Confessions of a Yuletide Slacker

Well, the holidays are upon us, and as usual here at the funny farm, we find ourselves utterly unprepared. At 5 days out, we have no tree, no presents and some very vague plans for a holiday meal. We’re last minute people around here in general, but we’re even more off the ball than usual this year, thanks in part to the 2 feet of snow mother nature decided to grace us with on this crucial final weekend. I haven’t started to panic—or maybe I’m beyond panic. After six years of holidays with the great procrastinator, I’ve learned that things always come together somehow. We are managing to inject a little holiday spirit into our snowbound little menage. They’re cranking the Christmas tunes on Bluegrass Country. Hank and I are taking advantage of our snow days to cook up some gingerbread cookies. But the uncompleted (unstarted really) shopping is bringing me down.

I have to admit, until last weekend I was hardly thinking about the end-of-year holidays. This is mostly because my precious girl happened to be born 10 days before Christmas and this year, I got it in my head that I had to throw her a Bollywood-themed birthday party (inspired by the super cute outfit the world traveling Tatie Misha brought back for Coco from India last year). The party was a fabulous: I got to wear a sari (on loan from the world traveling Auntie Amy) and whipped up some truly kickass curries. However, it took up a lot of the energy (and cash) that would normally have gone to Christmas legwork.

As usual, I’m kicking myself for not just taking care of everything on Amazon on cyber Monday like smart people do. And feeling a little guilty because my kids won’t be getting the perfect presents I had envisioned. But really, the last minute shopping thing is no big deal. We like to keep it simple. With our tight budget and my anti-consumerist streak, we don’t tend to go nuts with the pressies. Christian and I have pretty much stopped gifting each other after a few years of failed attempts. As you may have learned from my previous post, we don’t watch TV so the kids aren’t clamoring for a bunch of shit they’ve been brainwashed into thinking they need. Henry’s inspiration, of course, comes from stuff he’s seen at other people’s houses. Usually the demands are fleeting but he’s been pretty persistent in asking for a remote control digger. Well, my darling, ask and you shall receive (as long as it’s available at Target on 12/22…). Actually, I think the main problem with that one is that I really have no clue what he’s talking about… The other request was a swingset (a few of his little friends have those fancy wooden models that dot the exurban landscape (they’ll only set you back a couple thou…). Good luck with that one, kid.

As for the Bollywood princess, I’m happy to say she still has no clue and no desires. Her needs, her wants are met (mostly by me which is as satisfying as it is exhausting). I’m talking about love, fresh air, nourishing food and, lately, conversation. That’s really what it’s all about for her. Although she is kind of digging the pink Barbie laptop she got from her little BFF for her birthday…Next year, she can take me out of the loop and email her list directly to Santa.

Don't blame me--I'm TV free

Yet another confrontation with my cultural cluelessness via facebook the other day when a high school acquaintance put up an enthusiastic post about someone named Elizabeth Mitchell. Of course, I thought he was talking about the children’s folk singer, whom we are crazy about around here, but whose popular appeal, it would seem, in no way rivals that of the TV star he was talking about. As I have since learned from Wikipedia, Elizabeth Mitchell played the scheming doctor on Lost (now starring in the updated version of V--which of course I had no idea they were even doing…).

Why, you may ask, am I so out of it? Well for one thing, we are essentially TV free around here. When America went digital, we went dark. We decided to stick with our trusty old Panasonic and just say no to the converter box. Not that we were big TV viewers before the digital revolution… As a single person, I was always too busy working/having a good time to watch much television. I have also been consistently unwilling to pay for cable/satellite, preferring to spend my discretionary income on clothing and booze as a single person and on swim classes and Starbucks as a parent.

We’ve always only had one television, which is located in our bedroom and not in a common area, so it’s never just on the way the radio is sometimes on, as background noise. Now that we have no reception whatsoever, we use our set to watch dvds, mostly riveting material from the local library. We are, for example, currently struggling to stay awake through season one of The Tudors (not sure if it’s the time change or Sam Neill…). Henry gets to watch one dvd a day (two if I’m feeling antisocial) while Coco naps (this is, of course, is mostly to preserve my sanity). Colette, I am happy to say, does not really watch anything. We stick to the AAP recommendation that kids don’t watch television before age 2 (although I’m still not sure why there’s always a bloody Disney movie showing in my pediatrician’s office…).

I’m not necessarily anti-television per se. Christian and I actually wind up watching quite a bit of TV programming on dvd (I still miss Tony Soprano). I do have issues with advertising and am entirely grateful to be out of the loop on the latest in prostate health. I’m also determined to have television play a very small role in my kids’ lives (although I do have mixed emotions when I’m feeling bloggy and Hank declines to watch a video because he’d rather play Legos with me).

There are things I feel I’m missing out on (Californication, Nigella Lawson, Roger Federer…). People keep recommending hulu, but our problem is that (since we have an analogue set) we’d have to sit on hard chairs in the kitchen in front of our iMac—no thanks. We recently inherited a converter box from my in-laws who are once again on the cutting edge of technology, having picked up a flatscreen from Costco. I have a feeling we'll eventually cave and install the thing before the 2010 World Cup. Gotta watch the French team cheat its way to victory--n’est-ce pas?

From Brussels with Love

Took the kids to see my in-laws the other day, and we wound up going home with a bunch of frozen foods, including a bag of Brussels sprouts. As you might have guessed, I don’t have much to say in favor of frozen veggies (except for peas and edamame but that’s another story). But I was tickled to read on the package that they actually came from Belgium... Anyway, I’m kind of a Brussels sprout aficionado, and those lovely green globes are one of my very favorite things about winter. They must be fresh of course. And roasted, never boiled (the sign of an affluent society according to Claude Lévi-Strauss). I roast them in the oven with olive oil and a little salt for everyday and with bacon and chestnuts for holidays. They are tender and slightly chewy with a fabulous nutty flavor and have very little in common with the sorry, mushy excuse for a vegetable that comes out of the freezer.

Because this question has come up, I’ll take this opportunity to mention that my Petits Choux handle doesn’t have anything to do with Brussels sprouts (choux de Bruxelles). It refers to my kids and translates as “little sweeties”, as in pâte à chou (puff pastry), not cabbages or Brussels sprouts which are not particularly sweet. They are however pretty darn cute.

Beauty is a Beast

Coco had a second-hand bee costume going on for Halloween, but I’m starting to think I should have given her a bow and arrow and called her an Amazon from Hell. She’s a big, gorgeous, rowdy toddler and is kind of turning into a playground ruffian. She’s picked up some bad practices from her brother and has started pushing other kids around in social settings. She’s clearly not trying to be mean—in fact, I’m pretty sure it’s her way of expressing her affection (she only smacks around the kids she likes).

For the most part, the parents we associate with have been pretty cool about it. She had a hilarious brawl with a little beauty named Ava at a little party we went to earlier this fall (2 toddlers battling over a five-year-old hipster’s Davy Crockett-style coonskin cap). Coco gave Ava a shove and Ava returned fire with a poke in the eye. The other mom laughed it off, the girls moved on pretty quickly, and a good time was had by all.

There was an uptight mom at the library with an expensively dressed 14-month-old (late 30s/early 40s mom; little girl with last name as first name) who seemed a little put out when Co gave her kid a friendly shove (the kid was unfazed). I have a neighbor who’s the overprotective first-time parent of a tiny, sedate, porcelain-skinned creature who, it’s hard to believe, is only a few months younger than Co (she seems like another species altogether). The mom seems nice, but I’m afraid to call her for a meetup because I’m afraid my little bruiser might break her kid.

Anyway, she really is a sweet, well-adjusted child—just a little wild at times. And I don’t want her to get a rep around town at the tender age of (not quite) two. Of course, my underlying concern is always that Coco’s aggressive behavior is going to be attributed to bad parenting. Really, I’m doing my best here. I’m on it every time something happens with stern admonishments, time outs etc. But I’m fairly sure it’s just a phase, and I don’t want to make too much of a big deal about it. Anyway, there’s really not much I can do about it except make her a prisoner in her own home (in which case the same fate would apply to me). So for now, we need to be around rough and tumble kids and laid back parents. If you find any, let me know…

To Oink or Not to Oink...

Word at the playground is that swine flu is sweeping Lovetown. No one’s had the H1N1 shot here at the funny farm…yet. Haven’t quite decided whether we’re going to go there. We’re vaccinators around here. It’s always made me slightly uneasy--it’s naturally a little nervewracking to voluntarily subject your little kid to something that could hurt him, even if the chances are incredibly slim. Plus they always give you those really scary handouts at the doctors office (talk about bad PR…). But I remain convinced that the risks of preventable childhood illnesses far outweigh any risks related to vaccination, and that the public health aspect can’t be overlooked. On a certain level I support people’s right not to vaccinate, but I must say it seems like a pretty selfish thing to do. I mean really, non-vaccinators are essentially relying on the fact that the rest of us do it to keep their kids from getting some potentially fatal illness. (You’re welcome guys). It seems like a pretty right wing-y kind of thing to do but it’s unfortunately become a part of the crunchy orthodoxy. This article in Wired laid it all out pretty well.

Anyway, we will continue to get the prescribed childhood vaccines because I think it’s the best thing for my kids and for society. And yet, there’s something about the H1N1 thing that makes me not want to rush out and get it. It seems like it was thrown together in a hurry, and I keep hearing about docs who say they won’t vaccinate their own kids. I’m skeptical of the effectiveness of the whole flu shot thing to begin with, and my anti-vaccine connections on facebook add to my unease.

However, my little sis, a pediatrician and mother whom I trust more than anyone else on this issue, says get it if you can. And so, in the end, we probably will. But my whole internal debate may be immaterial. My doctor’s office doesn’t have it yet and our local health department is already out, at least temporarily. I read somewhere that the Obama girls haven’t gotten theirs yet, so my kids can wait too. Meanwhile, we’ll be rocking the vitamin C--and vitamin D-rich cod liver oil. Should note that the fish oil thing is not popular with some of my vegetarian friends on FB (“Think about how many little livers go into one ounce of that stuff,” my old friend Betty recently implored). Sometimes you just can’t win.

Remembrances of Meatballs Past

My mother in law periodically gets a charitable urge and decides to unload a bunch of canned/processed food items from her pantry on us. The gestures are certainly kind but I must say her shopping choices confound me. She’s a die-hard proponent of processed food (one of my all time favorite betes noires). So all of a sudden, my kitchen is full of bizarre products I would never buy--baked beans, corned beef hash, canned pasta products and so on.

The other day, after the latest round came in, I had a bunch of cans sitting on the table while I made some room in the far corners of my cabinets (I have decided to make them into emergency rations in the event of some kind of bioterrorist attack). Hank, who I am proud to say, has never eaten ravioli (or anything else of that nature) from a can, immediately zeroed in on the Chef Boyardee pasta with meatballs and asked to have that for a snack. (I asked him about the choice and he said it was based on the guy in the funny hat on the front—clearly their cheesy marketing is right on target). OK…I grew up in the 70s and we ate our share of spaghetti-o’s and didn’t mutate or anything. So I gave in. Really, what is one HFCS, MSG, sodium laden can of GMO pasta and hormone treated beef going to hurt? The boy and I split the can. He ate his bowl right away. I found it mushy, cloying, but not entirely unpleasant. However, the madeleine-style 1977 flashback I was hoping for did not occur—just a mild case of indigestion.

A Little Reality Check

I have pretty much avoided posting photos of my children on this blog. For one thing, I suppose I prefer the false sense of security on facebook. For another, showing off my cute kids is not really what this space is about for me.

However, a conversation I had with an old friend during my recent (fabulous) trip to New York has inspired me to lay this one on y’all.This friend was giving me updates on a few of his former colleagues whom I had known (through him) during my years in the big city. One friend of his, a lovely woman about my age (that would be late 30s last time I checked), married an American guy who owns a vineyard in Tuscany. I didn’t know this woman well, but enjoyed catching up with her a bit at our mutual friend’s wedding last year, after which she sent me a friend request on facebook. She doesn’t seem to get on much except to post occasional photos of her (apparently) amazing life in Italy (handsome husband, beautiful young daughter, nice vacations etc).

My friend says that while her life is undoubtedly fabulous and all, he gets the sense that she often feels isolated out there amongst the vines and has trouble connecting with other women. Hmmm….sound familiar? Now, that is not to say that Tuscany has anything in common with exurban hell. But still, it got me thinking.

After that conversation, it occurred to me that if someone I didn’t know very well were to evaluate my life based on the pictures I post on facebook, he or she would be given the impression that my life is a piece of cake. (Beautiful kids, nice scenery etc.). So, I decided to take a few pics that more accurately reflected the day-to-day situation. As in screaming child covered with snot and hummus. Eat your heart out Carla B.

All Carla All the Time

It’s been Bee Zee around here this fall so have had no time to indulge my enduring girlcrush on Carla Bruni. Didn’t even catch a single picture of her and Michelle in Pittsburgh. But my days of Carla deprivation are officially over : I can now keep up with her comings and goings thanks to her new website (launched yesterday). She already has a site dedicated to her singing career-- this one covers her activities as France’s first lady, AIDS activism and her foundation which (according to the new site) is focused on bringing access to the arts to low income kids.

Surprisingly, the new site made it to the top of the leftwing Libération website, where reader comments ranged from indifferent to mildly disgusted. The lefties are so over her over there. I’m no fan of Sarko and would love to hate her myself but just can’t break the spell.

Do They Still Make Garanimals?

On a recent (fabulous) visit to New York, I made a quick stop at the H&M at Herald Square while en route from one outer borough to another. I bought a knit hat for Coco and package of underpants for Hank. The briefs were rolled up in their little box, and all I could see were the pictures of construction equipment, which appeared to be right up his alley. Little did I know I was purchasing a six pack of Euro slingshots. The boy could not care less and is happy to have another pair of drawers with a backhoe on the front. But I can’t help giggling a little when he puts them on (especially the orange ones with the steamroller). Guess that’s what I get for shopping Scandinavian…

I’m a terrible shopper and rarely buy retail for my kids (or for myself when I think about it). These people are thoroughly second hand: hand me downs, yard sales, thrift stores, CraigsList—that’s how we roll around here. My little beauties generally don’t wind up looking exactly as I’d have them in a perfect world. It’s particularly hard to style a little rocker chick with suburban castoffs--Coco has way more pink in her wardrobe than she would if I was sourcing firsthand (I’m more of an earth tone kind of gal). But the sad truth is, pink is what’s out there. I have drawn the line at Dora and the Disney princesses and pretty much any annoying television characters. Whenever we inherit anything with that kind of obscene commercial display, it goes right back into circulation via the charity thrift shop my mother helps operate. I do a pretty good job with the recycled threads at my disposal, I have to say. But we’re a far cry from Madison Avenue.

My NYC adventures with Coco included a lovely Saturday afternoon in Manhattan, where we checked out the hipster infested playground in Madison Square Park with our wonderful hosts. Bugaboo strollers lined the perimeter, and the fashions on the kids were pretty impressive. More than enough to give this hayseed mama a complex. I often think about how great things would be if only I had been able to convince Christian to move to Brooklyn when we decided to commit. How enjoyable it would be to raise kids in my old neighborhood in Williamsburg. But I’m really not so sure I could handle it--we just don’t have the wardrobe for it. Remaining fashion forward in Lovetown is hard enough.

Minor Irritations

Me: I think I’ve got Irritable Bowel Syndrome like Adriana
Ever Lovin’: You know that’s a fictional show, right?
Me: Yeah but it’s a real condition. They used to have ads for some kind of medication on television.
Ever Lovin’: I think it’s just that unripe avocado we ate yesterday.

In fact, I probably don’t have IBS. I’ve never, thank God, really had digestive issues in the past, and I’m fairly certain my mild discomfort is a passing thing. I was, however, really fascinated by the fact that Sopranos writers had Adriana diagnosed with IBS right before Silvio took her out in the woods and shot her. (Experiencing a big old Sopranos jones whilst waiting for Season 6 to come in to the library). Got me thinking about those super annoying (but irritatingly memorable) ads for Zelnorm that were on when I was still an occasional television viewer (you know, the ones with a bunch off women showing off scribbles on their midsections). It turns out Zelnorm (which is apparently some kind of serotonin booster) was banned from the US market a couple years ago because of deadly cardiovascular side effects.

IBS, according to Google health, is a “complex” disorder of the lower intestinal tract characterized by alternating bouts of constipation and diarrhea. It has no known physical cause but is apparently aggravated by emotional stress. Most of the afflicted are, of course, women.

Anyway, no plans to call the gastroenterologist just yet. I’ll just take a probiotic, hang out in downward dog for a few minutes and hope I feel better in the morning.

Dropoff Drama

Ahhhh preschool enfin! We seem to be starting up excruciatingly late this year. I think we must live in the only jurisdiction on the planet that still starts school after Labor Day. My niece in a nearby city started like two weeks ago. But the blessed day has finally arrived.

Was a little worried because Hank had somehow developed a fixation with Ms. Annemarie, the other four-year-old teacher, and had a fit every time I tried to gently get him used to the idea that he was not going to be in her class. The situation is made worse by the fact that his oldest friend (they go waaay back—like 3 years) is, in fact, in Annemarie’s class. He seemed to forget about it during this morning’s open house and enjoyed discovering his new classroom but started talking about her again on the way home. Hoping it’s not going to be an issue and that occasionally admiring la belle Annemarie on the playground will be enough.

And of course we’ll have to get back into the groove with the whole drop off, pick up and playground socializing thing. For you non-parents, there’s so much more to it than just dropping your kid off for preschool. For a bunch of women with nowhere else to go,it’s time to see and be seen and connect with other mothers (or not). I always wonder how much (or how little) grooming is acceptable before drop off. I don’t really care all that much how I come off, but I don’t want to show up looking like a total hag either. Fortunately, the rest of us slobs will no longer have to encounter the perfectly made up blond from last year who always showed up in workout clothes and never failed to park her Range Rover in the fire lane. Her kid has moved on to kindergarten this year. As has my prom date’s kid so don’t have to worry about running into him. Unlikely I’ve seen the last of him though…there’s always elementary, middle and high school to think about. Good lord.

When it comes down to it, I’m not the greatest preschool mommy. I try to avoid coming off as aloof but I guess I’m just not that warm/friendly/approachable. And when I’ve tried to reach out to parents of classmates, it hasn’t really seemed to work. Everyone seems so busy and like they already have all the friends they need. I’ve had more success meeting interesting parents at other venues, notably at parties thrown by mutual friends. (Meeting other moms is a lot like dating, and I think in both cases, having a common connection bodes well for the relationship.) There’s also the fact that my house is always a bloody mess, which makes it difficult to organize playdates. There are a few laid back mamas I don’t mind letting into my chaos, but I really think some of the tightly wound gals from the playground would flip if they got a glimpse of the scene around here.

In case you were wondering, this does not in any way mean I will be facebooking and reading magazines for hours on end. I still have a rowdy toddler to contend with, of course. But managing one kid for a few hours after a summer of handling two full time is like taking the training weight off your baseball bat. Feels kind of effortless. We can do some yoga, have tea parties and read Polar Bear, Polar Bear a zillion times.

Institutionalized

My recent polygamy-themed dream and immersion in Season 5 of the Sopranos have me contemplating the institution of marriage lately. Tony and Carmela are on the outs as the old man and I slog through the usual (painfully dull but somehow impossibly incendiary) stuff: cashflow, childrearing, division of household labor. It occurred to me that the ever lovin’ definitely has a southern boy Tony Soprano thing going on: the swaggering alpha male with a short fuse and a sweet side. Minus the binge drinking and violent tendencies, that is. As for me, I’ve been feeling a lot more like Livia than Carmela these days. One of the flashback episodes (I think it was in season 2) hit a little too close to home when 1950s Livia tells young Tony if he doesn’t leave her alone she’s going to stick a fork in his eye. Brought to mind one of the low points of my life as a parent: when I told Hank if he didn’t stop sucking his thumb I was going to cut it off. Still can’t believe I actually said that to my preschooler. He didn’t seem particularly traumatized, but who knows when it’ll resurface…

Anyway, when you think about it, the whole institution of marriage just seems kind of bizarre. You attach yourself to some (hopefully) non-related person and try to work it out so you can stand to live together for the rest of your lives. This, of course, involves dealing full-time with another person’s shortcomings on top of your own. Which, depending on who that other person is, can be a lot to take on. The upside, I guess, is a kind of mutual shoring-up. It’s certainly something I’ve experienced in my own marriage at its best moments. And when things are going well, it certainly makes up for most of those frustrations. We all know that, until pretty recently, marriage was really more of a business transaction than a romantic notion. I suppose there’s still an element of that in the whole thing. Don’t we see, in many modern marriages, traces of a financial arrangement designed to allow people to support themselves and raise children? Obviously, that’s far from all there is to it. I have numerous friends/relations who have satisfying marital relationships and no interest in reproducing. I’m all for love, companionship and, if you’re lucky, health insurance.

Anyway, I’ve described my own marriage as pretty raucous but fundamentally sound overall. There’s a lot of cussing and carrying on around here but also a foundation of truthfulness and trust which I count on to see us through. As I’ve written before, I find being married to Christian infinitely rewarding but not at all easy. The truth is, if I hadn’t taken a religious vow/signed a legal contract and if we didn’t have these amazing children, I would have, on too many occasions to count, been tempted to bail on this relationship as I have on quite a few others. Not because I don’t love my husband (I do, deeply) but because it’s just so damn hard. But we’re determined to hang in there. If only they had remedial classes in the art of compromise…

Big Lovetown?

Had a dream last night that Christian was planning on bringing home another wife for some kind polygamous arrangement. The thing was, in the dream I was happy about it because she had a full time job…Not that any woman in her right mind would be able to put up with either of us. And both of us? Forget about it.

Black and Bluegrass

Hank’s back from a weekender with the grandparents. I certainly missed his enthusiastic stomping and hilarious commentary. But man was it peaceful around here this weekend. Felt a little guilty about how much I was enjoying it.

He’s a sweet kid--smart (of course) and funny, but a little pesky these days. He’s been throwing a lot of four-year-old attitude my way lately (I’m still of in disbelief that my firstborn is already four) giving me plenty of lip and instructions on how to conduct my life. And spending a lot of time in his room (smacking little sis around, not listening to mama etc). He’s always had kind of a Dennis the Menace thing going on, into everything with a nose for trouble.

He’s a Leo (Mick Jagger’s birthday—God help us) loves attention and is a bit of a show off. It seems like in the past few months, he’s gone from a little kid to a full on scrappy little boy. We’ve been to a couple of gatherings recently at which there were some boys in the 6-8 year old range. He had a blast and seemed to keep right up with them. He requested a light saber for his birthday and told me he’s looking forward to watching Star Wars next year (he’s determined that 5 is the appropriate age for that material).

Summer reading list includes a bunch of Richard Scarry books (including a 1970 first edition belonging to the old mama), Milne’s (as opposed to Disney’s) Winnie the Pooh and the Railway Series (where all the Thomas merchandise originated). We’ve sort of entered the dinosaur phase but it hasn’t yet become an obsession.

Lately I’ve been letting him watch one or two videos a day (Bob the Builder, Charlie and Lola, Sesame Street). Still no commercial television tho (easy to manage since we don’t have any reception). Anyway for the most part, he’s happiest at the playground running around and hollering. Got quite a shiner this morning falling off a piece of equipment. He was tough about the whole thing. He can be as whiny as the next kid but in the face of adversity, he knows how to suck it up. Kind of like his dad now that I think about it….

Coco and I had a nice, tranquil weekend (with Hank on his road trip and big daddy away working in another state). She is, for the most part, an absolute pleasure, with a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her lovely mouth. She’s also 20 months old: curious, demanding and exhausting. I’m always ready to spend a few hours out of her presence when naptime rolls around. And to be honest bedtime never seems to come to soon either. But in between, it’s a pretty good time.

For one thing, the kid has an amazing sense of humor. She always laughs right on cue. Our astrologer friend Colette (one of her namesakes) did her chart at birth and said she was destined for great things. I can believe it. She’s like some kind of Amazon princess: big, beautiful and brilliant. Some four-year-old twins were visiting us the other day, lovely little wispy girls. They had a few inches on her in height but I swear she weighed more than either of them (she’s not a fatty by the way—just healthy). She’s a joyful little thing who’s rarely been out of her mama’s sphere (I’m not necessarily sure that that’s a good thing but it seems to be working in her case).

She’s perfectly happy playing with trains, trucks and bulldozers, but I had to smile when I observed her pretend-feeding her doll the other day. I had heard about, but never experienced, that kind of toddler behavior. (Hank still sleeps with a grubby little lamb he’s had since birth but he’s never fed it.) Anyway, it was pretty damn cute.

When Coco was hanging out in my uterus, I was pretty positive she was going to be a girl, and I was a little apprehensive. The prospect of raising a girl is intimidating for a woman like me, overly conscious of my own inadequacy. But must admit, I’m loving the XX experience. I took her to one of my favorite country fairs on Sunday and she sat quietly and enjoyed some bluegrass with me. (Henry could never be counted to hold still for even ten seconds at this kind of event). It was a lovely breezy late August day. The music was uplifting and her smiles were radiant.
Bliss. Then we had barbecue.

Lucinda Rediscovered

Heard Mary Chapin Carpenter’s version of Passionate Kisses the other day while out and about. Never been much of a MCC fan, but it made me realize how much I miss Lucinda Williams (she wrote the song and won a grammy for it). So came home and got some of her stuff cranking on iTunes while I engaged in some household drudgery.

I played the shit out of Car Wheels on a Gravel Road during the tumultuous year that was 2001. That record helped get me through, let’s see, breakup with apathetic loft-dwelling photographer boyfriend, torrid affair and dramatic breakup with evil Bordeaux brat, 9/11, anthrax (the scare I mean—didn’t actually contract the illness), death of disabled half-sibling and meeting future spouse at funeral.

Loved Essence, too (have to dig that one up—somehow it didn’t get onto iTunes). I have mixed feelings about her more recent stuff (not sure how I feel about her foray into rap) but there are always at least a few great songs on every new record. I guess her work had more to say to me when I was a single girl on an emotional roller coaster, when loss and longing pretty much defined my state of mind. These days, it seems, I’m either fairly content or kind of pissed off. Maybe I should right write an alt-country song about that…

I was talking to an intelligent-seeming library mom at storytime a couple months ago and I told her she looked a little like Lucinda Williams. She had never heard of her. I mean really, who hasn’t heard of Lucinda Williams? I was completely stunned. One more example of why I’m convinced I’m in the wrong town.

The Latest from the Land of Nod

Not sure what’s going on around here this summer, but we’ve all been sleeping like fiends. It’s nice, if a little decadent, sleeping in, but it makes me a little uneasy. I am, for the most part, a morning person, but I’ve been staying up late (watching the Sopranos on dvd, reading ridiculous vampire stories, posting etc.) and waking up groggy and disoriented around 9 am. The ever lovin’ has been working late and snoozing right along with me. The kids have also gotten on this late to bed, late to rise train, which as we all know is just no damn good. Anticipating a rude awakening (so to speak) when preschool starts again in September, so I’ve decided to (gently) break the cycle. I’ve started setting an alarm (for 7:30) and spending some time with my uninspired thoughts before getting the kids up.

Have also been dying for coffee all week. Unfortunately, coffee makes me even more edgy/insane than usual so I try to save it for special occasions and the occasional (mild/ very rare) hangover. However, my mother makes fantastic coffee, and I couldn’t resist during our week at the beach. Wine in the evenings, coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon. Lovely. Have reverted to my old tea drinking ways since we’ve been back but find myself craving a scalding black Americano every morning around 10:30. Must hold back though. I’m not much of a yogi these days, but I am trying to hang onto what little mental equilibrium I have left, and I know that stuff is way too rajasic for my little brain to handle on a regular basis.

High Hopes, Crape Myrtles

Having some re-entry issues after a nice little vacation on Virginia’s Eastern Shore. Reality’s hitting me hard this time…

My mother had rented a house in the charming town of Cape Charles from someone she knows in NoVA and invited us down. Christian decided not to join us because of a work-related commitment. A bit weird vacationing without him, and we all missed him, certainly. But, I must say, it was nice to take a break from the cashflow-related bickering that seems to characterize our relationship lately.

The kids had a blast: we were right there on the Chesapeake Bay, and the water was warm, calm and shallow. There was a bike just Hank’s size at the rental house. I had the perfect trashy novel (Twilight—courtesy of cousin Amy who always comes up with just the thing). There was bad wine with dinner every night and ice cream for dessert. I will say I’m not wild about sharing a kitchen with my stepfather, who’s impossibly messy, a stove hog and does not share my concerns about food safety.

But overall, the whole thing was relaxing and low key. I didn’t come away with that feeling of needing a vacation from my vacation. Plus I was totally digging the crape myrtles (I’m missing them already) and the retro ambiance in Cape Charles. There was something about the place that reminded me of a mini-New Orleans, without the decadence I mean--just the sweet side. I think I even caught a whiff of some sweet olive, which has long had my vote for best shrub ever.

Anyway, I’m not sure what Christian did all week, but it was rough to come home to a dirty house and unmown lawn. Not sure what I was expecting--I think I had imagined some heavy duty home improvement/yard work transpiring during my absence or something. This, as usual, proved to be a recipe for disappointment. This week: chamomile tea and lower expectations.

Even if the DJ Plays Come on Eileen?

Speaking of insecurities: I’ve got a couple of weeks to decide whether or not to go to my twentieth high school reunion. I (unfortunately) live about 20 miles from where I went to school so travel is not an issue. At issue, foremost, is whether I’m willing to spend $140 (cost of 2 tix since the ever lovin’ says he wants to go) for a lousy rubber chicken dinner with a bunch of people I didn’t like that much anyway. Even more outrageous: it’s a cash bar, so we don’t even get any bad wine for our $70! Certainly, in the big picture, $140 isn’t really so very much, but it seems like a hell of a lot to me right now (several months of swim classes for the boy for example). On top of that, the organizer (a chick from my class who now has an event planning company) appears to be making a profit on the undertaking, which I find irritating. Anyway, I encounter way more former classmates than I would like to in the course of my day-to-day existence. Did I ever mention I ran into my prom date on a preschool field trip? Turns out he lives a few miles away.

At this point, I’ve pretty much decided to skip it. But it’s causing me some anxiety. For some reason, I keep thinking I’ll regret it down the road. There are, in fact, a few people I wouldn’t mind seeing. I also happen to look way better at 38 than I did in high school. Not that I have anything to prove or anyone to prove it to. But still...

Some girlfriends have discussed an alternative mini-reunion potluck thing, which it looks like we may be doing instead. But these are people I see anyway so won’t be the same. I mean, the random encounters and unexpected conversations are what make an event like this interesting—right? What’s a cash-strapped reformed geek-girl to do?

What, No Pony?

Survived hosting my first preschool birthday party (Hank’s 4th) this weekend. It turned out small—just family and a couple kids from his class. The guestlist management thing turned out to be a little stressful for a worrier like me. I got quite a few negative RSVPs—several people were out of town, and one person said her kid couldn’t make it because he was going to another (no doubt better) birthday party. A few preschool moms (whom I don’t really know but whose kids Henry seems to like) never returned my phone calls asking for their email addresses. Not a big deal, really, but totally brought out all my insecurities.

Anyway, it turned out to be a pretty laid back affair, especially after the party we went to a a few weeks ago which featured a moonbounce, pony rides, petting zoo and like a zillion kids. The parents of the birthday girl are actually pretty down to earth and they brought their kid to Hank’s tame little fête. It was a hard act to follow, but I think Henry had pretty much forgotten about it, and he seemed pretty happy with his tire swing and the new pea gravel pit Christian put in.

I’m always a little unnerved by the prospect of inviting people in to our chaos (peeling paint, scrubby landscaping, unfinished bathrooms etc). I find that parties are generally a good excuse to execute some much-needed clean up/repair, and we did get a few things done before the big event. But the place still looked a little wild (there’s only so much weed whacking, bushhogging etc. once man can do in a week). No one really seemed to mind though. The sun was shining, a nice breeze came blowing through and the chocolate cake tasted fine.

Firehalls and Foxholes

Because it’s July 14th, la fête nationale in France, check out my new favorite blog written by Charles Bremner, Paris correspondent for the London Times. His Bastille Day musings on Sarkozy’s power plays are interesting. But I was most interested to read his note that traditional July 14th celebrations in neighborhood firehalls are back in style. Brought back memories of Bastille Day 1995: after a picnic in the Buttes Chaumont park with friends, I went to the party at the firehall in the 10th arr. with my Polish boyfriend Ireneusz. He was delighted because all the pompiers were congratulating him on having me for a date. I was, after all, a 24 year old knockout. Shortly thereafter, I wound up in the hospital with a kidney infection and dumped the polonais because he was utterly unsympathetic and kept telling me that (at 6 ft tall and 135 pounds) I needed to lose weight. It was a lovely night though…

A worldly, well traveled friend of mine (I’ll call him Monsieur Blasé) passed on an interesting piece from Slate on how McDonalds has taken over France.

Blasé contends that international travel is hardly worthwhile any more, as cities in Europe and elsewhere have been utterly homogenized by globalization/consumerism. He, however, continues to live abroad as he’s done for most of the past twenty years.

Anyway, the last time I was in France (2005), the food was still wonderful. Processed foods have not made anywhere near the kind of inroads they have here. Moderation is still operational, portions are still small and the French are still thin.

Meanwhile, here in Lovetown: big excitement this morning--a (presumably) rabid fox at the playground.

Pretty much everything that happens around here goes down at our community center, which truly is the hub of the community and boasts a swimming pool, preschool and a nice clean playground. (No Bastille Day celebrations unfortunately but they put on a mean July 4th carnival). Anyway, we were at the pool for Hank’s swim class and Coco was running around in a picnic area that abuts the playground when someone spotted a small red fox. A fox in broad daylight is not usually a good sign, and sure enough, he attacked a woman who tried to shoo him away. A very nice caregiver grandfather with whom I’d been chatting at the pool rushed over, tackled the fox (also getting bitten in the process) and held him down with his foot until the animal control people came.

We used to have a family of foxes and an extensive network of burrows in one of our fields. Don’t really see them around much anymore which leads us to believe that they’ve been eaten by the coyotes.

A Tale of Two Unremarkable Weekdays

We’ve had a week of amazing weather here on the outskirts of Lovetown. Blue skies and wispy clouds, low humidity--like being in Provence or something. Yesterday was gorgeous, and I went through the day spring in my step and a song on my lips. Today was equally lovely…and yet absolutely miserable.

So yesterday: Took Henry to swim class and he jumped right in and swam like a fish. While Hank was in the water, Coco toddled around happily a grassy area nearby. There was a five-year-old kid waiting with his grandparents while his sister took a class. He played with Co a little and as we were leaving said, “Your baby’s like a lovely flower.” Romantic poetry from a kindergartner! We collected the boy and headed over to my favorite playground in a nearby town for a meetup. It’s a wonderful little oasis, and parking is at a premium after ten when the weather is fine. Miraculously, at 10:30, a nice shaded spot was open and we pulled right in.

Both kids ate lunch without complaint, took nice long naps and woke up in good spirits. While they slept, I facebooked, started a post (unfortunately did not finish), sent some emails, drank two cups of tea and did not do a lick of housework. There were a couple of notes of foreboding which I blithely chose to ignore: our more conveniently located toilet started acting up, but I was sure it was something Christian could fix and was not going to let that bring me down. Then I noticed that Hank felt a little warm after his nap, but he said he felt fine so I chalked it up to post-sleep toastiness. We merrily drove into Loserburg to Target where the kids were uncharacteristically subdued, then onto Costco where we bought frozen fish and an enormous tub of (GMO?) blueberries. We had pizza for dinner and I looked forward to an evening free of dirty dishes.

I decided to check Hank’s temp before bedtime: 102. Definitely up there, but he seemed OK so I hoped it would magically clear up overnight. No such luck. This morning, he was feverish and droopy (though fortunately no other symptoms have manifested). We had to skip swim class and cancel a playdate. Being stuck at home usually puts me in a sour mood under any circumstances. But on top of that, the beloved spouse and his snake turned out to be no match for whatever has clogged up the toilet, leaving a nasty situation which may or may not be resolved by tomorrow. But that is not all, no that is not all. The door at the bottom of the staircase finally fell apart after months of abuse from Henry. The little heathens spent the morning fighting over toys. They refused to eat lunch and mademoiselle threw food all over the kitchen. The boy declined to take a nap. The bug caught up with Coco in the afternoon, and my jolly, independent little muffin turned into a whiny clingy mess just as I was trying to prepare a nutritious dinner (which no one wanted to eat). Christian had gotten a late start and consequently had to work late, so was nowhere to be seen during the witching hour. So I once again handled dinner, bathtime and bedtime for two sick kids on my own. The house is a bloody mess and I have a bunch of wealthy Hondurans coming for lunch on Friday. How do you say plunger in Spanish?

Summer of Chard

Well, we seem to have lost our momentum in the garden. Have failed to get in some of the summer classics: corn, tomatoes, cukes, green beans. Our greens, however, are going strong. The red chard has been particularly impressive and is keeping us going (as long as we don’t OD on oxalic acid). I usually just sauté it with olive oil and garlic, but the other day I made a delicious gratin. Still can’t get Coco to eat it, unfortunately. She’s a little dairy hound and usually the key to getting her to eat anything is to put cheese on it, but she seems to be a hardcore anti-chardite. Will keep at it. Recently found out she’s a tiny bit anemic so must get those leafy greens into the diet. Hank, on the other hand, is a champion greens eater. Mama’s so proud. But to a child of the 70s, it seems so odd to have a 4 year old arugula aficionado. When did I learn about arugula? In New York? No more than 10 years ago I’m fairly sure…

Someone else apparently digs our arugula: the insidious flea beetle. He pretty much ignores all the other delicacies in our mesclun and goes straight for the arugula. It’s really the one thing that’s got pest appeal, and every little piece is full of tiny holes. One site recommends planting “trap” crops, other plants that the beetles might prefer to arugula. So maybe we’ll try some Chinese Southern Giant Mustard this fall…Or maybe a row cover if we decide to go high tech.


Feeling a little bit like a failure for neglecting to get the summer veggies in, but there’s always the farmers market. Now trying to look forward, namely getting in our fall plants: ready for kale, broccoli, spinach, more salad greens and, most important of all, brussels sprouts. Love those things. The key is to roast them and not overcook them. My very own petits choux growing outside my door—almost too heavenly to imagine.

Almond Joy

My current vices, as I’ve let on previously, are pretty limited. An occasional square of dark chocolate, a Heineken here, a couple glasses of wine there. Mama is my name and tame is my game…

I should, however, confess my obsession with marzipan. I’m addicted, in particular to Ritter dark chocolate/marzipan bars. Got hooked on those things when I lived in Brooklyn and they sold them at the deli around the corner from my house. They are not so easy to come by out here in the boonies but miraculously available at Target, which makes me love that place even more (there, I admit it. I love Target). I recently found myself doing a little jig in the frozen food aisle when I discovered that Ben and Jerry’s had launched (so to speak) a new flavor called…Mission to Marzipan. Yeehaw! Have only indulged a couple of times so far. (philosophically opposed to spending 4+ dollars a pint for ice cream but sometimes it’s impossible to resist).

And how I miss almond croissants. They were always my favorites in Paris. They used to make a mean one at Bruno Bakery on Lorimer St in Williamsburg, a few blocks from my old place. One of those and a cup of black coffee always put me in a euphoric state of mind. They also made kickass pignoli tart (heavy on the almond paste). There were some Turks who had a bakery in a strip mall in a neighboring town and produced a soggy, overpriced version. But they closed up shop a year or two ago. (couldn’t handle life in exurban hell?). So, I’m still looking for a decent almond croissant out here, but there is a place that makes a killer Rhubarb pie.

Souvenirs, souvenirs

Speaking of toxic cocktails, my last post brought to mind a drink I was acquainted with in New Orleans called a Wild Night at the Capri Motel. They poured that one at Nick’s Bar on Tulane Avenue (named for the motel next door). No idea what was in it, but it had these crazy strata of different colored alcohols. Pretty tasty as I (vaguely) recall. I’m sure one of those would send me right over the edge these days. My habits down there were a far cry from my current abstemious lifestyle. But everyone knows the rules are different in New Orleans.

Was racking my brain to remember the name of the bar and came across someone's blog (via Google), which had an archived report from 2006 on the demise of Nick’s.

It’s been 15 years since I left New Orleans, ten since I visited. My New Orleans nostalgia comes and goes in waves. A lot of it is focused on various bars/clubs I frequented: the Maple Leaf, Bon Temps Roule, the old Charity’s, Café Brazil etc. But I always did love the still, peaceful side of the city, too. I have lovely memories of Alvina’s yoga studio on Oak Street. I used to run there (along the streetcar tracks) from my place on lower Magazine, do an hour of yoga and run home. Seems like a million years ago. I don’t have any idea what it’s like there now, and I hardly know anyone who still lives there. I did get a call out of the blue the other day from an old boyfriend, an NO native who is still hanging in there. He’s apparently in the Catskills with his wife and daughter and they’re going to spend a night here at the funny farm on return trip. Looking forward to reconnecting and getting the scoop on the post Katrina scene…

The Last Straw

On the subject of bêtes noires, allow me to share another: the loathsome Capri Sun “juice” boxes. This of course is a vile mixture of water, high fructose corn syrup and a teeeeeny little bit of juice in an appealing foil pouch with a cute little straw.

I recently joined a playgroup for Coco through a local housewives confederation I got involved with some time ago in an effort to “branch out” (or something). This week’s playdate was hosted by a very nice woman with a nice house (and pool) in a sprawling subdivision. We were having a fine time, and the snacks were perfect (whole wheat pretzels) but in the icebox: the dreaded corn syrup cocktail. I have participated in various playgroups/meetups since Hank’s toddlerhood and am appalled at how often these things show up. I always cringe when one of the moms whips out the foil pack. Like our fabulous first lady, I am, of course, an avowed corn syrup repudiator. But when faced with this kind of situation, I usually wimp out and let the boy have one just to avoid a scene. I figure that, at almost 4, a little bit of HFCS won’t kill him, but I just can’t fathom giving one of these to a toddler. These kids aren’t even two for crying out loud. Coco, fortunately, has not yet been corrupted (I don’t even really give her regular old watered down juice yet) and didn’t know what she was missing.

Came across something from the Center for Science and the Public Interest about its lawsuit that forced Kraft to abandon the phrase “all natural” on the CS label. CSPI charged that deceptive labeling might cause people to think the darn things are actually made with juice. Kraft, I should note, are also the purveyors of Lunchables another disgusting processed food medley. They, of course, market these products together—just to make sure your kid gets his daily requirement of chemicals and sugar at one sitting. Do people not know this stuff is bad for you? Do they not care? I’m trying to fit in around here but sometimes I’m ready to throw in the towel.

Bêtes Noires

I was sitting at the kitchen table contemplating my scrambled eggs the other day when I noticed a tiny black bead on my forearm. “What is that?” I asked my beloved spouse. “Looks like a deer tick engorged with blood.” Hmmm. Lovely. Now looking out for the dreaded Lyme disease bullseye thing. I happen to be on antibiotics for a sinus infection so hopefully cephalexin will also take care of any germs the little bugger may have passed on. Apparently, our little corner of the Blue Ridge has an incidence of Lyme disease about 20 times the state average. There are a hell of a lot of deer around here.

The French word for tick, which by coincidence I learned the other night is tique ( in the manner of musique, classique etc.). The author of the novel I mentioned in my last post describes people attaching themselves to cultural crutches like a tique to a fat warm dog. It’s kind of an elegant word for such a nasty little creature. Their existence seems totally unjustified to me, but I suppose they’re food for the birds. Wouldn’t mind getting a few guinea fowl in here to clear them out if I can overcome my distaste for poultry.

Unfortunately, they like to hang out in tall grass and we’re not so big on mowing around here. Our trio of riding mowers is still down. But Christian did get out (on father’s day God bless him) and cut the grass immediately surrounding our house with the (now operational) push mower. Just beyond, there remains a vast expanse of knee high blades way beyond the capability of a any kind of lawnmower. This stuff is going to require a real tractor and bushhog, which we’ll have to borrow. There is a nice little close-cropped patch beyond the garden on which the ever lovin’ has set up a horseshoe court. We’re not really horseshoe pitchers around here but somebody passed on an old set, so what the heck. We can have a glass or rosé and pretend we’re playing pétanques at the Place des Lices in Saint Tropez.

Belles Lettres & Beaux Rêves

At some point in the recent past, I was able to catch a few minutes of the Diane Rehm show while driving (a rare occurrence since Henry hates NPR in the car and usually starts screaming for me to turn it off after about ten seconds). She had a few ladies on the program talking about a new French novel called The Elegance of the Hedgehog recently published in translation over here. I decided to see if I could get a copy in version originale. It’s been a while since I’ve read a novel in French. I think I read something by Zola on the train during my commuting days (when I worked in DC before Henry was born) so that would have been 2005 or so. I used to edit a newsletter in French, and reading is still pretty easy for me. It does, however, require just a little more mental energy than reading a similar text in my native language, and mental energy is in very short supply these days. But I don’t think I could bring myself to read any kind of French literature in translation. I’d always be wondering what they were really saying…This is why I’ve never read Proust, by the way. I gave it a shot in my twenties but was too distracted to read it in French and unwilling to read it in translation. Maybe I’ll get around too it when the kids go to college.

Anyway, I went to my darling little Lovetown library (where there is, of course, no foreign language section) and asked them to try to get Hedgehog for me through interlibrary loan. They totally (and promptly) came through for me (God I love that place). And its exotic appeal is even greater since it came from Vegas of all places. Now I just have to stay awake to read it.

It’s an interesting story written by a 40 year-old French chick. Written from the perspective of a philosophical concierge in a snooty 16th arrondissement apartment building and the suicidal teenage daughter of some yuppies in one of the flats upstairs. Highly enjoyable, thought provoking etc. and yet I can usually only manage a few pages a night before dozing off. This is pretty much the way of things with any reading material I take to bed these days. Oh well, I suppose the most I can hope for is to get in a few belles-lettres before dropping off into oblivion.

Another Year of Exurban Angst

OK…the daily posting exercise is turning out to be impossible. I think, however, that I’ve accomplished what I was going for: a little shakeup of my slacker ways, a little rigor in the mental routine.

I started this thing exactly a year ago. It’s been therapeutic if nothing else. Not sure how many people actually read it and find it hard to believe that my mundane ruminations would be of interest to anyone other than a few friends (wish I’d had a blog while I was in Paris in the 90s—that would have been an interesting read!). I know there are a few diehards out there (thanks guys) who tune in regularly. I’d be curious to know if anyone has ever stumbled across it through a random google search or anything. I’ve found a couple of interesting blogs that way. Definitely have not gone out of my way to get it out there…I barely have the time or energy to post on this thing, much less promote it. I joined a bloggy women’s network but have yet to reach out in any meaningful way to the “community.” I just don’t see the point.

Not that I really see the point of maintaining the blog to begin with. I’ve thought about just canning the whole thing, but the old man keeps dissuading me. I suppose I’d miss it if I stopped. It does impose a little structure to my muddled thoughts, keeps the neurons firing, etc. Anyway, I suppose it’s slightly more productive than sitting around watching The View. So…stick with me for another year.

Unpopular Mechanics

Very sweetly asked the ever lovin’ to go out and take care of the little patch of grass between driveway and porch (in anticipation of weekend visitors) only to learn that our push mower is not currently operational. This rounds out our stable of three non-functional riding mowers (one won’t mow and the others won’t go). Our automotive graveyard is also populated by several John Deere tractors in various states of disrepair, a Chevy pickup truck and a Ford cargo van. None of these is up on cinder blocks, so we have not totally descended into abject white trash wretchedness. I should note that the van is actually pretty useful. Christian uses it as a storage shed, and it hides our unsightly trash cans. Trying very hard not to allow the unreliability of mechanical systems to play havoc on my state of mind, but really impossible to ignore when the damn grass keeps tickling my shins.

Arachno-rama

Seems like it’s been pouring down rain for weeks, and all the sticky weather has brought out the spiders in droves. Hank and I were enjoying an educational moment the other day, observing a classic fat spider on an intricate web catching and wrapping up her prey. Poor Coco got attacked in bed the other night by what we suspect was a surly arachnid and woke up with a forehead full of little welts. Then there’s the beauty (in photo) we discovered on the porch this morning. I’ve never really had a spider issue (although if I find the one who was chewing on my baby, you know I’m going to squash him). They seem to be keeping the mouches at bay for which I’m grateful. Ticks on the other hand are my bete noire (so to speak). Our runaway vegetation is a haven for these nasty little beasts. They always seem to go for the ears… Looking forward to the welcome whir of the weedwhacker soon.

Chemical Overreactions

You may be surprised to learn this, but here it is: the old man and I occasionally have our differences on the eternal questions of child rearing. For example, what to do for a sore bum. Little Coco, unfortunately, is pretty susceptible to diaper rash. Her mama, I should note, is more than a little susceptible to intense parental guilt and needless worry.

We’ve had fairly good luck with an over the counter product which contains petrolatum. Christian (who’s pretty positive on fossil fuels generally speaking) is a devoted fan and advocates applying it with abandon. I get a little nervous about putting hydrocarbons on my kid’s rear end and would prefer to use something more natural.

I’ve found quite a bit of conflicting information about petrolatum on the web. On one hand, you have the folks who say it’s a carcinogen (its use has apparently been restricted in the EU since 2004). On the other, you have sites that tell you the cancer thing is a myth and go ahead and slather the stuff on. Anyway, the truth is, it’s hard to get away from it. Petrolatum, it seems, is in just about everything--including pretty much every skincare product recommended by my pediatrician. My sister, also a pediatrician, uses all the mainstream stuff on her kids. But I have crunchier friends who wouldn’t let these industrial products anywhere near their precious offspring’s behinds. I found a nice product at the health food store: olive oil, beeswax and yarrow or something. It seemed to help but cost a fortune. We went through the tiny $10 jar in two days. Someone suggested cornstarch, but I’ve read that that can actually do more harm than good if there’s any yeast in the picture. What to do? I suppose for the time being, we’ll stick with the tried and true and hope the Europeans are wrong. It’s certainly happened before, n’est-ce pas?

Gabon Baby Gabon

Libération reports today that Omar Bongo is, in fact, dead. Embarrassed to admit that I had never heard of Omar Bongo until today. It turns out he was President of Gabon for 40+ years and quite a character. He was apparently tight with a string of French presidents from the 60s all the way up to Sarkozy and was one of the few remaining old school politicians still openly supporting strong ties between France and its former African colonies. Libé attributes his staying power to political instincts and “reasonable” use of corruption (he was, of course, rich as hell from oil money).

In case you had forgotten (as I had) or never knew exactly where Gabon is, it’s in west central Africa, right underneath Equatorial Guinea. Africa has always been kind of a mystery to me, and I regret not having seen any of it during my traveling days. At one point, I had friends from Togo, Benin and Burkina Faso, neighboring countries in West Africa, and thought about trying to organize a trip. I’ve unfortunately lost touch with them (as I have with so many wonderful connections from my former life) and a trip to Africa now seems about as far-fetched as a trip to the moon. Anyway, planning a little geography lesson for Hank this week. We’ll talk about Gabon.

Excuses, Excuses

So, I’ve been brought down by the man. Or more acurately, a slightly loopy but very sweet 55 year old woman. You see, I’ve neglected, in this space, to mention my part-time job, which has kept me from meeting my self-imposed challenge to get a post up every day for a month. I started talking to this wacky baby boomer at a yoga class a few months ago and discovered that she’s the events manager for one of the myriad historic mansions in our uncommonly lovely corner of the Commonwealth. She mentioned that she was looking for a site manager to help with weddings, so I’ve been putting in a few Saturdays here and there. Not too gruesome...I’ve certainly had worse jobs. Gets me out of the house and brings in a little extra cash. But after 10 hours of dealing with annoying drunks and intractable folding chairs, I was too pooped to post. And now, DiCaprio and Crowe await. You’ll be hearing from me on the other side.

My Very Own Dumpster on Wheels

The only thing I want to do less than work on a post is clean out my car. It’s pouring outside, and chilly. Coco’s peacefully napping and Hank’s upstairs with a video. I’d like to be curled up with a book and a cup of tea, but I’m forcing myself to sit here at the keyboard as I have pledged to get something up every day. I’m sure you all would forgive me if I skipped a day, but I can’t give up this early in the month with no good excuse. Besides, anything’s better than standing around in the rain trying to dig out the goldfish from between the seats. However, I have volunteered to take a couple of ladies to yoga happy hour this evening, so it’s got to be done. My vehicle’s an absolute disaster: trash, clothes and of course mountains of goldfish and Cheerios. The back is full of stuff that needs to go to the recycling center. It’s been so rainy lately, and there’s dried mud all over the place, including on the back of the passenger seat where Hank likes to kick up his heels. The wheel is all sticky, the dashboard is dusty. Fortunately, I don’t think I’ve left any dirty diapers under the seat in a while, but you really never know what will turn up.

I know plenty of people who let their kids eat in the car. How do they keep things from getting out of hand? I suppose most sane people just take their trash into the house with them when they get out of the car, something I just can’t seem to bring myself to do. I have suggested driving around with a dustbuster, but my darling spouse has something against them. I usually wind up dragging a vacuum cleaner out there with an extension cord. Don’t really want to risk electrocution this afternoon (especially with a much needed night out in the works), so I’ll probably just brush all the crumbs out onto the driveway. OK…going out now. And only when every last goldfish has been cast out into the universe will I allow myself a cup of fragrant, steaming tea.

Just Me and My Microbes

Don’t really listen to NPR that much any more (can only handle small doses of all that careful diction and sickeningly high-minded reporting). But I still love Science Friday. Tuned in for a bit last week whilst cleaning the kitchen floor. They had a researcher talking about a new study cataloging the bacteria on healthy human skin. There are apparently a lot more different kinds than anybody realized. Not harmful—they’re just hanging out and are probably beneficial.

I’m all about preserving the harmony of my microbial flora. I regularly take a probiotic supplement to keep the intestinal bacteria going strong. Hadn’t really given a lot of thought to skin microbes, although I’ve never been one for antibacterial soap or deodorant. I’m happy to say, I’m just not that stinky. I’ve long been convinced of the important role pheromones play in human interactions. Don’t want to wipe those guys out if they can help keep the peace between me and the ever lovin’. And I’m happy to have a few bacteria along for the ride...as long as they stay in line.

I am, however, a big hand-washer, especially since I had kids. I’ve also gotten fully on board on the hand sanitizer thing. I can’t believe I spent five years in NYC riding around every day in an underground Petri dish and never, not once, bought a bottle of Purell. And I was never sick. Maybe the germs agreed with me. Maybe what’s been bringing me down around here is a lack of germs. Or maybe it’s just these darn country bumpkin microbes. They just don’t know how to coexist with a sophisticated woman like me.

SPF...WTF?

Summer is officially here in little old Lovetown. We escaped the humidity yesterday with our first swim at our community pool.

We are, like most 21st century bourgeois parents, slaves to sunscreen around here. We’ve got it all: the sticks, the tubes, the sprays. With my non-cooperative little heathens, I generally find the whole process to be an exercise in frustration. Messy, time-consuming and, of course, thankless. Must admit that patience has never been my greatest virtue. (Hmmm…what, I wonder, is my greatest virtue? Do I even have one?). Anyway, just another one of those obligatory tasks I dread but faithfully execute.

On top of this, we have an additional issue here at the funny farm. The iron in our well water interacts in the washing machine with the sunscreen that has rubbed off on our clothes. Turns everything orange. The ideal solution would be an expensive filtration system, but until that materializes, I’ve been just been avoiding buying light colored clothing as much as possible.

I’ve been thinking of experimenting with some of the natural products available at the health food store to see if we can eliminate the laundry problem. I’m ashamed to say, I usually just buy the industrial stuff available at Target, although I do worry about putting all those chemicals on my kids’ skin. The organic ones tend to cost a fortune, though, and we go through them pretty fast.

I do occasionally let the kids out for short stretches without sunscreen at the suggestion of a holistic-minded family physician I once met who contends that the benefits Vitamin D straight from the source outweigh the dangers of a little UV exposure. But for the most part, we toe the line. My mother (one of those outdoorsy, tennis-playing senior citizens) has had numerous basal cells removed. I’ve had a couple of bad burns in my ignorant sun worshipping days and would like to ward off skin cancer as long as possible. We went to Florida last spring and I was so conscientious about the SPF that I was just as embarrassingly white after a week on the beach as I was when I first got off the plane. There were a couple of leather skinned sea hags whom we saw on the beach every day during that trip: sunning, smoking and drinking Diet Pepsis. I remember being kind of revolted at the time, but looking back, I suppose there is really nothing wrong with a couple of good old gals exercising their right to fry.

The Green Grass Grows All Around

I don’t remember signing up to live in a jungle…and yet, here I am. It was unbelievably rainy this spring, and we’ve got the vegetation to prove it. Our grass isn’t quite as high as an elephant’s eye, but definitely getting up to pony level. We have a symphony of bird and frog sounds going pretty much nonstop (actually, the birds are pretty quiet at night). Our pond appears to be the favored hangout for a bunch of very tropical looking redwinged blackbirds. Also have a very cute bluebird who seems to have adopted us. Just hoping the cats don’t eat him.

All that rain has done wonders for our greens. We’ve been enjoying the fruits of our first crop in: Black Seeded Simpson lettuce, spinach, arugula and swiss chard. (I swear Coco said arugula the other day.) Some insect appears to dig the arugula as well—we don’t really mind sharing as long as he doesn’t go overboard. Our second wave recently just started sprouting: baby spinach and mesclun.

The ever lovin’ has turned into quite the devoted gardener. He’s built these super little boxes for our greens and spends hours out there mulching, watering etc. Christian is sometimes hard to motivate, but capable of kicking ass when he puts his mind to it. He’s been looking into this crazy Indian technique called Three Sisters, which involves growing squash, corn and green beans together. I’m definitely down with the corn and squash but mostly keen to get the green beans in as they are always a big hit around here. Also need to get our cukes in. I’m not so much about cucumber in my salads but I like to juice them. They are especially refreshing in the summer and are proven to have cooling properties. We’ve been embarrassingly delinquent on the juicing front this year. I’m sure that’s part of the reason I’ve been feeling like absolute crap this spring. But am determined to turn things around. Oh and look for a post from me every day in June (after a paltry 3 posts in May). Should be interesting.

Requiem for a C Cup

Even an avowed television-hater needs a little escapism once in a while. So, while waiting for the most recent 24 to come out on DVD, I talked an old friend into lending me the first few seasons of Seinfeld. I missed a lot of them in the 90s, having been TV-free for much of my adult life. But have managed to catch some of the classics over the years. Among those is the episode (watched again last night) where Jerry enlists Elaine in an attempt to find out if his love interest’s perfect tits are fake (“They’re real and they’re spectacular”).

I was at one time the proud possessor of a pair of C cups so perfect that people used to ask me if they were real. After nursing two kids, I’m left with a couple of less than perky A’s. It seems that once you’ve breastfed a couple of people for months/years, the milk flow stretches the skin and connective tissues in the breasts, causing them to change shape and—in some cases—shrink. The mother’s age, apparently, can be a contributing factor. (Hmmm…does this mean that f I hadn’t waited til my mid-30s to have kids my boobs would have sprung right back to their former glory?) Weight loss, of course, also comes into play. In fact, it’s been a while since I’ve been this thin (still getting plenty of exercise chasing after Henry). However, there have been plenty of periods in my life where I’ve been pretty skinny and still maintained some respectable cleavage. No longer: it appears they’re gone for good, and I’m not planning on gaining 20 pounds to get them back.

On the upside, I have all but abandoned the underwire. I’m pretty much entirely a sports bra/camisole girl now. I’m even more enthusiastic about this after reading about a suggested link between underwire bras and breast cancer.

I’ve been checking out a few message boards on the subject, and apparently, post-nursing breast shrinkage inspires some women to get implants. One chick on a message board said she had to get fake ones because she couldn’t handle not having other women stare enviously at her chest all then time. Plastic surgery, however, is not really up my alley. Looks like I’ll be aging gracefully, saggy tits and all.

Baby Talk

Around the time my old friend Jess’s daughter (now a very sophisticated five and a half year old) turned four, she reportedly started rolling her eyes and otherwise sassing her mother. Jess eventually discovered that some of the infamous hormones found coursing through the veins of adolescents are also present in preschoolers. If that’s the case, we are definitely entering Thumbsucker High around here. As we approach birthday #4, all the signs are there: the attitude, the backtalking, the constant battle of wills. Hank’s also becoming highly skilled at picking up on one’s weak points (of which I have maaaany) and engaging in shameless manipulation.

This is all made up for (to some degree) by the amazing and hilarious shit that comes out of his mouth. And by the ability to have something approaching an intelligent conversation with one of the crazy aliens with whom I spend most of my waking hours. I’m often blown away by the cuteness of the imaginative play (toys having conversations with each other etc.)

It all hit home the other day when I noticed, for the first time, Hank using like as a quotative. As in: “I found some food on my pants and I’m like, ‘I’m going to eat it up.’” I was kind of stunned and a little tickled. I guess with two Gen-X parents it was only a matter of time. But still…

Do I Get Any Points for Originality?

I’m always intrigued when the Social Security Administration comes out with its annual list of most popular baby names. In case you haven’t read it somewhere else, Jacob and Emma are at the top for 2008. I happen to have noticed that Emma is also #1 in France. What would Flaubert have to say about that?

The thing that strikes me about this year’s top 20 girls names is that quite a few of them are really nice (Ava, Sophia, Olivia). On the other hand, you have both Madison and Addison in the top 15. Just don’t get it…

Everyone wants a nice name for his/her kid, I suppose. But no one wants to be the fourth little Jacob in kindergarten. Before my kids were born, I checked the lists and immediately ruled out any name anywhere near the top. (Coco might have been just another little Natalie if I hadn’t spotted it in on somebody’s list). Must admit to being a little annoyed when Julia Roberts and Heidi Klum popped out a couple of Henrys in the months/years following my own Hank’s appearance on the scene. But the wave of little Henrys I was dreading doesn’t seem to have materialized. The name has, in fact, jumped in the past three years (from 102 to 78), but it’s still reassuringly far down the list, and I have yet to run into one on the playground. I do think it’s a name one would be more likely to encounter in NYC than in the wilds of exurbia. Out here, there are lots of Aidens, Jadens, Cadens and so forth.

We came across Henry while perusing a baby name book published in the 50s, and it was settled in fairly short order. Little Coco was more of a challenge. I was pushing for a series of old lady names (Helen, Frances, Louise) and Christian was resisting. We were at an impasse and were considering taking her home without a name. However, they apparently won’t let you leave the hospital in Virginia without putting something down on paper, so we would have had to give her a placeholder (like X), and we just could not do it. We settled on Colette in honor of couple of favorite friends and the writer of whom I have long been a fan. Colette was actually one of the names whose prevalence I had failed to research, but based on anecdotal evidence, I figured it was a pretty safe bet. Turns out I had nothing to worry about: Colette appears to have reached its peak in the mid-sixties (around 400) until it dropped off the chart (which goes up to 1000) in 1987. I was a little irritated when friends of friends gave their daughter Colette as a middle name shortly after ours was born. Out common friend swears it was a coincidence. In any case, I got over it.

Jennifer, you may be interested to learn, was #1 for an astonishing 15 years (from 70-84) which explains its prevalence among the playground mommies here and (I’m sure) everywhere else in America. Thanks to my crazy parents, my own (real) name has never appeared in the top 1000. Guess I was born to nonconform…

Freeloading...Freestyle

Spring is my favorite time of year for a number of reasons, not least of which is the onset of yard sale season. I love driving through exurbia on a bright Saturday morning with a travel mug full of steaming tea and a wad of cash in my pocket. There’s nothing as exhilarating as finding the motherlode of little girls T-shirts (10¢ each) in front of someone’s tract house. Most of my kids’ clothes (and plenty of mine too) are second hand. A lot of it (especially the girls’ stuff) is not necessarily what I would have picked out if I could style my principina exactly the way I wanted. But she’d look cute in a paper bag and doesn’t seem to mind.

Buying up other people’s cast offs is just one of the many ways this frugal domestic goddess keeps the family budget in line. Among the other belt tightening measures I have taken on: Gave up my $25 a bottle shampoo in favor of $4 Pantene (there is a difference in case you were wondering). Switched from premium to cheap-ass cat food (sorry boys). Let my magazine subscriptions expire and put Netflix on hold (sniff). Of course, we long ago gave up new books, records, dining out, round robins at the tennis club and most cosmetics. I did buy a $16 lip gloss from Mac earlier this spring. Felt a little guilty but I looove it. The color is perfect. The packaging is perfect. I actually feel kind of glam when I’m wearing it to preschool drop off, the way I used to back in the days when I’d routinely walk over to Saks on my lunch break and buy something from Stila as a little pick me up….

Let’s see…I’ve been putting off getting a new pair of glasses after Hank caused mine to break in half by jumping on them. Also putting off getting a haircut but it will have to be done at some point. I was commiserating on this subject with a friend whose husband was recently laid off from a technology company and who has been implementing a similar austerity plan. She mentioned that she’d stumbled across a 10% off coupon from the one and only hair salon in Lovetown and wondered if she should give it a shot. I regularly drive by this place, which is located on the main drag in our sorry little hamlet. It appears to be staffed by a bunch of leather skinned hags (with terrible 80s hair) who hang out on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes. Hell no, I told her. Spend an extra $10 and go to a “real” salon in the inner exurbs where at least they’ll make every effort to make you look like Jennifer Aniston from her Friends days instead of Joan Cusack in Working Girl.

There are a few small indulgences I’ve refused (so far) to give up: swimming lessons for my boy, Ghirardelli chocolate and the occasional bikini/eyebrow wax. I still buy organic veggies/milk/hormone free meats as much as possible (although we do have a two-tier system in place as far as eggs go: organic for me and the kids and cheap/industrial for poor old papa).

Anyway, above all, we try to keep things simple. And I’m always on the lookout for free activities. Among my favorites are once a month Friday happy hours at a local yoga studio (an hour of free yoga, followed by wine and cheese) and story hour at the local library. Coco and I generally hit this one while Hank’s in school. It’s quite the social scene for local toddlers. If only they served cocktails.

Subway Stories

Processing a flood of fond memories of my straphanging days after an old friend (and 15+ year Manhattanite) announced that she recently took her first ever ride on the G Train (that would be the only subway line in New York City that doesn’t go into Manhattan).

I’m not sure I realized how good I had it back in my Brooklyn days. I was 2 blocks away from a double subway station: Lorimer Street/Metropolitan Ave, where the G and L lines meet. Now that I think about it, it was quite possibly the nexus of urban civilization. The L train, that fabled hipster shuttle, and the gritty, outer-borough G Train: they both spit you out into one of the most glorious neighborhoods on the planet. At the time, the hipster scene was spilling over from nearby Bedford Avenue, but the neighborhood still retained its old school Italian charm. There were several good bars and upscale bodegas but lots of nosy old lady neighbors at the same time. And it was safe. I never felt the slightest bit nervous walking home at night. There was even an NYPD outpost right there in the subway station.

The L Train took me into Manhattan, a direct shot to the East Village, West Village or Union Square. But the G took me straight to friends in Carroll Gardens, Fort Greene, Astoria. The G was quirky, unreliable and plagued by weird service interruptions on weekends. The announcements were always unintelligible so you were taking your chances if you happened to be trying to take the G home from Queens on a Sunday evening. But when I complained about how crowded the L Train always got during the AM rush hour, a friend suggested I try using the G to commute into midtown (you get off at Court Square in Queens and takes the E into Manhattan). It turned out to be a piece of cake. I always used the L Train to come home though. I was unwilling to forgo the opportunity for social interaction. I was forever running into people I knew on the L train and once (briefly) dated a Vincent Gallo look-alike I met on there. It was that kind of scene. There wasn’t any of that kind of funny business going down on the plodding old G Train. But it usually got the job done.

That, I would say, was certainly the case on 9/11 when I walked (a little dazed) across the Queensboro Bridge, with hundreds of other stranded office workers, on that brilliant late summer day. There was the G Train like a beacon, and it took me safe and sound to the haven that was Williamsburg, where we watched the smoke rising all the next day from across the East River.

Anyway, I found the car-free lifestyle very liberating. And driving is a total drag in my book. Now, of course, I drive everywhere. Even when I want to take a walk, I usually have to drive to wherever it is that I’m going to be walking. I suppose, though, that most of my nostalgia is a little misplaced. After 9/11 and the ensuing anthrax scare, I became convinced something terrible was going to happen in the subway and often felt like I was going to have a panic attack while riding. The same NYC friend who recently delved into the uncharted territory of the G Train also posted that her mother had suggested that, in light of the swine flu outbreak, she buy some surgical masks to wear to work. Must admit I don’t really miss the teeming throngs all that much.

Mooooving On

Well, I’m officially no longer a nursing mother. This has brought on waves of relief, sadness and, for some reason, a little bit of guilt. There’s this current among the overeducated, slightly crunchy 35 + mom set which has nursing as a badge of honor, a reflection of one’s commitment to her offspring. I’m always a little intimidated by women who proudly announce that they are nursing their children at 2 and beyond. Of course, I’m absolutely supportive of all that. But I think most of us would agree that 16 months is plenty. And in the end, it was really Coco’s decision. She was, quite simply, over it. We had been gradually transitioning to goat’s milk and then regular old cow’s milk (organic or course) over the last few months until we were finally down to one feed at bedtime. In my mind, it was comforting part of our evening ritual. But I was starting to get the feeling that to my daughter it was just a drill keeping her from her literary pursuits. For the last week or two, every time I’d try to stick her on the boob, she’d just start squirming and hollering “Book! Book!” Time to give it up. And so, having dropped two bra sizes, here I am. Finding myself in a state of mammary independence, I’m envisioning a weeklong orgy of margaritas and americanos. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen, but it’s nice to know I could if I really wanted to. Maybe next time I get up to New York…

It’s joyful and unsettling to have a toddler again. The amount cognitive development going on is pretty amazing. Coco seems to learn a couple of new words every day and has an impressive (and expanding) repertoire of animal sounds. She’s crazy about the Old McDonald song (which she calls EiEi). She’s also perfected a very authentic growl, which I think she picked up from one of Henry’s battery operated dinosaur toys. She refers to her faux cellphone as “Hi” and to her purse as “Bye” which strikes me as a perfect distillation of the way of things. Loves the slide at the playground but not a fan of the swings. Oh and she seems to be developing into a serious harmonica player to the delight of her blues-singer father.

My mother recently gave her a second-hand Dora doll, complete with beret and bare midriff. She loves it of course (I think it’s those insane gigantic eyes), but mama’s so not ready for the advent of all the little girl stuff. Totally dreading the onslaught of ponies and princesses. Good lord. Must admit, I’m hoping for a little tomboy in the manner of Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird and am encouraged that she’s into the myriad trains, trucks, tractors etc. one can usually find lying around in our living room.

As I may have mentioned previously, our little Colette has been, until recently, about as low maintenance as a kid could possibly be. Until a month or two ago, I could take her anywhere--to the hair salon, to the doctor/dentist, wherever. I could count on her to keep it mellow. No longer. She has very specific ideas about what she wants to be doing at any given moment and usually sitting still is not on the list. If she’s anything like her brother, she’ll be jumping out of her crib in the near future. Better get the old man to fix the hole in the floor in the corner of her room.

Wanderlust Untreated

Spring is in the air and a winter-weary housewife’s thoughts turn to… getting the hell out of town. The past few years have been pretty bleak on the travel front, and I’m dying to get away. What I wouldn’t give to be in Paris with a grand crème and an almond croissant. Or taking a stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens. Keep finding myself reminiscing about my years in NYC when I flew to France 3 or 4 times a year. Things were pretty heady in those days--Euros were cheap and wine was plentiful. I could navigate Charles de Gaulle airport and the French rail system like a pro. I really felt like quite the cosmopolite back then…I was a regular at the Air France waiting area at CDG and used to run into people I knew there all the time. Not that I’d really describe myself as well-traveled. Pretty much all of my international wanderings have involved the same continent, if not the same country. I’ve got a bunch of jetsetting friends who put my paltry collection of passport stamps to shame. Kathy and Neal just got back from another month-long jaunt to Argentina. A college pal and her hubby are living in east Africa and racking up adventures on that continent. And don’t even get me started about my old friend Michi who works for a high-end travel agency and flits across the globe, routinely staying in unbelievable five star joints from Morocco to Bora Bora. Her facebook page is enough to make one absolutely green. Once again, these folks have one thing in common: no kids. But I certainly know lots of people with kids who take great vacations. We haven’t managed to work it out yet, so I’ll have to forget about the Riviera this year. Even the redneck Riviera isn’t in the cards, I’m afraid. We had a nice trip to the gulf coast of Florida with my sister and her crew last spring. Weren’t able to join them this year as the penny pinching is being implemented in full force here at the funny farm. The economy doesn’t seem to be affecting our neighbors, however. Half the people in Hank’s preschool class went to Disneyworld for spring break while we were stuck in drizzly old Lovetown. Not that Disney’s on my list or anything-- I totally fail to understand the mystique. In fact, I’m proud to say that we are pretty much Disney-free around here (although I have promised Henry he can watch Cars one of these days), and I intend to do whatever I can to avoid the Magic Kingdom altogether. Wouldn’t have minded a week at the beach though.

As for summer travel plans, I’d say they’re definitely…indefinite. I have a feeling whatever we do is going to involve a tent. My mother has rented a beach house on Virginia’s eastern shore in August and has invited us to come down. Sounds nice…as long as I can handle a week with my extended family.

Other than that, I suppose I’ll be hanging out at our local public pool…and in the garden. We’re a little more on the ball this year on the food production front: have several types of lettuce in, in addition to spinach, arugula and chard so far. I’m reminded of Voltaire’s Candide, which I read in high school (I think), and its well-known exhortation to cultivate one’s garden. That is, not to worry about the grand scheme of things but focus on the day to day. It’s actually very yogic and reminds me of some wisdom I encountered some time ago on a bag of herbal tea: approach whatever you’re doing as if it were the most important thing. Words to live by, no doubt. But I can’t help pining for Paris.