie Harry) and Loch Lomond (with Natalie Merchant—love her!) both of which have made me cry. It’s sometimes a feat to convince the boy to sit through these two but totally worth it.
Have to admit, I didn’t know who Dan Zanes was before stumbling on these. (I’m sure some of y’all have heard of the Del Fuegos, but I spent the eighties exiled in loserland so was not au courant…).But happy to have discovered him, as his stuff is not at all smarmy, cloying or otherwise annoying in the manner of so many kids records. So far, the only ones we’ve found that mama can tolerate have been by Woody Guthrie and Buckwheat Zydeco. So Dan, I’d say you’re in good company.
Have to admit, I didn’t know who Dan Zanes was before stumbling on these. (I’m sure some of y’all have heard of the Del Fuegos, but I spent the eighties exiled in loserland so was not au courant…).But happy to have discovered him, as his stuff is not at all smarmy, cloying or otherwise annoying in the manner of so many kids records. So far, the only ones we’ve found that mama can tolerate have been by Woody Guthrie and Buckwheat Zydeco. So Dan, I’d say you’re in good company.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Mother's Little Helper
Had to pretty much wrestle the boy down for his nap so I could run downstairs and satisfy my excruciating jones for a cup of tea. These days I think about a cup of tea at three o’clock the way I used to think about a glass of wine at the end of a work day. I long for it. From all indications, it’s pretty much the same way Carla feels about Sarko. While I’m a little unnerved the intensity of my cravings, I suppose it’s really a pretty harmless addiction. Usually manage to limit myself to three cups a day so little Co's hands don't start shaking. So, it’s one sugar and no milk for me. Must be piping hot. I’m pretty much a Red Rose gal (taking a cue from my UK native mother in law, plus I like kitschy little animal figurines that come in the box). However, I have some fancier stuff that I bust out on special occasions. Was way into some crazy strong stuff called Flying Monkey (I’m still talking about tea here) that Auntie Colette found at some kind of tea palace in Cville, but that supply has been exhausted… My new fave is a smoky Russian blend Cousin Amy brought up from Richmond. Drink this one black. Anyway, just another tool to get me through the day. Have tried meditation, but it’s just not the same.
Friday, September 19, 2008
More from the Other Side of the Fence
Our mysterious neighbors were totally throwing down this evening. I mean a dj with Kool and the Gang cranking and professional grade pyrotechnics. Thought they might be having a wedding or something over there. Christian went over to ask them to celebrate a little quieter due to sleeping kids and a cranky domestic partner only to discover what appeared to be a five-year old’s birthday party. They very kindly turned down the volume, but I’m still disturbed. Oh, that’s right. This is the richest bloody county in America. Time to get used to nauseating excess. Ready to move back to Brooklyn if they’ll have me.
Monday, September 15, 2008
The Eyesores Next Door
Unbelievable. I actually saw a living person come out of one of the McMansions in the development next to our farm yesterday. We’ve been living here over two years now and this is maybe the third or fourth sign of life I’ve witnessed. Seriously. It’s kind of creepy, really. There are a bunch of those deluxe wooden swingsets up, but I’ve never actually seen any children using them.
Have long suspected that it’s some kind of colony of pod people over there. One guy did come over once last year to let us know that one of our cows had gotten into his yard. He seemed kind of put out when I explained that they weren’t actually my cows (they belonged to the guy who rents our fields for various agricultural pursuits). I think my neighbor expected me to get out my lasso and come take care of it tout de suite.
The development, by the way, is named for an upscale village which is nowhere in sight but does add a certain cachet to one's mansion tract. On the other had, our little Lovetown (which is much closer) brings associations of tractor hats and such. The houses have been there for a few years, built on the farm next to ours, which was sold by a local lawyer/landowner for a couple mil. I clearly remember driving by on my first date with Christian in 2002 just as they were burning down the old farmhouse to make way for the new monstrosities. The houses were going for over a million each at one point. Not sure what the going rate is these days given our local housing glut and all the rest.
I have to confess I recently found myself fantasizing about living in one of those places. It was one of those days when the realities of living in an old house were getting me down—the layers of dirt, the termite damage, the peeling paint. But don’t worry-- it was just a momentary thing. The truth is, my man and I are just not cut out for the HOA lifestyle. We like to let the grass grow and leave our junk strewn about in the yard. And if I want to put up a clothesline one of these days, well I’m just gonna go ahead and do it. In case you’re curious, here’s some info on the Right to Dry movement.
Have long suspected that it’s some kind of colony of pod people over there. One guy did come over once last year to let us know that one of our cows had gotten into his yard. He seemed kind of put out when I explained that they weren’t actually my cows (they belonged to the guy who rents our fields for various agricultural pursuits). I think my neighbor expected me to get out my lasso and come take care of it tout de suite.
The development, by the way, is named for an upscale village which is nowhere in sight but does add a certain cachet to one's mansion tract. On the other had, our little Lovetown (which is much closer) brings associations of tractor hats and such. The houses have been there for a few years, built on the farm next to ours, which was sold by a local lawyer/landowner for a couple mil. I clearly remember driving by on my first date with Christian in 2002 just as they were burning down the old farmhouse to make way for the new monstrosities. The houses were going for over a million each at one point. Not sure what the going rate is these days given our local housing glut and all the rest.
I have to confess I recently found myself fantasizing about living in one of those places. It was one of those days when the realities of living in an old house were getting me down—the layers of dirt, the termite damage, the peeling paint. But don’t worry-- it was just a momentary thing. The truth is, my man and I are just not cut out for the HOA lifestyle. We like to let the grass grow and leave our junk strewn about in the yard. And if I want to put up a clothesline one of these days, well I’m just gonna go ahead and do it. In case you’re curious, here’s some info on the Right to Dry movement.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Milestones
We’ve got Day 1 of preschool under our belts and Henry’s well on his way to a reputation as a troublemaker (that would be Christian’s genetic legacy of course). He apparently ran away from the teacher when it was time to go back inside after playground time. She had to chase him down upon which he started kicking her.
When I came to pick him up, there was a mega (blood sugar related?) meltdown (he was apparently too busy to eat his snack). He refused to put away the toys he had taken out and didn’t want to walk out with me. It soon devolved into kicking and screaming on the floor. Let’s just say that transitions are a bitch these days.
“Is this typical?” asked Ms Barbara. She’s a somewhat stern-looking, schoolmarmy type, a little intimidating (though I hear she’s actually very sweet). “Um…not really,” I said hopefully. Anyway, it took me forever to get him out to the parking lot and into the car (with Coco in tow). Then, just as I had finally finished loading everybody up and was pulling out of the space, I hear those words I’ve come to relish and dread at once: I have to go potty. So, back into the community center where there were intense negotiations about which bathroom to use (upstairs vs. downstairs/ladies room vs. “family” bathroom). We finally made it home and he settled down after eating some pretzels. He was playing in the living room while I fixed lunch when I realized it was suspiciously quiet in there. I peeked in to see that he had conked out on the couch, where he remained asleep for two hours. Guess being a holy terror really takes it out of you…
It’s been a big week for Coco, too. We discovered her first tooth over the weekend (lower front). Just hoping she’ll use it judiciously! She is scooting across the floor like crazy on her belly, following Henry and grabbing everything she can get her hands on. I have gotten really lax about keeping the floor flotsam-free since Hank stopped putting stuff in his mouth. Time to get back to our rigorous inspection/ cleaning routine (yeah right). I have vowed to start vacuuming once in a while, though. In other news, we had to lower the crib all the way down as our girl has started to pull up to standing. And finally (sniff), we got rid of the bucket carseat. As much as I love having a kid with a handle, the time had come. The road to toddlerhood begins…
When I came to pick him up, there was a mega (blood sugar related?) meltdown (he was apparently too busy to eat his snack). He refused to put away the toys he had taken out and didn’t want to walk out with me. It soon devolved into kicking and screaming on the floor. Let’s just say that transitions are a bitch these days.
“Is this typical?” asked Ms Barbara. She’s a somewhat stern-looking, schoolmarmy type, a little intimidating (though I hear she’s actually very sweet). “Um…not really,” I said hopefully. Anyway, it took me forever to get him out to the parking lot and into the car (with Coco in tow). Then, just as I had finally finished loading everybody up and was pulling out of the space, I hear those words I’ve come to relish and dread at once: I have to go potty. So, back into the community center where there were intense negotiations about which bathroom to use (upstairs vs. downstairs/ladies room vs. “family” bathroom). We finally made it home and he settled down after eating some pretzels. He was playing in the living room while I fixed lunch when I realized it was suspiciously quiet in there. I peeked in to see that he had conked out on the couch, where he remained asleep for two hours. Guess being a holy terror really takes it out of you…
It’s been a big week for Coco, too. We discovered her first tooth over the weekend (lower front). Just hoping she’ll use it judiciously! She is scooting across the floor like crazy on her belly, following Henry and grabbing everything she can get her hands on. I have gotten really lax about keeping the floor flotsam-free since Hank stopped putting stuff in his mouth. Time to get back to our rigorous inspection/ cleaning routine (yeah right). I have vowed to start vacuuming once in a while, though. In other news, we had to lower the crib all the way down as our girl has started to pull up to standing. And finally (sniff), we got rid of the bucket carseat. As much as I love having a kid with a handle, the time had come. The road to toddlerhood begins…
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Call Her Juneau
Also contributing to my excellent humor is the huge disbelieving chuckle I got shortly after waking up when I heard about Sarah Palin’s knocked up teenager. You’ve gotta love those Republicans! The whole scenario reminds me of something out of Northern Exposure. It's like Shelly Tambo running for president or something… Unfortunately, I’m predicting that they’re going to get in. My elementary school buddy Shannon, whom I’ve come to rely on as a pretty accurate bellwether, is going for McCain. She’s never been wrong in her voting career: voted twice for Clinton and twice for stinky George. Shannon attributes the evolution in her voting patterns to her own growing conservatism as we make our way through our fourth decade. While that is certainly in play, I think it may also have something to do with the lousy candidates the Dems fielded in the last two elections. (I’m all about Al Gore these days, but I don’t think he had yet come into his own back in 00). She’s in that white working/middle class demographic that the Dems are licking their chops over. Barack, honey, you’ve failed to win her over. When we find someone who can, we’ll have it in the bag. Anyway, I'll be doing what I can to prove myself wrong...
Call Me Curly...
Woke up this morning feeling like belting out something from Oklahoma. It’s a beautiful, fresh late summer day, and all is right with the world. They’re making hay in our fields. They’ve got this cool baler that scoops up the hay and spits out a nice fat bale. Henry’s totally fascinated. Impossible to get him down for a nap with such wonders going on outside the window.
On top of all that, preschool starts up tomorrow. Hank will be going three mornings a week starting Monday. We went to a meet-the-teacher open house at school today and milled about with some fellow parents. I always feel kind of goofy and shy at these things—like I’m some kind of outcast, like everybody already knows each other etc. I’m sure I’ll get over it. Anyway, I’m practically salivating at the thought of all the stuff I’ll be getting done. Am I sick to be fantasizing about the solitary vacuuming that’s in store for me? In addition to a teeny bit of therapeutic housework, there’s gonna be some mom/baby yoga, and you know I’ll be doing some blogging while little Co takes her morning nap. Must admit, I’m starting to get just a little wistful at the thought of my baby starting his school career. But I’ll certainly get over that, too.
On top of all that, preschool starts up tomorrow. Hank will be going three mornings a week starting Monday. We went to a meet-the-teacher open house at school today and milled about with some fellow parents. I always feel kind of goofy and shy at these things—like I’m some kind of outcast, like everybody already knows each other etc. I’m sure I’ll get over it. Anyway, I’m practically salivating at the thought of all the stuff I’ll be getting done. Am I sick to be fantasizing about the solitary vacuuming that’s in store for me? In addition to a teeny bit of therapeutic housework, there’s gonna be some mom/baby yoga, and you know I’ll be doing some blogging while little Co takes her morning nap. Must admit, I’m starting to get just a little wistful at the thought of my baby starting his school career. But I’ll certainly get over that, too.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Dishful Thinking
“I don’t need you anymore,” said boy wonder this afternoon as I was whipping up some tasty hummus in the cuisinart. “I can make toast and cook dinner and do the dishes.”
Yeowch! Hard to say which hurts worse—the prospect of being considered irrelevant by my firstborn or the pathetic assessment of my role in the household as related by a preschooler. Sadly, that’s pretty much what it feels like around here much of the time. Which brings me to another subject: where the hell is my dishwasher??
I had let my husband know that one of my conditions for having a second child was the presence of a fully functional dishwasher before delivery. Well, somebody forgot to get Coco that memo, so here she is over eight months old and I’ve still got dishpan hands.
The truth is, Christian acquired a perfectly fine secondhand dishwasher several months ago. It’s even installed in our kitchen. The only problem is that it’s not hooked up. Apparently, some fairly complicated plumbing/electrical work is required for my dream to be realized. Neither of those being Christian’s area of expertise, we are at the mercy of a charming but unreliable buddy of his who has the required skills and has offered to help out but can’t seem to make it over here. Now, you may ask why we couldn’t have just gone out and bought a dishwasher and had it installed. That would seem to be the simple way to do it. Unfortunately, that is out of the question. That, you see, is what normal people would do.
Yeowch! Hard to say which hurts worse—the prospect of being considered irrelevant by my firstborn or the pathetic assessment of my role in the household as related by a preschooler. Sadly, that’s pretty much what it feels like around here much of the time. Which brings me to another subject: where the hell is my dishwasher??
I had let my husband know that one of my conditions for having a second child was the presence of a fully functional dishwasher before delivery. Well, somebody forgot to get Coco that memo, so here she is over eight months old and I’ve still got dishpan hands.
The truth is, Christian acquired a perfectly fine secondhand dishwasher several months ago. It’s even installed in our kitchen. The only problem is that it’s not hooked up. Apparently, some fairly complicated plumbing/electrical work is required for my dream to be realized. Neither of those being Christian’s area of expertise, we are at the mercy of a charming but unreliable buddy of his who has the required skills and has offered to help out but can’t seem to make it over here. Now, you may ask why we couldn’t have just gone out and bought a dishwasher and had it installed. That would seem to be the simple way to do it. Unfortunately, that is out of the question. That, you see, is what normal people would do.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Fair Enough
Spent the late morning/early afternoon in the nearby village of Lucketts at the first in a series of local fairs that continue throughout the early fall. Lucketts is only 10 miles away from the farm, but it took me about an hour to get there. Thought I was being impossibly clever in taking the back roads, only to find them swarming with annoying cyclists. One poor guy was apparently hit by a car (not mine, thank God!) so traffic was stopped for half an hour while they put him in an ambulance. Must say I’m glad I finally made it since the Lucketts Fair is one of my favorite events of this kind, the main attraction being a lineup of first-rate bluegrass bands. The arts and crafts vendors pretty much suck, which is okay with me since I’m not really into that foolishness. For me it’s about the music and, of course, the food. One of the local service clubs dishes up some decent barbecue, sweet potato fries and fresh limeade (unbelievably refreshing on an August afternoon).
Christian was MIA (in the studio with the band), but my sister and her family (two little girls and husband Ron who is this thoroughly modern, bjorn-wearing, meal-preparing hipster superdad)came out from DC. My mother and stepfather also showed up so there were some extra hands to help me wrangle Henry. I hesitate to take the kids to something like this on my own because Henry’s a total bolter, and I’m always afraid he’s going to escape and get up to no good whenever I need a break to nurse the baby.
Anyway, we had, overall, a fine afternoon. Heard some good music. The preschoolers rode ponies. Henry pooped his pants (good lord!). My niece was terrified of a clown on stilts. We ate ice cream. Finally, I felt like I was going to wilt, and it was time to go home.
While hanging around at the bluegrass pavilion, I ran into BP, my old boss at one of the local papers around here, where I interned in high school and had my first real job after college. He sold the newspaper a few years ago and retired to South Carolina so I’ve only seen him a handful of times since I moved back to Virginia. He was kind of blown away to see me with a baby hanging off my neck, messing with a stroller. (Let’s just say that my lifestyle/attitude as a young reporter were in sharp contrast to the picture of domestic tranquility my world has become.) Anyway, BP’s an interesting guy--kind of a cowboy intellectual and the subject of one of my all-time most memorable dreams (a dozen years ago), in which he was the chef in a sushi restaurant and I was the only waitress. In the dream, he was wearing a bandana (samurai style), swearing and madly chopping sushi, which I was struggling to deliver to the clamoring throngs. Guess that’s pretty much how it felt in the newsroom most of the time. I learned a lot from old BP though. He says he’s had enough of writing and spends as little time as possible at the keyboard these days. Well, I’ve had enough writing, too. At least for this evening.
Christian was MIA (in the studio with the band), but my sister and her family (two little girls and husband Ron who is this thoroughly modern, bjorn-wearing, meal-preparing hipster superdad)came out from DC. My mother and stepfather also showed up so there were some extra hands to help me wrangle Henry. I hesitate to take the kids to something like this on my own because Henry’s a total bolter, and I’m always afraid he’s going to escape and get up to no good whenever I need a break to nurse the baby.
Anyway, we had, overall, a fine afternoon. Heard some good music. The preschoolers rode ponies. Henry pooped his pants (good lord!). My niece was terrified of a clown on stilts. We ate ice cream. Finally, I felt like I was going to wilt, and it was time to go home.
While hanging around at the bluegrass pavilion, I ran into BP, my old boss at one of the local papers around here, where I interned in high school and had my first real job after college. He sold the newspaper a few years ago and retired to South Carolina so I’ve only seen him a handful of times since I moved back to Virginia. He was kind of blown away to see me with a baby hanging off my neck, messing with a stroller. (Let’s just say that my lifestyle/attitude as a young reporter were in sharp contrast to the picture of domestic tranquility my world has become.) Anyway, BP’s an interesting guy--kind of a cowboy intellectual and the subject of one of my all-time most memorable dreams (a dozen years ago), in which he was the chef in a sushi restaurant and I was the only waitress. In the dream, he was wearing a bandana (samurai style), swearing and madly chopping sushi, which I was struggling to deliver to the clamoring throngs. Guess that’s pretty much how it felt in the newsroom most of the time. I learned a lot from old BP though. He says he’s had enough of writing and spends as little time as possible at the keyboard these days. Well, I’ve had enough writing, too. At least for this evening.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Sound of Mucus
What could be more fun than a summer cold? While our neighbors are out enjoying the latest in a string of near perfect days (unheard of in VA in August), here we are inside sniffling. Henry caught it first (of course) and passed it on to mama and then Coco. Christian has so far been spared but was complaining of a sore throat this morning. Praying it doesn’t stick since he is by far the least tough among us when it comes to routine illnesses (isn’t that always that way?).
It has essentially been a great big snot festival around here--lovely. Christian has been handling it remarkably well considering the fact that he had a fairly acute snot aversion not so long ago. There was a time when I couldn’t even pronounce the word in front of him. I am happy to report that he has made great strides since we had kids and even wipes noses.
Little Co was up all night, waking us up every couple hours with pathetic whimpers and snuffles over the monitor. I went in a few times to give her squeeze with the dreaded bulb aspirator. Our girl is amazingly good natured but the nasty old bulb manages to faze even the sweetest pea. So after a go-round with that instrument of torture, I usually wound up putting her on the boob to get her to quiet down.
So in addition to being sick, I am operating on no sleep. Would love to stay in bed and watch the Olympics all day, but that is, of course, out of the question. I have rarely encountered the bug that could cramp Henry’s style, so he is as energetic as ever and itching to get out on the new two-wheeler (with training wheels) that he inherited from a friend (thanks Curtis!). Counting on grandma to come over here and save the day this afternoon.
It has essentially been a great big snot festival around here--lovely. Christian has been handling it remarkably well considering the fact that he had a fairly acute snot aversion not so long ago. There was a time when I couldn’t even pronounce the word in front of him. I am happy to report that he has made great strides since we had kids and even wipes noses.
Little Co was up all night, waking us up every couple hours with pathetic whimpers and snuffles over the monitor. I went in a few times to give her squeeze with the dreaded bulb aspirator. Our girl is amazingly good natured but the nasty old bulb manages to faze even the sweetest pea. So after a go-round with that instrument of torture, I usually wound up putting her on the boob to get her to quiet down.
So in addition to being sick, I am operating on no sleep. Would love to stay in bed and watch the Olympics all day, but that is, of course, out of the question. I have rarely encountered the bug that could cramp Henry’s style, so he is as energetic as ever and itching to get out on the new two-wheeler (with training wheels) that he inherited from a friend (thanks Curtis!). Counting on grandma to come over here and save the day this afternoon.
Monday, August 11, 2008
More Carla
Fabulous article on Carla Bruni in September’s Vanity Fair. I swear I was just about to write them and beg them to do a story on her. My Parisian friend Jacky (total leftist and Sarko-hater) is disgusted by whole affair, but I’m totally fixated. Can’t help thinking our lives are on some kind of crazy parallel. When she was dating Mick Jagger, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel for a prom date. When I was doing crummy showrooms in Paris, she was a supermodel. She’s partial to Saint Laurent-- I’m heavily into Tarzhay. She lives in the Elysee Palace—I live in the dirt palace. She’s married to a tiny tyrant…Well, maybe not.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Mixed Marriage Update
Christian: devastated that his love Jennifer Garner has come out hard for Obama. Convinced that Ben has brainwashed her. I can tell you, if we hear anything from Nicole, there just might be some tears shed. Sorry my love, the fact is, there just aren’t any hot Republican chicks out there, and please don’t even think of mentioning Ann Coulter.
Bracing for stormy seas here at the funny farm as the campaign kicks into high gear. Fall of 2004 was rough. We were still getting used to living together and the nastiness of the campaign seemed to overflow into our living room. Must admit, I was hard pressed to come up with much in defense of John Kerry. This time, I’m gung ho, although have much less time to follow the ins and outs of it all. Christian’s idea of pillow talk these days is to fill me in on Obama’s latest gaffes while I’m half asleep. Something about people not inflating their tires properly…. Anyway, hoping things will remain more civil this go-round for the sake of the children.
Bracing for stormy seas here at the funny farm as the campaign kicks into high gear. Fall of 2004 was rough. We were still getting used to living together and the nastiness of the campaign seemed to overflow into our living room. Must admit, I was hard pressed to come up with much in defense of John Kerry. This time, I’m gung ho, although have much less time to follow the ins and outs of it all. Christian’s idea of pillow talk these days is to fill me in on Obama’s latest gaffes while I’m half asleep. Something about people not inflating their tires properly…. Anyway, hoping things will remain more civil this go-round for the sake of the children.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Pump and Run
In a panic last night when my breast pump stopped working. I was sure the poor old thing had given up the ghost when Christian walked by and gave it his version of the Fonzie tap. Amazingly, the magic touch got it right up and running again, avoiding a dilemma about whether to buy a new pump in what is very likely the homestretch of my nursing career.
I despise pumping on a number of levels. It brings back memories of Henry’s infancy when I returned to work at the French Embassy in DC (worst job evah) and used to slink off three times a day to pump in a conference room or vacant office. Everybody in my division looked at me like I was some kind of freak walking down the hallway with my pump, sterilizing my accessories in the office microwave, etc. Brings to mind an article I once read in Le Monde about how French women don’t really breastfeed (apparently it puts a crimp in their identities as independent women—um, yeah…). Anyway, mine is one of the “pump in style” type contraptions that looks like a large shoulder bag. I used to lug that thing on my nightmarish commute (involving automobiles, multiple buses and, often, a 30-minute walk. I swear I have permanent rub marks on my neck from the strap.
That said, it was easier to brave the frowning frenchies with pump in hand than a rowdy preschooler who perceives that I’m (literally) tied down and exploits the situation to get up to no good. These days, I pump once of twice a day to get some milk for little Coco’s oatmeal, give her some practice with a trainer cup and build up a small emergency supply in the freezer. I try to time the pumping session so that it takes place during Hank’s nap, but of course it doesn’t always work out as planned. Am occasionally able to pump before bed, a couple hours after Coco goes down, but don’t usually find it very productive—guess my boobs are as exhausted as the rest of me by the time 11 o’clock rolls around.
The biggest drag about the pump, though, are the quantities of little bottles and plastic parts that need to be washed. All of this leads me to an even greater appreciation--despite all the minor annoyances (leaky boobs, blocked ducts, having to stop the car all the time on road trips, etc.)—of the beautiful simplicity of breastfeeding. Nothing to clean, nothing to refrigerate, nothing to carry. That said, I’m feeling a little French in admitting that the end is in sight and I’m looking forward to being detached. I’m committed to going a year per the recommendations of the baby docs and will enjoy all that oxytocin to the fullest, but after that I’ll be shutting down this popsicle stand and Co will move on to goats milk so mama can consume a bottle of Champagne and a couple of full-caf americanos. Just hoping the pump will hang in there for a few more months…
I despise pumping on a number of levels. It brings back memories of Henry’s infancy when I returned to work at the French Embassy in DC (worst job evah) and used to slink off three times a day to pump in a conference room or vacant office. Everybody in my division looked at me like I was some kind of freak walking down the hallway with my pump, sterilizing my accessories in the office microwave, etc. Brings to mind an article I once read in Le Monde about how French women don’t really breastfeed (apparently it puts a crimp in their identities as independent women—um, yeah…). Anyway, mine is one of the “pump in style” type contraptions that looks like a large shoulder bag. I used to lug that thing on my nightmarish commute (involving automobiles, multiple buses and, often, a 30-minute walk. I swear I have permanent rub marks on my neck from the strap.
That said, it was easier to brave the frowning frenchies with pump in hand than a rowdy preschooler who perceives that I’m (literally) tied down and exploits the situation to get up to no good. These days, I pump once of twice a day to get some milk for little Coco’s oatmeal, give her some practice with a trainer cup and build up a small emergency supply in the freezer. I try to time the pumping session so that it takes place during Hank’s nap, but of course it doesn’t always work out as planned. Am occasionally able to pump before bed, a couple hours after Coco goes down, but don’t usually find it very productive—guess my boobs are as exhausted as the rest of me by the time 11 o’clock rolls around.
The biggest drag about the pump, though, are the quantities of little bottles and plastic parts that need to be washed. All of this leads me to an even greater appreciation--despite all the minor annoyances (leaky boobs, blocked ducts, having to stop the car all the time on road trips, etc.)—of the beautiful simplicity of breastfeeding. Nothing to clean, nothing to refrigerate, nothing to carry. That said, I’m feeling a little French in admitting that the end is in sight and I’m looking forward to being detached. I’m committed to going a year per the recommendations of the baby docs and will enjoy all that oxytocin to the fullest, but after that I’ll be shutting down this popsicle stand and Co will move on to goats milk so mama can consume a bottle of Champagne and a couple of full-caf americanos. Just hoping the pump will hang in there for a few more months…
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
In Case You Need Something Else to Fret About...
It's hot as hell these days, and I’ve got hyperthermia on my mind. There was a big story on France Info today that was very similar to one in my local paper last week: Dad forgets to drop child at daycare and goes right on into work, leaving child to die in the sweltering heat of late July. There was also a case in the news a year or two ago involving, if memory serves, a minor public official in Maryland. Both the guys in France and VA, I believe, have been charged with manslaughter. Can’t remember if the guy in MD was charged…Also brings to mind an old episode of CSI where the dad left his baby in the car and pretended it was an accident, but Grissom and co. discovered he had really done it on purpose because the baby had some kind of horrible genetic disease (that’s the Hollywood twist, I guess).
Was curious about how often this kind of thing occurs and went looking for some stats. Found an interesting study on a site called Kids and Cars. According to this report, over 2/3 of cases involved kids who were left in cars (intentionally (car seat as babysitter!) or unintentionally) and the rest involved kids who got into someone’s car while unsupervised and got trapped. The most common sitch, it seems, is something like the ones in the news lately: people just forgetting the kids are back there…
So my question is this: are these guys freaks (it does seem to be a guy thing based on the accounts I’ve come across) so absorbed in their jobs that they forget all about their offspring--or could it happen to anyone? Is it so unthinkable with all the distractions and the general fog of parenthood? My irrational (I hope!) fears have always run more along the lines of leaving the baby somewhere, of not getting her into the car, rather than leaving her inside. I occasionally find myself reaching back to touch Coco’s little toes, just to make sure she’s back there (OCD much?). I have to admit that I accidentally shut one of our cats in my car last summer. I had left the back door open while retrieving some recyclables and he snuck in. Fortunately, I had to go out shortly thereafter and discovered him no worse for wear, but was distraught thinking about what might have happened. Not that my stupid cat story is in any way comparable to a kid dying in a parked car, which is, of course, truly heartbreaking. Guess I’ll try to get more sleep and keep on praying for presence of mind.
Was curious about how often this kind of thing occurs and went looking for some stats. Found an interesting study on a site called Kids and Cars. According to this report, over 2/3 of cases involved kids who were left in cars (intentionally (car seat as babysitter!) or unintentionally) and the rest involved kids who got into someone’s car while unsupervised and got trapped. The most common sitch, it seems, is something like the ones in the news lately: people just forgetting the kids are back there…
So my question is this: are these guys freaks (it does seem to be a guy thing based on the accounts I’ve come across) so absorbed in their jobs that they forget all about their offspring--or could it happen to anyone? Is it so unthinkable with all the distractions and the general fog of parenthood? My irrational (I hope!) fears have always run more along the lines of leaving the baby somewhere, of not getting her into the car, rather than leaving her inside. I occasionally find myself reaching back to touch Coco’s little toes, just to make sure she’s back there (OCD much?). I have to admit that I accidentally shut one of our cats in my car last summer. I had left the back door open while retrieving some recyclables and he snuck in. Fortunately, I had to go out shortly thereafter and discovered him no worse for wear, but was distraught thinking about what might have happened. Not that my stupid cat story is in any way comparable to a kid dying in a parked car, which is, of course, truly heartbreaking. Guess I’ll try to get more sleep and keep on praying for presence of mind.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Mama's Night Out
Had my first solo outing since Coco was born last night. Wish I could report that I’d done something exotic, but the fact is that it started with a haircut and ended with me closing down a local Target. Embarrassingly, that’s the best I could come up with. I’m out of practice and have vowed to get more creative next time I manage to escape. Little Coco, who has taken to her trainer cup like a champ, was totally unfazed by my absence and, I suspect, secretly happy to have a little quality time with her beloved. Hank, on the other hand, was screaming and clinging to my leg as I was trying to get out the door. He’s in mama mode these days, and while it’s nice to be wanted, it’s all a little suffocating..
I’ve been craving solitude lately, but did feel like something was missing as I headed down the driveway to a few hours of freedom. It was a little sad looking back there at the empty car seats, but didn’t take me long to get over it. Between the coiffeuse and the big box, I hit Panera (once again, low marks for creativity, but I like that they use antibiotic-free chicken!) and had a nice long phone conversation with my girlfriend Manon in Brooklyn. She’s recovering from foot surgery (cut a tendon in her foot on a broken plate—ouch) and not in the best of spirits. Was so wishing I could be up there to give her a hand. She’s a tough cookie, but we all need to be taken care of sometimes…
Didn’t really feel like hitting a bar on my own and too late for coffee, so on to Target where I had some birthday related errands to complete (the boy's is coming up). Kind of wandered around looking at stuff until they announced closing time. I can see why some people like to shop at night--it was pretty darn mellow in there. Don’t think I’ll make a habit of it—I’m more of a morning person. Drove home through the town I grew up in, and it felt like old times cruising around the same streets, stopping at the same 7-11 I used to hit in high school. That got me wondering, as I sometimes do, what the hell I’m doing back here. I really don’t have much to complain about though. I mean, people flock here from other places because it’s a great place to live. As for me, it’s pretty simple: love brought me here and love keeps me here. And I get a better haircut here than I ever did in New York…what more could you want?
I’ve been craving solitude lately, but did feel like something was missing as I headed down the driveway to a few hours of freedom. It was a little sad looking back there at the empty car seats, but didn’t take me long to get over it. Between the coiffeuse and the big box, I hit Panera (once again, low marks for creativity, but I like that they use antibiotic-free chicken!) and had a nice long phone conversation with my girlfriend Manon in Brooklyn. She’s recovering from foot surgery (cut a tendon in her foot on a broken plate—ouch) and not in the best of spirits. Was so wishing I could be up there to give her a hand. She’s a tough cookie, but we all need to be taken care of sometimes…
Didn’t really feel like hitting a bar on my own and too late for coffee, so on to Target where I had some birthday related errands to complete (the boy's is coming up). Kind of wandered around looking at stuff until they announced closing time. I can see why some people like to shop at night--it was pretty darn mellow in there. Don’t think I’ll make a habit of it—I’m more of a morning person. Drove home through the town I grew up in, and it felt like old times cruising around the same streets, stopping at the same 7-11 I used to hit in high school. That got me wondering, as I sometimes do, what the hell I’m doing back here. I really don’t have much to complain about though. I mean, people flock here from other places because it’s a great place to live. As for me, it’s pretty simple: love brought me here and love keeps me here. And I get a better haircut here than I ever did in New York…what more could you want?
Monday, July 14, 2008
French Reflections
Well, it’s Bastille Day here at the funny farm, and we are listening to our favorite (and, for now, only) Carla Bruni CD to mark the occasion. I don’t yet have her latest which was just released and is apparently causing quite a stir in France. We have Quelqu’un m’a dit which was a birthday gift from our dear friend Colette (little Coco’s namesake and fairy godmother) a few years ago, long before she (Carla, that is) became first lady of France. It's a fun record. Carla was big on the runways when I was living in Paris in the mid-90s. I think she was dating celeb-lawyer Arno Klarsfeld at the time. I spotted him once at Café de Flor way back when, but never ran into her at any of my eurotrash haunts...
I’m dying to get back to France. Haven’t visited since spring 2005…Nice trip, but I don’t recommend Paris while pregnant. I found it excruciating to have to abstain from all the plentiful/cheap/delicious wine and raw milk cheeses. Thank God for the amazing macarons from Pierre Hermé which provided some consolation.
No voyage in the cards for the near future, with airfares through the roof and the miserable exchange rate. So for now I’ll have to be content with Gainsbourg, Georges Brassens and France Info on iTunes and reading Maxou and Babar to the kids. Unfortunately, Henry doesn’t care much for Alouette, but I have to admit that song gives me a headache...
Anyway, we'll try to have a glass of wine in honor of the fête nationale and Henry will have to tolerate a quick rendition of La Marseillaise.
I’m dying to get back to France. Haven’t visited since spring 2005…Nice trip, but I don’t recommend Paris while pregnant. I found it excruciating to have to abstain from all the plentiful/cheap/delicious wine and raw milk cheeses. Thank God for the amazing macarons from Pierre Hermé which provided some consolation.
No voyage in the cards for the near future, with airfares through the roof and the miserable exchange rate. So for now I’ll have to be content with Gainsbourg, Georges Brassens and France Info on iTunes and reading Maxou and Babar to the kids. Unfortunately, Henry doesn’t care much for Alouette, but I have to admit that song gives me a headache...
Anyway, we'll try to have a glass of wine in honor of the fête nationale and Henry will have to tolerate a quick rendition of La Marseillaise.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Exquisite Mess
Somewhat astonished to note that we do not, in fact, have the messiest house in America. I finally got around to reading a hilarious/unsettling article that appeared in WaPo last month about a new cable reality show where they take some poor slobs and clean up/makeover their house.
Not that I’ll be watching it…As a member of a TV-free household (actually, we do have a television set on which we watch Netflix, but no reception whatsoever), I’m pretty much out of the loop on the latest in reality programming. I didn’t even know there was a “Style Network” until I read this piece. We did watch a couple episodes of Top Chef while on vacation with my sister and her gang a couple of months ago. Entertaining-- but not enough to make me sign up for a satellite!
Still, nice to know that there’s somebody out there in worse shape than us. Our house is pretty chaotic. My mother, God bless her, has to be one of the worst housekeepers of all time, so I come by it honestly. The truth is, Christian and I are both embarrassingly disorganized—in different ways, of course, just to be sure that we drive each other totally crazy. In my previous life, I kept it together by simply not accumulating stuff. I’m a minimalist at heart. I really do get some kind of endorphin buzz from throwing stuff away. But I’ve discovered that one of the harsh realities of parenthood is that you start to acquire things related to the health and happiness of your children and are forced, for one reason or another, to hang onto them. Also doesn’t help that I’m married to a collector. Our house overflows with boxes and boxes of his unsorted junk. When we were dating, the sneaky bastard stored all of his extraneous belongings in a conveniently unoccupied apartment across the hall, only to have to reclaim them all around the time I moved in. This is the guy who, as a fifth grader, had his desk dragged out of his classroom and prominently displayed in the hallway as an example of how not to maintain one’s personal space. "It really was an exquisite mess," my beloved recalls, with what sounds like great nostalgia. They gave him until lunchtime to clean it up, which he did. Afraid, I guess, of being forced to skip a meal.
Anyway, the pathetic folks on the show are in a totally different league. The question, as raised in the article, is when does clutter become pathological. At what point does messiness reflect honest-to-god mental illness? It sounds like poor old Mindy and Phil may have crossed the line. As for us, I think we remain, at least for now, on the side of sanity. I usually manage to clean the bathrooms once a week and good old Papa hits the catbox with something approaching regularity. We just need a good purge (five years and I’m still waiting!), some storage solutions and to remember to put things away when we’re done with them (Mama!). I haven’t yet tried withholding food as a motivational technique but may be on to something….
Not that I’ll be watching it…As a member of a TV-free household (actually, we do have a television set on which we watch Netflix, but no reception whatsoever), I’m pretty much out of the loop on the latest in reality programming. I didn’t even know there was a “Style Network” until I read this piece. We did watch a couple episodes of Top Chef while on vacation with my sister and her gang a couple of months ago. Entertaining-- but not enough to make me sign up for a satellite!
Still, nice to know that there’s somebody out there in worse shape than us. Our house is pretty chaotic. My mother, God bless her, has to be one of the worst housekeepers of all time, so I come by it honestly. The truth is, Christian and I are both embarrassingly disorganized—in different ways, of course, just to be sure that we drive each other totally crazy. In my previous life, I kept it together by simply not accumulating stuff. I’m a minimalist at heart. I really do get some kind of endorphin buzz from throwing stuff away. But I’ve discovered that one of the harsh realities of parenthood is that you start to acquire things related to the health and happiness of your children and are forced, for one reason or another, to hang onto them. Also doesn’t help that I’m married to a collector. Our house overflows with boxes and boxes of his unsorted junk. When we were dating, the sneaky bastard stored all of his extraneous belongings in a conveniently unoccupied apartment across the hall, only to have to reclaim them all around the time I moved in. This is the guy who, as a fifth grader, had his desk dragged out of his classroom and prominently displayed in the hallway as an example of how not to maintain one’s personal space. "It really was an exquisite mess," my beloved recalls, with what sounds like great nostalgia. They gave him until lunchtime to clean it up, which he did. Afraid, I guess, of being forced to skip a meal.
Anyway, the pathetic folks on the show are in a totally different league. The question, as raised in the article, is when does clutter become pathological. At what point does messiness reflect honest-to-god mental illness? It sounds like poor old Mindy and Phil may have crossed the line. As for us, I think we remain, at least for now, on the side of sanity. I usually manage to clean the bathrooms once a week and good old Papa hits the catbox with something approaching regularity. We just need a good purge (five years and I’m still waiting!), some storage solutions and to remember to put things away when we’re done with them (Mama!). I haven’t yet tried withholding food as a motivational technique but may be on to something….
Monday, July 7, 2008
Department of Small Miracles
My kale—gorgeous! It’s amazing—I kind of feel about those kale plants the way I feel about my kids—except I’m planning to eat them!
I’ve been sautéing the kale in safflower oil in my big stainless All Clad skillet—a wedding present from Sara and one of my favorite pieces of cookware. We are avid juicers and I love a few kale leaves in my juice. My go-to concoction lately is as follows:
1 granny smith apple (I like GS because they add a nice tartness to the mix)
1 large cuke (or 2 small!)
15 or so baby carrots (I buy a big bag of organic carrots at Costco)
Chunk of raw ginger (I like it pretty spicy)
3 large kale leaves
I juice all that in our Champion and then add a capful of store-bought aloe vera juice. Very tasty and incredibly energizing.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
A Double Shot of Independence
One of the perks of living in the Center of the Universe is that we get to participate in two Fourth of July celebrations, one of which takes place on the third. Our own home base of Lovetown celebrates in style on Independence Day Eve. This is apparently because the fireworks are cheaper, and a little old town like this one has to watch the bottom line… Things start out with a grand parade including the Sheriff, Mayor, our long-serving State Delegate, and Miss Loudoun County (I had no idea we had our own beauty queen in town!). I was particularly heartened to see a group of Obama supporters marching in the parade (but not, unfortunately, the candidate himself). Nobody out for McCain…A sign, perhaps? One can hope!
We had the good fortune to be invited over to our friends Sean and Amy’s (the lucky Versa owners!) place. They have a sweet little bungalow right on the parade route where we sat beneath a shade tree and watched everybody go by. They were all throwing candy, to Henry’s great joy. He is now a full-on sugar fiend, I have to admit. This is the kid who, not so long ago, asked, “What’s that blackness?” when handed a Petit Ecolier cookie. He didn’t even know what chocolate was! He has since had a course in Candy 101 (mostly from his more worldly cousin Scarlett) and now he’s a connoisseur. To top it all off, Henry’s Grandpa Albert, also invited to the gathering, gave him his first Coke while I was otherwise occupied. Good Lord! Riding that sugar high, Henry had a blast playing basketball and Frisbee with Amy’s nine-year-old Sam and a pack of his friends. When the big boys took off for the Community Center on their bikes, Henry was ready to grab a set of wheels and tag along, only to have mean old mama clip his wings.
We had to cut out early for sleepy Coco’s sake, giving up a front row seat for Lovetown’s world-class fireworks display. Christian did drive Henry to the end of our driveway to watch them while I put the babe to bed… I was so delirious with exhaustion (pretty much a perpetual state) that it took me a few seconds to figure out what the bizarre noise was coming over the monitor. Was relieved to realize it was just the sound of bombs bursting in air.
My folks live nearby in the quaint and more tradition-minded village of Waterford, which holds its parade on the Fourth. The Waterford parade is rather loosely organized--mostly kids in wagons and on bikes, a few tractors and some old cars. The kids and I were actually in this one (as are most of the village’s residents, leaving one wondering who’s left to spectate, but never mind). Once again, Obama was a no-show--mystifying…
The parade was followed by a do on the town green with hot dogs, ice pops (more sugar) and lollipops (bring it on!) and some rousing patriotic numbers sung by the local queen bee tween set. Henry once again found a group of nine-year-old outlaws to hang with, nice kids who tolerated a pesky three-year-old with aplomb.
My sister and family were out for the day and joined us back at the farm for a nap for the kids and some work in the garden for the grown ups. Then we headed down a series of dirt roads to a fête at new friends Jennifer and Michael’s. It was a fun scene and right up my alley--a bunch of Gen-Xers with babies and young kids, tasty barbecue, and a little bit of conversation. They were serving mint juleps, which I can no longer handle (I don’t think I’ve had a drink with hard liquor in it since my bachelorette party!). I opted for a refreshing Verdejo which I’ll have to get the name of. I could have drunk a bucket of that stuff, but stuck to the one glass rule…And cupcakes—my favorite—which always bring back memories of Magnolia bakery in the West Village, back in the day, before the line got so impossibly long.
Henry was a maniac as usual, and I had my hands full as the Ever Lovin’ was gigging (the annual July 4th extravaganza across the river in Hagerstown, MD). Our amazing hosts had rented a moon bounce, which had gotten pretty soggy thanks to some afternoon showers. A few intrepid kids were determined to enjoy it, and mine was first in line! In short order, he had had enough of his wet clothes and proceeded to ditch them all for some naked revelry. Somewhat amazingly, I actually had the foresight to bring a spare outfit and finally got him dressed again after a half-hour or so Then it was on to his next object of fascination: the keg. He insisted on working the pump, and several kind souls let him fill up their cups with foam. When it was time to leave, I literally had to drag him away kicking and screaming and resorted to bribery with--you guessed it-- more candy.
It was an action-packed 24 hours. But I must say, the greatest cause for celebration was our little Coco, who, after conducting herself with great composure through all of the proceedings, went on to sleep through the night (9 to 7—woohoo!) for the first time. Independence indeed!
We had the good fortune to be invited over to our friends Sean and Amy’s (the lucky Versa owners!) place. They have a sweet little bungalow right on the parade route where we sat beneath a shade tree and watched everybody go by. They were all throwing candy, to Henry’s great joy. He is now a full-on sugar fiend, I have to admit. This is the kid who, not so long ago, asked, “What’s that blackness?” when handed a Petit Ecolier cookie. He didn’t even know what chocolate was! He has since had a course in Candy 101 (mostly from his more worldly cousin Scarlett) and now he’s a connoisseur. To top it all off, Henry’s Grandpa Albert, also invited to the gathering, gave him his first Coke while I was otherwise occupied. Good Lord! Riding that sugar high, Henry had a blast playing basketball and Frisbee with Amy’s nine-year-old Sam and a pack of his friends. When the big boys took off for the Community Center on their bikes, Henry was ready to grab a set of wheels and tag along, only to have mean old mama clip his wings.
We had to cut out early for sleepy Coco’s sake, giving up a front row seat for Lovetown’s world-class fireworks display. Christian did drive Henry to the end of our driveway to watch them while I put the babe to bed… I was so delirious with exhaustion (pretty much a perpetual state) that it took me a few seconds to figure out what the bizarre noise was coming over the monitor. Was relieved to realize it was just the sound of bombs bursting in air.
My folks live nearby in the quaint and more tradition-minded village of Waterford, which holds its parade on the Fourth. The Waterford parade is rather loosely organized--mostly kids in wagons and on bikes, a few tractors and some old cars. The kids and I were actually in this one (as are most of the village’s residents, leaving one wondering who’s left to spectate, but never mind). Once again, Obama was a no-show--mystifying…
The parade was followed by a do on the town green with hot dogs, ice pops (more sugar) and lollipops (bring it on!) and some rousing patriotic numbers sung by the local queen bee tween set. Henry once again found a group of nine-year-old outlaws to hang with, nice kids who tolerated a pesky three-year-old with aplomb.
My sister and family were out for the day and joined us back at the farm for a nap for the kids and some work in the garden for the grown ups. Then we headed down a series of dirt roads to a fête at new friends Jennifer and Michael’s. It was a fun scene and right up my alley--a bunch of Gen-Xers with babies and young kids, tasty barbecue, and a little bit of conversation. They were serving mint juleps, which I can no longer handle (I don’t think I’ve had a drink with hard liquor in it since my bachelorette party!). I opted for a refreshing Verdejo which I’ll have to get the name of. I could have drunk a bucket of that stuff, but stuck to the one glass rule…And cupcakes—my favorite—which always bring back memories of Magnolia bakery in the West Village, back in the day, before the line got so impossibly long.
Henry was a maniac as usual, and I had my hands full as the Ever Lovin’ was gigging (the annual July 4th extravaganza across the river in Hagerstown, MD). Our amazing hosts had rented a moon bounce, which had gotten pretty soggy thanks to some afternoon showers. A few intrepid kids were determined to enjoy it, and mine was first in line! In short order, he had had enough of his wet clothes and proceeded to ditch them all for some naked revelry. Somewhat amazingly, I actually had the foresight to bring a spare outfit and finally got him dressed again after a half-hour or so Then it was on to his next object of fascination: the keg. He insisted on working the pump, and several kind souls let him fill up their cups with foam. When it was time to leave, I literally had to drag him away kicking and screaming and resorted to bribery with--you guessed it-- more candy.
It was an action-packed 24 hours. But I must say, the greatest cause for celebration was our little Coco, who, after conducting herself with great composure through all of the proceedings, went on to sleep through the night (9 to 7—woohoo!) for the first time. Independence indeed!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Nightmare at Chick-Fil-A
Some folks from Henry’s playgroup had gone to a nearby city for a matinee showing of Bee Movie and lunch. I knew that we were not in any way ready to sit through a 90-minute movie, but I had some shopping to do in town and decided to meet the group afterward at a nearby Chick-Fil-A. For a number of reasons, we don’t really do fast food. But I must admit I have a soft spot for the Chick (must be those waffle fries) which we hit three or four times a year.
Henry, who had not yet discovered the joys of the fast food play area, was delighted to discover that this place had a slide inside. I was (barely) able to get him to inhale a few chicken nuggets and smuggled in carrots before he gleefully trotted off for some good clean fun. No sooner had I finished listening to some eye-opening tales from the playgroup ladies about the questionable hygiene of those places when Henry came out into the dining area, smiled and said, “I have poop on my foot.”
Cringe.
“Whose poop is it?” I asked.
“My poop.”
Of course it is. Of course my child is the pooper.
It was, it seemed, the mother of all poops. The poor kid was wearing a diaper, but it was no match for this super blowout. It was all over Henry and in a few seconds all over me, too. The Chick-Fil-A manager arrived looking exactly as a fast food honcho should: a chubby, balding, pasty looking guy with a mustache. “Everybody leave the play area,” he shouted and called for whatever unfortunate person happened to be on clean-up detail.
The ensuing pandemonium brought to mind the Baby Ruth scene from Caddyshack as mothers rushed to retrieve their darlings. Mortified mama passed Coco off to one of the playgroup moms and whisked the offending preschooler to the ladies room, but not before brushing the back of another kid’s shirt with poop from Henry’s foot (please tell me that didn't just happen!). I swear to God I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was on the verge of tears in the bathroom but shook it off. Carried the diaper clad Henry (hello, white trash!) to the car, snuck back into the dining area to grab the little girl and got the hell out of there.
Obviously a not-quite-three-year-old’s bodily functions are nothing to get in a tizzy about, but my insecurities flared right up. Will Henry become a playgroup pariah? Did I handle this properly or have I come across as a flake, terrible mother etc...?
As I slunk away, I made a mental note never to let my kids into one of those bacterial breeding grounds again. But they will undoubtedly find their way back in there at some point. And no doubt, come dinnertime, there would be another crop of kids in the indoor playground at Chick-Fil-A, oblivious to the afternoon’s catastrophe. Sunrise, sunset, life goes on. Just don’t forget the hand sanitizer.
Henry, who had not yet discovered the joys of the fast food play area, was delighted to discover that this place had a slide inside. I was (barely) able to get him to inhale a few chicken nuggets and smuggled in carrots before he gleefully trotted off for some good clean fun. No sooner had I finished listening to some eye-opening tales from the playgroup ladies about the questionable hygiene of those places when Henry came out into the dining area, smiled and said, “I have poop on my foot.”
Cringe.
“Whose poop is it?” I asked.
“My poop.”
Of course it is. Of course my child is the pooper.
It was, it seemed, the mother of all poops. The poor kid was wearing a diaper, but it was no match for this super blowout. It was all over Henry and in a few seconds all over me, too. The Chick-Fil-A manager arrived looking exactly as a fast food honcho should: a chubby, balding, pasty looking guy with a mustache. “Everybody leave the play area,” he shouted and called for whatever unfortunate person happened to be on clean-up detail.
The ensuing pandemonium brought to mind the Baby Ruth scene from Caddyshack as mothers rushed to retrieve their darlings. Mortified mama passed Coco off to one of the playgroup moms and whisked the offending preschooler to the ladies room, but not before brushing the back of another kid’s shirt with poop from Henry’s foot (please tell me that didn't just happen!). I swear to God I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was on the verge of tears in the bathroom but shook it off. Carried the diaper clad Henry (hello, white trash!) to the car, snuck back into the dining area to grab the little girl and got the hell out of there.
Obviously a not-quite-three-year-old’s bodily functions are nothing to get in a tizzy about, but my insecurities flared right up. Will Henry become a playgroup pariah? Did I handle this properly or have I come across as a flake, terrible mother etc...?
As I slunk away, I made a mental note never to let my kids into one of those bacterial breeding grounds again. But they will undoubtedly find their way back in there at some point. And no doubt, come dinnertime, there would be another crop of kids in the indoor playground at Chick-Fil-A, oblivious to the afternoon’s catastrophe. Sunrise, sunset, life goes on. Just don’t forget the hand sanitizer.
Monday, June 30, 2008
A Room of Her Own
Well, we’ve finally done it. We’ve moved little Coco into her own room. At 6 ½ months, it was about time. It’s not that we’re into the co-sleeping thing--she started put in our room in the lovely antique cradle that Christian’s Aunt Polly lent us. The plan was to move her out after a couple of months. But we simply didn’t have the energy to move her. And so when she outgrew the cradle, we put up her crib at the foot of our bed.
We hadn’t planned it that way. Henry was on his own by three months and sleeping twelve hours at a stretch by five months (He is still an amazing sleeper which has kept me sane throughout his supercharged toddlerhood.). In fact, we’ve been ready to get her out of there for some time. We’ve been itching to get the AC cranking and watch Netflix with the volume above 6. Also hoping this will get her to stop waking up several times a night. It’s just too easy when you can roll over and look your source of food and comfort in the eye every time you wake up.
The problem was that there was nowhere to put her. We had very briefly considered sticking her in with Henry, but after observing his behavior when sharing a room for a week with his cousin Scarlett (who’s got him by a few months and several pounds) we decided against it. So we set our sights on the tiny, wretched little room we referred to as the office. To understand the psychological hurdle involved, you must know that our rustic old farmhouse is built in two parts: the more recent frame half is where pretty much everything happens: the kitchen, living room, our bedroom and Henry’s, and a bath. Until now, the two-room log portion has been a kind of no man’s land, with the room downstairs full of junk from ceiling to floor, and upstairs the “office”, a grimy lair where the Christian used to hang out writing songs and watching You Tube videos and a dumping ground for unfiled paperwork, old magazines, and his collection of beat up old guitars and various other musical equipment. Put my baby in there? You must be kidding. But as one sleepless night rolled into another, I eventually came around. For one thing, the house just isn’t that big. If she needs me, I can still get to her in a few seconds.
Anyway, we hossed it yesterday and got (almost) everything out of there. Without all the junk, it’s rather nice, with two bright windows and lots of exposed wood. It’s a pretty bare bones nursery: a crib, a dresser and a changing table. But our low maintenance girl seems pretty happy in there. I am delighted to report that last night went about as well as I could have hoped. Only one middle of the night feeding around 1:30. After that, we didn’t hear much from her until 7:30 or so when I heard some pleasant little cooing and gurgling sounds over the monitor (or harmonitor as Henry calls it. He is, after all, the son of a blues singer!).
So we are now gratefully looking forward to the return of restful nights and watching Star Trek DVD’s with abandon. Now, what to do with all the guitars in our living room…?
We hadn’t planned it that way. Henry was on his own by three months and sleeping twelve hours at a stretch by five months (He is still an amazing sleeper which has kept me sane throughout his supercharged toddlerhood.). In fact, we’ve been ready to get her out of there for some time. We’ve been itching to get the AC cranking and watch Netflix with the volume above 6. Also hoping this will get her to stop waking up several times a night. It’s just too easy when you can roll over and look your source of food and comfort in the eye every time you wake up.
The problem was that there was nowhere to put her. We had very briefly considered sticking her in with Henry, but after observing his behavior when sharing a room for a week with his cousin Scarlett (who’s got him by a few months and several pounds) we decided against it. So we set our sights on the tiny, wretched little room we referred to as the office. To understand the psychological hurdle involved, you must know that our rustic old farmhouse is built in two parts: the more recent frame half is where pretty much everything happens: the kitchen, living room, our bedroom and Henry’s, and a bath. Until now, the two-room log portion has been a kind of no man’s land, with the room downstairs full of junk from ceiling to floor, and upstairs the “office”, a grimy lair where the Christian used to hang out writing songs and watching You Tube videos and a dumping ground for unfiled paperwork, old magazines, and his collection of beat up old guitars and various other musical equipment. Put my baby in there? You must be kidding. But as one sleepless night rolled into another, I eventually came around. For one thing, the house just isn’t that big. If she needs me, I can still get to her in a few seconds.
Anyway, we hossed it yesterday and got (almost) everything out of there. Without all the junk, it’s rather nice, with two bright windows and lots of exposed wood. It’s a pretty bare bones nursery: a crib, a dresser and a changing table. But our low maintenance girl seems pretty happy in there. I am delighted to report that last night went about as well as I could have hoped. Only one middle of the night feeding around 1:30. After that, we didn’t hear much from her until 7:30 or so when I heard some pleasant little cooing and gurgling sounds over the monitor (or harmonitor as Henry calls it. He is, after all, the son of a blues singer!).
So we are now gratefully looking forward to the return of restful nights and watching Star Trek DVD’s with abandon. Now, what to do with all the guitars in our living room…?
Friday, June 27, 2008
Garden Loser
Let me start by saying that I haven’t given up. Despite the fact that our “garden” is essentially a patch of weeds with a few rows of
(very delicious!) greens.
The conditions for gardening around here are, in principle, ideal. We live on a farm, for God’s sake. We have plenty of room and access to free horse manure. We have two beautiful plots, which have served, on and off, as gardens since the hippies and hillbillies lived here in the 60’s and 70’s. What we seem to lack is time and motivation.
On a positive note, we’re off to a considerably better start than last year. Last summer we were ready to go and full of grand plans until I saw one of the cats squatting in the freshly tilled ground and freaked out. I was a few months pregnant at the time and toxoplasmosis was weighing heavily on my mind. In addition to being irrational, I was feeling pretty crummy pretty much all last summer, so we just decided to let it go.
This summer, determined to make things grow, we set out to cultivate our dream garden. We bought a book, Barbara Damrosch’s Garden Primer. We borrowed a roto-tiller from a family friend. We bought the seeds—cukes, chard, green beans, etc. We even started some of them in those little peat pots, but somehow they just never got planted. Unfortunately, we lost a bunch of beautiful little seedlings during one of the crazy tornado-type storms that have hit our little corner of Blue Ridge heaven in recent weeks, and the ones that were spared just seemed to shrivel up and die. Guess it could have had something to do with lack of water and sunlight…hmm…
However, all was not lost. My stalwart husband planted three gorgeous, precise rows of different types of lettuce and one row of kale (a great love of mine), which we have managed to keep in fairly good order. He also got in two rows of tomato plants, God bless him. At the other end of the garden, my haphazard mother jumped in and planted a haphazard row of peas. I’m sorry to say I have all but given up on the poor little peas. It’s absolute chaos in that corner of the garden--impossible to determine where the weeds end and the vegetables begin. I’m sure the poor things are nutrient deprived--the few pods I’ve picked are pale and not appetizing in the least. Never fear little tomatoes, I won’t let them get you, too!
It just seems like there wasn’t enough time to get all those plants in the ground. And there’s just not enough time to get to all those weeds. I try to get out there, really I do! There are just, as always, so many distractions. The baby keeps rolling off the blanket I’ve set out for her, or starts fussing. I haven’t quite mastered gardening with a sling/carrier. I’m sure it can be done, but I haven’t yet found the key. Then there’s Henry who keeps trying to dig up his father’s meticulously crafted rows with his Tonka bulldozer or starts running off in the direction of the pond while I’m trying to get some work done. How on earth do other people do it?
But my problem is not just one of motivation: it’s also absolute cluelessness. How the hell do you dig a proper row? How do you plant the seeds? How on earth would you build a trellis? All this is especially tough for a spatial-relations challenged gal like myself. Whenever I have a question, Christian tells me to get out the book and see what Barb has to say. The Ever Lovin’ is crazy about Barb, but I’m ambivalent. There’s a smugness about her, which is no doubt precisely what appeals to my better half, who is also on some kind of higher plane of consciousness. And she makes hard things sound way too easy, which plays right into my inferiority complex. Barb suggests that to become a good gardener, one needs to learn to think like a plant. While I sometimes feel like my IQ has been reduced to that of a stalk of asparagus since I had kids, I just don’t seem to be able to get in synch with the vegetable kingdom.
But as I said, I’m not giving up. I like to think of this as our pilot garden. I am truly inspired by the deliciousness and the delicious cheapness of one’s own vegetables. Next year, we’re gonna kick ass, I swear! Til then, we’ll be relying on farm stands run by people who know what they’re doing—and eating lots of kale.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Been in Virginia Too Long...
The other day, I was thinking about my old friend Liza who’s a wine write/educator in San Francisco. I decided to take a peek at her site and was tickled to read that she spoke at an NRA convention in May. Wow--I didn’t think those guys would be into wine—seems like it wouldn't be such a good idea around all those guns…What? NRA stands for National Restaurant Association?? Oops—guess I’m really a Virginian after all! Anyway, LZ is on her way! Go girl!
Monday, June 23, 2008
Beaucaillou & Beaux-parents
My very charming Gemini in-laws have consecutive birthdays right around the summer solstice. So we celebrated with a good old fashioned Sunday lunch. Things got off to a rocky start, I must say. Christian was otherwise occupied (weed whacking) and neglected to get the grill going at the appointed hour. Mama started losing it (blood sugar emergency). I hadn’t planned anything in the way of hors d’oeuvres so went scrambling for a snack and came up with some old Ritz crackers my mother in law had brought over on a previous occasion (Unlike my firstborn, I’m not a fan. Corn syrup- yuck!) and an ancient, rock hard piece of bland, pasteurized Brie from Costco. The fireworks began when the ever lovin’ husband got ticked off at my lack of prep work on the pork chops (failure to marinate—guilty as charged). Which led to an exchange along these lines:
Papa: “You’re insane!”
Mama: “You’re driving me insane!”
We were soon laughing about it (after Mama had a few swigs of Bordeaux, that is) and things finally came together around two. Grilled pork chops (which, thank goodness, turned out just fine), roasted asparagus and new potatoes from my favorite local farm stand. We washed it down with a 2000 La Croix de Beaucaillou (the second wine of the second growth Chateau Ducru Beaucaillou in Saint Julien). Dee-licious! Plus it gave us a chance use some of the Riedel wine glasses we got for our wedding. I gave Henry his first glass of (watered down) wine. He seemed to dig it but liked the corkscrew even better. Rhubard pie for dessert—yeehaw! My favorite and also beloved by my belle-mere. After that, the in-laws went off in search of some kind of enclosure for a wild turkey chick they are now keeping as a pet (more on that one to follow) and the rest of us crashed hard.
I came across this helpful little article on women and wine by Mireille Guiliano in June’s Bon Appetit. Enjoy!
Papa: “You’re insane!”
Mama: “You’re driving me insane!”
We were soon laughing about it (after Mama had a few swigs of Bordeaux, that is) and things finally came together around two. Grilled pork chops (which, thank goodness, turned out just fine), roasted asparagus and new potatoes from my favorite local farm stand. We washed it down with a 2000 La Croix de Beaucaillou (the second wine of the second growth Chateau Ducru Beaucaillou in Saint Julien). Dee-licious! Plus it gave us a chance use some of the Riedel wine glasses we got for our wedding. I gave Henry his first glass of (watered down) wine. He seemed to dig it but liked the corkscrew even better. Rhubard pie for dessert—yeehaw! My favorite and also beloved by my belle-mere. After that, the in-laws went off in search of some kind of enclosure for a wild turkey chick they are now keeping as a pet (more on that one to follow) and the rest of us crashed hard.
I came across this helpful little article on women and wine by Mireille Guiliano in June’s Bon Appetit. Enjoy!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Les Mouches
One of the biggest drawbacks of country life is the profusion of vermin that find their way into one’s sphere. In summer, for example, just when the mice and squirrels have finally decided to check out and return to nature, the bugs arrive.
First came the termites, swarming in to feast on our rotting windowsills and porch. “I’m glad the termites left some wood for us,” said Henry when they were gone. Then came the ants, thousands of tiny sugar ants crawling all over our kitchen. They must have felt like they had found the Promised Land, here in the valley of lost Cheerios.
Our ants seem to like anything except vegetables (hmmm) and are especially partial to breastmilk. Every time I fix little Coco a bowl of rice cereal made with mama’s milk, I’m afraid to set it on the counter for fear that a line of little ants will dive right into it.
The ants seem to be moving on to greener pastures (I think I made them mad because I finally decided to put the sugar in some Tupperware), only to be replaced by the flies. We call them mouches around here (they’re somehow more tolerable en francais..). They have been worse than ever this year, mostly because our screen door is lying horizontal on a couple of sawhorses out on the porch. Christian pulled it off to replace the screen (several big holes!) but has since become distracted by more pressing issues. So there it sits, and without our first line of defense, we were at their mercy. Yesterday, they were driving me nuts--one brazen little bugger landed on my eyelid while I was pumping. They were circling poor little Coco as I fed her strained peas. I had to leave her in her high chair for a few minutes and told Henry his job was to keep the flies from landing on his sister. He held his own, I must say—swatting at them and hollering, “Va-t-en, mouche!”. That’s my boy…
For some time, we had convinced Henry that we actually had only one fly and that his name was Manny. It really did seem for months that there was only one fly about at any particular moment. But that charade is over, I’m afraid to say. There are simply too many to go on pretending. I’m embarrassed to note that we’ve had to resort to putting up fly strips. They’re hanging in all the kitchen windows like white trash Chinese lanterns. They seem to be pretty effective, though. I can actually sit here and type without Manny and his disruptive cousins crawling all over the computer screen.
And those are just the house bugs. We are bombarded by gnats every time we leave the house. And, of course, the ticks. We have plenty of the regular old Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever kind and I’ve found three deer ticks on Henry so far. He’s getting good at spotting them himself. Christian is uncharacteristically freaked out by the prospect of Lyme disease. So much so that he recently took it upon himself to give Henry a buzz with some twenty- year old clippers. The blades were shot and after hacking away at Hank's hair for a while, papa realized that a disaster was in the works and took our boy up to the bathroom where he shaved his poor little head with my Venus Divine razor. He looked like Kojak or a mini-Buddhist monk. Mama was in floods but have gotten used to it now, and it is in fact, growing out which is, thank goodness, the nature of hair…
I really shouldn’t complain since the fireflies make up for it all. They are glorious out here! Henry calls them Birthday Bugs, having noted their existence shortly after blowing out a birthday candle (on another kid’s birthday cake!). I remember rediscovering fireflies for the first time after moving back to Virginia from Paris. I was housesitting in another, far more elegant farmhouse outside of Waterford, ten years ago or so. It was the beginning of summer and I was sitting alone on the porch when I looked up and saw this amazing glowing stream of them at the treeline. I was so overjoyed I almost fell out of my chair. They no longer have that effect on me, but I still get a little tingle when I see one.
First came the termites, swarming in to feast on our rotting windowsills and porch. “I’m glad the termites left some wood for us,” said Henry when they were gone. Then came the ants, thousands of tiny sugar ants crawling all over our kitchen. They must have felt like they had found the Promised Land, here in the valley of lost Cheerios.
Our ants seem to like anything except vegetables (hmmm) and are especially partial to breastmilk. Every time I fix little Coco a bowl of rice cereal made with mama’s milk, I’m afraid to set it on the counter for fear that a line of little ants will dive right into it.
The ants seem to be moving on to greener pastures (I think I made them mad because I finally decided to put the sugar in some Tupperware), only to be replaced by the flies. We call them mouches around here (they’re somehow more tolerable en francais..). They have been worse than ever this year, mostly because our screen door is lying horizontal on a couple of sawhorses out on the porch. Christian pulled it off to replace the screen (several big holes!) but has since become distracted by more pressing issues. So there it sits, and without our first line of defense, we were at their mercy. Yesterday, they were driving me nuts--one brazen little bugger landed on my eyelid while I was pumping. They were circling poor little Coco as I fed her strained peas. I had to leave her in her high chair for a few minutes and told Henry his job was to keep the flies from landing on his sister. He held his own, I must say—swatting at them and hollering, “Va-t-en, mouche!”. That’s my boy…
For some time, we had convinced Henry that we actually had only one fly and that his name was Manny. It really did seem for months that there was only one fly about at any particular moment. But that charade is over, I’m afraid to say. There are simply too many to go on pretending. I’m embarrassed to note that we’ve had to resort to putting up fly strips. They’re hanging in all the kitchen windows like white trash Chinese lanterns. They seem to be pretty effective, though. I can actually sit here and type without Manny and his disruptive cousins crawling all over the computer screen.
And those are just the house bugs. We are bombarded by gnats every time we leave the house. And, of course, the ticks. We have plenty of the regular old Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever kind and I’ve found three deer ticks on Henry so far. He’s getting good at spotting them himself. Christian is uncharacteristically freaked out by the prospect of Lyme disease. So much so that he recently took it upon himself to give Henry a buzz with some twenty- year old clippers. The blades were shot and after hacking away at Hank's hair for a while, papa realized that a disaster was in the works and took our boy up to the bathroom where he shaved his poor little head with my Venus Divine razor. He looked like Kojak or a mini-Buddhist monk. Mama was in floods but have gotten used to it now, and it is in fact, growing out which is, thank goodness, the nature of hair…
I really shouldn’t complain since the fireflies make up for it all. They are glorious out here! Henry calls them Birthday Bugs, having noted their existence shortly after blowing out a birthday candle (on another kid’s birthday cake!). I remember rediscovering fireflies for the first time after moving back to Virginia from Paris. I was housesitting in another, far more elegant farmhouse outside of Waterford, ten years ago or so. It was the beginning of summer and I was sitting alone on the porch when I looked up and saw this amazing glowing stream of them at the treeline. I was so overjoyed I almost fell out of my chair. They no longer have that effect on me, but I still get a little tingle when I see one.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Versa Envy
Absolutely dying to trade my clunky old SUV in for a new Nissan Versa. The amazing thing is that it was Christian’s idea. I almost died when my swaggering, 6 foot four, climate change denying husband--who absolutely insisted that a Tahoe was the smallest vehicle a couple of vertically enhanced kids like us could possibly get--came home one day and told me he had found or next car. Some friends of his got a Versa--exactly the one we’re hankering for (white with tan interior)--and let him try it out. Apparently it’s got a ton of room inside—even in back. I like it because it’s so darn cute and because I’m sick of driving around with my gas needle hovering on empty because I just can’t bear to shell out a hundred bucks to fill the sucker up. The problem is—who the hell wants a beat up old 98 vintage gas guzzler that smells like sour milk and has a bunch of unvacuumable goldfish crumbs between the seats. (I’d better stop dissing her or she might break down on me—again). I heard a piece on NPR the other day about a guy who has TWO gigantic Ford SUVs—fairly new. He decided to try to trade one in and got offers of eight to eleven thousand for a $50,000 car! So apparently the answer to my question is: nobody. So, I guess we’re stuck with her. Meanwhile, I’ll continue trying to consolidate my errands, limit child-related outings, feeding the beast ($20 at a time) and dreaming of a little white Versa.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Rosé and Remembrance
A recent foray into civilization in search of BPA free drinking containers—Sigg bottles for Henry and me; a Born Free trainer cup for baby Coco—led me to the very swankyWegmans in Sterling (my favorite grocery store--I never go in there because it’s like a zillion miles away and because I could spend a fortune on cheese alone in there…)I decided to go nuts and buy a bottle of wine. I told the very nice wine guy I was looking for a dry rosé from France, not too expensive. I am absolutely wild about rose, I must say. Proper dry stuff of course, nothing resembling white zinfandel…I look forward to it every summer. Back in NYC, my friend Manon and I would drink buckets of it as soon as the weather gor warm. I had to skip rosé season last year because Coco was gestating so was psyched to be back in action. Of course, I can’t put it away like I used to…both because of the nursing thing and because I have become a total lightweight in the past few years. One generous glass is just about all I can handle.
The Wegmans guy steered me toward a bottle of Jean-Luc Colombo’s Rose de Cote Bleue. I have a soft spot for Colombo from my old life. My old boss in NYC, Jean-Louis Carbonnier, used to do PR for Colombo who’s a well-known winemaker and consultant in the Rhone Valley. I had the good fortune to visit Jean-Luc and his family at their place in Cornas back in 2000—gorgeous—the wines, the setting, all of it. Colombo had this fabulous fireplace and I remember his effortlessly throwing a few duck breasts right in there and coming up with this fabulous meal. I was able to visit a number of winemakers he was affiliated with up and down the Rhone Valley and in Provence. Jean-Luc’s lovely daughter Laure stayed with me for a few days in Brooklyn the following year. Colombo is best know for his Cornas, but from what I understand, he now owns or is involved with some projects in southern France (Provence and Languedoc Roussillon). I’ve unfortunately lost touch with him so don’t know that full story. The wine guy from Wegmans had also been to Colombo's place, and I was really enjoying having an intelligent conversation about wine (with a grown-up!). But then my three year old decided to take off running in the direction of the meat department, so I had to cut the chit-chat and go retrieve him. Anyway, the Rosé de Cote Bleue is an AOC Coteaux d’Aix en Provence and was very drinkable for $10 which is pretty much my limit for a bottle of wine these days (except for an occasional splurge on Champagne which is another story). We had it with grilled shrimp and burgers—yum!
The Wegmans guy steered me toward a bottle of Jean-Luc Colombo’s Rose de Cote Bleue. I have a soft spot for Colombo from my old life. My old boss in NYC, Jean-Louis Carbonnier, used to do PR for Colombo who’s a well-known winemaker and consultant in the Rhone Valley. I had the good fortune to visit Jean-Luc and his family at their place in Cornas back in 2000—gorgeous—the wines, the setting, all of it. Colombo had this fabulous fireplace and I remember his effortlessly throwing a few duck breasts right in there and coming up with this fabulous meal. I was able to visit a number of winemakers he was affiliated with up and down the Rhone Valley and in Provence. Jean-Luc’s lovely daughter Laure stayed with me for a few days in Brooklyn the following year. Colombo is best know for his Cornas, but from what I understand, he now owns or is involved with some projects in southern France (Provence and Languedoc Roussillon). I’ve unfortunately lost touch with him so don’t know that full story. The wine guy from Wegmans had also been to Colombo's place, and I was really enjoying having an intelligent conversation about wine (with a grown-up!). But then my three year old decided to take off running in the direction of the meat department, so I had to cut the chit-chat and go retrieve him. Anyway, the Rosé de Cote Bleue is an AOC Coteaux d’Aix en Provence and was very drinkable for $10 which is pretty much my limit for a bottle of wine these days (except for an occasional splurge on Champagne which is another story). We had it with grilled shrimp and burgers—yum!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Not in Montmartre Anymore...
My darling cousin-in-law Amy passed along a lovely little blog by a lovely young French chick, Clotilde Dusoulier-- www.chocolateandzucchini.com. Reading over some very charming posts by a glamourous 28 year old foodie living in Montmartre brought back memories of my own carefree days living on the butte and my glorious years on the food and wine scene in New York. Flash forward to a 37 year old housewife in exurban Virginia (how did that happen??) with two brilliant, adorable, demanding, exhausting kids. These days, it’s all about congealed string cheese, half-eaten hot dogs (organic of course!) and, well, poop, snot and tears.
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